Ive read somewhere that if love wasnt invented in India, it certainly was perfected here. To look at India on the surface - even by reading about it - is to miss how profoundly true and irrefutable this statement is. But to enter this world, if even for a day, and allow it (with often surprising trust) to carry you along its diverse cities, villages, valleys, mountainscapes, beaches, and peoples is to understand the perfection of Indian love. Its more than an expression between two, or a longing from one to another, it is their way of life: wholly and absolutely. And while they certainly also have their host of problems here, it is a way of life which I have grown to admire with the greatest respect.
I look back, now at the end of my journey, on my first days/weeks/months/experiences in this country and I remember the adjustment to this then-unknown love to be staggeringly difficult: my way of life involved sarcasm and cynicism as tools of defense, tools I found myself using against the unconditional love I was being given...however subtly. I suppose, now thinking about it, I was still just a tourist then, and in being so, I wasnt trusting of this country's love...I only saw the country superficially: hypermasculine, aggressive, dirty, smelly, poor, chaotic. As I documented with this blog months ago (whoa), this tourist perspective only truly changed as I gave myself over to trusting the time and place more and more: when I altered my flight home the first time I altered myself a little and became less of a tourist, and by the third time altering my flight home I had lost the tourist-eyes and with my Indian-eyes I saw the love that was there; the love that is so immense. It is not just love for the country and all of its beauty. In my time here I have found such love for my self that I hardly recognize pictures of me from the beginning of it all: I have changed.
Such reflection is personal, so I will veer away from the foolishness of trying to write about it. But it should be said though that such reflection has been the mark of the last couple of days (since my last posting) and thusly a sign for me that this whole journey, while maybe not ending in the ultimate sense, is certainly changing, and I am begining to come down. It began back in Manali over a plate of schnitzel (the prize for our troubles on the bikes). Having conquered all that we sought out to, none of us could admit that the taste of the breaded bird was soured with the understanding that we would all soon go our separate ways. I was the first. I left on a wednesday (I think), heading to Delhi to catch a train back down to Pune. With my things packed and my mind in the future, I said a tearful goodbye to my Israeli bretheren: each one performing the ceremonial goodbye with characteristic perfection. In their final words I felt a completeness of our experience together, because in their words I heard a tinge of my own influence; a beautiful aspect of a truly loving relationship. I boarded a bus later that day with a girl I had met along the way; nice enough, I suppose, but after 18 hours on the bus I was ready to get away...and far. Still, Delhi is tremendously overwhelming even the second time visiting and in her company I was able to get a cheaper room and have someone to walk around with. We spent the day getting tickets for things and shopping; ending the day with a cold beer at a nice restaurant. Stuffed with food and drink, I went outside to smoke a cigarette of relief when, standing only ten feet from my face, was Hatzeel (Raffi): the first Israeli I met on the bus from Amritsar to Dharamsala, the lynchpin of my Isreali brothers, the english speaking mirror of my self. I burst with excitement and promptly embraced the life out of him. As rich as was the punishment of my struggles on the bike (challenge after unexpectable challenge), so too was the reward of seeing Hatzeel at this time: like perfect closure. We spent the rest of the night drinking (at a TGIFridays in Delhi...ha!) and then went back to my/our guesthouse (ironically he was two floors below me)to smoke a last spliff together and close the book properly. It was beautiful: and something I will never forget; and, in feeling, it made everything before that much more perfect: I could leave the north or India or even life itself knowing through feeling that it was all for something. The next morning, after a last hug with Hatzeel (which, if youre wondering, means eggplant in hebrew and is just a nickname), I boarded a train to Pune and was on it for the following 31 hours. Its not really as intense as it seems: its a nice ride and I got a lot of reading done. Thats it, pretty much. Now I am here in Pune, at the Osho commune. Its crazy being back here again because in small ways its so different but in larger ways its still the same: so much so that I feel, in a way, as though I never really mattered to the community...it changed without me. But after two days of that feeling I have come to realize it is for the best. I use this place better than I did before: meditating all day and reflecting (still in the most beatufiul settings) on all that I have done...and all that I have come from. It is what it is, and I love it (for the most part). Are there still idiots here? Of course. Is there still a sense of inauthenticity about how moneyed this place is? Of course. But the good outweighs the bad, and Im happy...so who cares? Not me.
I must go now to attend a meditation; Im trying to get in as much as I can while I can. I apologize if my writing this time is not as clear as its been before; I have a lot to process and Im doing my best to let it process on its own. Thats love. A love Ive only just begun to learn, and Ive learn it here in India.
With love,
Arnava
Monday, August 20, 2007
Monday, August 13, 2007
"Oh, ash-traaaay": Part II, Arnava's Motorcycle Diary
Conclusions. Possibly, the most crucial part of any adventure story. Because somewhere in the conclusion there must be closure; there must be the entire potency of the experience in an even smaller dosage; there must be reflection on all that was; and there must be forsight on all that will be, next. For me, the concluding of this motorcycle adventure has been (like the concluding of all of my adventures (from BK to Mmk, or Mmk to CA, or CA back to BK, or BK to India, and now within India)) difficult to process: "is it really...over?", "what becomes of these relationships?", "what becomes of the details, the most innner moments?", "what becomes of me?". The great irony of this struggle is that all that Im wondering about what will become will only be known to me in time. Of course. But even just knowing that - that life reveals all its mysteries in time - is a great achievement for me; a great gift of this experience. And, if it isnt clear in the way in which this story is told or wont be made more clear in the future with pictures and personal retellings, the simple fact of this journey is that I have grown in all the ways I wanted; and all the ways I never expected. Lately, Ive written for myself a lot about trusting life and how in trusting it (even counterintuitively at times; taking risks) the best of life is experienced: win, lose, or draw. And never more intensely have I known this illogical truth to be so true as I did n these last few weeks on the bike. So, heres the rest of it:
At some point after my last posting (in Kaza) we all began feeling as though we were cursed: we had gone through too many flat tires and mechanical errors to feel normal, we had met too many groups of cute girls going in the opposite direction from us to feel special, and we had spent too much waiting-time in odd places due to unreasonable environmental/weather-related circumstances to feel blessed. Still, we pushed forward to Mud (a super small, almost secret, mountain village where we heard amazing things about the view and the hiking) passing the place where we - only days before - had slept stranded on the side of the road. The drive that day was one of the best and the weather (sunny and hot and gorgeous)made us feel, however temporarily, that things were on our side. We made it there with smiles and, with so many potentials from the opposite sex strutting around the heavenly landscape, we even began believing our previous streak of seemingly bad luck to be, at least, for something now good. But then I got sick, again, with the same 48-hour flu I had tasted in Bahgsu. I medicated myself with tea and sunshine and rested heavily (not so hard there), and within two days time we were back on the road. Another stop in Kaza (for them to eat schnitzel and us to get fuel) and we were soon using our momentum to inch ever-closer to our final destination: Manali. With a presumed day left in actual distance, we stopped for two nights in Kibber to take in some last village-life and, of course, time together. Though it is hard to write about these villages without repeating much of the same superficial description, each one is truly different and amazing in its own way...so, spending time in them is actually quite enjoyable and, in accumulation, a great way - maybe the only way - to truly see India. I could tell you that we took an amazing hike to a canyon or had a fun soccer game in the village or saw amazing shooting stars, but such details are (more for me) the true difference between a place like Kibber and a place like Mud (or Jhibi, or Kalpa, or Rampur, or Laori, or Chitkul, or Tabo, or Nako or wherever else). When the second morning came, we all were a bit sad because we all suspected it to be our last day: a hard drive over Rhotang pass and a final descent back into Manali. But of course, our luck would decide for us differently. Not even 40km outside of Kibber (on a 160km trip that day) Benzi's back tire flattened on a cliffside hill in the middle of nowhere. This time it was more serious becuase the flat came from him breaking (due to some of the worst road conditions Ive ever seen) 18 spokes on the wheel frame. We were fucked: no pump, one last spare innertube, and no one to help...with 120km distance in any direction to the closest (unreliable)mechanic. Idan and I stayed behind while Benzi and Yakir went ahead to look for help at a semi-nearby village. After two hours of waiting and stopping utility trucks for help, we finally got the bike put on the back of an army tank/truck. I rode with the two soldiers for an hour, singing in hindi and english songs we would all otherwise sing in the shower. Like so many little experiences before of a similar nature, I got to know these two quite well: we shared stories about our pasts and presents and futures, and, purely out of kindness, agreed to stay with oneanother until the problem was fixed. They took me - with Idan following on bike - to Losar village where Yakir and Benzi were naively looking for parts and tools nowhere to be found. Benzi and I switched (my bike for the army truck) and proceeded to Batal (a super tiny truck stop on the way to Manali with only one daba (restaurant...I guess)and some tent space) where the army guys would stop for the night and we would then get a ride further the next day. But then, of course, after a nice night of chai masala in a Moseisly (star wars bar scene)styled hut-eatery and a cold and uncomfortable sleep in a mud structure big enough for one small child, we awoke to bad news of a landslide 20km away that was now blocking our route. Fuck: one bike was down and though we found a way to transport it, we couldnt get passed the fallen rocks and newly formed river. Tensions ran high between us with some wanting to try to get passed it (despite already three deaths from its onslaught), some wanting to stay and wait it out (despite an onslaught of boredom), and some wanting to go back to Kaza until the problems went away. But then, of course, in the face of so much impatience and argument as to how to wait it out, a group of 7 Polish motorcylce enthusiasts show up on there tricked-out BMW touring bikes (older guys who simply travel the world on bike every summer...inspiring) fix our tire problem, retune Benzi's bike, then fix up the others, then lead us to the landslide. Once there we all paid the already-hard-working Indian-farmhands (who were already moving bags of snappeas over the half-mile long problem) to lift our 250kg bikes over the rocky river. 11 bikes were hualed over the rocks and mud and river; and the problem was solved. Or so we thought. It was becoming too regular to us that after such achievements we would be met then by still further unimaginable hurdles...and so once over, in our excitement and our pride, it was almost insulting that Yakir's bike would not start. We were all almost in tears. But again the Polish guys saved us with their wisdom and extensive knowledge of motorcylce maintenance (not so much with the zen) and fixed the bike, got us going again, and lead us out of the darkness of midnight into the light of their roaring campfire. We spent the night at their campsite - in their tent - drinking all kinds of alcohols with them, telling all kinds of stories. Great men, again, with great insights on being men; there, specifically for us four young men. I went to sleep that night peacefully; realizing (with Idan) that there was no curse befallen us, only lessons to learn from challenges met. The conclusion, for me, was there in that night: that sometimes you step in shit, sometimes, but shit just happens. And with the shit you learn, and with the learning you grow, and with the growing it all becomes...it all gets revealed. Wonderful. Surely, I thought, the next day couldnt have any problems (no problems at all) but again I was wrong. The way over Rhotang pass was probably the most difficult weve experienced: up 5 km over an 80km distance, through a cloud of ice, and then down through a typical Indian traffic jam...mud, mud, mud...cliffs, cliffs, cliffs. And just when I thought I would never reach Solla Salloo, when the key-slapping-slapper revealed himself to me, just then, the sun broke through and Manali became just beneath us: I would go back home and my problems would have a problem with me. I had made it: 18 days on a 350 CC Enfield; 7 Indian states of 28 with my eyes and one, through and through, with my soul; 5 Indian valleys with my eyes; countless villages with my eyes and mouth and body and soul; four young men together through thick and thin over more than 1000kms: Statistics that make up a story, a story that makes up an experience, experiences that make up a life, and a life that makes up a being. Of course schnitzel was had in celebration, but celebration was not truly had. We made it and were happy: we didnt have to come back with one bike ruined, we came back all together triumphantly on our rides. But still we were sad it was over: impermenance was there all along as we realized...escape from it was, in fact, impossible.
Life truly is a journey, and death (or impermenance, thankfully, in this case) is its destination; its conclusion...always. But maybe, just maybe, the you that reaches that destination (no longer that you that started the journey) lasts forever...somehow...until the next journey begins. All in all this motorcylce adventure is one I will never forget and is one of the best risks Ive ever taken. I loved every second of it and will miss it in every second to come. But still, I must keep going as I have only 11 days left; so next to Delhi and then to Pune and then home.
The israeli brothers I have made in these last 7 weeks have a way of dealing with struggle: they always say, "why not?". As if anything is capable of solving and everything will be solved..."why not?"...For me, it speaks volumes about how time is related too and how problems are faced. Ill always have struggles, there will always be complications...but why not? Nothing was ever important if not earned, and nothing was ever earned easily.
With all of my petrol-soaked love,
Arnava
At some point after my last posting (in Kaza) we all began feeling as though we were cursed: we had gone through too many flat tires and mechanical errors to feel normal, we had met too many groups of cute girls going in the opposite direction from us to feel special, and we had spent too much waiting-time in odd places due to unreasonable environmental/weather-related circumstances to feel blessed. Still, we pushed forward to Mud (a super small, almost secret, mountain village where we heard amazing things about the view and the hiking) passing the place where we - only days before - had slept stranded on the side of the road. The drive that day was one of the best and the weather (sunny and hot and gorgeous)made us feel, however temporarily, that things were on our side. We made it there with smiles and, with so many potentials from the opposite sex strutting around the heavenly landscape, we even began believing our previous streak of seemingly bad luck to be, at least, for something now good. But then I got sick, again, with the same 48-hour flu I had tasted in Bahgsu. I medicated myself with tea and sunshine and rested heavily (not so hard there), and within two days time we were back on the road. Another stop in Kaza (for them to eat schnitzel and us to get fuel) and we were soon using our momentum to inch ever-closer to our final destination: Manali. With a presumed day left in actual distance, we stopped for two nights in Kibber to take in some last village-life and, of course, time together. Though it is hard to write about these villages without repeating much of the same superficial description, each one is truly different and amazing in its own way...so, spending time in them is actually quite enjoyable and, in accumulation, a great way - maybe the only way - to truly see India. I could tell you that we took an amazing hike to a canyon or had a fun soccer game in the village or saw amazing shooting stars, but such details are (more for me) the true difference between a place like Kibber and a place like Mud (or Jhibi, or Kalpa, or Rampur, or Laori, or Chitkul, or Tabo, or Nako or wherever else). When the second morning came, we all were a bit sad because we all suspected it to be our last day: a hard drive over Rhotang pass and a final descent back into Manali. But of course, our luck would decide for us differently. Not even 40km outside of Kibber (on a 160km trip that day) Benzi's back tire flattened on a cliffside hill in the middle of nowhere. This time it was more serious becuase the flat came from him breaking (due to some of the worst road conditions Ive ever seen) 18 spokes on the wheel frame. We were fucked: no pump, one last spare innertube, and no one to help...with 120km distance in any direction to the closest (unreliable)mechanic. Idan and I stayed behind while Benzi and Yakir went ahead to look for help at a semi-nearby village. After two hours of waiting and stopping utility trucks for help, we finally got the bike put on the back of an army tank/truck. I rode with the two soldiers for an hour, singing in hindi and english songs we would all otherwise sing in the shower. Like so many little experiences before of a similar nature, I got to know these two quite well: we shared stories about our pasts and presents and futures, and, purely out of kindness, agreed to stay with oneanother until the problem was fixed. They took me - with Idan following on bike - to Losar village where Yakir and Benzi were naively looking for parts and tools nowhere to be found. Benzi and I switched (my bike for the army truck) and proceeded to Batal (a super tiny truck stop on the way to Manali with only one daba (restaurant...I guess)and some tent space) where the army guys would stop for the night and we would then get a ride further the next day. But then, of course, after a nice night of chai masala in a Moseisly (star wars bar scene)styled hut-eatery and a cold and uncomfortable sleep in a mud structure big enough for one small child, we awoke to bad news of a landslide 20km away that was now blocking our route. Fuck: one bike was down and though we found a way to transport it, we couldnt get passed the fallen rocks and newly formed river. Tensions ran high between us with some wanting to try to get passed it (despite already three deaths from its onslaught), some wanting to stay and wait it out (despite an onslaught of boredom), and some wanting to go back to Kaza until the problems went away. But then, of course, in the face of so much impatience and argument as to how to wait it out, a group of 7 Polish motorcylce enthusiasts show up on there tricked-out BMW touring bikes (older guys who simply travel the world on bike every summer...inspiring) fix our tire problem, retune Benzi's bike, then fix up the others, then lead us to the landslide. Once there we all paid the already-hard-working Indian-farmhands (who were already moving bags of snappeas over the half-mile long problem) to lift our 250kg bikes over the rocky river. 11 bikes were hualed over the rocks and mud and river; and the problem was solved. Or so we thought. It was becoming too regular to us that after such achievements we would be met then by still further unimaginable hurdles...and so once over, in our excitement and our pride, it was almost insulting that Yakir's bike would not start. We were all almost in tears. But again the Polish guys saved us with their wisdom and extensive knowledge of motorcylce maintenance (not so much with the zen) and fixed the bike, got us going again, and lead us out of the darkness of midnight into the light of their roaring campfire. We spent the night at their campsite - in their tent - drinking all kinds of alcohols with them, telling all kinds of stories. Great men, again, with great insights on being men; there, specifically for us four young men. I went to sleep that night peacefully; realizing (with Idan) that there was no curse befallen us, only lessons to learn from challenges met. The conclusion, for me, was there in that night: that sometimes you step in shit, sometimes, but shit just happens. And with the shit you learn, and with the learning you grow, and with the growing it all becomes...it all gets revealed. Wonderful. Surely, I thought, the next day couldnt have any problems (no problems at all) but again I was wrong. The way over Rhotang pass was probably the most difficult weve experienced: up 5 km over an 80km distance, through a cloud of ice, and then down through a typical Indian traffic jam...mud, mud, mud...cliffs, cliffs, cliffs. And just when I thought I would never reach Solla Salloo, when the key-slapping-slapper revealed himself to me, just then, the sun broke through and Manali became just beneath us: I would go back home and my problems would have a problem with me. I had made it: 18 days on a 350 CC Enfield; 7 Indian states of 28 with my eyes and one, through and through, with my soul; 5 Indian valleys with my eyes; countless villages with my eyes and mouth and body and soul; four young men together through thick and thin over more than 1000kms: Statistics that make up a story, a story that makes up an experience, experiences that make up a life, and a life that makes up a being. Of course schnitzel was had in celebration, but celebration was not truly had. We made it and were happy: we didnt have to come back with one bike ruined, we came back all together triumphantly on our rides. But still we were sad it was over: impermenance was there all along as we realized...escape from it was, in fact, impossible.
Life truly is a journey, and death (or impermenance, thankfully, in this case) is its destination; its conclusion...always. But maybe, just maybe, the you that reaches that destination (no longer that you that started the journey) lasts forever...somehow...until the next journey begins. All in all this motorcylce adventure is one I will never forget and is one of the best risks Ive ever taken. I loved every second of it and will miss it in every second to come. But still, I must keep going as I have only 11 days left; so next to Delhi and then to Pune and then home.
The israeli brothers I have made in these last 7 weeks have a way of dealing with struggle: they always say, "why not?". As if anything is capable of solving and everything will be solved..."why not?"...For me, it speaks volumes about how time is related too and how problems are faced. Ill always have struggles, there will always be complications...but why not? Nothing was ever important if not earned, and nothing was ever earned easily.
With all of my petrol-soaked love,
Arnava
Monday, August 6, 2007
"Built like a Gun": Part 1 of Arnava's Motorcylce Diary
In every great adventure story Ive ever heard - either here on the road or from freshly-returned travelers back home - there has always been a potent mixture of irony and coincidence, of struggle and reward, of doubt and belief in the person's adventure that has left me, usually, in awe of the time they have had. Not jealous, per se, but after hearing the story I always imagine the circumstances in my mind and try to make sense of that which is illogical, irrational, and/or just amazing. So much do I love hearing the adventure story (certainly the ones Ive heard in the last two months)that I have become numb in a way, myself, to sensing my own adventure story even as it is being played out before my eyes. Such numbness to my own adventure - such inability to see the world through my own eyes as opposed to seeing myself through the eyes of the world - has been a great obsticle this entire trip as choices have come my way to go in one direction or another; "which way will bring me to greater adventure stories," I would privately ask myself, "head south to goa or north to varanasi,""stay in india or go to thailand,""go with this group or go with another group,""etc.". And while I have, of course, followed my heart in all decision-making, I never truly understood what an adventure really meant: was "adventure" the high-risk streets of Calcutta or Delhi or Bombay where everything is possible if pushing the right buttons as I am reading about daily in "Shantaram" (thanks Matt's mom); or was it the crazy, unrestricted, wildness of Thailand as so many have boasted (and I was offered to go experience); or maybe it was the whim-of-the-wind world traveling that many around have done, are doing, or are in the process of planning...for months or year stints. Maybe, it seemed, to be everything other than what I was doing...maybe. Because being told a story about an adventure just sounded so much cooler than the day-to-day experiencing of it. And though I have done, seen, experienced so much; though I have met amazing people and had crazy, unrestricted, wildness with them (and sometimes not so crazy, unrestricted, or wildness too but much "shanti shanti": peaceful moments of momentary peace); though I have stayed in amazing places (some guesthouses, some monastaries, some side-road houses of families, and some sides of roads) and seen amazing sites (Bombay, Ajanta, Varanassi, the Taj, Delhi, the Golden Temple, Bhagsu, the Dalai Lama, the Himalayas, Manali, China, etc.); though I have been having an amazing time, I hadnt internalized it as an actual "adventure" until last night when I learned that an "adventure story" is just that, a story...but a truely lived adventure (as is what I am doing every day here in India; with bike or without)is even better because it is lived and can never truly be retold; only remembered.
For me right now, these two weeks with the bike, on the road, with my israeli squad (Yakir, Bentsi, Idan: the Beersheva heart, the Kibutznik mind, and the Tel Avivi soul) trudging through the chaotic Himalayan mountain range, can be well summed up by the events of the last two days.
I awoke in the basement of a restaurant in Nako, a small village (of maybe 100 people, which is a lot), with something of a small hangover from having drank too many rum and pepsis with a great group of Indian truck drivers, Idan, and some israeli travelers we keep running into along our route. Like everyday, we wake up, collect our things, bag them, tie the bags to the bike, check and tune the machines, and let the engines run for the length of time it takes to drink some chai masala and maybe eat something (in this case it was a delicious omelette and chapatti)(I love the mornings, surprisingly). We had been warned that the road ahead of us included some dangers, but having already crossed four rivers (each one deeper and more trecherous than the last), having already surmounted a mountain of mud that stretched 5km long and 1km high and stalling out half way up and dropping the bike on my leg and having to backpeddle to restart (all on my first real day with the bike on the journey), having dropped my bike countless more times (though that seems to get less and less..thank god), having stalled out even more times (that obsolete now), having dodged cows and donkeys and goats and elephants (swear) and monkeys and children, having avoided speeding 8-wheel trucks with nothing more than two feet of space between it and me and me and the unforgiving cliff, having slipped on sand and gravel and loose rock, and through everything recovered or managed or triumphed but always learned and progressed...having done all of that and more I thought nothing of the advice and proceeded with the cocky air of a 23 yearold who has finally figured out how a motorcycle works over the short time of roughly three weeks. Over a river and into a desert, around falling rocks and buses, we inched ever closer to our destination, believing the short distance left to go would be a piece of cake. But then, just as I put my feet up on the guard rails in the front of my beautiful Enfield Machismo to cruise in third gear properly, just then Bentsi's back tire flattened.Of course, I said cursing the innocent clouds. It wouldnt be as funny if the same thing hadnt happened to Yakir and Idan four times in the last three days. Needless to say Im an expert in changing the tire on a motorcycle, but even with four experts (and one of them being a mechanic) this problem couldnt be solved alone; our pump was fucked and, it became clear as the sky went dark, that so were we. There we were in the middle of nowhere, between a small village and a smaller one, with even smaller ones in between. For hours we tried everything we could in vain. For hours we tried to stop truckers for help; every time being met with the famous Indian head-wiggle of innocent misunderstanding. And for hours we hoped to avoid sleep on the side of that dusty river-bed/mountain valley road. But as the sun went down in the desert, and the temperature dropped and rain clouds formed, we gave in to our failure to beat-out the clock and pitched an impromptu tent by arranging our four bikes in a square and throwing over it our rain covers. Since my bike and Yakir's were the two of least worry, he and I left in the blackness of midnight, with just our headlights to guide us, and proceded to try and find an open store in which to buy food, water, and fire wood. After an hour of searching - traveling in the most beautiful darkness over the most gorgeous bridges and snake-like mountain roads -we found, luckily, a small village (of 20 people, I swear) where we loaded up on the necessary items. Even though Yakir was no more than twenty feet in front of me during the ride back, I have never felt more alone, nor more at peace, in my entire life. I had a moment, if you will, of clarity and saw the answer to my question about adventure staring straight at me. Surely this description of the ride and the circumstance is nothing compared to the actual lving of it, nor is it as juicy as the drunken-night-of-transvestite-Thai-18-year-old-hookers-story so many have in their "adventure story" arsenal. But it was real and was really amazing and will stay with me for the rest of my life. I drove that bike better than I ever had before in that ride home; as if the machine itself was a mere part of my lower body; an extension of my self. And when we returned, the streak of bad luck we had been having seemed to vanish in the smoke of a great bonfire, a beautiful rainless night, and a relatively peaceful sleep under the bountiful starscape. Today's drive was, thusly, blessed; gorgeous skies and gorgeous mountain views on a pretty easy four-hour stint to Kaza: a really simple and nice town with pretty good internet (though I wrote this blog really well before and then lost it in the crapiness of dial-up), great food, and many old-traveling faces from earlier places and times.
A great adventure, I suppose, seems to never end; and in this way if its a better story than it was an experience, it should never be envied. Something about that lone drive back on that lightless night; something about the having to survive; or maybe something about the mixture of trust and fear, of irony and coincidence, of struggle and reward, of all of it; something about the pure experience of it left me with an amazing smile on my face that has not slackened since. I think about how I got here: here to Kaza on a motorcycle with this crew, or here to Northern India, or here to India, or here to 23-post-college-figuring-it-all-out, or here from Brooklyn, or here from California, or here from Mamaroneck, or here from adolescence, or childhood, or maybe even previous lives (whoa, easy now). Whatever it is Im feeling, or wherever it is I "came" from, I smile this smile because my whole life has been an amazing adventure that I couldnt be more proud to have lived. And whether I tell stories that color this life well or not, those stories are lived ones and make up who I am. So, to make what was once a longer blog entry even shorter than it still could be, I am having an incredible time: an incredible adventure. Now, back on the road with my new love Karnaff (the hebrew name given to my bike; "Rhino"), who is, as the slogan states, truly built like a gun. Soon, Ill be back in Manali and promise to both write a more detailed account of my adventures on the road and include pitcures. From there, Ill go back to Delhi to catch a 23hour train back to Pune; do more meditation; then Im home on the 25th. And the adventure continues.
With all of my love,
Arnava
PS: I promise lots o' pics when I get back to Manali on the 9th. Promise keepers, dude.
For me right now, these two weeks with the bike, on the road, with my israeli squad (Yakir, Bentsi, Idan: the Beersheva heart, the Kibutznik mind, and the Tel Avivi soul) trudging through the chaotic Himalayan mountain range, can be well summed up by the events of the last two days.
I awoke in the basement of a restaurant in Nako, a small village (of maybe 100 people, which is a lot), with something of a small hangover from having drank too many rum and pepsis with a great group of Indian truck drivers, Idan, and some israeli travelers we keep running into along our route. Like everyday, we wake up, collect our things, bag them, tie the bags to the bike, check and tune the machines, and let the engines run for the length of time it takes to drink some chai masala and maybe eat something (in this case it was a delicious omelette and chapatti)(I love the mornings, surprisingly). We had been warned that the road ahead of us included some dangers, but having already crossed four rivers (each one deeper and more trecherous than the last), having already surmounted a mountain of mud that stretched 5km long and 1km high and stalling out half way up and dropping the bike on my leg and having to backpeddle to restart (all on my first real day with the bike on the journey), having dropped my bike countless more times (though that seems to get less and less..thank god), having stalled out even more times (that obsolete now), having dodged cows and donkeys and goats and elephants (swear) and monkeys and children, having avoided speeding 8-wheel trucks with nothing more than two feet of space between it and me and me and the unforgiving cliff, having slipped on sand and gravel and loose rock, and through everything recovered or managed or triumphed but always learned and progressed...having done all of that and more I thought nothing of the advice and proceeded with the cocky air of a 23 yearold who has finally figured out how a motorcycle works over the short time of roughly three weeks. Over a river and into a desert, around falling rocks and buses, we inched ever closer to our destination, believing the short distance left to go would be a piece of cake. But then, just as I put my feet up on the guard rails in the front of my beautiful Enfield Machismo to cruise in third gear properly, just then Bentsi's back tire flattened.Of course, I said cursing the innocent clouds. It wouldnt be as funny if the same thing hadnt happened to Yakir and Idan four times in the last three days. Needless to say Im an expert in changing the tire on a motorcycle, but even with four experts (and one of them being a mechanic) this problem couldnt be solved alone; our pump was fucked and, it became clear as the sky went dark, that so were we. There we were in the middle of nowhere, between a small village and a smaller one, with even smaller ones in between. For hours we tried everything we could in vain. For hours we tried to stop truckers for help; every time being met with the famous Indian head-wiggle of innocent misunderstanding. And for hours we hoped to avoid sleep on the side of that dusty river-bed/mountain valley road. But as the sun went down in the desert, and the temperature dropped and rain clouds formed, we gave in to our failure to beat-out the clock and pitched an impromptu tent by arranging our four bikes in a square and throwing over it our rain covers. Since my bike and Yakir's were the two of least worry, he and I left in the blackness of midnight, with just our headlights to guide us, and proceded to try and find an open store in which to buy food, water, and fire wood. After an hour of searching - traveling in the most beautiful darkness over the most gorgeous bridges and snake-like mountain roads -we found, luckily, a small village (of 20 people, I swear) where we loaded up on the necessary items. Even though Yakir was no more than twenty feet in front of me during the ride back, I have never felt more alone, nor more at peace, in my entire life. I had a moment, if you will, of clarity and saw the answer to my question about adventure staring straight at me. Surely this description of the ride and the circumstance is nothing compared to the actual lving of it, nor is it as juicy as the drunken-night-of-transvestite-Thai-18-year-old-hookers-story so many have in their "adventure story" arsenal. But it was real and was really amazing and will stay with me for the rest of my life. I drove that bike better than I ever had before in that ride home; as if the machine itself was a mere part of my lower body; an extension of my self. And when we returned, the streak of bad luck we had been having seemed to vanish in the smoke of a great bonfire, a beautiful rainless night, and a relatively peaceful sleep under the bountiful starscape. Today's drive was, thusly, blessed; gorgeous skies and gorgeous mountain views on a pretty easy four-hour stint to Kaza: a really simple and nice town with pretty good internet (though I wrote this blog really well before and then lost it in the crapiness of dial-up), great food, and many old-traveling faces from earlier places and times.
A great adventure, I suppose, seems to never end; and in this way if its a better story than it was an experience, it should never be envied. Something about that lone drive back on that lightless night; something about the having to survive; or maybe something about the mixture of trust and fear, of irony and coincidence, of struggle and reward, of all of it; something about the pure experience of it left me with an amazing smile on my face that has not slackened since. I think about how I got here: here to Kaza on a motorcycle with this crew, or here to Northern India, or here to India, or here to 23-post-college-figuring-it-all-out, or here from Brooklyn, or here from California, or here from Mamaroneck, or here from adolescence, or childhood, or maybe even previous lives (whoa, easy now). Whatever it is Im feeling, or wherever it is I "came" from, I smile this smile because my whole life has been an amazing adventure that I couldnt be more proud to have lived. And whether I tell stories that color this life well or not, those stories are lived ones and make up who I am. So, to make what was once a longer blog entry even shorter than it still could be, I am having an incredible time: an incredible adventure. Now, back on the road with my new love Karnaff (the hebrew name given to my bike; "Rhino"), who is, as the slogan states, truly built like a gun. Soon, Ill be back in Manali and promise to both write a more detailed account of my adventures on the road and include pitcures. From there, Ill go back to Delhi to catch a 23hour train back to Pune; do more meditation; then Im home on the 25th. And the adventure continues.
With all of my love,
Arnava
PS: I promise lots o' pics when I get back to Manali on the 9th. Promise keepers, dude.
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