Kristin Peiiii runs rivers, prdys in Temples, dnd discovers
indi undersidnding is out dnd experiencing is in.

y Asheville, North Carolina friends —
M Miami runaways, it’s fair to say — are

in the travel business. Ellen Lyon and
Reda Kay have the “necessaries” to provide
clients not only getaways or distractions, but
real adventures, life-enriching travel experi-
ences. So when I had a chance to go to India
with a small group, escorted by them, I took it.

In October 2000, I flew, alone, from
Central Europe over the mid-East, hoping that
after India, I would be able to go there, some-
how. The young Indian men and women pas-
sengers (software designers in California)
struck me as thoroughly American. At the
flight’s end I knew they were not. Maybe they
were the emerging World-Person whose home
was an airport. They would visit family, take an
Indian wife, but they would return to the States.
I thought of the hordes of immigrants to
America, from the Protestant Northern Irish
who gave us President Jackson, all the way
through to the arriving Indians in high-tech and
even Tibetan Buddhists. My God, I wasn’t even
there yet and I was getting wired. I couldn’t
shut off my thinking. I hoped I could, though,
because, in India understanding is out, experi-
encing is in. I thought, “Yeah, right.”

Descending into Bombay was eerie:
the pyromaniacal light show I was used to on
night flights into Miami or the dazzling opening
shot of Las Vegas at night on CBS’s “CSI”
never happened. Instead, it was an inky back-
ground, daubed with sporadic smudges of
dulled-out orange. Yet millions moved below. I
was afraid. But, I remember I didn’t want to
cop to it.

A Pakistani businessman moved me
through the intricacies of the Bombay airport,

and as I boarded the plane to Delhi, he said,
“First time here?” I nodded yes, and spoke of
my amazement at the splendid, colorful chaos
“Ah, well, then  but please remember, we are
not amazed by all this. It is our life, and you_ are
welcome. Namaste.” I ofi'ered a handshake
goodbye.

I met up with the tour group at the
Claridges Hotel and we spent the day and night
getting acquainted and psyched. We were a
small band, ll in all, counting our guide, Prince
(his real name), and our van drivers, two of the
most centered, unflappable beings I’ve met yet.
These three would be with us for most of the 19
or 20 days we would spend in India.

We drove north to fabled Rishikesh in
the foothills of the Himalayas. In the l960’s the
Beatles, seeking enlightenment and spiritual
renewal, came to Rishikesh and as the electric
media flashed pictures of their bowed heads
and prayerful hands, millions overnight heard
what the first-wave hippies had been saying:
Rishikesh — Place of the Sages — shows ardent
seekers a new path when the burdens of materi-
al acquisitions have begun to taste like ashes.
The world saw, and India was hot! I saw my
first ancient Shiva Temple and participated in
puja — a blessing for our up-coming journey —
and students at the Sanskrit School presented us
with the gift of chanting. I was buzzing in my
head, trying to think what I thought.

We drove to the Himalayan River
Runners Rafting Camp high above the ashrams,
the priests, the temples, the pilgrims, tourists,
shops, and markets. We slept in tents by the
Ganges River and in the morning we rafted into
Rishikesh, on absolutely pristine water, calm at
times, allowing us to enjoy both the forested

and terraced hillsides. The rapids (up to class
III-V) encouraged us to finally scream and
shout-out the apprehensive awe, but also the
thrill each of us had been feeling — probably the
minute we touched down in India.
Then came Hardiwar, where Lord

Vishnu lefi his footprint, and on the evening
trek, there were hundreds moving down to the
river. People were chanting, and priests were
bowing over and over, and zillions of flower
petals with candles on them were released to

- give thanks to Mother Ganga. I couldn’t

remember anything like it at home — at least the
unbridled expression of thanks.

In Dehradun, a hill station, we visited
the Sakya Center, which offers education for
monks and nuns and serves the Tibetan
Buddhist community, and in Shimla, once con-
sidered the abode of the goddess Shamla, we
marveled at the chalets and castle-like govem-
ment buildings that Kipling, in the days of the
British Raj, called his “utopia.” But I thought it
was too much like a movie set a la
“Bollywood,” and I missed the rarnbunctious
India. The vibrancy was under wraps, and I
noticed we were walking in lines and saying
“pardon me” in this English place.

Afier Mandi, with its Bhutnath
Temple (to mention just one among the 8]
Hindu temples in the area) we drove to Kullu,
to -participate in a weeklong festival. Villages
for miles around bring their deities out of the
village temples on ceremonial palanquins, car-
rying them to Kullu to pay homage to the king
of the deities in the “Valley of Gods.”

Walking to the festival from Hotel
Vaishali, we smother our mouths and noses
with bandanas, against the dust and diesel

stench. The rags we clutched were our bit of
American color. We seemed to me to be what
we, in fact, were: Western, well-intended, but
beginning to fall in love with wandering among
folk dancers, snake charmers, holy men -
Sadhus — market stalls with local handi crafts,
sacred possessions, traditional dress  we
wanted to stay for more than our two days, but
it was day nine (or ten?) and the van was there
waiting to move on.

We hit the road for Dharmsala,
McLeod Ganj, the home in exile of his
Holiness the Dalai Lama; the stops we make,
the road through the towering conifer forests up
to McLeod Ganj, the mysterious sounds of
gongs and horns and prayer flags flying and
prayer wheels spinning — the monks and nuns —
all leave no doubt that this is Tibet, in exile, a
spiritual epicenter. Walking here, hiking in the
forest, among the shepherds, late night talks — it
was a retreat that someone said was like float-
ing, dropping out of time.

The overnight train ride to Delhi for
our flight to see the famed Hindu Temples of
Khajurahjo was so engrossing, and against all
odds, soothing, that we let go of “Tibet” to feel
the India vibes. (And, please, Lord Shiva, when
will the Americans bring back their trains?)

In Khajurahjo, the sensual but erotic
temple sculptures were crafted of buff sand-
stone, reddish-brown. And as I stood there
looking, my mind threw up a picture of the Red
Stone Campus, UVM. What was this? I was
flashing on American temples and gods, our
linear, not circular, “take” on the World (corpo-
rations, compartments, street grids, closet

continued on page 1 2