Welcome to Backpackerstan

Backpackerstan. I love this term. I'm not sure where it originated from but it describes some places perfectly. The name invokes something exotic and edgy yet with all the fluffiness and comfort of 'back home' - a one word oxymoron. One of these places is Mcleod Ganj where I have just arrived. If I had done some research I would not have been so surprised at arriving here. But as it is I hadn't and all I knew was that this was the seat of the Tibetan Government in exile, home of the Dalai Lama and most important for me where the Vipassana centre is located where I am due to start a ten day silent meditation course. It is fascinating how each of these independent travellers, bent of discovering somethng 'new', something 'real', contributed to the creation of a Backpackerstan. Probably the very thing they were trying to avoid. It is also fascinating how such a place is created in the first place: A trickle of early explorers/travellers discovers a place, a community that accepts them, allowing them to live amongst them, cheaply and with some spiritual or environmental depth. These travellers tell their friends about this place and as the word is passed around the traveller grapevine the trickle turns into a stream. The path becomes troddenand soon enough the guidebooks get hold of it, as it is their job to do. The stream turns into a river as more laid back, less hardy travellers arrive. Businesses emerge catering for thier needs: Toilet roll, biscuits, crisps and beer. Inevitabely, the chocolate banana pancake is served and once the trance parties start the transformation is complete.

But the Backpackerstans of the world are not all the same and they are not necessarily a sell out to the 'true' traveller. There is a real reason why the place became a Backpackerstan in the first place it's not all coincidence.

Mcleod Ganj's allure is twofold. It lies at just below 2000m in the Indian Himalayas. The beauty of the Himalayan valleus topped by 6000m snow capped peaks and a temperate climate make it a haven from the rest of India. But more importantly (for the creation of a Backpackerstan) it is the home of the Tibetan government in exile and the home of the highest spiritual leader in Buddhism , the Dalai Lama. The popularity of Buddhism amongst western travellers need not be stated and they originally came here for the chance to commune with the great leader. In the streets of Mcleod Ganj, marron robed buddhist monks and Tibetan clothed westerners dot the streets in equal numbers amongst the more western dressed Tibetan and Indian residents. In the background in a plethora of signage restuarants claiming they make the best pizzas in town and guest houses delcaring the best and cheapest rooms vie for business. This is not how the town would've evolved without the backpackers. But it would be wrong also to attribute all the changes of Mcleod Ganj to backpackers. The seat of the Dalai Lama and the beautiful mountain scenery makes it a destination also for the more traditional tourist, foreign and Indian alike as well as a pilgrimage for Buddhists the world over. They too have affected the evolution of the town considerably and many businesses cater for their needs instead: Shops selling expensive Buddhist and Tibetan trinkets, statues and singing bowls line the streets leading to the main temple. However although these tourists have had some affect on the town and the numbers of Indian tourists alone easily outnumber the other type of tourists it is the backpackers that stay long term and have made the biggest differences here.

Once a Backpackerstan is born there is no going back. The culture of the place changes, the young , influenced by their western (richer) visitors fuse their culture with their own to create a hybrid culture sometimes combining the best of both cultures, often combining the worst. But that does not make travellers bad or irresponsible. It would be dishonest to the host for the traveller to pretend to be something they are not in order to prevent cultural changes. That is social engineering in itself. Cultures change all the time, influenced by everything they come in contact with. The fusion of cultures and it's evolution, happening faster here than other places is fascinating to watch.

A message for those that spurn such environments looking for the 'real' India, stop looking and start seeing because this is as real as anything else. Welcome to Backpackerstan!

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Ski Touring in the Himalayas

The shock is almost as pressing on the mind as on the body. Travelling from the tropics of the Andaman Islands into the mountainous regions of Himalayan India is a change worthy of planetary distances. The change certainly took its toll on my health: I immediately came down with a cold and a rogue sand fly bite on my ankle got so badly infected that I couldn't walk. Alas all that mended and I was right as rain (if not a little cold) for a ski touring exped I had organised. When organising such trip it always comes down to a roll of the die if you end up with a good group, of people that get along, of the right fitness and skill level. I rolled a six! Our group consisted of the Swiss/French guide and owner of the company, a Quebecoise and myself. Two cooks made up the base camp staff and looked after all our affairs leaving us free to only contemplate the mountains. I've never taken part in a 5* all inclusive camping trip - but I bet it doesn't get any better than this... one day there was a steaming hot pizza waiting for us as we descended the last slope into camp.

Before I start digressing too much, the mountains were free of any tracks, of any people and we had it to ourselves for the four day expedition. We reached our maximum altitude of 4300m on the third day. Absolutely amazing!

Andaman Islands: Week 2

Andaman Islands: Weeks 3-4

The Andaman Islands are the tropical paradise that they are made out to be. The fine, white, sandy, palm tree fringed beaches are heavenly and the sea a balmy 28 degrees. Although the archipelago consists of hundreds of islands only about 17 are accessible to tourists (without their own boat), Indian and foreigner alike. Geographically the islands are more south east Asia than India, anthropologically they are even further removed - the indigenous population are neither South East Asian nor Indian. Their language descends from a unique historical tree as well as their genealogy. Sadly the cat and mouse games played by the various super powers over the ages have rendered these populations insignificant and their numbers remain in decline. Recently attempts have been made to repair the damage that colonisation has wrecked on these populations and certain measures have been put into place: tourists can only travel to only a few islands, contact with indigenous populations is prohibited and so too is venturing into their territories. But as is often the case, these actions are too little and too late and the majority of the indigenous populations are on a downward slide. Just recently their was the much publiscised case of the last surviving member of the Bo tribe passing away, taking with her a 65000 year of language and history. Instead the main inhabitants of the islands these days are immigrants from the main land. Some have moved over as refugees, others as a deal with the government. These second and third generation immigrants provide all the businesses on the tourist islands. Although tourist numbers are increasing, it is still fairly easy to find a piece of paradise for yourself. :-)

Andamans... Week 1

Let's let the photos do the talking... More photos at: Andamans

The Present of Travelling

Tourists gather in a small hotel lobby where wifi is available to connect with their lives. Even though one can physically be thousands of miles away from the strifes of modern life, one's mind, for better or for worse, does not stray more than a click away. Pondicherry, India

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Kumbh Mela 2013

The Kumbh Mela was a fascinating experience. I had the opportunity of being part of the largest procession in the world on the 10th February, the most auspicious day in the Hindu calander for the last 144 years. Follow my day by day posts on the links below. Day 7Day 6Day 5Day 4Day 3Day 2Day 1

Varanasi: First Look

Varanasi is, in a nutshell, a great big cauldron of excrement and faith. People's devotion and the colours, though, make this a photographers dream and never before have I seen so many dreadlocks and extremely expensive cameras in one place. More pictures at:

http://www.evelyn-vijay.blogspot.in/2013/02/varanasi-first-look.html

Finding Richard Parker

Tigers are extremely elusive, preferring the dense foliage of the forest to any open space where we could spot them from. But this tiger, in his charity offered us a little spy window through the trees where we could just make out his stripes - his camoflage failing - but only if one knows specifically where to look. He was pretty far off and all I could really see were some stripes in the forest which, to be honest, weren't so impressive. But then when the elephant trackers went too close he let out a tremendous roar that reverberated throughout the jungle and struck deep down into my core; rattling my bones and sending my soul cowering into a dark corner. This is without doubt the most impressive sound I have ever heard!

Ajanta Caves

Indian Railway System

The Indian railway system is awesome. It handles over 7 billion passengers in the world each year making it most probably the largest mass transportation system in the world*. These passengers as well as millions of tonnes of frieght travel over 64,000 km of tracks in one of 9,000 locomotives. Finally these lucky travellers have over 7,000 stations to choose from. The railway has over a million regular employees making it one of the worlds largest single employer too. Managing this system is mind boggling but the Indians haven't balked at this task. They have grasped it with both hands and created an online platform where one can book seats on any one of the 10,000 daily trains** through the seven different classes. But that's not all either, 50% of the reserved train tickets are held in an emergency quota and only released for sale one day before travel making the online rush for tickets a daily crush for any system. But it works and it works well. Could this be the world's largest operable online platform?*

Again, that's not all. If one changes their mind they can cancel beforehand and receive about 95% of the ticket cost back and even if one doesn't cancel and not travel one is eligible for some refund.

But no system is perfect and my train is delayed by 4 hours... :(

* Be great if someone can verify these. ** From wikipedia. Trust it at your own peril.

INDIA: Monkeys and Countryside

Two posts up on our other blog with loads of great photos: Monkey Business

Rural Gujarat

The Kite Flyer's Reward

As the sun decends below the horizon and twilight turns to night only the most enthusiastic and skilled continue to fly their kites. The rest of us, on the roof terraces of Ahmedabad, pack up our kites and carefully wind up our kite strings. But before we even had a chance to reflect on the amazing day of kite flying and battling, another more spectacular image appears over the walled city of Ahmedabad: Chinese light lanterns fill the skies in their thousands, pin pricking the dark canvas background with light. Our eyes get to feast upon this never ending peaceful formation of light, steadily rising and disappearing off into the distance. Fireworks and crackers intersperse the calm display with powerful shows of light and sound and the whole scene, a 360 degree theatre, leaves us in awe, unrivalled by anything we have seen in the world.

The Kite Cutter

"Here, take the line." Dipak said in earnest.I immediately stood in position and took the string from him with both hands, my right hand leading. The glass coated string slid across my taped up fingers with the satisfying taughtness of a well balanced kite. The wind was good in the setting sun and the kite flew well and free. That had become the habit of our Uttarayan (kite festival) experience up to now: Dipak would get the kite in the air and sufficiently high before passing control to our novice hands.

I surveyed the scene as the kite flew itself. We were three stories up on top of a small pol house in the densely packed walled city of Ahmedabad, the best place to experience Uttarayan. All around us, on every roof top and every terrace, families gathered to fly kites, eat and celebrate. Flat rooftop terraces hosted parties of extended families and friends whilst the slum houses of slanted, corrugated iron had smaller groups, precariously balanced children flying their kites with no safety net between their roof and a ten metre drop to the streets below. Thousands of kites filled the skies around us, the air filled with the sounds of celebration. War cries followed by shouts of joy as a kite is cut down merged together into a continuous hum and only the blaring radios pumping out bollywood songs could be distinguished over it.

"Look! There! Careful! He wants to cut your kite." Dipak exclaimed seeing the threat with an experience honed from a lifetime of kite flying and well before I registered the attack. The attacking kite had moved into position about twenty metres away from mine to my left in a purposeful move. I followed the almost invisible line down to the hands of its owner. It belonged to a rival roof terrace, a man in his thirties. The small terrace not much larger than six square metres was, much like ours, crowded with kite fliers, reel holders and spectactors. He saw me looking and grinned knowing full well that his kite was in a better position and that he was the better kite flier. "Let out some string." Dipak said over my shoulder. My attention was brought back to the urgent moment. I let some string out letting the kite be blown into a new position. The kite flitted around in the wind, being drawn further away but to my horror also dropped a few metres in altitude. The kite itself was circling around in a tight circle, facing downwards then upwards. The string was not taut and I started to panic: I was losing control of the kite in the most crucial moment. The other kite, now in a dominant higher position to mine, noticed the distress of my kite and moved in for the kill. The attacker flicked his kite to face downwards in a sweeping motion directly into an interception line of my kite string.

"What should I do?" I asked Dipak, panic rising, evident in my voice. "Wait." he answered, calmly and patiently, his eyes carefully surveying the scene, calculating. The attacking kite was now closing in at a ferocious speed leaving only a few metres between our sharp glass coated kite strings. "Now! Pull up!" shouted Dipak without any warning. I immediately flicked the string and the struggling kite faced briefly upwards. It was enough. I tugged the string with all my might and the kite shot upwards towards the intercepting kite. "Pull in, pull in!" Dipak and Molik, my reel handler, shouted in chorus. With all the speed I could muster I began pulling in the kite string. The sharp string was sometimes sliding across my taped hands and sometimes over unprotected patches of skin. I didn't care. I pulled and heaved the string, the world melting away in insignificance. My kite reacted like a waking giant, shooting upwards at the approaching kite. Our strings locked. I felt the contact in the string, adrenaline surged and I pulled again with everything I had left in my aching arms.

"KAIPU!!" shouted Dipak and Moloki, arms in the air in celebration. I continued pulling, not knowing what had happened. A second later, I saw what they had already seen: The attacking kite with all its speed and control was now floating aimlessly like a falling leaf. "YES!" I shouted in joy, joining in the celebration and euphoria. Our kite had sliced through the attacking kite's string. We ran to the side of our terrace facing our adversary, "Kaipu!" our fists pumping. The defeated kite flier, busy pulling in his limp kite string, acknowledged our success with a sheepish smile and a wave. He will have another kite in the air soon and he'll be going for revenge.

Confusion, bewilderment and silence

I am at a bit of a loss writing about india. She is everything that I know, but also a complete stranger, bewildering me into a confused silence. I am stuck, my pen stationary on the page. Defeated I can only begin by trying to explain my confusion. I am a third generation Indian, my grandparents emigrated to Kenya where both my parents were born who in turn emigrated to the UK where my siblings and I were born. Although, we were brought up in the UK, we grew up in a predominantly Indian culture. Centering around food as cultures typically do, ours was an Indian diet, so much so that I had no idea how a knife and fork worked until after the age of ten. We identified ourselves culturally more to India than to the UK even though we were two generations from having lived there.

This image and cultural identification changed and morphed as we grew into adults and we integrated and assimilated into the western society around us but India and her culture were still there, deep inside, our roots, who we were.

But it’s not. Unconsciously our culture has changed and adapted to our Western hosts’ to create a hybrid culture, not Indian, nor English but a mixture of the two with a splash of East Africa.

Thus to an Indian I don’t look Indian. My hair is different, my clothes are strange and my body shape is telltale. I don’t feel at home on the noisy, busy streets, with the in-your-face poverty, the noise and pollution, the dirt, the smell and the spitting. I long for the quietness of European countryside, the order of her cities, the cleanliness of her streets. India is a stranger.

Yet, the woman struggling with the heavy shopping bags could be my auntie, the little boy begging for money could be my cousin and the guy spitting an entire disgusting mouthful of red saliva onto the street, centimetres away from my feet could be me.

Unlike other countries and continents, where praise and critiscm comes easy as an outsider, criticizing India feels like I am betraying her, like stabbing a friend in the back straight after meeting her after a thirty year exile.

Confusion, bewilderment and silence.