tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87508783612931930102024-02-07T14:24:56.249+05:30Ek, do, tin, accha!Traveling through India recording sounds and filming sights and eating everything vegetarian in between!SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-33926106337999226132009-05-03T19:42:00.000+05:302009-05-03T19:49:44.468+05:30First montage of India finishedWe have finisheda short version of the Live Cinema Project.<br /><br />Live Cinema is mixing in extra video and audio layers during projection. In this case a documentary about the Camel Fair at Pushkar, India. By manipulating the image and sound live, extra layers come into play and a dreamy quality is brought into the viewing experience.<br /><br />Seb and Maarten went to Pushkar, India to witness and record the Pushkar Camel Fair. Having heard many stories about it and with high hopes of meeting folk musicians they set out. This video is a view of that first encounter.<br /><br />This montage is the base track, so without the extra layers (yet). All the audio in this film is recorded on location. Enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><object width="800" height="450"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=3584543&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=0&show_portrait=0&color=00ADEF&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=3584543&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=0&show_portrait=0&color=00ADEF&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="800" height="450"></embed></object><br /><a href="http://vimeo.com/3584543">Live Cinema: Pushkar Camel Fair V 1</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/indivisuals">IndiVisuals</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.Maartenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422644880360576673noreply@blogger.com291tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-77224770598274854852008-11-18T04:34:00.003+05:302008-11-18T04:52:06.921+05:30Rebel Up! Soundclash, 29th of november @ OCCII, A'dam; India Special!Hi all,<br /><br />Finally an update on the blog here. Finally we've gotten off our asses and started working on our audio and video recordings. Time to present it and what better than as an India Special night linked to the India festival in Amsterdam? Sure!<br /><br />Our Rebel Up night will be have a real special thing; a *live Rajasthani music cinema*, in which filmed footage and music from our Rajasthani experiences will be performed together on screen and through the loudspeakers! A story without words, but with music as a narrative and your own experience to grasp.<br /><br />More special performances should be expected too, keep a close eye on <a href="http://www.rebelup.org">our website</a>! <br />All night long, we'll play you loads of famous and unheard <span style="font-weight:bold;">cinematic pop<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>, <span style="font-weight:bold;">tribal folk and folkpop tunes<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span> from allover India's vast continent to make everyone jump and jive on the dancefloor!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu4Zhmpjmh5VKVng2Xzq0JfBUmh4WbNOqffGcBcR9Yg3GVknTXDbcxqAiLXcUhGCE6dg-G36pKE4i99QRNUB0sY5WTRv1OAFgkcsMZtL4QUyKiQEkygDMy7NE_IbeOTa42N-D81gq8onRO/s1600-h/rebelup_india.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu4Zhmpjmh5VKVng2Xzq0JfBUmh4WbNOqffGcBcR9Yg3GVknTXDbcxqAiLXcUhGCE6dg-G36pKE4i99QRNUB0sY5WTRv1OAFgkcsMZtL4QUyKiQEkygDMy7NE_IbeOTa42N-D81gq8onRO/s400/rebelup_india.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269769670909579778" /></a><br />Back to our charity motivation as always....<br />The charity of the night is <span style="font-weight:bold;">Telluris India<a href="http://telluris.org"></a></span>, a Belgian help organisation which gives aid to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Munda_people">Munda tribes</a> in the forest state of Jharkhand in Northern India. These tribes are part of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adivasi">Adivasi</a> caste and are the native inhabitants of this region. Their culture and way of life dates back to before the creation of Hinduism, 5000 years ago. Nature means all to these tribes; they have a natural religion and worship the nature around them.<br /><br />Surrounded by dominant cultures of the Hindustan caste system and the ever modernising world, they are on the verge to lose their land and culture forever. By the hands of corrupted authorities that favour industrialisation, mining and lumberjacking, the forests have already robbed of 70% of their original size. As a result, their land is plagued by erosion, droughts and the decline of flora, wildlife and trees!<br /><br />The forest offers ecological diversity, life, medicinal quailities and protection from erosion and because the Munda are small time farmers and therefore need the forest in order to survive. Telluris helps the tribes with planting of new crops and medicinal plants, the digging of water wells, spreading knowledge about organic farming and other projects linked to their direct environment. The tribes can decide for themselves in which facilities they would like to receive aid in by Telluris, instead of such choices being made for them like most NGO's do. The villagers gather to discuss, unite and motivatie each other for achieving their prime goals and Telluris helps them fullfilling these wishes. Nearly all the local employees at Telluris who work with the Munda, are Munda themselves en educated by Telluris. At Telluris, the most important thing is to actively let people take part in the process where at every interaction, knowledge is exchanged!<br /><br />More info:<br />http://telluris.org<br /><br />Saturday 29th of november @ OCCII, Amsterdam<br />(http://www.occii.org/)<br />Amstelveenseweg 134 (tram #1 (stop Overtoomsesluis) or #2)<br />doors open 22:30 till late,<br />4 Euro fee. -> Profit goes to charity!<br /><br />Rebel Up! Soundclash (#18)<br />Diasporic sounds from the global underground.....<br />a global culture mashup of rougher world music and visuals,<br />www.rebelup.orgSebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-19727763068843414242008-04-24T12:31:00.012+05:302008-06-14T13:21:31.253+05:30Rapid travel in slowmotionTo start off with an <a href="http://www.oxymorons.com/oxymorons.html">oxymoron</a>: <span style="font-style: italic;">work holiday</span>.<br /><br /><div>That's what Seb and me were having the first three months (we were doing a project). So it was nice to finally have some time off with our girlfriends and do some unadulterated travelling.<br /><br />So we travelled like crazy and saw all that we wanted, all that we needed and all that we could see. The list is staggering and would make most travel agencies jealous. I could use some rest after all that in Delhi. Seb and I met Machiec, the Polish guy we met in Pakistan and who took the beautiful pictures of Muharram.<br /><br />What follows in the coming posts is an account of my travels, from March till now (June). I tried to have the posts out earlier but working on the computer was proving too much: traveling, filming, editing the video... there was not enough time to also write blog posts without being confined to the computer screen totally. One needs to see things too!<div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpaoJRSAPH8e6IPYjQf_8y44f6lU4-8EoQV3CZpKBQ6zy1ZT_9fI79IcianlKPtH8llDbjlMdN_gbPXEOv6n4nFPDMcf2TsMy_jEl-BzNi38gos6gEQ6z8K7BMRMRh7TAAz3cXjLNcnY/s1600-h/DSC02583.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185758399184475618" style="cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpaoJRSAPH8e6IPYjQf_8y44f6lU4-8EoQV3CZpKBQ6zy1ZT_9fI79IcianlKPtH8llDbjlMdN_gbPXEOv6n4nFPDMcf2TsMy_jEl-BzNi38gos6gEQ6z8K7BMRMRh7TAAz3cXjLNcnY/s320/DSC02583.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>So: Delhi. Machiec. He was staying in a cheaper place so we decided to stay there as well. It was located in some alleyway from the Main Bazar (hence it's a 120 Rps price tag for a double room). Immediately Delhi gets a lot more interesting from the back streets and alley perspective.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXoQU-8WXmQ2TFOXD_As3mp66ZeChT1RyoS-YHDS2o68XQdNAr0gzybNiZpc_-2GJT2FM3UApWNVsn1ZWZAjRWi2rRXMFVkgzkdTUBnRYlWOaAkFE17Q2V_CffKN44q_uXMtpGSKcgg8Q/s1600-h/DSC02569.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185761727784130098" style="cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXoQU-8WXmQ2TFOXD_As3mp66ZeChT1RyoS-YHDS2o68XQdNAr0gzybNiZpc_-2GJT2FM3UApWNVsn1ZWZAjRWi2rRXMFVkgzkdTUBnRYlWOaAkFE17Q2V_CffKN44q_uXMtpGSKcgg8Q/s320/DSC02569.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I stayed a few days longer after Seb headed out to Nepal. I had some business cards made, with the beautiful process of silkscreen printing. Only 120 Rps for 100 cards is a steal. So I had some made for our own project and for <span class="nfakPe">Jet</span> as well.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRk8nD1Mv-gqQ0xND3sdGpL-JyKBYFhGm-sWL6RuOwu8BcXkUAVXLdyfQdwj7qDsgweX44_c9n4vgjEicjca5QaVIePCOs5-XtGrX2m2kiUbBrlsHh3PgzJGcGXlPsUou6_O03nCUYlMw/s1600-h/silc+screeing.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185758863040943602" style="cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRk8nD1Mv-gqQ0xND3sdGpL-JyKBYFhGm-sWL6RuOwu8BcXkUAVXLdyfQdwj7qDsgweX44_c9n4vgjEicjca5QaVIePCOs5-XtGrX2m2kiUbBrlsHh3PgzJGcGXlPsUou6_O03nCUYlMw/s320/silc+screeing.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="text-decoration: none;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvXt2obGkIbgJzJ5YIcxsWVOjqO_xhMSC470mkIc1NenXO2QEhrFfkpZUAstrD6Dr3CqUHjCVizfy1czyERCl1AFOdXqqeYIxJLDORBj3Wbby6Jacvcojxwja6q-9HJyBM1lGq2DswHw/s1600-h/the+result.jpg"> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185760731351717410" style="cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvXt2obGkIbgJzJ5YIcxsWVOjqO_xhMSC470mkIc1NenXO2QEhrFfkpZUAstrD6Dr3CqUHjCVizfy1czyERCl1AFOdXqqeYIxJLDORBj3Wbby6Jacvcojxwja6q-9HJyBM1lGq2DswHw/s320/the+result.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><br />Taking the metro in Delhi delivers a nice paradox. The metros are really clean. I would call them European like, but cleaner. They are spotless, reminiscent of airports. The paradox is that using them gives you quick and clean transportation, but robs you of the experience of India. Haha.<div><br /></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">A little run-into</span><br />Queues can be a little chaotic in India. Or to put it more graphically: instead of having a linear shape, they tend to have a larger concentration of people on the beginning of the line. Especially in post offices there are two kinds of people: people who stand in line and others who go up front and squeeze in.<br />I didn't dare to squeeze in up front so I tried to form a line. Being a model of patience and wait. When somebody new would come in and try to cut in front I'd give him a tab on the shoulder and point to myself with a somewhat surprised expression on my face. They always get the hint and go wait behind me, or sometimes beside me (which is a quite annoying). The funny thing is that it actually makes me feel a little sorry, for it creates an extra atmosphere of waiting. Whereas the other method of "people who want to wait; wait - others go" might actually work better. You could argue that some people have more time than others. The reason I don't do it is some culturally European inbred sense of justice. Everybody equal and that sort of thing. Well sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. About the post office I haven't decided yet.<br /><br />In the train station it is another story. There cutting in front is not accepted. People you see cutting in front usually just need a reservation form. Sometimes you see people with money in hand go up to the window. That is annoying. Women are allowed to do this. This is the culture (it is mentioned on signboards). There aren't a lot of women around so it is acceptable. It's a little more annoying when a man goes in the woman's name (with the woman behind him). (This is not accepted according to those same signboards...) Other times it's men alone. I haven't figured out what gives them the right in those instances. I guess they are either very late for their train or cheer cheeky. I also tried to be cheeky one or two times (when my train was sorta late) but that didn't work: people got mad and told me to go to the end of the line.<br /><br />In most places there are the sort of lines, based on first come first go principle, but you have to watch your place carefully. Somebody jumps it in a blink.<br /><br />The metro is kind of a save heaven for all this. Boarding the metro vehicle itself by the way is Indian style: pushing and squeezing in no particular order. But the line for tokens is one orderly experience.<br /><br />So I was really surprised when I was waiting in line and a young guy just comes in from the side and stands in front of me. I tab him on the shoulder and point to myself. He gets really annoyed and says: "Yeah yeah, don't worry man!" Worry? I don't worry. I ask. If you want to cut the line than ask too. I don't get a chance to say all this, another ticket window opens up. He sees it and takes the free spot. He already has his token as I get up for my turn. He passes me and says: "Haha, I'm first and you are second, I win!" Hahaha, wauw I didn't know we entered a competition. Indians can be very nice, but there is a top layer that is also competitive. But making taking the metro a competition... I think to myself: "You are more like the first billionth to get a token and I am the second trillion." I get my token, and walk up to the turnstile, and I see that his token isn't working, refusing him entrance. Oh karma!<br /><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Making travel plans</span></div>I wanted to do the Buddha Route and I wanted to travel alone for a while. I like the tranquillity and the intensity of it. And so it happened: Seb went to Nepal, as I set out to Varanasi, Budhgaya and Sarnath.<br />I wanted to do the Buddha Route. So now I was going slooooooooooow.<br /><br /><br />The Buddha was born as prince Siddhartha Gautauma, in Lumbini, currently in Nepal. He went in search for the answer to life's fundamental questions, making his way through Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, in current India. He found enlightenment in Bodh Gaya, and then when to Sarnath, near Varanasi, to preach his first sermon to five friends that he met on his quest.<br /><br />But first stop: Varanasi. It is on the way to Bihar (where most of the places are where the historical Buddha lived and taught) and it was a city I was interested in seeing. Going by train I hadn't taken the time to reserve a ticket and so when I came at the train station ('railway station' as they say here, which I always seem to forget) in a last moment spur, the sleeper compartment was already fully booked. Normally this isn't really a problem: you get a general ticket and then see if there are foregone reservations for the sleep compartment to get a last minute place there. And this had always gone right. Well what do you know? Two firsts for this trip: the train was in time, and it was fully booked. No place in the sleeper. So I rush over to the general compartment to get at least a (good) seat there. Because there is no guaranty for sitting even! I've heard stories and seem completely packed compartment. So I was glad to have found a place on a higher bunk so I could have my bags next to me and try to sleep leaning on them. The coach was full but not too full for Indian standards so it would prove a relatively relaxing ride to Varanasi.<br /><br />I was glad I had a good book with me - bought in Mcleod Ganj:<a href="http://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=%22The+Tibetan+Yogas+of+Dream+and+Sleep%22&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8"> The Tibetan Yogas of Dream and Sleep</a> (how appropriate!) - so that I could grow more tired and could practice the ancient art of half sitting half leaning sleeping. The book didn't get me to do dream yoga, but it was a good explanation on Karma and how it relates to dream – quite a recommended read...) Reading till 2 a.m. I could finally catch some sleep till 6 a.m. with the help of earplugs.<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZ4PJPJagGYa3d0c_iXY76nXjpcCRlEQaV7JiBIatDbAtFHERTPkCww23JuhAelWIWNO2TJ9uD_TnMa7agOs1fVvoTe0jgexjS0tSktowA0TbWOC4tV6R9Av_CiQon95klcgoW1dLjwI/s1600-h/DSC02597.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185769510264870482" style="cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZ4PJPJagGYa3d0c_iXY76nXjpcCRlEQaV7JiBIatDbAtFHERTPkCww23JuhAelWIWNO2TJ9uD_TnMa7agOs1fVvoTe0jgexjS0tSktowA0TbWOC4tV6R9Av_CiQon95klcgoW1dLjwI/s320/DSC02597.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Full, but not too full general compartment. This man has found a place in the luggage rack. Good for lying down indeed (impossible to sit in...)! Notice the use of the fan, for placing the shoes when sitting on top. Nifty!</span></span></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:13;" ><br /></span></div><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJalcIWuG-qyogn1iDnkNmumj37zJWCmAbPQWpMwAqwuYfX_1H8fdS5R0n3nK9O40xErqYoohvnKo_6bymO1WZFdSEWDKqgKz48jdVVRNunTv4Z45WXMCMkCEv-_CnDz_hkCzvg3J_us/s1600-h/DSC02600.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185769935466632802" style="cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJalcIWuG-qyogn1iDnkNmumj37zJWCmAbPQWpMwAqwuYfX_1H8fdS5R0n3nK9O40xErqYoohvnKo_6bymO1WZFdSEWDKqgKz48jdVVRNunTv4Z45WXMCMkCEv-_CnDz_hkCzvg3J_us/s320/DSC02600.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Because sleep-sitting -or is it sit-sleeping?- isn't for everybody, some practice even more ancient art of lying down on the good ol' floor -sleeping. Others forego sleep altogether (for as long as they can muster) and opt for sitting (together) instead.</div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:13;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZL0tuqWjP5_WkKqJYUT-cpgl0CZFVjHWFoDu20TqSpigEFrPpbuVb-6sI7TQwQSgxiwjmIFrSIyrQQItJM71xDnuFsGtRS-0HmZb0Qm3fbo3ySbleC6gj6z3Atz3uqGA4IwuSz2J-CI/s1600-h/DSC02608.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185776193233983106" style="cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZL0tuqWjP5_WkKqJYUT-cpgl0CZFVjHWFoDu20TqSpigEFrPpbuVb-6sI7TQwQSgxiwjmIFrSIyrQQItJM71xDnuFsGtRS-0HmZb0Qm3fbo3ySbleC6gj6z3Atz3uqGA4IwuSz2J-CI/s200/DSC02608.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiykq7Cvdzf5gj2bcGottwG66imoiMmhVbWrm8VubhXRXKgFqBOT-koiQWkxHuvy-F4wQrL2QK3q4zebvmGs4ZR8SUzUlGBFoF6wzKHaDhElWuNhwua_dkRS2K4QtUiRE_HhSzkguE4wS4/s1600-h/DSC02601.jpg"> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185775978485618290" style="cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiykq7Cvdzf5gj2bcGottwG66imoiMmhVbWrm8VubhXRXKgFqBOT-koiQWkxHuvy-F4wQrL2QK3q4zebvmGs4ZR8SUzUlGBFoF6wzKHaDhElWuNhwua_dkRS2K4QtUiRE_HhSzkguE4wS4/s200/DSC02601.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Yea! Taking photo and being photographed - picture that!</span></span><br /><br /></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Varanasi - wauw</span></div><br />Entering Varanasi over the Ganges river bridge we enter the city in the early morning. Slowly we crawl in the city as it is waking up, just as I. The river causes differences in elevation in the city and some green (trees) and this gives it a friendly and varied character. Arriving there is the typical Indian mumble jumble at the station with hundreds of rickshawmen looking for customers. I find somebody who understands where I want to go for a reasonable price and we set out. Fifty meter before the Gaths the alleyways are so narrow that no rickshaw can come there. So my driver beckons me to get out and I follow him on foot. After five minutes of narrow streets we come near the riverbank. This is where the Gaths are: the holy bathing places, well known from film and TV every other visual medium depicting the Indians bathing in the Ganges water. Walking until then I was not bothered by any salesman. We walk some more to the guesthouse, walking up and down stone stairways on the ancient slabs of sand stone. As the guesthouse was in the lonely planet and had views on the Ganges river (only some rooms of course) it was very expensive. So I let the driver show me another place near, the one he wanted to show me in the first place (oh stubborn Westerner!). The place was 10 seconds away from the riverbank, with a roof terrace with nice views on the Ganges river and rooms with warm water for only 150Rps (€3). Good deal (oh stubborn western!).<br /><br /><br />After checking in I went to the roof terrace to have a Chai and to film some of the view. I was a little bit sleepy after the short night. Sitting on the terrace were two Danish guys who were freelance photographers and journalists. Exchanging some experiences from India I found out that there would be a Shiva Festival in Varanasi on 7th of March. Shivaratri is in name of Lord Shiva. I was told that a lot of Bhang Lassi is drunk by people because it is believed to be Shiva's favourite drink. Bhang lassi is made of female marjiuana leaves. Because Varanasi is believed by Hindus to be founded by the deity Shiva, I thought it would be an interesting time to be in the city. But the 7th is still a week away, so it would be a good idea to see some other places and come back for Shivaratri.<br /><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Cooking</span></div><br />Our exchange of stories of India and doing a project here was interrupted by a large black-faced Languor monkey coming on the terrace balcony. I saw nothing special in him except for his size, but the cook was franticly shouting at the monkey trying to scare it away. He was also shouting at everybody else on the terrace to get their things and leave. Whether the monkey was dangerous or not could not really be established: the cooks shouting got everybody scared and the monkey agitated. So the monkey got angry and the last thing you want to do is test your luck with a big monkey, so there we were: five guys and three staff members in the kitchen with the door shut, the cook still shouting at the monkey and a stick waving through the barred window. Hahaha, what a drama.<br /><br />The monkey leaves soon enough and so do we, ready for some fast city exploring.<br /><br /><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicMiGCVlal2hWs1HQt5VGGbHGO8lMOCx91TMyEaD1mfHbvCfA4tZCDDU25IggIjSQkGUvPKW-bHSAOc-nKrVAxDRr_z9l94vnrEuokk2UVbICcG1ZbQAjheGStREqBfakZ3FalsgpLrno/s1600-h/DSC02469.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187941887114656034" style="" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicMiGCVlal2hWs1HQt5VGGbHGO8lMOCx91TMyEaD1mfHbvCfA4tZCDDU25IggIjSQkGUvPKW-bHSAOc-nKrVAxDRr_z9l94vnrEuokk2UVbICcG1ZbQAjheGStREqBfakZ3FalsgpLrno/s320/DSC02469.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Exploring Varanasi</span></div><br /><div>Varanasi is one of the most holy cities in India. It's a city dedicated to the deity Shiva: in the hindu trinity he takes up the role of the destroyer, but this is seen positively. The Ghats along the holy rives Ganges attracts pilgrim bathers who want to wash away their sins in the holy Ganges river. A lot of Hindu's also want to be cremated here - most Indians believe that onyone dying on the banks of the river in Varanasi attains instant 'Moksha" or enlightment.<br />With these huge importanties Varanasi for the most part feels like a village at least on these ghats: if not friendly, at least no intrusion from people who want to sell you something. </div><br /><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-4VWzDZ-aO8qQprYZ4kyg9QC5IOYI0ColnyDwobd4sqkUHuroZXVVKEbRP2xTu63BqmbtTod9zCFKe2tfFuNrEBa4V8hyquU165a9DoUaEWgyONbvm0DZelpfOSakVZ0afOhbh6RejI/s1600-h/DSC02703.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187949081184876914" style="" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-4VWzDZ-aO8qQprYZ4kyg9QC5IOYI0ColnyDwobd4sqkUHuroZXVVKEbRP2xTu63BqmbtTod9zCFKe2tfFuNrEBa4V8hyquU165a9DoUaEWgyONbvm0DZelpfOSakVZ0afOhbh6RejI/s320/DSC02703.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><div>People are also not bothered by you as you walk among the rituals, as Hindus are not quickly bothered by anything, but mostly people are quite inviting and willing to explain what is going on. Some rituals mundane, like people splashing in the water, other less so, like people getting all their head shaven, women too, and other still quite exceptional ones like a cremation. The only thing not allowed is filming the corpses being cremated, but after paying a fee (that reportedly goes to an elderly home for people waiting to be cremated there) filming this is also possible....<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd-mfd8nqIsu3oQy24UN4mkF5hSCme8RZGah_7Do7oDoHyZ9kbiN0-SGUN5VPSAFyvCUdjdwQJ_CLqT8ysAeVKxMhXmcCFUxJ9W9bZSwKhEhNpH94mvRL6ZoIX0LQpq9JPhfbYW8-1LuQ/s1600-h/DSC02471.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187941891409623346" style="" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd-mfd8nqIsu3oQy24UN4mkF5hSCme8RZGah_7Do7oDoHyZ9kbiN0-SGUN5VPSAFyvCUdjdwQJ_CLqT8ysAeVKxMhXmcCFUxJ9W9bZSwKhEhNpH94mvRL6ZoIX0LQpq9JPhfbYW8-1LuQ/s320/DSC02471.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><div>The cremations take place during the day as well as during the night. Cremations take place on a few ghats. Walking along these is quite something to see for the first time. It takes you back in time walking on the sandstone pavement and to see huge piles of wood sold by the kilo for burning a human corps.<br />It's almost breath-taking to see a funeral pyre for the first time.<br />It takes some time to take in that a human body is burning and it is also quite consoling somehow.<br /><br /></div>The river is beautiful, with its wooden boats tied to the shore and each other, and the mist clearing in the morning making the waste shore on the other side visible.<br /><br />The Ghats feel medieval with its sandstone and archaic instruments for ritual burning and it's little food shops - especially yoghurt products like dahi served in one time use clay pots.<br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div><embed src="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/x4wmev&related=" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="257" width="420"></embed><br /><b><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x4wmev_varanasi-gath-boat_travel">Varanasi Gath Boat</a></b><br /><i>Uploaded by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/ARTISJOK">ARTISJOK</a></i></div><div><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvPMX-ZL2E9Xal-ws75NJ4IDa7G3cH_DmJOhHccviVIS-4Xof7jG0y_T394mgbZozh_qs-YuSboRvHy6Cb4B-tskgJGxqP7aPciEnJlYMH201LXHnayYcnB349hTNvrwRNcX4-MnlNAw0/s1600-h/DSC02609.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187941891409623362" style="" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvPMX-ZL2E9Xal-ws75NJ4IDa7G3cH_DmJOhHccviVIS-4Xof7jG0y_T394mgbZozh_qs-YuSboRvHy6Cb4B-tskgJGxqP7aPciEnJlYMH201LXHnayYcnB349hTNvrwRNcX4-MnlNAw0/s320/DSC02609.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>Next stop is Budhgaya to come back to Varanasi on the 7th. Next Blog post also! </div></div>Maartenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422644880360576673noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-12290228840343913112008-04-21T14:52:00.005+05:302008-05-14T17:15:14.737+05:30Last days on Indian soil-It has been 3 weeks since I'm back in Europe, never having finished my last post properly, so here it is, sorry for the wait-<br /><br />I didn't stay long in Delhi as I wanted to get to Jodhpur, in search of a rare to find Kamaycha violin. I just had to renew my visa for a few days as I had before miscalculated in booking my flight, overstaying my visa by 5 days. <br />At the FFRO office, all went swell this time and got my passport stamped within the hour. It is a truly chaotic and over swarmed place, but as me and Maarten had been at the place a few times already, it was less daunting. In relaxed manner I went through all the paperwork, had to wait a bit and talked to 2 immigrant youths from Congo about their life in India, trying to set up a little business . Other westerners (and FFRO first-timers) were not dealing well with adapting to the chaos. At one moment an Israeli guy (no surprise, who else could it be...) started arrogantly screaming to the officials who didn't want to give him what he wanted as he probably lacked paperwork or solid proof for a visa renewal. Yeah, just waste your time with such an attitude and see how you won't get helped. <br /><br />Now, I don't want this to turn into a bad generalising slur but I need to say that in all our time in India, of all westerners along our trip the Israeli tourists have always been the worst, the most obnoxious and most annoying ones. Thankfully, we also met genuine and openhearted Israeli's like Gil, Roy and several others, but the sad truth is that the majority of Israeli tourists will just haggle hard and harshly for everything and thereby treating the locals like lower life forms. How's that for generic irony?<br /> Really, we've seen it too many times to remain objective on that part and Maarten even once had to intervene in a verbal fight between a clueless Israeli girl and an honestly sincere shopkeeper about some itty-bitty costs.<br />Because of the abusive attitude of such bad apples, the good Israeli travellers also suffer from this. Nowadays, many Indians are starting to hate Israeli travellers and some guesthouses have already put up signs saying 'No Israeli allowed' as well as that some shops have signs on them explaining in Hebrew script that one should always haggle with respect and dignity. Only time and a hopeful change of attitude can tell how long this will go on.<br /><br />In the evening I took a bus to Jodhpur for some unfinished business with the Rajasthani folk institute and acquiring a rare kamaycha, the thick stringed violin from the desert surroundings of western Rajasthan. In the Rajasthan institute I met Kuldeep again and had dinner with him and a Ukranian and American project student, who were in Rajasthan for several months now. The next day I wandered about Jodhpur for the last time. Such a nice place, with its busy bazaar and market and streetlife all about, expanding itself. Together with Jaisalmer it is the nicest and most atmosphere filled place in Rajasthan, even for such a big city. Spices, glass bangles, cloth, veggies, fried snacks, old tapes, dusty junk, plastic utensils. Everything there, filling the wooden stalls or spreaded on thick groundcloths, Kabeliya women and teenage girls squating below. All eagerly talkative to get your attention and you just go along with it, to enjoy those last Rajasthani spheres. After all those months in India, you can't be put off anymore by such bustling market action in eye-winkling manner.<br /><br /> In the afternoon back to the institute, seeing the Kamaycha being strung up. I peeked through the immense folk library and picked up a book on Hungarian folk music by Zoltan Kordaly, an authority on music patterns and the history behind it. Interesting read, in which he claims that nearly all gypsy music in Hungary, Romania and surrounding countries has been taken from old Hungarian folk songs. Its melodies remixed by the travellers in their own context. Through comparing patterns he can trace back the gypsy songs to their original Hungarian source and likewise for instrumental compositions. If you have more than an interest in eastern european folk music and/or gypsy music, get your eyes on this book. The Kamaycha was just made ready and I had to run for a rickshaw to get to my train. Only 15 minutes left, oy oy and ushered the rickshaw man to race for it. Made it just on time, the train leaving 3 minutes after, ouff.<br /><br />Back in scorching Delhi, it was just 2 days and 1 night more for relaxing and buying souvenirs for friends and family home. <br />That also ment fun like getting stuck in a traffic jam in severe pollution. Or like the bizarre experience of having a few helpfull artist posh boys driving me around in their big mercedes that pumped out the loudest and worst trance tunes while slowly passing streets. That is India; one extreme after the other by the hands of local people who put you into weird situations. Expect the unexpected, that is India's exciting bliss to which one gets addicted to. <br /><br />I was slowly winding and closing down this 6 month travel. It was a bit weird, having the feeling of leaving India behind and heading back to the West. How would things be there, what was awaiting me, would life become more boring? and so on. Returning from a long travel only gives you feelings of vagueness. At the airport, all was smooth and peacefull in the terminal. Quite different to several months before, when our girlfriends flew back home and the place was utter chaos. I checked all my bags and was told that I had 20kg excess bagage, which would cost me 11000 rupees, ouch! I had no cash on me anymore and my credit card did not want to work in the several times they swiped it. The staff turned a kind eye and let me go with a wink, my baggage unpaid and forgiven. Sometimes it's lucky not to have your credit card working. ;)<br /><br />Maarten is still traveling about and should now be in Nepal for a few weeks before heading back home, overland or by air?<br /> He has been a quite busy boy and spent two weeks in the jungle somewhere in central India. There he did some filming for a documentary on a Belgian NGO and their doings in everyday life for people in tribal area's. Soon he should post up something about his experiences there and more.<br /><br />I might write a last post about readjusting to life in the west, comparing it with India and what is (not) missing here.<br />We will start working on our immensly gathered sounds and visuals when Maarten is back here. I hope to update the blog now and then on what is happening with our material in terms of releases, documentary, collages, presentations, screenings and performances. Who knows what might come from it.<br />If you want to be regularly updated about our sounds and visuals, please send us an email and we'll add you to some sort of list (see right hand section for our addies)<br /><br />signing off for now.... (seb)SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-32335254766033806922008-04-17T11:28:00.011+05:302008-04-18T23:57:01.647+05:30Monsooning in Kolkata and the blissfully lost in OrissaSlacking. These last few days hanging about in Rajasthan and Delhi, actually hurrying from place to place since Orissa and Varanasi, it didn't do the blog any good. Nor my motivation could be startled into quick write-ups either by the muffled heat hanging around since I came down from the Darjeeling hills.<br /><br />Picking it up where I left the thread limp;<br />Late morning arrival in Kolkata (or known as Calcutta, in colonial terms)<br />The bus already wrapped me into an immense irky heat and it was no better outside under the scorching eye of the sun. Such hot and humid weather, the concrete and pavement sucking up all the warmth. The cab found the way to the hotel where Miki and I had agreed to meet. So it went without mix ups. <br /><br />Kolkata as a city was far more interesting and felt nicer than any of the other big cities I had visited in India. Somehow the people were more kind and helpful than say the tedious hawk-and-hassle behaviour in Delhi or other tourist hideouts. Perhaps it comes from the fact that Kolkata is a metropole with a Communist city government and socialism seemed more virbrant in the air than anywhere else. This is just an all-too-quick glance of a 36 hour stopover stay so I don't know if I saw it through rose tinted glasses or took it in with too much subjectivity. For Miki it was her last day in India as the next night she would fly to Europe and travel on westwards for a longer while. It had been so warm all day, that in the evening it started to get unusually dark and grey, windy too. And suddenly, flasssssch. Heavens opened up and down came a power shower for the next hours. Lightning, rumble and fierce winds too. Some thick branches of trees fell down on the road with a moaning crack, some streets were quickly under water and open sewers flowing over. <br />Early monsoon styled weather it seemed. Like locals said; unusual. They also linked the opinion of the current state of global environment to the result of global warming. <br /><br />Next day the morning again dried. Walking around the Kolkata streets, I found my way to the Mondal instrument shop, a place famous for making quality instruments, especially the carnatic violin. Since a long while I had wanted one and having seem them being crafted on the spot, I melted and plunged for one of better quality and all included. And at such a modest price too, in like twice a day's wage. More stuff to carry with me on top of all stuff gathered. it makes me my own slave and wagemaster at once, sucker donkeying my way around India. So it shall be then.<br /><br />I accompanied Miki on her last doings and we visited a colonial graveyard. The only thing touristic that we did in the city. Just for a few minutes where the elderly and chatty custodians wanted us to sign the guestbook twice, and with comments. My comment being that there weren't enough tyrannic ghosts around to hunt the locals. I wonder what they'll make of that.<br />Miki had to do some sending at the general post office. A parcel. If you have never been in India, this won't raise a chill or hair but to those who know the experience all too wat...yes, exhilarating fun ahead! In we went, by the helping hand of an elderly stoop stitcher. No really, that's their job. Stitching parcels on the postal stoop. Confusion! The 2 middle aged men behind the inquiry counter want to help us oh so good, but the PC won't start up. There is a list that can tell how much a package can cost, but neither looks to it. They quarrel about the methods of shipment; 'air, sea, speedpost, bookpost!' and also about the cost. Hilarious, free entertainment at your own whim, a mental whimsical one that is. Miki gave a few sighs and sang her song in the way she did quite often in likewise situations of compatible masala mix-ups: "Indiaaaa!" All in all, going from one desk to the other, seeing the whole building (which must say is an impressive building in victorian dome style with high ceilings), back to the stoop for stitching. "Indiaaa!"<br />Finally needing 2 stickers and some writing on the parcel from the same fella's at the enquiry counter. To prevent Miki from collapsing and singing herself into a bittersweet temper, I went up to the counter and only one of the middle aged men was there. The slower one. He was enjoying a game of Patience on the computer screen. Yes, the card game! At least the computer's slowcoming power wasn't wasted for nothing besided our weighing, pfew. The stickers were put on it, as ofcourse, he couldn't keep his glare too long off his game. Ah, the newly found backalleys to motivation! Time, more than an hour. To celebrate it in irony, we passed a shop selling intoxicating liquids, booze. Treated ourselves to a pint bottle of beer of a brand that I otherwise wouldn't be found dead with. Ahem, it was one of my first beers in all these 6 months and likewise for my Miki, so during dinner the it felt weird having this sensation of alcopop bubbles brewing from your stomach into your nerves. This all before I had to catch my night train to Puri, Orissa, so the packing and going went in a rush as usual. <br />Made it though. <br /><br />Arrival in Puri. Hot and humid sea air. Hmmm, good smell, but no a fresh crisp salty smell that one is used to on the Atlantic coast. Rather a manky, salty, thickly aired smell. German friend Mischka had given me a good Puri hotel reference back in Darjeeling and soon I dropped all my bags in said place. The Old Sagar Saikate hotel, it was indeed a safe haven of tranquility and shade. Shanti style. That was the word every guest was or started using in the days to come. Yes, everything shanti, easygoing. The building itself had been a small fortress residence of the British about hundred years ago during the Bengal wars. Nice place, funny how the soldier's rooms were now used by low budget backpackers, most of them stoned all day long. That was the peace most came to look for in Puri and easily found, greeted and hugged with. I spent 10 days in Puri as a relaxing daze that still went too fast. Days where you really do nothing, sleep late and fill it by reading or slowly pacing yourself, are the days where time keeps to a different rhythym. The real rhythym of reality! And time thus walks past you while you're creeping at a turtle's pace. Except for visiting the special <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Konark_Sun_Temple">Sun temple</a> at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Konark">Konark</a> (thanks for that early tip Winklemann!) and seeing the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irrawaddy_Dolphin">Irrawaddy (gangetic) dolphins</a> at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chilika">Chilika lake</a>, other days were lushily wasted. Here a description in nonsensical words; <br />Kingfish oven dishes crawling your nostrills and yummy into your tummy; bhang chai taking you up and away a full day, bringing you back to your senses; cycling through sand into invisible bambi habituated tropical pine forests that resemble the Les Landes coastal area in France; the spontaneous skinnydipping by some aware of secludedness and wild waves pushing their bodies and faces into the sandbanks topsy turvy; cheerfull Russians playing hiphop, ambient and IDM deeply into the night as nightwalkers, soundstalkers, photoshophoppers and videorodeoriders, all creatively in the tropical beehive of sugared mangopop and ketamine; Japanese, Russian, Belgian and Kiwi folks of allsorts improvising music sessions in the mosquito dazzled and sticky nights; loafing around in a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lungi">lungi</a>, being most comfortable and integration into local fisherman society; being daily stalked by drunken yet innocent hash pushers lurking about every alley around the hotel and leading to the ever bizarre conversations; hearing the endless oneliners of Kanu, the liberated servant that chains himself to pleasurable chores; the babbling oneliners back at him from the guests; the allmost-fight between the manager and a local on the hotel premises, rumbling through our shanti time, and so forth and so.....<br /><br />No, to make stories around these little facts of 'life of a Puri saltbowl refugee', that would indulge too much space of this post and hence your affectionate attention. Let them remain folly fiction at best and most unreal, into the unknown black hole that one gets sucked into while on a holiday in an all-too-laid-back spot somewhere in a tropical hemisphere on this globe, wherever it may be. Things could be worse, like trying to translate it into a common context for others to understand, Shiva forbid.<br /><br />But, Puri honestly was an amazing place, if not my favorite region of India so far. The region was amazing, the smiling people too and same goes for the coast! How many times we have had, or me alone has had, so much empty beach at our disposal without another soul in sight. Many a headturn; one km to the left, one to the right. Nope, nobody. To waste time time with the least worry, the Orissan coast is the place. That alas, also means that I never made it too the tribal parts in the north and south. They all were quite far away (up to 15 hour busrides and no guarantees of admittance) and hearsay said that you can only get into the jungle villages of the 62(!) different tribes if you have a guide and thus have paid a hefty sum that exceeds the 100 dollar mark. Better to plan a next visit in the future and arrange it with people on the inside and stay in said jungle spot for a reasonable time and not through a hopsack-quick-glance breeze by the tourist winds. On the last night I met Elena from Italy who had been living in Orissa for nearly a year and who spent a few months in the Northern jungle communities where she did social work in a project. Needless to say, she saw a lot of ceremonies and was part of local jungle life in a way a 'tribal package deal' can never bring. <br /><br />On the day before I left, I rented a motoped and went to Chilika lake. 50 km's riding through small coastal roads, men and women standing hipdeep in water, browsing for shrimps and shells in the nets below. People who are half jungle and half cultivated into village life, a life that to them already is <em>über-urban</em>. Seeing them look to you, wave to you, smile from a distance. Ofcourse you stop and make contact. Smiles around, shared laughs about pigment and hair colours, different pierced ornaments on both. And all without the slightest hassle nor nervous hands stretched out with the 'paisa' slogan. <br />The Irrawaddy dolphins, yup nice animals the few pairs of them, jumping up and down, squirting some water. It's a fun deal, just on time to catch the boat and joining a Kolkatan family layered with several generations. 3 hour ride on the lake, stopover to drink palmnuts, chew their white sallow fruity flesh, nibbling on the namkeen of the generous family. Sure the boat ride was nice, but the ride on wheels through those people's fields, watery patches and their villages was way more rewarding than sitting still on a boat and peering for light grey mammals. <br />Damn camera gave all of its last power and the snapshots of the 50km ride were the last to be taken. <br /><br />I left Puri and Orissa as it was unavoidable. Back westwards towards Delhi, but first stopping at Varanasi. The city of the dead. Not ment in a sardonic or dark way, but in the famed way of the non stop human barbeque, 24 hours a day at the ghats of the Ganges. <br />My hotel was just behind the main ghat, the main place where the ritual burning was done. First sight from above; a man burns and the cloth around his bodies has all burned up, right to the face. His head lies back into the fire while the face stares up as if looking to the sky for the last time, the mouth open as if making a final grimace. That's just my imagination running loose, but you make up stories to make it more bearable and understanding for yourself. In a pile next to this one, just a half corpse lies in the flames, one leg curled up by the sheer heat and sticking into the air. Bizarre. All other limbs have burned up already. I explain it like this as photographing is not allowed there, very understandable and utmost respectfull to the mourners, so all you can make of it is a mental note inside your head. A dog next to one of the ashen heaps has snatched a tasty piece of something and drags it off. After chewing on it for a little while, he leaves it be and the piece of bone remains there till a worker casually kicks it aside. <br />I could go on giving descriptions, but that would either bring out gruesome feelings for some of you and this symbolic poetry doesn't live a long life anyway. <br />You would think that it stinks there, but it doesn't. Local ghat burning workers explained me that they used special sandal and bunyan tree wood that overruled the smell of smoldering human flesh, plus that special herbs and perfumed powders were thrown onto the bodies as well every so often. The worst is when the wind turns, you get all the stark flaming smoke in your eyes and that seriously bites. As if you were crying for the dead. It reminded me of a "fisherman's friend moment', those coughing pastilles. More explanation: the chest of a man does not fully burn so this stays behind in the ash heap. Same goes for the hip bone of a woman. Those bones are plainly thrown in the Ganges river together with the ashes. Children, animals and saddhu's (baba's) do not get burned, same for pregnant women, as they get heavied with stones and into a watery grave in the middle of the river after a boat ceremony. So the river is filled with corpses in the middle and rib n hip bones on the sides, but locals of the lower castes still wash themselves into the river every day, just right next to the main ghat. Same goes for children who endlessly play in the water. I wonder how many times the joke of throwing bones at each other has been played by them. <br /><br />I had shared the nightly train ride from Orissa with Italian Elena of the night before and her deeply gentle Spanish partner Carlos and I catched up with them later near the ghats. More like bumping into each other, as we had predicted and Varanasi is just a small city in that respect as everything of interest happens on or around the ghats where everyone is bound to be at. Spent some time with them and their Spanish friends in the evening and the next one. Good to brush up my Spanish a bit for a little mediterranian trip down south next month. Also met their baba, as Carlos lives in Varanasi when he is not involved in social project work and knows his baba for a long while now. The baba speak good Spanish and his wise words are given in comical slogans of enjoying life. <br /><br />On the last night, just before I have to catch by train to Delhi, a big ceremony was starting at the ghat, with none other that the famous and rather quirky yoga figure <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swami_Ramdev">Yog</a> would appear. Bah, I had to walk away in order not to miss my train, but I almost saw him. Almost ;)<br />My dear Maarten, wherever you are lost right now, I was so close, yet I missed to gaze at our uncelebrated hero and applaud his virtue of not being perfect, that being the source of his Indian hero status! At least I now know that his real name is Swami Ramdev, ah wisdom gained in the absence of vision. Alas, and missed his tricks too, see!<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpOfWcuNGLotuEgnjPfu0biLFRe5NbTz1HxHNLT4rhrYWoyjKwP7IMJgJsGleMb5et4rEHLaKZtXJUfvoPUDVKneAUo15gga8w5HhdD_SSPRdJCxLggrFNulT3PXMOGFClzGkOnKFvR0eM/s1600-h/smithc9192082007_P01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpOfWcuNGLotuEgnjPfu0biLFRe5NbTz1HxHNLT4rhrYWoyjKwP7IMJgJsGleMb5et4rEHLaKZtXJUfvoPUDVKneAUo15gga8w5HhdD_SSPRdJCxLggrFNulT3PXMOGFClzGkOnKFvR0eM/s400/smithc9192082007_P01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190651784737435570" /></a><br /><br />Not the last post yet, even on this first-to-last day in India. The last few days I went up and down to Jodhpur in search of a rare Kamaycha violin and more talks with Kuldeep Kothari at the Rupayan Sansthan institute of Rajasthani culture.<br /><br />Big shouts go out to the Puri folks; the mad Russian bunch, Japanese motohomeless, Kiwi and Brit laughter and the ever providing persons (of anything) that was Kanu. Same for Elena, Carlos, Daniel and the couple from Alicante and whoever I blissfully forgot.SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-30182862403868461162008-04-01T10:30:00.004+05:302008-04-09T22:18:28.819+05:30Darjeeling's darlings want Gorkhaland"We want <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gorkhaland">Gorkhaland</a>"<br /> "Gorkhaland Now"<br />"Gorkhaland belongs to us"<br /><br />These are some slogans on banners, posters and graffiti'd on walls in the Darjeeling district. Darjeeling is part of West Bengal, but as it is in the northernmost tip of it and enclosed by Nepal and Bangladesh, the people feel themselves not part of West Bengal with tropical southern Kolkata as the capital. <br />The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gorkhas">Gorkha's</a> are originally Nepali's who are known for their toughness, which gives them the fame for being the hardest, toughest and strongest soldiers on earth. In the old colonial days, the British used the Gorkha's in their regiments and since Darjeeling was under British rule for the all-important tea trade, the Gorkha's have found themselves in the area ever since.<br /><br />Before a month, there still were problems in the area and Darjeeling was closed off for everyone. Since a few weeks the peace has been restored by the people's sacking of Darjeeling Hill Council governor Ghisingh, for whom the local people even held a public funeral to denounce him as being dead to them! Ghising has fled Delhi-wards since then and stepped down from the West Bengal government. The Gorkha Janamukti Morcha party is bound to take over, with headman Bimal Gurung in the spotlight. <br />So that was the reason that several small election manifestations were done in Darjeeling town. I only heard them far below in the streets and didn't manage to see any of it. Except for the many jeeps carrying the Gorkhaland flag and a few jeeps driving around with an announcer on them, proclaiming their hopeful propaganda. Those could be seen allover town. It all was peaceful. <br /><br />At the Kakarbitta border I had met Marco, who I already had met briefly in Pokhara, an Italian who's cycling around Nepal and India for several months. In Siliguri I met him again and as he knew the mountains to Darjeeling would be too steep for him, he would take a jeep with me. From Siliguri many jeeps go up to Darjeeling for a fair price and the 2,5 hour ride was an amazing one for views. From the first moments outside of Siliguri one could see and smell the tea fields already! A slight peppery, earth-like scent filled your nostrils while you gazed at vast fields of green waves that oozed into the lower valleys. It looked quite mystical and still, as if there was an invisible mist hanging over it that gave it such a natural aura. How much nicer it even must look like if real mist shrouds the fields! Driving through the mountains, many diverse layers of forest made up the mountain greenery just like in Nepal on different altitudes, from tropical to highland vegetation. <br />I'm glad I didn't take the toy train up. "it took up to 7 hours!", one Canadian traveler told me and that he had to enjoy the slow ride with a bottle of liquor at hand. <br /><br />Darjeeling itself, well... apart from the open views you can get on the highest points, it's a rather grim colonial town that has lost its grandeur since the partition when the rich British fled the place. The old Victorian greyness from up mixes with abandoned industrial structures down below, rusty as they have become from neglection. Most tourists either come for the tea or for the nice hikes around the area. I came without any desire, just to see Darjeeling for a few days and relax before continuing south. The atmosphere in the Darjeeling mountains is quite relaxed and it felt a lot like still being in Nepal. The locals, being of more Nepali and Tibetan descend than Indian, were all kind and friendly. <br /><br />The next morning I bumped into Miki from Australia, a friend from the same Freak street group in Kathamandu and also traveling alone now. Path-crossing luck strikes 600km's away, in the Indian subcontinent it really isn't strange anymore to again meet people you know and the longer you're on the road, the more you get used to it. Miki also came to Darjeeling to relax and mostly, to read books from the great library that the Aliment hotel had. She devoured them by the page in the course of several days and ofcourse, feeling regret at having to leave all the other good books behind. We walked around the town, sometimes alone, together, with or without a goal. <br /><br />In the local market, which was a tidy cluster of wooden shacks, I saw 2 younger men playing the Nepali sarangi violin in folky manner and both singing with raspy and roughly volumed voices. They were brothers and came from Nepal into India every day as the border is about 25km's away, to play in the Darjeeling market streets and earn some money. Their names were Shiva and Shankar and both in their early twenties. With their consent, I recorded about 13 songs right on the street while sitting next to them crouched on the ground. In some way it attracted a lot of locals and shopping folks while I sat there listening and locals curious as to why I sat next to these Nepali buskers. More people threw money on their napkin, so it rather was no bad attention and it also made the boys laugh.<br />At the end I invited them to a restaurant, at first they were hesitant as they didn't know how to react on my offer or what they could choose to eat. As they couldn't speak English, we spoke in Hindi and talked about their music, the meaning of several songs and little things. I told them that I will try my best for getting their music released on a small scale, so that they could make some money in the west from afar if people back home show enough interest. I also paid them for their songs, -which they didn't ask for nor expected after the meal-, a sum that is not much by western standards but to them more than a full day wage of playing on the street. Hopefully people back home, or the supportive readers here like you all, are interested in their music and want to support them, as well as other artists that we recorded. <br />I'll try to upload one of their songs, but am not sure if it's recorded in mp3 format or not (which means a very bulky upload otherwise).<br /><br />On the last afternoon, just as I was about to check out of my hotel, I bumped into Mischka from Germany who I had met in Lahore, Pakistan. The same theory applies to the crossing of paths, ever and ever. Mischka had just come back from spending 1,5 month in Orissa, just where I was heading to! So I quickly decided to stay for an extra night in Darjeeling, enjoying the talks with Miki, Mischka and his friends. Traveling is much more fun with these unexpected things that make you improvise by emotion than by time. I think that perhaps will be the most difficult thing to get used to again back in Europe; the consumption and value of time in regards to your own impulses and the expectancies you tie yourself onto. Blah, that should sort itself out once there is a harmonious balance between them, if a person allows him or herself to do it.<br /><br />The next day me and Miki left Darjeeling together as we both were heading to Kolkata, she by night train, me by a night bus. It was quite funny, as in the first jeep that passed us in town had the 3 friends of Mischka from the night before sitting in it, also to get back to Sliguri. Ah, how much longer can a theory of luck and coincidence go on unproven if the evidence speaks by recurrent meetings? Magnetism of energy, by culture or whatnot... it leaves a lot of blanks. They made the jeep stop and we got in so we had a quick ride down to Siliguri and retracing the same beautiful way down the mountains and layers of forests and finally driving in between the peppery scented tea fields. *snifffff, mmmmh*. <br />As someone from our pack said, "now we're really back in India" and indeed, once we got out of the jeep, a whole wave of hassling washed over us by rickshaw men, hawkers and any shape of transportation men. Nothing that we weren't used to.<br /><br />I waited to take a night bus to Kolkata....<br /><br />*still no photo's because the upload speed in Orissa isn't up to scratch*SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-42220198137084603742008-04-01T09:36:00.013+05:302008-04-03T21:21:42.509+05:30Le voyage de Béliveau, c'est du douze annees beau!The ride from Kathmandu to Kakarbitta. <br />A long haul from the too early morning to the early evening. Frisky cold in the morning from the draft out every crevice of the bus door and windows, and steaming hot later on with the sun pressing and teasing my body. Such is the fun of 15 hours in a bus with not enough space for your legs and other discomforts. Though luxury of suffering and pleasure at the same time, because the changing views repaid the hassle of sitting with painfully sleepy limbs. Passing through mountain area's into the lower and more tropical valleys, next to rivers with gorges and overhung rock formations, even some stretches of jungles and over a big river. <br /><br />Scene from my bus window while passing one of these gorgeous river stretches. A young family stands next to the river, mother, father and a pack of loose children. Father is in the middle of the river, pulling a fishing net and slowly wading through the water and hauling his likely catch. Mother is busy washing clothes and dishes all the same but unexpectedly gets splattered with water by one of her little giggling girls. She jumps up and runs after the girl with a smiling grin, scattering and singing some playful shrieks that makes all the kids join in the fun of running along the shore. Pure and immediate happiness. It looks so simple in this momentarily glimpse, by the sincerity of the movements, the laughter and the sheer harmony that surrounds it. And these are people who basically do not have much, perhaps no electricity. Depending on what they catch and make themselves for food and living on nature's resources in a most simple way. In strictly materialistic and financial terms, it is plain poverty at the same time. But then it hits you that free happiness in such a way can not be bought or earned through any of those means, as we might incline to think from our own accumulated western mindset, with our own values and expectancies sculptured from an early age on to what we think they should amount or lead to, out of misleading habit and sometimes false aptitude. The road high above on which I am nearly seems to symbolize my position in to theirs below. My road signifies the west; man made, fast-paced for moving, striving to modern standards and less personal. Their spot below is natural, down at the source and in touch with intimate environment and family members. One of these different levels costs more that the other and is created out of different motives. On such moments, one's thoughts can find itself in a locked grip between these parallels of different cultures and their attached social paradigms, trying to calculate equal comparisons. There's never a clear answer at hand, nor a solution provides itself either. Just some new puzzle pieces to fumble with, to replace older ones that are already outlaid. Better get playing and make the most balanced picture with the colors that you have. Bus rides with near heatstrokes do inspire me to a lot of philo-faux-sophical mumbo jumbo, for what and to whom it's worth.....<br /><br />Somewhere in the afternoon we stopped at a little pastry shack, for chia and sweet bites. Suddenly the Nepali's around me pointed to a nearby hiker. 'kya dekho usko gora!!?' they uttered and all looked straight at me, awaiting my sure reaction. There came a-walking a white foreigner, pushing a 3-wheeled cart in front of him that looked like one of those modern baby buggy. What, why and how? I went up the hiker and he greeted me jovially. He introduced himself as Jean Béliveau, from Montreal, Canada, and told me in a cheerful tone that he had been walking around the world since 2000! wow.<br /><br />Jean started off back home in Montreal and went straight down into the America's; north, middle and south. All. From Sao Paolo, Brazil, he took a boat to South Africa and from there he walked all along Eastern Africa up to Egypt and into Northern Africa from where he entered Southern Europe. From Europe on he continued eastwards and through Turkey briefly entered the Middle East into Iran, UAE and entering the Indian subcontinent at Gujarat by boat. And so up he went into Nepal, did the half length of the country and I found him now walking near the border.<br />These walks up to now took 8 years of constant walking and he's still going strong! <br />4 more years of walking to do, which will take the rest of Asia, Oceania and back into Canada on the west coast. Wow, such a trip done & ahead! Just imagine the experiences Jean has had in every country, overwhelming to say the least. It makes one longing for more travels than just those lasting 6 months or a year.....<br /><br />The noble goal of this 12 year long walk is not out of Jean's mere self-enjoyment but in fact to walk allover the world in promotion of "Peace and non-violence to the profit of the children of the world", <a href="http://www.nvpdecade.org/">a proclamation of the United Nations</a> that was set for the first decade of this millennium. Jean is living and walking the dream of this positive manifest. <br />His walk is not sponsored in any corporate way, but with his own and family's funds. In ways of food and accommodation he often gets local help, but he can always use any help offered along the way. Check out <a href="www.wwwalk.org">his website</a> and keep track of him. Help him if he's around your neighbourhood or even give him some emotional or financial support through the web! www.wwwalk.org<br />Keep walking Jean, best of luck and enjoy!.<br /><br />Here some pics of Jean etc.<br /><br />the worldly wanderluster on the road <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRENKPRPfpv4daJIE1rm_YBnRR22D_2TcT90NA-8rYhCYdFPDlIww2T6WJhsvMXLSUgQadtfH8ic5tH9B4cl8Nehf5MjqxVv_vl5-2uJ5cy-3A5ChXxiKIelMQgyeXI70JayKtKBLc3F5k/s1600-h/jean.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRENKPRPfpv4daJIE1rm_YBnRR22D_2TcT90NA-8rYhCYdFPDlIww2T6WJhsvMXLSUgQadtfH8ic5tH9B4cl8Nehf5MjqxVv_vl5-2uJ5cy-3A5ChXxiKIelMQgyeXI70JayKtKBLc3F5k/s400/jean.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184927853683543442" /></a><br />his cart companion<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KjQCecOJumAS-vn8I9tWb7WHN15CvTkoWv8UJp9VMxsWDoeIQ6dGZI-nzRTEtQu8X4cX5GpPmzPhEwoKcVF3YVq4fY_n2GpopC3JwSIQzEjOTx7LI3bl279Ya5ahCJ3YRckN5ZGhSiSq/s1600-h/beliveau.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KjQCecOJumAS-vn8I9tWb7WHN15CvTkoWv8UJp9VMxsWDoeIQ6dGZI-nzRTEtQu8X4cX5GpPmzPhEwoKcVF3YVq4fY_n2GpopC3JwSIQzEjOTx7LI3bl279Ya5ahCJ3YRckN5ZGhSiSq/s400/beliveau.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184932913155018146" /></a><br />Seb et Jean<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOk3V6XLUcM0sCj71lDa_JC45St9hBN95O14P-JnXl0uO_7iqiJcAIluHxGYISKfboTnt9dhbPMUw7sHFMRJ-7OdBtMyVIiAyeZXJ4SWJ2GIo0YaKxe7ImELkEV87I_kqiO_ulQ6q-6zH4/s1600-h/sebiveau.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOk3V6XLUcM0sCj71lDa_JC45St9hBN95O14P-JnXl0uO_7iqiJcAIluHxGYISKfboTnt9dhbPMUw7sHFMRJ-7OdBtMyVIiAyeZXJ4SWJ2GIo0YaKxe7ImELkEV87I_kqiO_ulQ6q-6zH4/s400/sebiveau.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184932917449985458" /></a><br />Bizarre poster of nerdness. show or product? who knows...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqTycC-x7t2ofgrtXYDxq9v-Ic6iQpprtBHPuzC8EsEoeRYkBIFdsMYxhsVK62Ch7bJYbsxrppQZZ4sAye4KjCyOXwcqLfLYyCI1dVqVWz7ZVnSmr-elZR8i7I081VtcFXPROgGqtxxyt/s1600-h/posterweird.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqTycC-x7t2ofgrtXYDxq9v-Ic6iQpprtBHPuzC8EsEoeRYkBIFdsMYxhsVK62Ch7bJYbsxrppQZZ4sAye4KjCyOXwcqLfLYyCI1dVqVWz7ZVnSmr-elZR8i7I081VtcFXPROgGqtxxyt/s400/posterweird.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184936134380490178" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-44642245397015663472008-03-21T09:54:00.013+05:302009-01-28T07:28:17.127+05:30Kathmandu, the cat's scribbles are dueKathmandu. <br />My temporary homestead of Freak street, as the Jhochen Tole street is affectionately called by locals since the 1960's when backpacking hippies flooded the area. Freak street is kinda dead these days, dead & empty of the freak and hippie vibe that it once had.<br />There now hangs a spirit in the air that contains a whiff of ironic nostalgia in the body of cliche clothing shops for young western travellers following the footpath of the 60's. But beside that there are at least some good cheap local eating spots.<br />It's not that the place gives bad vibrations, on the contrary. The quietness and peace is true bliss! Much better than the congested Thamel area, the main tourist hood of Kathmandu, where the generalisation of everything western and touristminded really touches nerves beyond irritation through loud bumping music, heckling shopkeepers, tigerbalm hawkers and whatnot. Hence I was happy to be on Jochen Thole, just like other western folks who chose the same pick. <br /><br />Durbar square, the famous square with about a double dozen wooden-roofed brick temples in different sizes. <br />Scene. Tour-touted tourists on the side of a nearby square gather around, watch. Photocamera's around their necks, white sneakers and gucci sunglasses. I see a bearded baba in an orange robe screaming out loud against this flock. Did he not receive but <span style="font-style:italic;">but</span> <em>one</em> coin from them or does he experience the apocalypse in his own mind? Poor fella. The tourists step away from him, as if he doesn't exist nor wanting to acknowledge his persona of shouting bravery. <br /><br />On one of the first days I rented a good mountainbike with suspension to go into the Nagarjun forest. So I did. 16 km's uphill to the top on a dirt road with loose stones. I guess I just like the pain of cycling up to mountain tops. It gets me into this bizarre trancelike state that feels like a thumping meditation while all kinda thoughts cross my mind and I go over them one by one. I reached the top, aching and thirsty as hell. There stood a Tibetan stupa, a place for buddhist pilgrimage. A lot of Tibetan monks and families were gathered next to it, eating self-made food that they had brought in big pans. They saw me in my exhausted state and laughed at me. They kindly offered me food and tea and all the while, especially the sweet elderly, laughed at me and it made me grin too. Laughing at me was a thing they liked doing and afterwards a western buddhist told me that Tibetan people always laugh when they find something sincerely interesting. Riding a bike up to the stupa and being white was a combination of interest apparently :)<br />On the way down the mountain, I rushed with vivid speed. Cutting corners, shrieking brakes and jumps, adrenaline extravaganza wow! I saw a wild deer who jumped off the road and into the bushes and from high up peeked at me untill it dashed away. I also saw 2 pair of wild lemurs (those sort of monkey styled cats) clutching around a tree. <br />Back before it was dark, back into the smoggy nastiness of Kathmandu traffic and I was happy to have bought a mouthcap as you do need it, unless you revel in choking on fumes. In the evening, the sisters from Tasmania also arrived in the same hotel as we half had agreed upon back in Pokhara before the Chitwan trip. It's fun to be around people you know better, even just for a little while. For that reason it was also no coincidence that the sisters bumped into some friends that they met in India months before. And so a little group of freak streeters was formed.<br /><br />Next day I cycled to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patan%2C_Nepal">Patan</a>, a more medieval and quieter city attached to Kathmandu which also has a Durbar square with a whole bunch of temples. Nice place. There were big crowds of local youths hanging around the well, as they were eyeing the young females who were all in line for collecting water for the family home. It was the day before Holi and the young males were bombaring the females with waterbags. Quite a scene, some females took it for granted, some did chase a single male and beated him if they could. Revengeful girl power in effect. At some point when a military police officer got hit wet and the fun was abruptly over as they chased all the youths away. The women were safe again to collect water without becoming immersed in it. <br /><br />Holi, 21st of March. The day that everyone warns you about; westeners do it with a sense of suspicion and fear whereas the locals speak about it in a gleefully and joyous way. As said in last post, we, the freak street tourists, had prepared and bought an abundant amount of powder and plastic bags to counterstrike in a joyfull manner and so happened. After I left the internet shop in Thamel, I cycled back to the hotel and from the first moment was bombared from all angles with colored water, hilarious! I stopped at some group of teens and got paint smeared allover my face and shirt. It was better get over your western neatness and give into the experience than getting frustrated by it like many tourists did. What gives. There were some real annoyances for the western women though, as many local teens took advantage in the paint smearing on the street by groping their bodies on unwished spots and feeling them up. Not so fun. Some of our female friends threw some righteous punches back at them, whack. <br />Back in Freak street I went to the hotel rooftop where everyone had gathered from various other hotels and we started our Holi celebrations upon the locals, young, elderly and anyone within range. We did more our best to aim at tourists, especially the clean ones and on the moment that an elderly tour group walked by with umbrella's, well, they had to run for cover. From their safe spot they looked at us with disbelief and you could hear them say "it are white folks!" as if they only expected locals. Some of them probably damned us for being such crazy colorful hippies spoiling their day, while others could see the fun of it and gave us thumbs up. At the end of the afternoon, the colour war came to an end, more from lack of bags, water or powder<br />Introducing Holi in the west for all, that would be fun for a change. The colours and the general craziness make it a pretty bizarre and splashing day, so next time join your local hindu's back home hah! <br /><br />The other days in Kathmandu. All in all I was there for 9 days and the days went fast and I did several other day trips. <br />The day after Holi, I went to the huge <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pashupatinath_temple">Pashupatinath Temple</a> complex, the famous Hindu temple of Kathmandu and they were still celebrating Holi there, but in a mild manner. I sat down for a while with elderly musicians who played temple music with a Holi theme and recorded their songs. They gave me donuts and chai as a blessing and got another rice thika smeared on me.<br />Then up to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boudhanath">Bodhnath</a>, Boudha or either one of the many names it gets called. My luck was that I got lost to find the stupa and instead heard music coming from a buddhist temple. When I entered, it was completely packed with buddhist monks, lama's, guru's and pilgrims, even up to outside! An elderly bald female monk who must have been in her 70's, gave me a pillow and with a nod she asked me to sit next to her. Suddenly the monks in the prayer chairs started chanting their mantra's, clinging their brass bells and the air became filled with a fuzzy vibrations. Then, the hornblowers with their long trumpets in all corners blew their high tones while several big drum of about 1,5 meters were hit with thick sticks. An echo travelled throughout the whole room and its high ceiling, bouncing down from above and back from the walls, such sensation! I felt goosebumps allover and quickly got my recorder ready and so I stayed for more than hour, recording bits and pieces from the whole ceremony. The monks served yak butter tea and little biscuits to everyone and also dropped a spoonfull of liquid of alcoholic nature in the palm of your hand, which you had to lick up. Bittersweet alcohol that tasted like african honeywine. As soon as the ceremony ended, The elderly monkesse had been viewing my recording device with interest and I made her listen to just-captured sounds, which sparked her eyes and made her laugh. I said goodbye to her and she gave me a big hug. Outside I sat down, still reeling from the sensation of sound of the powerfull air vibrations. One of the important guru's came up to me and gave me a slap on the back with a hearthy laugh. He was a short and heavy fella, roundbellied indeed as a cliched buddha. "Are you a saddhu?" he asked me in Hindi and ended it with a loud laugh, pointing to my long loose hair and my shiva shirt. Had a talk with for a little while while he played with some little kids, touching them up in ticklish manners and they hung over him as a playhouse. <br />I did find the stupa in the centre of town and walked around it, clockwise. Ate at a little Tibetan canteen in a backalley away from the westernised cafe's, getting smilingly stared at by the Tibetans.<br /><br />On another day I took a southern route away from Kathamndu, to again drive over some hills, mountains and past gorges. It was the road to Pharping, another place in the Kathmandu Valley where many Buddhist monasteries and temples are, as well high numbers of Tibetans. It was a 14 km ride to it and 10 of it was uphill, which was tough on the legs again but way better than the stone track of Nagarjun. At least on the way down it would be a quick ride. The scereny down on the valley and into the gorges were brilliant. I saw some of the temples near and in Pharping, went into some grotto where a lama had once sat for 10 years, ate momo's, let a kid drive my bike (as they all want to). The usual ;) On the way down I halfway stopped to take a picture. A girl stood in the doorway of her house and signalled me to come to her. Normally I'm easier to kindly wave back and drive on, but I stept off and walked down to the house. She introduced herself as Krishna, 22 years old and wanted to talk a bit in English. She told me that she once had met Hilary Clinton and her daughter Chelsea who were walking along this trail and directly she showed me a picture as proof. Indeed, there she stood so, as a small and young Nepalese woman amidst tall western women. I talked with her about the battle Clinton and Obama are having right now in the pre-elections, telling her of my own preference for Obama. She told me that she had been an orphan before being taken in by her foster family and it was a subject that straight went to her emotions as her eyes became shining from the tears that she withheld. She also spoke about her study to earn a Phd degree and that her college costs had all been funded by an elderly Dutch man and his wife. The man had died last year of cancer, with his wife now fallen ill too. How good intentions can backfire on people in unexpected and such unfair ways, one can't explain. <br />It was getting near dusk and I had to go back to Kathmandu before it would get too dark. We exchanged email and adresses to stay in touch as friends, for Krishankali to improve her English and hoping to find a way to study in Holland. <br /><br />9 days came to an end and I was about to take an early morning bus at 4.30 to Kakarbitta, the easternmost bordercrossing into India, to go to Darjeeling.<br />On the last night we went out and ended up in a pillow-seated restaurant where there was a folk-fusion night. Good music. I must admit that although Thamel is a shit place otherwise, a few cafe's like OR2k and Full Moon played good music and had a good relaxed athmosphere compared to all other tourist places where only coverbands played western rock and reggae, or just plain bad eurohouse. I quickly became late and at 3.30am, I hastily was back in the hotel, packed my bag and to the bus station without any sleep. Sleep I saved for the bus ride, as it would become a 16 hour ride.<br /><br />Quick overview of Nepal. <br />The Nepali's do like to idle themselves by saying that they are better than the Indians, since they speak in despising tongues about their southern neighbours. After all the chaos and hassle of India, Nepal does feel more relaxed and 'westernised'. <span style="font-style:italic;">That</span> is perhaps the keyword that lulls mosts tourists into believing the Nepali hype, which sometimes is more seen through pink glasses rather than through their own eyes. Western women always speak easily about the hassle and over-attention they receive throughout India, though most of the foreign females I was with in Nepal were just as well hassled by the local Nepali's on various occasions, meaning those traveling without male company. Some even got more hassle in a few weeks Nepal than months in India! Holi was ofcourse the day par excellence that weasely men could run sleazy and up-touching amok on foreign women, which made it less pleasurable for them to be on the streets celebrating, than say, the local women. All in all, as much as Nepali's want to idle themselves, they are just like Indians but with different traits. The most kind people were always the Tibetan people or the mountain folks like the Gurungs and other Tibetan-Burmese ethnic groups, as they were more reserved and sincere in their approach so that you quickly felt comfortable in their company. <br /><br />The elections are approaching fast too, on the 8th of April there will be the all important government elections and it seems to be a very open race because people are not happy with the current elected government that overthrew the royal family. I haven't looked into all the different parties, but I know there's a party that carries a green banner of a tree (I reckon they're not a Green party like we know it back home), then the Sun party, who has banners with a red striped sun on it (see pics in the Palpa post) and then there's the Communist party with the famous red sickle, which are the Maoists. To me, it seems that the Maoists actually might win it as any building where low-class workers live/work/gather are covered with Maoist flags. Flags that you see striding in the air more than of any other political party.<br />On the other hand, a lot of people see the Maoists as terrorists since they do still carry out little fights in remote places whereas in the big cities and important area's the cease-fire is respected. The rebels and the politicians however are not one and the same group but do have links with each other. I guess it's best to explain it in terms of the IRA and Sin Fein in the North Ireland. <br />Should the Maoists win, it will be interesting to see what would happen/change in Nepal on a social and economical level. In regards to tourism, there won't be a severe change as Nepal thrives on tourism and any political party will not want to waste this segment of the economy. <br />When I was in Patan the day before I left, I stopped at a gathering of Maoists sympathizers, who were getting ready for a normal election march like I've seen any of the political parties doing (either by foot or by car/jeep/bus). I was received with a smile and talked with several people who just wanted a more socialist government, equal pay and better working conditions and pension schemes (as only retired Gorkha soldiers or government workers get a pension). One guy gave me his cap of the Patan communists. 'to keep *sun* away' he said, as a great pun aimed at the Sun party, haha. One election souvenir for the road.<br /><br />Ah the Nepali folk pop music, how I will miss it. I really have taken a liking to it, especially the modern folk stuff that is Lok Geet and Tis Geet. These newer and mostly classic folk songs are produced through sampling and electronic engineering though they still keep the sound as original as they can, with the effects nor the vocoder having taken control like in a lot of the over-done Hindi and Arabian folk pop. It's bouncy uneven pace and the up-and-down vocals form a good partnership where you can cleary hear the Asian influences being melanged with the Hindi vocal style. The Nepali 'riddim sound' gives a very urban and folkloric feel at the same time, more than any other Asian music style has ever sounded to me. Before I had already compared the faster Lok Geet to certain reggae riddims and a paced, bizarre form of dubstep. I think that a Nepali variation on ragga or dubstep could work really well, if someone's up to it to create it into a unique blend.....<br /><br />On the cassettes industry, the sleeves are designed with a humble form of tackiness compared to the symbolic designs of Pakistan and the overly colourful ones of India (especially Rajasthan). It's a tackiness that looks quite plain and simple and that perhaps can mislead you on the style of the music if you're not a local. <br />Photo portraits of the vocalists, a photoshopped background drop with a mountain on it and somewhere a folk scene or a kid in the corner. <br />The small beauty of the designs of these sleeves is that they put pictures of buses on it, clearly marking it to be designated for bus play and proud of it. 1-0 to the Nepali truck/busdriver musicians for keeping it more real!<br /><br />-more Nepali music to be uploaded later-<br /><br />Big hug to the sisters, Krishankali, Ri, Aretha, Aki, Roxanne and all the other fine folks from UK, South Africa, France, Canada, Australia, Mexico etc. etc. during those 9 days...<br /><br />-more photo's to be uploaded later-<br /><br />Holi, just at morning time. We were still relatively clean then<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Pt5JQV0tU-5tMtt1sDPV5E_7KLNoOSc7ARXUWJwlLy7xy1_zEEZ2QBl6KsEkBD4KhmPT0hS33XsUlpODmsOm-MMnlXj2ARQ8GZiBJfL6hErQX6DjUS5dbPubFnzywaDrtLCeA_e_Nija/s1600-h/SL731023.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Pt5JQV0tU-5tMtt1sDPV5E_7KLNoOSc7ARXUWJwlLy7xy1_zEEZ2QBl6KsEkBD4KhmPT0hS33XsUlpODmsOm-MMnlXj2ARQ8GZiBJfL6hErQX6DjUS5dbPubFnzywaDrtLCeA_e_Nija/s400/SL731023.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182758152169721218" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-21141050113203449422008-03-18T17:33:00.061+05:302008-03-21T10:46:13.745+05:30Up and down Annapurna and Chitwan's elephant water massageA funny thing about the overly courteous Nepalese. Every time I reply them the recurrent *which country from?* question with the answer 'Belgium', they all seem to know Belgium and where it is situated and so on. Remarkable! Or actually not so remarkable at all, because Belgium has the largest Nepalese immigrant population in the west ever since they started receiving a lot political refugees in the 1990's. Especially students currently make up a lot of these numbers and Belgian universities welcome Nepali students by the load. That's what the people here tell me. Good news, Belgium is finally known for something social and positive which is not related to food, drink or painting. I'm happy for the Nepalese, who otherwise have a real hard time getting into the west. I do hope their gained knowledge will be brought back to Nepal, to better conditions here.<br /><br />Ah yes, the 5 day trek to Annapurna sanctuary, the large mountain region above Pokhara stretching out towards the Tibetan border (perhaps better say 'Chinese border' before they put me down). In the morning we got my permit done and off we were to Nayapul, the starting point. It was just me and Hem, my guide who is born in a village in the Annapurna's. We had customized the trek and made a mix of the 2 famous treks, the Ghandruk - Ghorapani loop and the Jomsom trail, to take a slight diversion so that we could also visit a special hot spring which not many trekkers get to see. <br />I only took the minimum for 5 days; a small backpack with just a few clothes and my duck down sleeping bag. No need for a porter that many other trekkers would have, to have them carry all their stuff. Stuff which they probably wouldn't even use and had better left behind in their hotel, like me and most younger trekkers had done. Easy goes best, light is even better. <br />From Nayapul on, there would be no road anymore on our track. Just footpaths that were shared withy mules, the only different transportation system to human porters on the trail to all the villages high up or low down in cut-off valleys. Their bells always tolled a beautiful hymn of broken melodies, rhytmically out of tune, yet so in place on those moments. Echoing from the hills and through the forests. Given my allergy to all horse-like animals (it's a weird one, I know) I wasn't too thrilled to walk behind them, but their cling-clanging pace made more than up for it. <em>'But was it music?'</em> to quote Henry Miller. Why, gorge-ous!<br /><br />We walked up along the river, where kids were fishing. With hammers. Seriously. They hit upon the big rocks in the shallow river because the small fish that they were after always seem to hide under rocks. Death through vibration and pressure, food for the table. The mountains slowly started rising, but as this was just the first day we wouldn't see the high peaks for now, smaller mountains still concealing them. <br />We arrived in Hille end of the afternoon, a little village full of lodges for the trekkers -as every village is filled with-. The mule express overpassed us again, for them their working day surely wasn't over yet. Hot shower, relaxation and waiting for dinner while watching some emotional Korean movie. I met fellow-trekkers there. 3 friendly young folks from the Jersey island in the UK and a Norwegian son and his 74year old mother. Except from the hardship-shaped elderly locals, the Norwegian lady must have been the oldest person I met doing this trek. <br /><br />2nd day. After an early breakfast we left towards Ghorapani, which promised a be a steep 6 hour walk. It was, especially the first bit. The day before I had met Martin, a kind German man who was giving trekkers a course in film shooting with as less equipment as possible. A creative thing to combine on such a nice trek. He comes to Nepal every year for several months and knows the Annapurna circuit and its villages by heart. He pointed to a nearby slope above a string of houses and told me in an affected tone that last year, there had been a landslide that divulged several houses and killed 17 people. Landslides are a common phenomenon here and we would encounter much more of their traces in the next days. Up on the way near a little village called Tikedungha, we passed a Nepali church that held a service. Vocal music of praise was oozing out of the doorway, kids playing around, making scattering noises. I went inside, not to pray or anything but just to hear and see as I found the sound quite intriguing, very un-western, they sung in Nepali which gave it a special shine. Here a song:<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Nepali%20Christian%20song.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Nepali%20Christian%20song.MP3">Tikedungha church members - Song of praise</a><br />We arrived in Ghorapani quicker than we thought, as our pace was very swift and we constantly overtook trekkers. Sure I knew the pain was gonna come later, ah what did I care. I loved the climbing up, heavy as it was, but it got me into a nice trance of near walking meditation, walking slowly over all my thoughts while focusing on natural surroundings at the same time. In Ghorapani it was cold and foggy as we now were at 2500 meter altitude. Tibetan people hawked their wares on the street and they liked getting into ironic arguments with trekkers about buying their crafts. If you're trekking, the last thing you want to do is to by a solid metal singing bowl or anything else heavy or useless to you. Unless you have porters perhaps. In the lodge we met 2 funny German-Australian sisters from the woods of Tasmania, Elia and Johanna. I nicknamed them the pagan sisters, natureloving and spiritual as they were.<br />They had been trekking for nearly 10 days without guide, just on their own which was no problem at all as the trekking trails are quit easy to follow. We had a long evening at the fireplace, talking about all things spiritual, natural and creative. <br /><br />Day 3, early morning wake up call at 5.30am. To see the famous sunrise at Poon Hill, a 3200 meters high peak from where all of the Annapurna mountains could be seen. It was pretty cold and we packed ourselves into layers, wrapped in fleece, wool, gore-tex or whatnot. The sisters also joined us. Walking uphill for 40 minutes does make you warm quickly. But yeah, what is the Poon Hill vibe? In the nutty dialogue that me and Elia made up on the spot, this was Poon Hill:<br /><br />"Welcome to the Gore-tex festival, the Poon Hill 2008 edition. Yes people, there will be live shows on the left, right, under and above by Korean, German, Canadian and Australian clickety-clackers, snapshot speakers and zany zoomers. They all use special hand instruments and throw poses on this natural stage set under the early morning sky. You are obliged to pose originally. And no, not with the aid of alcohol to loosen yourselves up, but only chia and water will be on offer, at a high cost. As are cakes, crackers or cookies of any sort. Pay up or remain thirsty and hungry at your own sake. The sunlight shall be shared with everyone, like the views and the fresh morning air. The watch tower is for those who care for the VIP treatment. It's not backstage but the abovestage for those higher beings. But alas, everyone is a VIP here! Devil may care, climb up that ladder at your own whim and see for yourself, look beyond the whitest of snow, into that golden trickle of light shining from it!"<br /><br />Thus ended our Poon Hill stay and we descended down for a much needed breakfast. <br /><br />The rest of the day was a nice up and down walk through foggy forests, beautifully filled with trees of all sort and we touched upon many packs of blooming Rhododendron trees. We arrived in Tadapani and it seemed as the crossroads for most treks and many people were crowding the lodges. In the evening we were visited by the Gurung mother group, the females of the local Gurung community who have Tibetan roots. They played their traditional songs in a sort of vocal choir, accompanied by a dholak drum. It all were short songs and the local people (and Nepali guides, porters and sherpa's) did traditional Nepali dancing, which looked a bit like Indonesian gamelan dances with a hint of India in it. Ofcourse, the tourists couldn't escape either so me and the sisters got pulled up dancing while others were reluctant to give it a try. Here a song:<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Gurung%20folk%20song.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Gurung%20folk%20song.MP3">Gurung mother group - Gurung folk song</a><br /><br />The next day, with limbs starting to ache, we had to do a lot of inconsistent climbs up and down to Jhinu Danda, the special hot spring place. it actually was one of the nicest walks of all days, as we went through even more beautiful forests, covered with moss, ferns and flowers, the smell of fresh earth into our nostrills. Also we passed many little settlements and farms where people were working their fields by hand or by buffalo. The sun shined brightly upon us and we could see all the forested ridges clear and green while we still had the Annapurna mountains in our hindsight. Such air and view. It's too hard to describe it with the right words as that would take up another post, so I'll leave that for your imagination. Just let the photo's put the words in your head. We arrived in Jhinu in the late afternoon and lazied about as we were all tired, the sisters surely even more as they had been walking so long already and were quite fed up of mountains in their sincere honesty. Around 9pm, we went down to the hot spring, about a 20 minute walk. It was pitch dark and through a narrow stone path down into the forest, which was amazing. We heard the river getting louder and it was flowing at a rapid pace. The hot springs were just next to the river, in a cut-out and rock-layered pool of 4 by 6 meters, made by locals. Wow, they were so cosily warm, as if it was nature massaging your limbs and body. We had brought candles for light and it only added more to the special atmosphere. Many shadows flickered on the rocks while the sky above us was filled with stars, so many! We just felt lucky to experience this unspoilt place, especially at the time of the darkened day. The walk up, well, that was a bit harder again after this softening experience. Exhausting we went to bed.zzzzz.<br /><br />On the 5th day, my camera went *crack* and refused to open and focus again. Like an early eternal sleep, the little cheapskate. The walk down to Nayapul, to get the bus back to Pokhara, was again beautiful just like the day before. This day we passed more little villages and farmer dwellings, more and more beautifully cultivated fields. It was a long but easy walk, as the trail mostly went down. Though I have found out that I rather like walking up than downhill since my muscle pains all came from the irregular downhill walks. Those really kill you more if anything. Back on the road, civilisation and shops. It felt so weird for a little moment to be back out of the wild, as in the days that you are walking, you feel much more in touch with your natural surroundings, the sounds and the crisp clean air. Except for the stunning views that they offered, the villages all were quite bare, except for Jhinu Danda that was more placed in a natural spot. These little villages solely serve as trekking stops instead of beautiful spots, filled with lodges as they are, but it offers the locals a way of income, an income that they otherwise never could earn if it were not for the trekking trails. On the 1,5 hour ride back, all for of us, me, Hem and the sisters, sat on the roof. Such beautiful views again, turning away from the Annapurna's. We did had to stay low and dodge the electricity cables, as they flashed near overhead. <br /><br />Back in Pokhara, me and the sisters just relaxed. Had a 1,5 hour massage of acupressure and ayurvedic matters. Plush luxury indeed, but I felt revived. In the swell Peace Eye hotel we had some good nights with cheese and red wine (such combination, first time in months!). The sisters bumped into friends that they had met in India and they joined us in the evenings. Raul from Spain, a funny fella like a true storyteller, did a lot of his tricky magician tricks. Hello to Giorgios from Greece too! Travel well etc. I packed all my shit together and decided to move for Chitwan national park on my own, as the sisters were unable to move out of their relaxtion mode yet. <br /><br />In a packed bus, on a tourist package. That, because the easiest and cheapest way to get to the Chitwan wild reserve was on such a deal. On the too well paved tourist trail indeed. The oh so kind hotel manager of Peace Eye had arranged a too cheap deal to refuse, much cheaper than any of the commission hunting agencies offered. <br />After a 6,5 hour ride we suddenly were in the tropical bush, away from the mountains. We got picked up by jeep and delivered at our lodging like a packet. There I met an irish couple, Tony and Emma, and a Dutch couple, Ed and his wie (whose name I forgot, sorry!) and with them I would do most of the excursions. The excursions, as corny as they may have sounded to me, I did enjoy them a lot. <br />In the afternoon we walked around a Tharu village. The Tharu people are believed to have moved all the way from Rajasthan to the tropical Nepalian forests in medieval times, when the mughuls were slayering tribes at will. Their name springs from the Thar desert perhaps? We went to the elephant breeding centre and saw several elephants relaxing. With chains, which make them look sad. In the evening, I met some other tourists in the lodge from Japan and the UK, who invited me for an evening tour to the edge of the jungle. We walked in darkness as the power had been vut off and from far we could already hear the cacaphony of mostly birds and insects. We just sat there silent for half an hour, listening and peeking into the bushy darkness across the river. The next day we had a canoe ride. They didn't let us peddle so I felt a bit useless and once again the typical tourist. We saw crocodiles (gharials and muggers) and many birds, like kingfishers, ducks, maraboe's and storks. The walk into the jungle was promised to be something special. Though we walked a good hour or more in the dense vegetation, we saw only some birds and insects. Only footprints or droppings of the wilder animals like the sloth bear, tiger and rhinoceros. When we came back to the river, they were washing the elephants. That was really why I wanted to go to Chitwan, to swim with the elephants and wash them! I was the only one of my tourist pack who went into the water, and no sooner I found myself looking an elephant in the face upclose and being hosted up into the air by it, woah! I got a tarzan style elephant snout shower while I sat on it's back. The elephant sometimes rolled over and I fell softly into the water, laughing from the sensation. Like a kid, again and again. After my own bath and play, I helped the mahout driver to clean the elephant and he gave me a porous stone. The elephant skin is thick and crusty so only a stone can wash him good. The elephant lay on his side, enjoying the rub and stoned massage. You could hear her groan out of satisfaction, bizarre. In the afternoon we would have the elephant jungle ride, riding in a wooden seat atop the animal, which I didn't know what to expect of. The beginning was boring, but as soon we went into the jungle, it was great to be so high up, getting branches and bush slapped into your face. We soon saw rhinoceros, a mother and her baby. We also encountered 3 different types of wild deer and all these wild animals weren't afraid of us. Because they couldn't see or smell us, sitting high on the elephant and that was the whole trick with having elephant jungle rides and getting so close -right next!- to wild animals. In the evening there was a Tharu cultural programme planned for all the tourists of the different lodges. It was an ok performance, except for the chattering noise most tourists made, ones who perhaps didn't care for the Tharu music or culture but came anyway. The dances and music were very similar to the Indian tribal stick dances of Gujarat and Haryana, places were Rajasthani tribes also have settled in the last few hundred years, if that's not a clear link enough. Also hello to the fellow Belgian person from Antwerp (Essen) that I met, I'm so bad with names sometimes, so forgetful.<br /><br />That was the end of 3 days and 2 nights in Chitwan. It was long enough for me and I was itching to get to the Kathmandu valley. We entered the city in its most vile and smoggiest form. wow, after all the natural quality of Annapurna and Chitwan, it did feel awkward. <br /><br />I turned my camera into repair in Kathmandu, to see if first help can reanimate him. Breathe oh little one, breathe!<br />-and guess what, they fixed it; gone is then asthma and its bad cough, yay-<br /><br />Today (friday) is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holi">Holi</a>, the special Hindu day for coloring one another by throwing powder or colored water on each other. I've already been waterbagged a few times in the last days as a warm-up. But today, me and friends can throw back as we have bought powder and plastic bags. We're prepared, mwhahaha ;)<br />Ok, time to sign off and run through the water barricades that are happening right in front the internet shop. Many tourists covered in colours have stepped into here looking bewildered. Better be prepared, I'm on my way to get and throw some colours, yeah! :)<br /><br />More on these savage wet celebrations and Kathmandu's surroundings in the next post.<br /><br />just photo's of the 4 days trekking....<br /><br />awareness poster<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir_dNlsXoI0Ca0GHkVqL6C3EFibEXQ_yIUo-OQhVrotjj3icZ-DfSQrq7IudaH0s1JNvDgNfjL7AudfWTktKYCrgVFp8CVXjR2enwArGbLnag-Ggb7OrkXV4S-afhyphenhyphenqwiET_nrpk76H0Ft/s1600-h/00+poster.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir_dNlsXoI0Ca0GHkVqL6C3EFibEXQ_yIUo-OQhVrotjj3icZ-DfSQrq7IudaH0s1JNvDgNfjL7AudfWTktKYCrgVFp8CVXjR2enwArGbLnag-Ggb7OrkXV4S-afhyphenhyphenqwiET_nrpk76H0Ft/s400/00+poster.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179835830651718434" /></a><br />staring point Nayapul<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJYj3KXcXgrOAKvGDKmGjrxgOAfPKL00bbHvvr6JS1yOUxl6rNDE0vWgM2cCz-EnkaXSdEGHApVe3jYXqzXbBuMr1fIFqSn4Z2-M-Z3UEH6R_f7tSEdPAo71qycIPxMq5IiKyaLg9WdpP/s1600-h/01+start.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJYj3KXcXgrOAKvGDKmGjrxgOAfPKL00bbHvvr6JS1yOUxl6rNDE0vWgM2cCz-EnkaXSdEGHApVe3jYXqzXbBuMr1fIFqSn4Z2-M-Z3UEH6R_f7tSEdPAo71qycIPxMq5IiKyaLg9WdpP/s400/01+start.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179837071897266994" /></a><br />kitchen at our first stop<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxszTuRGBhdmCp5ZIEn0vQjtwVEcF0jH6O_dxs4JZQrqPwGxTwW2qsylCEw7yeBQnKUM672xPGba-YuJYtuHOQ0jDcbdJYtuHXadtrgl5owIWUaFLGEjbGMy3WjWs1dt7nRxdursfZAl5x/s1600-h/02+kitchen.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxszTuRGBhdmCp5ZIEn0vQjtwVEcF0jH6O_dxs4JZQrqPwGxTwW2qsylCEw7yeBQnKUM672xPGba-YuJYtuHOQ0jDcbdJYtuHXadtrgl5owIWUaFLGEjbGMy3WjWs1dt7nRxdursfZAl5x/s400/02+kitchen.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179837338185239362" /></a><br />where no roads can go....the mule express always delivers. Chickin' on the move!<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WO29phLRPHqQc_Ay51K5GwW0nyD9KCcZL18nWuoulr5OnZZLUmvbxYPecNnJblEsWdJGo73YUx6t4fzKle8Sqes_hXjydRFyN7benMTtGYBBWRbBoxsw8ROtHasw6vPHV9lNQawsGe9j/s1600-h/04+chickin.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WO29phLRPHqQc_Ay51K5GwW0nyD9KCcZL18nWuoulr5OnZZLUmvbxYPecNnJblEsWdJGo73YUx6t4fzKle8Sqes_hXjydRFyN7benMTtGYBBWRbBoxsw8ROtHasw6vPHV9lNQawsGe9j/s400/04+chickin.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179837819221576530" /></a><br />fishing with the hammer<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOeWDX7qHleynRkJe4THAml2QbHgpgANb_1-1_9Q5jp366V7VzgNySxF9u2SsmqsbqXWbEr6eAWlTo6_9FN0VDKvvGg5_nmXz2Ug7d7KeTUSHeg9IYsjofGjXbrxzH54PjPX9HpOhnuXZ2/s1600-h/05+fishin.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOeWDX7qHleynRkJe4THAml2QbHgpgANb_1-1_9Q5jp366V7VzgNySxF9u2SsmqsbqXWbEr6eAWlTo6_9FN0VDKvvGg5_nmXz2Ug7d7KeTUSHeg9IYsjofGjXbrxzH54PjPX9HpOhnuXZ2/s400/05+fishin.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179838725459676002" /></a><br />some views....<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR6fIiFRonMxhepnNMap5GPblw3DOKjlC9rHc2ne01ZCSQgpBugB-xPDLgAo0zTlX0xUW6OJf8CZahpxpvOrl_arlJLVetAs2JkTOn_3wiYyWJpddeKhs04X4YNpzSO5mrLiib0JjYixjO/s1600-h/06+view.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR6fIiFRonMxhepnNMap5GPblw3DOKjlC9rHc2ne01ZCSQgpBugB-xPDLgAo0zTlX0xUW6OJf8CZahpxpvOrl_arlJLVetAs2JkTOn_3wiYyWJpddeKhs04X4YNpzSO5mrLiib0JjYixjO/s400/06+view.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179839030402354034" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLRbP0__ZjMLvGz3wZJf2UBKn_6d2Z3mqxZm6MCIxK49nR7yaR4gk1lN8PdFKmkY7bbePVTilrjyEUdz_kDSturFJgeRKZVnAqdx8ExBP0ZznDjRFVVUKGpI_XYjuKQ6Z4jSehlORcjsC/s1600-h/07+view.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLRbP0__ZjMLvGz3wZJf2UBKn_6d2Z3mqxZm6MCIxK49nR7yaR4gk1lN8PdFKmkY7bbePVTilrjyEUdz_kDSturFJgeRKZVnAqdx8ExBP0ZznDjRFVVUKGpI_XYjuKQ6Z4jSehlORcjsC/s400/07+view.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179839739071957890" /></a><br />local folks<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzwqWzlcZAIgFRnsNjao3FXFZO0Yt16AQ9wSgpVwHz4HDLbbII5ON6WVKGzc7kSRE4LpuJfNA9sq35Z2dJMuUF65zmzbFGuYPpqYclzwgDucMTKxr6ZwqzzxVh1eeWFDFxJXOq6V1dmpO/s1600-h/08+people.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzwqWzlcZAIgFRnsNjao3FXFZO0Yt16AQ9wSgpVwHz4HDLbbII5ON6WVKGzc7kSRE4LpuJfNA9sq35Z2dJMuUF65zmzbFGuYPpqYclzwgDucMTKxr6ZwqzzxVh1eeWFDFxJXOq6V1dmpO/s400/08+people.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179840533640907666" /></a><br />...with baby asleep on the back<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibygD1A46gef_7_biJd8ODtZPvCO78u07fsXlde7gqoKEASuvKZxM9r3C1YRMfDD2uvd-qH-GUQbxE5esNKE5JsEbiZQANK57y8j2K2u_Tz8w3AwOGK5VouZnpNwwiJW5Px97ueVWsFbKc/s1600-h/08+babys.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibygD1A46gef_7_biJd8ODtZPvCO78u07fsXlde7gqoKEASuvKZxM9r3C1YRMfDD2uvd-qH-GUQbxE5esNKE5JsEbiZQANK57y8j2K2u_Tz8w3AwOGK5VouZnpNwwiJW5Px97ueVWsFbKc/s400/08+babys.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179842466376190882" /></a><br />gentle german Martin in shooting pose<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhb4_QiZcDheGzcV56f0p6IDhmZ9FQyANsXU-EjMzup2RPhOEjFfzWi1fwFJXycdGxmkoNHcyQ9ZSSviIfbOBvhru-jnqDMe4pRVIyWmYI8r2N67nxHD7DnCEPfpbsr6oemq7mFpZE_dMa/s1600-h/09+martin.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhb4_QiZcDheGzcV56f0p6IDhmZ9FQyANsXU-EjMzup2RPhOEjFfzWi1fwFJXycdGxmkoNHcyQ9ZSSviIfbOBvhru-jnqDMe4pRVIyWmYI8r2N67nxHD7DnCEPfpbsr6oemq7mFpZE_dMa/s400/09+martin.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179843746276445106" /></a><br />Nepali church at Thikedungha<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghfFVaq624c5kQKQ_5zef3CoJyZ-1YyeuPhN-BqpdbnMF_KEdP1os0OUiX7uFwhxayKslQ8UAt_H6161zmTFcqTG3jh5GlDNU6rb909nH7FrbGnBRqFxopZjbIqIxKzn7UtOi6K0G7t1Vc/s1600-h/10+church.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghfFVaq624c5kQKQ_5zef3CoJyZ-1YyeuPhN-BqpdbnMF_KEdP1os0OUiX7uFwhxayKslQ8UAt_H6161zmTFcqTG3jh5GlDNU6rb909nH7FrbGnBRqFxopZjbIqIxKzn7UtOi6K0G7t1Vc/s400/10+church.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179844854378007490" /></a><br />first sigh of the red Rhododendron, Nepal's national symbol<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzv7noTTG4Twh4LZXVNnFyh33GcSu4QyjGEcdgkF_m189smp32ZeLCXTMXn4gtOVlJl8EE9CSV7VcLmZO4595g5jhOkkjXHYmVtMoyGaBnC0leybVF4ykWVV_5U_DDnL-ykSxEBUUceFw/s1600-h/11+rhododendron.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzv7noTTG4Twh4LZXVNnFyh33GcSu4QyjGEcdgkF_m189smp32ZeLCXTMXn4gtOVlJl8EE9CSV7VcLmZO4595g5jhOkkjXHYmVtMoyGaBnC0leybVF4ykWVV_5U_DDnL-ykSxEBUUceFw/s400/11+rhododendron.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179845189385456594" /></a><br />elderly woman, breaking for a smoke.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkh3rG76G5wPiQNmzpG2DU6Ur5roGiGcV4_0WEJ8dGY1Ul8FRBUaOyzTYY5Sbcm-uLjq4CK7KgZpYvvQI7MzkGmLU_exhcircfS3nvXNdhOLrcO1NTNWpswnxu3LO0sVlWCh2dQDUxJx9J/s1600-h/12+woman.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkh3rG76G5wPiQNmzpG2DU6Ur5roGiGcV4_0WEJ8dGY1Ul8FRBUaOyzTYY5Sbcm-uLjq4CK7KgZpYvvQI7MzkGmLU_exhcircfS3nvXNdhOLrcO1NTNWpswnxu3LO0sVlWCh2dQDUxJx9J/s400/12+woman.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179845580227480546" /></a><br />stupa at Ghorapani<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBbv4qDjlj1_D61Qza3OgRgzHq5SZcnuaOMxCAgqa_6U55-DIKhHjwH4GNKYXEFQjzn0GfID6lvsGyflS36uKHhNTbBtAaWsAQ6PJHqdfNZ6rzUzaV4_FWvX4duw5tR0NHGdl_fkM8znK/s1600-h/13+stupa.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBbv4qDjlj1_D61Qza3OgRgzHq5SZcnuaOMxCAgqa_6U55-DIKhHjwH4GNKYXEFQjzn0GfID6lvsGyflS36uKHhNTbBtAaWsAQ6PJHqdfNZ6rzUzaV4_FWvX4duw5tR0NHGdl_fkM8znK/s400/13+stupa.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179846018314144754" /></a><em></em><br />the Machhapuchhare just at the first of dawn<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg57lKlNi6dpZvX4uB2hWRnGDqQuXsoNRzVNqyVj0kpV8WcOESN5d-PZ7fIj10_6blyI9SSN1qGXCVZ1AGpoI75LvhcdpLV5K-TqxETNkSHh-YSMPJIJ-_8_DR2vZzh_8_C3p4FVpQDSXIx/s1600-h/14+6am.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg57lKlNi6dpZvX4uB2hWRnGDqQuXsoNRzVNqyVj0kpV8WcOESN5d-PZ7fIj10_6blyI9SSN1qGXCVZ1AGpoI75LvhcdpLV5K-TqxETNkSHh-YSMPJIJ-_8_DR2vZzh_8_C3p4FVpQDSXIx/s400/14+6am.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179848999021448194" /></a><br />view of the Annapurna I<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8CUFFvn8zvfrfo6Y1c3uzIhxbF6_LOBwWKO_kgMBhYXi6PlHDlz9Ly1KDdPLThNgTocw334_465KIzz3ufF4grckIwNrWJDWanMj8NlLsBvxFwcdNg2o02R3vjV70qT1fdH28nb1mcQU/s1600-h/15+ap1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8CUFFvn8zvfrfo6Y1c3uzIhxbF6_LOBwWKO_kgMBhYXi6PlHDlz9Ly1KDdPLThNgTocw334_465KIzz3ufF4grckIwNrWJDWanMj8NlLsBvxFwcdNg2o02R3vjV70qT1fdH28nb1mcQU/s400/15+ap1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179852284671429666" /></a><br />'hereby I declare the Poon Hill gore tex festival 2008, opened!'<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMpeS1xfAlvXw4R5e3wQ6Hd0musPLHW0vieVVsOQUims233HigDFhm-CjMBXHrRYMWwxKzI1goYhfQj_YV0lef1gH7c18UT_zaVJPrdZx0IPb9VzDv5rhEK5FyD2hHByLTHLBarkKjOFSB/s1600-h/16+goretex.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMpeS1xfAlvXw4R5e3wQ6Hd0musPLHW0vieVVsOQUims233HigDFhm-CjMBXHrRYMWwxKzI1goYhfQj_YV0lef1gH7c18UT_zaVJPrdZx0IPb9VzDv5rhEK5FyD2hHByLTHLBarkKjOFSB/s400/16+goretex.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179852662628551730" /></a><br />the crowd goes mental...<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDPlLKmQ8-SeTY_6XIj3peEOLTMk-s7kzE5ue-ZjXwlHhGQj_duwQfG5ORWSOFkOtiJFs_ebO0dPtWcZW8yrz8Ibu1X_seKPzMPY-t-Rv6pJudg0KAMoxTyYNA76jOk87e6QQ87tljQZZ/s1600-h/17+crowd.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDPlLKmQ8-SeTY_6XIj3peEOLTMk-s7kzE5ue-ZjXwlHhGQj_duwQfG5ORWSOFkOtiJFs_ebO0dPtWcZW8yrz8Ibu1X_seKPzMPY-t-Rv6pJudg0KAMoxTyYNA76jOk87e6QQ87tljQZZ/s400/17+crowd.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179853702010637378" /></a><br />our pose<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjxSSBAHL1B6lyqnrjA1Sgu109MfNhh8Cv1WQTs36HIY-p9jNxzVhuXbLCW-4JBrjtsdTCsz7a3Mw6qe2QmimsXPRkgZ5Ym6xrxhf0aH_44fFFzTyLmhZ5gjjhR3cRaMOq5ZMYZxmbGUy/s1600-h/18+pose.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjxSSBAHL1B6lyqnrjA1Sgu109MfNhh8Cv1WQTs36HIY-p9jNxzVhuXbLCW-4JBrjtsdTCsz7a3Mw6qe2QmimsXPRkgZ5Ym6xrxhf0aH_44fFFzTyLmhZ5gjjhR3cRaMOq5ZMYZxmbGUy/s400/18+pose.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179854243176516690" /></a><br />sisterly hug<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5fH0jRzpRuJgSq1L5Eniz-5_PEdiTuWCg7P2v9yTsAw3L_9EbhfQh83b4AWenPq5KOFOEl-JxzW2Ozooa0vA-NDRwkquZIzqSGDvlb3fou6FhoaBNGBuhyfHCWDa30ySbepHiTrlMspv/s1600-h/19+sishug.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5fH0jRzpRuJgSq1L5Eniz-5_PEdiTuWCg7P2v9yTsAw3L_9EbhfQh83b4AWenPq5KOFOEl-JxzW2Ozooa0vA-NDRwkquZIzqSGDvlb3fou6FhoaBNGBuhyfHCWDa30ySbepHiTrlMspv/s400/19+sishug.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179855192364289122" /></a><br />a view for the fun of it...(this guy told me I already was the 5th person who asked to photograph him. such copycats we all are!)<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrmo49R_dbAS_JGXVxLtUEA9gjCLfs4O7QJlYsIQ8wrTHh_phLnib2I73TbCuloTqpssqFoUP8XYanhUomGlyaTddKaCCW2Yd9XYPlAeV9tiB2hPfqUB7TBbbfNaVDZOA_KYbrDzwcdytL/s1600-h/20+for+thefun.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrmo49R_dbAS_JGXVxLtUEA9gjCLfs4O7QJlYsIQ8wrTHh_phLnib2I73TbCuloTqpssqFoUP8XYanhUomGlyaTddKaCCW2Yd9XYPlAeV9tiB2hPfqUB7TBbbfNaVDZOA_KYbrDzwcdytL/s400/20+for+thefun.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179855488717032562" /></a><br />been here, done nothing<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHu7dbtBMLGH2MiTiUGxzQWgmPDEX42DySClyoIwX4gsbaZXB0ik7ScHHR3ZtikexRjE9c4CEsLBwf-iC7_ZaVSfBEgfFZKj62UfiN5zi9WPa9Rb0JrP-FkEjlyOrAX31szVQmUd3o4zev/s1600-h/20+poon.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHu7dbtBMLGH2MiTiUGxzQWgmPDEX42DySClyoIwX4gsbaZXB0ik7ScHHR3ZtikexRjE9c4CEsLBwf-iC7_ZaVSfBEgfFZKj62UfiN5zi9WPa9Rb0JrP-FkEjlyOrAX31szVQmUd3o4zev/s400/20+poon.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179855892443958402" /></a><br />must admit, the Koreans did the best posing poses!<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjn4FBm4EdRgj-WQg0qv4uBBXEwVWRGDvqSNauQsiVsLiI6P0lgt-LQhMX4mDXRm0ybIxlm0d4UAaRVvkUo2TZJ3ZOYOgc_r-vIwZ_AsHrCCz3CN6W0rk2a-pWU812aUoW7G-SF17LgYl/s1600-h/21+pose.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjn4FBm4EdRgj-WQg0qv4uBBXEwVWRGDvqSNauQsiVsLiI6P0lgt-LQhMX4mDXRm0ybIxlm0d4UAaRVvkUo2TZJ3ZOYOgc_r-vIwZ_AsHrCCz3CN6W0rk2a-pWU812aUoW7G-SF17LgYl/s400/21+pose.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179856231746374802" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqtyFbtUtzlWBuqw_2iH3CvrD_9oneZJgvYB54FNB8bgxvu8fMn0NGqVZn2ZTrgByHrU8ckCf6uoFS58WJoE3OZkJjMZz_Z8CBh6K1atSzF22z26pid1fGXAtSVMbWGXuEewZovgxP1Y81/s1600-h/21+pose2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqtyFbtUtzlWBuqw_2iH3CvrD_9oneZJgvYB54FNB8bgxvu8fMn0NGqVZn2ZTrgByHrU8ckCf6uoFS58WJoE3OZkJjMZz_Z8CBh6K1atSzF22z26pid1fGXAtSVMbWGXuEewZovgxP1Y81/s400/21+pose2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179857137984474274" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1tIJMPpGdkFvcwFu-8dOqBv4gOZRkgt7PFRaXJ4Xl5dRz10Zon8HRDU5N4sfF6qeGcHNC8n5dYIdFNvxYoApzDK6vYsrkpLWq3KNx-m8rCKL0KAqdeRPz6WscLu4Can9y0Ek83zU-1BM/s1600-h/22+last+view.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1tIJMPpGdkFvcwFu-8dOqBv4gOZRkgt7PFRaXJ4Xl5dRz10Zon8HRDU5N4sfF6qeGcHNC8n5dYIdFNvxYoApzDK6vYsrkpLWq3KNx-m8rCKL0KAqdeRPz6WscLu4Can9y0Ek83zU-1BM/s400/22+last+view.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179860844541250738" /></a><br />the forests and its trees<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWohpuAvqf4vy12j1GLqIUTnWJsl5kdx0MkfwkByeni6ttXrmccJGUCkF4mrc03lXNIa6a_g96_EPnYLF15WK4CPyTGFqaVn_-LkABfSjw4qYCwfY-s1dYnyhaoHv62_ovKIbEnUa5lOG/s1600-h/23+forest.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWohpuAvqf4vy12j1GLqIUTnWJsl5kdx0MkfwkByeni6ttXrmccJGUCkF4mrc03lXNIa6a_g96_EPnYLF15WK4CPyTGFqaVn_-LkABfSjw4qYCwfY-s1dYnyhaoHv62_ovKIbEnUa5lOG/s400/23+forest.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179861132304059586" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjp0-KYJbOaiytTU0p6E9uizL_DxZHaCmW7HQpnvxuKDameQBjigX7eChHBwYtmKBcxP2KXcGk40ahh5zeO7yAME0hxVZ47OsFyk5f2zDNeC2tiJXIW8ffrhjKSqZ-cIuTuK8YmeD0BZfg/s1600-h/24+tree.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjp0-KYJbOaiytTU0p6E9uizL_DxZHaCmW7HQpnvxuKDameQBjigX7eChHBwYtmKBcxP2KXcGk40ahh5zeO7yAME0hxVZ47OsFyk5f2zDNeC2tiJXIW8ffrhjKSqZ-cIuTuK8YmeD0BZfg/s400/24+tree.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179861566095756498" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNaDObIauwzUK0kRYZQa2TSvBaaVX82uNeq_rTIUkmblBe0JTD7e2OsYFUULhCEG4G-AEMvg67qNWH841nUR1IwHp7vzAXWqItsSI7_PglZSEF0jljE9sIMtGM-BU1G5C8K35-9UwMZBaH/s1600-h/25+trees.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNaDObIauwzUK0kRYZQa2TSvBaaVX82uNeq_rTIUkmblBe0JTD7e2OsYFUULhCEG4G-AEMvg67qNWH841nUR1IwHp7vzAXWqItsSI7_PglZSEF0jljE9sIMtGM-BU1G5C8K35-9UwMZBaH/s400/25+trees.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179862210340850914" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcLVEakmU3UEhfYvO7CfhiaZ0ciYIKIdGmL6qKzYa40KNn2rN0pO_abt0GDBkz2FtfG2fB2WFs1TkPDZRhLwKGlAYK4Ay7UbZ5eHg6HnECiVwWXvWOE6y_mpWruB-2dGqUfNfnq__YsXN/s1600-h/26+stables.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcLVEakmU3UEhfYvO7CfhiaZ0ciYIKIdGmL6qKzYa40KNn2rN0pO_abt0GDBkz2FtfG2fB2WFs1TkPDZRhLwKGlAYK4Ay7UbZ5eHg6HnECiVwWXvWOE6y_mpWruB-2dGqUfNfnq__YsXN/s400/26+stables.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179863206773263602" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMD0SilADpJWwXaeB92m7MGbZ6IqAXcCP7lu3QRHRAIGjXyuIedwp2vrq4p4Lom1Dbhewvg16UOKXtp4fmtjSPRtLe1X5kpD41XAXSpLIwl0z0jrPZvE8KZSOanAY7i0ltal6ldWRvF8Ut/s1600-h/27+view.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMD0SilADpJWwXaeB92m7MGbZ6IqAXcCP7lu3QRHRAIGjXyuIedwp2vrq4p4Lom1Dbhewvg16UOKXtp4fmtjSPRtLe1X5kpD41XAXSpLIwl0z0jrPZvE8KZSOanAY7i0ltal6ldWRvF8Ut/s400/27+view.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179864293399989506" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc74myV0_bbNCdeNvHWdXCFQj7d2m-WtR1HQAvDqw6HNuZIf66OIKRmC0NwOlempEmudaW1soK0ImNq8K_8xceuogFuf5Fyiz3eyXBohLekIbglh7AFt0bAx5y8XNXrkOelxyU9lxlKqu6/s1600-h/28+walk.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc74myV0_bbNCdeNvHWdXCFQj7d2m-WtR1HQAvDqw6HNuZIf66OIKRmC0NwOlempEmudaW1soK0ImNq8K_8xceuogFuf5Fyiz3eyXBohLekIbglh7AFt0bAx5y8XNXrkOelxyU9lxlKqu6/s400/28+walk.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179864598342667538" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2Tx3KoE44L6Fs7R-7l10vg7OTQaTjM7X4wxXq4mia23kPSomLI7N1eqzEVz5Ky9nW-yLyxECaLZhnVVB2Gz7aMQ6b36usvvCmA9ts_jjsk9Pj-JzQmc1AYmHEOvkUSGzHGAjttdnkCn2/s1600-h/29+want.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2Tx3KoE44L6Fs7R-7l10vg7OTQaTjM7X4wxXq4mia23kPSomLI7N1eqzEVz5Ky9nW-yLyxECaLZhnVVB2Gz7aMQ6b36usvvCmA9ts_jjsk9Pj-JzQmc1AYmHEOvkUSGzHGAjttdnkCn2/s400/29+want.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179865311307238690" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzaIyFkg8ANWHMnfJielfotk1wa6O46kjfnukf44KKIQbim_9Ee4uMS6s3u3EcY-ucv1oVdksy-h-yP4fwb1LsvvnjqKWmRayh90RdwEZqg5WR63fxx8nbJKylgPFw-XQOXaP45dWqmx2G/s1600-h/30+kid.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzaIyFkg8ANWHMnfJielfotk1wa6O46kjfnukf44KKIQbim_9Ee4uMS6s3u3EcY-ucv1oVdksy-h-yP4fwb1LsvvnjqKWmRayh90RdwEZqg5WR63fxx8nbJKylgPFw-XQOXaP45dWqmx2G/s400/30+kid.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179865530350570802" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclEEcfWn6eJDi9wCeTSElulO68l9ox0uDdN2n3FEZ4qCp-Ws1x1520BniQdemWq0oxLWV9epLFgTklwqN2SvoZsi5BcrhYwIphkWy50HtWIcG7iXSVDhmJfceefpZlprZpJQpg3pal_1U/s1600-h/31+kitchen.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclEEcfWn6eJDi9wCeTSElulO68l9ox0uDdN2n3FEZ4qCp-Ws1x1520BniQdemWq0oxLWV9epLFgTklwqN2SvoZsi5BcrhYwIphkWy50HtWIcG7iXSVDhmJfceefpZlprZpJQpg3pal_1U/s400/31+kitchen.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179865727919066434" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEmrPk7Gn9DRzShC_gJU7SFUYkUEH_kJKMifmuz4PTECTl9VKVPNOrV6VQ4pRLmcxOZAzSb2mUU9PyO3y4IVltYpLovvayA3CHFQy-pdlqMa_DGyQ9Ojp7ICiWX-1rUt_PWXq4o9OEVoyZ/s1600-h/32+view.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEmrPk7Gn9DRzShC_gJU7SFUYkUEH_kJKMifmuz4PTECTl9VKVPNOrV6VQ4pRLmcxOZAzSb2mUU9PyO3y4IVltYpLovvayA3CHFQy-pdlqMa_DGyQ9Ojp7ICiWX-1rUt_PWXq4o9OEVoyZ/s400/32+view.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179866075811417426" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObKyZYFr_FNxPk4IhhBSpCnUBvIfHsJbYNamkXyUiUCQcNluyJoVMqVUcfngfkVLxV8gFx6-3BzrtyQMf59X5LiikNGOT3U9a5qLDMVyuAFQUpc3idPVxhpwQDv9_0v3__YfJJlEdRlOg/s1600-h/32+sit.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObKyZYFr_FNxPk4IhhBSpCnUBvIfHsJbYNamkXyUiUCQcNluyJoVMqVUcfngfkVLxV8gFx6-3BzrtyQMf59X5LiikNGOT3U9a5qLDMVyuAFQUpc3idPVxhpwQDv9_0v3__YfJJlEdRlOg/s400/32+sit.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179866312034618722" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8psYH6VD8WoLyW_CgB9JmsoH1B5wTpFWXCXiSSMGLFv3hBy8iI1FYYPMb02Ng_SNNm5VLJQjvIEHTXFn7ZK4LAkkGXNq9nKrSstTUy4x2htX1yYLP1coG-JoJ19f4_MWyR6xWg0GtI3T/s1600-h/33+view.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8psYH6VD8WoLyW_CgB9JmsoH1B5wTpFWXCXiSSMGLFv3hBy8iI1FYYPMb02Ng_SNNm5VLJQjvIEHTXFn7ZK4LAkkGXNq9nKrSstTUy4x2htX1yYLP1coG-JoJ19f4_MWyR6xWg0GtI3T/s400/33+view.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179866655632002418" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-18981669956801749002008-03-17T11:26:00.043+05:302008-03-21T07:58:15.290+05:30The disdained junkie from Palpa and a playfully pestering ride to Pokhara. And then....Shivaratri time!I arrived yesterday in smoggy Kathmandu, back into metropolitan atmospheres so it feels. Dirty and foul smelling Kathmandu, crammed to the neck with tourists. Still a lot to experience in the KTM valley in the next full week. <br />It has been nearly over 2 weeks ago since last letters. Times moves faster than you think, when on the move, on wild treks or enclosed by nature and wildlife.<br /><br />So, to continue in the steep mountain region district of Tansen, where I found myself during the writing of last post. In the town of Palpa to be exact. I strolled around town, mostly uphill, to see the prime spots that it offered. No sooner had I set off or a young man came walking by my side. It was at the local sport pitch, which was a long plateau where young military men were playing various sports (football, volleyball and cricket) and a carnival had just been dismantled, cabins of rides and plastic animal seat lying all about. He introduced himself as Kiran and offered me to walk me to my desired spots and to tell me something about each place. Sure deal. We saw Palpa’s main temple and its pornographic woodcarvings (see below) on several poles. Wooden erotism, excitingly cut. Then the town square which was empty due to the rain, followed by a demolished palace. Tansen Durbar, as the LP guide had expected me to found it untouched, former place of the provincial governor, built in Rana style in 1927. Interesting info? Nope, very much former indeed as it was now reduced to heaps of red stones and eloquent stone carvings lying about. Kiran told me that the Maoists attacked in January 2006 and destroyed the palace, more about the siege. For a short time there were fights between the few thousand Maoist rebels and the Nepalese army. The army sent more troops and prevailed to regain its controlled spot on the Palpa hills again. Their camps more fortified since then, as I could see with my own eyes. “There still are some Maoist rebels active, but the scarce few are all down in the valley in spot where there isn’t much army”, Kiran said in a common tone. We sat down on a wall for a while, looking at the misty view of valleys and people walking by, talking about his business studies, his life in Palpa, his dreams and hopes. He wasn’t positive or inspired about each subject that passed and instead quite gloomy in all his answers and thoughts. To remain, live and work in Palpa seemed to be his reluctant wish for the future but rather a wish that came from experiences while working in Dubai, UAE for nearly a year. Not good experiences by all means, as he didn't like the spirit of the people and their big money lifestyles so that he resigned and went back to Nepal, back home to Palpa and so his life re-took its slow course. <br />Kiran invited me to his local hangout, a small, dingy and dark bar/eatery, hazily lit by candlelight and owned by an elderly Gurung woman who ran the place with a still vital energy. Soon his friends joined, introduced themselves to me and it became clear that alcohol was their recurring ritual for ending a day of work or non-work, evening after evening. Here I got my first taste of the local raksy wine, which is not wine as in the red/white tradition, but more like a rice wine made out of millet. Fermentation through moonlight, that sort of natural strong spirited jest. It tasts quite ok for a sip, lighter than vodka, whiskey or rum, but surely heavier than wine. No one knows the percentage of alcohol in it, as every raksy brew seems to vary. Perhaps depending how yellow or heavy the moon shines. I tasted some of the local food, a sort of small donut made out of chickpeas and spicy herbs which I forgot the name of and some crispy cubes of buffalo meat for the novelty. Meanwhile the friends drank beer or raksy in a tempo that speeded past my slow chia orderings. My friend was visibly nervous about something, his hands unsteady and trembling, with a weary look on his face. I nearly felt it was time to go, as I wanted to relax on my own and eat somewhere. And then he confided to me that he had a problem, 'a drug problem', and with bits the story came out of him, pulled from his worried mind. His friends nodded solemnly in confirmation. He was a junkie of the brown, which is the nickname for opium around here. Kiran wanted me to tell him, to advise him what would be best to do, though at the same time he already answered his own question by informing me that he thought of checking into a clinic in Kathmandu. I could only agree and usher him to do such without more to add. We went out of the dim bar and it was pitch dark on the street as the power has failed again -which almost is a daily norm in Nepal between 6pm and 9.30pm, I've learned by now-. He really wanted to show me his house and as he kept acting so nervous and giving me awkward vibes, I didn't really want to. I gave in and I walked behind him over a narrow muddy ridge down past a military post down to his house. Soon enough I found myself sitting inside, in a room with his studying brother and a sister who was sleeping in a bed nearby, with a hot cup of chia in my hands. I stayed about an hour, talking about god knows what with the brother while my man for most part of the time was elsewhere, doing something else until he popped up again. After that, it really was time to go to my hotel as they had the urge to lock the gate at 10pm every evening. Kiran somehow felt compelled to accompany me. "Just for a small moment", he said, "and then I will leave you". Indeed the gate was locked and we had to wake up the moaning Tibetan woman to let us in. Up in my room we talked some more, me trying to butter him with positive subject to make him feel more at easy. Still the nervousness persisted and it came to the point that he wanted to leave with me giving him a souvenir. A personal souvenir. Errr, well you can have this postcard of Pakistan, this passport photo of me if you really must, and some other nicknacks. That all took a while and I became slightly annoyed by his reluctance to accept and go, while I had been as fair to him as I could be while my tiredness was setting in. We exchanged addresses and I did promise to send him some postcards and a cassette compilation. Such promises are no problem. It's more hard talking people into positivity if they can't follow your drift or direction and feel quickly at loss when listening. Perhaps the book of James Frey 'Inot Million Pieces' would be of any help to him, if only I had it with me or to be bought in a non-existent international bookshop. I don't know. I do hope that Kiran will get through this episode and get his life back on track. <br /><br />The next morning, I woke up realizing that it was my birthday. Not a special day to me otherwise, but the fact being on this trip, alone, and in such a nice mountain area, it did make it more special for once. I bought myself some cakes, a few small flowery banana's, fresh bread and walked up the Srinagar Danda mountain, the high hill looming over Palpa, where my guide and guidebook promised a nice view of the Annapurna's was to be seen. If clear weather. It was clear by a bright sun, but misty clouds shrouded the distant mountains, so I enjoyed looking down into the valley and onto the wall of clouds. Special to me nonetheless in this moment of morning time, on my b-day. In the late morning I took a bus to Pokhara. A busride that should normally take 4 hours, if with a mini-bus and not a government bus. I got into a government bus and the ride lasted over 6.5 hours. But what a ride it was, those views! Valleys, gorges, ridges, rivers, forests and many dwindling roads curving around mountains. The full package of driving in mountain territory. That the whole ride a few persistent gypsy kids were pestering me from behind and next to me, didn't bother me too much. There were 2 poor families sitting in the back who let their kids run aloof on me, perhaps sent with a silent mission to get anything from me. I really didn't mind and actually had fun with the kids, especially with the timid young girl who was most persistent of all. In a dull yet lush begging voice, she constantly said *hey* to me. A voice that already sounded like it had endured rejection beyond a certain limit so that it had become blunt, worn out into a monotonous strain, emptied of any negative or positive emotions. From time to time I gave her an the other little things. cookies, some loose change I found in my bag and pockets. The rest of the time I ignored the begging, reading my book. Except to disrupt it by pulling funny idiotic faces and grins now and then. Or mimick her, which she found brilliant play. Or by tickling her unexpectedly on her arm or fingers when not looking. Pure and free fun. That reminds me, to quickly get rid of the more annoying streetkids -not the sweet ones-, the best method is to tickle them and see how quickly they run away and stay at a safe distance from the tickler. It's harmless and playful. Anyway, I think the girl and her siblings must have thought of me as a weird cuckoo since my behavior was too inconsistent for their own planned tactics. But yeah, 6,5 hours of begging would leave many a westerner crazed so I rather played a play that I could enjoy too ;) <br /><br />Finally, Pokhara in sight and quick enough I found myself sitting on a motorbike, with all 3 bags heavily hanging on me. I was taken to a better hotel, by that I mean a hotel that is more expensive than a backpacker place but to pay 3 euro's for a huge room, a big plush bed and hot shower, it does not cripple your budget really. And still my b-day, so to refuse a bit of luxury would be very stubborn. At the hands of irony I found myself in company of many Dutch tourists from the southern provinces, the actual owner of the hotel also being Dutch -sigh-. But why should I moan here, out of poised exclusiveness or nomadic elitism? Pah, let it rest. I dwelled easily in my plush surroundings though I kept a low profile either way not to be marked out by the few-week-holiday'ers. There, elitism. I'm flawed and doomed in my own sauce.<br />My Dinner was served in a small shack where I could enjoy the choice of Tibetan food again. Momo's, thukpe and thentuks. Yum. Up to then, it had been quite difficult -read, nearly impossible- to find any Tibetan food in the previous places. The Pokhara streets were dark and I could not see much of its glory as people told me of. Several shops were open, such as internet cafe's, souvenir joints and luxury supermarkets. Super swell supermarkets I must say beyond my initial detested feeling, as I found cheese. Real cheese. In the big, round shape where pieces could be cut from. Wow. Luxury. And it was yak cheese, the furry Tibetan buffalo animal. Oh so happy, just by cheese. There were many bars in the street, more than I have seen anywhere in the past 5 months and even a cslight shock came to me to see so many foreigners gulping down alcopop of every form. Did I get so strayed away from that to feel that? I sat down in a blues bar, in the hope to hear blues that weren't played and asked for the local raksy, which they did not have. They had to re-import it from the very same shack where I ate my nice Tibetan meal. I might have better stayed there and had more fun. There were all these booming places above the bars and shops, which called themselves *dancing restaurants*. What? The neatly dressed fella at the stairs ushered me up. So I went up to inspect, though I should have known from my first feeling. From the door opening I saw many guys sitting around tables, drinking alcopop and eating bits n bobs. In front of them, a Nepali Asian beauty dancing on a podium, while Nepali disco echoed all around her. Description; very short skirt, luscious moves and entertaining the rowdy males like a monkey doing its taught trick. I was out in a whim and down at the stairs the host fella asked me if I liked it. Or if I would like some more, like some live action with his female employees, like on cue a well shaped Nepali gal walked past and gave me a wink. "No thanks, I got yak cheese", I answered with sincere happiness. I was happy indeed. Cheese! The guy just looked puzzled at me, as if realizing he was dealing with a stoner or some other insanely drugged, out-of-place male creature that was beyond reasoning with and I left him to juggle his jigsawed thoughts. Bzzzz. Off I was, to do some reading and cutting cheese in between pages. Happiness. You find it in the most banal forms or situations while traveling, away from the routines of home. <br />The next days in Pokhara I spent with buying pirated arthouse movies (legal crime I say!) and planning my trek in the Annapurna mountains with my to-be guide Hem, who I met through the ever handy couchsurfing network. Also I rented a mountainbike with suspension and drove around the lakeside, the big nice Phewa Tal lake and the surrounding hills. One of the days was the day of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shivaratri">Shivaratri</a>, which signifies Shiva's birthday and the marriage between him and goddess Parvati. Just search for Shivaratri on youtube and you'll find loads of viddy's of saddhu's and locals getting high and do some spinning dances or other crazed things out of Shiva's holy name. The day is actually all about people, young and old alike, to get severely high on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhang">bhang</a>, a brew of a cannabis product. (funny factoid, the pictured Bhang shop in Jaisalmer is actually the place where we got our brew one night in November) So, the day of celebration. The one day in the year that cannabis/bhang is not illegal in Nepal. And the people celebrate with a righteous vigor as if solely ment for spiritual use. Isn't that what drugs are about in fairness? Back to my story. I cycled away from the lake to smaller villages past the hills stretching to the far end of the lake. Slowly raising roads and muddy tracks soon appeared. Having passed a few villages, I could see a little temple in the distance right next to the lake, where a crowd of locals had gathered. I drove up to it and looked at the ceremony. People invited me in straight away and they even wanted to make me drink the bhang, but since it was just morning.....naaah. A cup of sweet chia was good enough. Some people were seated and were making flower garlands while other were cutting fruits, dough and nuts for the offerings. A fire burned in the middle meanwhile. I looked in the small temple, filled with offerings and burning incense sticks. Suddenly an old men inside the small space woke up with a shout and shook all over his body and stood up. "The spirit is in him" somebody told me, and the old men pushed his way past us and ran towards the fire, kneeled down and put his bald head on the bright glowing wood for several seconds, only to be helped up again by others so they could sit him down. An ashen flesh mark decorating the crown of his head, ouch. I stayed a while, seeing the ceremony of reading the Shiva story while the temple bell tolled by people's touches. Kids were surrounding me whenever they could. I think they were still without bhang. Wait till tonight kids, just wait. I took photo's of some scenes, the temple, the kids and the mother with her 2 bug eyed children. I cycled on and went back to the Pokhara lakeside, where I drove to the northern part of the city. I wanted to make it up to Sarankot, a 4 km steep drive into the mountains. I only got halfway since the gears of the bike weren't working well and it was heavier than I expected. Halfway I met some kids driving on self-made carts down the curved mountain road, in the same dangerous barrier-less way that kids do in Southern American countries like Colombia. Action pics below. On my way down, I reached the Bhagwati temple, one of the biggest temples of Pokhara and I saw many people going inside and hearing music. When I came in, what a chaos of sound came over me! On one side a performance of local folk artists, on the other side a open aired temple with saddhu's singing acoustic songs and behind that another temple where 2 priests were playing live temple music, which was amplified to outside. 3 different sounds, 3 angles. Full on Shivaratri temple mashup. I couldn't resist recording it. Here. <br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Baghwati%20temple%20songs%20(from%203%20angles).MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Baghwati%20temple%20songs%20(from%203%20angles).MP3">Unknown artists - Bhagwati temple songs (3 angles)</a><br /><br />Quite special stuff to see and I was the sole tourist there out of the thousand or so people walking around. It was a great experience and folks came up to me to have their pic taken with me in front of the temples, bells or shrines. I couldn't escape it. It was nearly getting dark and it ended. What would the evening bring? I again ate momo's and chowmein in one of those cheap eating shacks, by the guiding hand of my soon-to-be guide Hem. Next morning we would leave to do a 5 day trek in the Annapurna mountain sanctuary. So for the sake of fitness it was out of the question that I could drink alcohol or get hammered with bhang. Not that I wanted to. When I went back to the hotel, I heard people singing nearby. Ofcourse, curiosity could not kill this cat, so what else could I do than to witness it and perhaps take part? <br />In a courtyard there were about 30 people sitting around each other. The men were playing dhol drums and khartals and sung together with the women next to them. The women took separate turns of dancing to each short song, lasting about 30 seconds to a minute at the time. A young boy around the age of 10, introduced him as Raju and it was clear that he had tasted the vivid virtues of bhang. haha, how high he was, but so positive and enjoying it too! He asked me if I was married and without waiting for my answer and said " here, you can have my sister, she is single". The 12 year old girl next to him looked up in shy disbelief as her brother's spontaneous words. Pure cheekiness from this little fella, though he meant it sincerely. I really think he did. At one dance, a voluptuous women got into a trance and she dropped on the floor, still having dance spasms. The other women just laughed, helped her up and she kept on dancing while several women were cautious enough to keep her up. Soon another women got into a bhang trance and she was more out of control, as she was still too fast to stop and stept on some of the musical males or other folks. Fun! Laughs! The release of spiritual joy! Nothing was spared it seemed. Next to me sat an middle aged English fella, who also wasn't completely sober anymore. Liquor being his spiritual guide. He was utterly filled with love and joy as he spoke livid poetry to me about his soon-to-be wife, "a Nepalese beauty of 32 years of age", according to his own words. "Right now, I am the luckiest man in the world, the luckiest!" The man, having tattooed *love* on his 4 fingers of each hands surely looked lucky and happy for he had experienced 2 badly ended marriages in his life. Sure he could use some luck. So could his woman (a hardworking nurse) and her family. Luck. A good thing by all means, if it works out both ways in this case. The lucky man left as quickly as he had entered the scene. I left soon afterwards, waved goodbye to the Nepalese mothers who had so many times tried to lure me on the dance clearing, but which calls I sorrowfully didn't answer as I was trying to record some songs. Like this one. <br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Shivaratri%20song.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Shivaratri%20song.MP3">Unknown artists - Shivaratri courtyard dance song</a><br /><br />That was the end of the night for me, way past midnight and I had to rise early enough to arrange my trekking permit, sanctuary fees and taking the bus with Hem to the starting point. Next post will be about the 5 day trek, the relaxing days of Pokhara and the Chitwan wildlife park. About time I enjoy Kathmandu a bit.<br /><br />Here some more recordings, taken from the radio. This is the Lok Geet style. Vocal folk with instruments and digital adjustments. As I said, it feels like a happy dubstep riddim with sweet and fast lyrics. I really like it. Especially this female version. <br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Lok%20Geet%20song%20(female).MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Lok%20Geet%20song%20(female).MP3">Unknown artist - Lok Geet song (female)</a><br />....and it gets rougher, yay to bad reception!<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Rough%20Lok%20Geet.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Nepal/Rough%20Lok%20Geet.MP3">Unknown artist - Lok Geet song (rough)</a><br /><br />here the riddleboutbunch of photo's....<br /><br />dark cloudy view on Tansen valley<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWPqeE_cI6hqH01crYYZjkOtNph1rCYavK1e8sj9-k-7wVn2nvK-TA7Dh5o534j2g5zdAqqkSv_mH8npX1Ad-ScRzWrUSLbge4ZBkFFd6WAV85BFVrmDpcjhasO3BG6siwMAaSMEkwTNzF/s1600-h/valley.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWPqeE_cI6hqH01crYYZjkOtNph1rCYavK1e8sj9-k-7wVn2nvK-TA7Dh5o534j2g5zdAqqkSv_mH8npX1Ad-ScRzWrUSLbge4ZBkFFd6WAV85BFVrmDpcjhasO3BG6siwMAaSMEkwTNzF/s400/valley.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178588530876466418" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJ4qCplidfcrunvSUpxep2kkLLqznBaIklQuQ65nRWaUydrZrLuz-8Sgyrcz4NueMKEZ5yQZDzbuEBzW_SW_fL4QLVPowlu38ilTLVwZQBq-YttUiiEsEyAJ8yjONpqu0TY_BvTG_er2y/s1600-h/temple.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJ4qCplidfcrunvSUpxep2kkLLqznBaIklQuQ65nRWaUydrZrLuz-8Sgyrcz4NueMKEZ5yQZDzbuEBzW_SW_fL4QLVPowlu38ilTLVwZQBq-YttUiiEsEyAJ8yjONpqu0TY_BvTG_er2y/s400/temple.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178592890268271890" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCGnFSQHSzHiVRakh7QNqxaPN25fBZ-Zz75Vv-yqRrEKnNgyxL62DGBhQIsFKh0ZzZeYSmfDa1X8hyphenhyphenjpQbl0lt2Y9K1Su4U7gtHcl1kCzQR5tYrbmyMI7Y2iIEQwndIBlYXLsLQFmL2DO3/s1600-h/erocarving.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCGnFSQHSzHiVRakh7QNqxaPN25fBZ-Zz75Vv-yqRrEKnNgyxL62DGBhQIsFKh0ZzZeYSmfDa1X8hyphenhyphenjpQbl0lt2Y9K1Su4U7gtHcl1kCzQR5tYrbmyMI7Y2iIEQwndIBlYXLsLQFmL2DO3/s400/erocarving.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178597223890273570" /></a><br />hear.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fad4Cs6rpc99BhUxvUTrljVxRRcoIFeMu55d3azp7kqTcBNo8oFYDTV5WVdShEjTaYmNDB9PtzUYfbPTgD-qRBxnHyIBMKHmghZfSkP8YDug3JB9pb1f2121Rfv3yVChGrgPZyJfoFdh/s1600-h/shoesbelthear.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fad4Cs6rpc99BhUxvUTrljVxRRcoIFeMu55d3azp7kqTcBNo8oFYDTV5WVdShEjTaYmNDB9PtzUYfbPTgD-qRBxnHyIBMKHmghZfSkP8YDug3JB9pb1f2121Rfv3yVChGrgPZyJfoFdh/s400/shoesbelthear.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178602060023448882" /></a><br />The heaps of stone, what once was Tansen Durbar palace<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLOuGzw8461F6BpbmLBabDYj4Pg8FO7mof5vyHZ-z2YTrUXOVIGypdmqlCTX4c-t0YrD1wHX6UI1Err41SH5uRzXbLimCFjj0M9tmiN5B4W046cm9n-aFh42XJO4HV-aixQgqPYwZbJBK/s1600-h/demloshjed.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLOuGzw8461F6BpbmLBabDYj4Pg8FO7mof5vyHZ-z2YTrUXOVIGypdmqlCTX4c-t0YrD1wHX6UI1Err41SH5uRzXbLimCFjj0M9tmiN5B4W046cm9n-aFh42XJO4HV-aixQgqPYwZbJBK/s400/demloshjed.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178749385991636610" /></a><br />narrow streets of Palpa<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJkl5is3HrO6H9RIYQ6pSrMvYDyqkX-EzOwtFYLc6c4TBe2YLa9aDCBeOMNrriW0K3pXKrg0bfx9k8JjonmrMC24SlSHNQ_8lT9RjpjjBayQRJ1EYesF0ON-HleGuEdD79qwbjWbadVNUo/s1600-h/SL730593.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJkl5is3HrO6H9RIYQ6pSrMvYDyqkX-EzOwtFYLc6c4TBe2YLa9aDCBeOMNrriW0K3pXKrg0bfx9k8JjonmrMC24SlSHNQ_8lT9RjpjjBayQRJ1EYesF0ON-HleGuEdD79qwbjWbadVNUo/s400/SL730593.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178751683799139986" /></a><br />Maoist graffiti<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2EBuA_0o4B3agtE-V_o_-HYvl6hkAL4O_BlS6ctHHR3dfxZX7ULa4cSDSDPUtvmbgSkLEhN0uDNq2EGBz37tAgmQEcy9XFLclyZRUm8Jit4Uhb29jnyIrpOMicWI62iN296vRY5A6sse/s1600-h/sickle.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2EBuA_0o4B3agtE-V_o_-HYvl6hkAL4O_BlS6ctHHR3dfxZX7ULa4cSDSDPUtvmbgSkLEhN0uDNq2EGBz37tAgmQEcy9XFLclyZRUm8Jit4Uhb29jnyIrpOMicWI62iN296vRY5A6sse/s400/sickle.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178652478644536674" /></a><br />Yes, vote for sun! It was allover several walls.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3K7NQ9r-c_I9W8-_20jdw8kDglB6Hs-GddcbGPFsiSdE0TUFWpaytZLCjqJe2VTzet9w-yef7XYK3uwyfySloo6dTXKFvk0Nf8tCnhGU79HjjE9oCz16GPsY8MoYaphAdZ4Rp9USJu43L/s1600-h/vote.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3K7NQ9r-c_I9W8-_20jdw8kDglB6Hs-GddcbGPFsiSdE0TUFWpaytZLCjqJe2VTzet9w-yef7XYK3uwyfySloo6dTXKFvk0Nf8tCnhGU79HjjE9oCz16GPsY8MoYaphAdZ4Rp9USJu43L/s400/vote.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178658908210578818" /></a><br />Kiran, the confessed<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimrqo86pZzcxIR__NdlCZVWfJ9TRwWbek0tHfxZXsziq_hTD6lMNFTD03QBxOYjpAwm0GqsPsbHLdSUmGaCrjBnFHu0RGmhdvY96zAWwSnGbOjUPHxETKup-uWITTbON6ah2kxJlNp8I4w/s1600-h/palpaj.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimrqo86pZzcxIR__NdlCZVWfJ9TRwWbek0tHfxZXsziq_hTD6lMNFTD03QBxOYjpAwm0GqsPsbHLdSUmGaCrjBnFHu0RGmhdvY96zAWwSnGbOjUPHxETKup-uWITTbON6ah2kxJlNp8I4w/s400/palpaj.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178661055694226834" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVE09uAYlusLIsrrOWHiSQAqMTmY1rDac3HoZzoisit2KQkQiMNozXPtTXW2bjS8yQPrFdkAY7jq2SmWf1dLov0GGde3WyQAKDbHYzTpWnq8A0NG2sBrK4WyCYkneZ3ZdY2VT2e39vtsR7/s1600-h/woodwo.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVE09uAYlusLIsrrOWHiSQAqMTmY1rDac3HoZzoisit2KQkQiMNozXPtTXW2bjS8yQPrFdkAY7jq2SmWf1dLov0GGde3WyQAKDbHYzTpWnq8A0NG2sBrK4WyCYkneZ3ZdY2VT2e39vtsR7/s400/woodwo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178663649854473634" /></a><br />Tansen - Pokhara ride, our bus had to wait as an accident blocked the road. Took photo of kind father and daughter. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-5d0wxag0fbqg6yUiq7OIzePEF-TxcTHtyD3DcCbq-sPTWVINtfYr-zEq1COqX8BodGKBc0QIoHz3LXoZ48fhQ-F42vL_0zFKjePpFplL24r1KIrOuJcBQ1CI2-g_48y3C5EviBqpKiY/s1600-h/fatherdaugh.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-5d0wxag0fbqg6yUiq7OIzePEF-TxcTHtyD3DcCbq-sPTWVINtfYr-zEq1COqX8BodGKBc0QIoHz3LXoZ48fhQ-F42vL_0zFKjePpFplL24r1KIrOuJcBQ1CI2-g_48y3C5EviBqpKiY/s400/fatherdaugh.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178665475215574450" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLnFHdXDx4Th6v5fFTqVDhQlzAr3oAZUofEsLS-aMc8X-JYB4K4uBkzHOlIPmZSi0F5AlOTr0OKlr64t85pTvpUIQwdOTkSJ8q98W_v0F6OLSlVG_t3TYkIag25X702qgTuqIu38Kh-egh/s1600-h/capbus.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLnFHdXDx4Th6v5fFTqVDhQlzAr3oAZUofEsLS-aMc8X-JYB4K4uBkzHOlIPmZSi0F5AlOTr0OKlr64t85pTvpUIQwdOTkSJ8q98W_v0F6OLSlVG_t3TYkIag25X702qgTuqIu38Kh-egh/s400/capbus.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178676702260086210" /></a><br />View on river and hills beneath<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRaUbeW7n8j7wmrXChWMq6TBlEvUHw-7a-hyEndFCOonLqnPstjSShamPfCzSDGw9MkFOIMP1RpXRvQyCAwLr_ueyEfd5clAqGxAYfINnK3WWerquCwwAwPQcWEtwR7oUtKaLq7hezevSt/s1600-h/palpapokh.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRaUbeW7n8j7wmrXChWMq6TBlEvUHw-7a-hyEndFCOonLqnPstjSShamPfCzSDGw9MkFOIMP1RpXRvQyCAwLr_ueyEfd5clAqGxAYfINnK3WWerquCwwAwPQcWEtwR7oUtKaLq7hezevSt/s400/palpapokh.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178678965707851218" /></a><br />misty Pokhara at the lakeside<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0c9jlv1lK92-n94zUbTSltXcM5UIJj1Em1QFm_BbDhskxH4qH8f6c0uBSBmNFJZT6TYYb8F15Y83CRx9yn1z7-GqzECA8jC5ZHmi4IpU7fqIv5um4dG2iootDYE_7cSoyrEO_6JDGPgZ/s1600-h/pokmisty.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0c9jlv1lK92-n94zUbTSltXcM5UIJj1Em1QFm_BbDhskxH4qH8f6c0uBSBmNFJZT6TYYb8F15Y83CRx9yn1z7-GqzECA8jC5ZHmi4IpU7fqIv5um4dG2iootDYE_7cSoyrEO_6JDGPgZ/s400/pokmisty.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178689346643805666" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcE-1Vmujifa22IQV-RHm8IyOjQKK0onEzraTwnfRVzY4zJBb98Ps6Q-caygsvSqyIxGuZwaOsuWLNFU504lad8Nk4Mp5oKaibitl6_Sxs6O-8wL8AbVSpgntuROl5xvm8k_tqN9HvscXH/s1600-h/brushlake.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcE-1Vmujifa22IQV-RHm8IyOjQKK0onEzraTwnfRVzY4zJBb98Ps6Q-caygsvSqyIxGuZwaOsuWLNFU504lad8Nk4Mp5oKaibitl6_Sxs6O-8wL8AbVSpgntuROl5xvm8k_tqN9HvscXH/s400/brushlake.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178692121192678898" /></a><br />The temple at the other side of lake at Shivaratri<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR3kuoUw1Oe5TOVzKmOpDt4JUs6r3lcCoFxPzilVcGfX9GpXHN1xOgpHne7782E_eiwv5TmWRQz_5vXfWnHIJRNOJgNFdeD7RzFD-vmREAp0-lOlcjp06uEkATW0gutffsTepx9Q3qOQNo/s1600-h/shivaratri.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR3kuoUw1Oe5TOVzKmOpDt4JUs6r3lcCoFxPzilVcGfX9GpXHN1xOgpHne7782E_eiwv5TmWRQz_5vXfWnHIJRNOJgNFdeD7RzFD-vmREAp0-lOlcjp06uEkATW0gutffsTepx9Q3qOQNo/s400/shivaratri.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178694891446584834" /></a><br />The kids at the temple, peace y'all<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOF6lFzWFu9-HuhjabFrEdiw_kysFZcVpk30X24drJ5O_ys0AztDhqUyGdp1bRkoF7jx7Mg42QZFiJRkVCbcLvfO1yW29uTfSeSPgvxBAtwR22GFdJjQrKqSbr8-nMfrwlEebCLJKAuNrm/s1600-h/shivakids.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOF6lFzWFu9-HuhjabFrEdiw_kysFZcVpk30X24drJ5O_ys0AztDhqUyGdp1bRkoF7jx7Mg42QZFiJRkVCbcLvfO1yW29uTfSeSPgvxBAtwR22GFdJjQrKqSbr8-nMfrwlEebCLJKAuNrm/s400/shivakids.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178696510649255442" /></a><br />Mother with her two children, nice eyes.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcfWbt297pSLYS26Lo2QOCSLV3qqUPPqQp9hH2w86jyIubr8RvlH9YZNpTOdVast3msWNmJ60dw7xAy3P6y4MEbvY9nK445x8Ziaecsghyphenhyphengyld8kU9x1P2kcP9eSBVl8cGuwizJ7G_CH-R/s1600-h/still+eyes.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcfWbt297pSLYS26Lo2QOCSLV3qqUPPqQp9hH2w86jyIubr8RvlH9YZNpTOdVast3msWNmJ60dw7xAy3P6y4MEbvY9nK445x8Ziaecsghyphenhyphengyld8kU9x1P2kcP9eSBVl8cGuwizJ7G_CH-R/s400/still+eyes.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178697665995458082" /></a><br />View on ridges and road to Pokhara<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmqmoaOLk3Y-ixVAhyphenhyphenrJ384yfx0n_CfJiW26_nbYf-32Dl4Um5EXLOs1Ix2OySVK1OPP_f0BeuEEbaVojjFuK9zXGk9NBH9MKa3AF-CliCS1UxPo6uIA6P2ANEFE4p6LiEOC8F8yYjAjD9/s1600-h/maya+view2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmqmoaOLk3Y-ixVAhyphenhyphenrJ384yfx0n_CfJiW26_nbYf-32Dl4Um5EXLOs1Ix2OySVK1OPP_f0BeuEEbaVojjFuK9zXGk9NBH9MKa3AF-CliCS1UxPo6uIA6P2ANEFE4p6LiEOC8F8yYjAjD9/s400/maya+view2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178700530738644530" /></a><br />lake mound view<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHfyyMJ_4KsZiS0A2qa89WLa6wLCXjqt3dnbECk5zTEnSuEPiwctucqNiUvnlq_nbAPPSI3v-DkjQi096rLBi7Y5verJdHqfSNE9kjuZiBYFl-aoC9ks1MyY2s9ri-9Rx38ZOWpQpwqfhc/s1600-h/pokhview.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHfyyMJ_4KsZiS0A2qa89WLa6wLCXjqt3dnbECk5zTEnSuEPiwctucqNiUvnlq_nbAPPSI3v-DkjQi096rLBi7Y5verJdHqfSNE9kjuZiBYFl-aoC9ks1MyY2s9ri-9Rx38ZOWpQpwqfhc/s400/pokhview.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178701522876089922" /></a><br />kids on cart<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFwj9eOUBd88mK30XNan55FM2ZCxEN67RYFwuchpCSa8QmKCqlOI6dAZwO6EhNURpTUyY2jQJsppjeOATNJur6HA4XrT2FFS6NizKNgBeRD6ihM5LeI7eQcFCtWGS4zWR97Iy8fAZTKVw/s1600-h/kidscart.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFwj9eOUBd88mK30XNan55FM2ZCxEN67RYFwuchpCSa8QmKCqlOI6dAZwO6EhNURpTUyY2jQJsppjeOATNJur6HA4XrT2FFS6NizKNgBeRD6ihM5LeI7eQcFCtWGS4zWR97Iy8fAZTKVw/s400/kidscart.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178703232273073746" /></a><br />and cart going down......zoefffff<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5K6jyDLi0bCVZyVxXRJOkloRLNtr10uIkzkY3JEA30TNR6VE-XQOkUvlku_zDZjHpvQVmqQJRlypOiPtKknWquNcDTs2-z4D4lKBdSNKDGsy0Fgpffj4zKh6XfX9iYkP1ydM5C4m5P3bu/s1600-h/kidsride.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5K6jyDLi0bCVZyVxXRJOkloRLNtr10uIkzkY3JEA30TNR6VE-XQOkUvlku_zDZjHpvQVmqQJRlypOiPtKknWquNcDTs2-z4D4lKBdSNKDGsy0Fgpffj4zKh6XfX9iYkP1ydM5C4m5P3bu/s400/kidsride.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178704666792150626" /></a><br />a sunnier lake, not all days were grey in Pokhara<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifU8M_7uBmcjHxGVLWVVjptnTTXom3fGqO3oAUM3xxGnzIR6h_4pSd6ZKlE7W9bRitVSsIzyQf_MCWWPdm0hinuOyQKW7i1dopqcaRHtM5qYv7NbYnOaSjPazcinDQ3xrPux81KOO6UAWg/s1600-h/sunlake.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifU8M_7uBmcjHxGVLWVVjptnTTXom3fGqO3oAUM3xxGnzIR6h_4pSd6ZKlE7W9bRitVSsIzyQf_MCWWPdm0hinuOyQKW7i1dopqcaRHtM5qYv7NbYnOaSjPazcinDQ3xrPux81KOO6UAWg/s400/sunlake.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178705714764170866" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-7736880713673304072008-03-03T09:49:00.017+05:302008-03-04T21:18:17.988+05:30Touring Terai, the tropical underbelly of NepalMy dear Maarten, (and family, friends, pets etc) <br />ps. -some extra pics uploaded!-<br /><br />It has just been recent that we parted, each going our own way, chasing our own (dis)modes of travel. <br />And what a first lone day it already was, exhausting yet exciting. The night train was same old overcrowded full. People sleeping on floor or double cramped in the same bunk. I had a fellow traveler to talk to, Paul from Wales who had been living several months in Kathmandu where his Nepalese brothers have a trekking company. Interesting chats about natural self-providing living, politics of trade, paganism and trancedentalism and futuristic capitalist ploys in regards to globalisation. Those last thoughts are already burned in the mental trashbin, before they could become general knowledge for evil persons to tap into. I didn't catch much sleep and woke up in time to get off at Gonda in search of the irregular Nepalganj border crossing. Everyone else was on their way to Gorakhpur for the more logical Sunauli crossing. Stepping off at Gonda with sleepy sand still in my eyes, I got be-hustled by the many rickshaw men. Perhaps more than in Delhi. I guess that's Uttar Pradesh for you, where folks scramble for every penny they might make in this poorest state of the India. The men fought over my custody and overquoting themselves even beyond the Delhi level. At a hotel I relaxed and wasted morning time by having a breakfast, changing money and checking the web. In Nepal they accept Indian currency, as it is regarded as a strong currency over there, but they only accept notes of 100 rupees or less and I was stuck with a couple of 1000's notes. Gonda probably never sees tourists, let alone white people as everyone was staring at me in utter <br />(or uttar?) amazement in ways that we experienced in Kota. I took a bus to the city of Bahraich as there was no direct bus to Nanpara from where all border traffic headed to. I should have taken the later morning train to Nanpara instead and saved me a lot of hassle. Alas, that option only occured to me during and afterwards. The bus to Bahraich was one of the bumpiest, even when sitting on the front next to the driver. There was no dashboard where it normaly would be to cover the noise of the engine and through several gaps you could see the road beneath you. In search of the bus to Nanpara I had to take a cycle rickshaw, which was the only mode of quick transport available. -It wouldn't be my last cycle rickshaw either as small-town Uttar Pradesh is filled with them as well as Nepal-<br />It was a real nice ride through the small alleys and streets of Bahraich and in some way it really looked almost like being back in a mix of Ucch Sharif and Bahawalpur in Pakistan. Perhaps more so because the city is completely muslim with many ornamental little mosques and darkly veiled women and frowning bearded men everywhere. A pretty nice town to explore, if I had the time. The bus to Nanpara took long enough. I had a lot of goats sitting behind me and they were surprisingly quiet. However the children on the bus weren't. Like a child standing next to me in the cramped footpath and when I was about to let his father put the boy on my lap, he vomited. A bit on my shoe, but most in the hands of his father, who had been quick enough to fold his hands into a cup to catch his boy's yellow-orange fluid. I quickly gave him a plastic bag so he could dispose of it. Poor kid being sick and all on this busy hot ride. Bus to the border took longer than expected. 17 slow km's, one hour. It was 5pm, 6 hours since I left Gonda. The border was a 2km stretched road so had to take a rickshaw again. Better than walking with my bags. <br />Indian customs stamped all very quickly, even got chai from them. It was also funny in the Nepali office. The official, a small lean man wearing a colourful traditional topi hat, greeted me kindly and took his time for things. To pay for a visa can be funny if you don't have dollars as you have to pay 30 dollars and in dollars only. Guess what I didn't have and no exchange office in sight since mostly Indian people use this crossing. (since early Feb, only a Spanish family and a Dutch couple had passed here, I read in the log book). I only had stronger euro's or Indian rupees. The man sensed I was sincerely unaware of this and accepted me to pay him in rupees. I purposely said that 1 dollar is 50 rupees to butter him up and play stupid (1 dollar is worth 40 rupees actually) and after silently calculating his profit he was happy to accept my Indian money. "Give me 1600 rupees and it's ok", meaning 400 rupees profit for this non-dollar service. I just wanted to get my visa and to be on way again, so I actually paid him in rupees worth closer to 30 euro's than 30 dollars. I handed him a note of 1000 rupees. "This one could be false you know" he said. "I surely didn't make it myself" I replied with a smirk and he accepted. I asked him some questions about the situation in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terai">Terai</a> where I now was, which he dodged in a vague manner. A negative advice decorated with a positive answer! This was my first taste of how Nepalese do not like to give negative answers, like the guidebook said. I again tried, more subtle, but to no avail. Not to get frustrated about as the Nepalese themselves are such composed people that don't raise their voice or show aggressive behaviour. Tip for tourists coming from India: always stay calm when facing frustration in Nepal, active and controlling behaviour lead nowhere here, unlike India.<br />Just as I walked outside the custom office, we heard noise and a group of 200 or so young people approached in a sort of protest march. The Nepali office quickly pulled me inside and closed the door as if something bad was about to happen. "Terai group" he said, pointing at the Indian-like flag with a black star in it. The youngsters did seem a bit agitated and unpredictable in their gestures and they marched on to the border gate while chanting "Terai zindabad!" (as is also done by muslims at the Wagha border crossing at Pakistan). A few minutes after the official allowed me to continue my way towards Nepalganj as the protesters were far away. A minute on the way with the rickshaw, I saw some big red stains on the road while a shopkeeper was putting salt on them. Could those stains be....? We passed several buildings of the UN food help programme and of Concern, the UK charity. Soon we entered town and on the first roundabout there were 20 or so soldiers in riot gear posted at the middle who kept an eye on things, though all seemed fine. At the 2nd roundabout, same scenario, another team of riot geared soldiers waiting around and overlooking the road. In the hotel I relaxed and had a shower. Meanwhile I heard more chanting again as if the same protesters had come marching back. When I went out 20 minutes afterwards, the streets were all dark and empty, most shops closed except for food stall, liquor stores and little canteens. As if people had given themselves their own curfew as even the soldiers were slowly driving away from the roundabout nearby.<br /> <br />Oh Maarten, I must confess that I sinned and ate meat again. Just like that one time in Lahore. This time just for the novelty of tasting water buffalo meat. Paul had told me that in Nepal they love eating buffalo meat and I must say that it is quite tasty. More tasting like a mix of mutton and beef, but then a taste of beef that has a darker and more freely living essence. Not the caged and hormonal-pumped taste of red cow beef, thankfully. As the Nepalese eat a lot of meat, Mutton, chicken and buffalo, the food here is very much like in Pakistan. Perhaps because there are a lot of muslims in the Terai region but the native Nepali's like to eat meat too. I hope to encounter momo's and noodle soups soon enough but so far not seen or tasted.<br /><br />That it is tropical here, I experienced here through the nightly presence of many mosquito's but so far haven't been bitten. Lucky deet. <br /><br />I already bought a bunch of Nepali tapes and mp3 cd's. Can't break a habit ey? I especially like the truly Nepali *Lok geet* folkpop style, that sounds like a mix of Indian and Chinese pop with a hint of Burmese tap drumming. It's lightheaded sweet pop in a rhythm that somehow resembles Jamaican riddims and even distant acoustic dubstep.<br /><br />After Nepalganj I took an 8 hour bus to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butwal">Butwal</a>, a very nice afternoon ride through the forest and hills of the Terai. Butwal is a nice city on the highway towards Chitwan natural park and the has the river Tinau flowing through it. I walked through the shanty part of town which was on the banks of the Tinau river and a small water canal, dug by the UN. People live in small tin roofed houses and wash themselves in the river, kids playing everywhere. People greeted me and I stopped at several houses to take pictures and kids wanting to have their picture taken without asking for rupees as kids do in India, even while Nepal is more poor. I stumbled upon a local market and for 20 rupees and I ate 2 plates of fish and chuti pieces. Chuti is a sort of dry crisp grain that when it gets wet (with sauce) it soaks it up and becomes soft as a sort of rice or soft pasta. Quite nice! Good fish too, fresh from the Tinau river. <br /><br />I took a bus to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lumbini">Lumbini</a>, the birthplace of Siddartha Gautama, otherwise known as the first Buddha. I rented a bicycle and drove through the tree forest area and stopped at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mayadevi">Mayadevi</a> temple, the birthplace of Buddha. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashoka_the_Great">King Ashoka</a> around 250BC had even placed a stone on the spot to be believed to be the exact point of Siddartha's birth and this stone can still be seen, protected by a glass case 2 meters underground in the temple structure. Many buddhist pilgrims walked about in their white, red or orange robes.<br />You can also find a place to sleep in this buddhist sanctuary wood as buddhist temples of various countries are built of being built by governments and/or institutions from Japan, Thailand, China, Korea, France, German, Sri Lank and Burma to name a few. A lot of people that I had met, like Jim and a German fella on bicycle, had advised to stay at the Korean buddhist temple for it's good peace and especially the good food. The vegetarian food was very good indeed as it was like a buffet with maby dishes. Also the dorms were simple, nice and clean. Stone beds consisting of a little bit of foam and thick blankets, but they were fine to sleep on. The most important room of the temple is the buddha room, which is used for meditation and ceremony. I saw the evening ceremony where 4 monks sang in a different tone and recited mantra's for about 30 minutes. It was very nice to close your eyes and listen, just listening to their drone and peacefull tone and I felt refreshed afterwards. <br />We were woken up at 6am by the monks for breakfast, but as everyone had gone to sleep around 10pm, it wasn't hard to wake up. Besides, I wanted to wake up early to go cycling to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kapilavastu">Kapilavastu</a> which was nearly 30km's away. Even on the heavy iron bike, it just took me more than 2 hours as the road was in quite good condition. I passed through many villages which mostly were muslim by the sight of mosques and bearded shopkeepers. People waved, young and old alike, also some bewildered and bemused looks from locals as I overtook them on their bike and it was a fun ride. At least it was still fresh in the morning mist which was better for when the sun would settle. I first went to Kudan, the monastery where Siddartha went to seek enlightenment after he left the palace in Kapilavastu and before he went down to India to spread his teachings. It seemed like a deserted place, only the huts of local farmers nearby and I walked around the crumbled structure and the many beautiful huge trees. Other than that, not much to see there. It depends what you are looking for. I took the road to Tilaurkot, which is the settlement where the remains Kapilavastu are, the old kingdom of Siddartha's family which he left to pursue enlightenment. Here there was more to see than at Kudan. More indication of marked structures and you could imagine the whole complex on this field, with the bathing places and courtyards. There were still some remains of the gate from where Siddartha had left the complex, never to return. The place had a special atmosphere about it, especially in sound because there were several things to hear and see; the little Hindu elephant temple overgrown by a tree where and old man and women sat, a little boy playing a drum. The sound of religious Hindu music from a little farm on the right. The live wedding music of a muslim marriage from the village at the front of the gate (which I passed just before). The group of Sri Lankese buddhist pilgrims who wandered through the site. Quite a bizarre mix of religious intonations. These 3 religions, Buddhism, Hinduism and Islamism, manifesting themselves at this very spot, playing or just existing through and with each other. That to me was the more special meaning of this place instead of the old value of the site.<br />I drove the same way back to the Korean temple, 30km's again, but now with the sun settled on me. All in all a very nice ride of 60km's. But to again do it on a heavy iron bike like this one? Euh, no. <br /><br />I arrived last night in Tansen, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palpa_District">Palpa district</a>. Finally, the mountains! It was a 2 hour ride from Butwal and as the bus was full I had to sit on the roof, such magnificent views I got! I sat between a pack of baba's, holy men dressed in orange robes who are on a spiritual journey. They were quite the funny characters as they cracked one joke after the other and were smoking weed spliffs. The mix of these funny folks, the smell of weed and views into deep ravines where valleys of rice terraces, rocky river flows and villages dwelled beneath while rough forested peaks rose above us. Wow. How small a human indeed can feel. And so lucky too. As we drove by dusk I even spotted a small lynx (or wildcat) on the road and it swiftly ducked into the nearest bushes. Settled in a cosy yet basic hotel, overlooking the Tansen valleys from high up, I spend my evening in local food-drink-gathering places, where locals drink, eat and watch tv together, either Nepali soaps or US movies.<br /><br />Oh yeah, people here all understand Hindi and it helps me a great deal to get around, even through giggles or small talk. Nepali is a sort of Hindi dialect with more Asian pronounciation. To chai (tea) they say *chia*, pronounced as *tsjia*. <br /><br />In the next days I will go towards Pokhara. The mountains and villages around here are so nice, maybe I will hang around here a bit longer.<br /><br />Do tell me Maarten, how do you fare on your freedom journey?<br />much regards,<br />your pal Seb<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrReHrxRCFr83GWfUa92Ias-44g_jtzLMLutCrSpMRQ0mrNcE4ZLuFXIVEmu_zsRVTnJBV0wok1-eBAgrInMf9H9Xf9EYGQGfjP3vi_QLWRoT4pXgwrvr53Ao8NlWPxzvqnAyLobhPeEpr/s1600-h/nepalofficial.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrReHrxRCFr83GWfUa92Ias-44g_jtzLMLutCrSpMRQ0mrNcE4ZLuFXIVEmu_zsRVTnJBV0wok1-eBAgrInMf9H9Xf9EYGQGfjP3vi_QLWRoT4pXgwrvr53Ao8NlWPxzvqnAyLobhPeEpr/s400/nepalofficial.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173907858894377746" /></a><br />Tek, the kind customs official<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLocWZBzxpI2n2hrfczuZYLdzrEitzNHj2Js8WVHr-REIatTL7SlTRUgYKEy_8lL3gIdAGskUsmkHsL-9Vxj6PbhhhJw2HsJL6BHtSPrU54SqAEuStgAk05YdPpjGI_SE13Jx3AMxlr3RV/s1600-h/gallow.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLocWZBzxpI2n2hrfczuZYLdzrEitzNHj2Js8WVHr-REIatTL7SlTRUgYKEy_8lL3gIdAGskUsmkHsL-9Vxj6PbhhhJw2HsJL6BHtSPrU54SqAEuStgAk05YdPpjGI_SE13Jx3AMxlr3RV/s400/gallow.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173909448032277282" /></a><br />Torn movie poster art in Nepalganj. Love that gallow.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqWLhRt8u9WIO-7vnUVJA8Y7-U4i5zWu6Z7pYy4KBDhSyLf2ckzdlQ6SAu5FWrTwEpGKPVr-2p4oMPRWBYscg_lRMVHd93ZKoIoNwC1nhrnq-8EZ19ZJazY5lvZYZ1SIj2OFp3G5BZmjgn/s1600-h/SL730332.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqWLhRt8u9WIO-7vnUVJA8Y7-U4i5zWu6Z7pYy4KBDhSyLf2ckzdlQ6SAu5FWrTwEpGKPVr-2p4oMPRWBYscg_lRMVHd93ZKoIoNwC1nhrnq-8EZ19ZJazY5lvZYZ1SIj2OFp3G5BZmjgn/s400/SL730332.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173905131590144770" /></a><br />Dusty ride on the Terai forest roads<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhQJRMHsov5LMgd-qQZs2HfNuVaJsyj6l5MK7i9X-O9UO8EVCSIdE5RcjqyCuWBb5DM2iwchyphenhyphenq4Wz9TBnOPuTaF66J5A259UagH0-I2PtUTyTA_9zazbB7hOCTT8FL5wGLSyIBNK3ZyLG/s1600-h/butwaltin.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhQJRMHsov5LMgd-qQZs2HfNuVaJsyj6l5MK7i9X-O9UO8EVCSIdE5RcjqyCuWBb5DM2iwchyphenhyphenq4Wz9TBnOPuTaF66J5A259UagH0-I2PtUTyTA_9zazbB7hOCTT8FL5wGLSyIBNK3ZyLG/s400/butwaltin.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173406998947409026" /></a><br />Water canal in Butwal, shantytown on the side.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwR3TR-tY90qFpPuSbrsDxdmBPZALwEk7egUd3SrfjQjcuGRIjZ76TXKtAfLEubA2k3SQXyd-tN9h3bkN4FkaJZJ-KczeUSQtZLpX76AaeOBbe1jmsObIuDAeJb9N9JC7msbH1w8L6nZzj/s1600-h/chickinlegz.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwR3TR-tY90qFpPuSbrsDxdmBPZALwEk7egUd3SrfjQjcuGRIjZ76TXKtAfLEubA2k3SQXyd-tN9h3bkN4FkaJZJ-KczeUSQtZLpX76AaeOBbe1jmsObIuDAeJb9N9JC7msbH1w8L6nZzj/s400/chickinlegz.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173422804427058322" /></a><br />Chicken feet in sauce in shantytown market, Butwal.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhePOHmYxOmmg-VL6BXCrufBwCQ4FUqCo-syEvdxVwbWOGpz4IiYZRQyRNAPDTyOaMwvHnVGNZ_O_fbiJCVdk0bNb1WVrVKTj3eBe7f6zBMIcuVHY-_XoN9YxdV9zg0YpgajmPmzVzBzj/s1600-h/pigman.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhePOHmYxOmmg-VL6BXCrufBwCQ4FUqCo-syEvdxVwbWOGpz4IiYZRQyRNAPDTyOaMwvHnVGNZ_O_fbiJCVdk0bNb1WVrVKTj3eBe7f6zBMIcuVHY-_XoN9YxdV9zg0YpgajmPmzVzBzj/s400/pigman.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173913446646829890" /></a><br />half a pig with puddle, full a man gracing above<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhVj1WoMfAhG030QsDeVxd_yttOi3dW4qYQIkZyEsy_VoY9gN29D5U_n0PBj0MAnLtKlTvc7nsscCI-r-hhrJgONgJgXQ5E3XOgMMtrV8z5KOZxhczkZtzEdfrh7jxL_B2i1OL_bE5lAF/s1600-h/topi.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhVj1WoMfAhG030QsDeVxd_yttOi3dW4qYQIkZyEsy_VoY9gN29D5U_n0PBj0MAnLtKlTvc7nsscCI-r-hhrJgONgJgXQ5E3XOgMMtrV8z5KOZxhczkZtzEdfrh7jxL_B2i1OL_bE5lAF/s400/topi.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173883996056080978" /></a><br />man with colorful Nepali topi hat that many folks wear here<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg1AE7W203venmpuO4fXqWyJ8wk98VsvQt4WYK4yv8X71KS59gDJlvwvzCZX8ay6VNkrSpSVuJ6xVvLcTZJoDiVepHQHuEmdFjcqSjzmmL_OjesnxiQcm7cOQddpDSz3egLQaOmR6TKmFH/s1600-h/mayadevi.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg1AE7W203venmpuO4fXqWyJ8wk98VsvQt4WYK4yv8X71KS59gDJlvwvzCZX8ay6VNkrSpSVuJ6xVvLcTZJoDiVepHQHuEmdFjcqSjzmmL_OjesnxiQcm7cOQddpDSz3egLQaOmR6TKmFH/s400/mayadevi.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173887401965146738" /></a><br />Maya Devi temple, birthplace of Siddartha (Buddha)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxeBjBmOnsBZaf1nmqsyHR6Ui8r7tRr0vjAXUoeqQOHoedZS9MFy5p7MHMBSobOIq4X5oURGPNRDy5UedoScSruNKnvZJAXPRVNe8Dn1-49U7vp6j0Wu-Jlj4xcw5JHKEKJ8V-Dd4ooUN3/s1600-h/kudan.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxeBjBmOnsBZaf1nmqsyHR6Ui8r7tRr0vjAXUoeqQOHoedZS9MFy5p7MHMBSobOIq4X5oURGPNRDy5UedoScSruNKnvZJAXPRVNe8Dn1-49U7vp6j0Wu-Jlj4xcw5JHKEKJ8V-Dd4ooUN3/s400/kudan.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173888793534550658" /></a><br />scriptures on Kudan monastery<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1TTnEAsD5gCJZwo05Akw9YnNUW6MekYHYbKhbMEwkewXxhWGCpe6mVACRSNMWl296pug88nghus5FWwK_wrgO56ipcZYt3YqNDV6JurFrs-5PuNRi53ALdj_wL1A8AN1yNY3IanlBpbCJ/s1600-h/babaonbus.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1TTnEAsD5gCJZwo05Akw9YnNUW6MekYHYbKhbMEwkewXxhWGCpe6mVACRSNMWl296pug88nghus5FWwK_wrgO56ipcZYt3YqNDV6JurFrs-5PuNRi53ALdj_wL1A8AN1yNY3IanlBpbCJ/s400/babaonbus.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173889751312257682" /></a><br />ridin' on the roof of the bus with the baba's in tow<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAp9bl9dvAP0dBw9D139uBGyfLqCHxr0c5BRZ8yBVrhrxelslRo-yP_XrndFradULW_-mduG5PGJwK18Pjlni3VP3Kwm0k4u6gDLmmq2gzksSwp-ZBpr97ZDKoVnJjtQ5e6skx2k_U-s5z/s1600-h/view.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAp9bl9dvAP0dBw9D139uBGyfLqCHxr0c5BRZ8yBVrhrxelslRo-yP_XrndFradULW_-mduG5PGJwK18Pjlni3VP3Kwm0k4u6gDLmmq2gzksSwp-ZBpr97ZDKoVnJjtQ5e6skx2k_U-s5z/s400/view.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173892031939891890" /></a><br />some more snapshot views from the roof......<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAdZuHHgzggP2h6J5klzIAgpz_53WpXvLJf1L2xL-b_fPb6Z-VpAxRUyZy7OoIwVeA8T805eCYErmKmxcJyY5JYRzZ9Etamc4FSfvqEepJu30kihmOiZOxoLcK4ADtmCLxzi6MIVGnu6Hv/s1600-h/viewcycle.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAdZuHHgzggP2h6J5klzIAgpz_53WpXvLJf1L2xL-b_fPb6Z-VpAxRUyZy7OoIwVeA8T805eCYErmKmxcJyY5JYRzZ9Etamc4FSfvqEepJu30kihmOiZOxoLcK4ADtmCLxzi6MIVGnu6Hv/s400/viewcycle.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173893414919361218" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qmisTem1ZjwkJJZqudjYZ7_I_l3TKQqmAngYGkNO4MnnV7wgHWiXqmg2JdCDfZ1mFV6ngns7pAfPwRw0ETqUNSMroWEk6GHm03He72q0g9zggIY-_E7bMC2K68C96-CcCgEszU4aZNSO/s1600-h/viewdark.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qmisTem1ZjwkJJZqudjYZ7_I_l3TKQqmAngYGkNO4MnnV7wgHWiXqmg2JdCDfZ1mFV6ngns7pAfPwRw0ETqUNSMroWEk6GHm03He72q0g9zggIY-_E7bMC2K68C96-CcCgEszU4aZNSO/s400/viewdark.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173895893115491026" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-66829720950799256822008-02-26T18:31:00.010+05:302008-02-27T16:19:39.632+05:30Pakistani flashbacksand suddenly a second post within the day, such inspiration ey?<br /><br />-little side update, in a few hours I am taking the train to northern Uttar Pradesh towards the mid-western Nepalese border. It's next to the Maoist territory, where not many tourists go to as it is a crossing off the beaten track. Hopefully in Nepal by lunch tomorrow. It's a bit unstable in Nepal right now as they just had an oil crisis that lasted 2 weeks. Things seem to turn back to normal but in the south western Terai area there are still some curfews in effect in several towns. And rara, where am I heading? Yup. I do feel that things are safe enough in Terai and the curfew area's are out of my way so far I checked. Like this report, the place is out of my way: http://www.nepalnews.com/archive/2008/feb/feb27/news07.php<br />From the Terai on I'll move towards Pokhara and the Annapurna region. For more current affairs in Nepal, keep a tab on the insightful news site www.nepalnews.com. <br />-The negative travel advice from western embassies can be taken with a pinch of salt. For instance, the negative advice list on Pakistan is still double as big as Nepal's and you all know we encountered no problems in Pakistan-<br />Maarten has just decided not to go down to Karnataka after some pondering. Who knows where'll he go but he might choose for north eastern Jharkand, Bihar or Sikkim. He can better tell you himself. <br /><br />Some Muharram photo's inserted below in this post, finally. By luck we met beardy Maciek (Magic) here in Delhi a few days ago while sitting in the same web spot , nearly next to each other! We had met him in Lahore during the bloody Muharram days and he promised give us some photo's of the Muharram ceremony. Which he did now, scroll below. Therefore, Pakistani flashbacks!<br />Big thanks to Maciek for these detailed and atmosphere-filled pictures. Travel safe and fine, ye m*thrf*cker ;)<br /><br />and yeah, before we are off and will not upload much stuff anymore...here some last Pakistani radiophonic candy that I found in the dusty corners of the krazy korg. Cooked in static, salted with hiss and cracks. <br /><br />Soft disco synth beats and traditional sounds combined in a movie song, perhaps as a remix I think. Those 80's beat-rolls are great.<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Pakistani movie disco pop.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Pakistani movie disco pop.MP3">Unknown artists - Pakistani movie disco pop</a><br /><br />How the film nostalgia suddenly washed over us hehe. It certainly took our breath away, giggle. In this Urdu version she sings about *no hope*. Oh dear, we hope the Pakistani airforce fared better on screen here.<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Asa nahi (no hope).MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Asa nahi (no hope).MP3">Unknown artist - Asa nahi (No hope)</a><br /><br />It's not Uncle Sam that is invading Pakistan society, but another bearded so-called officer who sells pieces of unhealthy sizzling chicken. Poor Pakistan.<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Paki US style ad.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Paki US style ad.MP3">Pakistani US styled ad</a><br /><br />Interlude taken off a Karachi station who played more easy and modern styled music (read: westernized). Quite a good piece, sounds like a discostyled Secret Chiefs 3 ;)<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Pakistani rock beats.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Pakistani rock beats.MP3">Unknown artist - Pakistani rock & beats interlude</a><br /><br />Remember that we hitched a ride from the Pakistani highway patrol? Here's the proof in sound, as I sneakily recorded inside the car while they played popfolk tapes and gave us snacks to eat. Sorry for the muffled quality, it was just for the novelty really.<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Pakistani police ride pop.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Pakistani police ride pop.MP3">Pakistani highway patrol - police pop ride</a><br /><br /><br />words missing.......why go find them.<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_1356.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_1356.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_1741.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_1741.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_1942.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_1942.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_1983.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_1983.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_2018_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_2018_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_2094.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/machik%20muharram%20pakistan/DSC_2094.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />next first post from Nepal or eastwards...who knows.SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-12493751090978387202008-02-25T16:29:00.009+05:302008-02-26T18:04:10.011+05:30Western India round-up in a loophole circleIt's been nearly a full month since our last post here, so beware the lenght beneath. This trip, like a sort of lapsed hiatus within our trip, was as if we needed an extra holiday within a holiday. hah indeed. <br />It has fully refreshed us though and was perfect for closing the projects. <br />Well.. closed, that will take a bit longer with the editing ahead back home. <br /><br />We did get some extra last things done for the Rajasthan project, especially in Rajasthan in Jaisalmer and Pushkar. Recordings that we couldn't do back in November but now were able to do so. Even when travelling in a different mood and quickened rhythm, together with close people this time. Perhaps that was just the most positive part of this ending, to share our experiences and giving our swiftly arrived travellers a seriously good view into our past few months. Ey, at least we haven't been lazy... not too lazy. ;)<br /><br />At the freshest start of February, our girls Jet and Ness arrived at Delhi airport and it was to be the start of a 23 day trip along the western part of India. We had kinda set upon a blueprint schedule where we would see the desert, sea, lakes and mountains. From west to south-western to north-western surroundings, spawning about 1500 kilometers from up to down. And we managed to do it all, right till the last day! By crikey, after having taken so many long distance buses and some trains we might as well have spent almost a week in transportation if you add up all the hours on the road. All worth it though, as daytime views from our windows were always rewarding, peeking into roadside life, scenery and passenger affairs on board. <br /><br />We started in Jaisalmer, where we arrived after a 18 hour ride. Again we settled in the Hillview hotel of the modest Kirta and found ourselves back in the local gypsy area of the Lohar blacksmiths and the musicians, among the goats sitting or lying everywhere on the street. We finally recorded the Kamaycha musician who was sick last time we were here and the setting at the temple lake was just perfect to film. The Kamaycha is a horesehair stringed violin of 3 thick snares that resonates through several thinner metal snares behind the main ones and is like a rounder Sarangi with a darker sound. Kinda like a small desert cello. We did the typical touristic thing by having a camel safari, but we did it in good ecotouristic fashion with local people from desert villages through the help of our kind hotel manager Kirta. Only one night though, but it still was great since we stayed of the main camel routes of all the other tourist treks and got better taken care of. We had heard previous stories from other people, how their camel safari was boring, overpriced and had bad food. But none of this on our trek as we indeed had gotten a special deal with good and earnest people. During the day we sat on the camels, us bobbing up and down with its walking rhythm and listening to the many squeezy animal farts while we passed high dunes. The quietness in the valley and the dunes was impressive. Hardly any sound at all, it was as if everything natural was muffled, silenced like a play-dead organism. <br />We spent the night around a campfire talking and staring into the fire and looking at the far away and closer stars. So many, we could see nearly all constellations and patterns that you otherwise can not see in city spheres. It was so intensely dark, no artificial lights or anything except for the sparse jeeps of motorbikes passing on the distant road down below the valley.<br />We tasted a bit of local desert millet brew brought by our funny guides, which tasted like a soft poteen whiskey spirit. . At some point a bit of manical dancing around the campfire by the hand of the elastic legged guide who had quite some to drink. Fun fun. We slept in the desert that night. It was cold, but not as bad as people are led to believe. In the early morning me and Ness woke up to see the sunrise on the chilly dunes. The sun slowly crawling up to reheat the sand once more, continuing the neverending cycle. We had already seen a lot of antilope deers running around the previous day and during the morning we saw many grey desert foxes (fenixes) who didn't really seem scared of us, looking from a safe distance. <br />Back in Jaisalmer, we met Mohan Lal and his family again where we got some freshmade lassi yoghurt drink, straight from their cow hours before. We wanted to record Mohan with his cousins this time, as they have a band where they play various instruments. Their sound is way different from any Rajasthani folk that we have encountered, so we coined it the *Lohar* style. The central instrument in this group was the tambura, a long 4 metal stringed lute that is played in a repetitive manner, strumming a melody near like a Northern African desert guitar. The sound was accompanied by chanting vocals, clinging kartals, a dholak and an earthwork jug that was thrown into the air while being blowed in (which created a seriously sweet deep and subtle echo!). 60 minutes of pure trancedental Lohar folk with holy lyrics and the longer it went on, the more hypnotic the atmosphere in the room became. Wow. <br />It was time to leave Jaisalmer after 5 days, how quick time goes. A quick stop in Jodhpur and then down to Gujarat, the coastal state in the midwest of India. Gujarat is a non tourist place for reasons unknown as there is so much to discover and enjoy. A bit of a link to Holland, as Gujarat is the place from where most ancestors of Surinam's hindu people come from. The people were like a true mix of Rajasthani's and Maharastrans (the state of Bombay), since it is situated beween those states. They sometimes had the folkloric dress and looks of nomads or either the open faces of more southern people. There also were quite a lot of people from African descent who most likely have been brought over by Portugese slavetraders in colonial times, one can only guess to where those roots lead in Africa. Perhaps from Angola or Mozambique? We went to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Junagadh">Junagadh</a> and the island <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diu">Diu</a>. In Junagadh we also visited the old Uperkot fort that dates from 300 BC, built during the Mauryan rule and controlled in the era of the Ashoka kingdom (India's first national kingdom in ancient times). <br />The fort had a big waterbasin behind it that looked out onto the Girnar mountain, of which locals say it looks like Vishnu's face (well faintly, but better on the postcards in a sort of photoshopped version hah). After Junagadh we took various slow rides to Diu. Just 150 km's away, it took us about 8 hours to finally arrive on the island, to give you an idea of the slow pace in local buses and waiting time.<br />Diu is cut off from the Indian/Gujarati continent by a narrow water passage and straight away it felt like not being in India anymore. The atmosphere was more relaxed than elsewhere in Gujarat and the place had a sleepytown feel to it like an eternal siesta time. We had a hotel just a minute walking from the sea, the Arabian sea! Quite a peacefull sea with no wild waves and open water ahead. The coast was very rocky with darkish grey and sometimes sharp formations. Many shards of old pottery lay in the shallow water pools in which also crabs and small green shrimps lived. We hired motorpeds and spent the next days exploring the island, which was about 15 km's long. The best was a morning trip to Vanakbara, a small fishing town on the other side of the island. The ride to the village through the lush and slightly hilly roads with palm and green vegetation was quite amazing. Many children and townfolks waving to us in the fresh sunlight, various tropical birds shrieking from the trees. In Vanakbara we saw the harbour and visted to fishing market where only women were selling fish (quite unusual in India). Such choice of fish too! Fish we never had seen before, big and small ones. They also sold various types an sizes of shark, ray, tuna, squid and swordfish and we bought some unknown fish pieces to cook up later at the beach with massala and in the oven (which was very tasty by the way). Walking through the harbour, we also encountered many fishmongers cutting up fish. Big ones, like 1,5m sharks, a huge rayshark and fat tuna's. We asked where they sell the fish and most of it was to be sent to the richer cities of Kolkata, Bangalore, Mumbai and Delhi and not as international export. Except for the shark's finns. Those were put apart for the London restuarant market. Indian people don't really eat finns anyway, one monger said. After having relaxed in Diu, enjoying the sea an eating a lot of freshly made ice cream (like anywhere in Gujarat where it is very well made, with special tastes of figs, dates, flowers, guava, nuts and so on), it was time to go up north again, back into Rajasthan. We visited Udaipur and by pure coincidence it was valentine's day, urgh. Udaipur is tagged as India's most romantic city so there were lots of couples around. But we escaped the mushy valentine feel as we didn't care about it, thank goodness the girls neither. <br />Next day we left for Pushkar, the holy town where me and Maarten lived for 1 month. We were about to be guides, if we wanted it or not but it was fun as we already knew in the in and outs. When we arrived we bumped into the Bhopa gypsies in town as expected and they told us that the eldest son of our teacher Rampal was going to marry the next day. When they called Rampal (cos although they are indeed poor, they do have mobile phones hah) we were straight invited to the wedding! Such a luck, such chance, ofcourse we couldn't let this pass, especially as it was Rampal's family which we have gotten to know the best during our project time. The ceremony and party would be at seperate locations outside Pushkar, more in the desert so we rented motorcycles to get around. We first went up to the tent camp of the bride's family several km's further tucked between the dusty mountains. Both families joining in to start the traditional ceremony and as it was a low caste wedding, there was very little around of what you otherwise would encounter at an Indian wedding. The lack of richness made it only more special and sincere. During the built up, the women of the girl's family started heavily weeping and the bride even louder. The to-be husband stood there alone in the middle, waiting for it all to happen with shiny sunglasses and a sullen, downward look. An elderly woman, the grandmother of the bride, said some rites while the bride and groom stood together. All the men of both families started throwing purple paint on each other's white nomad kurta's. The purple purely signified happiness, not blood. The women started wailing and singing sort of goodbye songs while the bride wept. The girl would go on to live 10 km's further with Rampal's family and perhaps never come back to stay with her family. The family of the bride stayed in their camp and did not travel to Rampal's village where the party of his family would start. Whether the girl's family was allowed to join the party at one of the other days then, as a Bhopa wedding lasts 5 days, we don't know nor ask. Maybe it's tradition that the other family can not come. In the village and inbetween the many small goats of Rampal's household, we sat down and listened to the talking and the acoustic music played on the ravannatha and dholak. They played songs that we didn't hear before as they were reserved for this special occasion and Rampal even asked us to record it in sound and visuals, for us to use in the project and especially as a souvenir for his family. As dusk was setting in, we had to go back to Pushkar and said goodbye to Rampal and Sita for perhaps a long time. Next day we took a night bus to Agra. Yup the Taj Mahal. Cliche indeed, but it was on our way up north to the mountains so it even proved a handy stop. Arriving at cold dawn, we already made sure to secure a train ticket for a midday train to Delhi so that we would not get stuck in Agra. Up to Taj Mahal in the early morning mist, we walked on the empty path to the gate with no people or tourists in sight. Streets still empty from hustlers, such a bliss. Monkeys all around, who were being fed dry bread by local caretakers. At the gate they demanded a hefty fee of 750rps foreigner entry fee, which is like 12 euro. Perhaps not that much money for us, but if you're a while in India you start to see the real value of such money into an Indian context. We opted not to pay and people told us that at the back of Taj Mahal it was for free. The river Yamuna flows behind it and we could get on a small 100 rupee boat which dropped us on small patches of land in the middle of the river. Lo and behold, we had a full view of Taj Mahal!, the back that is. The sun on our faces and the solitude of our river spot at our disposal for the next 30 minutes, wow! We took the typical posing pics, also of the reflection in the water, making the Taj look like a double fold poster. Plus pics of the garbage on the riverside, the other not so nice side of Taj Mahal that tourist probably never see. Back on the shore, we posed with the many military guards, who are there to counter terrorist threats. We wanted to take pics with us holding their rifles with the Taj Mahal looming behind us in a faux-pas style, but alas, permission refused haha. I did get a photo with me wearing their helmet ;) <br />We spent several hours in the Kinari bazar of inner city Agra, the bustling muslim merchant area in a maze of alleys where Ness and Jet found various paper design thingies and allsorts for their creative concepts. Train at the station delayed as usual so we arrived in Delhi quite later and took a night train to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chandigarh">Chandigarh</a>, capital of Punjab. The city is famous for being India's only planned city out of need for a new capital after the 1947 partition, when former capital Lahore suddenly belonged to Pakistan. It was designed by American urban planners Albert Mayer and Matthew Nowicki and carried out by Le Corbusier and his cousin Pierre Jeanneret, also with the help of the English architect couple Drew and Fry. A city amazing for anyone who has a serious interest in modern and minimal architecture. We were more curious about the design than seriously dedicated to archtecture. We entered the outskirts at night so didn't see much, but the next morning we ventured into the blocks, named as *sectors*. It looked quite bizarre, like a mix of American grid style building with long wide avenues and cubic housing estates which looked very like the new concrete estates in Holland. We first went to the Nek Chand rock garden. Neck Chand was a local who devoted nearly 50 years of his life to living in this spacious garden and building an ornamental garden with the use of riverbed rocks, garbage and recycled building materials. The result is a super special garden that balances between a natural setting and open air art. Man made water cascades, rocky towers, passageways and planted greenery alongside human and animal statues. See our pics when they're uploaded to get a good impression. In the garden cafeteria we met Narinder Singh, a quircky local Sikh man of old age clutching his briefcase and talking to us in a funny jib. He was a guide, but not one that you would normally encounter as he could take us to many special places. Untill his retirement in 1994, he had been a vivid secretary at the Punjab ministry of finance. Because according to him the city lacks any human guides for backpackers, he voluntarily declared himself a non-profit guide and thus guides around young foreigners, for his own fun basicly. We let him show us around a bit and he even had the contacts and stringpulling skills to get us into the special high court building, one of those special structures designed by Le Corbusier. Normally you have to get permission downtown and deliver all kinda documents, passpart and photo's, but Narendra arranged it all within an hour. Wow.<br />So there we walked, inbetween the lawyers and judges with their white slabs hanging from their necks while we saw all the corners and levels of the building. Click click went the camera of the girls, with design on their minds. <br />In the interesting city museum we learned that a lot of the housing estates were indeed built with the help of the Dutch, so no surprise there with our thoughts earlier that day. The museum was a nice collection of old pre-partition photo's of the city area and showed the whole story of the operation to build the city from scratch, before first having to flatten 30 old villages or so from existence as playground for the new concrete. Also the original letters with president Nehru were exhibited, as well as some letters containing funny complaints and requests of Le Corbusier (about some of the quircks of Indians workers). On photo's the structures and designs of Jeanneret, Drew and Fry were shown and I think all of us prefered the more lush organic style of Jeanneret to the cubic garden movement style of Drew and Fry. <br />We had just a few days left and decided that we wanted to go further north, into Himachal Pradesh to see the Himalaya. In the evening we tried to arrange a night bus to Dharamsala and with the kind help of Narendra we found out how and what. He finally took us to an old cinema for free, one designed by Fry and Drew, where we saw a bit of a bizarre King Kong movie, seriously B style from the late 70's or early haha. The screenwall was designed very special in a broad and outlining way as if the screen oozed into the room. Really nice, bonus points for Drew and Fry. <br />We said goodbye to sweet Narendra, who could go home satisfied and surely he would go on to look for new tourists the next day. <br /><br />Our rocky night bus ride to Dharamsala in half stuffed seats. It was said to be a Deluxe bus. That's also what was written on the outside, so at least they didn't lie :) We did sleep a bit, with intervals, but allmighty!!!! The descending freefall speed of the bus made it a plain hair raising ride, adrenaline thrilling :) <br />Bend after bend, the driver steered the bus with precision on the narrow mountain roads in the stark dark. I wonder how many lives a cat would lose if driving with us. When the first lights of dawn seeped through the windows we were rewarded with a spectacular first view of the Himalaya range. Jawdropping. At the small bus station we waited a bit and took the bus to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mcleod_Ganj">McLeod Ganj</a>, the village on the mountain above Dharamsala, home to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tenzin_Gyatso%2C_14th_Dalai_Lama">Dalai Lama</a>, the Tibetan government in exile and many Tibetan refugees. It was very busy on the streets and we had problems to get a hotel. We soon found out why, as the Dalai Lama would deliver his yearly speech to buddhist pilgrims in the big monastery. Many western folks too and we even encountered a camera crew from the freethinking Dutch <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/VPRO">VPRO</a> broadcasting company from a programme Maarten en Jet knew. By pure unavoided coincidence we bumped into Jim from Austin who we had met in Lahore last month and later on also Hiroshi from Osaka who we had met on the bus to Pushkar days before. Travel paths are still very narrow here. Walking around the streets that were filled with Tibetan buddhists in red robes, we felt refreshed in this clear mountain air. We were about 2000 meters up and several snowpeaked mountain surrounded us, surely between 3000 and 5000 meters high. Mountains make humans always feel puny and humble, it's a nice thing for if you want to feel balanced again. Also the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tibetan_food">Tibetan food</a> was a delcious change to our greasy and spicy Indian diet and we devoured <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Momo_%28food%29">momo's</a>, thukpe and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thenthuk">thenthuk</a> noodle soups with pleasure in little places filled with Tibetans. Overly humble and reserved Tibetans as they are, to contrast them with the all too vivid Indians. next say me and Ness got a ride to the Dal lake, which the night before we had turned into a joke; dal as in greasy lentils and India's national dish, "Don't forget to take chappatis to the lake". The lake was small and more for kids peddling on with pedalo boats in the shape of a dragon or swan, but a pine forest lay quietly around it. We had our breakfast there and therefore missed the first morning speech that the Dalai Lama gave. Maarten en Jet did go and see him and even managed to catch a glimpse of him in the crammed monastey. We went to the midday speech but didn't manage to get in as we had to register blahblah, give passport/photo's and so, which we didn't carry on us. Instead we listened a bit to him outside on the courtyard inbetween Tibetan locals and travellers. Westerners listening to him on handheld radio's as he spoke in Tibetan. I bought a variety of Tibetan folk and temple music from streetside stand, enough to still my audiophonic hunger like I had done weeks before in Gujarat. We only stayed one night as we needed to get back to Delhi the day after for Jet and Ness to take their flights back home. Already. Time always passes quick, just too darn quick when you're enjoying it so much. This time around no rocky ride in a *deluxe* bus, but a real luxury tourist bus where we got a sleeper cabine to lay down. A lot of loud honking at night at some point, when we were stuck at some small construction road with trucks blocking the passage. Or us blocking them. Either way, it wasn't a 2 lane way for sure. Back in Delhi we had full day ahead from the morning we arrived till the midnight flight. We went to Inder's house where we had stored some of our project and souvenir stuff to packmule Ness and Jet with, the poor ones. Dinner with Inder in the same good Punjabi restaurant from our meet-ups with Inder before was good and soon after we left for the airport. It was a typcial chaos there and suddenly the looming goodbye was rushed as me and Maarten were not allowed into the departure hall, since only people holding a flight ticket could enter. Pffff. At least we could see from a distance that all went well for Ness and Jet to check in and last waives were exchanged for now....<br /><br /><br />so what's next up for us, still having 2 months left to travel about...... <br />After having tasted the first Himalayan mountains and soaking up all the good talk about Nepal, we just can't miss it. At the start of our trip we didn't intend to go into Nepal but how quickly things change. We will seperate our ways in a few days and I will go straight up north and spend a month or so in Nepal. Maarten meanwhile will first go southwards to the coastal Karnataka state before going up north again into Nepal and get himself into Tibet to explore the vast mountain plains and unknown village regions. <br />No Tibet for me alas, as I will turn eastwards back into India and visit Darjeeling's tea region, communist Kolkata (Calcutta) and then down to the eastern coastal jungle state of Orissa and perhaps inland Chattisgarh. Around that time, Maarten will probably be finding his way to Europe by overland travel through Iran and Turkey and who knows where. So many destinations, possibly criscrossing each other's routes and such.<br /><br />From the moment we split up, we'll both keep the blog alive with our dislocated stories into digital moulds. Some more nomadic sleeping bag adventures for you all to read, as successive stories from different locations that will mix like colors that don't match. But that's just the fun of it all, we think.<br /><br />Some photo's are uploaded, some more tomorrow, a fine best-of mishmash taken by all of us! Especially Jet has been a busy bee taking what must be thousands o pics with her much better camera, proving her artistic photographic skills. <br />Oh perhaps you noticed already: my pictures have a certain hazy blur in the centre right since a while now. Bruised and strained lens, that also doesn't like to close anymore with other bizarre side effects. I guess that's what happens if you expose a cheap camera (samsung fyi) to the elements of backpackerism. yup.<br /><br />click.SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-60520835379454307942008-01-29T12:52:00.000+05:302008-01-30T20:57:10.709+05:30Labore et Lahore, Pakistan sound galleryThe last days in Lahore tick away, tomorrow we will cross the border, back to India it is! <br />So far no luck with getting more of the Urdu hiphop nor the live Sufi music. We could not find the Sufi place yesterday night and neither did anyone know where it was. We were so close, yet so far away. That's the intangible city of Lahore for you. Tonight; last night, last chance. <br /><br />The hiphop scene in Lahore is slowly growing since this year. We met Bobby D, Haider Z and Saber who form the STT crew together. Having lived their teenage years in the States and Canada, both Bobby D. and Saber returned back to Pakistan a few years ago for several reasons, but with their heads filled with Northern American hiphop coming from mostly gangsta styled influences.<br />A lyrical context from a place far away inserted into their current environment that is Lahore. Their rhymes in English aren't crippled, but nothing out of the ordinary either if compared with any other rap battle tongue from Northern America. It might work here though, as Pakistan still has an open market for western hiphop. The sparse songs that we heard them rap in Urdu were by far better sounding in our ears. Perhaps because that is a flow of sound that our western ears have not heard before. Is a flow in a new tongue, or new style the definition of *freshness*? Maybe so. <br />Urdu lyrics about politics; the elections, the Bhutto assassination, the war on terror. Idea's about using old Pakistan folk as the backdrop for their sound so that their Urdu raps can get and even heavier context. Idea's, it's all in their minds but not recorded yet. The English raps however, are recorded by the dozens as we saw and heard in the small studio of Saber, who envisioned that he would like to see his hiphop style merged with trance and club sounds. Experimental use of western influences into a new musical context? If the market here is open to it, it could become his own blueprint for the Lahore scene. <br />Haider Z, still 19 and relatively new to the crew, upheld a better flow in Urdu, perhaps by straying further away from the western flows. He showed us a newspaper article of a few months ago in which he was presented as a rapping talent. Also Saber could present newspaper clippings of his rising fame, so the signs are there in the media. Just the hiphop shows haven't really arrived in Lahore yet and it keeps the development of the scene low-key for now. Bobby D, who is more on the producer side of things, has been trying to make hiphop breakthrough in Lahore for some years now, but so far still encounters a lot of blocks. "The public demand is here, but we lack the resources in Lahore and Pakistan", he said. It was clear that there are no venue's or organizations to back it up with. Still a long way to go for Lahore hiphop. <br />We hope it works out for either of them, especially if they will focus on the Urdu style instead of English as it will be of more cultural value, nationwide. <br /><br />Lahore, as anywhere in Pakistan, suffers several power cuts per day. You get used to it. At least they have a generator in the library so they can rebuff the power up again after a minute or so. To give you an idea; during this post the power already went twice. Anywhere else with no private generator at hand, people just have to wait, 30 minutes, 1 hour, 2 hours. It fluctuates. Locals joke that power cuts come at prayer times, as a break for the plant workers.<br /><br />Maarten finds these power shortages to be a typical occurrence in a dictatorship nation, as well as the fluctuating food prices (of wheat and flour currently) and the armed presence of police and soldiers at checkpoints or street corners. We think it does indicate that Musharraf struggles to control many assets in the nation, or worse, uses these assets for his own control on society. Which is also what many people think here. Pakistan as a country deserves better (which is also a political slogan), because all the opportunities and energy sources are here already. Just a proper control of them would be decent. <br /><br />With the upcoming elections, things are still unsure and many do not believe it will go fairly -again-. There are 35 parties and they each use a certain symbol that indicates what their political position. Recognizable symbols, so that illiterate people know who they can vote for. The symbols break down to this:<br />The bicycle = the governmental people's party, which is Musharraf's party although you do not see him on posters and instead you see affiliated politicians on it. <br />The tiger/lion = the Nawaz Islamic league who basically are the conservatives (hah, the fat cats? irony bliss)<br />The arrow = Bhutto's Pakistan People's Party (PPP), the socialists and affiliated types. The arrow meaning that they're out for a killing -in change of politics, not in blood-.<br />The football = errr unclear, -after asking we now know: independent candidates who have an unclear agenda. Just out for power or money rather than bringing real change in.<br />The clock -a new one- = yet another independent candidate, also with an unclear agenda. <br /><br />The Bhutto party are still leading the polls by at least 40%.<br />If you ask people who will actually win the election, the answer you get is 'the people's party', the governmental people's party. The word *winning* has a sarcastic meaning here.<br /><br /><br />So.........<br />After all these 3 months of gathering footage and sounds, we'll take it easy in February and act more the traveling tourists and not blogging these long reports anymore that you might have gotten used to. <br />Time to wind down and recharge our energy a bit with our girls! :P<br />We might still do some small sessions in Rajasthan if possible....and perhaps in Gujarat as a little extra thing. All is open, we'll see what we bump into and keep you posted :)<br /><br />Finally we've uploaded a small variety of Pakistani sound of the past few weeks.<br />Downloadable and such from Maarten's server.<br /><br />Short radio ad, vivid talking and happy synthesizer sounds.<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/short%20Pakistan%20radio%20ad.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/short%20Pakistan%20radio%20ad.MP3">Short radio ad</a><br /><br />Here a clip of the Muharram procession that we witnessed in a village close to Lahore (of a few posts ago). The men first started chastising themselves with the sickle knives attached to shackles before they stopped and continued beating their chests while their backs and shoulders were dripping of blood. I recorded the shackles too, but here's a shorter clip of the chest beating part where the men are singing on their own beat.<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/chest%20beating%20procession.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/chest%20beating%20procession.MP3">Muharram chest beating in village</a><br /><br />I think this vocal female song is a Qawwali song and not a Ghazal. But I'm not entirely sure, awaiting the local second opinion. The main difference between these two musical forms is that Qawwali is devotional (holy) music and a Ghazal is a love poetry song. <br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Female%20ghazal%20or%20qawwali.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Female%20ghazal%20or%20qawwali.MP3">Female Qawwali song (or Ghazal?)</a><br /><br />Here a short piece of what seems like a Ghazal song. But it might be Qawwali in this case. <br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Ghazal%20song%20excerpt.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Ghazal%20song%20excerpt.MP3">Male Ghazal song (or Qawwali?)</a><br /><br />Some more full sound and choir-like, this time with kids singing along. Folk or holy music?<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Folk%20with%20kids.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Folk%20with%20kids.MP3">Holy folk with kids</a><br /><br />Upbeat folk, with Sufi or Qawwali content? The second opinion is still out. The rhythm seems more inclined to move people physically than by words.<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/upbeat%20Pakistan%20folk.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/upbeat%20Pakistan%20folk.MP3">Upbeat Pakistani folk</a><br /><br />On a Karachi radio station they sometimes played good stuff. Like worldly things from the <a href="http://www.budamusique.com/index.php?page=shop.browse&category_id=5&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1&lang=en">Ethiopiques</a> series of Alemu Aga and Mahmoud Ahmed. Even the galaxy warping jazz of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sun_ra">Sun Ra</a> and Kraftwerk's 'Die Menschmachine (The Man Machine)' came along! On one night they were playing a whole album of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nusrat_Ali_Khan">Nusrat Ali Khan</a>, Pakistan's (and Punjab's most famous singer). I already know these improvisational songs from back home and from the excellent Doaba Gypsies mix that <a href="http://siebethissen.blogspot.com/">Siebe Thissen</a> once made (psssht, check out his mixes!). Here's a Nusrat Ali Khan clip for you. <br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Nusrat%20Ali%20Khan%20excerpt.MP3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/Pakistan/Nusrat%20Ali%20Khan%20excerpt.MP3">Nusrat Ali Khan improvisation</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735062.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735062.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-70228622781459938072008-01-28T12:42:00.000+05:302008-01-29T12:52:08.964+05:30~Retire your dead tire~Pakistani highway poetry, as seen on the mountain interstate road between Mianwali and Rawalpindi.<br /><br />From the transport hub of Muzzafargarh, we woke up at 6ish while the traffic had already been roaring past our room for the last hours or so. Non stop. It sometimes can be quite tricky to find the right bus and asking anyone possible is a bare necessity. Police men sitting around a fire at a roundabout -a very much seen sight on any nightly or early morning traffic point- were nice enough to help us, though they didn't know exactly either which bus to take and guessing at 2 different directions. It was very chilly, a cold mist still hanging in the dark dawn air. The fire was a welcome warm friend and the elder officers gave us their chairs, which we first politely rejected but in Pakistan, you just can't refuse such nice gestures. Finally action and we jumped into a bus towards the North of Punjab, parallel to the Indus flow. Going up against it's natural down flow, so to speak. <br />The morning ride was nice; along dry lands, little forest patches and green low Punjabi fields, filled with sugarcane, corn or wheat. Most of it we were in half slumber as the trip would take over 5 hours. We got off in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mianwali">Mianwali</a>, the biggest city for transport connection of the north western part and there we tried finding an internet cafe to do some blogging and uploading. Tough luck. Not for finding the internet cafe which we did eventually, but as for having an internet connection because internet was down allover town. Just like power cuts, there are also internet cuts. It's life here as you have to accept it. Back to the mini-bus station, we got our ride to the town of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalabagh">Kalabagh</a>, the point where the Indus river turns into the lower valleys from the mountains. Shaping the normal sized river flow into a gigantic wide river. It was the nicest ride so far we've had in Pakistan and we could see the distant mountain peaks and past the cultivated valleys.<br />We got off at the end of the bridge to Kalabagh town, a long bridge of at least 1 km, made out of wooden and stone panels. Those panels had a lot of wear on them and many had holes and cracks in them, giving you a clear view at the river far below with a feeling that the bridge was not solid at all. Let alone that any maintenance is being done. At least the main structure was of steel. Not that that helped the poor fella who last week fell into the river with his motorbike, through a gap or perhaps a broken panel and his body was only found 5 days afterwards, as we were told by Nazeem, a young pharmaceutical engineer standing at the bridge. The elderly bearded guard at the bridge told us not to film or take pictures. Like we already expected. Nazeem spoke more about the bridge and the town while carefully walking on the bridge so that we could get a better view on the river. I could take some photo's of the river and the view, as long as the bridge itself would not show. Like this one.<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/07%20Kalabagh/SL734963.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/07%20Kalabagh/SL734963.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Although he was just on his way out of Kalabagh, Nazeem voluntarily appointed himself our guide and took us into Kalabagh. Small dusty streets, goats walking everywhere. The humble sight of daily life of any small Pakistani town it seems. The houses were different than we saw elsewhere as they all had wooden upper parts. Some houses being hundreds of years old. <br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/07%20Kalabagh/SL734975.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/07%20Kalabagh/SL734975.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Kalabagh and its locals never see tourists, as it is off the beaten track and no mention of it in the lonely planet either, despite the serene and beautiful setting of this mountain village. Some locals eyed us with amazement, some with a flustered look of suspicion, others wanted to stop us and talk but with the pace of Nazeem it was hard to stop, except for me buying another Pasthun shepherd hat. Woolly wear for cultural integration :). As the village was not big, we had quickly gone through it and we met several youths who wanted to take us to a mine. Sure! Everywhere pink and white crystal rocks were lying around in man hacked and dumped hills, colouring the place with a special glow. The teenagers told us it was a site for the mining of salt minerals. Salt. The whole place smelled like a damp sea in fresh mountain air.<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/07%20Kalabagh/SL735015.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/07%20Kalabagh/SL735015.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Down in the mine, hot and humid. And dark. Mobile phones as guiding lights or proper torches, anything with some light out of it would help not to step into muddy waterholes. It wasn't a good idea to walk into the mine with our backpacks on, heavy as they were and we soon were gasping for air, perhaps a bit claustrophobed by the feeling of being a mine so unexpected. We saw mineworkers hacking at rocks, load them into tractor carts. Maarten filming their underground activity while they all posed for him, acting their everyday labour down below. After half an hour of walking about into little caves, seeing white salty stalactites,hearing bats squeek from dark corners and tasting the salty flavour with every breath taken, we stepped back into the open air again. Some fresh air, yay! As the sun was setting already, we quickly needed to get a bus back to Mianwali before there wouldn't be any more buses from Kalabagh's remote location. Like said, it's off the beaten track, even for locals. <br /><br />Most people in Kalabagh where more fair haired than elsewhere, the colour of their skin revealing their Pashtun roots. Like in most villages in this mountain region and the neighbouring state of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North-West_Frontier_Province">North-West Frontier Province</a> (better known as the tribal NWFP area). At this point we were actually just around 70 km's away from the Afghanistan border. The much troubled border, that is.<br />And we were very close to Kohat (25 km's more north) and South Waziristan (70 km's south-west), without knowing what was happening there. <br /><br />On the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kohat_District">Kohat</a> tunnel situation, <a href="http://www.thenews.com.pk/top_story_detail.asp?Id=12539">here's</a> an article from a few days ago, <a href="http://www.thenews.com.pk/updates.asp?id=36220">here</a> a summarized one the outcome, today (though the printed version was way more informative). Basicly, a handfull of local Pakistani tribal militants -or Taliban militants as they have been coined for the sake of the war on terrorism- had stolen 4 trucks filled with ammunition from the military! One must wonder how. That however, the army isn't eager to disclose. The local militants blocked the Kohat tunnel, which is being built through Japanese -financial- help, and threatened to bomb it. A few days of fighting; dozens of militants killed, some soldiers dead and the retrieval of the 4 ammunition trucks. Whether empty or not, who knows. News flash just in, the militants have blown up the Kohat rail road. Surely not the end of fighting in this part of the mountains.<br /><br />You would think that as we were so close to Kohat, we could have felt the danger, but we experienced nothing out of the ordinary. Not in the villages nor on the roads, even at the small checkpoints around Kalabagh and Mianwali there was no tension to be noticed. The only thing was perhaps that army caravan of trucks we saw the night before in Muzaffargarh, heading up north. Perhaps 4 of those trucks got stolen some 24-48 hours later? It's a game of guesses.<br /><br />On SWA (or South Waziristan in non-Pakistani media terms), at the Afghani border. <a href="http://www.thenews.com.pk/top_story_detail.asp?Id=12422">here</a> and <a href="http://www.thenews.com.pk/top_story_detail.asp?Id=12559">here</a> a piece about what has happened or is still happening. And a <a href="http://www.thenews.com.pk/top_story_detail.asp?Id=4702">more in depth</a> article. The CIA now wants to enter Pakistan and resolve it themselves, but Musharraf won't let them in according to <a href="http://www.thenews.com.pk/top_story_detail.asp?Id=12560">this</a> article. Will that be the end of it? Unfortunately it never will. The fighting, the mingling of the US or anything attached to the little wars in this region. Afghanistan apparently isn't big enough to wage war in.<br /><br />We wonder, has above news reached you in the west? We just never know for sure what is known back home as the articles here seems much more informative and go deeper than the short articles in western papers. The papers here are full of it, pages filled with any fight, anywhere in the north and north-western part of the country. The fight against terror, as an ongoing national dialogue without end, without the far-removed feeling that folks elsewhere in the western hemisphere experience.<br /><br />Last week, while Musharraf was in Brussels giving speeches to the west about the (un)controlled situation in Pakistan, an army committee of ex-service men concluded that Musharraf has to resign. Musharraf simply rebutted that each of these ex-service men (who all have served under him) were no good officers and that he kicked them out all by himself. Bold statement to make about your own men, especially if you don't want to bring unrest in the army. The show goes on.<br /><br />And all this talk here is not even about the problems of the upcoming elections! No wonder the ordinary decent Pakistani feels that their government has deserted them and do not trust the help from the US anymore either. Still, life on the streets of any town or city goes on as if normal and to the tourist it doesn't feel much more different either, except for the sight of many armed guards on every corner, government building or roadblock. We still feel warmed and welcomed by the Pakistani's so our views have only been opened by their sincerity.<br /><br />Back to our trip, which seem just a tiny experience compared to the above notions.<br /> <br />In Mianwali we took a mini bus to Rawalpindi (or Pindi as Pakistani's call it). For once, not an old, crowded or bumpy mini bus but a one that had good space and was new. Our driver, who said he was from Peshawar, drove the van in a fine speed and we overtook truck after truck, mini bus after mini bus. It was a pity that it was pitch dark, as we drove on the mountain roads and could not see the views of the valleys below us. We stopped at a police roadblocks where we think our driver had to pay them some share of his profit to them. Or pay our way past them. Either way, each way of looking at it means the same. At other police roadblocks at toll booths of the motorway, we had to open the door so that a police officer holding a big video camera could film each passenger for security and ID reasons. You might guess why with the above situations in the northern regions. <br /><br />Enter <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rawalpindi">Rawalpindi</a>, taking a mini cab to the Sadr Bazaar area where most (cheap) hotels are. The driver not knowing the way in the most visited part of his own city. He was a sweet man, so no grudges to him, but if you're both tired, cold and coming down with a nasty cold and just want to find a hotel at 2am, your patience doesn't see the fun of it. Our room was like a rooftop fridge as it was the only room available, a room that probably was never used even hence its freezing quality, brrrr. The next day we somehow lost each other in the hotel by miscommunication and perhaps a feverish head and did our own things till we met up again. A handy thing that Maarten bought a Pakistani sim card in his phone at the border. In the early evening we took yet another mini bus from Pindi to Taxila. <br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taxila">Taxila</a> was especially on our minds because of the many archeological sights of Buddhist stupa's and monasteries of the Buddhist <a href="http://www.heritage.gov.pk/html_Pages/gandhara.html">Gandhara</a> era. The civilisation sites date back from 500 BC up to 500 AD, until the White Huns came along and ravaged the region, destroying the sites and killing locals and monks alike. Here's a <a href="http://www.livius.org/ta-td/taxila/taxila.htm">nice write-up</a> on Taxila for the history-loving.<br />Locked gate at the youth hostel. After waking up the young maintenance guy, we settled in the deserted and empty hostel. It again was freezing cold, so was the room. We consoled ourselves by watching Capote on a pirated DVD (courtesy of the Lahore pirate shops that offer 5 movies on 1 dvd at no cost). Next morning, time to get some warm chai and eat something, but as most shops were closed due to the tourist off-season and the cold, it took us a while. We rented a motorbike as all the archeological sites were scattered over the Taxila district in a perimeter of 7 kilometers and to see all, self-mobility was the way to go. We first went to the excavagted site of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sirkap">Sirkap</a>, which was a town filled with Jain, Bactrian Greek and Buddhist temples. Already 2000 years ago, several religions in this valley literally co-existed as neighbours and in peace with each other. We walked into the old house fundations, the wide street avenues, on the temple steps and on the old defense wall. <br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735089.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735089.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> Soon enough we attracted the attention of locals who offered us little heads of old statues and coins. All of it coming from the farmer fields next to the site, in their words. The statue heads looked dubious and more like being slashed from temple stone carvings or taken out of protected sites. We bought a few ancient coins though, as those are easy to find in the fields instead of by thievery. The coins were said to from different era's, the Bactrian Greek era, the Pathian or Hindu era. Maybe the ones we bought are fake because the price was quite low (15 euro for 3 Bactrian coins in my case, 2 picturing Alexander the Great), but at the same time a good price for those local men. Perhaps they're not false. Not that we care really, because we more bought them for their beauty and carvings as oppossed to their so-called antique value. Fake souvenirs are fun. I better hope they're fake or not worth much. <br /><br />After that we drove to a hilltop Bactrian Greek temple and then to the Jaulian site, which was a big Buddhist monastery with attached stupa with many carvings. Most of them now safely housed in the Taxila museum. We saw another monastery which name escapes me right now -must check the Taxila map, left it in hotel-, which was situated on a high hilltop. Also a few nice Buddhist carvings here while most of them were in the museum. Finally we went to Dharmajika, the biggest Buddhist site of all around Taxila and it was like a true town with streets and roads. All built around a big centralized <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stupa">stupa</a>, there were many structures and a big monastery and we spend a good time just at the peak of sunset walking around and losing ourselves in the environment. We had seen what we wanted, it was getting dark and we wanted to get back to Pindi as not to spend another night in a fridge as room. Before that, Wwe played a bit of football with local students of our age. On a makeshift football field, jumpers for goalposts (Ron Manager, if you know what I mean ;)), and it was on one of the ancient sites! Archeological ditches lay everywhere and we ran next to these, sometimes a ball being kicked in one of them. Ofcourse, playing footie when having a cold in our bad shape, it wasn't the wisest thing to do, but we enjoyed our miskicks ;)<br /><br />Bus back to Pindi after a lot of roadside waiting. We're getting used to it. Back to a different hotel and room, which was less like a fridge, oh some warmth! To some extent. There we wasted another lazy night of watching a movie. So far in 3 months, we've only watched a few movies on the laptop, we do try to discipline our luxury. ;)<br />We saw Good Night & Good Luck, which must be said, is a great movie. It made us reflect on it with the current thought how the Pakistan press has a lot of freedom of expression here in politics, perhaps even more than the press in the States. <br /><br />Next day Pindi, time spent in internet cafe (previous post eh) and some browsing in secondhand book shops. In the computer shop area there are many good book shops that sell books at dump prices. Escpecially social, futuristic and political books. Maarten can already recommend <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thierry_Meyssan">Thierry Meyssan's</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/9/11:_The_Big_Lie">The Big Lie</a>, which is about the facts of 9/11. It's not about conspiracy theories but it just underlines the hard known facts that seem to have been forgotten by everyone, the media and politicians alike. <br />Factoid from the book that we had forgotten about and now seemed oh so paradoxal and coincidental to us: On the 11th of september, Osama Bin Laden was actually in Pakistan getting treatment and diagnose on his kidney's in a hospital. Where? Rawalpindi. <br /><br />Sometimes Meyssan seems to point into a secret right wing society theory, but you still keep enough space to make up your own mind with the facts, as it should be. What does absolute truth mean if you firstly do not know the main facts? <br /><br />I got <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Future_Shock">Future Shock</a>, by futurist writer <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alvin_Toffler">Alvin Toffler</a>, written in 1970. Not to be confused with Science Fiction literature, it is a futuristic read about a new illness that supposedly would cripple humanity in the next 50 years. We're more than halfway now and ofcourse it has not come true on a grand scale but it already offers interesting viewpoints on the effects of change in general and on society. 450 pages still to go.<br /><br />From Rawalpindi we got a late mini bus (always those mini buses, but they are so much faster than the average coach bus!) to Lahore. <br />We're back now in our same comfortable backpackers heaven. A warm enough room and good solid bed, a little kitchen to cook or boil whatever you want. Almost all of the Polish, French and American travellers have left and we have the 10 bed dorm room all to ourselves now, yay. There are still a few of the old group left, those who are not on a backpacking holiday but who are doing work or research here. <br /><br />More on Lahore hiphop crews in a next post. Yup, we're not joking. Bandana's and gangsta style rap battles in Urdu and over old Pakistani folk. It's happening here and we hope to experience more of it. Hopefully we can also catch the Sufi musician with the help our hotel manager, which we missed the last time....<br />Almost nearing the end of our Punjab project trip...3 more days to go, so to speak. <br /><br />Some pics...most already uploaded dayzzzz ago (see right hand blah blah)<br /><br />Seb with Pashtun local at Kalabagh, One eye missing and clutching a lump of opium in his hand.<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/07%20Kalabagh/SL735042.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/07%20Kalabagh/SL735042.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Taxila bus stop<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735047.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735047.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />election poster, does he like football that much? ;)<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735050.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735050.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />flying a kite<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735071.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735071.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />other view from Sirkap<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735088.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735088.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Taxila views<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735099.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735099.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Jaundial Buddhist site, don't worry, heads are at museum<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735112.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735112.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735116.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735116.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />local Pashtun kids<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735122.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/08%20Taxila/SL735122.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-64602262591688773432008-01-24T14:06:00.000+05:302008-01-29T12:49:05.313+05:30the Mujahideen squatters of SahiwalWe're in Rawalpindi since midnight -yup, the place where Bhutto....-, after a lot of travelling by bus since Sunday, making a near mathematical 270 degree tour around the Punjab state of Pakistan. Just 90 degrees to go to make the full 360 circle back at Lahore. Mathematics on wheels, our backpacks on roofs, floors and in trunks. Calculation style travelling does take a lot out of your energy and we are both still recovering from our accumulated colds. Sniffs and coughs alike in the cold northern mountains of Punjab.<br /><br />On Sunday we took a bus down to Sahiwal, the village neaby the archeological Harappa site. Little did we know that we could have stayed on the same bus towards Multan and gotten off at Harappa to see the museum and excavated grounds in one afternoon. Instead we wasted a day and got out at Sahiwal and took a long walk to find a hotel while crowds of youngsters were following us. All settled and well tired, we rested for a while in the room, zapping the Pakistani channels on the tv. Bizarre ads, movies and news broadcasts flashed by. We catched a voting awareness ad for the Pakistani Youth on the Pakistani music channel and it was very well put together with modern styled phrasing with a clever courtesy of choice message in it. Far better than any western election ad I've ever seen directed at young adults. Also there was a political discussion going on between a interviewer and a former minister that went very deep, with the interviewer asking totally direct and cheeky insinuating questions that would make many politicians of our own countries choke. Apparently this is the way that political interviews in Pakistan are carried out, right in front of the viewer without any of that clean, pre-discussed format which western tv is plagued with. It was about darkening of funds and spionage practises that the minister was accused of and he had to swallow a lot of humble pie through the fair and verocious stance that the interviewer used to unlock him. Never a dull moment in televised political debates and discussions then.<br /><br />During dinner we met the same nice fella -forgot his name- whom I had spoken to earlier outside the hotel and he told us that he was a painter. He invited us for chai in a shop full of old men who gazed at our looks and afterwards we went to his place and he showed us a mural that he had painted, with Urdu symbols on it. A painted billboard on stone, so to speak. He asked us many things about our country and was explaining us things about Islam, since he was a dedicated follower. It soon proved what kind of painter and follower he was, as on the many by him painted banners I saw Urdu texts with rifle guns painted next to it. "Do you know what a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mujahedeen">Mujaheddin</a> is?" he openly asked us while awaiting our response with keen interest. "We kinda do", we answered, not really knowing what he wanted to hear. "I am a Muhajideen" he said and explained that his cause was the Kashmir cause and that he had been on the front at the Pakistan - Indian border, though it was unclear whether he joined in combat or not. "When Muslim brothers are in trouble, then I should help them", with these words he refered to the state of Kashmir being a Muslim state according to his beliefs. <br />The whole thing with the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kashmir">Kashmir</a> struggle is that most people living there are indeed Muslims and the partition should have secured Pakistan with all the Muslim states but not Kashmir. Since then fights have been on and off, either between the armies of Pakistan, India, China and Russia. Not to forget the self-employing army of Mujahideen who still fight there as rebels posted in the mountains.<br />Back to our man. He lived in quite a big room though it looked a bit in shambles so we asked him how much he paid for rent. "No rent, for free". So our man turned out to be a squatter Mujaheddin, living with a few other friends in the bare building. Them having a more direct political aim within their country than the establishment fighting squatters in the west might lend themselves too. <br /><br />Next morning we took a mini bus to the Harappa site. Late morning traffic, donkey and ox carts filled the roads and we passed many chai shops, some showing nothing but static on their tv's. From the mini buses you really get to see the most of Pakistani life as you bump ride through little villages and the smaller roads than unveil households and affairs of locals. <br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harappa">Harappa</a> is one of the oldest civilization sites of the Indus Valley stretch that goes back over 3000 years BC and therefore matching the prime times of the Mesopotamia, Nile and Chinese civilizations. The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohenjo-Daro">Moenjodaro</a> site is actually older and bigger, but as that was still a hefty 500 km's more west, we could not make it there timewise. <br />The site has a small museum which has many old artefacts of pottery, tools and jewelry. Also a lot of nice small statues of men and women that were very much sensual and erotic in a way that made us wonder how the Pakistani tourists take this in. The site of Harappa is perhaps not as overwhelming as any other famous site would be, but we very much enjoyed walking around on the old grouds and seeing the stone structures and forms of the ancient town. We encountered local kids sliding off a limestone hill with the use of plastic bottles or sheets. Ofcourse we also had to try it, so we did too ;) It made the kids laugh and they started doing more sliding tricks in front of Maarten camera. Most of the kids were poor and lived in a nearby tent camp and Maarten went with them to see their homes while I sat down with a shepherd and his two kids who were collecting firewood. The shepherd inspected every content of my bag and asked which I could give, which was none of it. After his inspection, my pocketknife was missing but I'm sure that he will make much better use of it than I did (which was hardly any use). Thievery can be fair.<br /><br />We wanted to take a bus to Bahawalpur, but instead we got a lift in a police jeep from some kind highway patrol officers. We had to put our bags in the back and pushed their Chinese made machineguns aside. Kinda bizarre, moving guns away by hand to make space for your own stuff as if it's normal. Seeing arms everywhere in Pakistan is not a strange thing and you do get used to it. All the officers chatted to us in quite good English and they fed us with pakora and sweet stuff. Pakistani hospitality even reaches into the authorities. They took us to their newly built station, about which I joked to them that it got built with American terrorism money given to Musharraf, which they didn't like too much. It was a joke after all, with an underlying ironic truth or not. Who really knows, neither me nor they. There was a volleybal court in front of the station and we played with the officers, smashing balls to the other side and acting like a bunch of sportive folks in highway patrol uniforms. Volleybal is a much loved and respected sport in the Pakistani army and police, perhaps for teambuilding? We drank chai in their garden, ate all their cookies. Only having to pay back the hospitality by writing in their register book in which many positive message were written by foreigners and nationals. Also they had gotten any kind of help from them and repaid it with a kind scribble. So I scribbled a text filled with lush poetry and high praise. Just as I expected they would like. We joked about them writing a note to our mothers about our good behaviour but they took it serious and wrote a big page full of equally praising words in our book. Wow. After that they even dropped us off at the next town, Chichawali, from where our bus to Bahawalpur via Multan would leave. Not before the patrol officers also paid for 2 sandwiches and perhaps our bus tickets too. Can't even remember anymore other than them being utterly generous and helpfull to us.<br /><br />On the grim and dark outskirts of Multan, we had a quick curry dinner at a chilly truckstop cafe (or *tuckstop* as the Pakistani's like to miscall it), filled with scrawny stray cats looking for chicken bones to gnaw on. Time to get to Bahawalpur.<br />We got there late but luckily found a decent hotel soon enough. Out into the dark street, everything was closed except for many street vendors selling food and a few shops. In one sweet shop, just like in India where you can find any kind of moisty and sugary pastries, we again got some free stuff to eat while the owner and locals talked and joked with us. Being a foreigner in a non tourist place is always more fun than on the beaten track. <br />Bahawalpur lies on the edge of the Choli desert that borders with the Indian Thar desert where we had been over a month ago. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cholistan">Cholistan</a> is the original name of this Pakistani desert region and is one that shares a lot with Rajasthan's nomadic culture. In this region and actually in the whole southern half of Pakistani Punjab up to the middle, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saraiki_people">people</a> in this part have a distinct language, called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saraiki_language">Saraiki</a>, which is a Sindh language. Music shops are filled with a variety of Saraiki folk cassettes. Kinda like how in western India you can find Rajasthani folk cassettes everywhere. <br /><br />We didn't stay long in Bahawalpur and the next morning we took a mini bus to the small town of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uch">Uch Sharif</a>. The town is famous for its old mosques and shrines. Also legend has it that Alexander the Great spent a day there though that can be nothing but mythical talk. At least it is sure that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muhammad_bin_Qasim">Muhammad Bin Qasim</a> took the city in 710 AD and turned it into an Islamic centre for pilgrims and students in Asia. His conquest could be seem as the beginning of Islam in this region and most of Pakistan, which has remained so in the country to present day.<br />Uch, dusty and filled with goats and caged chickens. Men with longer and thicker beards and females dressed more in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burqa">burqa's</a> than on other cities. The natural adaptation for a holy town. We walked through the narrow streets, stepping aside for many donkey and man pulled street carts. Soon a little schoolboy offered to take us around. Not that we asked or needed it, but he didn't stress us like most so we let him be and he took us on a nice route through the maze of the bazaar. At a little shop of a retired army officer we sat down by his request and had some chai. He was from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chitral">Chitral</a> (the rural mountain area where the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalash">Kalasha tribes</a> still live) and sold plastic toys in his shop. Like imitation Miffy stuff and so on. Imitation is the standard for any brand of anything. After leaving our bags there, the boy took us to the old site where was saw the mosque, shrines, tombs and graveyards. All in aquarian blue and indigo, the mozaique art was amazing and still intact. The mosque and tombs were quite damaged, halfed, by the hand of ancient floodings and earthquakes but still were beautiful in their crumbled state.<br /><br />The afternoon was coming to an end and we quickly wanted to get to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panjnad_River">Panjnad Head</a> before sunset, where the 5 big rivers of Punjab merg together into one river. We didn't see the Indus as that river only gets merged more south of the state at Mithankot. We got off at the beginning of the bridge, a long one of nearly one km. It's not allowed in Pakistan to take any pictures when standing on bridges, whether you just want to photograph the water or something else other than the bridge itself. Just a defensive and security rule as ordered by Pakistani law. But we did, photographing and filming, a few 100 metres down on the bridge on a dam ridge. The guards didn't seem to mind either. Many farm trucks and tractors were passing by on the bridge, with sugarcane reeds stacked 5 metres high while kids were running after them. Pulling sugarcanes loose by the plenty, the slow pace of the wagons allowing them to take their beloved sweet sticks. Kids walked with bundles of them, chewing the juice out of the raw cane flesh. Soon enough I got my own sugarcane too, pulling the strong bamboo strips off with my teeth. Mhhhh, sugarcane juice. Back at the beginning of the bridge we visited the many fish-only shops. Fresh river fish from the Punjab rivers. Mostly trouts and other fishes that we hadn't seen before. In my pescatarian hunger, as I do like to eat fish now and then, I ordered some trout. The way they make it here is slicing them up in flat slices, but batter and massala herbs on them and throw them in the frying pan. A more exotic way of how it's made in the UK. And way more tasty too. We even got the fish for free as a gift, another sweet gesture of hospitality that we encounter here day by day. At least we gave the owner and his kids some chocolate cookies in return for it.<br /><br />As it was dark by then but still early in the evening, we opted to take a ride to Muzzafargarh instead of big size Multan, as Muzzafargarh was further on the route that we wanted to take the next day. We got pushed and helped into yet another bus, bouncy ride again though we slumbered into small naps. Quite a day full, travelling in bumpy buses, walking with backpacks and taking in new experiences with all our senses. Muzzafargarh was not even in the lonely planet guide, which is why we liked to spend a night there and experience the unwritten. The city seemed more like a transportation hub for long haul trucks going up north, or going down south. Endless caravans of brightly red and wooden colored Pakistan trucks, painted allover with symbols, animals and whatnot decorative signs. Also a long convoy of army trucks went by, filled with soldiers and equipment. We weren't sure whether they were going up north to the Afghani (Khyber) border (as local tribesmen were blocking roads on the Khyber route in rage of fluctuating food prices, a result of the upcoming elections and unstable government now). Or to Kashmir. or perhaps came from either destination. In Muzzafargarh, all we wanted was a good enough sleep as we would wake early at 6am to cath a bus up north. The trucks drove all night on the main road, where our hotel was. The flimsy door and thin windows allowing us all the road rumble. ;)<br /><br />Next part of the northern trip into rural places in a few days, when we're back in Lahore. We're leaving (Rawalpindi today, hope there's enough buses to Lahore.<br /><br />Oh yeah, <a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/index.php?p=albumarchive">new pics</a> uploaded! You can already sneak peek our further trip to Mianwali, Kalabagh, the Indus river and Taxila. (click on above link ey!)<br /><br />here some:<br />Bhutto billboard at Sahiwal<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/03%20Reis%20naar%20Sahiwal%20%26%20Harappa/SL734613.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/03%20Reis%20naar%20Sahiwal%20%26%20Harappa/SL734613.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Harappa site<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/03%20Reis%20naar%20Sahiwal%20%26%20Harappa/SL734628.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/03%20Reis%20naar%20Sahiwal%20%26%20Harappa/SL734628.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Kids sliding off the limestone hill<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/03%20Reis%20naar%20Sahiwal%20%26%20Harappa/SL734646.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/03%20Reis%20naar%20Sahiwal%20%26%20Harappa/SL734646.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />the friendly highway patrol post<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/03%20Reis%20naar%20Sahiwal%20%26%20Harappa/SL734683.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/03%20Reis%20naar%20Sahiwal%20%26%20Harappa/SL734683.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />albino local in snack shop, Bahawalpur<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/04%20Bahawalpur/SL734725.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/04%20Bahawalpur/SL734725.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Uch Sharif<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734740.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734740.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734750.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734750.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734827.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734827.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734857.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734857.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734870.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734870.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />tailor shop with election posters<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734898.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734898.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />tame bird (woodpecker we think), I held it too<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734902.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/05%20Uch%20Sharif/SL734902.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Panjnad head, river at sunset<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/06%20Panjnad%20Head/SL734928.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/06%20Panjnad%20Head/SL734928.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />side canal<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/06%20Panjnad%20Head/SL734932.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/06%20Panjnad%20Head/SL734932.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-38892138501521066312008-01-19T23:30:00.000+05:302008-01-20T00:39:27.124+05:30This time, all knives outInternet.<br />Indeed we haven't left for the Sufi festival at Pak Patan.<br />Actually because some of the foreigners who went there returned back from it, giving reports of it being a mud pit (due to the bad weather) and not a festival as such. They also told that the music was mostly Qawwali and nearly no Sufi dancing, while most of the music was limited to the community only and not to any visitor nor foreigner. <br /><br />Today was the day we belated had planned to go, just to catch one day and see what would happen trying to get into places. Mr. Malik, the part-time hotel owner (and a documentary maker at the same time) told us this morning that the music had ended at Pak Patan. So much for our effort. ah well, 1 extra night then. It being 2 holy days (today and tomorrow) for the end of Muharram.<br /><br />Mr Malik had arranged a trip to a village 35 km's away with some old history for everyone who wanted to come along, so we hopped along with this instead. Out of the bus into the village, we attracted the usual attention of the locals. We had expected to walk around in the town and see some nature or farm fields, but it soon became clear that there was a procession about to happen, again for the end of Muharram. Which could only mean one thing: all knives and sickles out by the chain. At the place of procession, we were led through all the security lines. Men armed with any type of rifle or shotgun were posted along every alley and searching people. (more about this precaution later). They didn't really search us, through the guidance of Mr Malik and his cousin, who are figures of high regard within the local community. All of us could wander around, shooting photographs and looking at the evocative storytelling by a young imam. He was telling the story of Muharram Hussain, how he was slaughtered in Iraq 500 years ago that inspired the celebration of Muharram and its chastising practicion.<br /><br />Before it all would start, we all were called back by Mr Malik and his companions who took us into a nearby building where we got a delicious meal of peppered rice, roti and chickpea's. There we got talking about Pakistani politics, especially because one of our pack was a French journalist who writes for <a href="http://www.lepoint.fr/">Le Point</a> up to the elections and residing in our hotel. It was said that the village we were in, was a Shi'ite community. In Pakistan, Sunni's and Shi'ites live together, though in a ration of 80% Sunni and 12% Shi'ite. I asked Mr Malik about predictions for the upcoming elections. Bhutto's party already had 35% of the votes in the first election, since her death the polls indicate a 45% share. Definitely a landslide win in a multiple party election.<br /><br />During dinner, Mr Malik's younger cousin showed us the scars on his back from his previous 6 chastising Muharrams. And he again would do it in 30 minutes or so. After the food we went out to the procession place again. The young imam was still preaching, more evocative and shouting than before and many men and women were weeping. Suddenly the crowd split from the middle and in came men running in black kurta. The ceremonial kurta. And with them the sickle knives on chains. They started chastising themselves right away and we all grabbed out camera's or in my case, my mobile recorder, to register all this self inflicted bloodshed. The sound of rustling chains and sickles cutting into their flesh was direct in your face. Looking at this scene, it looked like a bewildered feast of punishment. As the cuts on their back became bigger, the gaze of the men became more hazy, as if in trance. Which they were. There are nearly no words to describe this scene as you are witnessing it. <br />One of our 2 Polish photographer friends even got some blood spats on him. <br />It went on with singing from the Imam and by the chastisers themselves. Impressive sound. Chest beatings, sickles, chains and strong vocals. Photo's to come very soon whenever we can, by courtesy of our Polish friends Majik and Andre.<br /><br />On the Peshawar explosion.<br />Another bomb blast last thursday. Did that even make the news back in the West? <br />*Only 12 people dead*, someone in our hotel said on a slightly ironic note. Every Thursday there seems to be a bomb attack somewhere in a big city. <br />When I heard about it, I was eating my aloo palak (potato spinach curry) in a cornershop canteen where the TV was showing images of an explosion. Rubble, people lying around, crying people walking throughout the scene. The Pakistani locals were sitting around, eating their dish or sipping their chai without a hint of desparation. Rather a glare of silent acceptance and confident concentration. It's no a special-of-the-day here for them anymore, so why frown? It actually happened during the Muharram procession. Explosions during holy ceremonies apparently are part of the extremist game. Or perhaps an internal attack. Sunni's versus Sji'ites?<br />Next morning the Lahore newspaper said that Lahore police would increase their roadblocks and forces on the street. That was noticed straight away and there still is a lot of police on the street. Besides that, all is quiet and peaceful here.<br />Lahore already had his blast 2 weeks ago. Safe, you reckon? <br /><br />On Bhutto.<br />So the CIA says that Al Qaeda/Taliban is behind it. Such smart folks, oh.<br />That the extremists have it difficult under the Musharraf rule is a given fact, but what if Bhutto would have ruled? Would Bhutto have gotten all the backing of the army and especially all the generals during her reign with Musharraf bitter of losing control? That leaves a lot of food for thought and reckoning that extremists might cut into themselves. The word on the Lahore street is that either Musharraf is behind it and some even dare say that Bhutto's husband was in the conspiracy, to get control of the party. Absurd? well.... Or what about the other opponent parties? So many factors to calculate into this. Perhaps all of the above have had a part in it. Who knows. Conspiracy theories are what they are for no reason. Forever blurred by opinions that divide people.<br /><br />That's it for now. Tomorrow we do leave Lahore to the south. We'd like to stop at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harappa">Harappa</a>, an ancient Indus valley civilization site dating 3000 BC. And also Multan and Uch Sharif are on our itinerary. <br /><br />Soon pics of Muharram today. They speak their image out loud.SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-41369730705387194162008-01-17T13:54:00.000+05:302008-01-17T19:24:58.060+05:30Nothing chest-beats LahoreHello all,<br /><br />Salaam aleikum from rainy <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lahore">Lahore</a>, Pakistan!<br /><br />The free internet in the big library of Lahore, such nice bonus! Allah believes in speedy internet. It's a huge place with beautiful murals, crystal chandeliers, gold-rimmed staircases, huge illuminated world globes, thick white pillars and old wooden library furniture. Filled with old books, it breathes literature in here.<br />Women section on the right, left section for the males. Here in the internet room, it is mixed gender, but the first row is for females.<br /><br />open gate to Pakistan.....<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/crossing%20border/SL734322.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/crossing%20border/SL734322.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> We swooped through the border on the sunny morning of Thursday without any rash security checks and only had to fill in various forms on the Indian as well as the Pakistani side. Walking straight through both big gates, a special way of crossing on foot with us making silly poses at the white line that divides the countries. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/crossing%20border/SL734324.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/crossing%20border/SL734324.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />At the little bookshop of Mr Latif 100 meters from the border (as lonely planet will tell you too) we got a first hear from him on the perception how Pakistanis endure the western media bias against Muslims; "One explosion in Lahore or anywhere in Pakistan and everyone in the world knows about it. 3 simultaneous bomb blasts in Uttar Pradesh, India (over 1 month ago) and nobody in the west gets to hears that!"<br />That's what you get in your daily read; Hindu extremists in India are by far not as news worthy as any so called Muslim strike is.<br /><br />In the local bus to Lahore, we flashed past little towns where people had put many pool tables outside, playing in full sun on the roadside. The whole road was decorated with *a lot* (understatement) of political posters, either old Bhutto party poster or the new one, which features her husband and son on it. <br />Everwhere. On walls, buses, carts, riksha's, shops and wherenot. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/crossing%20border/SL734344.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/crossing%20border/SL734344.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> Plus also those posters of opponents that we haven't deciphered by name yet.<br />The bus was separated in 2 compartments where the front was closed by bars and an iron door. Maarten joked about it resembling a prison bus, which wasn't too far off. The *containing* compartment in the front was for women and the back naturally for men. Women sit upfront, guarded by the door from evil men and have to endure a less bumpy ride than the men. Not a bad deal. Younger women were peeking through the thin bars and looking at us, obviously not used to seeing white foreigners driving the local bus into town. Also staring teenagers, like those who were trying to sell us sweet and salty snacks. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/crossing%20border/SL734339.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/crossing%20border/SL734339.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Lahore is a smoggy city though, as you can see here. Kuch kuch kuch. I'm not too bothered by it, but Maarten feels his throat polluted.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/crossing%20border/SL734372.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/crossing%20border/SL734372.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />After some hustling with out bags and walking too long into a wrong direction we finally found our hotel. As indicated and through word spread, the hotel is the best one in Lahore for the backpacker's needs, because of the owner, a former journalist, offers good guidance to Qawwali and Sufi music nights and much more cultural information in the rest of the country. Straight away we met a lot of like minded people who are also doing special projects by themselves by being journalists, photographers and documentary makers. Or even just traveling around. Not your average tourist hotel as in other places in India and it's great being in such a place where people talk about their interests and idea's.<br /><br />Like the <a href="http://www.correspondances-generation.fr/">Correspondances Generation</a> project of Alexandre and Benoit from southern France, who traveled all the way from Europe overland to here (like many people do you may have noticed). have been doing many items on several regions that they covered. Their website is well built and contains hordes of interesting clips, interviews and other local items. All in French though but no reason to not have a peek. <br /><br />The sound of Lahore from our hotel rooftop, 17.30h; muezzins call for the Muslim prayer, amplified from many directions, while many big brown eagles soar the sky shrieking their bird call, some relaxing of them relaxing on the broadcasting tower next to us. <br />I've tried to record it but to no avail..either through low battery power or not being in the hotel at this special time of time. That's why this written soundplay instead of audible proof. <br /><br />Lahore itself is a bizarre city as it is much more western and cleaner than any Indian city that we have been too. Much more shops where there are even supermarkets that sell dutch food items! (blue band butter, remia sauce..what the hell? who needs nasty remia sauce in this good part of the food world). The people here are really gentle and come to you in a composed manner. Unlike India, where the locals just like to swamp and tire you with their endless means of overly direct contact. So it is a fresh breeze to be among the Pakistani's, who take their approach more kindly and don't feel the need to control or force you into their communication. Also their humor is a bit more open in ways of understanding irony. Yesterday even some old muslim guys came up to us, saying "Musharraf, he must be killed and Bush too" in a sort of funny boyish manner and asking us if we wanted to help them, hah. <br /><br />The food is slightly different from India, though many of the same dishes still exist here. Just that there is meat. A lot of meat; beef, mutton (goat) lamb, chicken and fish. Loads of shawarma's and tandoori kebab barbecue street cookers and whatnot. Tough for us, as the meat does smell nice. Mhhh, but I am looking forward to eating some spiced fish sooner or later. Also on the street there are loads of dried fig and date vendors. And they taste so good! Not like that pre-packed shit we get back home in the Islamic shops. Yum yum.<br /><br />The good thing also is, that the people here in fact talk Hindi. They call it Urdu though, as the difference between both *languages* is just the script. Hindi links to Sanskrit whereas Urdu links to Arabic signs. But by speech, it is more or less the same, bar the small accent here or there. <br /><br />The atmosphere here is really not grim as the western media likes to portray. The only people who seem a bit more on their nerves are the police men, which is understandable, especially at the police quarters where we have walked past. But even they greet us with a smile most of the time, while they casually sway their Kalashnikov's or AK47's over their shoulders. Riots, danger, protests? None of that. Just a city where people move around, work or do anything. <br /><br />Like this morning, from our dorm room, we could hear a sort of protest outside but no one knew what was happening. Once outside, we didn't see or hear anything. Even if things happen, you're most likely not to know about it unless you're right at the action. Some people of the hotel are already here for longer than a week and during the bomb blast some of them were quite near to the explosion so they heard and saw it. Others didn't and only learned about it much later. One corner in a big city doesn't mean a whole city. <br /><br />Last night we went to the old city, to see the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muharram">Muharram</a> ceremony. It's an Islamic ceremony that lasts around a whole week, where every night mostly men (and some women) chastise themselves by beating themselves every night with their bare hands on their bare chests (not the women though) in the name of a sacred Muslim saint and Allah. Many people yesterday were congregating and we stayed to see the beginning of the ceremony. Maarten had already been the night before with a Polish photographer and he filmed parts of the endless ceremony. This time it began a bit earlier and 2 groups of men stood bare chested next to each other, taking turns of singing and doing the ceremonial beating. The beating on themselves caused major deep purple bruises and many already had pressing wounds. it was impressive to see, especially more so as we felt the intense atmosphere. We were 4 of us, Brian from Glasgow and Jim from Austin, Texas had joined us and we were the only whites and non-muslims who were viewing this scene. We took a bit of distance, not to interfere with the local spectators and the families of the chest beaters. Several times we kindly got told to move more on the side for the obvious reason that our presence should be a bit reserved. On Saturday, the last bloody night, they will bring out the knives and sickles and will chastise themselves on the back and shoulders. Already we saw many men with major scar cuts and in some backstreet merchants were readying the knives and sickles, sharpening them with sparks on a turning stone.<br /><br />We won't be here anymore for that, as tomorrow we will go south to the town of Pak Patan where at the moment the biggest <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sufi">Sufi</a> festival of Pakistan is taking place where the most famous Derwa's will perform with vocals and spinning dances that turns them into a trance. This festival is just the best opportunity for recording and while we didn't know about it before and heard it from people in our hostel, we're lucky to have this chance.<br /><br />This afternoon, there is live Qawwali singing at a certain shrine, which we quickly need to go to so I'll wrap up this post. Tonight there's a Sufi night at another underground shrine where our hostel owner will take us to. Busy day and days ahead.<br /><br />Well, plans suddenly change. Our Polish photographer friend just walked in and told us that the Qawwali singing is cancelled, as well as the Sufi night. Because of Muharram. There goes our opportunity, but also our rush. Catching up with emails isn't a chore, especially since our internet mobility in the next week or so will be very limited.<br /><br />We got contacted on Couchsurfing by several people from Lahore so we hope to meet them tonight since our plans are all open now. One of them, a female, wrote in her email that she is a DJ. We wonder in what way, jump into an unexpected musical adventure?<br /><br />After I wrote this, the power in all the library was shut off. Such power cuts happen a lot, daily and nightly, a few times per 24 hours. Amjad, another gentle Pakistani introduced himself. In his mid twenties and keen on learning why we are here and how we experience Pakistan. The benefit of a power cut is that you can talk quite a while and I answered his questions on European culture, confirming right or untangle wrong and truths. Especially questions on sexuality were interesting, to know what is punishable in the west, which are taboo and what are the freedoms compared to here. A very nice open minded person who surely is not stuck in the conservative thinking that many westerners perhaps may think of Pakistanis. I'm sure he won't be the last person here in Pakistan to prove that either.<br /><br />oh yeah, new photo's uploaded <a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/index.php?p=albumarchive">here</a> of Amritsar temple, embassy and border spheres.<br /><br />here some selected:<br />Sikh style<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733757.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733757.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />cookies!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733813.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733813.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />golden temple parade<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733831.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733831.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733862.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733862.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733875.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733875.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733948.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733948.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733979.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733979.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />golden temple<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL734024.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL734024.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />communally cutting garlic for the gurudwara food<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL734044.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL734044.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Sikh guard at our holy hotel<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL734023.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL734023.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733945.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL733945.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL734052.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Amritsar%20Temple/SL734052.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />our typist outside at the Pak embassy<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Pak%20Ambassade/SL734280.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Pak%20Ambassade/SL734280.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />same-high-school-going-as-me traveller Theus on bike<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Theus%20op%20de%20Motor/SL734308.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Theus%20op%20de%20Motor/SL734308.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />his cheer scribbled bike<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Theus%20op%20de%20Motor/SL734305.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Theus%20op%20de%20Motor/SL734305.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-44407980624803311252008-01-14T14:56:00.000+05:302008-01-14T17:16:16.752+05:30Entry ticket PakistanScore. We got the visa this morning!<br />Signed and glued into the passport.<br /><br />While we were waiting we met several European tourists who were handing in their application. Vidian and Armelle, a young French couple from Bretagne, were also told that they needed the letter of recommendation. Unfortunely for them, the French embassy were acting anal about it and did not want to give them the letter. That while they DID get a likewise letter for entering Iran earlier in the morning. Their second attempt at the embassy an hour later proved useless. And all while any other European embassy makes no problem of providing such letter for Pakistan -even if it has to be a bogus letter like the Belgian one for me-. <br />Except French embassies ofcourse, who are the sovereign leader in making their citizen's travelling life difficult worldwide. Sponsored by your own national, how quaint. That's not solely a judgement on the go, but based on the bad experiences that my ex girlfriend has endured with them in various countries. They proved themselves selfrighteous once more, as long as their diplomats, or say, prime minister can safely tour the Middle East whith his popstar girlfriend. Just an example ey.<br /><br />Vidian and Armelle did manage to hand in their apllication with the strict Pakistani officer excepting them and collecting the fees for the visa. We won't say how, that's a secret beyond any help the French embassy would care to give. <br />Let's hope it does work and they can get their Pakistani entry.<br /> <br />You can check their excellent blog <a href="http://www.instinctnomade.canalblog.com/" target=_blank>here</a> -in french- (or see the right hand side link section) and follow their overland trip from Europe all the way through Russia, Mongolia and down to here before they will return back to Europe through the Pakistan and Iran stretch. <br /><br />The other European applicant was Theus, from Holland! Also holding the letter Maarten had, he even had to sign a certain waiver agreement for security matters, which Maarten strangely did not have to sign. The world again seemed a tiny place when Theus said he was from Utrecht too. How coincidental! <br />And to even add more bizarre serendipity to this, he went to the very same high school as me in the provincial town of Woerden, around the same years! Say what? We were soon laughing about knowing the same teachers and who's had who. Maarten looked to us with surprised disbelief. How lives sometimes spiral into each other at unforseen moments like on the curb of the Pakistan embassy of all places, it still amazes us.....though the feeling is getting slightly familiar over here.<br /><br />Theus has been travelling on motorbike all the way from Europe and came through the Iran-Pakistan route, which he will partly retrace now. Not going home just yet, he said and will turn down at the Middle East to drive through Northern Africa and entering Europe by boat. Sounds like a great trip, passing so many continents!<br /><br />We wish the best to all you travellers, getting lost somewhere, gathering new experiences elsewhere. We're off to take our evening sleeper train to Amritsar and setting foot in Pakistan tomorrow morning. Lahore for the next few days, which will be a blast ;) Nah, we're really looking forward to the gentle Pakistani hospitality and culture that everyone is praising.<br /><br />Delhi the past few days has been about relaxing and me recovering from my belly bacteria games. We met Andy again over the weekend, who is in town for few days doing some business in scrapyards, looking for parts to patch up motorbikes. On saturday we went for a midnight ride in his customised Ambassador car -the one with the bed and PC inside-. Rather Maarten went for a drive, as Andy was way past his alcohol limit and off we took to India Gate, the sort of Arc the Triomphe of Delhi. Not that Andy has a driving license, Maarten neither, it was a boyish adventure of 3 kids and a dog driving around in the posh and diplomat area in a suspicious and attention tagged vehicle. At every street corner jeeps of the Delhi police were waiting with the siren lights on. Andy already made it clear that police likes stopping him, for they always want to seek a reason to nail a foreigner. For financial matters, obviously.<br />We didn't get stopped, even when nearly trying our luck to ask police officers for directions for we had lost our sense of it in this maze of wide avenues, when an autoriksha pulled up beside us and put us back on track again.<br />Luck with avoiding the police, well....If you try, you buy, I reckoned.<br /><br />oh yeah, new photo's should be added, see the right hand link blah blah, you know the score by now.SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-50457717387077719072008-01-12T20:40:00.000+05:302008-01-13T14:49:34.275+05:30Phone-in from Delhi, sunday afternoon!Hi folks,<br /><br />Tomorrow afternoon -your time- we'll have a live phone-in at the <a href="http://www.myspace.com/tracksonlifefm" target=_blank>Tracks</a> world music show of Dee and Rory on Life FM! It's on between 1pm and 2pm GMT time -so that's between 2pm and 3pm for continental Europe, 18.30-19.30 India time etc.-<br /><br />You can tune in live at <a href="http://www.lifefm.org.uk/" target=_blank>Life FM</a> (ofcourse live is better ey! ;)) or listen to the <a href="http://tracksonlifefm.podomatic.com/" target=_blank>podomatic</a> session later if ye can't catch it.<br /><br />For now, we're back in Delhi for a few days waiting on our Pakistani visum that -hopefully- is given on monday. After spending 2 days in Ludhiana, we needed to be here yesterday just before the weekend in order to apply for our visum. That we might get it on monday will be quite smooth as well, as it normally takes a few working days -not counting weekends-.<br /><br />Ludhiana was a quick swoop. Arriving somewhere in the afternoon on a bumpy bus from Amritsar, it wasn't much fun for me as I had gotten some stomach bug -which is still bugging me now-. To carry your heavy luggage and trying to get a riksha that knows the place where you want to get to, while you feel nauseous and trembling, is not the best way to step into an auditorium to see a cultural presentation. As in previous post, we had met Seema in Jalandhar and she invited us to come to Ludhiana for this presentation which was to raise awareness on AIDS among teenage schoolkids. We met her at the auditorium and she made sure that we could leave our bags and get somethings to eat and drink. It was quite well organised and the presentation itself was a mix of various art forms. There was even a kid rock group playing 80's, 90's and modern rock songs. *We will rock you* was the song they started with and we wondered whether it was chosen because of Freddy Mercury or not. We didn't ask either way. After them there was a fahion show of kids who had designed AIDS symbol clothing, paraded by proper models of some fashion college. The bit we liked most was the theater show of younger kids who portrayed a story of a AIDS infected baby girl that was left on the floor outside a hospital. The kids acted with a lot of energy and sung songs together as if in some musical (don't think of the South Park joke now). There was ballet which was nice enough to end it with and the 1,5 hour presentation was over. Seema helped us a great deal (which we thank her heartily for) and took us to a downtown hotel where her cousin worked, so finally I could lay down and slumber away the head and bellyache. The hotelroom looked 'like being in a Lynch movie', as Maarten said. It certainly felt like being in Lost Highway, the bacteria in my belly jostling the effects.<br /><br />In some way Ludhiana felt like one of the grim cartoon cities, like Sin or Gotham city. We don't know why, perhaps the many overhead roads, narrow and moist back alleys and the sulky greyness of it all. Without intention to speak bad of the locals as they were as friendly as we have experienced allover Punjab. <br /><br />The next afternoon we went to a Punjabi cultural event next to the same auditorium of the day before. As it would soon be <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lohri" target=_blank>Lohri</a>, a holy Punjabi festival for the farmers -and Punjab IS the farmer's state of India-, this event was organised, even if Lohri really would only begin on the 13th of January. We were told that all the bigger Punjabi pop and folk stars would perform and that for free to all the people of Ludhiana. As soon as we entered the amfitheater that it was held in, all eyes turned to us. We once again being the only foreigners -or at least, whites-, people cheered to us and no sooner than that Maarten was filming big groups of young men dancing before his camera. I tried to record sounds, but as folks kept on talking to me or into the mic it was useless. Someone of the organisation (that we met the day before) with next to him an armed guard with an AK47, intervened into the chaos of guys swarming around me so I could get upfront. It was not so much the men that bothered and angered me, but rather that most were annoyingly drunken...and drunken Indians are impossible to handle in a logical way, like we experienced before -and will do again-.<br /><br />All that done in the space of a few hours, we left in the early evening so we could get tickets for the night train to Delhi. No sleeper places left, which ment we would have to sit most of night in a crowded wagon. No fun. At the station an attendant told us that we could get a sleeper place, hinting that we would have to pay him a bit for that. And the guys of the train. Bribing, corruption, such bog words. It was rather that they gave us a service that could secure a bed bunk for us. It was ours to take or leave it. So we paid and got a sleeper wagon to lay in. Which was quite empty by the way -while such sleeper places *supposedly* were sold out-. So it was.<br /> <br />At the Pakistani embassy we had to wait. and wait. and wait. That while the stomach bug still bugged me with cramps, again no fun. The morning was wasted between the Pakistani, Dutch and Belgian embassy. We don't like embassies, but after the initial cold rejection at the Pakistani embassy we got smoothly helped by our own embassies whose consulair employees were even open to social chitchat with us, give drinks and let us use the internet. Unlike any official place would do at home, let alone we expected such courtesy from our embassies. We both had to get a certain useless approval letter that in the whole world, only the Pakistani embassy asks for. Well, there is a use for the useless. Just as an addition to your visum request. That's all. The Dutch embassy wrote an official letter than approved Maarten as exisiting citizen. The Belgian embassy wrote a fun letter that stated it doesn't supply such letters on the act of such and such rule. Signed by the ambassador though. But that's indeed what the Pakistani consul wanted; the official proof of signature and print paper. We still have copies of those letters so will take a pic of them and put them here soon enough haha ;)<br /><br />Ok, waiting our time away in Delhi again and we must admit that after 2,5 months swerving through dusty and muddy cities and remote places, Delhi feels mighty western and -gulp- clean again. The continuous smog also seems to have cleared as it isn't so hot anymore as it was 2,5 months ago -when we hated it here-. Again we are in the world of the western tourist where every Indian shopkeeper is merching western items to please those homesick, or those not wanting to adapt to Indian items. Either way, we're way more at ease here this time, whether bellysick, tired or not.<br /><br />Soon Pakistan we hope, if the monday morning promise is a true outcome. If that goes well, we should be in Pakistan by tuesday morning. In Lahore that is, the first biggest gateway city into Pakistan. Some of you might think Lahore not being a safe place since the bomb blast a few days ago but we have been assured that tourists are not a target in Pakistan, rather any authority should be very cautious. It's more dangerous to be a local official clerk, police officer or politician in pre-election Pakistan right now than it is to be a simple wandering tourist. Even our embassies couldn't deny that when we questioned them. <br /><br />Perhaps next post from here or over the border, who knows. <br />Hope you tune in tomorrow to hear us both talk and blabber about our dwellings here.SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-6569373806314229232008-01-08T16:47:00.000+05:302008-01-08T17:15:14.314+05:30Little filler for the golden carpLittle extra update today (8th of January), as it has been raining all day. We're just waiting around without haste, wasting our time to get our bus to Ludhiana in the early evening. <br /><br />Yesterday late in the evening I went to the golden temple on my own as there was some nice religious music bouncing from the outer speakers. Pity that Maarten didn't come along, so I once again got myself in some unexpected situation. We hadn't been in the small golden temple itself, so on this last night I wanted to see it at last gasp chance as something was going on in there. I peered inside and a ceremony with the main guru was taking place. An elderly Sikh man ushered me gently inside, though I felt ashamed for invading in this ceremony while not being pilgrim like all other people around me. The guru and his helping men were chanting recitals from holy Sikh papers and on a sudden moment every pilgrim started singing along. The guru then held a package upon his head and walked outside the temple with a lot of the pilgrims on his trail, wiping tears away from their faces. Tears of enlightenment, one person told me. There's only one marble lane that connects the temple to the land from this artificial man made holy lake so I followed behind. Pilgrims were carrying a golden cabinet, taking turns for it and all offering themselves. I just wanted to get past so not to be a nuisance to the pilgrims. Several men pushed me upfront in the queue, as being the token tourist you can bet that they want to give you the honor to help them. The golden cabinet was actually carrying the old gray guru, lying on plush pillows, who was waving with his white fur stick. A pilgrim stepped made place and a barrier of the cabinet put upon my shoulder so I was part of the walking machine of 20 or so men. Quite heavy! For 30 seconds I carried his holiness in his human transportation box until I got relieved by an eager and happy pilgrims. Sure deal, it's yours to take and carry. At the end of the marble lane I got sanctified sweetened dough put in the open palms of my hands. I couldn't eat more after the heavy dinner we had before, so I sat down at the lake and dropped little balls of dough into the water for the fishes. A golden carp surfaced -which brings luck if you spot one, a Sikh said- and accepted the holy food with pleasure. <br /><br />Oh yeah, Maarten has added the *new year gunshot video* in the post of Jan. 1st.<br /> <br />some pics of Punjabi train rides<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="www.micsupply.com/att-cable.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="www.micsupply.com/att-cable.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />the Sutlej river, one of the 5 flows from the Indus<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733404.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733404.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733403.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733403.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733414.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733414.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733422.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733422.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733399.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733399.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733397.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Entering%20Punjab/SL733397.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-8651808536768020472008-01-06T23:33:00.000+05:302008-01-07T02:30:29.336+05:30mini zamboni's on marble floors and 180 degrees border turnoversWe've been a few days in Amritsar now. Still in the gurudwara among the thousands of pilgrims, eating and sleeping almost for free for now. Bunch of freeloaders we are. Well, we do have the excuse of being busy enough filming and recording many things around the golden temple complex and the gurudwara's daily ways. Such as parades, like there was a big one a few days ago where kids of elementary and secondary school were dressed in either Punjabi or Sikh costumes and playing marching style band music. Thin whistles, dhol drums, karthals, trumpets and even bag pipes with an Sikh styled Scottish squared design on them in orange! <br />Also since the gurudwara here has a 24h internet cafe (which actually isn't really open 24hrs a day) we have been able to update the site, upload stuff like movies and photo's and even send longer e-mails to friends and family back home.<br /><br />The communal eating while sitting on the floor with a pilgrims is good fun. It also strikes nice conversations with your neighbors or glazed looks from young kids. The menu is a basic one, with normally 1 or 2 main dishes that they scoop out in big sauce spoons when the food service men walk past everyone. Most of it is dal (lentils), either in yellow or black sauce. Our review on cheapo eating concludes that the black dal tastes best. Unlike Maarten, I like the kir plenty (plain rice pudding like grandma and aunties would make in olden days). The chappati breads however, are quite bland. To the extent that some batches are really hard as it made out of cardboard. The chappati's are actually machine made and processed so yeah, there you go. -when we ate simple crisp chappati's at a dim street corner the other day, we knew we weren't acting the spoiled westeners- Even the pilgrims find the chappati's nasty to eat and rather take heaps of rice with their grub.<br /><br />To clean the eating floors of the residue of dal, kir and whatnot, they smartly are using small driving cleaners that sweep the floor, near <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zamboni">zamboni</a> style. Since a big number of Sikhs are living in Canada, I reckon that they might have introduced this harhar -bad joke. That aside, it's funny to have a lot of Canadian Sikhs around us who always come up to ask us in a crystal clear Canadian accent where we're from. "You're from Canada, right?" We'd ask them back. "Aww, how'd you guess ey?". Well, "ey?". (oh we just met a way tall Sikh dude from Turr-ono, right ey Aly, heehee ;)<br /><br />A few days ago we have also met the most peculiar and neurotic music collector of old Punjabi and Pakistani folk songs, who holds a little grubby cassette shop taken over by dust and mice-gnawed old record covers. Earsational! Folk tunes over a heavy crackling of tape hiss into forgotten styles. The man pirates all these cassettes himself since they are not to be found anymore in India nor produced, let alone that anyone would master them into modern standards. So he does his bit to keep the music alive for those very few interested in it. We ended up sitting 3 hours in his shop, as he manically wanted to make us listen to every old cassette and unique lost style that he could find. Out of utter chaos and no order but which seemed totally logical to him (hmmm sounds familiar, such music nerdism eh?)<br />Soon we'll put up a short clip of him here.<br /><br />Today we have been at the Wagha border, gateway to Pakistan. We took a bus from Amritsar and drove through the village of Attari before stopping. Straight out of the bus we got hawked by every young local person asking us if we wanted coke or pepsi, some tikky or crisps, a border ceremony dvd or cd, this or that. Anything. It was kind of insane this sudden manifestation of border tourism. Even the Indians got hassled, no scrutiny in selection whatsoever. Small plastic Indian flags or cardboard caps were being sold so that the spectators could support *their* side. Before we had a quick talk with some Pakistani tourists who were on the way home from a 2 week travel in Indian. They all came from Islamabad, the city right next to Rawalpindi where Bhutto got murdered. They told us that all is calm again now in Pakistan and that the riots where isolated incidents over a few days.<br />Soon the first gates went open and we had to walk through a 1 km corridor up to the big border gates for the ceremony. Army officers were trying to put us into the stands, but we cleverly walked around their back and up to the main iron gate where we even managed to get past an officer walk for some quick snaps, look and touch of the gate and get a clear view of the Pakistani side. <br /><br />The whole ceremony is about soldiers on both sides strutting around with their feet raised high up in the air, stamping their feet on the ground and shouting a lot of commands. We found this command sounding like the way sports commentators scream *goooooooool* in Brazil, so we mimicked this to annoy the Indians. Which we succeeded in. On both the Pakistani and Indian side they have built high ranking stands so they can bring in spectators. The spectators naturally scream for *their* side. Such is the pride of nationalism, isn't it great? At first we didn't know what to expect but as the show went on, it proved that it wasn't done out of envy or hate, but rather out of curiosity for each other's side. No nasty gestures, shouts or abuse was sent to the Pakistani side and probably neither came from theirs. Respect carried out in a peculiar showcase of booming sounds, hindi dance pop versus pakistani vocoder pop tunes. The Indian women went down and were dancing among the soldiers on the ground before the strutting began. On the Pakistani side, there were a few bearded men running around in Pakistani flag kurta's, waving flags. No women dancing there, they were all congregated together on the right side of the stands but were all waving their hands and seemed to sing along to their tune. Strutting on both sides commenced, fierce steps towards each other. The Indians dressed in khaki with red, the Pakistani's in black with red. People on both sides clapping loudly. Also military or holy music on both sides and interesting enough, every side stayed quiet for the other's sound of music and audience. I made some great recordings of that, not to mention all the great footage that Maarten has shot. The end of the ceremony was that of the flag lowering. Both flags had to be lowered equally down, so that one would not rise above the other. Signification goes a long way. That was it basicly. The Pakistani tourists that we spoke earlier were waiting on a little detainment field to be let through and we waived each other goodbye, as if they stepped into another world not to return. For us Western Europeans, scenes like borders only seem a thing of the past or more like a distant memory monument indicating an invisible line that now with the EU only exists on paper and maps. Having witnessed a border crossing in this setting, it makes you realize that for some nations it still are very sensitive -and real- lines. <br /><br />Important update, we have just decided to go to Pakistan! 180 degree turnover indeed. Please friends and family don't be alarmed despite our previous promises of not going there, but that what we have heard the past few days has only been positive. Like what the Pakistani tourists told us today, the fact that we met other western tourists on their way to Pakistan -today at the border ground even a white Canadian family with 2 infants who crossed over-. Also the story of a Polish guy that Maarten met was interesting, as he was in Pakistan during the Bhutto assassination and stayed for 1,5 week more without any problem whatsoever. No fear, abuse or in any danger experienced. So why should we chicken out if others prove it safe now? We will linger a week or so more here in Punjab as we will go to Ludhiana and Chandigarh to do things, before getting our visa in Delhi.<br /><br />till the next update.SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-57527824454385085552008-01-01T19:36:00.000+05:302008-01-08T15:36:55.614+05:30Punjabi gunshots from the liquor store and soothing spiritual raga's on pillowsfirst off all, a very shanti 2008 from me and Maarten! May all the best come to you and so on! :P<br /><br /><div><object width="420" height="249"><param name="movie" value="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/x3ysa4"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/x3ysa4" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="420" height="249" allowFullScreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always"></embed></object><br /><b><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3ysa4_jalandhar-new-year-drinking-shootin_travel">Jalandhar New Year - Drinking Shooting Laughing</a></b><br /><i>Uploaded by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/ARTISJOK">ARTISJOK</a></i></div><br /><br />Jalandhar, what fame the city holds? Well, the manufacturing of sports articles and fashion like Adidas and Reebok. Hence a lot of the guys walk in sweaters or track suits of said brands. Oh, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jalandhar">wikipedia tells us</a> that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apache_Indian">Apache Indian</a> originally hails from Jalandhar. Wow, boom shak-a-lak it is. :)<br /><br />We were at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harballabh_Fair">Harballabh</a> festival for 3 days, the main days that the Indian classical masters would perform their intricate styles of improvisation and themed raga's. The festival was set in the Devi Talab temple where we also cheaply stayed in the Mandir of the temple (a Mandir is a sort of holy hotel for pilgrims on temple grounds). Very handy for us, as we just had to walk up 2 stairs to be at peace in our rooms after every festival night.<br /><br />The temple complex was quite a surreal place because it also was a holy entertainment park where many locals and Punjabi's come looking for blessings, like a small Disneyland -or Efteling- of some sorts, but then hindu inspired! One *attraction* was a grotto that had a big lion mouthed entrence in which faithfull kids and adults could walk into knee deep water and make a blessing at a Shiva shrine. Allover the park there were big plastic or stone statues of Hindu gods and holy animals, made colorful to attract the children's attention.<br /><br />We sort of got a press accreditation by request and the organization arranged the room cheaply for us. sweet! But we didn't get press cards or anything, rather our skin color seemed to be enough so that every festival person including the armed guards with AK47's, let us into the backstage and vip buffet area. Yup, again free buffet food of high class quality. We're almost getting a bit spoiled from it you might think heh ;)<br /><br />We weren't just there to freeload, but really for the 3 days of live music by a whole lineup of famous classical Indian musicians, mostly from Northern India. <br />I only know a little bit about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raga">raga's</a> and what specific rhythms they consist of in building up their improvisation, but by far not enough to give it a decent review. Plus, that would be too academic and not fun to read if you have no clue what raga's are or how Indian classical music sounds like. The simple approach it is, so here it goes. Reviews!<br /><br />oh yeah, It all took place in a big white tent and everyone was seated upon thin matrasses on the floor. You needed to take your shoes off and deliver them to the shoe-keepers. This worked well for softly sitting down in a lotus position, or lying down and slumbering. Finally, no standing up to do at a festival with good music. Only downside was that there was a faint socky and footy smell in the air though. <br /><br />Day 1, 28th<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ustad Ali Ahmed Khan & Party</span> (Ustad is like the title of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maestro">Maestro</a> in the west)<br />bah, we arrived late as we spent too much time in the internet cafe, writing the previous post, so we missed him playing. I really wanted to hear his Shehnai (double reed flute) improvisations. We did see him though, backstage that is. We heard from the other press folks that it was amazing. yay.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Shri Sabri Khan & Family</span><br />2 fella's -father and son- where duelling each other on the Sarangi goatskin violin with a Santoor (zither/cimbalum) on the background. It sounded quite nice but it only really got going after 45 minutes when the improvisations went fluent and the tempo of the raga's became faster and heavier. It did sound a little bit clean and on the safe side compared to Sarangi playing of the Langa's in Rajasthan that is played in a rougher and more melodical manner. It's Indian classical music after all, which is always more safe than the Indian village folk music.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Pandit K. Upendra Bhatt</span> (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pandit">Pandit</a> indicates the master level of a skilled Indian musician)<br />Bhatt is famous for his vocal quality, we read. The raga's he performed were done in a very deep voice which he could also raise and twinge to get that extra special quality in Hindi singing. He was accompanied by harmonium, tabla and tambura and it went well as the focus was still more on his voice than the instruments. He had a good grasp on us and his voice soothed our minds with spiritual hymns. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Shri Nishat Khan</span> (Shri is the term for Mister btw)<br />Nishar Khan is a special case, being one of the young generation he likes to experiment more with other world styles and has taken bits and pieces from contemporary jazz, rock and flamenco into his playing style. He took a looooong time tuning up his Sitar, which was quite annoying. It began a bit slow and with average repetitive sitar melodies where the rhythm was walking at a slow pace. He was showing off quite a lot too, with every quick turnover looking at the audience with bubbly eyes to get a reaction. So people clapped and gave him too much respect for flimsy play. -You'll never find this kinda show-off behavior with fingerpick guitarists, who are equally a skilled, but ok-. Finally after meddling 1 hour of his 2 hour show, the pace pick up and by wonder, he started to play good! Inspired as he suddenly was, he mixed classical Indian raga's with flamenco and fierce roughly played segments and he reached the height that was promised in the booklet. In the end I must admit that he was really good, but that says more about his second hour than his total performance.<br /><br />side note:<br />-He wouldn't be the last one either to annoy us with tuning, as a lot of artists took their time too easy to tune all strings. This caused 30 minutes of twiddling around and a lot of uninspired beginnings to their raga's so that half of their performances were uninteresting. We simply wondered why they just couldn't tune up backstage or in their hotel room (the same mandir as us) instead of letting people lose time.....-<br /><br />It was around 2 o'clock at night around this time and still an artist to come. wow!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ustad Mubarak Ali </span><br />Last performance was a singer from Pakistan, Ustad Mubarak Ali as he was added to the bill last-minute and traveled from nearby Pakistan just the day after the Bhutto assassination. He did some talking beforehand in foreigners Hindi, but no words about the political situation. I guess in this part of the world one is not so easy to denounce a political system as western artists sometimes like to say about their own governments or leaders. His vocal style was way more different than Bhatt's style as Mubarak Ali sounded more raspy and closer to the Arab style of singing, making it a very interesting and spicy contrast to the general style of the night. It were still raga's that he sung, but the twist he gave on them made them sound more <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sufi">Sufi</a> than Indian. He held our attention for the first 4 long raga's and after that it dwindled a little bit and repeated the same vocal style until there was no more new qualities to discover. It was about 4am by then, so I left to get sleep. After that he did pick up again and took a faster pitch, as we could hear from our room. <br /><br />Day 2, 29th<br /><br />For half of the afternoon we were busy walking around the streets of Jalandhar, eating a 20cent breakfast with nice massala and veggies, buying a whole stack of old cassette tapes of Punjabi folk, Sikh temple music and Pakistani pop. And basicly getting a lot of stares from locals. Jalandhar isn't touristy at all since there isn't anything of interest to visit for the average wanderer, so you quickly find yourself surrounded by people who want to get to know you. Though the city is ugly, the locals are quite nice folks. Much different from the bawdy and more direct Rajasthani's. Punjabi's like to introduce themselves in a more delicate way, not just the men but on several occasions even flirting teenage girls, with or without their mothers came up talking to us. The people also like taking photographs of us, putting their flustered baby in our hands, or posing with random groups of youngsters. It's kinda like being a sort of famous person without the heckling, but just the nice chat. We've figured out that the Punjabi's are more easy to unlock than the Rajasthani's and they open themselves all too eagerly to you, explaining you their problems our what's on their mind. They're chattyboxes by heart! Even their accent indicates a level of soundwaves that bounce up and down, giving it a charming blabbering ring. Also their looks are diverse. You have the Sikh people who have a more pale skin color that gives them a near Arabic/Persian look. Or the people with light skin color and blue/greenish eyes from the old northern tribes. Or those with a darker skin color and pointy noses, with ancestry from the old Sindh/Indus area (Pakistan) across the border. Since this region has been flooded so many times with different invaders like the Persians, Pathans, Mughuls who mixed with the local Vedic and Aryan population, the result is a vast pallet of mixed genes. Also here there are quite a number of people who have a certain skin disease -or rather a deflection- than turns them pale, near to white. White like someone from Iceland or the UK, or white as an albino. Michael Jackson even springs to mind. Sometimes their skin still has some patches of darker pigment, but sometimes not and paleness rules their lack of skin color. In India all these mixed looks are an interesting feat of numerous multicultural societies since the dawn of the continent. <br /> <br />We took a lot of photographs during our walk and while traffic was congested, all the folks on cycle riksha's were only to happy to pose. We've added those to the photo's in the Jalandhar folder. -and some below-<br />Back to the festival.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ajay Singh</span><br />He had won last year's youth competition in the percussion category and we saw a bit of him before we went into town. His ruffling style on the tabla was amazing for such a young person in his early twenties and he ventured into more experimental rhythms than the traditional ones. We later talked to him and learned that he lives in the UK and is trying to land his career in Europe. He's surely on his way.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Shri Tejendra Narayan Mazumdar</span><br />This Indian musician also hailed from the UK and played the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudra_Veena">Rudra Veena</a>, a traditional instrument that is the ancient ancestor of the Sitar. Its sounds are more delicate and softly plucked. You probably will have heard the Veena as background music if you've eaten in an Indian restaurant as it sounds as the typical instrument for spiritual tones. Not many musicians play this instrument anymore and we found it interesting that an Indian immigrant from the UK would keep this tradition alive while people in the native country don't do so much anymore. Perhaps old traditions die hard abroad in cultural exile, while they are easy to perish within the place of origin where culture evolves as societies also do. Mazumdar's set was quite nice, but as the Veena goes, it's such a delicate sound that it can quickly get overhauled by a rash tabla (or its high levels from the sounddesk) and so it happened. It's a pity, as the music was far more fitting and soothing without tabla. During dinner I would liked to speak to Mazumdar about above topic on transmigrated traditions, or at least his view on it. But I didn't, food took away the attention. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Pandit Rajan Mishra & Pandit Sajan Misra</span><br />Both folks from the east of the country on the Benares (Varanasi) - Kolkata (Calcutta) line where most classical artists live or come from. As we were eating, we heard bits and pieces of their set. They both played the Sitar and sung raga's. We can't remember much memorable from it all. Blame it on the class food.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma</span><br />Sharma was the star of the night we suddenly realized as people rushed him into the backstage area with a whole battery of press and fans on his tail. He sat down, looking bewildered from all the hustle, while we were eating across him. He's from Jammu the state north of Punjab and below Kashmir and he is a quirky pale fellow with a nearly grey haired afro. Maarten said he looked like dutch cabaretier Wim Sonnevelt. he plays the Santoor, the zither from Kashmir and he's the best master at it. He also took 30 or more minutes to tune up and appeared to be a sulky character on stage. His raga's began a bit dull again but halfway it picked up and he was off his virtual ways. We didn't stay for the full show and went for some *early* sleep at 3am.<br /><br />Day 3, 30th<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ustad Maqbool Hussain Khan</span><br />As we woke up quite late, we didn't see him play but could hear him on the PA announcers from across the road where we had our breakfast. His vocals were amazing and with a deep tone he sang beautiful raga hymns that trembled with vigor. In between we also spent some time in the media room doing internet stuff, like writing letters to family and -ahem- the invisible editor ;)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Shri Kartik Kumar & Niladri Kumar</span> <br />Father and son Kumar both play the Sitar and dueled each other with fast and layering melodies. It was a special contest and in the last 30 minutes they brought it to amazing heights when they started playing the Sitar roughly, as if bringing classical metal noise, wow! Also here the son was more on the experimental side, which was a perfect and matching contrast to the tidier tones of his father. Some more western influences where to be heard from N. Kumar junior and flamenco, fingerpick blues and rock riffs were to be heard. One of the more memorable performances of the festival for sure.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Smt. Savita Devi</span><br />Devi is a vocalist from Benares from a family line of musicians. As her mother was a famous vocal raga singer, she followed into her footsteps. Her voice was a bit on the high side, with the crack one someone that is in her middle old age. It was nice for 2 songs, but her voice wasn't our thing. A younger Indian fellow said it resembled the singing of a crow. Sure other people enjoyed her instead.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ustad Tari Khan (Pakistan)</span><br />yes the famous Tari Khan, coming all the way from California where he runs his classy tabla school (like Zakhir Hussain). His skill is said to be equal to Zakhir Hussain, or no, perhaps already better as Tari Khan is younger and bound touch higher skies than his Indian counterpart. He started straight off with steady ruffling and steady tapping that continued for nearly 2 hours. Wow, exhilarating! It was like acoustic mathematics brought alive in sound and everyone held their breath, clapping loudly with every turnover and completion of his vocational calculation that he poeticly sung into the mic (that went like: ba ba ki bi ba, tak tak, ra sa ra bi do bi do etc., read more about that in the raga wikipedia piece). He was giving many a percussionist a run for their money, not to mention him easily outdoing the likes of Autechre or Squarepusher by merely the touch of 2 hands. "Why copy and paste rhythms in electronic music" he perhaps was speaking through his acoustic skills. Another fun bit was that he was drowning out the sound of talking people in the audience by providing a backfeed ring with a certain tap on the side of the tabla! How's that for controlling your audience in playful tones. Such class! Maarten was mesmerized by it all and we found ourselves lucky to have witnessed this display of beat divinity. <br />After the show, the whole press circus and fans followed him backstage so that the armed guards couldn't stop people anymore. Guns are just fashion, not an item to use thankfully. We followed the circus, trying to get a quick interview with Tari on camera. We had the luck of skin color and our faux press credentials that we got into the small room where Tari was. Just as Maarten was about to shake his hand and to ask a few question, his rucksack stuck to the light switch and turned it off, giving the people in the room a quick scare for no reason and rushing out haha. And *poof* when the lights switched back on, gone Tari was, out of the door aww! We did speak to the fellow who was accompanying him on the harmonium (which was unnecessary really), who in fact was a tabla master himself. He spoke about the mathematical quality of Tari's music, it being totally uneven, calculated straight from his head by pure improvisation and not put in quartered rhythms that you otherwise find in western or any style of percussion in pop music. Even this master admitted that Tari could not be followed by the best, so his gleaming manic smile and sweaty dripping on the stage next to Tari explained a lot suddenly :)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Pandit Bhola Nath Mishra</span> <br />Nath Mishra was the closing act of the festival and promised to be a good raga vocalist which he made to be fully true, if not more. His voice had the deep droney quality that is fit for raga's but he could bend his voice in such a lush and livid manner that the raga's more sounded like spiritual folk songs. I was captured by his sound and melancholic melodies that went on an on as a parting song without end. An end had to come and the people of the organization assembled in front of the stage to throw heaps of orange bud flowers onto Mishra and the band, thereby spreading a sweet scent into the cold winter air.<br /><br />The festival was over and we can only say to have been happy to be there. It also celebrated its 132nd edition, hats off! It therefore can rightfully calls itself the oldest and longest festival of Indian classical music. And all that for free, as no one has to pay entry because all the funding comes from donations and sponsors in the shape of rich individuals or corporate companies. All that without any promotional spam or annoying billboards to advertise, except for only a *thank you* board naming all the persons/entities who have given funds. Compared to all our more or less corporate festivals back home that prick out your eyes with brand names or commercial propaganda slander, this was a fresh and hassle free experience. Plus the organization didn't make you feel like cattle. Should you be a secret lover of Indian classical music, this is the festival you once must have attended.<br /><br />Ok, enough about all that. In between we also did a lot of filming and recording in search of the Punjabi culture. In the next 2 weeks we'll return to Jalandhar as through some people in the Harballabh organization we can get help in recording Punjabi folk or special styles limited to Punjab. Jalandhar houses one of India's most renowned art institutions, which includes music ofcourse and more! The daughter of one of the organizers is a famous raga singer nowadays, so let's see what might come from that.<br /><br />At the last night of the festival we also met Seema from Ludhiana, a widow who was all by herself at the festival, a combination of facts that otherwise condemn a woman to solitude and social restrains through traditional rules. Not Seema, as she explained herself to be an active person who has the permission from her deceased husband's family (with whom she and her daughter still live) to be as free as she wants to be. She is part of a theater group that touches social issues that play in India and has just finished doing a film on an AIDS awareness in India. Unlike the west, India still has a long way to travel as the knowledge about the AIDS virus is below par in the general opinion. *No AIDS = Know AIDS* is the rhyming slogan given to the campaign. Although of Hindu faith, Seema would normally be against contraception and safe sex by Hindu tradition, but she actually thinks open minded of the issue by also believing in the freedom of one's choice. Only that people should make conscious decisions and take appropriate protection if one should have pre-marital intercourse. She invited us so we will go to Ludhiana next week and record the theater on these issues. She might also be able to help us with local Punjabi folk musicians, so we'll see what will happen. Open books are a good thing here :)<br /><br />New Year. Yes. We didn't do much. Hours before the clock stroke 12 we were sitting at a roadside bar, next to the big interstate highway overhead passage. Nice gritty and polluted setting. We had met Andy from Manchester at the festival who was here on his own. Andy is living in India for 8 years already, in a small village between the peaks of the northern state of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uttarakhand">Uttarakhand</a> (or as Uttaranchal), where the first high slopes of the Himalaya loom. Andy before ran music shows in the UK and was acquainted with the Manchester and Birmingham indie scene until he packed his stuff to live a more free life in India in his own justified and self-made way. Nice to meet a person like that who knows the same people from your own network, making it another fun twist of fate. So us three ended up drinking at the roadside bar, where they served alcohol which is rare. In Punjab, alcohol is to be found aplenty, you normally can only buy and take home. We hadn't touched much alcohol since leaving Europe, but new year called for some relaxation. They had fine red Indian wine from the Maharashtra area, so it was a blessing. Indians by the way, can not hold their liquor. Really. After a few drinks they already are past their limit and get elastic legs, queasy bellies that need emptying or unintelligent waffling. It doesn't complement their soft characters at all and Andy told us that they can easily get aggressive after a few shots. The owner of the makeshift cafe and liquor store came for a talk and Maarten spotted a pistol tucked under his belt. He just asked what the gun was for and so on. Normal chatter. The owner explained about having gotten a permit from local police as he needs to protect his store. God knows from what. He then proceeded to entertain us all of the sudden by wanting to shoot the gun as an ode to us. Ermmmm ok... Maarten got the camera ready to film and so he shot his bullet, into the concrete of the interstate wall. Or so we think. That's not you average end to 2007, but it was ours. We took some cans of black imitation Guinness stout with us and went to the plot of land where Andy was camping out with his car, amidst a dark industrial area with patches of ground around. As Andy's town is cut off by snow till late this month, he is traveling around and sleeping in his car. With a matrass and even an internet connection built into his 1950 taxi car! Not bad at all. We talked, listened to music and nearly missed the new year passing by. Just some distant firework rockets, some people shouting in joy. Minutes later all was silent again on our side of the city. We could hear the thumping of beat music in the distance, but had no need for it. Instead we were listening to 70's Krautrock, Ivor Cutler and Bert Jansch. Not bad. Much better than the radio advertised *Latin Salsa Party in Hotel Maya, Jalandhar*, though that would have been funnier to film perhaps as a quaint experience of imported music. So the night went, guitar strummings and openings of cans while Andy spoke about how snow leopards had already killed 4 of his dogs. Snow leopards that also snatch small children of the town if they go out for a pee on the edge of the woods at dawn.<br />By 5.30 am we heard Big Ben striking through the airwaves of BBC Radio 4 on the internet. Some western sounds are more fun when you're far away remote from them. We got a bicycle riksha ride to our Mandir early in the morning, the very fresh morning as the nights here aren't too far from many European climates.<br /><br />That was Jalandhar and yesterday we made our way to Amritsar, the holy place of the Golden Temple of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sikh">Sikhs</a>. <br />Before at Jalandhar station we had been playing with 3 homeless boys for a while, giving them some banana's. They even threw their money coins at us, which we playfully threw away only for them to come back and wanting us to throw it further. It were funny boys, little rascals who seemed to like our unbiased contact and just wanted to play to undo their day, while the Indian people around us didn't like their presence so much. Big deal.<br />Our train ride of 1 hour took 5 hours. Delays and broken down trains in the middle of nowhere. Such is India.<br /><br />Upon arrival at the temple, the goldenness beamed towards us and we decided to stay in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gurudwara">Gurudwara</a> of the temple (the hotel for Sikh pilgrims), the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guru_Ram_Das">Guru Ram Das</a> place as recommend by a Punjabi couple from Amritsar. The entry was guarded by long bearded Sikhs armed with big spears, how great is that!<br />The rooms there are for free, though they rely on the base that you give a donation when you leave. And to add to it, there's even lukewarm water here! Which most Indian budget hotels do not even offer. There were already a lot of people asleep on their matrasses on the marble courtyard floor. Whole families, elderly couples, the impoverished and more, hundreds. That we got a room to shush our own spoiled habits are in stark contrast to the chilly air and cold floor that the pilgrims sleep on. Perhaps that's part of the true pilgrimage, though we haven't found out.<br /><br />After that we went to see all of the temple complex and had to deliver our shoes as you need to before entering. Walking barefoot in winter time and ice cold marble isn't the most fun, but our feet got used to feeling numb. We also had to cover our heads with a scarf, so I made a turban out of my blanket shawl that made me look as a mushroomed Rajasthani nomad rather than a Sikh ;) Again we posed with the Indian and Sikh tourists before their camera's, "such fun time with the Indians" as Maarten likes to utter with joy ;)<br />Alike the sleeping, the food is also for free in the form of a donation. We took a metal thali plate with the pilgrims and sat in lotus positions in long line. As beggars we looked from down up to the food distributing Sikhs walking around with kettles and pots full of chappati bread, sour pickles and yellow dal lentils, holding up our hands as if proclaiming "spare some food please sir!" We ate ourselves full bellied, dropping dal sauce allover us. <br /><br />On the belief of the Sikhs, it is a peculiar one as it really meddles between Islam and Hinduism, with slightly leaning more on the Islamic side through ways of dressing, praying (on knees, head touching ground) and the way how holy scriptures are being read by Sikh priests. Also the way how all accommodation and food is basically for free for those who have nothing is a genuine social gesture that is not easily to be found in the general world religions. I wouldn't say that the Sikhs are <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philanthropy">philanthropies</a> by definition as they don't do good deeds to clear their own conscience. The Sikh community strongly believes in the virtue of work and in sharing the burden of it by voluntary shifts so everyone has to chip in. <br /><br />On Bhutto and Pakistan. We won't be going to Pakistan since everyone is advising us to stay in India and also many of the western consulates and embassies have closed down so that we couldn't count on their help either (well, can we ever unless we pay through the nose?). But it's just way too unstable in Pakistan now. About Bhutto's death; the Musharraf government has released a statement that she died of fracturing her skull by banging her head against the roof from the bomb blast. No mention of any bullet wounds. That while all other reports and eyewitnesses accounts say that she was hit twice by shots in her neck and chest. Now her 19 year old son will lead the party. Imagine that, a 19 year old leading the most profiled key country in the Islamic world that both the Arabs and US are trying to pull apart, fighting for scraps of faith and oil pipe connections. Back to ancient times where rulers were always young. This time hopefully more wise than fierce. At what age did Alexander the Great pass through Pakistan, ravaging it all?<br /><br />In the next days we will cover Amritsar, explore the Sikh temple music (which starts at 6am by the way) and go to the Pakistani border at Attari.<br /><br />I'm off, have been sitting for 4 hours in the smell of paint now and I feel bubbles of hallucination prickling my mind, yowwwww.<br /><br />Ok, some best photo's below. some Rajasthan (Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, Barnawa, Deshnok), some Jalandhar<br /><br />indeed so<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732149.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732149.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />honesty is the best<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732147.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732147.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />old Rajasthani instrument collection at Rupayan Sansthan<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732087.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732087.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Malaram, the morchang player<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732127.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732127.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Santa claus in Jodhpur, woah!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732263.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732263.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />smoke in the hole<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732137.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732137.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />what the...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732150.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Rupayan%20Sansthan%20Institute%20-%20Jodhpur/SL732150.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Jodhpurian moustache<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732282.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732282.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />cheeky wild street kids<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732303.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732303.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732326.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732326.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />blind old woman getting hair brushed<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732291.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732291.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />with Japanese oud playing friend<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732255.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jodhpur/SL732255.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Jaisalmer fort<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732454.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732454.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732522.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732522.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732611.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732611.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732584.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732584.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732525.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732525.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732564.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732564.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />rawwwkstar!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732614.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732614.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732626.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732626.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732594.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732594.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732600.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732600.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />posing females<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732433.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732433.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />family from our teacher Rampal in Jaisalmer<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732471.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732471.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732528.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732528.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732665.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732665.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />says it all<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732660.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Jaisalmer/SL732660.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The Langa Khan's in Barnawa<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Barnawa/SL733254.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Barnawa/SL733254.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />with Mehruddin, the patriarch (white turban) and Nijam (black jacket)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Barnawa/SL733271.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Barnawa/SL733271.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Barnawa sand road<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Barnawa/SL733275.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Barnawa/SL733275.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />red beard!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Barnawa/SL733293.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Barnawa/SL733293.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />at deshnok, rat temple<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Deshnok/SL733317.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Deshnok/SL733317.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />slurrrrp up!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Deshnok/SL733350.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Deshnok/SL733350.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Deshnok/SL733357.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/Deshnok/SL733357.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />wall poster at Bikaner. husbands, don't beat your wife! <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733391.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733391.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />inside the tent at Harballabh<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733629.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733629.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />theme park Devi Talab, yeah!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733594.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733594.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733590.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733590.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733456.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733456.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Maarten's tailor<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733479.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733479.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733465.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733465.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />bicycle riksha man. He waved to us on our last day<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733538.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733538.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733528.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733528.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733513.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733513.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733510.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733510.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />true stencil art!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733478.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733478.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />shop board<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733489.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733489.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />ch-ching money decoration!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733524.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733524.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />the garbage collecting gypsies of Jalandhar<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733556.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/%20Jalandar/SL733556.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-41578906815527857792007-12-27T21:47:00.000+05:302008-01-03T12:54:37.978+05:30Jaisalmer Lohars, xmas with the Langa's and Bikaner rats and the assassination of BhuttoLong read ahead, in 5 days a lot happens.<br /><br />Jaisalmer was a real goat town, goats everywhere. And not to forget cows ofcourse.<br />Our idea during our short Jaisalmer stay was to travel with a group of musicians into the desert 40 km’s further, where they would be playing for tourists who were on camel safari. Since we were not going to do a camel safari this time it was better to get the real thing done by driving with musicians in a jeep, seeing them prepare their performance, playing and returning back with them. And we managed that by paying them for putting up with us. The ride was pretty bumpy and the scenery soon turned sandy and desolate with sparse houses next to the road, which made us stare out of the open backside of the jeep. We were 12 people crammed sardine style into one jeep topped with their instruments, because they normally travel with *just*10 people per jeep. Guess who those 2 extra persons were, hah. When we got to Khuri we saw the impressive sand dunes rising nearby, an amazing sight. Khuri is a little village from which camel safari’s leave or pass through for the obvious reason and we were a bit disappointed to learn that the musicians wouldn’t play on those dunes but in a open aired courtyard of a hotel instead. Bah. As they prepared, Maarten filmed the views and their -female- dress-up, I strolled around talking to some locals and kids and ended up at the only grocery shop in town with kids in tow to buy them some chocolate. Neither me or Maarten easily buy candy for groups of kids, as playing the white sugardaddy (or sugarmommy such as the many female tourists like to play) serves no sincere purpose or example at all to the locals nor the kids except that the foreigner feels redeemed for his/her compassion. The local adults even get annoyed with this dandy habit that some tourists carry out and we can understand that. I mean, it’s not like these kids need sweets, but anyway I fell prey to their sugary wishes and returning them with sweets. A bigger crowd of kids had gathered and still running in from everywhere, pushing the kids away that I had original intended to give the sweets. After giving a few choc drops in the chaos I gave up and donated the rest of the sweets to a local old man who could control the hand-out much better than I could. <br /><br />Back at the courtyard, the tourist were pouring in and taking their seats. No western tourists though, but eastern tourists from India even, as they all came from Kolkata region (Calcutta). We saw the men dress up as female Kabeliya dancers in matching dresses. We knew that there would be Kabeliya dancers, so we naturally expected women…but as no women were in our jeep we already started wondering, even after the guys who were to dress up, gave us some hints. Needless to say, even as males taking up the female act they danced amazingly well and felline. At some point one of the dancers did a special spiral dance which made him turn around the whole courtyard on his knees while the dress covered and touched the ground. The music was ok, but they played just the touristy songs that we know all too well, like the folk snobs we seem to have become now –ho ho-. It did get very funny at the end when one of the dancers came to our spot and dragged me (oh no!) off my chair to dance with him in front of all the tourists, who ofcourse were laughing heartily. But it also broke the ice for the Kolkata people and they soon were all dancing around me. Yup, Indian people and dancing, always a good combination! One older guy was pretty drunk and loud and another old guy had bizarre moves as well as the kids who went mental in spastic kicking moves. Well, Maarten and his camera couldn’t be happier and through his camera he escaped to dance with Kolkata men like I had to endure, though fun it was. Ah well. Added to that, the best male dancer of our musicians asked me if I wanted to spend the night with him. <br /><br />I don’t think men have ever offered themselves so much to us as here, but that would be a another bunch of stories that ended with jolly *nahi’s*. That being said, the times that fathers have tried to marry their prime teenage or adult daughters off to us have also been numerous. <br /><br />We were supposed to leave Jaisalmer the next morning and when we got out with our bags we noticed it was grey skies all around and raining softly, here at the outskirts of the desert! While walking to the bus station just opposite the road of our hotel, we bumped into Neire -how could it be such coincidence-, who was chatting away to some Lohar folks at the side of the road. Neither of us knew that we would be in Jaisalmer at the same time, especially since Neire had already been here and it was rather funny after we had posted his pictures on the blog days before –which he also didn’t know-. He came back to buy some morchang mouth harps from a skilled Lohar metal worker and musician. We followed him to the Lohar quarter nearby, which is the area where also all the other folk musicians live from several castes. <br />We actually wanted to get to Barnawa, the remote village of the Langa musicians, so we quickly called them to check if they were expecting us. It was a stroke of good luck that they rather wanted us to come the next day as we were only too happy to stay with the Lohar musicians and Neire and hear some music. The father of the house introduced himself kindly as Mohan Lal Lohar. I’ve heard his name before, but I can’t put my finger on it from where….from the net, readings on rajasthani music or unlicensed compilation cd’s? who knows. He was very open about being recorded by us and gave a lot of his time without any hidden agenda behind it. We were sitting in the courtyard while his family sat with us, the goats walked on the roof and the rain was sparsely dripping on us. Mohan played several morchang pieces for us and then brought all his different sets of flutes out, from algoza’s (double flutes) to murli’s (snakecharmer flute). It sounded amazing and we sat quietly listening to him as he kept on playing and giving explanations to the songs and instruments. As he is a Lohar metal worker, he gilds morchangs himself and he showed us a whole variety of them. How could we not buy some? Beautiful handcrafted instruments with good sound and at a good price to support his family. As he understood our musical interest, he also made us listen to a cassette of his group in which he and his cousin play in. Such rough folk sound! Upon the first tones it sounded like a bizarre mash of Nass el Ghiwane or Tinariwen’s Northern African Gnawa sound mashed with recorded roughness equal to the feedback of Konono No.1 or any semi-distorted group. It had a Rajasthani coating ofcourse, but unlike the other Rajasthani folk musi. The nature of these songs -or rather chants- was more repetitive, with simple recurring melodies and ongoing chants to a near trancelike state. Wow, flustered. We will record a session with Mohan and his group in February to see if we can take it further for them, perhaps a proper release? Later in the afternoon we visited Thokmey again, a kind Tibetan person who we met a few days before in his shop in the Jaisalmer fort. We had bought a few Tibetan metal singing bowls and he gently explained us how to use them in sound and for relaxation. Metal rimmed stroking drones as lush soundscapes that do the body and mind good. Hmmm healthy soundscapes. We also talked about Thokmey about Tibet, as we might go to Tibet in March if time allows. After meditating together in his cosy small room in silent darkness we said goodbye, perhaps to see him again in the near future.<br /><br />We took an early morning bus towards Jodhpur as to get to the town of Barnawa Jagir we had to get off at Shergarh, in the middle of nowhere 100 km's before Jodhpur. We attracted a lot of stares and gazing children in Shergar. A local told me that in the past year only 2 whites had come through Shergarh. On the phone Mehruddin Khan had promised to pick us up, though his tiny knowledge of English and our equally tiny Hindi made it a difficult talk. We just had to hope that he would come, or him perhaps hoping that we would be waiting in Shergarh so that he didn't need to take a jeep 30 km's for nothing. Mehruddin did arrive and we were taken to the village, this time really driving on sand roads only and past empty spaces with just bush and small trees decorating the dry hills. Small brick or mud huts with straw roofs clustered together into village circles where people lived in rural conditions without electricity. Most were tending their livestock of goats and cows and some had little acres to grow vegetables. We stopped in one of those small villages as Khan wanted to inspect the construction of a well. He later told us that he is financing the building of several wells in 8 or so villages in this region. This way and in the next dasys we quickly learned that he holds a certain authority as a sort of tribal chief or mayor in this remote region and therefore he makes the noble effort in bettering conditions for the locals. Either through his own musical earnings or from retaining contacts with local district authorities. <br />Upon arrival in his home village Barnawa Jagir, it seemed as if the whole village flooded to come and see us. At least all the young children, which must have been 100 or so, not even counting the ones that were working at that moment. Again the flustered looks and curiosity steered their behavior to swamp us with jeers, touches and questions. Overflow of attention went on and when we could rest a bit in Khan's house -the biggest and only concrete house of the village-, we got swamped by his family and close friends. We didn't mind and enjoyed it, but it takes up a lot of your energy. That we also learned in these 2 days. ;) So, this was the early evening of christmas night, 24th. The house was split up in different parts, where one part was for cooking, the rooms of his sons, the room of his wife, while his own room in which we stayed, stood loose from the rest. Hah, he even had satelite dish tv installed and over 50 channels. Imagine, it's kinda bizarre you find yourself in a very remote part of the state, dry and desert-like, where not many people even have electricity or decent houses as we know it back home, and there we were...watching some kitsch Bollywood action movie on tv with the whole family. At some point when zapping, we saw a glimpse of the match between Manchester Utd and Everton, far away in cold and wet winterish England, yet here in dry and warm spheres. Funny that.<br />We ate a glorious meal of vegetables, omelet and chappati bread and we went to bed early enough, exhausted from the travel and absorbed attention. The next day Mehruddin had the idea to take us to a remote Kabeliya village in the Barmer district near Balotra and to record female songs and dances of people that did not perform for tourists but for their patrons only. In this case, we think that Mehruddin was acting the role of patron, so that he could demand them to play for us. We did have to hire a jeep and pay the Kabeliya women, which was normal so we agreed on a fee, more than we had in mind for our low budget but a chance not to miss either. Another ride in desert and remote parts, 70 km's and there we were on top of a small sandhill where a small Kabeliya village with similar straw roofed huts existed, without electricity. This village whose name we didn't catch, was the home of the Nath people, a subcaste within the Kabeliya caste who are known for their combined female singing style. Also here the attention of the whole village was caught by our sight and all kids circled around us, though some were more scared as they probably had never seen a white person in the flesh. Even many of the women were looking amazed at our skin features, Maarten's height, blue eyes, lanky blond curls and eyebrow piercing, trying to touch or study them. We had to wait several hours as the women didn't hasten to prepare and our jeep had to pick up another singer in a bigger village. Their best female singer was struck by malaria, but she still would perform for us. Whether that was because of the lure of promised money or Mehruddin's demand, we didn't find out. In the meantime we played shabby cricket with the kids, throwing balls and while Maarten was taking a nap on the rubber band beds, I got several babies pushed into my arms to hold. Some babies got frightened by my unusual looks, while the mothers laughed at my effort to shush. When all was ready, 3 women of various ages (from young adults to the middle aged woman with malaria) started singing lines that sometimes supported each other in range or entwined into polyphonic singing. Amazing voices and they sung songs that we did not hear before, mostly those songs that they sing in the village and for special occasions. In some songs, 1 or 2 of the women or another girl started dancing in a very small circle, turning around and swaying without losing her direction nor pace. <br />At the end of the afternoon we were finished. Many people in the village asked us for money, but how can you help so many families at once without discriminating other families? We hope that at least our fee will benefit many of them as it normally goes in such villages, we were told. The for them high fee had a good justification in means of their skills and circumstances and our ability to give.<br /><br />When we returned, we got a mighty good dinner of wholegrain badi breads and pieces of mutton (goat) put in front of us. Yeah we are vegetarians, so what to do?<br />Maarten more than me, as I still eat fish and sometimes meat on special occasions. To refuse would be impolite and as it was christmas day, well, it surely was somewhat special to eat the mutton, so we did and it tasted great -blush blush-. Not that we cared about the sake of a christmas dinner. The Khan's did neither, as they are Islamic according to the Muhammadan tradition that many Rajasthani nomad castes follow.<br />In the evening as well as the next morning we recorded sessions with Mehruddin and his brother Nijam. Mehruddin's session consisted of the Surandi and Sarangi, along Dholak, a hollow jug or pot and Khartals for percussion. We were very tired, still from the visit at the Nath village so after Mehruddin's session we fell asleep quickly. Nijam's session the next morning was done by the Algoza double flute and also with Dholak. Both sessions were very good as it straight away proved the high professional level of the brothers in Rajasthani and Langa music. Playing several international tours or have albums released on world music labels isn't a simple thing to do. We had to leave after Nijam's session, as we had to get to more north on our way to Punjab. But before all that, we had to agree on a price to pay to Mehruddin as patriarch of the Khan family. We had already told him about our low budget, despite us being from Europe or thinking that we surely had a financial back-up in the form of payed work if we recorded his sessions and staying at his house. Fair enough. In the end the demanded fee was *a lot* higher than he first made us believe so we felt genuinely disappointed after these 2 magnificent days. <br />It was a pity that he didn't make it clear to us from the start what his expectations were and what costs would be added. Maybe it was also our fault for not taking initiative earlier either. In the end we paid a hefty sum, something we would have never paid if we had known before. But just as with the Nath we now feel good about it, as we know that Mehruddin will distribute most of this money for the families and towns and not just to his own chest. Also the experience counts a lot for us and we are happy to have been, seen and done all this in Barnawa Jagir.<br /><br />Mehruddin took us by jeep to Jodhpur and all last/tiny financial squabbles were solved with some advice of Kuldeep of Rupayan Sansthan institute. We don't blame Mehruddin, since that is the way it went and we parted without further anger.<br />Jodhpur is such a bizarre city with quirky locals, we don't know why but except of the good people of Rupayan who have helped us a great deal, we otherwise encountered a lot of social stumble blocks with locals, who either could or would not help us for the most simple things or make it difficult without reason. Kinda funny really. Not to mention the amount of people who walked around with a jink from their legs, we lost count.<br /><br />We got to Bikaner in the middle of the night on a very slowwww train from Jodhpur. <br />In Bikaner there isn't much to do, so the only thing of importance to us what to visit Deshnok, where the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karni_Mata">Karna Mati</a> temple was. The temple famous for being filled with rats, oh yes! Holy rats, as legend says that the goddess Karni Mata brought all the dead storytellers back to life in the shape of rats. You have to enter without shoes. Me on bare feet, Maarten still with socks. We had expected rooms filled to the roof with rats as your mind would quickly revel about, but the amount of rats was a little disillusionment as the rats weren't that numerous. And despite their are being fed fresh milk, grains and sweets every day, you would think they would look healthy. Wrong, as a lot of them had scabs from fighting, scruffy bodies and sometimes missing an eye or two or having swollen body parts. Yum. We fed some rats from our hands with sweets we bought, but it wasn't any more special than what Maarten had done night before at Jodhpur station. Which was jumping down on the rails in between the fat station sewer rats and feeding them cookies. It was fun though to see the rats running around fairly relaxed in broad daylight and by running over people's feet and thus scaring the obvious folks who feared them (mostly women, western tourists and others). Next to us someone -a female tourist- had stepped on a young rat by accident, so it bled to death by the head, yuck. Temple law says that anyone who harms/kills a rat in the temple has to pay a fine of the rat's weight in gold. No temple persons were around at that moment, luckily for the crusher.<br />So, that was the rat temple, short lived fun. Maarten filmed some scenes and we left. We finally got some things repaired in Bikaner as we both had technical problems with our battery packs and other stuff which limited us for the last week or so. <br /><br />All done, so we could take the sleep night train to Jalandhar, Punjab, where we are now since this afternoon! On a sleeper night train of 12 hours long, enough time to snooze. Such change of scenery and people already! Lots of lush green fields filled with corn, grains and vegetables (almost looking like western Belgium or northern France) which is in stark contrast to the dry yellow lands of Rajasthan of the past 2 months. Also the people here speak with different accents and wear the sikh turbans. <br />This morning when we passed Firozpur, we were just a few kilometers away from the Pakistan border cut off by the river Sutlej. We are supposed to go to Pakistan Punjab next week, but as you might have heard about the sudden chaos in Pakistan with the <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20071228/ts_nm/pakistan_dc">assassination of supposed female president Benazir Bhutto</a>, we don't know now if we can get in or even get a visa. Or if it's safe for us to go....hmmm. We have only heard good stories about Pakistan from other travelers so far, so it's hard to say really. <br /><br />More about that tomorrow. Now we're off to the <a href="http://www.harballabh.org/">Shree Baba Harballabh Sangeet Sammelan festival</a> of Punjabi and classical music for the next 3 days, on a press accreditation!<br /><br />Oh yeah, for pictures, look to the right hand side in the link bar as Maarten has made a nifty photoviewer some weeks ago where we are uploading all photo's according to the places we've been. We'll limit the amount of photo's in the posts from now on as it takes a lot of time for us loading them up and for you loading the blog.<br /><br />...our next project in Punjab about to kick off!SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750878361293193010.post-28802623187876397392007-12-20T22:44:00.000+05:302007-12-26T19:48:33.781+05:30Pushkar round-up, straight from the desertNow in Jaisalmer, surrounded by the desert. The bus ride was pretty nice and we even saw some sand dunes. The desert here however doesn't have much sand dunes as you normally would expect. The landscape is quite flat, with sandy and rocky ground where low vegetation grows in the shape of various bushes and small trees. Desert shrub. We arrived in the evening but can see the fort that is lit up in yellow light. It looks nice enough, more pictureque and cute as it lacks the impressive size and exterior of all the other forts in Bundi, Chittor and Jodhpur. We probably won't stay long here and it all depends whether we can find musicians tomorrow. The visit to Barnawa in a few days is way more promising and it feels like we're duly filling our time here. We might get surprised....<br /><br />Since we have done most of our recordings in/around Pushkar and during the mela throughout November, why not a quick round-up of things visual and some audio clips?<br /><br />Side road tattooing at the mela, squatted on the ground, with a pen attached to a little battery accu that gave sparks. Just alcohol was put on the arm and no change of needle. Why sterilize huh? All the customers were kids, the youngest ones being two 12 year-old girls. Whom by the way already had faded tattoos from last year and back to get them done over. Hardcore.<br /><div><object width="420" height="247"><param name="movie" value="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/x3v1oi"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/x3v1oi" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="420" height="247" allowFullScreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always"></embed></object><br /><b><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3v1oi_pushkar-camel-fair-tattooing-long-a_travel">Pushkar Camel Fair Tattooing - long and lighter version</a></b><br /><i>Uploaded by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/ARTISJOK">ARTISJOK</a></i></div><br /><br />The broader folk dance programme of the mela had some amazing dances from the states of Orissa, Haryana, Maharastra, Madya Pradesh and Gujarat. The dance of the sea people from Gujarat stood out by a mile through the tribal drum sounds and the heavy African feel that it breathed in every way. It was said that the dance was 750 years old and from a Gujarati tribe that migrated from inland to the sea -which perhaps excludes that this tribe could have come from Africa, if one has doubts- We still wonder though.... Check out this clip!<br /><div><object width="425" height="331"><param name="movie" value="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/4cX7w8yLpjxThqNkb"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/4cX7w8yLpjxThqNkb" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="331" allowFullScreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always"></embed></object><br /><b><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3svkn_mela-pushkar-gujarat-dance-01_music">Gujarat</a></b><br /><i>Uploaded by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/ARTISJOK">ARTISJOK</a></i></div><br /><br />Some audio clips from the mela, taken at the dance programme and the Rajasthani folk prgramme.<br /><br />Gujarati dance with sticks, where males and females were dancing around each other, hitting their sticks together in different patterns.<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/mp3-sniplets/Mela-Gujarat-Sticks.mp3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/mp3-sniplets/Mela-Gujarat-Sticks.mp3">Gujarati stick dance (excerpt)</a><br /><br />Haryana dance, which is a sort of Punjabi dance. Haryana shares the same culture as Punjab except that they speak Hindi as the only difference.<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/mp3-sniplets/Mela-Haryana.mp3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/mp3-sniplets/Mela-Haryana.mp3">Haryana dance (excerpt)</a><br /><br />Maharastra dance, the state of the cities Mumbai and Pune, which was very vivid with a lot of costumed dancers dressed up as warriors, lions and tigers. The polyphonic beats are pretty special as it sounds like an effect from a sampler, but it was all played on acoustic instruments.<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/mp3-sniplets/Mela-Maharastra.mp3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/mp3-sniplets/Mela-Maharastra.mp3">Maharastra costume dance (excerpt)</a><br /><br />The Desert Symphony. An orchestra that was made out of many different Rajasthani musicians from the west of the state of the Jaisalmer and Barmer districts. It began with an amazing thrift of morchang (jew's harp) that sounded like acoustic acid!<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_black.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/mp3-sniplets/Mela-Desert-Symphony-Intro&Morchang.mp3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" height="52" width="300"></embed><br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/sounds/mp3-sniplets/Mela-Desert-Symphony-Intro&Morchang.mp3">Desert Symphony, morchang intro (excerpt)</a><br /><br />During the mela we met Neire, a mad and sincerely nice fellow Belgian from the west of Flandria (Diksmui' jong!), travelling alone. He had just come from several months hopping around in Pakistan (some good stories about the northwest region) and at the mela and Jaisalmer he made excellent photo's that he liked to share with us..and likewise with you all below! Other eyes scour for different beauty. <br /><br />Ok, we'll have some radio silence for a week now, -and not really thinking about christmas, that is-<br /><br />ek~ Gypsykids<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00458.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00458.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />do~ Making spicey chutney<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00248.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00248.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />tin~ Going for the camera<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00047.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00047.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />chaar~ Musulman takin it chanti<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00004.JPG<br />"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00004.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />paanch~ Never to small for a Biri<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00417.JPG<br />"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00417.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />cheh~ Inbetween the raves<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00204.JPG<br />"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00204.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />saat~ Hup met 't hooi<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00556.JPG<br />"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00556.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />aat~ Ooooh<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00580.JPG<br />"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC00580.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />nau, Morchangplayer from Jaiselmer busstation.<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC01354.JPG<br />"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC01354.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />das, Traditionnel Indian shitting @ sunset!<br /><a href="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC01403.JPG<br />"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://files.maartenvanderglas.com/india/mediaviewers/zenphoto/albums/02%20Neire-Pushkar/DSC01403.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><strong></strong>SebCatLitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08108715878278663871noreply@blogger.com0