The Balkan Blues

 She wraps her thick black hair into a knot on the top of her head.  Pulling a small mirror from her large synthetic-leather bag, she plucks some wisps of hair from the knot and arranges them carefully to look careless. 

Sophia is Serbian.  She’s on her way to Montenegro to meet some friends for a holiday. She occupies the window seat next to me on the bus from Dubrovnik to Budva, Montenegro.

“Do you know any cheap place to stay,” she asks me.

“I’ll stay in a hostel.  It’s 11 Euro a night,” I tell her.

She stares at me, her eyes wide in dismay. “Oh,” she says, “Why don’t you stay in a room? People tell me there are rooms in houses cheap. I hope there are, because I can’t spend so much money.”

I reassure her that usually local people show up at the bus stations offering cheap rooms in their homes.

“How much are these rooms? I am kindergarten teacher,” she tells me.  “I have very little money. I left Serbia and went to Zagreb for work.  But really, there is no work.  I graduated from Tourism and Culture, but I can’t find job, so I take job in school with babies.  I hate it.  Their parents are very rich and they are very spoiled.  I am like baby sitter.  And they pay me so little.  But what can I do?”

The Internet source ‘Balkan Insight’ writes that 500 people a day become jobless in Serbia. They state 27% unemployment with an average salary of 380 euro a month.  

Outside the bus, green cliffs drop to a turquoise sea. Traffic halts. The coast road along the Adriatic Sea from Croatia to Montenegro is clogged with vacationing tourists.

***

I had stayed one day and night In Dubrovnik.  I was fortunate enough to have a friend living there who offered me the hospitality of a stay in her home.  We had met the year she had lived in Istanbul.

Dubrovnik proved a bizarre scene -  scantily-clad, rich foreigners parading about with their well-tanned, well-oiled skin on display, wearing extremely expensive but outlandishly skimpy outfits.

Entering the Old Town of Dubrovnik I felt strangely unhinged.  I knew I was outside, but  felt like I was inside.  Walking through the gate into Old Town was like entering an open-air museum.  Unlike Sarajevo where shell-pocked areas are filled-in with a blood-red laminate to mark the spots, and walls of buildings are a bullet-ridden pattern of past carnage, Dubrovnik has erased any and all traces of war.  It stands like a Disneyland theme park for adults: every stone of every building, every marble cobblestone on every street and alleyway shimmering in an alabaster-white sheen of prosperity and security. A scrupulously polished playground for the rich.

The women strutting Dubrovnik’s Old City were equally unreal.  Three women passed me and I had to repress my urge to stare.  Wearing skin-tight, crotch-high, cleavage-revealing dresses, they hip-swayed over the glimmering white marble lanes, one stilettoed foot in front of the other.

Ah, they’re top fasion models on a shoot, I thought to myself. But there were no camera men.  It wasn’t a shoot.  A few minutes later, along came another pair – with legs just as long and shapely, in equally short, tight, outlandish dresses, and equally high-heeled shoes. In twos and threes they strutted their way along the slick streets as tourists sipped fine wine and twirled expensive strands of spaghetti dishes on their forks amidst laughter and holiday good times.

“Yes,” said the Croatian friend I stayed with in Dubrovnik, “Old City Dubrovnik is called ‘the Longest Catwalk in the World.”

“Do you ever go to the Old Cıty,” I asked her.

“No,” she said, “only when I take someone who’s visiting me, and then I try to send them by themselves if possible.  I really never go there.”

“And what about work here??

“Well, in the summer there is work in tourism.  In the winter there is no work.  My degree is in design.  It’s impossible to get a job here.  Maybe if I went to Zagreb I could find something.  That’s why I was in Istanbul.  I found work there for one year.”

***

Things are even worse in Sarajevo.  Neno leads a free walking tour of Sarajevo, depending on the tips of tourists.  He’s passionate about his subject.

“My mother is Muslim.  My father is Serb, but of course he stayed with us during the four years of the war.”

“What about school during those years,” I ask him.  “How did you go to school?”

“We had classes in basements in different neighborhoods.  We ran through sheltered streets to these underground schools.  My mother is a nurse.  And she refused to stay home.  Everyday she walked to the hospital where so many people were injured and dying.  And my father fought for the resistance.”

He points to one of the “roses” on the street. – a shelled area filled in with red. I stand and look, try to imagine what it must have been like to spend four years being shot at by men on the hills surrounding Sarajevo. To be a moving target in a life and death game of chance.

Now the hills are green and verdent.  An early morning mist hangs like wisps of gauze over them.But the people of Sarajevo are still struggling.

“There is 65% unemployment in the winter among the youth of Sarajevo, only 45% in the summer,” Neno tells us. One online source states that  1.35 million Bosnians live abroad out of a total population of 3.752 million. One survey of Bosnia’s  young people states that 81% of those polled stated they would leave tomorrow if they could, in order to find employment opportunities.

On the Balkan Express mini-bus from Budva, Montenegro back to Bosnia, the road winds up into the mountains from the Adriatic sea.  Suddenly I look down and see a river that’s a shade of milky tourquoise.  We continue to serpentine along the Tara River Canyon gorge.  No people.  No houses. Only craggy gray cliffs, deep-green-leaved trees, and a wide party ribbon of turquoise at the bottom. 

When we go uphill, the driver cuts the air-conditioning.  The steward opens the air vent in the roof.  The mini-bus huffs and puffs it’s way up the steep canyon like the little train that could.  The passengers pant and sweat in the heat. We make it to the top of the ridge and begin our descent, finally traveling alongside this incredibly startling light-blue river. It pools into lakes, then swiggles into a river again. 

Eventually we come to a town and stop at a tiny bus stop/cafe.  Passengers slide out of the bus covered in slick sweat.  The driver shouts something in some Balkan language.  A tall, long-haired, natural blond steps out before me.  

“How much time do we have?  Is there enough time to use a toilet?” I ask.

She smiles a charming, white-toothed smile.

“Yes.  Yes.  Come quick with me.  I take you,” she says.

When we get to the toilet, both myself and a young English girl traveling on the same bus fumble for correct change to pay the toilet attendent.  The long-haired blond pays for us and instructs us to go ahead.

When I exit the toilet I try to pay her back.

“No. No, please,”she smiles.  “Is nothing. You are guest in my country. Come sit a minute with me.”

Her name is Jelena.  She comes from Foca. I force a euro into her hand.

“How did you learn to speak English so well?” I ask her.

Her face brightens into a big smile.

“Really? You think I speak English well? .”

“Absolutely,” I say, “and I’m an English teacher.”

“I never took a course,” she says, speaking quickly.  I didn’t go to university.  I just watch TV shows in English and listen to music and learn.  Also this way I learn German.”

“You are so smart,” I tell her.

“Really” But I just work as au pair in Germany - Frankfurt,” she tells me.  “But people are not good people,” she says.  “They tell me they pay 300 Euros a month, but they only give 200.  They say I get 2 days off every week, but I work 7 days a week.  But what can I do?  If I leave, then what will my family do?  I’m only one with job now.  If I leave, we don’t eat anything.”

She roots through her yellow plastic hand bag and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“Would you like one?’

I decline.

“I never smoked before, but I get so nervous in Germany I start.”  She scratches at her arms and legs, draws on her cigarette, compulsively scratches some more.

“I am not lucky,” she tells me.  “I was born here.”

The bus driver honks the horn, summoning the passengers back into the bus.  When she gets off at Foca, she smiles and waves to me. I continue on, returning to Sarajevo.

In the morning I walk up the hill to the war cemetary.  White stone markers pop from the ground like a field of death flowers.  I gaze down at the red  tile roofs, the domes and minarets of the mosques, and tall crosses and church steeples.

Sarajevo is such a lovely, tranquil place now. On the 16th, the Sarajevo International Film Festival will begin. It will be packed with tourists. 

The war with bullets and mortar shells has ended.  But the war with poverty rages on.

Dancing at the Bakirkoy Mental Hospital

When my friend Cabbar invited me to come to the annual party at Turkey's largest and most famous psychiatric hospital, I wasn't sure if I would go.  Cabbar is a musician who had been invited to come and play music with his group for the party.  Knowing how much I love to dance, he asked if I wanted to come along.

Always trying to be open to new and potentially uplifting experiences, I decided to accompany this group of young, alternative Turkish musicians to their gig at the mental hospital gardens.
 
The hospital sent one of their vans to Beyoglu to pick us up, and twenty musicians, jugglers, and myself climbed in along with musical instruments, amplifiers, hula hoops, and red clown noses. The sky was filled with dark ominous rain clouds when we left.  The smell of rain was in the air.

By the time we arrived, the sun was shining.

My musician friends took the stage and set up their equipment as the clowns/jugglers donned their red noses and gay apparel and juggled, hula hooped, and circulated through the throng of patients, visitors, nurses, orderlies, young, old and everything in-between inviting people to join the festivities.

When the music started everyone took seats in front of the stage, sat and listened.  But to my mind, music is made for dancing.  It has always seemed a cosmic wrong not to dance when good music is playing.  And so I began to shake and shimmy, swirl and twirl, inviting people to join me.  Soon the people were on their feet, patients' faces lit up in huge, joyful smiles.  Nurses and patients, orderlies and visitors, clowns and children all dancing together.    

At one point, the musicians broke into a lively, well-known Turkish song.  The patients formed a huge circle, holding onto each other like a long conga line.  A bit out of rhythm.  A bit clumsy.  But one hundred percent joyful they danced around in the sunshine in front of the stage, then broke away to dance with other visitors, clowns, jugglers, and me.

All of us celebrating the music and the moment and life.

Shoulder to Shoulder: Gezi Park

Today: Gezi Park.
I walked up from Besiktas on Gumussuyu Ave. for the first time since the protests began. As I emerged from the steps that lead up from the waterfront, the hair on my arms stood straight up. The cobblestones and bricks had been pulled from the sidewalks to create blockades on every street. Blockades erected to deny the police access. Cobblestones, bricks, outdoor cement tree and shrub planters, plasterboard siding from construction sites, signs - anything portable had been stacked by protesters to deter the police.

Then i reached the top and the sight of Taksim Square filled my eyes with tears. Everywhere. Everywhere flags of every color and shape fluttered in the wind. Red, yellow, orange, blue, white. Flags, banners, placards.

I had wondered, by day 6 would the people's energy weaken?

There were more people of more diverse backgrounds than before.

A group of leathery-faced Alevis (Muslim's most oppressed sub-group) marched and chanted as the crowd applauded them. Behind them, pot-bellied union workers waved flags. They were followed by blithe university kids whistling and singing and clapping. With the passage of each group the other people around would clap and cheer. Bodacious mustachioed Kemalists cheered a group of Kurkish protesters. Football team antagonists marched shoulder to shoulder. Opposing party members helped opposition raise their banners in trees.

One middle-aged woman stood on the steps up to the park waving the Socialist flag. "I have a son," she told me. I don't want him to inherit a world of injustice. I'm here so he can have freedom and a better life."
She hugged me and thanked me for coming and supporting the Turkish people. A young woman came up to us offering us free sandwiches from a large plastic bag filled with sandwiches.

Other young people roamed the park offering various free food items. Some appeared to be pastries donated by bakeries in Taksim. Other volunteers moved silently through the crowd picking up trash.

Under trees heaps of cat food lay in mounds. Along one wall supplies were stacked on the ledge of blocks: antidotes for tear gas; bandages for wounds; antiseptics; concoctions of water and Talcid; biscuits; water.

At one station people come and donate supplies as volunteers sort and dispense.
On the crest of one hill, a sound system has been set up. Between rousing speeches musicians come and play. People form circles and dance traditional Turkish folk dances.

Young, old, fat, thin, left, right are joined in a common cause: freedom

Polarization

Last night at 9pm, people all over Turkey banged and clanged their pots and pans. Friends reported absolute riots of protesting cacophony in Cihangir, Cukurcuma, Besiktas... But my neighborhood was silent with the exception of me and one other pot banger down the street (probably another foreigner or alternative Turk.) From their flats old men shouted angrily at us to stop. Why, i wondered.
My neighborhood is a poor, un-western, area filled with poor, religious Turks. And they support Tayip Erdogan and the AKP Party. Because for them, life has become slightly better in the years since the AK Party took power. Inflation has been cut. They are able to hold jobs that pay the rent. There is no war. They live relatively peaceful, content lives.

When I think of all the people i've seen protesting on the streets these last 5 days, I realize, I rarely (if ever) saw covered women. These were not the poor, disenfranchised of Turkey on the streets of Turkey. These were the secular, educated.

The people of my neighborhood don't see what's happening on Facebook. They happily watch the Penguin Documentary aired by CNN Turk, listen to Erdogan on the news chastise the trouble-makers and tsk tsk tsk their tongues at the mayhem.

I think it's still a long way before Turkey unites in its visions. The vast Anatolian population lies at the opposite end of the continuum from the Western freedom seekers. The poor still give thanks for small favors: meat and rice on the dinner table, a TV, peace to live their simple lives. The people on the streets protesting desire a democratic cornucopia of freedom.

and still the people come

The angry people of Istanbul pour into Beyoglu from the side streets. The police fire rubber bullets. And still they come. The police blasts the crowds with water mixed with tear gas. And still they come. The police fire tear gas bomb after tear gas bomb until the city is an angry gray cloud of toxic gas. People bang and clang on pots and pans in neighborhoods throughout the city. Tanks roam the city. Water cannons pummel back the crowds.  The people leave Taksim, walk to the Bosphorus Bride.   People take the Bosphorus Bridge. The police fire plastic bullets, brutally beat non-violent protesters. And still they come. There are now, in the early afternoon over 4000 people in Beyoglu alone,chanting, fists raised in the air in solidarity. It is rumored that 50,000 police from other areas in Turkey have been sent for. But still the people come. 100,000 people are expected to fill the streets and parks and byways and avenues of Istanbul by this evening.

It's War Folks

A not so funny thing happened on my way to Gezi Park where an ongoing protest is being held to keep Istanbul's last remaining green space from being turned into Istanbul's 94th shopping mall.  It was 1 in the afternoon.  I hadn't heard or read of what might have happened this morning and wanted to go and sit in for awhile if possible.  I was walking along Istiklal Caddesi, Istanbul's main (mainly pedestrian) shopping street.  I was about 2 blocks away from Taksim Sq.  when i heard all kinds of yelling and screaming.  A group of maybe 30 people were running toward me yelling "Polis! Polis!" Then i heard the BOOMPH! BOOMPH! sound of tear gas guns being fired. Taksim Sq disappeared in a cloud of tear gas.  I turned and started running.  Fortunately the wind was blowing hard.  In the opposite direction.  It's war folks.

There's Something in the Air... and it Burns Like Tear Gas

There's now a tank that seems to be parked almost daily on the gay pedestrian street Istiklal Caddesi.  The shoppers and gawkers and tourists and residents on their way somewhere or back walk along the line of shops morphed from Ma and Pop Kebab restaurants and local brands to MacDonalds, Burger King, Benetton, and Mango.  And the protesters who used to daily peacefully march, holding their placards and signs, waving flags and chanting, exercising their democratic rights, now face a new danger: tear gas and water hoses.

For the last ten years that I've here, it was only a once-a-year phenomenon - every 1 May, two tanks stationed at either end of Istiklal threatened any potential dissident. The aftermath of a seventies 1 May that left over thirty people dead.

Today it's become the face of force. A daily reminder to the people of Turkey that the government is ready to use whatever force necessary to squelch any and all dissent.

Last summer, the tables and chairs that lined all the side streets of Beyoglu were ordered "removed."  Those who dare defy the law and placed a table and a few chairs outside for patrons who wanted to smoke and drink outside, suffered the consequences of the "Outdoor Chair and Table Squad" - trucks that roamed the side streets waiting to pounce upon any table or chair placed outside and remove them.

Friday, a new alcohol law was passed.  No alcohol can be sold by stores after 10pm.  I'm not a drinker.  It doesn't affect me.  But there's a trend.  A trend that's highly unsettling.  Tanks parked on the busiest street of Istanbul.  Prohibition of any outdoor show of drinking alcohol.  No alcohol permitted to be bought or sold after 10pm.  And more journalists imprisoned every day.

What's next?  What's becoming of Ataturk's democracy?

Stay tuned for the next installment of "As the world turns Conservative."

the Black Krishna

Walked into Old Vrindavan through narrow lanes lined with beggars; stores selling paintings of your favorite deities with faces surrounded by twinkling christmas lights; the chinka chinka chinka of finger cymbals; holy chants echoing in temple halls; honking rickshaws and old black ball bicycle horn farts.  The ubiquitous starving crippled cows browse through piles of trash, munching on discarded napkins and plastic bags that will twist around their intestines killing them slowly and painfully. Momma monkeys with tiny big-eyed babies clinging to their bellies fight street dogs for scraps.  Hawkers standing at their rough-hewn, gray, wooden carts piled high with roses yell to the passersby - the scent of the roses strong and sweet, perfuming the air.  Garlands of flowers are being sold everywhere to lay at the feet of deities in temples as prevalent as bars in Istanbul's clubbing scene in Beyoglu. The scents of incense and roses mingle with the steam of deep-fried samosas, pakoras, aloo tikka and puri, cow shit and urine.  Pilgrims buy sweets and flowers as offerings to Krishna.

I'm headed to Banke Bihere - the Black Krishna.  Indian pilgrims ply the lane to cast their eyes upon this strange wide-eyed black idol.

I ask directions of a man who gestures I should follow him.  He's dressed in white kurta pyjamas with an impeccably folded blue shawl across his left shoulder, hanging over his chest and back.  He leads me down a side street of sweet sellers and points to the temple on the left.

I kick off my sandals and push them to the side of the pile of removed footwear and pad slap slap slap barefooted along the marble floor to the entrance.

Inside, I begin the serpentine metal-post-lined path to the deity.  It smells like a rose oil factory. Teary-eyed devotees stop periodically, bring their hands together in prayer and gaze toward the enshrined idol on the stage at the front of the temple.

Holding onto their garlands of flowers, baskets of lit candles and marigolds, boxes of sweets, they haul themselves up the steep wooden steps - women on the left, men on the right side of rails that protects the little statue from his worshippers. 

Two priests stand in the neutral zone between the men and women.  The floor is a raised bed of discarded pressed leaf wrappers that held offerings. 

From either side, the rapturous worshippers thrust their boxes , baskets, and other offerings toward the two priests.  Ten, twenty, fifty, and a hundred rupee notes shoved toward their faces.

The two scowling priests grab the rupees, pocket them, fling handfuls of round ping-pong sized and shaped milk sweets at the feet of the little black idol, hand the half full box back to its owner and toss the flowers on the ground.  Some people get their garlands sprinkled with holy water and returned to them.

The faithful gaze big-eyed at the black idol.

It's a quirky little statue even by Hindu standards, with a  jet-black face, huge staring white eyes, and a jewel-button nose, all dressed up in a sparkling glittery gold party dress, accessorized by strings of marigold, rose, and daisy chains.

The worshippers weep and tremble.  Pray to the unmoving little black deity.  The priests' eyebrows furrow. They wave us away and back down the wooden steps.  

My  travel agent, Pankaj Yadao explained the story of the "Black Krishna" when I came to pick up my train ticket.

"In the time of the Muslim King, Akbar - you know him, Madame?"

I nod in affirmation having read about Akbar - the most liberal of all Muslim Kings - who invited scholars from every religion: Muslim, Hindu, Jain, Sikh, Parsi to gather together regularly to discuss far-ranging issues.

Pankaj continues. "There was one singer who was the greatest of all singers.  His name was Hari Das Mahraj - you write that down Madame," he instructs me like a strict primary school teacher. And I dutifully write down the name on the sheet of paper with names of the important temples to visit.

"Hari Das Mahraj's singing was sooo beautiful, that when he sang, all the animals and birds in the forest came to listen.  And stayed until he finished singing."

"One day while he was singing soooooo strong, a Black Krishna rose up out of the ground and told him his singing had called him up to be worshipped  by all.  So they built a temple around the Black Krishna.  And that's the temple Banke Bihere."


                                        *                                  *                                *

I make my way out to the harsh, sunlit entrance.  Squinting, I search for my sandals. I don't dare put on my sunglasses as cheeky monkeys hop about just looking for some glasses to snatch and ransom for a treat.  I slip on my sandals and make my way out in search of somewhere quiet to have some breakfast and write about the Black Krishna.

In Vrindavan Even the Chai Wallahs...

"Masala chai," I say to the young man making a pot of steaming milky spiced black tea.

The chai wallah prays and chants as he tosses the black tea into the stained pot.  Chants as he scoops the sugar and throws it in.  Chants as he pours in the milk.  Rings the prayer bell as the savory-sweet tea boils.  Says a prayer as he pours it through the strainer into the tiny earthenware cup that looks like a miniature clay flower pot.  Hands me my spicy milk tea, then puts his hands together over his heart.

"Nameste.  Hare Krishna," he says to me.

Imagine what life would be like if Starbucks started implementing this policy for their baristas.

rockin' and rollin' with the Hare Krishnas at ISKON, Vrindavan

There was not a single seat available in any of the many trains heading from Delhi to Vrindavan.

"You take bus, Madame. No problem," said the chubby, bald, travel agent/internet manager with the red and gold swatch of gulal between his bushy, salt and pepper eyebrows.

"How long does it take by bus," I asked.

"No.  Not long. Best way.  Go to Kashmiri Gate. To Ayesbeety.  (I.S.B.T - Indian State Bus Terminal). Get bus to Mathura."

I left my guesthouse at Pahar Ganj at 10a.m. Hopped a rickshaw to Kashmiri Gate I.S.B.T., only to find there were no buses there going to Mathura.

"You must go to SarayKalikan for bus to Mathura," one saried lady who looked remarkably like a poor Indira Gandhi, told me.

"Come," she said, "Follow me across the pedestrian bridge."

On the other side of the road, she showed me to a city bus which she explained would be much cheaper than a rickshaw.

A half hour later, I was at Saray Kalikan.

As I started down the lane that led to a hub of buses, I heard a bus hawker yell: "MathuraAgraMathuraAgraMathuraAgra!" as if it were one long word, and realized that this bus for Agra made a stop at Mathura.

So, I grabbed the two rails on either side of the incredibly steep entry steps, and hauled myself up and in.  Taking an aisle seat on the right side of the bus, I gingerly lowered myself down and next to the young man seated in the middle seat.  Even for a tiny person like me, seated next to two small-framed, young Indian men, meant a ride in which my right thing was pressed against the left thigh of the gold-earringed man next to me; my right shoulder and upper arm in constant contact with his left.  The window on our side was broken and unable to open.  The temperature in the bus was about that of a Swiss sauna. 

When we were half an hour from Mathura, the bus pulled into a dusty roadside eatery, everyone got out, ate thalis, and finaly returned to the bus.  I had left my guesthouse in Delhi at 10am.  I arrived in Mathura, more than somewhat disgruntled, at 4pm, and then had to grab a jam-packed tempo from Mathura to Vrindavan .

 What a ridiculous way to spend a day, I thought to myself.  I metaphorically clicked my tongue at my foolishness at spending one of my last few days in India riding on a hot sweaty bus.  And considering how long it took, I inwardly seethed with frustration, knowing that I'd have to repeat the process the very next day.  How bloody stupid, I thought.

Then, to put the cherry on the top of the melting sundae, I discovered that because it was the Hindu holiday of Navratri, there were no rooms at the proverbial inn.  I sprinted from one ashram to the next, hot, dusty, sweaty and tired, each time receiving the same reply: "Sorry Mam.  No room.  All full."

But thanks to my former Rishikesh guesthousemate - a long-time Indian traveler from the UK,  I had an ace up my sari.

"It ain't pretty.  But it's cheap and safe," he told me. "It'll do in a pinch.  If all else fails.  The manager - a big bloke - 'll sleep outside your room and snore like a chimney.  But mind the monkeys.  Don't even think a going out a yur room with any food.  And don't wear any kind a glasses.  Those cheeky monkey's 're notorious fer  stealin the glasses right off your face and ransomin them for food.  And not just any food.  They'll hold out for somethin special,they will."

So down a side street I hustled, and sure enough the "big bloke" showed me the room right behind where he sleeps on a cot outside.  Not exactly a celebration of the senses, but maybe not the very worst room I've ever stayed in India.  (pretty close to the end of the spectrum of low expectations, though). But for 200 ruppees (less than the equivalent of $3.75) it was perfectly manageable.

Room settled, I rushed down the main road to where I saw a sign for a travel agent as I was coming into town.

It turned out that there was a seat available at 7am from Mathura to Delhi the day after the following day. Yes! I could spend all day tomorrow and then just a ride of only three hours on a vehicle with a toilet and roaming food and drink vendors the following day. Things were looking up.

"First just go across the street to ISKON," my friendly travel agent told me. "Everyone should visit there.  Then tomorrow you must go to the most important temple in Vrindavan, Banke Bihere.  It's where the famous black Krishan is.  And there's a Durga temple where many Navratri celebrations are taking place.  By the way, are you on Facebook?"

                                 *                                           *                                  *

ISKON stands for the International Society for Krishna Consciousness.  And these people know how to throw a good worship.

As I approached the main hall, I could hear the drums and tambourines, finger cymbols, harmonium and one beautiful voice leading the faithful in rounds of: "Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare.         

I'd expected shaven-headed devotees wrapped in saffron sheets.  What I hadn't expected was to be greeted by an official greeter, whose first act was to invite me to dance.

Yes sir! My kind of temple.  My kind of prayer.

And so within my first minute inside Balaram Temple, I was twirling ecstatically, waving my arms in the air, and chanting "Hare Krishna."

Then I felt a tap on my left arm.  I turned to see a small, gray-haired Indian lady in an autumn-leaf motif sari, who smiled into my eyes and indicated she wanted to dance with me.  Another woman joined us and as the music  grew in tempo and intensity, more and more women joined the group, as well as children and men.

"Hare Krishna" was sung in ways I could never have imagined.  A devotee with a voice somewhere between an Aaron Neville warble and an Ella Fitzgerald scat, sang soulful variations on the them of the old standard.  "Hare Krishna" morphed into a spiritual opus and the crowd went wild.  Faster and faster.  More and more frenzied.  Everyone clapping chanting dancing spinning.  Men women children.  The only thing to be concerned about was stepping on one of the prostrate bodies on the floor.

And I was so glad, so unbelievably glad I had traveled those hot, sweaty hours in that unairconditioned bus, plastered against the passenger to my right, on a 100 degree day.

                                    *                                         *                                       *

Smiling ear to ear, looking into other radiant, smiling eyes, dancing together, singing together, celebrating life, it was a great way to end my two and a half months in India.                      

the God-loving Atheist

There's this "eye game" I play with babas, sadhus, devotees, and other "holy" men.  I call it a game, but  it's the realest, purest thing I know.

What I do is make eye contact with passing holy men and see what happens.  If their eyes pass over mine without any contact, I find myself making an instant judgement about them - that although they may have all the trappings of holy men, their hearts are cold and closed.

Who am I to judge, you may ask yourselves.  And quite honestly I ask myself the same question. But my heart tells me that I know.  And that if you look, really look, into the eyes of someone, you'll know too.  And I am driven to know.

But sometimes, something amazing transpires.

For example, last night, in the Haridwar Bazaar, on the way back from the arti at HarKi Pairi ghat on the Ganges, I looked, really looked into the eyes of a passing baba.  He was dressed in a ragged, course faded sarong that might have once been saffron.  His hair was shoulder length.  A dirty turban was wrapped around his stringy hair.  His momentum propelled him two steps past me. Then he stopped, turned around, and met my gaze.

And how do I describe what happened next?  If I search my consciousness, I can only say that as I looked into his eyes there was an inner mantra chanting: "The God within me salutes the God within you."

Now what's really strange about this, is that I'm an atheist.  I don't believe in God.  I mean, look at all the horrors in this world.  If there were an omnipotent, all-powerful God, would s/he allow such atrocities to take place?  I don't think so.  But what are all people but composites of contradiction.  I am an atheist who dances for God.  I am an atheist who greets holy men by a connection that joins us together in a God I don't believe in.

So, let me tell you what happened next...

We stood there, in the midst of the chaos, in the midst of the men and women and children pouring through the bazaar.  We stood there gazing into each others eyes as families purchased religious trinkets, paintings of deities, soft thick-piled blankets, and milk sweets.  We stood there, riveted, smiling at each other. Smile building to grin. Grin blooming to an ear-to-ear, tooth-revealing beam. Our delight blossoming to joy. Holding eye contact, connecting on some incredibly deep place. A place of pure love. Standing there like in a scene from a film where two people fall in love in the middle of some crazy swirling blur of activity.  The two of us stood there and gazed into each others eyes smiling like fools. And laughing. About what it's hard to say, but there we stood and smiled and laughed, as the rush of people in the bazaar swarmed around and past us.

And then this morning...

I had stopped at the bathing ghat along the Ganges for a glimpse of the river, when my eyes glanced over at one of the sadhus sitting on the steps begging.  This time it was my eyes that passed over his face. This time it was I who started away but then looked back.  Something pulling me back to his face. And he held my eyes.  And I gazed back and met love pouring from his heart, out his eyes with all the love in my heart.  And we started smiling - connecting beyond words, beyond intellect, beyond religion and tradition, and politics and paradigms.  We connected soul to soul, heart to heart.  His eyes like a bubbling fountain of joy.  And then we started to laugh and laugh and laugh.

And then my laughter turned to tears.

I wanted to sob. I wanted to sob so hard I shook off all the pettiness from my bones. Sob so hard I shook off all my arrogance and judgements.  Sob so hard I shook off all traces of stinginess and greed and competition and vanity.

I wanted to sob so hard my tears washed away all my transgressions; washed away my skin, my separateness. That my heart might merge with the heart of all.

But all I could do was let the tears fall, gaze with love at my new soul mate, bring my hands together at chin level and whisper the word Nameste.

He mirrored my gesture and word.
I turned and walked away.  I knew I needed to sit in a cool place by the Ganga and write - write to try and catch the swirl of emotion-packed words bursting from my mind; try to make some literal sense of of what was happening to me, try to move from the ephemeral sphere of light I had zoomed off to and come back to earth.  Ground myself in the black written words on a solid page of a earthy yellow and orange journal.

Passing the Ganesh Temple Ghat, I stopped to pay my respects to that cute little chubby elephant deity whose responsibility it is to eradicate obstacles.

Standing there I gazed down at the shady steps that led to the Ganges and knew it was where I wanted to sit.  I entered the gate, looked at the first saffron-draped bearded man, and through body language indicated I wanted to enter and sit at the bottom of the steps.

He nodded consent, smiled, and pointed to my shoes, which I took off and left.

I walked down a few cement steps, sat down, and leaned my back against the cool wall.

There were six babas. One combed out his waist-length hair, wet from his ritual dip in the river.  One stoked the fire which burned at the bottom of the steps.  One lit incense.  One bathed in the river.  One lay under a ratty saffron blanket.  One sat and stared at the Ganges. I scribbled siren-song notes in my cheap journal.

When the words had climaxed and ceased to flow.  When I had spent myself, my passion cooled, I closed my book, put it in my red, purple and black hand-made bag from Thailand, and stood up.  When I got to the top of the steps, I turned and looked down at the babas.

"Nameste," I called out to them.

All six heads pivoted and turned to me, smiling.

"Where are you from?" one called up to me in English.

"I am from the same place as you," I answered.  "We are all from God," said the atheist.

He laughed and translated to the rest of the babas.  They all stood at the bottom of the steps smiling up at me, laughing, and waving good-bye.

the eye game in Haridwar

There's this "eye game" I play with babas, sadhus, devotees, and other "holy" men.  I call it a game, but  it's the realest, purest thing I know.

What I do is make eye contact with passing holy men and see what happens.  If their eyes pass over mine without any contact, I find myself making an instant judgement about them - that although they may have all the trappings of holy men, their hearts are cold and closed.

Who am I to judge, you may ask yourselves.  And quite honestly I ask myself the same question. But my heart tells me that I know.  And that if you look, really look, into the eyes of someone, you'll know too.  And I am driven to know.

But sometimes, something amazing transpires.

For example, last night, in the Haridwar Bazaar, on the way back from the arti at HarKi Pairi ghat on the Ganges, I looked, really looked into the eyes of a passing baba.  He was dressed in a ragged, course faded sarong that might have once been saffron.  His hair was shoulder length.  A dirty turban was wrapped around his stringy hair.  His momentum propelled him two steps past me. Then he stopped, turned around, and met my gaze.

And how do I describe what happened next?  If I search my consciousness, I can only say that as I looked into his eyes there was an inner mantra chanting: "The God within me salutes the God within you."

Now what's really strange about this, is that I'm an atheist.  I don't believe in God.  I mean, look at all the horrors in this world.  If there were an omnipotent, all-powerful God, would s/he allow such atrocities to take place?  I don't think so.  But what are all people but composites of contradiction.  I am an atheist who dances for God.  I am an atheist who greets holy men by a connection that joins us together in a God I don't believe in.

So, let me tell you what happened next...

We stood there, in the midst of the chaos, in the midst of the men and women and children pouring through the bazaar.  We stood there gazing into each others eyes as families purchased religious trinkets, paintings of deities, soft thick-piled blankets, and milk sweets.  We stood there, riveted, smiling at each other. Smile building to grin. Grin blooming to an ear-to-ear, tooth-revealing beam. Our delight blossoming to joy. Holding eye contact, connecting on some incredibly deep place. A place of pure love. Standing there like in a scene from a film where two people fall in love in the middle of some crazy swirling blur of activity.  The two of us stood there and gazed into each others eyes smiling like fools. And laughing. About what it's hard to say, but there we stood and smiled and laughed, as the rush of people in the bazaar swarmed around and past us.

And then this morning...

I had stopped at the bathing ghat along the Ganges for a glimpse of the river, when my eyes glanced over at one of the sadhus sitting on the steps begging.  This time it was my eyes that passed over his face. This time it was I who started away but then looked back.  Something pulling me back to his face. And he held my eyes.  And I gazed back and met love pouring from his heart, out his eyes with all the love in my heart.  And we started smiling - connecting beyond words, beyond intellect, beyond religion and tradition, and politics and paradigms.  We connected soul to soul, heart to heart.  His eyes like a bubbling fountain of joy.  And then we started to laugh and laugh and laugh. 

And then my laughter turned to tears.

I wanted to sob. I wanted to sob so hard I shook off all the pettiness from my bones. Sob so hard I shook off all my arrogance and judgements.  Sob so hard I shook off all traces of stinginess and greed and competition and vanity.

I wanted to sob so hard my tears washed away all my transgressions; washed away my skin, my separateness. That my heart might merge with the heart of all.

But all I could do was let the tears fall, gaze with love at my new soul mate, bring my hands together at chin level and whisper the word Nameste.

He mirrored my gesture and word.

I turned and walked away.  I knew I needed to sit in a cool place by the Ganga and write - write to try and catch the swirl of emotion-packed words bursting from my mind; try to make some literal sense of of what was happening to me, try to move from the ephemeral sphere of light I had zoomed off to and come back to earth.  Ground myself in the black written words on a solid page of a earthy yellow and orange journal.

Passing the Ganesh Temple Ghat, I stopped to pay my respects to that cute little chubby elephant deity whose responsibility it is to eradicate obstacles.

Standing there I gazed down at the shady steps that led to the Ganges and knew it was where I wanted to sit.  I entered the gate, looked at the first saffron-draped bearded man, and through body language indicated I wanted to enter and sit at the bottom of the steps.

He nodded consent, smiled, and pointed to my shoes, which I took off and left.

I walked down a few cement steps, sat down, and leaned my back against the cool wall.

There were six babas. One combed out his waist-length hair, wet from his ritual dip in the river.  One stoked the fire which burned at the bottom of the steps.  One lit incense.  One bathed in the river.  One lay under a ratty saffron blanket.  One sat and stared at the Ganges. I scribbled siren-song notes in my cheap journal.

When the words had climaxed and ceased to flow.  When I had spent myself, my passion cooled, I closed my book, put it in my red, purple and black hand-made bag from Thailand, and stood up.  When I got to the top of the steps, I turned and looked down at the babas.

"Nameste," I called out to them.

All six heads pivoted and turned to me, smiling.

"Where are you from?" one called up to me in English.

"I am from the same place as you," I answered.  "We are all from God," said the atheist.

He laughed and translated to the rest of the babas.  They all stood at the bottom of the steps smiling up at me, laughing, and waving good-bye.

Sicilian Rose

Sometimes you can know somebody for just part of a day and yet be so touched that when you part you feel vectors tugging from you heart to theirs.

That's how it was with Sicilian Rose.

We had met at the Brown Bread Bakery and decided to spend an afternoon being tourists together the next day.

We hailed an auto rickshaw to Jama Majid, the huge Muslim mosque crowning the hill of Old Delhi.  Stalled in Delhi traffic we began to share our lives, our stories.  She - so young and vulnerable, of Sicilian decent, but raised in London - just finding her way.  Me - a crazy old trouper.

As the rickshaw inched along past the Sikh temple, the Shiva Temple, Muslim mosques, the hardware bazaars, second-hand bazaars, spice bazaars, she opened up one sentence at a time.  One tale at a time.  One memory at a time.  Testing the ground.  With each step a new revelation. With each inch of progression on our route, a step closer to each other.

From the Jama Majid, we walked to the Red Fort.  Then mounted a bicycle rickshaw.  The short, skinny rider leaning into the pedals, pushing with all his slight weight and strength, turning around to announce the price of every monument, the goods sold in every passed bazaar, the derivation of each temple. 

Our bums aching from the pounding we took each time we hit a pothole and slammed down against the barely padded seat, we talked of this and that.  Laughing.  Revealing our lives to each other.

The bicycle rickshaw rider finally dropped us off at the New Delhi Railway Station.  We staggered out of the rickshaw.  Stopping strangers to get our bearings.  Crossing back to Pahar Ganj.

I led her up the stairs to the Everest Rooftop Restaurant.  Introduced her to momos.

And when we climbed down and began our goodbyes, tears filled our eyes.

"Thank you for sharing the day with me," I said.  "And thank you for sharing your self."

"Thank you," she said.

We hugged, holding each other tenderly.  Then she turned into the internet cafe.  I turned the corner to my hotel feeling so fortunate to have shared such of lovely day with such a lovely young woman.

Dog Bite!!!

It had started out such a good morning - the day after Holi.  The sky clear and blue.  A fresh cool morning breeze.

I exercised, took a cool-water bucket shower, ate half a papaya, and then headed to the clock tower.  At the chai wallah's, I sat on a narrow wooden bench with the locals and sipped my sweet, milky tea.

Being early in the day, the streets were unusually clear.  An hour or so later, they would become bedlam.  Auto rickshaws, bicycles, trucks and taxis sounding their horns, swerving, darting, hucksters screaming at passers by to purchase their goods, shopkeepers keeping up a mind-numbing stream of "Yes, Mam.  Please come, Mam.:" Children yelling, mothers scolding, aunties and sisters chattering, cows lowing. But now the street was blinking in the morning sun, stretching and langorously yawning.  Men slowly setting up stands.  Women, slowly laying blankets on the ground. 

Enjoying the openness, I strode happily along the main avenue on my way to the Railway Booking Office to take advantage of the Special Tourist Quota.

Then, as I walked past the Hotel City Palace Restaurant (in India, a "hotel" is usually just a restaurant), a large tan dog ran out from where it had been lying on the cool steps of the restaurant, came charging at me, and before I could take in what was happening, sunk its teeth deep into my right calf.  Then ran off.

I felt pain, but denial is so pervasive, I hoped it was just superficial.  Pulling up my pants leg, I stared in panic as blood ran from four huge fang punctures.

Men gathered around me in a circle and stared.  Black eyes, furrowed eyebrows.  Blood running down my leg.  Four fang punctures. A moment in timelessness.

Finally, words broke through my tight locked lips. 

"Hospital.  Hospital," I stammered.

A well-dressed man broke through the circle of men surrounding me - the manager of the Hotel City Palace.

"Not my dog!  Not my dog!" he repeated.  He commandeered a rickshaw and gave instructions to the driver.

"Driver take you to hospital.  You pay him 40 rupees, Madame.

The young driver pulled out into the street and before I could think or speak, we were off.

I stared down at my leg in horror and morbid fascination. My main fear wasn't death by rabies, although from accounts I've read, it certainly wouldn't be my first choice of how to go - a horrifying two weeks of excruciating pain and insanity - but for me, the fear was: will the puncture wound affect my calf muscle and impede  my dancing?

At the first clinic my driver stopped at, an old man cleaning the floor with a dirty old rag, waved us away and we darted off again.

The driver pulled up to the Government Hospital and turned off the engine.  He helped me out of the rickshaw and ushered me into the dark emergency entrance.  He explained what had happened to me to various curious people, maybe hospital staff, maybe not, I had no idea  Finally one young man in cheap jeans and a navy blue polo short dotted with the tiny white lint balls that form on cheap polyesther fabric came over and listened intently to my driver.  Since he had a stethyscope dangling around his neck, I assumed he was a doctor.  He ushered me into an examination room and told me to sit on a metal stool.

"Ok, Madame?" my driver asked.  You want I wait?"

"No.  No, thank you," I said and dug through my purse for his 40 rupees.

He took it from me with the typical waggle of the head, but his eyes returned to mine.

"Ok, Madame?" I felt his reluctance to leave me, his ward, his injured passenger.

"Yes.  Yes.  It's okay.  You can go."

"Okay, Madame."  He smiled weakly, turned and left.

The lint ball doctor's face was more Chinese than Indian- Round, his skin color very light.  He spoke good English.

"Okay, Madame, you will have to wait a bit.  Main doctor coming soon. Please just sit and relax."  He spoke gently and slowly, with sweetness and compassion while just outside the doorless opening to the room a cluster of dark-skinned people stared at me.  When I turned my head toward them, I met the black eyes of twelve black faces that studied me, expressionlessly.

"Excuse me," I said to the Chinese-looking doctor, "is it possible to clean the wound with some antisceptic while I'm waiting for the doctor?"

"Oh, yes.  Please follow me, Man."

We parted the lake of waiting patients and he led me to the next room where two tiny yellow-saried nurses with white nurses caps were busily sorting through some stacks.

Sunil, my guardian angel, was from the far North of India.

"You don't look Indian," I said.

 "In the North everybody look like me.  Chinese type face.  Near Tibet. I"m a medical student here."

He had just completed his all night shift in the emergency ward when I walked in ashen-faced and bleeding from four fang punctures.

He engaged in intense conversation with the two nurses.  The more aggressive of the two turned to me and in very pidgeon English said; "You eat? Morning."  She pointed vigorously to the floor.  "Morning?  You eat?"

"Half a papaya and chai," I answered when I could finally figure out what she was asking me.

How this figured into the treatment for a dog bite - the possibility of rabies and infection - I couldn't imagine, but she was adamant about the need for me to eat something.

After wetting tiny wisps of cotton with some liquid and bare-handed dabbing at the fang holes and wiping the blood spilling down my legs, he simply tossed the bloody bits of cotton on the dull gray cement floor, and rubbed his hands together, spreading my blood evenly over them before finding a tissue to wipe them with.

The tiny vociferous nurse kept up a diatribe and when he led me out of the room, he told me I must go out and get something to eat.

"But I can't walk," I said in a pitiable whine as I hobbled out of the room.

"Okay Mam.  You sit on this tool and wait here. I'll be right back with something for you." And he grabbed a motorcycle helmet and disappeared out the back door of the hospital.

He was back in just a few minutes and handed me two packages of orange-creme-filled biscuits.

The idea of eating anything seed repugnant, but I forced myself to eat three, afraid of the fierce nurse, and drank some water.

"Okay, Mam, main doctor come now," said Sunil and he ushered me back into the first room.

A tall doctor in jeans and a blue shirt looked superciliously down at my leg as Sunil explained my situation to him.

'Please step on the scale to be weighed," Sunil said.

"Forty-seven k," he announced to the doctor, who made some notes on a piece of paper and waved me out of the office.

So once again, Sunil walked, as I limped into the room with the two nurses.

Thank God, the tough nurse was a good stick.  One injection in my right upper arm.  One injection in my left upper arm.  One injection in my hip.  And one injection at the spot in my calf in the middle of the teeth bites.

Sunil led me out, told me to lean against the wall and went up to the dispensary.  He returned with a packet of antibiotics to fight the infection.  A tube of iodine ointment.  And a packet of paracetymol for the pain.  He patiently explained how I should go home, wash well with soap and water and the schedule for the remaining four more anti-rabies shots.

"How you go home, Madame?" he asked.

"Rickshaw," I said.

"Come Madame.  Please," he said. "My shift finished.  I take you your guest house."

I climbed onto the back of this saint's motorbike and he took me to where I was staying.

"Thank you so much," I stammered tears flooding my eyes.

"It's alright," he said looking down at the ground.  No problem."

And this dear saint drove off.

I stand watching him turn the corner and feel like Blanche Dubois.  "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

.