Day Pieces in Rishikesh

A day in Rishikesh relaxes me so well.  I spend a large portion of it taking pictures and walking around to take more pictures. I stop here or there for a tea and a bottle of water and by evening, satisfy my hunger at an outdoor restaurant, sitting on cushions on the ground and watching the sun drop over the Ganga River.

It’s a great way to live but uninteresting to narrate at any length.  I suppose I’ll just go over the highlights of the day, instead.

1)     Coming out of my hotel room, there was a cow in the lobby. It wandered in off the street.  They hit it with a stick until it left.

2)     I took a few of my all time favourite pictures today. 

 

3)     I discovered that I have trouble making friends with somebody who insists on being pretty weird and seems to be pressing me to parrot him. 

4)     I ate a whole pizza for dinner.

5)     I washed my clothes in the shower, killed three cockroaches and I’m puzzled by the number of fruit flies that live in my bathroom.

6)     I returned a book lent to me by the yogi who taught me pranayama.

7)     I saw more sadhus today than I have ever seen in one day. They’re all completely broke and a lot of them are pretty giggly. 

8)     I realized that my beard is growing in pretty well. And I combed my hair with a toothbrush.

9)     I took so many pictures of the sunset that I saw spots in my field of vision for almost 10 minutes afterward.

10) I can’t think of any more. . . so here are a couple pictures instead. 

Roaming Rishikesh

Rishikesh…I suppose I’d like it more here if I were a hippie.

Geez, let’s take an inventory: 10 km up the road is something called ‘the rainbow party’, an all night dance and trance with live music and something for your pipe. Yoga studios are piled on top of each other, Hindu diety-altars sit in the corners of any structure with at least a wall, sadhus and other seekers come and go in drones, meat has literally been banned from here, and you can just imagine the bookshops. 

Walking around with tattoos on your neck, braided hair to your ass, covered in a technocolored blanket and raving about god is not something to get you noticed. Wearing a suit would look almost profoundly ironic.

Rishikesh has this sort of vibe. But India tolerates these things well. Tibetan robes, saris, striking nose piercings, turbines, various western styles, whatever the Muslims wear, almost nothing…these are what you see people dressed in. You can’t help but admire how well personal differences are tolerated.

I think it might have something to do with how unconcealed India is. You see hunger, you see people’s spiritual aspirations.  Even in death, whereas western culture is so sterile and polite in handling it, cremations in India are often done in public.  Such an atmosphere makes it easier to remember that despite the differences, we’re all human in these fundamental ways. All vulnerable to needs, wants, frustration, and ‘the final negative outcome’. Not caring about somebody’s beliefs and appearance is just easier with this stuff in your mind.

This is a lot of India’s appeal. Uncontained, uncensored humanity, unapologetic about itself. It fleshes out the emotional spectrum, from awe to terror, inspiration to despair.   

Today:

I finally learned some basics about pranayama. Learning it was something I’d been meaning to do for years. It’s a breathing yoga that Robert Anton Wilson says whitewashes negative states. I was sceptical but I registered for a one day lesson and was pleased that my instructor seemed joyful and bright—an indication that maybe there was something to this.

As an anecdotal aside, my instructor was taught by the same person who instructed the Beatles when they came here in the 60’s.

He gestured for me to come sit on a cushion that was uncomfortably close to him and we talked for a few minutes, more comfortably than I’d expected. Some of his “insights” into my chronic asthmatic conditions made me think that I’d wasted my money but I tried to keep my mind open. Since pranayama is a practice I can judge the results rather than this man’s theories about it.

The session, given on the open and breezy rooftop, was pleasant and after the hour was up I felt quite serene. I hadn’t expected much from the nostril work; I was more interested in posture. But, as it turned out, the nostril work created sensations and states of consciousness that were surprisingly forefront, vitalizing, but calm.

I’m curious enough that I’m going to apply what I learned every morning for the next 30 days, sort of as an experiment to see what results it produces.

Walking the streets afterward, I was befriended by a yogi who insisted that I follow him to an ashram. His persistence made me think that he wanted something—a very safe assumption in India, but seemingly wrong in this case.  He took me to a large room where a whole bunch of people were seated on cushions on the floor singing songs together to the accompaniment of guitars and bongos, sort of like a hippie ‘coom-bai-ya’ session. Some got up and danced alone. Between songs people prayed.

At first I couldn’t tell whether I was bored or fascinated, whether this was cultish or wholesome, whether it was something I wanted to participate in or laugh at. When it was done, I just decided it was probably better than television but not really for me. 

So any way…I have about a week left in India. It’s been quite a trip.   

Delhi to Rishikesh

India is cheap.

2 meals, a 7 hour bus ride to Rishikesh from Delhi, a rickshaw ride to the bus station and then another from the bus station to the hotel district, 2 bottles of water, a bag of almonds and a place to stay for the night that has hot water…total: 1200 rupees. That’s less than thirty dollars. 

Rishikesh, straddling the Ganga river just west of Nepal, fancies itself the yoga capital of the world and is a holy place for Hindus. As it is the dawn of the summer season, the place is teeming with hippies, bliss-ninnies, Indians on a spiritual pilgrimage, sadhus and other god-seekers, putting a real strain on accommodation. The first 10 hotels were full and I was beginning to think that I’d have to sleep outside or something, but I eventually found a place with a room that was a bit more expensive that I’d wanted to pay.  Still, I felt lucky to find it.

It’s been a lucky day generally.  In the morning I discovered that finding a private bus to Rishikesh is next to impossible and, reading deeper into Lonely Planet, I came across a section that said state buses can be booked a full month in advance. Determined to at least try to escape Delhi, I got to the bus station and discovered that it was how I’d expected it to be: dodgy-looking.  It lacked a floor and if a bomb did take down the north wall, I don’t know what did. I was eventually directed to the area for buses to Uttarakhand—the state containing Rishikesh. A bus for Rishikesh, with me on board, left 10 minutes later.

Riding the bus is a pleasure; it offers vistas of the country not seen from in the cities. As the distance from Delhi increased, the skies grew bluer. You can see forests, big farms sprawling across the plains, people washing clothes in rivers, marijuana growing in thick patches, congested little towns, and finally the mountains.

I haven’t yet had a chance to explore, though already I can tell that I’m going to like it more than Delhi. 

Holi

Gender roles, caste categories, and age all serve to stratify society and disconnect people from each other in India.  During Holi, everybody throws paint or dye on each other, masking the distinctions temporarily.

Wandering around town, you see hot pink faces, purple dogs, green hair and clothes recently bombed by color. You turn each corner wondering if you’re going to get it next. I didn’t bring my camera for this reason.

I wouldn’t have even been out there except that I woke up thirsty there was nothing open. What to do but wander around and hope for an open door.

As the afternoon wore hotter and longer, the thought of begging at a hotel for some clean water struck me frequently. The desperation and number of real, starving beggars around (that I habitually refuse) warranted more restraint. I wasn’t dying.

Returning home with a dry throat and empty-stomached, I found that the gate to my building was locked. Anxiety and then a flash flood of anger. First they don’t tell me about everything being closed for Holi, then they close their restaurant, and now they’ve locked me out. Some hospitality. I was pissed. I probably looked mad yelling through the gate.

Thirst, hunger, heat and inconvenience had made me irritable. That’s still a good condition to be in. Throw a stone in any direction and you’re bound to hit somebody who’s got things a lot worse.

I walked down to the river behind the village for the first time, hoping to have a seat there and contemplate life quietly. It was something that I’d been meaning to do since I arrived.

Largely stagnant and literally as black as oil, the river reeked horribly of raw sewage and worse. Semi-submerged debris sailed by miserably in the weak current. Parts of it bubbled as if farting and I spat as the heaviness of the shitty odour settled on my revolted taste buds. Alongside this sodden catastrophe, plastic garbage was scattered thickly enough that I couldn’t see the ground in most areas; where I could see it, make-shift tents of sticks and discarded burlap served as houses to dusty, starving families. Oh Delhi… the many ways you dishearten.

Walking back, a dishevelled and naked old man with a long white beard was yelling at me and almost got hit by a car while he tried to dress himself on the street. As I walked past I noticed that he’d been splash by hot pink dye in his face. Thin as a rope, he was swooping his arms into bizarre gestures and still yelling at me. I tried to ignore him. Happy Holi you lunatic. Or maybe he was one of those enlightened sadhus I hear so many great things about.

With the shops all closed and the people off celebrating, only the beggars remained on the streets; them and a few monks. Especially depressing are the children. Presumably, they’re sent out by a parent knowing tourists pity the young more than the old. Beggars with no children put their own pity on display instead. An unkept man smelling of urine sitting in the middle of the filthy walkway, groping at passers-by, pointing to a festering wound on his leg attracting flies—he’s emotionally indignant that I didn’t give him money. Somehow his brain says I owe it to him. Others scam. They stealthily put shit on your shoe and then, walking by, pretended to be surprised and offer to clean them. Then there are the folks that walk around with Q-tips they’ve found somewhere: “Ear cleaning sir?” Hell no.

I got home and yelled through the gate until somebody came and opened it. I resisted the urge to punch him.   

I survived Holi and I’ve had enough of smelling and seeing terrible things. Now I want to leave. 

Tomorrow: food, water, and Rishikesh.

Exploring Old Delhi

Majnu-ka-Tilla, the Tibetan colony north of Old Delhi, continues to be my residence due mainly to its convenience and comparative lack of human congestion and filth. Villagers here are Tibetan, Nepalese, and, to a lesser extent, Indian. India’s diversity astonishes, but the tolerance and harmony with which people live their lives despite sever overcrowding and scarce resources, inspires hope.

I decided that it was time to face the madness of Delhi’s old center head on, to inject myself into the polluted, asphalt veins and be delivered straight to its sooty, 2500 year-old heart.

Also known as ‘Lal Qila’, the Red Fort was only a 60 rupee ride down the highway into the gritty, sun and dust swept chaos of Old Delhi proper. It was a ride that taught me I can tire of my fears—even my fear of being crumpled like a tissue box on a screaming highway in an alien country. Only mild anxiety tightened in my chest as we were barreling through a free-for-all intersection between converging dump-trucks while blaring the circus-sounding horn. We popped out ahead of catastrophe and I was dropped off at the gate of the 2 km wide, sandy-red castle, the construction of which spanned the years 1638 to 1648. I could see that the mote surrounding it was as bone-dry as my throat.    

Standing in front of a structure this size, I wasn’t quite awe-struck. And I guess maybe that makes me hard to please. What I did experience was a sort of sympathy for Shah Jahan, the Mughal emperor under whose reign and direction the fort was built. After all, the teeming, uncontained, disease and poverty stricken cesspool of gritty Old Delhi is something that I would want to fortress myself off from as well, had I the sort of power and resources at my disposal as he did.    

The ticket to enter was 200 rupees plus 50 more so that I could bring my camera. Past the gate there was a small merchant area (called ‘Chatta Chowk’—literally ‘covered bazaar’) under the extremely high ceilings of the fort. Beyond this was a sort of mammoth courtyard with other impressive structures planted here and there.  I’ve come to understand that the Red Fort, being time-worn and probably looted, is a pale corpse compared to its former splendor. But at the time of this writing, reconstruction seems on-going and detailed. One thing that struck me was the stone-work inside some of the structures. The petals of the intricate stone-carved flowers comprising the walls and pillars were gems of transparent orange and green that looked at least semi-precious.

Inside the perimeter is Lahore gate, a large structure with a stairway leading up to a museum displaying war-relics recalling India’s armed struggle for independence from the English. A survey of the weaponry is enough to see that the conflict had one foot in medieval times (spears, arrows, chainmail) with the other foot set in the early industrial revolution (grenades, muskets, primitive shells).

Leaving the Red Fort I found myself surrounded with touts offering all sorts of things I didn’t want at prices bloated especially for tourists.

I was bound for Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque, seated nearly in the center of Old Delhi. Guided on foot by a small map printed in Lonely Planet, I confronted the raw humanity of Delhi, the odors, grime and clamouring sounds and commotion of which I won’t waste any more words on. It took me about 45 minutes, but I did spend some time lost.

Pyramidal sandstone steps led up to the mind-bogglingly spacious time-warp into ancient India that is this mosque, crowded on all four sides by urban decay.

 

I got scammed coming in by some aggressive rat selling fake tickets for 200 rupees. Admission is free folks.  And don’t wear shorts either. Allah apparently hates human legs and you’ll be made to wear a hot ugly skirt to cover up your shame. And you’ll have to take your shoes off too.

The mosque is of white marble and red sandstone and the inside walls of the thing were busy being prayed to and worshipped. I don’t know the story behind this, but it was confounding to see other humans directing their rituals to a wall. 
 

Outside, Muslims washed in a square pool of green water. I presume there was some significance here as well that my heathen eyes couldn’t detect.

Initially I was camera shy and tried to walk around as if I were an admiring and meek Muslim but I soon grew tired of the charade and, when I began clicking, summoned some attention-starved children who wanted me to take endless pictures of them. Their caregiver was nearby and I eventually gave him an expression that in the west would have meant, “Jesus Christ, put a leash on your children”. The 15 minute Allah spiel he gave me indicated that he didn’t interpret my expression in the way I’d intended. Walking into India’s biggest mosque, maybe I deserved the lecture.  I shifted barefoot to barefoot on the hot sandstone praying that Allah silence this man. Eventually I just left.

From my (largely) atheistic and western perspective, the rituals of Tibetan Buddhists in the Dalai Lama’s temple and the Muslims in Jama Masjid seem to be a refined and very patterned insanity, compared with the course and unpredictable madness of the dodgy and frantic commerce comprising secular India.

I keep asking myself, what’s a decent solution? More social reforms? Political reforms? Economic? More self-help books? Something stronger than Prozac?  And then one of the ultimate psychological questions of all time: Why do people believe such weird things? Why do we pattern our lives in ways that make us unhappy?

As for the secular state of affairs, I remember Terrance McKenna described commercial society as (and I paraphrase) a race to get higher by climbing on each others shoulders and kicking each other in the teeth. If there’s a path to happiness, surely this isn’t it.

My own opinion, which I seldom voice, is that for the race to survive, we’re going to need to start altering our brains—probably in very radical ways involving surgery, technology, genetic-modification, drugs or some combination. Our neural structures didn’t evolve to live in the world we’ve created; our coping mechanisms are too costly. Religions, careerism, addictions, wars, various sorts of pollution, thing-oriented consumer-fetishism, and Hollywood gossip are all glaring symptoms of our inability to adapt. And we (our brains) continue to create more problems.

Any way, after a jarring and over-priced ride home, exhausted but showered, I meditated for half an hour and went out to the balcony to look. Through a window I could see into a very modest apartment where, lying on a mattress on the floor was a couple playfully talking, occasionally swatting mosquitoes, with their baby between them. At the time I thought, ‘that much is enough for happiness’.  Do what needs to be done to enjoy those moments. . .those rare, fleeting moments of gentle sanity. 

Return to Delhi

To enter a room and immediately forget what you’re looking for is how I feel, standing in the dusty Delhi winds.

 

Only 10 hours ago I might have come as close to death as I’ve ever experienced while on route here from Dharamsala (mom, skip this paragraph). The so-called Deluxe Bus was bulkily negotiating “S” curves at night on roads carved into Himalayan slopes. Coming down, the tires found gravel and slid with locked wheels towards a bend much greater than 90 degrees. The oncoming drop was recognizable only by the bus’s headlights reaching out into the nothingness of dark void we were approaching, with tiny city lights scattered unknown depths below. Oh, hello Doom. But we crackled to a stop, reversed back up the hill, and approached the turn again slower. The walk back would have taken hours and already it was night, but I considered it. In the seat directly behind me, a monk’s mumbling mantra turned into gurgling vomit which continued, off and on, until we reached the Indian plains four hours later.

From Dharamsala, the ride is advertized as being 12 hours, yet I’ve not yet arrived to or from without mechanical failure prolonging the trip by at least another 2.  God help you if you have the shits. Or the barfs. Something busted about 4 hours from our destination this time. We piled into another bus along the night-time highway.

Indian logistics: If one bus is nearly full and another bus is a little past its capacity, then it’s perfectly reasonable to combine the loads onto whichever bus happens to be working better at that time.

Good-bye seat…

We arrived and stepped out into the dawn and swarms of aggressive touts dancing in circles to stay in my Caucasian field of vision, all offering, over and over and over, ‘cheap’ transportation to my destination.

The truth was that I didn’t know where I was going; what I needed was a quiet moment to sort it out for myself.  

Why did I leave the paradise of Dharamsala for?  Surely I had a reason…

The only other white person on the bus was a woman who was doing her best to lose the touts. I asked her, “so, where you off to?” She gave me an answer I didn’t completely understand. Something about a famous hugging nun and her Nepalese friends around the corner.  It wasn’t much I could relate to but when she asked me if I’d like to join, I accepted. And this was my lucky break.

Where the bus had dropped us off was at a miniature Tibetan colony in north eastern corner of Delhi. It’s a labyrinth of narrow and shaded walkways with doors in the walls to where people live and holes in the wall from where people sell stuff. Her Nepalese friend lived here because he sold thungkas (Tibetan mandalas on cloth) and other spiritually significant trinkets for consumers of enlightenment. I was just going to ask him if he knew of any places where I could lodge for the night but he invited me in and served me the best meal I’ve had in a long time: curried water-buffalo (or ‘buff’—a reasonable alternative to beef), spiced spinach and long-grained rice with some sort of outstanding flavor in it.  Generally, the most generous people I’ve ever met are from Nepal—something I’ve heard from others, too.  After he fed me, he brought me to a room for rent, which is not only good enough but considerably cheaper than other places in the vicinity. Generosity to strangers is something I’m neither familiar nor even normally comfortable with, but being road-weary and lonely, it made my day.

The room is a lonely box to sleep in but that it’s in a mini village of Tibetan exiles makes it seem a bit familiar, which sooths me.

Looking at the map, the colony is called ‘Majnu-Ka-Tilla’, situated about 6~8 km north of Old Delhi, between the Yamuna River and a small highway called Hedgewar Marg road. The place of lodging appears to be nameless but the Tibetan-run restaurant on the ground floor is called ‘Himalayan café’. It is, I discovered, an odd place.

I sat at the table for some time before asking for a menu, which I then had to negotiate for through body language and broken English. The result was that I got not only the menu but also the impression that a menu was the last thing the waiter expected to be asked for. It took him a few minutes to find it. When I ordered my meal (chicken chilli!) he had to confirm, more than once, that this meal would be for me, despite the restaurant being otherwise empty.  I pointed at my face and belly and nodded.  What came was chicken chowmein. Close enough I guess, since it did have some chicken in it. It filled me up and cost half as much as the chilli. For this interesting (and fiscally responsible) dining experience, I tipped him 10 rupees. 

Tibetan Uprsing Day, March 10th

 

March 10^th, 2011, marked the 52^nd anniversary of the ‘Tibetan People’s Uprising’, an historical event that occurred in Tibet’s capital city, Lhasa, in 1959. The uprising was staged by Tibetans fueled by a wish to protect their Dalai Lama and their way of life from Communist China and its repression of their people and culture.

In the Indian town of Dharamsala, the current residence of the exiled 14^th Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government—as well as many Tibetans—the anniversary of this day is recognized by a speech made by the Dalai Lama, as well as a peaceful demonstration put on by Tibetans.

The 1959 Uprising: (On this day, 52 years ago)

One year after the Communist Party of China gained control of China in 1949, China claimed Tibet. The Chinese sort of showed up and were like, “hey so, you’re like, part of China and, just for the historical record, you always were, mm’kay?”  The Dalai Lama, being peace-oriented and clearly outmatched, hoped for autonomy despite being ruled by China. This did not happen. The Chinese imposed taxes and rule which the Tibetans resisted.  Armed conflict was reported, beginning in 1956.

According to the official website of the Tibetan Government in Exile (TGI), an invitation to attend a theatrical play had been arranged for the Dalai Lama from the Chinese in the days prior to the 1959 uprising. The invitation was one which the Dalai Lama felt necessary to accept for the sake of diplomacy, since relations between the Chinese and Tibetans were unstable. Worryingly, Chinese army officers visited the Dalai Lama’s head bodyguard the day before the performance, demanding that the Dalai Lama have neither armed escorts accompany him nor any public ceremony for the procession from his temple to the camp, contrary to tradition. However, the apparent secrecy the Chinese were seeking was not realized and paranoid rumors that the Chinese intended to arrest the Dalai Lama spread among the Tibetan people. The Dalai Lama recounts March 10^th in his autobiography, ‘Freedom in Exile’, saying, “people were pouring out of Lhasa and heading in our direction. They had decided to come and protect me from the Chinese. All morning their numbers grew. …By noon an estimated thirty thousand people had gathered” (p.145).  The Dalai Lama did not attend the performance; but the crowds of people outside the Norbulingka, the palace of the Dalai Lama, pissed off the Chinese who were threatening violence. Reasoning that the only way to disperse the crowds surrounding the palace was to not be in the palace any more, the Dalai Lama escaped to India and into exile, on the 17^th of March that year, a week after the crowd had gathered but not moved.

Unfortunately, this did not prevent violence.  Two days later, on the 19^th, the Chinese began to shell the Norbulingka, thereby initiating violent combat between the Tibetans and the Chinese. With Tibetan forces being inadequately armed and totally outnumbered, the conflict lasted only two days and resulted in the destruction of Lhasa’s major monasteries and the slaughtering of thousands of Tibetans, followed by looting and public executions of many monks, nuns, and any Tibetans found to be harboring weapons in their home.

A New Home, a New Tradition:

Many Tibetans followed the Dalai Lama into exile but due to impoverishment, treacherous trekking conditions over the mountains to India, and bullets from armed Chinese troops, many died. Those who survived to arrive in India were met with the immense job of establishing sustainable living conditions starting from scratch in a climate far different from their homeland. It was a desperate time.

On March 10^th of 1960, exactly one year after the uprising in Lhasa, the Dalai Lama spoke to a crowd of newly arrived exiles facing this immense challenge. In his autobiography, he says that in addressing his people he stressed the need “to take a long-term view…that our priority must be resettlement and the continuity of our cultural traditions. As to the future…with Truth, Justice and Courage as our weapons, we Tibetans would eventually prevail in regaining freedom for Tibet” (p. 175).  I wonder if he emphasized the word “eventually”.  

Since then, it has been an annual tradition for the Dalai Lama to give a public speech on March 10^th, a day they have come to know as ‘Tibetan People’s Uprising Day’.

During the 2008 Tibetan People’s Uprising day, peaceful protests put on by monks and nuns in Tibet provoked security measures by the Chinese and the situation quickly devolved into violence four days later. The TGI describes the Chinese crack down as “ruthless” and reports that 219 peaceful protestors died, with 5,600 under arrest or in detention, while another 1000 are missing. More protests occurred over the next months, it says, resulting in the Chinese further tightening their control over Tibetans; measures included sealing off monasteries, blocking cell phones and internet access, as well as making travel difficult or impossible for Tibetans. Chinese “patriotic education” intensified and foreign media was “completely barred from the TAR [Tibetan Autonomous Region], with the exception of a small number of closely monitored government organized trips”.

The TGI also says that of those arrested or put in detention many are reportedly committing suicide because of the harsh conditions and brutal punishment. Reports from those that survived describe physical abuse resulting in broken bones, starvation, and being pressured by the Chinese government to denounce the Dalai Lama and affirm faith in CCP (Chinese Communist Party) and socialism, instead. 

After 52 Years in Exile:

Though conditions have greatly improved for Tibetans living in India, many still only manage to eek out a living and many rely on charity. The culture and sense of unity of Tibetan people seems strong, nonetheless—at least to an outsider like myself.

In India’s Dharamsala the Dalai Lama still makes an annual appearance every March 10^th, addressing crowds of Tibetans—many of whom were born into exile and have no direct experience of their homeland. This year, besides speaking on China’s relationship with Tibet and the rest of the world, as well as the hope for a non-violent reconciliation resulting in “genuine autonomy for the Tibetan people within the PRC”, he also spoke of Tibetan political reforms, particularly an increase of democratic participation in politics for Tibetan people.

The political fabric of Tibetans in exile has been following the thread of democracy since 1960 and in the year 2000 the Dalai Lama announced that the position of the Kalon Tripa (Tibetan Prime Minster) would be filled according to election by the people rather than being appointed by himself or his officials.

In 2011, the weaving of democracy into Tibetan politics will be complete. “On March 14^th”, the Dalai Lama said, addressing his people, “I will formally propose the necessary amendments be made to the Charter for Tibetans in Exile, reflecting my decision to devolve my formal authority to the elected leader”. Functionally, this means that the position of ‘Dalai Lama’ will no longer be political.  He further assured audiences that the decision did not reflect a “wish to shirk responsibility”, but rather an attempt to “benefit Tibetans in the long run”. It remains to be seen whether the Tibetan people will allow their beloved leader to let go of his political power.

Immediately following the Dalai Lama’s speech, Tibetans put on a peaceful rally in Dharamsala, as is tradition. Crowds gathered outside the Tsuglagkhang (the Dalai Lama’s temple) to chant and do their annual march down to lower Dharamsala. People waved flags, painted their faces, held banners and signs, and came together in a spirit of unity despite dislocation. One Tibetan, dressed entirely in blue and holding a blank blue sign, represented missing Tibetans, particularly the 1000 Tibetans missing since 2008.

To fathom that a culture can survive 52 years of exile despite scarce resources and with major political reform to boot, as well as brutal repression in their own homeland, might be nearly beyond the imaginations of those of us who know of no such struggle. But the fervor of the rally and the people’s dedication to the Dalai Lama and a sense of cultural unity is the proof. To have witnessed it would lead one to believe that they were exiled just last year.

That said, my admittedly non-expert view is not a hopeful one.  China continues to grow as an economic power and fewer people internationally are taking up the cause of Tibet. Also, as Tibetans are spread further throughout the world, the culture does become increasingly dilute--as do the Tibetan genes, with mixed marriages and reproduction. 
I don't believe Tibet will be 'free' again. At best, they've won a moral victory but in terms of people getting what they want, I see it as just another example of peace losing, with phrases like 'free Tibet' becoming another logo to be consumed in niche markets of the commercial world.

How to do Delhi:

Before you go:

Visa:

To obtain a 3 month tourist visa is done easily from the Indian embassy in whichever country you live in, or more commonly, via the web. When I got my own, I happened to live in Korea though I was not a resident, and I dealt with the Indian Embassy in Korea. Google whichever Indian Embassy is closest.

As the visa is attached to your passport, part of the procedure involves either couriering your passport to their office or showing up in person. They will send it back within a week or so.

Downloading the application form can be done from their website.

The procedure requires is a fee, which, in my case (a Canadian), was about 60 dollars Cdn. 

Bring:

Pack as light as humanly possible.  The following items are what I consider essentials.

-         A discrete money belt to fasten around your torso will be wanted for holding your passport, emergency money, credit cards, and anything small but hugely valuable. Uncomfortable as this might be, it reduces the likelihood of being pick-pocketed out of something truly valuable.

-         Your back-pack is going to be your house while you’re traveling. Get a decent one.

-         Money. Obvious. Before going, it will be wise to do two things. First, bring with you about 10,000 rupees at least. Also, open a Citibank account and put your vacation funds in there. Most bank machines in Delhi (in India) will be able to draw from there.  I live off of about 500-700 rupees a day and though I’m not splurging, I’m not suffering, either. Nor am I particularly shrewd, nor a well-seasoned traveler. However, I do try to avoid being fleeced, which is where the next item can be important…

-         Lonely Planet or some equally informative travel guide will be your bible. Buy an up-to-date version and keep it with you. Read it often.  On the toilet, waiting for a meal, as night time reading—read it.  When you arriving anywhere, get a local to point out where you are on the corresponding map inside. Navigating the city and negotiating taxi or auto-rickshaw prices will be much, much easier with this. Also, it is invaluable when you start buying bus or train tickets.  

-         Clothes you’ll need, but heaps of them. One rule of thumb is two of everything. One you wash and hang to dry in your hotel, the other you wear. Switch and repeat. I’ve found this to be a good way to do business. However, if you’re leaving Delhi to go to the mountains, you’ll need more clothes as it gets cold and rainy.

-         A handful of other small things I highly recommend: Anti-bacterial gel for waterless hand-washing, a flashlight with extra batteries for Delhi’s frequent power outages, multi-vitamins to maintain a healthy immune system and ear-plugs so that sleeping is actually a possibility.

-         Everything else is optional. The question of a laptop and/or a nice camera is one you’ll have to decide for yourself. The negatives are that they’re heavy, bulky, and something to worry about.

Nearly everything else can be easily obtained in Delhi, probably cheaper than what you’re going to pay where you live. If you’ve packed and still have plenty of room in your bag, then you’re on the right track. You have some room for the beautiful and cheap things Delhi offers on the streets.

Arrival:

I’m assuming that you don’t have somebody waiting for you at the airport. If you do, then you're lucky. Also, you don't need to read this.

So, you arrive and the acrid air, countless people in striking attire and appearance, slew of unfamiliar languages as well as the colossal size of the both the airport and the city beyond is intimidating you. Don’t panic.  Get your luggage go find somewhere to sit down to find a little calm. Good. Now, on the far left and right of the airport passenger exit are little booths. First, go to the one for hotels and get a room that’s within your budget (since you’re dealing with the airport, a ‘budget’ hotel will still be relatively costly—around 1600 for the cheapest). Now you have a place to sleep. Next, go to the next booth and get a pre-paid taxi. DO NOT GET JUST SOME TAXI OUTSIDE. YOU'LL BE SCAMMED. Show the pre-paid taxi clerk where you’re staying (on the ticket you just received from the hotel booth), and s/he'll sell you another ticket which you’re going to give to the pre-paid taxi—a car which is yellow and black—and the driver will then take you to your hotel. 

Now, keep both sets of tickets in a safe place. 

There are bank machines in the airport. If you need to use a bank machine, now is the time.

You may now leave the airport.

And enter a world of scam.  In the crowds of people there is the sad but inevitable fact: countless charlatans are attracted to the new arrivals, their money, and their being overwhelmed.  Anybody who approaches you should be automatically and categorically suspected. This is not pathological paranoia; it is accurate assessment. Note also that it is not your life that is in danger (in 99.99% of cases); they’re just after your money.  Now, what you’re looking for is the lane for pre-paid taxis, and there are people who are going to claim that they drive a pre-paid taxi (or a million other things) to try to get your ticket, which is worth money. They even buy black cars and paint yellow on them to match the descriptions you hear from pre-paid booths. Do not be led anywhere. To get to the pre-paid taxis, walk across the first asphalt lane of traffic and parked vehicles, and along the second lane you’ll see the black and yellow taxis. There are signs with numbers where each of these beaten up cars are parked, and there should be a number on your ticket. Find the sign that matches your ticket, and this driver will take you to where you’re going. If you cannot find the pre-paid taxis or yours in particular, go to a police officer or a pre-paid ticket booth outside, and ask. Follow the directions and not those of anybody who happened to be eavesdropping and wants to show you the way.  

Once you’ve got your taxi, avoid giving the driver your ticket until you get to your destination. And make sure that you’re at the right hotel before you get out. This sounds like a hassle and it can be, and it can also be intimidating. 

[Note that if you’re a female lone traveler, extra caution would be prudent. Bring a cellular phone, and give the license plate number to the nearby tourist police--and do it when the taxi driver is looking. One lone traveler was killed by a taxi-driver leaving the Delhi airport in 2004. Although the traveler was described as 'clueless', India travelers will tell you differently--she used pre-paid taxis, which are government sponsored and should presumably be safe.  Take extra precautions.]
 

Upon arrival to your hotel, present the front desk clerk with your hotel ticket and you’ll be given a room.  Now, chill out. Maybe spend some time with your lonely planet going over the details of your next move. . . 

A helpful forum for anything India-related is India Mike.