A leaf from the Bodhi tree

Gaya is the gateway to Bodhgaya, my next destination. With only a jaunt of 13km to travel I decided to save some rupees by taking the shared rickshaw. I was greeted at the rickshaw stand by two men announcing loudly “BodhgayaBodhgayaBhodgaya…”

When I echoed with acknowledgement “BodhgayaBodhgayaBhodgaya!” they erupted into laughter. Without knowing why, I chimed in for the guffaw. Jumping into the back of a tiny covered pickup with seats for eight, I soon realized why we had been laughing when the 18^th person climbed in.

Hey, I’m easygoing enough to handle the tight quarters for 40 minutes.

Until, however, the creepy old man in rags standing outside of the rickshaw decided to take advantage of the large opening near my seat and fondle my ass.

Apparently “fuck off” is universal and after yelling this loudly the pervert scurried away.

Off we went…

Wow

Bodhgaya

I love this place!

Here is the biggest Buddhist pilgrimage site in the world. Why? Because this is the place, underneath the Bodhi tree, where Gautam Siddhartha gained enlightenment and became the Buddha. The Buddhist environment is much different from Hinduism. Where Hindus revel in colorful, gregarious and vibrant celebrations, the Buddhists practice silent chants and meditation.

In the center of town

is the massive Mahabodhi Temple that is adjacent to the majestic Bodhi tree. This tree is grown from a limb of the original tree that existed in the very place this one grows now. Visitors circumambulate and pray circling the tree constantly through the day. Its amazing to watch everyone go by; visitors from countries around the world in every religion.

Other than the portion of each day spent on the temple grounds I pass time in the town, which is very much an Indian village.

Ever since arriving to Calcutta last week I have been in Hindi territory…and this is when my language studies in Hindi began. Back home I had bought a “Teach Yourself Hindi” book but I am finding I am learning the most words and phrases from my conversations with locals and Indian tourists. In my past trips overseas I hadn’t picked up much Hindi, instead I learned some of the languages of the other travelers I spent a lot of time with.

In addition to learning this new language I am becoming more attuned to reading people beyond their words. Bodhgaya has been powerful in many ways but the spectrum of darkness and light I have experienced in the souls of people has been a mild breakthrough for me.

I have had wonderful moments getting to know amazing people here…

…Like the group of men at my favorite chai wallah who have helped and encouraged my use of Hindi.

…I have also enjoyed speaking with the Ladakhi jeweler who, with a glimmer in his eye, tells me about meeting and falling in love with his wife, with whom he had a “love marriage”. (versus an arranged marriage)

The darker interactions however, came to me disguised as friendship when in actuality the people are vampires: people who see a spark and light in others and want to suck it for themselves to fill their void. One of these actually approached me on the grounds near the Bodhi tree.

I’ve had my share of interactions with such vampires in my life and have developed ample intuition in seeing signs to identify them before any damage is done.

India, though, brings a new breed of these dark people, and with one month into my trip I have learned to trust more my gut reactions instead of the surface appearances...to increase my scrutiny of those potential of taking my energy without invitation.

You know what sucks?

I want so much to continue the friendly, positive, “benefit of the doubt” approach to all beings…but now having been burned (and several close calls) I have wary reservation in my interactions while traveling.

Much to blame for this is:

#1 traveling alone

#2 being a woman

#3 newness and unfamiliarity

I am such prey to the vampires here.

One thing I look forward to in arriving back home (other than not having to swat flies off me and my food constantly) is to have more easygoing trust in those who surround me.

…friends I have known for years (or even a short amount of time) who have proven time and time again to be

a source of support

and joy…

but mostly to be trustworthy

all of you reading this and know who you are:

I love you

I miss you

**thank you**

On my first day here

On my first visit to the Bodhi tree

I sat under its mighty branches

Initially cooled by its shade

Shifting to the wonder of each different face passing

With an expression

Color

Shape

Unlike the other

Contemplation of this place

And why it is special to many

Engulfed by sound of chanting, shuffling feet and breezes through leaves overhead

It came upon me an overwhelming sense of joy

Joy at that very moment

Joy for the understanding that this emotion

is a result of how I feel

at this very moment

It is possible to have great happiness

In the now

And I wept

Down dropped a leaf from the Bodhi tree

…and I snatched it

my photos of Bodhgaya

yellow and red yarn

Back to being called Mary again. It’s pretty much the only name anyone can comprehend. When the Indians hear “Mary” they seem pleased and sometimes say “nice name, Mary.” I like that response rather than my name being pronounced “mededet”, “methediss”, etc. when I say Meredith or the blank stares from being introduced as Dwan.

One week ago I arrived in Puri, an east coast beach destination that has been recommended highly by many Indians I have met in all my travels to India. Finally I was to check out what this place is all about!

Toto, we’re not in Goa anymore.

There was a fair sampling of foreigners but primarily Puri is a vacation spot for Indians.

One guess as to why travelers like myself don’t swarm to Puri may be the beach itself, which is a minefield of human poo. Up and down the beach, interspersed between groups enjoying the sand and sunshine, are individuals squatting and taking a shit.

My guesthouse however is an oasis halfway between turd beach and the main cafe-filled street. My room opened into a beautiful garden. The unusual aspect of this hotel is that there are as many Indian guests as there are foreigners.

On my first day in Puri, even before I had visited the beach, I sat enjoying the garden and watching guests milling about. I walked out towards the litter box for a stroll by the waves and I heard an Indian man from my guesthouse calling after me. It was the smiling friendly one who had also been relaxing in the garden. It seemed strange that he was yelling for me and I warily waited for him to cross the large field to tell me whatever it was he had to say...

“You want to get with me?”

Uh, what??

Motioning toward the guesthouse, “you want to BE WITH ME??”

Nay! Nay milega!! (translates from Hindi as “no! not possible!”)

And so it went in Puri. The Indian men were on horny overdrive and I attribute it partly because of this being a vacation atmosphere.

I was unable to have a nice platonic conversation with any Indian men. Even the motorcycle guy I hired one day to take me on a sightseeing jaunt apparently developed a crush on me and wouldn’t leave me alone afterwards. Lauren, a woman from London who I befriended, was having similar issues. Ultimately, a common theme of conversation developed for Lauren, myself and other backpackers: How could we book a ticket on the soonest train out of town?

Puri wasn’t all bad...I did enjoy my four days there and it gave me a reality check on my sense of security as a solo female traveler in India.

On to Calcutta...damn this city is great.

It reminds me of the lower east side of Manhattan, if you can believe it. There are oodles of sightseeing, lots of concrete trekking around a bustling sophisticated metropolis with large bridges spanning the Hooghy River. Not to mention the massive park in the center of downtown filled with thousands of weekend amateur cricket players.

I’ve spent my days here pounding the pavement and ogling/photographing the sights. Sometimes, if tired from walking, I go underground to ride the Metro, Calcutta’s clean and efficient subway system.

One sight, which was a huge novelty for me, was at the Botanical Gardens. It wasn’t the 200 year old banyan tree or the beautiful bright turquoise birds flitting from tree to tree...it was the multitude of Indian couples being physically affectionate, seated in romantic locations under a tree or by a lake. This is the first time I have ever seen such interaction between Indian men and women. Usually, when it comes to seeing public affection I am seeing groups of men holding hands or lying together. (This behavior, by the way, is not sexual despite how we see it in our Western society.)

India is probably the most romantic country I’ve been in and there are signs of this everywhere in Calcutta. On my walk today, young urban hipster men have shouted “happy Valentine’s day” in passing.

My final sightseeing outing before departing from Calcutta was to the Kali Temple. I unintentionally arrived just in time for the daily morning sacrifice. Before I could process all the mayhem of the swarms of Hindu worshippers, puja flowers tossed in the air and then man rubbing red paint on my forehead I notice a black furry animal...

an arm raised high with a large ornate blade in hand...

Kerchop!

...off with the goat’s head.

Holy Shiva!

Now I am dodging the splattering blood and the man carrying a bloody goat head in his hand. Reeling still from viewing the sacrifice I am whisked away to the Shiva statue. The baksheesh-motivated Indian man who led me there guided me through a puja to Shiva and tied a yellow and red yard around my wrist telling me it is for health, long life and future marriage.

my photos of Puri

my photos of Calcutta

Charred waxy bit

It’s my third visit to Hampi, a historic place strewn with massive piles of boulders, ancient temples…and tourists. It seems to be the next destination after Goa when traveling on herd-style auto pilot.

I do love this place and the sunsets viewed from a hill-sized pile of large rocks and scampering monkeys. It is quite engaging.

However, the awe of the first time visit to a place of this beauty is somewhat lost for me and my energy has gone instead toward the fine connections I’ve made with other backpackers.

Early on during my stay in Arambol I befriended two blokes from Devon, England. Celebrating a 40^th birthday, Neil and Paul are both freshly broken up from long term relationships and turning over a new leaf with a 4 week trip to india. The three of us have spent a considerable amount of time together and they’ve chalked up to be a bright spot to my travels thus far.

However, distraction eventually came in the form of an attractive Israeli man who I met while exploring a lonely temple that few tourists venture to see. Yogev appeared from around an ornate pillar and asked if I would take a photo of him with his camera. Being a solo traveler myself with the occasional predicament of how to get my photo I happily agreed.

Picture taken…natural progression…we find ourselves seated at the foot of an ancient entryway and Yogev brings out his guitar.

Hours flew by unnoticed with an occasional young Indian boy stopping temporarily for a song or two at this tiny performance.

With this being what I consider to be one of the most romantic meetings I’ve had, ultimately the solitude and scenery brought upon us a spontaneous smooch.

Out of nowhere, an Indian boy of probably 13 years old runs up and persistently and emphatically chases us yelling “kiss! Kiss!”

Suddenly the magic of the moment was gone and a creepy urgency of immediate evacuation from the temple grounds came over us.

Even when “alone” in India you can’t abuse the public display of affection taboo. The sexual repression here is beyond my comprehension. In Indian films the view of a kiss is thwarted by the fade/fog special affect and viewers are left only with suggestion of lips making contact.

So I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that a pre-pubescent teen would plant himself patiently in a position to view a man and a woman kissing.

.

.

.

every day I feel content and happy since arriving to india

At home I begin each day with a daily inner dialogue of how I have full accountability of whether I am happy each day…

“What choice will I make today? Do I want to feel agitated or depressed? Or do I choose to have happiness in this day?”

I can switch the choices on and off yet unfortunately some days the power to stay positive evades me.

However…

Here

And now

I have auto-happiness

No inner dialogue

No choices

Automatic

Content

Free

at peace

Learning

loving

growing

I want to be able to capture this light

The automatic

Netted

Interior

Exuding

At home

How?

.

.

.

Chapora Arambol Hampi

I’ve been to all three, more than twice.

I’m ready to amp it up.

I choose to embrace the magic in that moment of the unknown.

To step off that train in a land unfamiliar.

With every synapse in my system fresh and tingly from the new stimulation.

Off I go

Here I sit

Two full days of train travel to a place it would take a half day’s drive in my car at home.

India teaches patience.

Sedentary stillness in my seat

With a forward flow

Gazing out the window at the changing landscape

East then north

Rice fields to harvest fields

Tiny people dressed in tucked cotton cloths

Carrying bundles of wood twice their size on their heads

While swatting a slow moving herd of water buffalo.

People going about their day in a natural way with no tourism as aspect of motivation.

REAL

On my first night in cathartic Hampi I unpacked completely, set up my altear and lit a single candle. Almost immediately I fell into a vivid dream sleep.

There in front of me is David. Upon recognition of each other I see his face fill with agitation. He reaches for a fist-sized rock and throws it purposefully at me. With no emotional response I catch the rock squarely and with no pain.

I awoke suddenly and saw that the single candle had caught fire to an adjacent package of candles and other sundry items. As quickly as I could untangle myself from within my mosquito net I swatted out the growing flames.

All that was left was my unscathed altar and a charred waxy bit.

My photos of Hampi