Aaaaaahhhhhmritsaaaaaaar

I was sad to leave Orchard Hut, and I was especially sad to say bye to Sahil. It had been a while since having such meaningful conversations. I had learnt the morning we left that we were actually meant to be accompanied by another guide; an older, much more experienced (and much less good-looking) mountain guide. (I mean, he was ok…it’s just I’m in favour of…alright I’ll stop.) But some family matters came up and Sahil stepped in at the last minute to take his place. I smile at coincidences like that. It reminds me of how wondrous this Universe is…But the adventure must go on! Besides, with Facebook these days, goodbyes are just for now, not forever.

Our next stop was Amritsar via overnight sleeper train. I was a little ambivalent about it. I imagined it to be similar to our last public transportation experience, screeching round the sharp bends on rusty tracks, with the distinct difference of laying down, strapped to a lice-infested bed. To my epic relief the train was clean, well-serviced and the ride was lullaby smooth.

‘That washroom is filthy’ shuddered Adam. I quietly patted myself on the back for not eating or drinking too much to avoid that experience. We had air-conditioning, privacy curtains, crisp sheets to sleep on and be covered with (Adam: Bullocks! All these sheets are stained), a fluffy pillow, and to my amazement CUPHOLDERS. (Or is it cup-holders…?)

Anyway, it was nice to be rocked to sleep. I was taken back to the days when I was a wee little one being rocked in my mummy’s arms. When we woke up, not only were we in Amritsar on time, but on English Adam’s 31^st birthday! I really enjoyed his company throughout our tour. Both him and his lovely wife, Porcelain Joelle. They met at 16 and have been together since. They still look into each other’s eyes with adoration and fit so easily and comfortably into each other’s space. It’s when I see couples like that that makes me feel more hopeful for the concept of marriage.

To acknowledge the special day, I pulled out a pen and paper and delivered a singing telegram:

Happy Birthday, McNichol

Your hygiene standards are fickle

India’s been so much fun

Happy Birthday, Adam!

When we stepped off the train, we were all rudely struck in the face by the 51 degree heat. We all made a straight dash to the hotel and its air-conditioned rooms. Holy crap, it was hot. We waited till night fall before braving the stifling city again.

Amritsar is home of the Golden Temple. A sacred gold-plated temple that houses the Holy Book of... how embarrassing, I don’t actually know!! It was beautiful and mesmerizing, anyhow. The Golden Temple sat in the middle of a square body of holy water, glimmering and shimmering with religious glory.

There were so many people, all there to worship and be blessed by the temple’s radiance. I was very interested to see so many young people. Coming from a culture where the youth are predominantly religiously apathetic and spiritually void, it was so hopeful to see the sincerity on the faces of the young people who touched the step of the idol gods and their hearts and mutter an earnest prayer.

After a night of holy beauty, it only seemed natural to be transported the next day to the border of India and Pakistan to witness the ultimate DANCE-OFF. We were guided through a massive crowd of locals and tourists alike, 3 different screens where we surrendered our bodies for inspections for arms and weapons and then ushered on to huge stone seats that had been nicely exposed to the sun for the previous 8 hours. Man, if I thought that initial 51 degree slap in the face was hot…this was the oven the Witch was preparing for Hansel and Gretel. Except we wouldn’t have been tasty treats- I reckon we were the equivalent to saltine crackers smothered in vegemite and then sprinkled with raw sea-salt for that extra kick. The amount of sweat we produced was prolific (After I dried up I actually found stones of crystalised salt in my bra). The wind was stagnant and the masses of bodies probably contributed a few more degrees.

Thankfully, I was distracted by an adorable young Indian girl who shook my hand and started conversing with me in broken English. Unthankfully, the distraction was short-lived for she insisted on questioning me (with the same questions in different phrases) about Australia for the next 20 minutes. By the end of it, as cute and sweet as she was, I was really hoping she’d run out of English. But all that was forgotten once the DANCE OFF began. It’s actually the ‘Closing of the Gates’ ceremony where both India and Pakistan face off and lower their flags and close the gates for the day. But I think ‘DANCE OFF’ sounds way more appealing. First, the soldiers in hats that resembled the comb of a rooster showed off how big their lungs were by billowing into the microphone. Similar to how I was taught to chant ‘ohm’…but much more egotistically.

And then the DANCE OFF. Music blasted from the speakers. The catchiness of the beat tingled through me forcing me to nod my head and pulse my shoulders. Down on the street where everything was happening, ladies and not-quite-ladies of all shapes and sizes went nuts. Shimmying, bouncing, shaking and flailing. I was itching to join them. It looked so bloody fun! One middle-aged lady in a traditional sava khamis thrusted out her chest towards the Pakistan gate and did the whole ‘Whatchu lookin’ at? You want some o’ this, huh??’ thing. If that doesn’t get your mind off the heat…

And then the sweet, cooling rains came. Coincidence? I think not.

HINDUSHAN! ZINDAVAT!

In Orchard Hut Awe

My impression of Orchard Hut

Back to nature, indeed. I think I had a smile plastered to my face for the whole 3 days and 3 nights in Orchard Hut. This no-frills, heart-felt, home-stay resort embodied everything I wanted (and what I think everyone needs) for a retreat. I felt so FREE! I was a city girl released back into the wild! I’m sure at one point some of my travel buddies were sick of my incessant laughter and playful antics. I was in too much of a blissful state to really take any notice.

We were provided with all the creature comforts: 3 organic, scrumptious vegetarian meals a day (clean food and fresh vegis!!); chai o’clock between lunch and tea; spring water swimming pool; and good-for-the-soul activities to fill in our days. I started each day with a one-hour meditation session with Mr Prakash. OOOhhhhmmmmmm…..Shaaaanntiiii….. leaving me in the best of moods for the day (Porcelain: But you’re always in the best of moods!) I’d done some unguided meditation on my own and have had success with it, but it was so much more…powerful to be lead into meditation. Mr Prakash would first talk for 30 minutes about the birth of ‘Ohm’, the first word of the Universe, and explain its role in meditation. He described the chant as an internal massage; the sound sends vibrations through the body, loosening all the tension within caused by stresses of life. He also taught me a simple way to finish a session. Previously I’ve just blinked slowly out of it, stretch and carry on with the day. He instructed me to assume the Namaste position (hands in prayer), bow and murmur ‘Ohm Shanti’ (Shanti is Sanskrit for ‘peace’), sweep your hands over your face, behind the neck and back into Namaste. Done =)

Later on, I had a full-body massage (loosening up all the tension without), again with Mr Prakash who expertly kneaded every knot out of my muscles leaving me more supple than a bendy, newborn baby. He read my energies and said that my body is a great vehicle for enlightenment. My chakra channels are clear and I’m headed down the right path in life. Needless to say that left me in an even better mood! Then Mr Prakash took us for a tour of his orchard. He impressed us with his fitness! This 65-ish year old man, with a generous ponch and hair sprouting from his ear canals handled the steep slopes of his farm with the agility of a ninja! He challenged me to a race and whooped my ass. We met some of his prized cows and watched him groom them. His most prized animal was Golab (Hindi for Rose), the water buffalo who was heavily pregnant and had the most gentle demeanour. I too wanted to join in on the grooming and started sweeping off some dust off her back. But as I did so, the dust didn’t come off; it just spread. No matter how roughly I patted it, it wouldn’t come off. And then I noticed that the ‘dust’ could be easily manipulated…and the next thing ‘Deb’ was written on Golab’s back. ‘Hey guys! Come check this out!’ Clo looked on and her face dropped in horror. It was then I realized what I’d just done- I’d just defaced a Holy Animal of India.

Please don't do this if you visit India...

Luckily for me Mr Prakash had an awesome sense of humour and had become quite fond of me. He told me that he sees my name on the buffalo as a blessing, and once the calf is born and is a female, he’ll name her Deb! Talk about leaving your mark!

Our other activities also included henna tattoos, a cooking demonstration, palm reading, and lazing around the pool. The pool was my absolute favourite. Natural spring water flowed directly into the pool from the mountain reserves so we were bathing in the elixir of pure nature. Its invigorating temperature was perfect to jump into after our half-day trek in the upper village. I didn’t even wait to get to the pool’s edge. I kicked off my shoes, dropped my bag and jumped from the top of the stairs into the centre of the water. KASPLASH!! And then 2 more splashes followed (from a lower height) and I was joined by Karin and Jen, clothes and all! My laughter rang out through Orchard Hut and everyone gathered to see what the sudden noise was about. ‘Yeap, Deb’s back.’ So alive!

My most memorable moment, however, came on my last night. Throughout my stay, I’d been spending a lot of time chatting to Sahil, who has appeared in my entries quite a few times now. We had a lovely conversation on the open verandah about his passion for nature, my passion for humanitarian work, our beliefs about freedom…you know, the deep stuff. And then it turned to how I seem to be so happy all the time, with an endless supply of energy. I told him that lots of people think that I’m on drugs. He looked at me with genuine confusion and asked ‘Why would people say you’re on drugs??’ I was taken aback by his confusion. Isn’t it obvious? ‘Because they all think it’s impossible to be so constantly happy.’ He shook his head and simply said, ‘People on drugs are not happy.’ Aint that the bloody truth.

Ohm Shanti.

Mountain Smiles Continued

Ok, I lied. I wasn’t ready. At all.

Have you ever woken up before your body? Where your eyeballs are darting around behind your eyelids, willing them to open; your body’s as heavy as lead and no matter what signal your brain sends, your limbs refuse to obey? Yeah. Scrambling up a mountain for 6 hours induces that same affect. I didn’t try too hard fighting it though. I just laid there on the hard, unforgiving bed, enjoying the sudden awareness of every muscle in my body. I was reminded of a story I read in one of my hippy, spiritual books where an apprentice monk kept asking his master, ‘how does one be present?’ day in and day out, wanting his master to give him a plain language answer- but being ‘present’ is not a concept to be understood purely on an intellectual level. It must be experienced. Fed up with the apprentice monk’s incessant questioning, the master sent him away with a huge load on his back to the top of the steepest and tallest mountain in the region. ‘Deliver this load and you will understand what it means to be present’. The monk couldn’t see how that would help him understand, but obeyed anyway. It was the hardest climb of his life and his load was an absolute bitch to carry. Once he reached the top he was exhausted, sweaty, shaky and weak. He dumped his load and fell to the ground, relishing the end of his errand. He was so tired he couldn’t think of anything. Suddenly, he was aware of every twitch, pain, pore and fibre in his body. He felt the breeze caress his sweaty skin, cooling it down. He could smell the grass on which he lay and heard the subtle sounds of nature surrounding him. He looked around and his eyes widened in awe of the beauty. He smiled. He was present.

My experience wasn’t quite as romantic as that, but it falls in the same genre.

We had 5 more hours of trekking before we reached Chamba Town. Down hill. Which seemed like a relief…but once we started, we were a convoy of stiff-kneed, whinging Westerners. Ow ow ow ow OW OW OW OW OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW. I loved it! I thought it was hilarious! But that’s usually my reaction to anything. Why take the situation so seriously? It’s only temporary.

The biggest test of the trek though, wasn’t the heat, wasn’t the lack of shade, wasn’t the protesting muscles, nor was it the annoying spring in Sahil’s step as he bounded from rock to rock DOWN the mountainside- it was waiting for the bus.

Karin and I trying to make sense of the Crazy Lady at the station. That's not me being mean! The locals told us she was!

After a 2000m descent, a hearty lunch and a pep-talk for the last leg of our journey to Orchard Hut, we waited for the bus. At the local bus station (in INDIA, need I remind you). In 38 degree heat. Encircled by locals (yes, we had an in-the-round audience to witness the Western Misery show). No seats. For an HOUR, where we, as Clo so eloquently expressed, ‘slowly descended into the depths of our inner hell’. Mother Jen, English Adam and Porcelain Joelle stood there stone-faced; Traveller Karin sat on her backpack with her head between her knees- given up; Tom kept moving Clo out of the way of oncoming buses; and Chetan and Sahil were fending off all the locals with camera phones, trying to take snaps of us. Me? I was there. Laughing.

Then finally our bus came. Chetan called us all to follow him to the entrance to get on the bus that had just arrived at the station. We all whooped and cheered and elbowed our way through the sea of Indians to get a seat on the bus. Naively optimistic, we thought we would just take off once we were all on, but the bus started reversing further and further back into the station and stopped- right where we were standing. And there we waited for another 30 minutes. Without aircon. *sigh. At least we were sitting? The latter wait wasn’t that bad. Tom lightened the mood by telling lame dad-jokes, which led me to give my mean impression of a leprechaun. Clo said I had the best Irish accent she’d ever heard in a joke. Coming from an Irish girl- BOOM! That’s a compliment! Then the engine started up and we were off on the most terrifying bus ride any of us had experienced. The bus driver was a Jedi using nothing but the force to careen his way around blind corners with only centimeters between the wheels and the vertical drop of the mountainside. We all held on, white-knuckled, for our dear lives. I was still laughing- but not really.

Mother Jen and I on the bus, putting on a brave face. Except Adam in the background. He had that face and variations of it the whole way.

Once the bus stopped, we all shakily disembarked, relieved to have survived the ordeal. But then were hit with a fresh wave of dread when we realized we had another hour of ascent up to Orchard Hut.

‘There has to be another way. I’ll pay. I don’t care. I’m out of water. There must be another way.’ Poor Karin. She looked like she was ready to cry. Chetan just ignored her pleas and said that we were at the ‘elephant’s tail’ of the journey. Just a teeny-tiny bit left. Once we started, I was really surprised by how easy it was. I guess because we’d been moving downhill for so much of the day, it was actually a relief on the muscles to be going back up. Kind of like turning around in circles for ages one way, and then turning the other way to feel right again.

‘There’s the Hut.’ Sahil announced. And there it was, emerging from the plantation of fruit trees, a gorgeous wooden structure, carefully built into the green of the mountain. It was absolutely gorgeous. It was like someone had planted a huge seed and from it bloomed a HOUSE. Waiting past the tree hammocks and more fruit trees, was Mr. Prakash. The owner and founder of Orchard Hut- his passion and dream. He was a friendly faced, old man with big, bouncy belly and fuzzy ears that made him look like he had steam coming of out them. He welcomed us with a huge smile and open arms:

‘Welcome Back to Nature.

’

Welcomed with a traditional Himachal cap and bindi at Orchard Hut

Mountain Smiles

All geared up and ready for trekking!

The morning after our enlightening Cheese Conference in Dalhousie, we met Sahil. A fresh-faced young man who (I was very pleased to learn) will be escorting us on our 2-day trek with his mountaineering expertise to his home town, Chamba Valley. When I say ‘escorting’ I really mean, ‘skipping alongside us as we trudge and drag our unfit Western asses up and down a series of ever changing natural terrain’.

‘The mountains are my playground.’ He would shrug and flash his amazing smile. It was a smile that sits so easily and sincerely on his face that you can’t help but stop and admire. Or in my case, stare in open-mouth amazement. He has a small chip in his front tooth, which would normally spoil a set of perfectly straight teeth. But in his case it just made his smile all the more genuine, as if to say ‘I’m not going to hide this flaw; it’s part of who I am.’

Sahil led us through jungle and forestry of 50 different shades of green. Chetan also told us that there are 29 shades of brown…but doesn’t that depend on what you eat? (Clo was the only one who heard me say that to appreciate it. Thanks, Clo! Can always count on you!) So, as I put each foot forward and breathed in the freshness of natural India, I felt myself filling up with a sense of elation…and relief. So many trees to hug!! Our footsteps rose and fell with the mountains as the path changed underneath us. We went from flat, gravel paths littered with dried pine needles, to steep rocky slopes (we had to crane our necks to see where we were going), to moist, mossy grounds where fresh spring water freely cut through the terrain. My heart was singing with joy to the tune of the mountains…the hills are alive with the sound of music. For those who know me well (and perhaps not so well) won’t be surprised to learn that I wasn’t shy to belt this out during the trek.

Finally after 6 hours of ascent and perspiration, we arrived in Khajjier AKA Mini-Swiss. If it weren’t for the cows weaving in and out of the café tables, I would’ve thought I was in Switzerland! Once we reached flat grounds I was hit by a second-wind. I spread my arms out like wings and ran across the grass towards the steaming pots that promised chai chai chai! I shouldn’t have done that. I exhausted the last of my energy reserves. Later at the hotel, I pretty much ate dinner with my face on the plate and excused myself from the group at 8 and slept till morning. It was like Delhi all over again! Mother Jen’s right, I’m consistent with my high energy and light moods, but I crash and burn. Haha whoops. But that’s ok. When I woke up, I was more than ready for trekking, day TWO!

Say 'Cheeeeese!'

The stereotype is correct. The English love cheese. Seriously. I didn’t know it was possible to have a 2-hour conversation purely dedicated to cheese. The curdling, the storing, the moulds, the melt, the types, the consumption…Meanwhile, Bollywood music drifted into the hotel restaurant from the balcony for a monthly social event for the local Dalhousie college students. I could hear them laughing, singing and dancing. And there we were… talking cheese. It even continued into the next day on our trek into the fresh pine forest at 3000m above sea level when Tom (who is also English) learnt that he had missed out on our cheese conversation and excitedly listed all these great French cheese fondue boutiques all around the world. Then soon after, on a soft, grass-laden terrace with amazing views of the mountainous landscape, it was revealed in conversation that Porcelain Joelle was once hit and bruised by a wheel of cheese. She was watching the massive annual event in England where a bunch of (otherwise rational) people risk their lives chasing a huge cheese chunk down a rocky, grassy, 45 degree angle hillside.

So by the end of it all, it was appropriate for me to have cut the cheese for laughing so bloody hard.

Maharaja in Mandi

Backtracking slightly, we had a one-day, one-night stopover in Mandi before Dharamshala. Mandi is a quiet, modest town where the Region’s Maharaja resides. There, we stayed at the Raj Mahal- a palace turned hotel…where the Region’s Maharaja resides. COOL! Chetan had also taken the liberty to organize dinner with His Highness. EVEN COOLER! But first, we met another interesting character whilst strolling around town:

He was the most defeated looking donkey I’d ever seen.

‘Deb, no! Don’t take a picture of the poor thing!’ Clo was horrified at the pathetic state of the donkey. Traffic flowed around it while it stood there static, wondering where the grass was. Cars honked, bicycles dinged... the donkey didn’t even blink. Then a huge bus came along. Unable to drive around it, the bus horn blared. The donkey’s ear twitched but still made no effort to move. The bus driver threw his hands up, put the bus into gear and rear-ended the donkey and STILL it only took a couple of steps. I expected it to lay down, roll on to its back and beg, ‘Please.’ Chetan explained that donkeys in India are equal to stray dogs. Once the owners are done with them, they simply abandon them. I don't get it; why wouldn't you want to save your ass? There are so many rogue, flea-infested donkeys roaming the streets and needless to say they’re treated with much less respect than their Moo-ing counterparts. I reckon you’d have to have done something real bad in your past life to come back as a donkey in India.

So, what does one do, say or expect when meeting a Maharaja? Ceremonious trumpets to announce his arrival? Bows and kissing of the feet? Dialogue through an interpreter who not only translates but censors inappropriateness?

We all sat in our best-dress in the lush garden restaurant, furnished with ornate stone tables and chairs adorned with velvet cushions. Before we’d all gone to get ready for dinner, Chetan gave us a short synopsis about His Highness:

Although his title remains, the Maharaja no longer holds official political power. But he still commands the respect of the people of the region. Because of his popularity, he is constantly consulted by the government to help make final decisions for passing laws and bills. There are dates and stuff to his reign and royal lineage…but I’m not so good at remembering those kinds of details.

As the tour group arrived for dinner in dribs and drabs, there was this old dude in a checkered short-sleeve shirt, sitting with Chetan at the end of the table, casually chatting away. I breezed on by, smiling politely with acknowledgement, saving my bigger, brighter smile for His Highness. Then Chetan called me back and introduced me to Mr. Sahib- the Maharaja of Himachal Pradesh. I was struck by the informality. The Maharaja held his hand out without rising from his seat and without implication that I should be bowing down or something. We all sat there around the dinner table with an air of awkwardness, all not knowing what do in the presence of royalty. And then Maharaja Sahib said:

‘I have a question of legality for you regarding where you are from.’ Everyone sat up ready to answer as best as they can.

‘Can a widow’s husband remarry his wife’s sister?’

‘That’ll be the sister-in-law…so yes, he can.’ I reasoned.

‘In the West, we can remarry whoever we want as long as they’re not blood related.’ Tom offered.

The Maharaja scratched his chin, ‘but…how can he remarry if he’s dead?’

There was a pause. And then we all threw our heads back in laughter and slapped our foreheads. A widow’s husband! Duh! The Maharaja had shattered the ice and everyone was put at ease. Fortunately for me, I thrive in social events that involve riddles and lame jokes. But unfortunately, the Maharaja has been around for longer and knew all the riddles I tried to tell:

‘If a plane crashes on the border of-‘

‘You can’t bury the survivors.’

‘Oh… alright then, how far can a dog-‘

‘Halfway!’

‘Oh…’ and so on and so forth.

But my shining moment came when I solved one of his riddles! All by myself! I’m so smat!

I really enjoyed Maharaja Sahib’s company; his presence was a non-dominating one, but he still knew how to capture attention with his lighthearted humour and down-to-earth attitude. I prefer that over trumpets and feet kissing any day.

Dharamshala… Dalai Lama!

18th June, 2010

The morning we left for Dharamshala, Clodagh came down into the lobby pale with wide-eyed calm. In her distinct Irish accent she announced:

‘There’s a monkey in our room.’

I keeled over with laughter. What an awesome way to start a day! Waking up to a monkey sitting on your coffee table chewing on the remote control. HAHAHAHAHA! Tom and Clo had left their windows open to air out their room overnight, thinking that their room was high enough out of reach of monkeys. Uhhh…they’re monkeys.

The monkeys are funny here. Ha-ha and peculiar. It’s so strange to see these aggressive little red-faced creatures, freely mingling with people. They self-importantly perch themselves on over-hanging branches, looking down at us ground-ridden people, probably thinking, ‘too bad I’m not the species that throws its own faeces’.

I was really excited about Dharamshala. It’s the mountainous refuge home of the Dalai Lama! The DALAI LAMA people! He’s such a rock star. He was on tour in Japan at the time of our stay so unfortunately there was not to be an encounter. We did, however, see his Number One Groupie, sitting outside his temple grounds, digging into a full-sized watermelon, wrapped in the Tibetan flag, cackling good naturedly at passers-by. We couldn’t figure out if he was a she or she was a he. Then the mystery was solved when she stood up and waddled past us with her huge boobs knocking about her knees. She’s become well known in town. We were told she arrived at Dharmashala from America about 6 months prior, in search of an answer. What the question was…no one knows…but she is convinced that the Dalai Lama is the answer. She has sworn devotion to him and constantly demands private audience with him. Each time his Holiness politely declines. Many have criticized her craziness and don’t understand why the Dalai Lama won’t send her away. But being as gracious and compassionate as he is, he allows her on to the temple grounds with tour groups and helped her extend her Visa so that she can stay close to him.

Dharamshala attracts all sorts of people (obviously). But it mainly attracts the soul-searchers and hippies. Dreadlocks, harem pants (baggy pants that grip the ankles and the crotch hangs at the knees), beaded jewellery, sunkissed skin, the lingering scent of cannabis as they hippy-on by… yeah, man, serenity now. Looking past all that, I observed to my fellow traveler, English Adam, that the majority of these seekers were young and really good-looking. He agreed and said that these people were likely to have come from middle to upper-class families. I cocked my head with curiosity and asked him to elaborate. He said it’s a sad-but-true fact that good-lookers have more chances for better opportunities with job prospects and end up more prosperous and therefore end up with more freedom to do things such as travel. All these young, attractive people milling about Dharamshala can afford the time and the luxury to ‘find themselves’ because either their families will have their back, or opportunities will simply arise or be waiting. I nodded. They have it easier. Putting livelihood opportunities aside, being aesthetically-gifted often extends into the confidence of facing the world. The way I see it: the world is made up of people. And the world is much more accepting and willing to help when you present yourself with the confidence usually associated with ‘beauty’. But you know what I think? If you’re picture perfect, with perfect symmetry and facial proportions but have the stinkiest, darkest, unpleasant attitude- you’ll still come across pretty, bloody ugly. No one’s going to help you, or want you, or even be around you. So I don’t think it’s all about the appearance- it’s about the SMILE. A genuine I’m-pleased-to-be-in-your-presence smile. It starts from there. And then the world is a much more pleasant and everything blooms and falls into place.

Besides the hippies (Adam: I just want to shake them and yell ‘CONTRIBUTE!’), Dharamshala is also heavily populated by refugee Tibetans. The moral of the story for the Tibetans, I think, is: don’t be too nice. In a very simplified nutshell, the people of Tibet were living peacefully in their own country, doing their own peaceful thing when the Chinese stumbled across them. The Tibetans welcomed them with big smiles and open arms, said ‘mi casa es tu casa’ in Tibetan and the Chinese went all Rambo with it. Now, the Dalai Lama and thousands of his people are taking refuge in Dharamshala, banished from their own home with memories of torture, fear and despair. So, when asked ‘where you face from?’ I said ‘Korea. SOUTH Korea.’

It’s no exaggeration when the Tibetans are described as an extremely peaceful people. The perfect example of it was displayed in the Tibet Museum. There was a large, glass case that on one side held the bloodied handcuffs, torture devices, gas bomb shells used on Tibetan prisoners. On the other side were woven bracelets, small embroidered tapestries, and little beaded key-ring things done by the prisoners during their ‘rest time’. Seriously, any other race would’ve made voodoo dolls to cast hexes on the bloody Effers who fucked up their lives.

On a lighter note, this is how I looked while in Hippy Town: