HARIDWAR- The City of Orange.

Orange draped devotees with prayer beads slung around their necks, large piles of marigolds being strung into garlands, stalls with row upon row of clothing in every colour of the sun, the disabled and the displaced sitting roadside with beggar plate in hand, tables laden with pyramids of red and burgundy bhindi chalks, bicycle driven rickshaws with brightly upholstered seating (constantly cutting you off to see if you need a ride), boys with bags of plastic toy helicopters whizzing them into the sky, wooden wheeled pushcarts laden with neon painted Hindi God miniatures (and for some reason mini white pearlized Scottish Terriers?!!), children in the water laughing and screaming "hello, hello!", huge garish statues and themed Disney-esque buildings commemorating the Hindu Gods and their stories, people stooped on the steps scrubbing fabric against stone, the little winding streets of the bizarre where colour and texture abound, dogs running past the water buffalo and of course the many cows in all shapes, colours and sizes all accompanied by a soundtrack of loud Hindi music, unregulated engine exhausts and the even louder and constantly over used car horns.

Once again our adventure has been perfected by a wonderful hotel experience. We are staying at the Bhaj Govindam, a five wooden hut hotel on the edge of the river, surrounded by trees and a beautiful garden with it's own steps down into the Ganges. Haridwar, being electronically challenged, meant we could never get through on the phone to make a reservation and so we spent the first day unsuccessfully looking for it and a couple of nights in an OK but definitely not impressive, typical cinderblock type of a place. Nobody seemed to know where it was because it's tucked behind a gorgeous and huge British Raj era building that the government has designated for beggars to live in and is all but derelict. Bhaj is run by a team of young and very sweet guys, and apparently is owned by a very devotional gentleman who lives in a hut not much bigger than our room next to a large shrine at the end of the grounds. Every evening at 7pm, just as the honeysuckle is starting to smell, a conch shell is blown and the bells are rung. An old gentleman emerges from the shrine holding a large, flaming, metal tiered tray that, with the help of a water carrying assistant, is bowed and swooped over the river to the accompaniment of a forty lined prayer and as the sun sets around them and the incantation is reaching it's end, green bowls made of leaves cradling petals and a bright yellow flame start floating by, the lights of similar prayers released higher up the river.

HMM 27.5.06

My experience in Haridwar was one of extremes, and I'm sorry if I ramble, but it's my site, right?

Our 10-day jaunt to the completely vegetarian and alcohol free hamlet of Haridwar left me with a mixed bag of feelings. In it's heart, the town is a beautiful little village nestled where the holy Ganges River flows from the Himalayas, and on the flip side of the equation, due to its religious significance, Haridwar has swollen to epic proportions by a choking glut of pilgrims. Startlingly, the main street through the center of town was more polluted than Mumbai. Rapid blasting, ear-splitting horns were offset by the constant ringing of rickshaw bells as the drivers barely embroidered their way through unsuspecting pedestrians. Since there are no sea breezes as in Mumbai, the air just thickened with exhaust fumes braided into the sweet smell of incense with the underlaying stench of stagnant ponds of defecation. The streets are lined with ashrams, guest-houses, hotels, and as in all Indian towns, those that are both homeless and religionless sleep in any urine-soaked nook and cranny they can squeeze into.

All of the above was offset by the fact that I was mesmerized by all the religious zealots surrounding us, who, for their commitment to their pursuit of Hinduism, have taken the sacred vow of poverty. One set of clothes, a metal canister for rice they are given by local businesses, and in most cases a pair of very cool, beat-up Michael Caine style eyeglasses with coke bottle lenses were their only possessions. For me, it's pretty powerful to be in any significant religious place. When Helen and I went to the Vatican I felt the same way. I don't necessarily agree with the Roman Catholic Church, but there's an unparalleled spiritual energy in a place where so many people have brought their prayers. In other words, it has nothing to do with the rules and regulations of the church, it's the quantity of geographically focused belief that has been placed at the location that is moving to me. Another interesting revelation was the parallel of body weight, income, and temperament. The wealthy were obese and the poor were fractional. The wealthy were ill behaved, barking orders at restaurant staff, pedestrians in their way, and basically muscling whatever they wanted, while the not-so-fortunate tended to be more polite and civil with one another. Being westerners, when we walk through a slum we're flocked as if we are broken ATM's that just fell from the sky, but our hotel was situated across the river from a small slum so we had the privilege to watch them interact with each other. One thing I really began to see was that the poor were always laughing, enjoying each other, and playing with their children while the wealthy always had mobile phones shoved to their ears, kids playing on their Playstations, and they spent most of their agonizing time at dinner doing anything to avoid even looking at other family members. One of the photos is of a wedding in a slum that was on the side of the Ganges. Even though we were at a great distance, I really felt pretty lucky to be able to witness these nuptials. Another day, we were going through the crowds at the ghats and I was stopped by a 60ish man in his underwear, which is what most of the men swim in. He jabbered in Hindi and dragged me away from Helen to a whole group of men in their undies who wanted their picture taken with me. From what I could ascertain, the older man was a director and the big muscle-bound guy on the right was a big Bollywood star. To tell the truth, I was far too overwhelmed to be impressed. If there are any Bollywood fans who recognize the big star please let me know....

On another day, we took a cable car up to the Mansa-Devi Shrine on the top of a mountain overlooking Haridwar. We went for the view and ended up getting blessed. Seconds after the holy man rubbed the colored chalk betweeen our eyebrows the sky broke open with a thundering monsoon. It's funny how those things happen.

On our last day, we came upon one of the strangest things I've ever seen (and after being in India for two months I have been forced to up the bar for "strange" several times). Since Haridwar is not a western tourist town we couldn't decipher the name of the odd attraction so we simply called it Hindi Hell House. It's a massive, warehouse-sized building covered with huge faces with gaping fanged mouths and blaring red eyes, sun-bleached figures on winged horses, various other Hindi mythological monsters, men in contorted fighting postures with swords, balls with chains and other medieval weapons of mass destruction, and of course, the place was covered in enough lights to make the strip in Vegas look like a retirement home Christmas tree! It is now fully apparent why India needs our nuclear technology, not to bomb Pakistan, but to keep Hindi Hell House running! We, being the curious folks that we are, decided to join the throngs of Indians fighting to go inside. A low ceilinged fiberglass cave-like labyrinth (or habitrail path, if you wish) guided us past barely mechanized vignettes of noses being hacked off, heads and arms flying, kidnappings, and more monsters wielding big heavy things helped illustrate important, action-packed moments in Hindu history. In the words of my 60's forefathers: "it was a trip".

The Ganges is a beautiful and powerful river, and to Hindu's it is considered the source of all life. I think anyone who wants to travel through India would be very excited by the sight of such an important body of water. I met a 60-ish German psychotherapist in Goa who said that bathing in the Ganges was one of the most amazing feelings he's ever felt. It was such a powerful experience that after 2 years it still baffled the doctor. Needless to say, before arriving in Haridwar, I was really excited to bathe in the river, but upon a not so close inspection I really was put off from bathing at the Harki-Pari Ghats. I was shocked at the staggering amount of pollution floating through it's ripping current. I saw people throwing half eaten sandwiches, water bottles, candy wrappers, batteries, used diapers, cigarette butts, drained motor oil, clutch cables, and more into the chute formed by the ghats. I even saw parents letting their kids defecate in the holy water. I decided to wait until we checked into our hotel upstream before I thought more about going swimming. The night we arrived at the Bhaj-Govindum I almost   dove in, but there were some burnt logs floating past the private steps that lead to the water of our hotel, so as one who does not look good in soot, once again I decided to wait. The weather cooled and we were so busy that I always returned at night and I don't swim in ANY flowing water after dark (I admit, it's a repercussion from the movie Jaws). A couple of days before we left, Helen and I decided to explore upstream. As we rounded a corner I noticed a long white package across the river. Next to it was a pile of logs that a bunch of men were lighting. About 50 feet upstream was a small tower of feverishly burning logs. I immediately realized that the package was a dead body and these were cremations we were watching. We sat and watched as a bus rolled to a stop on the waterfront and probably 100 men piled out. Four climbed to the roof and pulled off another body wrapped in a white sheet. Others began collecting logs. It was then that I realized what the logs were floating down the river past our hotel the previous days before. As of now, I've decided to put my big Ganges swim on hold.

It may sound like I've been demeaning the place, but I left having affection for Haridwar. Like I said, it's a town of contrasts the size of the Grand Canyon and it's in India. And I've already stated that our western social and emotional equations have no relevance here. So that said, just because things don't make sense to me doesn't mean anything...(deep exhale) just let go, Pete. I also have to mention the guy's who worked at Bhaj Govindum who were such a delight, I will always hold their little hotel close in my heart.

So, now we're off on an excruciatingly long bus ride to McLeod Ganj in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh. It's the place that the exiled Tibetan Government and the Dalai Lama both call home... for now.

I only have one meaningless observation this time: Being a man in India is free license to be a kid again. I can eat with my hands, refuse to bathe, belch freely, scratch myself, dance around at anytime, swim in my undies, and so much more. It's great! One thing that isn't accepted though is passing gas, and unfortunately the man in front of us on the train ride here didn't read that memo.

PMB 28.5.06