Month: May 2016

Violet and the Dalai Lama

‘Are you sure you’re going to make it up the hill? Shouldn’t we maybe wait for the cow to move out the way. Oh oh watch the dog, and listen man we don’t mind if you drop us here, we’ll walk, SHIT don’t hit the monk, careful, the monk, there’s a fucking monk, stop stop…’

We held very tightly on to our seats and each other while the driver ignored us. This is what he does, of course. Fly along narrow roads, around hairpin bends and up steep mountain passes while trucks, cars, busses, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, herds of goats and a million people come straight at him.

He grinned when we got to the top, removed his Raybans, said ‘Here girls, Chonor House’, and helped us with our bags. We both stood still, a little shellshocked. Not so much from the mad wild drive because well that’s just India, but from the absolute magic that is Mcleod Ganj.

Pure enchantment.

McLeod Ganj in the state of Himachel Pradesh, is a higgledy piggledy village where India meets Tibet. The Dalai Lama lives here and Chonor House where we stayed is directly opposite his Temple. Set at the top of a very steep hill, Chonor is a sanctuary, run by Tibetans, ridiculously quiet yet surrounded by teeny alleyways, hippie bars, rooftop restaurants, internet cafes, yoga studios, nuns, monks, the cutest little baby monks, food markets, barber shops, cake shops, flippin’ Kashmiri shops, bare skinned people, barefoot people and mostly, Buddhist people.

And a man named Mahindra.

We settled into the unbelievable Tree Flower Room, sipped lemon ginger mint tea on the balcony, looked out over the mountains, listened to the chanting, meditated for like a second then headed out into the streets.

My travel friend immediately found the beautiful Tibetan silver jewellery.

And I found Mahindra.

Not being able to resist a good massage I followed him into his studio. Within five minutes my clothes were off, I was on the floor, he was on top of me in that massage kind of way, singing bowls were singing, oil was dripping, he was rubbing, and oh my god it was amazing.

Which is exactly how Mcleod Ganj is. It’s like everything is open, just waiting for you to come in.

We spent four days here and could’ve spent four months. Time takes on a lazy magic. We’d be woken early by the chanting of the monks and wander across to Temple. Prayer flags and prayer wheels dot the path and lead you inside. It’s the most beautiful way to start a day, listen to chanting, chant too, meditate with monks, and nuns, sip sweet tea, pray a little, and then – eat, wander and explore.

The area is like a traveller hangout paradise. We walked a lot and our favourite day was walking from Mcleod to the little villages dotted amongst the mountains – Bhagzu and Dharamkot being the two we most fell in love with. The paths are steep so you walk, breathe, stop at a tea station, drink, walk a little more, find a hippie restaurant, laze against the cushions, eat the most delicious food, watch rooftop jugglers, do not smoke dope inside because the signs say please do not smoke dope inside, and just – fall in love.

All the time.

Including with the Dalai Lama. On our last day he happened to be in Temple. Just like that, we were ten feet away from the Dalai Lama. And honestly, genuinely, he looked at us – And he smiled. A gentle, loving magnificent smile that left us feeling peaceful.

Spiritual. Open. Delicious. Divine.

And totally content.

India has a weird way of doing that to you. McLeod Ganj in particular.

I’m going back next year. But for longer.

http://www.norbulingka.org/chonor-house.html.

Book with Kate Carlyle, at kategryphon6@gmail.com

Critical in Kashmir

It is possible that I am a terrible person but I’m just gonna have a go at Kashmir. Like a bitchy one. I mean, it is picture perfect with a mystical lake, snow capped mountains, fairy tale castles, ancient mosques, fields of saffron, cardamom tea, romantic houseboats, all that stuff, blah blah beautiful.

But I’m gonna bitch about it anyway.

Because everyone you meet in Kashmir has a sob story.

And sob stories get tiresome.

Kashmir is a controlled state. India owns it. Pakistan wants it. And Kashmir would kinda like to keep it for themselves. It’s a state in limbo. And still at war.

And with war comes disdain.

Bloody Indians, say the Kashmiris.
Bloody Kashmiris, say the Indians.

And I don’t know what the Pakistanis say because they are not really allowed inside. Also, everyone calls them Paks.

As South Africans, we were kind of stuck in the middle.

And yet the Kashmiris were fabulous hosts. And there were several times when we almost tripped over yaks and fell headfirst into the lake because of the beauty. And the gorgeous men. Their beards, stature, strong hands, dark eyes, delicious sexiness and did I mention – strong hands?

They’re astonishing.

But also very bloody manipulative.

As Salam Alaykom, good morning, hello, they would say.

And then, without waiting for an answer…

My son missed out on school. I really need to get him an education.
My daughter had to marry at sixteen. I want very much to help her.
I work three jobs and only sleep two hours a night.
Buy this ring, it’s the only way I can bless my wife.
My own carpets are threadbare…
I had to let go of my goat…

It felt like everything was about money. You almost had to pay for a hello. Or for directions. And if you buy one thing, it isn’t enough. You have to buy two. Three. Four.

Just one more Miss.  Please.  My child…

When you don’t buy anything, ooh Allah Yufaquk Yufaquk, shoulders slump and faces get sulky.

We felt a bit bullied. And bullshitted. And we’re both good travellers and know when to say no or fuck off, but the Kashmiris are master trader bullshitters.

We had been warned. But I gotta say, it kinda spoils the beauty. And the beauty is a little – OH GOD ALLAH SORRY STRIKE ME DOWN NOW – chocolate box beauty. The painted shikaras, the very quaint overly carpeted houseboats. It’s all gorgeous, but kinda, contrived.

Except for the macaroons!!! And the French pastry shop. The flower sellers weren’t bad either. And some of the moustaches were just perfect. There are gems that, when you do manage to wander around alone without being hassled, surprise and astonish. The rose gardens are magnificent, the early morning calls to prayer echo through the whole town and over the lake, and I loved the wild  barking of dogs as they prepare for their nightly roaming.

I did love it. I’m cynical and just a little unfair, I know that. And we were so well cared for. We were brought tea in bed, treated like queens and also offered marijuana and most importantly, husbands.

Many husbands!

Maybe we were too spoiled.

But maybe we were also just a little bit too controlled.

Whatever it was, Kashmir didn’t quite do it for me.

Sorry.

kash

Top ten:-
Dal Lake, old city of Srinagar, Khanqha Shah Hamdam Mosque, Kashmiri tea, Kashmiri moustaches, macaroons, honey, The Himalayas, shikaras and houseboys oops sorry I meant houseboats.

Bottom ten:-
Six security checks on arrival. Seven checks on departure. Phones blocked from arrival until departure. One million heavily armed Indian soldiers dressed in camouflage with branches still hanging from their heads. Baksheesh.

And where, oh where, are all the women? Because we saw very very few.

men

flower

Beautified in India

G’nite, I would call out sleepily.  See you in the morning.

G’nite, my insomniac travel friend would reply.  Sweet dreams.

And she would switch off the light.

We’d both be quiet for maybe two minutes and then our evening ritual would begin.

Throw off the covers because it was too hot. Take off our pyjamas because it was too hot. Make tea. Admire our shopping.  Moisturise. Sit outside a little. Climb back into bed. Stretch, yawn, go to sleep and then –

Not really go to sleep.

Because she’s an insomniac and so am I and we’d just have to talk some more. And laugh and giggle and go over all the amazing things that we’d seen. The gorgeous men. The smooth men. The salesmen. And the colours, smells, spices, everything that was just  astonishing.

Because astonishing things happen every day in India. Overwhelming magnificent extraordinary astonishing things.

One night, while we were not sleeping, my friend lay on her bed reading while I lay on mine looking at photographs.

Men with turbans lazing on rickshaws. Colourful women sweeping colourful courtyards. A young girl peering out a train window. A monk carrying an umbrella. Five people and a monkey on a motorbike. Giant buddhas. Kids playing cricket.  Bodies burning on the River Ganges. Overloaded trucks. Decorated trucks. Truck drivers. Holy men. Limbless men. Gorgeous men.

And two magnificent women.

Us. In action. Hiking in the foothills of the Himalayas. Cruising in a shikara. Riding on motorbikes. And doing yoga.

Each one very beautiful.

Until I noticed my neck.

OH MY GOD MY NECK.

‘Jesus Christ, I said, leaping out of bed. I had no idea I had so many wrinkles.’

Luckily, insomniacs always says the right thing.

Your neck is really not bad. But still, try this App. Everyone uses it. It smoothes out the teeny lines.’

I downloaded the App. I learned what I could do with it. I became obsessed. I never slept again.

I could make myself smoother. Younger. Prettier. Slimmer. Taller. More bright eyed. More blue eyed. Blonder.

And very very beautiful.

I beauty-apped myself. I looked good. I posted a pic. I waited for the comments to fly in.

They did.

Wow, India really agrees with you.
A stunner.
Love your hair.
You look fab.
How do you stay looking so young?
So jealous…

And I felt instantly guilty.

Because I was smooth, but really, not.

India is anything but smooth. It is the most chaotic, overwhelming, dramatic, uncontrolled, colourful and unrelenting country.

There is no photoshopping. There are no touch ups.

And there is no beauty app.

What you see is what you get.

Wild and natural.

Imperfect. Frantic.

And very very real.

And as I reflect on my travels, I realise that is one of the many things I got out of India.

That to be real is the prize.

Sorry then for my neck, my bra straps and my sheen from the forty degree heat, but I gotta reveal everything.

And I’m not really sorry at all.

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Here we are. The Insomniac. And Ms Violet Online.

N.B.  You can ask Kate Carlysle to help with bookings. She is in Cape Town and knows all these gorgeous extraordinary hotels / ashrams / galleries / dogs / people and oh my god Indian boutiques!

Kategryphon6@gmail.com.

I should start writing again: A Memoir

good morning from my couch
where I am feeling
delighted
refreshed
fabulous
excited
and content
happy to be home
uttering vague sexual noises
at all the stories I have to share
and tales to tell
but also feeling
very
very
overwhelmingly
ridiculously
lazy.

Namaste!

And thank you India for an astonishing experience.

feet

My toes, on a rooftop in Delhi.

 

How many dresses?

I’m just a girl, standing in front of a very full closet, wondering what to pack for India.

And every part of me is screaming – travel light, travel light. Because travelling is easy with just a carry-on.  You land, fling the small bag over your shoulder and make your way out the terminal into the Himalayas.  Or wherever you’re going.

Looking super stylish of course, without hanging around the baggage carousel, no tripping and no hurting your back.

So I’m thinking the blue carry-on.  With three dresses, a skirt, black t’s, shorts for hiking, a crisp collared shirt which wont be so crisp after a while, and a pair of jeans. Except that it’s going to be hot.

Very hot. Like 40 degrees hot.

There’s that gorgeous camisole that I really want to wear although it may be a little skimpy,  it would be tragic to leave my new white dress behind, and also I have that floral sundress which is perfect.

Pack light, be practical, the voice is screaming.

But another one is whispering – Practical? Take the cami. And the dress. Take the gorgeous shoes that go with it. And that skirt. Because what if?

What if I go somewhere smart one night and want that little black dress? What if one day I feel like waltzing around Kashmir in a sundress. What if…

No-one waltzes around Kashmir in sundresses, Violet, no-one. And little black dresses? Nah.

Okay then, what if I meet a man in Dharamsala? A yogi. What then. I might want a really pretty frock.

Yogis don’t care so much about pretty frocks, Violet.

True. Also, I’m travelling with a girlfriend and we’ve already made a pact. No men. At least not in our shared room and anyway, No Men. It’s a girl’s holiday and we’re going to explore and have fun and hike and do girl stuff and yoga and meditate, shop and maybe visit a temple or two.

So pack light.

And I need a pair of hiking boots, my Birkenstocks, one pair of light closed shoes,  a hat because boiling, two because I’m always losing my hats, maybe a swimming costume, and ooh, I also have that blue dress, the one with the collar, the sexy one, I think I have to take it.

Hang on.  What’s this?

Someone just handed me Joan Didion’s ideal packing list.

It’s perfect. Perfect.

I’m taking everything out my bag, hanging it all up and starting again.

I’m going to follow her list.

Of course I already have the bourbon.

I just need to buy a typewriter.

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N.B.  I better not forget my toothbrush!

http://www.vogue.com/866060/joan-didion-the-white-album-packing-list/

Reisepanik

What is the German word for that thing when you are planning a trip and have nothing to do until three days before you go when suddenly you have so much to do and so you write a list and the list gets longer and the more you cross things off the more you add things on and then work comes in and because you work on your own you have to take it and it is overwhelming and then you find mice in your fireplace and your washing machine floods and really what I am trying to say is I am going to India on Sunday and I have a terrible head cold which is why I cannot use punctuation or even think straight and am feeling excited and anxious and  I cannot wait and OH MY FUCK – INDIA!

I think it could be Kuddelmuddel.

Which literally translated means, an excited mess.

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N.B I also found Torschlusspanik – fear that time is running out to achieve life goals.

And Huftgold – love handles!