Waiter: would you like some more tea?

Me: yup.

Waiter: Teach me how to say that!

Me:  What? Yup?

Waiter: Yes! Yes! That!

Me: You just say yup.

Waiter: yup yup yup

Me:  So could I have some more tea?

Waiter: yup yup yup

Me: How 'bout them Red Sox?

Waiter: yup yup yup

(waiter stands in the starlight. Yodels from distant temples create a soudscape of haunting echoes. He looks out over the Ganges.)

yup yup yup . . . yup  yup yup

I have taken some truly kick-ass pictures, but alas, these public computers don't want to play ball with my uploads, so I am currently working on improving my tech set-up. Stay tuned. I'm at Phool Chatti ashram now, where I'm gradually getting used to doing a week-long yoga retreat. Its a quite serious thing, where you really cut yourself off from the world, stay in silence, and stuff like that. If there was any place in the world to cut yourself off at, it would be this place. The beauty and serenity of this location, 7 km from Rishikesh, and a hundred years from the rest of the world--just blows the mind. I woke up this morning and watch the sky lighten between two mountains that rise straight up out of the ground like teats. The triangle of sky between them gradually turned blue and pretty soon the immense greenery around me emerged. The turquoise of the river, the many shades of the leaves of trees in the Phool Chatti orchard, the lilly ponds, and then the green of the cover crop in the farmer's fields next door. Their hut sits in the middle of this green field with a color so bright and rich you want to eat it. The farmer's wife comes out in her bright sari, hangs some clothes on the line. Some school kids in their uniforms dash off to school in the distance along a path lined with lush, overhanging trees. I could watch them live their lives all day. A perfect entertainment.

But last night was a different story. You know they have jaguars here, which I knew already, which is the only reason I had some idea of why this adventure befell me. What happened was at dusk I decided to take a walk. I'd been writing for hours so I needed to stretch my legs. Well I went out the main gate, along a path, wandered around the side of the building and toward the back, and down to the river, checked out the view, then reluctantly realized I needed to get back, as it was getting dark. Well I tried to come in the back gate but it was locked. Locked tight with steel doors and a padlock as big as my fist. I was wearing my all-white serene and groovy ashram garb, but had to sneak through a barbed wire fence to get into the yard. So much for serene and groovy. There, I discovered that the inner gate was also shut and locked tight! Night descends around me! I start to see boa constrictors and pythons in every shadow. I think about climbing over the wall, but see that it is topped with spikes pointing out, like a prison yard! Only one thing left to do! I run all the way around the building, back to the original path I had been on, then all the way back to the front door, chanting "don't panic! don't panic!"It is shut, but luckily not locked, as someone on the ashram staff had seen me go out. If he hadn't seen me and locked the door, I don't know what would have happened. I probably would have just had to make a fool of myself banging on the door until someone came. Or, alternatively, simply become a jaguar snack. One or the other. Anyway, that was my ludicrous adventure at phool chatti so far. So I'm going on retreat now and probably won't be blogging for a week, at which point I will probably be in or on my way to Nepal.

This trip is too short. I realize now that it takes a while to get your courage up to do stuff, that's why trips like this need to be longer. Like I farted around in Laxman Jula for a week, exploring various roads and paths and things and just allowing chance to have its way with me, but always thinking I should go into Haridwar and check out the Kumb Mela. But really not having any idea how to do it. After some time I talked to some people and got an idea of where the bus stop might be if I have a lot of energy to go exploring. But alas, too late. I'd say every location needs an extra week of courage-building time in order to be able to do actual planned excursions as opposed to wandering-and-letting-fate-do-its-thing excursions. Anyway, that's it for now. I wish all you, my loyal readers, could come and see Phool Chatti. It really would give you a new lease on life. 

I feel sorry for the Ganges. It's a big river, like the Mississippi, not a little ole Rio Grande. And all these people make such a fuss over it. Bathing in it, scattering ashes in it, pouring it over their heads in worship. I've even seen western people taking little sips out of it. But the Ganges just keeps on rollin' along, like old man river, except its old woman river. But it doesn't give a damn about these 50 billion people worshipping it. To the Ganges, a jillion indians and a half jillion tourists are like so many ants in an anthill. Nothing. You can tell it doesn't care. It just flows along, perfectly serene, but powerful in the deep, secret way of water. It goes places, unlike people. It constantly goes places. All these backpackers bragging about the places they've been-- the Ganges laughs at them. Actually it doesn't bother to laugh, that would be like laughing at an ant that bragged it had been to the other side of the anthill. It would just be mean.  The Ganges is a real piece of the world, not like us, with our short fleeting lives. It lives forever. It doesn't care about losing a little water to an eddy that goes stagnant or whoever dumps trash in there. It swallows the trash and disappears it. It doesn't care about the pilgrims that take water from it to offer at temples. It isn't short on water. It ignores people completely, and they don't even notice. Or maybe they do notice, and that's what they respect about it. Anyway, I've seen on TV that man-eating catfish and blind dolphins live in there, so the Ganges has its own little world to worry about down there. It certainly doesn't have time for us fools. 

What’s the damn point? There must be a point. I’ll let you know when it occurs to me. You spend a year in India learning the real nitty gritty of Indian culture. You do everything wrong that you could do wrong, and in the end you say  well at least next time  I go, I’ll really be prepared. The next time you go, you are prepared in every conceivable way. You have predicted and solved problems before they have even occurred. But as it turns out, this time everything is different and whatever you learned the last time? Through painstaking hard labor and suffering? No longer relevant. Nope. Not the least bit relevant. Which only goes to show that the more you know, the less you know. And I mean that sincerely, not just in a bumper sticker kind of way. Thinking you know stuff only sets you up for a bigger fall when it all turns out to be false. The ignorant people are doing just fine, but here you are,  trying desperately to use knowledge that isn’t even relevant to the situation. Out of misplaced vanity, I guess. And by you, I mean me.

Rishikesh, I have discovered, is a European resort. Much like Goa, it is where people come to enjoy themselves and loaf endlessly. They take raft rides on the Ganges, play beach volleyball, and engage in exotic but short-lived trysts with one another. Rishikesh is the Jamaica of Asia. Some of you, being Americans with stars in your eyes about India’s “authenticity”—and you know who you are--will not want to believe this, and I don’t give a damn if you do or don’t. It has taken me about three very confusing days to figure this out even though it is plain as the nose on your face. I saw an Israeli girl honest to god bathing in the Ganges in her underpants. And here I’ve been so careful not to show my ankles.

Rishikesh is also the Santa Fe of India. It s where people come to find themselves, only their observations of Indians in their natural habitats are so mentally tinged with spiritual desperation that they will turn a random cow crossing into some kind of life-changing event.

Cow crosses road, conversation follows: “Cows should cross! Yes, we should all cross, just like the sacred cows! Cross to the other side of consciousness!” Etc. Some of the conversations I overhear or (gack!) am even involved in, would curdle your coffee.

Some of these people are really tripping, basically. But not really. If you tried tripping here, the smells would really get to you. I understand at one point, weed was plentiful here and smoked openly, but I’m not seeing it now. Though I once met some very well educated Indian dudes in a restaurant and one of them stepped outside to smoke some “hashish” while the other one explained its soporific effects to me and what a shame it was that one wasn’t allowed to smoke it indoors anymore, like a regular cigarette. An odd conversation for many reasons—the first being he seemed to think smoking weed was something Indians had made up and kept secret all these years, and the second being that no significant odor emanated from said cigarette, so I’m guessing it was some pretty mild  weed, and not what we call hashish at all. Anyone with more hash experience than I, feel free to comment here and set me straight.

In a conversation with the only truly likeable tourist here, a fifty year old Irish dude, I informed him that Americans have no idea India is a vacation resort. He thought that was funny, since it so obviously is. So anyway, I found a hotel room with a lamp shade. Yes, I eat my words yet again. It overlooks the Ganges, which is like any old river, except it has sandy beaches, all of which have been exploited as tent camps for river rafters and beach volleyball enthusiasts. It also overlooks a restaurant that also overlooks the Ganges. I’m going to sit there a lot and work on this book. I got out of my rugged backpacker gear and bought some fun resort clothes and started going with the flow, what the hell. By the way, there is a "rainbow gathering" in a forest near haridwar, so this place may be more full of colorful and filthy characters than usual.

Baby, it doesn't get any better than this. Bussed up here to Rishikesh pretty painlessly and met an irish brother and sister traveling in India since Xmas. They were fun. Then we got to Laxman Jula, which was mostly closed because it was Holi, the holiday where they throw colored dye on each other and hit you with water balloons. This is good because when the shops are open it looks like any other indian tourist trap, but with them closed, its paradise. Mountains all around, the Ganges flows by under a great suspension bridge, where monkeys play on the wires, some with monkey babies on their backs. that's how confident monkeys are. Everyone threw dye on me and I was covered like everyone else. They rub it on your face, clothes, whatever, its all very jolly. The ganga beach cafe is one of those places that is just- you just can't beat it. It's great. Overlooking the water, they built it of bamboo, like something in bali or thailand or something. You sit on cushions on the floor and check out the view and sip lassi and mango juice and meet people from all over the world. Fabulous. Just fabulous. Of course we're all on vacation here, so what could be better? A little oldies mix plays in the background, it's just great. So far, no beggars. I mean what's India without beggars? But they just aren't around. Go figure. Up at 5 am this morning went for a sunrise walk and checked out the whole town. Its gorgeous when its closed, in a haphazard, cobbled-together way. Saw a homeless man sleeping on the sidewalk, covered with a blanket, his prosthetic leg lying by his side. Standing on the bridge is glorious. The wind just blasts you, attacks you, makes you feel small. Then I come to sit on the bank of the Ganges, where the water is cold cold cold and bits of marigolds wash up and make a line in the sand. I never heard of a river with a sandy beach, but that's what we have here. A dog that looks like my own comes up and says hello, takes his morning dip, then trots off. I go sip my mango juice at the cafe above and a group of ladies in their saris come for their morning dip. They pour it all over themselves. It looks clean enough, I'm just amazed they do this. Its awfully cold. Brave! Some even take their tops off, discretely behind a rock. The men on the rocks above pretend they aren't looking.

Okay, so let's talk hotels. And by hotels I mean hotels, not restaurants,which are also called hotels. What you want to look for, if you are me, for instance, or anyone else traveling with a computer, is a working electrical outlet. The cheaper places don't necessarily have one, so you can't recharch your stuff. Now, by cheap, I mean 100 to 150 rupees, which is 3 to 5 bucks. For this number, in Paharganj, you can stay in Navganj, which is down a back alley past a mini garbage dump where cows graze and also an open urinal. You get a room whose filth is difficult to describe. Now, there isn't trash lying around or anything, it's just the walls. They haven't been painted since, I'd say, 1955, and backpackers from all over the world have done graffiti all over them, which is amusing. Here's some of it:

• This is major tom to ground control . . . (followed by the entire song written in stanzas)
• Trahit Sua Quemque Voluptas (anyone help me with that one?)
• man is a bird without wings, and a bird is a man without sorrows . . . 
• I love you! Don't cry!
• Free Tibet! Free Flandres! Free Bretagne! Free Corse!

There is a lot of stuff about overcoming sorrow, giving the impression this is a place of last resort. A nasty gray blanket covers the window. As per standard,there is one bare flourescent tube and one bare light bulb. If I ever see a lamp shade in India I'll drop dead of shock. There is a bathroom, however, and it's as clean as can be expected. No bugs, and that's the main thing. Okay, now when I say wall, you aren't picturing what I mean. A wall is an ancient thing that's been there since before time began and it is not a decoration, it is a tool. If one needs to drill a hole for a light socket, then remove the socket and leave the wires hanging out, then whatever. If something gets splashed on there and drips down and leaves drip marks, whatever. It will be that way until the end of time. If you have to tape a lot of stuff up there and then leave the little rectangular tape marks all over, whatever. Never wash a wall, never touch a wall if you can help it. A wall is a vertical receptacle for dirt of all kinds. It's not a big deal, you just get used to not touching things. I learned that on my first trip. Don't touch things you don't need to touch and none of this should bother you.

Okay, anyway, moving up, a place like Traveller Guest House-- here, for Rs 450 you get enough space to sleep three, but not swing a cat. You get a western toilet, geyser with hot water, a tv, and set of glasses and a pitcher. I wouldn't watch the whining in Hindi that constitutes TV, wouldn't put my water in any receptacle but my own, and a western toilet is simply a nuisance when you are using the Indian splash-water method of cleaning yourself, so I say its a waste of money, unless you are traveling with 3 people, in which case you are golden.Best case scenario is a place called Yatri Sarai hotel, where for just 200 you get hot water, clean room, working outlet, but no window. Then you have the hotel Scot. I liked this place so much I checked in even though I wasn't planning to spend the night. Someone there actually has a sense of aesthetics. I mean, the walls are somewhat newly painted and there is a ceiling fan and some blankets on the bed and curtains and an Aircon machine that juts out into the room itself like an enormous tumor. It looks something like what you picture when you picture a hotel room, and just Rs 300. That's my all-time pick, so if you go, check it out. Across the alley is a cute cafe where I met an 82 year old lady doing it on her own and not exactly loving it. But was she ever spunky.

Here in Amsterdam, on my layover, I’ve made the decision to consume one of those sketchy 5-hour energy drinks-- in order to stay up for what would be my night but will soon be my day---that claims to be full of b vitamins. Vitamins my ass. The second guessing and American-cultural-awareness thing has begun, as with hours to kill I spent 12 bucks on a cup of yoghurt and a hot tea, then later asked the hip, blonde, dutch-language speaking barrista to refill my water. Suddenly wondered if that was one of those “casual american” things that Europeans consider gouche. Her reaction and the fact that she put about 12 drops of hot water in my cup told me it was. Or else she’s just lazy. Or doesn’t like my hat. Some American man with a baby mistook me for a local and asked me where to buy a phone card. I credit my Jennifer Lopez hat with giving me such enormous first-impression cache. It’s fun being in weird in-between places like this where there are still lots of American accents around as well as languages being spoken that I can honestly say I’ve never heard before whatsoever. But of course its Europe because everyone is drinking capuccino from impossibly small cups that would be recognized, of course, in my home country as rip-offs-- us americans being as volume conscious as we are. Anyhow, you can pick out the Americans for a mile because they are all either fat and round in a very specifically American way or having intellectual or possibly pseudo-intellectual conversations about “the world marketplace” and their “work in Africa,” and extremely fit and organic looking, like they personally own sheep or perhaps a llama or two.

Although I despise "work" as such, I also hate leisure. I am a workaholic who is lazy and an adventurer who can't relax. Thus, the Indian government's prohibition on my doing anything other than tourist activity while visiting India—which my original intent had been to work on a book—has caused me to have to post any and every thing of interest in this public communiqué. Why? Chalk it up to pathological verbosity. A better person could keep it all to herself, but without an audience, I'm sunk. The pen screeches to a halt, and there I am, standing in a foreign land amid a bunch of people who don't believe in love, as a cultural construct, with no purpose or reason for being there.

So, I am today considering it the first day of the journey, although I haven't yet left Santa Fe, simply because today I finally feel like writing about the thing. I see the end of the prep period approaching and the beginning of the actual thing looming, and I seem to be surrendering gradually to fate. It has begun. Having spent the last couple of weeks telling tall tales about luxury living in honeymoon destinations that are nothing nothing nothing at all like the insanity I am about to experience, I am getting ready for complete cultural overload. I remember last time it took 3 weeks just to feel like I was human again and able to do things like catch a tuk-tuk without a general Robinson-Crusoe-ish feeling of strandedness about it all.

This time around I hope it all just falls into place lickety split and I actually have fun. Fun? Well, fun for a lazy workaholic, whatever kind of fun that is. I can't quite tell you what that would look like, but that's why blogs were invented.

See you on the flip side (of the world).

A lot of people find, when they set out to write their life story, that they are likely to hurt someone—parents, friends, associates, old army buddies, and so forth. That's simply because the whole point of writing a book is to (finally) tell the truth. We go through life easing the feelings of people around us, trying to be a good friend, trying to be supportive, and so forth. We're mothers, father, daughters, sons, spouses, employees, bosses. We play so many roles in life that we sometimes forget who we really are and what we really believe. So yes, when you write an honest book about your life and the people in it, sometimes someone is liable to get their feelings hurt. I've seen clients struggle over the exact wording of certain sentences only to finally give up and say, "To hell with it! It's the truth and I'm saying it!" And in the end, readers respect your candor. When they take the whole book into perspective, they get to know you better and don't mind the odd sentence here or there that jogs them out of their comfortable illusions.

You writing a memoir or autobiography is a departure from playing the roles you've played all your life. It is a moment to stand apart from all that and be yourself. The writing of it makes you realize how far you've come in life, whether or not you have been true to your convictions, and what you have yet to give. Whether or not you want to actually publish the thing is up to you. Will it put you at risk? Will the truth (your truth) hurt too many people? Only you can say, but whether or not you publish has no bearing on the fact that writing that memoir is a life-altering experience. It is a summation of who you are, what you believe, what you have learned. It is the non-role-playing honesty that everyone deserves to experience at some point in life.

That's right, life can hurt. It's not news to anyone out there, I'm sure. But when you are writing your autobiography or memoir, this fact can come suddenly into startling relief. Going back over painful memories is the last thing a lot of people want to do, but I find that actually they usually find it quite therapeutive. Now, I'm no shrink and I don't profess to help people with their psychological hangups. (I'd be the last person!) But the memoir-writing process itself does help. I've had clients talk to me about things they've done that they're ashamed of. But when it comes down to a book, what is most interesting is not what you did but WHY you did it. This is the thing that your readers will relate to more than anything. When we look deeply into your motivations for the things you did, your life starts to come more clearly into focus for you. You start to see it in a new light and put the various puzzle pieces together into a logical whole. So, yeah, life can hurt, but memoir-writing can heal.