Turbans, Temples, and a Border Guard Mating Dance

After the better part of three weeks traversing the dusty dry climes of Rajasthan, the largest state of India, I headed north to one of India's smallest states: The mighty state of Punjab, land of the Sikh, where Singh is King (most Sikh's have Singh as their surname). Punjab is also home to the Sikh's holiest of shrines, the Golden Temple, located in the Punjabi capital of Amritsar. After an overnight bus in which I got little to no sleep (overnight buses are strange, you float in and out of sleep without ever truly realizing you slept. There were times I felt I had an unbroken internal monologue going but had, indeed, slept over 5 hours. It is not a satisfying sleep in any way, and you usually arrive at your destination  floating in a mental smog of exhaustion, not asleep and yet not awake. It is always at this point of disorientation you get attacked by a barrage of hotel touts insisting you stay at their hotel, when all you want is a few minutes of respite to collect and orient yourself to your new surroundings. At times, it is difficult to refrain yourself from resorting to violence in order to be free from these agonizing touts. Usually if they respect my 'please fuck off for a moment' they have a better chance of me going to their hotel; the super-aggressive ones just get coldest shoulder my exhausted, disoriented body can provide them).

I arrived in Amritsar the earliest it can be and still being considered morning. As always, despite the time (or perhaps because of it), the touts were out in full. Luckily I knew where I was to be staying, the Golden Temple itself. You see the Sikh's believe in goodwill, respect and love to all despite race or creed. And unlike many other religions I can think that exhort the same message, they practice what they preach. The Golden Temple is more than just a temple, it's a large complex of dormitories, book stalls, and kitchens all provided free of cost. I jumped on a bicycle rickshaw and he pedaled me to the entrance of the Golden Temple. I thanked him, paid, and then was immediately accosted by someone trying to sell me something to cover my head, a small orange bandana type thing. I had heard you needed to cover your hair to enter the complex so I bought for 50 rupees (I found out later they cost 20 but, it was 5 am and I was new ... That's how they get ya, they can spot a newbie from a mile away). I wandered in, aware of the existence of free lodgings but clueless as how to get there. I was quickly handed 5 pieces of bread to eat and a cup of tea. I stood there with my bread and tea, watching the activity around me, unsure of what to do next. They had a huge place to put your shoes. Should I give them my shoes? Did I have to? Most people had their shoes on, but a lot of people where there giving their shoes for storage. Should I wander around in search of my dorm? Should I sit down with my bread and tea and just wait for someone to notice my confused state?

Luckily it didn't take long for an old Sikh man to invite me to sit down for a chat. In heavily accented english he told me the basis of the Sikh faith, the belief that truth is the path to purity and that one must be honest in speech and thought, and that that leads to truthful action and the purity of the soul. I couldn't disagree. With that in mind I asked him how to get to a dorm, and he gave me the directions I needed. There were a few lefts and rights and without him I might've wandered for hours. We parted ways with him telling me that 'We would not meet again'. I quite liked that. He was, in true Sikh fashion, completely correct. I didn't see him again, though I looked for him.

I found my dorm. He pointed to a room with an empty bed and two full ones. I collapsed in the empty one and had a very restful sleep. If i remember correctly I dreamt of steep mountains and the colour orange.

When I awoke, I was greeted by my dorm-mates: a Pole and a Romanian, who have difficult names that I unfortunately cannot remember. They were cool dudes though and when I said I wanted to get a turban they came with me. We found many a turban shop, but the one we picked had a large billboard above the store with an illustration of a James Bond-like character in a turban and a tux smoking a cigarette. Nice. They had many turbans there (or, really, large lengths of cloth that could be wrapped into turbans) and I bought the cheapest one I could find: orange, the colour of the Hindu Sadhu's.  

I returned to the dorm and approached an attendant Sikh with the cloth in my hands. He new immediately my desire and, with the help of another Sikh, they began to wrap the cloth around my head. First they drizzled water on it and stretched it fiercely. And after twenty minutes of meticulousness my head was turbaned as well as any Sikh, with a pair of shades and my beard, I felt I could slip in as a bonafide Sikh. Not really though.

The Sikh temple was gorgeous. It is surrounded by a large square pool. It is entirely wrapped in gold flake and at the entrance, there is a man in a room made entirely of gold reading the massive book of the Sikh faith, the Guru Granth. The man just sat there reading the book aloud. Apparently they have someone in their just reading the book aloud from start to finish, 24/7. They do it in shifts, but there is never not someone in their, reading aloud. People come to bow and pray before the man reading the book, who is completely oblivious to those around. In the temple they sing passages the Guru Granth accompanied by tablas. They do so in a microphone that project out on speakers and song resonates around the Temple grounds. It is an incredible place to just sit and be.

Amritsar is only around 20 km's to the Pakistani border. Earlier in my trip I was told of a ridiculous ritual that's held daily there right before it closes for the night. On both sides huge crowds amass to watch the guards complete their daily duties, and it has become a spectacle complete with a huge PA system, an MC whose job it is to rile up the crowd, and, of course, serious looking army men wearing large, decorative headdresses who highstep around so fiercely that many have retired with pulled hamstrings.

While my sporting my turban, I jumped in a van along with 6 Indians and we made our way to the border. When we got there the mass of people were subject to a thorough search, bottles of water and lighters were a no go, which led to a mound of water and lighters sitting at the checkpoint. The border is framed by two large grandstands on either side. When I arrived the stands were already full; there must have been 2000 people there to cheer on their country, a glance over at Pakistan and there were about half that, but they seemed just as loud, their setup was identical, loud (Pakistani) music blasting across the border, people with Pakistan flags waving etc. ... This all seemed so strange.

One of the passengers in the van I took was a young Sikh kid who was traveling his own to visit the temple and check out this exercise in national pride. I decided to stick with him because we'd be leaving in the same van together. We were stuck up against the railings, far from were the festivities would actually be held, so when we spotted some open seats on the other side of the road, we left for the stairs. There was, however, a large Indian in army garb with a large red fan on his head (that's the best I can do to describe it, it's a huge cloth fan, and it looks ridiculous) blocking us from leaving. More and more people were trying to do the same, and eventually there was a huge crush of people stopped by a guy wearing a fan with his hand up. I had no idea why. I couldn't ask him. After about 10 minutes of this it began to be overwhelming, I could feel the crush of people behind me. Then, like magic, he looked at me and blinked 'You foreigner?' 'Yes, I foreigner' 'Okay come' and bam I was out. Apparently there is a small seating area specifically for foreigners, right in front of the action. I had to show my passport to get in. And with my turban and beard, the guard eyed me suspiciously. I just smiled and nodded 'Yup, that's me!'. He let me through.

The festivities began with music and women. The women sit in a separate section and they were told if they wanted they could come out and dance, as if to mock the Pakistani side. It was cool for the first 3 or 4 songs it was fun but I felt it drag after 5 more. All of this took place with jeering and gawking men, cheering the women on.

The women were brought back to their seats. Suddenly there was silence. Then I guy in a tracksuit and a microphone came out and yelled 'Hindustan!' and the crowd replied. I could hear the Pakistan side to the exact same thing. Then the guards left the large building opposite the stands to much applause. Then, silence. Tracksuit brought the microphone to the head guard, who let out a loud 'BaOhHHHHHHHHH' ... I could hear the Pakistani side do the same thing, each one trying to go BaoOHHHHH longer. After he finished one of the guards broke ranks and marched fiercely to the border, once there he did some huge goosesteps, ones that literally extended over his head, bringing his foot hard against the ground, and stood at attention, staring at the Pakistan side. This was repeated about 6 times, with the occasional musical interlude complete with 'Hindustan!' etc.

I couldn't tell whether to be afraid or highly amused, and so I chose a mixture of both. All of this was mirrored by the two countries. These countries were made for each other. Or, really, they were the same country until an unnamed arrogant Imperialist nation decided to draw lines in the sand thus creating imaginary national pride and very real violence, grudges, and mutual hatred. But who am I?

As quickly as it begun it was over, the flags were brought down, the border closed (The Indian guy SLAMMED the gate, so hard that it hit and bounced back, forcing him to close it again, with a little less animosity). I returned to Amritsar, listening to the 6 Indian's debate the merits of the different nations and whether and its merits (or at least that's what I thought they were discussing, they were speaking hindi). I stayed in Amritsar only one day. At night, I ventured back into the Golden Temple and was struck by its beauty. I wandered inside to see it full of people, all singing the same song and scrubbing the inside of the temple with milk, this is apparently done every day. I stood there dumbstruck at the beauty of the seen, but quickly felt like I was intruding and returned to my free bunk, set to leave Amritsar for the Himalayas and the Dalai Lama's home, Dharamshala. It was going to cool and crisp there, and I couldn't wait.

Intestines Still Fine.

People Places Names and Faces

From Jaiselmer the three of us--Fish, Lisa and I--moved to a place called Jodhpur. Like Jaiselmer, it has a big burly fort up on a cliffside that looks down on the city. This one somehow looked far more imposing and unconquerable then the one in Jaiselmer, which looked more like a big sand castle. I stared at Jodhpur fort often, trying to imagine how I might invade it. Jodhpur calls itself the 'blue city', on account of a lot of the buildings are painted blue. Why you ask? Well, apparently, long long ago an army was marching on the city with the intention of killing all its inhabitants, as ancient armies have the tendency to do. Now, back then Jodhpur had a large amount of people belonging to the Brahman caste, the spiritual caste which is the one on the top. It was considered bad joo-joo to go around killing Brahmans so the invading army cut a deal: have all the Brahman's paint their house's blue and we won't kill the people inside, the rest we get to kill. Seeing as how the majority of people there were Brahman's they were okay with that, and so they painted the town blue and only those of little importance were thrown to the invading hordes. Neat.

It actually wasn't that blue.

It was a nice place though and the guesthouse we stayed in was owned by an interesting cat that loved himself more than anyone I've known. Mister Prakash! The guy literally had 7 or 8 photos of himself placed all around the guesthouse. There was a few with shades, some with a thinking pose, others sitting down, shirt unbuttoned half-way. He even had someone paint his image on the wall of the rooftop patio. Despite his vanity, or maybe because of it, he was a pretty nice guy and he ended up doing something really cool for me, but more on that later.

It was nearing the end of Mister Fish's time in India, and Jodhpur would be his last stop before heading back to Mumbai. The last few days were spent lounging around, sitting on rooftop cafe's and suggesting ways to conquer Jodhpur Fort. It was nice. On the last day both Fish and I knew it was on; one last drink-off before I another goodbye and see ya later. We found a nice place, one called 'The Blue Room', which was only moderately blue, and hunkered down. We watched cricket and powered Kingfisher's; then came the whiskey; then came the bitter local distilled concoction; then came the drunken-wrestling in the streets on our way back to the guesthouse. There was much merriment and violence. Then, in the blur of the night, two guys on a motorbike stopped in front of me with an object in their hand. Upon close inspection, it turned out to be my ipod, which had somehow fell from my pocket on the bedraggled journey home. I was astonished, not only that they found it, but that they found me too! the rightful owner! He even sat and waited while drunk Fish and drunk Me finished beating the crap out of each other, then quietly placed the Ipod into my intoxicated hands. I hugged them both and they left, smiling and waving and slightly taken aback by these two plastered foreigners.

That is, unfortunately, the end of Mr. Fish, he has returned to colder climes, and will be sorely missed. So long brother! You went to India and killed a goat you crazy bastard! 


The next day was a big day. It was nearing the end of the cricket world cup, and India was playing Pakistan, the winner went to the finals--a big deal. Not only is every Pakistan-India cricket match a potential pretense for war, this was the world cup and the winner was in the final. I repeat myself only to stress the importance of the event. Think Canada-US hockey gold medal except this time both countries give a shit, and they wouldn't mind if the other was nuked into oblivion. Long story short, India won. Huge celebration, endless fireworks, people dancing in the streets, it was similar to the red mile, just in a desert town in India, and the whole town was up and out and cheering, I was grateful, because had India lost I would have had to of faced many pissed off/sad/defeated Indians and it wasn't a pleasant thought; who knows how long it would have taken to get over such a defeat. 


What else happened? Oh yeah. I was sitting on the roof of my guesthouse, playing my didgeridoo with Lisa when Mr. Prakash came up, drawn by the drone. He sat there listening, smiling. After I had finished he told me he has a friend who works for the local newspaper, and that every so often he puts foreigners in that newspaper. He told me he would call this man and have him come over, he'd interview me and take some photos of me while I played. Nice. The next day we met, shook hands, and he asked me the usual questions (how long? from where? etc.) I told him also of the band I was in, so I got Somethin Sacred some Indian exposure! yah! Unfortunately, I was to leave Jodhpur before the paper would be published, so Mr. Prakash told me he would mail the article back home when it came out, lets hope he comes through.

Afterwards, I was off and on to Bikaner, a little city north of Jodhpur, this time alone in my journeys. What was I to find? Without any tether to my homeland, what would I encounter? Rats. Lots and lots of rats. Holy rats of course, the holiest of all rats; to step on their poo is auspicious, to have them scurry over your feet extremely lucky. What I am talking about is the rat temple of Bikaner, and as the name suggests, it is a temple full of rats. Yeah, it was weird, but it's the kind of weirdness I've come to expect here in India. Indeed it is the only place on earth where a temple devoted to holy rats would seem right at home, and it does. I didn't see a white rat unfortunately, so no extra luck for me.

Other than that, Bikaner was a crazy Desert town not unlike the one I had just left in Jodhpur. I met some cool people, a brit who I convinced to go to China and a Norwegian who I would meet later in the himalaya's. Oh! and it was in Bikaner that I watched the world cup final: India and Sri Lanka. We sat with the whole guesthouse contingent and drank whiskey and beer, cheering India on. The game came down to the very end, but India came out on top. Once again, out came the fireworks. And after we all blew a few things up, we packed into a rickshaw and headed downtown. There were 8 of us crammed in that thing, music blasting, screaming at the top of our lungs, yelling 'IIINNNNDIAA!!'. It was Holi all over again, paint getting thrown around; just madness, pure madness. My poor Norwegian friend got kicked in the balls by an overzealous Indian who clearly could not control his ecstacy. I suppose his only way to express such happiness was to sack one of the only two white guys around. It was all good.

Well that was Bikaner. There was, of course, other things seen and done in Bikaner, like the largest Camel Farm in India and a very interesting Jain temple, but all I can say about that is that Camel Milk ice-cream is good and that Jain priests mumble naughty things in your ear while you're posing with a photo with them. But Camel Ice Cream is actually pretty good though.

Hmm, I think that ought to be enough, I'll end my post here, at the end of my Rajasthanian journey. From here I head north, to Amristar, The Golden Temple, and the Pakistani border. Such adventures will be recounted in greater detail soon. Otherwise,

Intestines still fine.