Mr. Fantastic...Totally Bombastic

We had just arrived in Rishikesh. It had been a very, very long, frustrating day of travel from Shimla. It was dark and and we had just found a guesthouse to stay in, thankfully. It was hot, even though the sun had long set, we were hungry, thirsty and exhausted. We really wanted some cold water. Conveniently located right beside our hotel was a little store. These are the kind of stores everyone buys everything at in India. No big department stores or supermarkets. Just a collection of little shops, none with doors or windows- all open air, selling everything from shampoo and razors to candy and bulk rice and spices.

'Do you have any cold water?' I asked the shopkeeper, a younger Indian man with a smiley face and big maroon oval (tikka) painted on his forehead. "Everyt'ing is possible!" he cried. Well, is it possible for me to just have a bottle of water then? I thought cynically. 'I have the best and most fantastic water in the whole city!' he reported cheerfully. He was very excited. His enthusiasm over the bottled water caught us off guard. 'Great. We'll take it!' I said, half wondering if our water was going to come with a side of ecstacy. As he reached into his fridge to get us the bottle, he started singing. "Mr Fantastic! Mr Bombastic! Mr Lovuh Lovuh.....Everyt'ing is possible" We couldn't help but smile. After such a rough day, his happiness was a wonderful relief. 'What are your names?' he asked us. Knowing where he was going, Jonathan played along and said, "You can call me Shaggy." We knew, though, that he couldn't hear our response as the incessant honking of the motorbikes and trucks on the road behind us had suddenly increased in already deafening decibel. 'My name?' he asked, without any prompting from us. 'I'm Mr. Fantastic! Mr Bombastic! Mr Lovuh Lovuh...' We laughed. He had his speech perfected. Mr Fantastic continued on his spiel of all that was fantastic and bombastic in the world. He had a lot to say. Turns out, we live on quite the fantastically bombastic planet. Our bellies were rumbling though, so we unfortunately had to move on after hearing only ten minutes or so of Mr Fantastic's bombastic ramblings. Note to Self: don't stop by for one of Mr Fantastic's "Everyt'ing-is-possible-best-super-cold-fantastic bottles of water" if you are in a hurry. 'Ok! See you later alligator! In a while crocodile!' Mr Fantastic called to us, waving goodbye wildly as we left in search of dinner.

The best part about Mr Fantastic was that he was just genuinely friendly. Every time we passed his shop he smiled wide and waved. "Everyt'ing is possible!" he would remind us. Every time. His shop was beside our hotel, on the main road. Mr Fantastic repeated his mantra a lot. Not that it is bad to be reminded that Everyt'ing is possible!

Hoping for some more bombastically cold water we went to visit Mr Fantastic a few days later. There was an older Indian man in the shop and Mr Fantastic was bent over a film camera that looked to be perhaps even older than the old man. He looked up from the camera that he was dissecting, saw us and smiled. 'His camera has a bombastic problem,' he told us grimly. We laughed, despite the probable demise of the old man's old camera. Was his camera going to live to take another snap? Well, it didn't look promising, but as Mr Fantastic would say, Everyt'ing is possible!

ps. Happy First Anniversary to the Fantastic, totally bombastic Mr and Mrs Lovuh Lovuh, Sarah and Ed!!

A Walk on the Wild Side

There are plenty of nice ashrams and temples to go walking to in the Rishikesh area. We have spent quite a bit of time walking about, although the heat and scorching sun have been a deterrent. Feeling brave, and needing to stretch my legs after all the work at yoga we decided on the 6km walk out to the Phool Chatti ashram, at the apex of a clear, blue stream and the muddy, swift opaque ganges. We ate breakfast and sipped spicy chai at our favourite breakfast spot and left the comfort of the fan for the steamy, sunsoaked outdoors.

The walk is along an Indian road, which poses dangers in itself, what with all the jeeps crammed with locals flying (sometimes literally) up and down the narrow way. And the motorbikes, with no less than three passengers, none of whom seem to be actually paying attention to the road. Most of the road is covered in cow patties. I guess that's one of the main downfalls of all the friendly, resident, wandering cows that beg passerbys for a chip or two from their bag, 'Magic Masala' preferably. (Or their favourite treat: cardboard boxes. Those they eat with relish. They especially like the Coca Cola variety.) Anyways. Poo. Everywhere. And these cows eat a diet consisting almost entirely of garbage and pretty much anything and everything, except grass, so you can imagine that they aren't perhaps the healthiest of beasts. This is reflected in their spattering, smearing, stinky poo that they effectively spread over every inch of the road. Impressive, really. They rarely miss a spot. A stroll anywhere in India is, essentially a Cow Pattie Obstacle Course. And many people seem to like to complete this obstacle course barefoot! So, to summarize, the 'steps' of walking.

Step One: Avoid being hit by a wayward vehicle. They honk, you moooove. That's it. The cows seem to manage... then again, they are the sacred ones.

Step Two: Good luck trying to avoid walking through cow poo. Get your wellies!

The thick, jungle-y forest that lines the road is sublime, though. And the monkeys!
Sometimes I think about the time when monkeys running amok, clambering through trees and peering curiously at you from the side of the road wasn't a normal, everyday sight. I would think it was a sad time- if the monkeys themselves weren't so terrifying. They don't mean to be, I'm sure. But they don't know any better. People have fed them in the past, and they are still optimistic about handouts, they get yelled at a lot, because they are so very mischievous, and people sometimes even hit them with sticks (sad, I know). So, really, people are much to blame for some of the behaviour. When we were getting all our shots for the trip, the nurse recommended we get a rabies shot, in case a monkey jumps on us. I laughed when she said that. What the heck kind of situation would we find ourselves in that a monkey might jump on us. Ohhh how little I knew. The nurses warning has stuck, and now, to me, monkey = rabies. And rabies = a lot of needles. You can die from rabies within 24hours. This I didn't know until the needle nurse horrified me with this little tidbit. Sad, but true.

Step Three: Don't feed the monkeys.

Anyways, on a positive note, there are two kinds of monkeys here in Rishikesh. Feisty smaller red-bummed rhesus macaque and large black-faced, grey bodied 'Hanuman' langurs. Both are abundant and abundantly mischievious. So, we begin our walk by hiding our water bottle and making sure that there is nothing fun-looking or shiny dangling from our beings. Although we see monkeys now, everyday, everywhere, I still can't help but be charmed by their monkey ways. "Hahaha! That monkey just clambered across the roof and stole that apple, and then skidded across the electrical wire, down the drain pipe, scrambled across the street and scared the wits out of that couple!' 'Hahaha! Its 6am and those monkeys are wrestling on the tin roof, causing one heck of a ruckus!' Its probably less entertaining when you live here.
So, what I am actually trying to say is that you have to have your wits about you when walking through the forest.

We walk to the edge of town and are joined by a cute black dog with an incessantly waggy tail. Stray dogs join us on walks often. 'Maybe because their doggie sense tells them that we're friendly?' We originally thought. But, no, its because we don't immediately yell at them, kick them, throw sticks at them or jump at them aggressively trying to scare them. That's what most locals do. Earning a dogs love in these parts is not hard. They do not have high standards. Therefore, dogs join us for walks, and use us for protection (and often protect us against other animals!). They seem to have figured out that people won't hit them if they are 'attached' to other people. We walked along, our new doggie friend heeling in between us. The monkeys and dogs aren't friends. "Dog" (aren't we creative with names?) hid from the monkeys behind us. We're walking along, sweaty in the mid-morning sun, taking in the green, the monkeys and the rushing ganges. Dog is sniffing a bush. Recipe for disaster. All of the sudden a large monkey, aggressively jumps out at him, barring his teeth in warning. We all jump in surprise and Dog runs to hide behind us. Sigh. And the adventure begins.

Step Four: Watch out for cute, trouble causing tag-alongs.

People stop us to take pictures. Its all part of the routine now. One snap of us, then everyone takes turns taking a photo with us, they thank us, shake our hands and we move on. I feel bad that I am so sweaty and gross-looking for their photos. One guy even insists on hugging us. I am wet with sweat. Its so hot. Poor guy. I'm gross.

Step Five: Smile for the camera.

We keep trucking. If it wasn't so darn hot, it would be very enjoyable. 'I wish it wasn't so hot!' I whine for the tenth time in as many minutes. There's barely even a breeze. Dog lies down in a river that has taken over the road, covering the patch in muddy, cool water. He slurps up the drink. Yum. I, on the other hand, don't do heat so well. I complain. 'I wish it weren't so hot!' I say again, in case Jonathan didn't hear me the first eleven times.

Step Six: Get your sweat on.

As if on demand, a wonderfully cool, even cold, breeze envelopes us. Wow! Its such a contrast that I look around to see if we have passed some sort of hidden, magic air conditioned shop with its doors open, somewhere in the middle of the forest. Weird. Its soooo nice. But not free. A very black cloud appears over the ridge of the mountain and almost instantly huge raindrops start splattering around us. Splat! Splat! Splat! Of course, we haven't brought our umbrellas as the sky has been a hot, hazy blue for days. Splat! Stupid! Its monsoon. We've been tricked again. We dash under a dense tree and hope to use this jungle canopy to our advantage. The cooler air is welcome, and we wouldn't really even mind getting wet- but I have my cameras in my bag and Jonathan has the passports and money. The tree diverts some of the rain, but not for long. The rain gets heavier and the drops find their way through the leaves and onto us. 'Well, you got your wish. It's not hot anymore,' Jonathan says to me as his shirt changes colour the wetter it gets. We stand under the tree, getting soaked. So, this is what they mean by 'monsoon,' eh? Realizing that we probably couldn't get any more wet than we were we decide just to walk through the rain back towards town. Jeeps and motorbikes pass at breakneck speed, aiming for puddles (I'm sure) and defiantly splashing us with the entire contents of the puddle. 'Thought that is as wet as you could get?' they seem to be mocking.

Step Seven: Bring your umbrella.

We stomp on. My sandals are slimy and slippery and really annoying to walk in. Jonathan's hair is plastered to his head and his pants are dragging in through the mud (we're telling ourselves its mud anyway...). I am about to complain about our new set of frustrating circumstances when my thoughts are zapped from my head by a massive, shocking, terrifying BOOOOM!!! right above us. I yelp and jump impressively high, no doubt. We look up in time to see a burst of yellow and orange sparks/flames exploding from the power box on top of the wood posts and quickly showering towards us. 'That thing just EXPLODED!' I cry, my heart pounding. 'It EXPLODED right over us! There is a fire! Fireworks!' Do we run? What happens next? We are too shocked to do anything but look at each other. Swerving jeeps and motorbikes, killer monkeys, curious Dog looking for trouble, a monsoon and now an explosion. This was some morning walk! 'If Ronnie were in charge here, that would have NEVER have happened!' I tell Jonathan. Its still 'monsooning' but we push on. A few minutes later, we hear another loud BOOOM!!! from behind us and think that maybe our luck is changing. Explosions from a distance are probably of the safer variety.

Step Eight: Maybe bring a hard hat too.

We finally get to the edge of town. Its still raining with vigor. The roads are flooded and the water covering them is the grossest variety of gross. The cow patties are now floating, disguised in the muddy rain water, and nearly impossible to avoid. People's garbage has grown legs (that they all insist on haphazardly throwing out into the middle of the road) and is chasing us down the street. Garbage cans are not popular here. Why, when the street is closer, bigger and there. Food pieces float by, wrappers, diseases. Who knows, really. Its so gross I can't bare to look what I am wading through anymore. It couldn't have been raining more than twenty minutes and everything is a disaster. And flooded.

Step Nine: Don't get caught up the flooded street without a paddle.

A man sitting irritatingly dry and comfy in his shop tries to sell me an umbrella. I glare at him. I think its a little late for that. In town, everyone is hiding in come cubby hole or another. Under this plastic or that, sipping chai, staring at us as we pass. Soaked to the bone. Our clothes are stuck to us, and I am trying to cover my bag with my dripping shirt, to protect the cameras. My clothes are falling down under the weight of the water. I don't want to think what my feet are touching.

We arrive back at our hotel and leave a trail that looks like a river to our room. Jonathan is happy because he has an excuse to wear his sarong the rest of the day.

Step ten: Be careful what you wish for.

ps. Happy Birthday Fun Aunt Maryann!

pps. We felt the earthquake, but we are fine. Although extensive, damage did not reach to the Annapurna. This should mean we will have no troubles getting into our trek.

Jonathan and the Belt of Triumph

Yoga, by definition means to 'unite'. The aim of practicing yoga is to 'unite' an individual's consciousness with the divine. For me, it was more like uniting my body with a following week of barely being able to walk.

Rishikesh- 'The Yoga Capital of the World', or so they claim. A statement which I suppose a town is allowed to make when every other building is an ashram, temple or yoga school. And everyone, ok, mostly the tourists, all stroll around looking ridiculously flexible and wearing overly baggy 'yoga' clothes and orange scarves patterned with Hindu deities, barely breaking their chants for strictly vegetarian food. Heck, even the Beatles came here, famously, to Maharishi's ashram, just outside of town, for some good old fashioned stretching and 'ommm'ing. On the holy river 'Ganga' (the Ganges) Rishikesh and it's neighbouring towns are a mecca, for varying reasons, for pilgrims, tourists, sadhus (somewhat itinerant holy men who are sustained mostly by alms, but also find supplemental income as hotel touts, tour guides etc.), people who want to learn the secrets of yoga, people who think they already know everything about yoga and want to show off, and, of course, as all Indian towns, for cows, dogs and monkeys.

As a rosey-eyed travel planner, I am guilty of imagining the perfect 'Liz' senario. Liz (Gilbert), of course, from Eat, Pray, Love, whose months spent at the nameless Indian ashram enlightened her in so many ways. (ps. I am NOT the only one who has come to this decision, looks like, from the innumerable single women wandering around wistfully, obviously just waiting to be enlightened) (side note #2: I know, I know this isn't completely fair and quite a bit cynical) In my personal Indian-yoga fantasies, I would sit, cross legged, before a soft faced yogi, breathing deeply feeling the oxygen run through me, filling me with energy, a gentle breeze on my face, the soothing sounds of distant chanting devotees, and I would revel in the peace and stillness. I would leave town feeling rejuvenated, refreshed, and alive. Sigh. What an imagination I have.

Granted, the large studio at 'my' yoga school has a grand wall of windows that look out over the fast moving Ganges. Sitting on my yoga mat, I can hear the rushing water and see the faded, but colourful temple across the bank backing onto the thick, steep, forested hills. Then again, my eyes are supposed to be closed, and I probably should be focused more on contorting my sweaty body into the impossible pose that the calm, pretzel-like yogi is demonstrating... But, oh.. and theres a cute little monkey lumbering along the balcony! The yogi always smiles at me in the way one smiles at a child when they are trying so very hard to do something that is clearly impossible for them to do. Everyone else knows that they are headed for failure, but the child, naive, keeps on trying anyways. Anything is possible, right? How cute.

The first class Jonathan and I took (yes, even Jonathan gave it a shot- we are in the Yoga Capital of the World, after all) was Astanga Yoga. Astanga yoga links various poses into a series of flowing, aka, exhausting, movements. 'Guaranteed to make you sweat,' promised the yogi who greeted us, like the sweating was something to look forward to. The only thing that I could think of as we twisted and lunged and I successfully drenched in sweat, every item of clothing I was wearing, my yoga mat, and most of the floor around me, was 'what a scam that popular, trendy, new 'hot yoga' stuff is that everyone is talking about at home!' 'Hot yoga,' I'm sure, was 'invented' by someone who came to India and took an astanga yoga class in India's scorching hot weather on a day where the power was out, as it was that day for us. (Not that the decrepit fans would have made much of a difference). Guaranteed to make you sweat out at least a half liter. This is no special hot yoga, people. This is just yoga in India. Yoga, where in a place where it is insanely hot. And there you have it: hot yoga was born. I'm sure of it. I loved every minute of it, of course.

Ever more entertaining than myself, was dear ole' Jonathan. I had done many of the moves/positions before in classes at the gym back home (most I had been doing incorrectly, it turns out. Because when you do them the proper way- it hurts... but, anyways). It was a whole new world for Jonathan.He did well, though. He was the only proud recipient of a blue belt, half way through the class. We were sitting, legs out, reaching towards our feet. The yogi came around and was trying to help each of us reach further. He came to Jonathan and pushed lightly on is back. Jonathan laughed. 'Oh' said the yogi, surprised, and he returned with the belt. 'The Rope of Superiority,' 'the Gold Star', 'The Belt of Triumph.' All names Jonathan came up with for his new accessory. Really, what was it? A handicap. Because Jonathan can't touch his toes. Not, really, I'm sad to report, even close. (J: Why would anyone want their fingers to touch their toes when those toes, strapped in thongs, have been walking around in mud, disease-infested water, cow splats, garbage and some other gross things all day long? In this context, inflexibility should be rebranded as Sanitary Yoga). With the rope wrapped around his feet, he could use the resistance to aid in his 'stretching.' This, needless to say was the last astanga yoga class Jonathan came to with me (J: I said I would attend one class of each type offered (three in total)).

I continued to attend, although not the next day, as I could barely move my legs as a result of the class. I am more flexible than Jonathan, but nothing compared to the pretzel-people in the class. Wowzers. Seriously, these people can contort themselves, seemingly effortlessly into poses that you only see in those disturbing forwarded emails. I am hoping that flexibility is contagious. I think the yogi likes when I come, for my entertainment value. In that first class, by some stroke of otherworldly assistance, I'm sure, I managed to fanagle my legs almost behind my head. The yogi looked up in alarm and frantically motioned one of the assistants over to 'assist' me in my efforts. Most likely to do his best in making sure I didn't break my neck. That would probably be a lot of paperwork. Then again, this is India. The yogi in training, without really any help from me, somehow rearranged my legs and feet and arms so that I was almost pretzel-ed in half, kinda like the rest of the class, (except Jonathan). I was stunned. How the heck was I doing this? 'Look at me! Look at me!' I hissed to Jonathan, craning my neck to the side and peering in between my jumble of arms and legs. You don't talk loudly in yoga class, obviously. As I hoped, he looked over and was equally impressed, shocked and horrified. I could tell by the way his jaw dropped and was filled with panic. 'You're folded in half!' Jonathan exclaimed in a loud whisper. Ms. Yoga herself glares at us from between her legs, showing off her perfect 'downward dog.' She's moved on from this pose. Too easy for her. The yogi had left me, all twisted up. I was so impressed with myself. Look at me! Look at me! I'm a pretzel! Yes, I was thrilled, and was wishing that we had the camera to provide proof of this feat, as it was likely never to happen again- and then I realized. Not only had I not the slightest idea how I had gotten myself into this 'pretzel' (mostly because I hadn't), more importantly, and causing a significant onset of panic, 'how the heck was I going to get out?' My limbs were all secured tightly within each other and I couldn't move them at all. Everyone else was gracefully moving on to the next pose. Except me. I was on my back, butt in the air, flopping around like a fish on the beach. Graceful, yes, and attractive, I'm sure. Jonathan was no longer impressed and was laughing. I knew right then, as I had finally wriggled one leg free and flopped it onto the ground with a resounding 'thump' that I had lost any right to make fun of his 'Blue Belt of Triumph.' Darn. As I lay there, flat on my back, breathing heavily I remembered that I was a pretzel, just moments before and smiled widely. 'Did you see that?' I mouthed to Jonathan, referring to the pretzel, not the unflattering depretzelization. To which, he just laughed harder. Whatever, Blue Belt!

As the week wore on, I got better and better at the positions, and every morning I woke up my leg muscles ached less and less. Yesterday, my second to last class, I was feeling particularily daring. The yogi described and demonstrated some complicated pose where one leg was tucked up into the other and the other leg was bent, and one arm went around this leg, but backwards, or something equally as impossible. I watched the rest of the class twisting and reaching and pushing themselves into position, and I tried to imitate them. 'This pose is very hard for some, very easy for others,' the yogi called from the front of the classroom. I wriggled my way into position with relative ease. Wow! I could do it! I was one of the ones it was easy for. One week of yoga, and I was practically a pro. I smiled and closed my eyes. I practiced breathing the way I was taught. I made sure all my muscles were active. I sat there, eyes closed, impressed with myself. Maybe I should become a yoga instructor! Maybe I could be more successful at meditation, now that I've conquered yoga. Maybe... there was a tap on my knee. The yogi was smiling, inches from my face. The same way I smile at cute dogs. He shook his head, still smiling and dutifully attempted to rearrange my limbs into a position that more closely resembled that of the rest of the class, I realized. He was greatly unsuccessful. There was no way my leg was going there, nor was my arm reaching that far. My limbs were fiercely uncooperative despite his gentle coaxing. Not even close. 'Oh.' 'Not so easy any more, is it?' he laughed, good naturedly. Maybe I will stick to sitting at the back of the class...

The yoga school offers three different kinds of classes. Hatha yoga, which is traditional Indian yoga, Ashtanga Visyasa yoga, a more fluid yoga and meditation. Jonathan and I have tried every class. Jonathan, not surprisingly, liked the mediation the best. And he was far, far better at it than I was. After a half hour of 'breathing' and another excruciating half hour of staring at the flame of a candle, I determined that meditation was boring. Although instead of sitting there "concentrating", as I knew my perfectly figetless husband was doing, I had used the time 'wisely,' planning where we would go for dinner, if this hour did, in fact, ever end, which earrings I wanted from the Tibetan lady down the street, I considered which train we should take to the next town, decided that we should do our laundry the following day...

ps. Happy Birthday Uncle Stephen, Uncle Dan and Candy Dandy!!

pps. Welcome to the family Daniel Ricardo!

ppps. Has anyone in Canada received a postcard from Nepal yet? We mailed them six weeks ago!

Third One's a Charm

We woke up this morning (September 2nd) to find a monkey, a langur, to be precise, on our balcony. Being in India, this isn't exactly shocking. What's funny about it is that, three years ago to the day, the day Jonathan and I were married, there was a similar sentiment. Although, of course, we were in Canada, on Georgian Bay, and there was no actual monkey. Let me explain. The night before our wedding I slept in a cabin with five of my favourite ladies. From this statement alone you can maybe guess that our wedding wasn't of the classical sort. Anyways, the cabin awoke to giggling. Marta, or Sarah, or perhaps the two in kahoots were lying awake listening to the 'wild' animals fussing about in the woods. Birds, chipmunks, typical Northern Ontario fare. There was though, to their credit a bird (my best guess) making a very weird call or at least singing very off key. 'Who ordered the monkeys?' or something along that line was whispered. More giggling. It did sound quite exotic. Laura, who had been sound asleep assured them that there was, no way, no how a monkey on the cabin's roof and hoped they would go back to sleep. They probably could have used more sleep to prepare for the gauntlet of wedding-day duties that they had generously agreed to. But, there was no convincing Sarah and Marta. There was a monkey on the roof and everyone was now wide awake listening for it. It worked for me. I had been awake for hours, just waiting for the sun to finally rise so I could get married already! Turns out my friends were more physic then I gave them credit for at the time. Here was that monkey they were convinced was pouncing around on our roof... only he missed the party by three years...and a few thousand kilometers...
ps. The green drinks are my Rishikesh obsession. Fresh mint and lemon, blended with ice and probably a hefty scoop of sugar! Yum!!!