I must sorrily say that I come bearing bad news. Miss Tungsten (my PalmPilot) and her propitious keyboard have had a spat, and no longer recognize each other's existence. This falling out means that I'm without an expedient means to update the website. In addition, due to future travel plans and certain fascist regimes, I'm not sure how much I can disclose on the website, so this is doubly complicating. Which is a shame, because so much has happened here in Mcleod Ganj, and so much harkens on the horizon. Though I apologize for the censorship, intentional or otherwise, I write you now with a cup of masala chai at an Internet cafe, inspired to impart at least some of these new memories before they become a muted wrinkle on the face.

Since most of you are from more developed world, I'll begin with an interaction between your world and mine. A week ago, Kate and I decided to entertain our fancies with a viewing of Lord of the Rings. The cinema here is characteristic Indian style: a huge television running on a VCD camcorder rip. And, apparently someone locally must be doing the English subtitles, which brings more entertainment than the actual movie. "Salty pork" becomes "satly pot." "Great Eye" becomes "grey ice." "I'm gonna stick this in your gut" becomes "I'm gonna spit in your dark." Someone accused Frodo of being "filthy with love." And, to climax: while the Fellowship debated the battle for Mordor, somehow the translation in subtitle became: "spread passion across the Prince of Cocoa." It's really hard to be a respectful audience with subtitles like this.

But in between the rollicking mistranslations, we did indeed soak in the beautiful aesthesia of Tolkien's creation. What inspiration. After watching the magical landscapes of Lord of the Rings, I realized something was lacking in my experience of north India.

Cabin Fever

Movies aren't the main entertainment in Mcleod Ganj. Other temptations are never far from view. I'll never forget the moment that I realized the 13-hour bus ride to Dharamsala was close to its end. I was nudged awake to behold a predawn red sky backlighting a vast mountain chain on the horizon. My whole awakened entity unfolded from its pretzel, my feet raised from their prop against the heated engine chassis, and I rubbed my eyes. The engine's whine and the driver's inncessant compressor horn faded from consciousness, and I imagined with gleeful anticipation the harmony of hiking bootsteps and heavy breathing, two sounds that go together as well as alp horns go with yak-leather drums.

That injection of cabin fever was two weeks ago, and I'm still recovering.

Ultimately I would awaken from a room with a view and couldn't help myself - there were things to do and people to see, but instead it was high time for something else. I decided to dash up them yonder hills.

The difficulty: I had no idea what treks existed or where they were. Undeterred, I walked through town and chose an outward street that had the highest incline. I walked by a closed "Yeti Trekking" office, encouraged that I might be on the right trail. Sure enough, a Bostonian was returning from above, and shared some itineraries. She hinted at one called Triund, but warned that it was somewhat long - a three hour trek. It sounded perfect.

With that I went onward, periodically asking local Tibetans and Indians for an arm in the correct direction. I gathered in the familiar smells and sights of evergreen woods and felt altogether not unlike walking through the autumn mountains of New England - with some significant exceptions: hawks dominate the skies, for reasons I'm not quite sure of, and of course there's the wild monkeys. Two kinds: large blackfaced-but-whitehaired ones - these are the nice ones - and the smaller reddish ones which are much more odd-tempered. Kate walked by one who scooted off to the side of the path as she approached. She thanked it with a "Cheers" and was shocked to hear the monkey repeating the phrase to itself in a curious tone, as if it'd never heard the word before. I suppose that would be quite possible. I mean really, who thanks a monkey? Others have a darker side. An American student here walked into a bathroom only to alarm a simian occupant and nearly get slashed in the process. Word also has it that, two years ago, a tourist incompassionately threw a hefty rock at some monkeys on the side of the footpath. His curmudgery was answered by the resident alpha male monkey, who leaped from the trees and bludgeoned him to death with said rock. I pondered this as I walked uphill: that you never know what's going on through their heads as they stare you eye to eye from the side of the path while you pass.

Within the hour, the forest broke away to a wide view of the valley. Irrigated farms dominated the landscape. A modest hindu shrine was built here, at the shoulder between two mountain chains. I found some packy snow and remarked at my own awkwardness with it - late February and this was the first snow I had touched all winter. I hadn't thought that I was yet to see more than my fancy's worth.

Triund was my destination, and I wasn't even halfway, but I couldn't help gazing out with orientalist envy at the modest little sheep and rice farms down within the valley. Somewhere amongst the thoughts of whether I could live such a life, some motion caught my eyes and a billowing of dust erupted not far from the sheepranch. I noticed a man racing downhill. Apparently his mule had misstepped and taken a treacherous tumble. The mule had dizzily begun to recover its consciousness when the man arrived to its side, stuffing bits of sod into bags on the mule's back in an effort to stop cement mix from spilling out. After this near-death experience, Burro seemed to have no interest in domesticated life anymore, and it required a series of kicks astride the haunches for it to regain interest in the journey uphill.

Soon, I began to wander off track, as is easy to do around here. I began to feel a bit concerned until I spotted that someone had chalked upon the rock: "Magic View Cafe --->" I would soon come around the bend and land eyes upon it. Unlikely as it seemed, there it was: a modest little cafe stop that was 2.5 hours walk from the nearest significant village. There lived a well-spoken Indian man who had lived there nestled into the mountains since 1984, when he was 16. We exchanged a few sentiments typical of those who live closer to nature, the one I recall most being his insistence that I see the place during a full moon. Apparently, the moonlight vividly reflects off the snowy mountains as if they're a prism focused onto the cafe, and you can easily read the day's newspaper, should you fancy. I am extremely tempted.

But, for that afternoon, he suggested I trek a half hour farther to see a snowy meadow just around the corner. To be honest I never saw such a thing, and lacking any particular occasion of turning back, I simply burrowed on (literally, on all fours into the snow at times) up the hill. The rhododendrun trees had already begun to recede, and I was beginning to wonder if the conditions would be harsh. At one point, I simply lost consciousness of their presence until I nearly walked into a fallen tree, who's terminal branch resembled a human hand bracing itself for a collapse into the snow, much like I had been doing for an hour... I turned and looked astoundedly into the crotch of the tree as if it was a stranger that I couldn't quite measure up, and briskly ducked under its weight. It was then that I recognized that I was ascending so quickly that I was experiencing altitude sickess. The plastic creeking of my camera pack echoed in my head like a supernatural voice.

But of course, I made it out alive, and once I had crested the spine of the nearby mountain range to the four guest houses that make up Triund, all of the physical strain and mental dementia were rendered worthwhile. After an elevation gain of 1300 meters in three hours, the vista beyond was unlike anything I'd ever seen. Strange birds screaked about, and a humongous beige vulture floated by. Prayer flags were wrapped in a triangle of trees nearby. Prayer papers soaked into the nearby snow. This was a special place.

We Sail Tonight For Singapore

OK, so that's Tom Waits' fate, not mine, but I do make my way onwards in a few days, to a destination to be named later. Not Singapore. As you can gather, I've spent a good amount of time here in Mcleod Ganj, but soon I must move on.

In comparison to previous accounts, life has been relatively routine, at the worst dealing with mutinous toilets and such... but certainly it also comes with reward, and I will miss these spoils. I wake up regularly to the sunrise, eat some evil porridge and benevolent honey pancake - that every day Ishwar makes another notch better. Kate and I talk of important nothings and I start the day's reads of James Joyce and Chinese environmental white papers. The backpack collects dust under the bed while I play chess with some Kashmiri friends (they even play chess like tricksters!) Kate and I even dared a visit to the local "dance party," those incredible venues that flout the entertaining collisions of the globalized world's vectors. Staring off into the permutations that occur when you put Kashmiris, Tibetans, and Indians into a high-school dance floor with various levels of inebriation, I couldn't help but contemplate the singing celebrations of "All I wanna say is that / They don't really care about us." I have to confess, even Michael Jackson can summon collegiate contemplations.

During they day I sometimes bring out my Canadian soccer ball, always to wonderful experiences, such as little 10-year old Tibetan kids demarcating goals with stones and screaming, "This is my golpa!" We all count off the score in Hindi and at times I even jump down hillsides after misplayed kicks to be welcomed by a stinging nettle that I'm so allergic to it numbs my hands for three days. There's something about the sedentary slowtime that has revived my spirit and since the hostel is down a steep hill, I'm suddenly back in shape and feeling healthier than ever in every aspect.

As if in contrast to this self-appraisal, Kate discovered that I have a white hair amongst my traveling beard. I didn't believe it until she found a second one. There it stood between the fingers, like empirical definitive proof that Watson Fellows age abnormally fast. At 24!

As some of you might have read from the previous entry, I have spent a good amount of time with Kate here in Mcleod Ganj. We are both built like true Watson Fellows, wandering seekers who're taking in the world. We have reciprocally inspired each others' creative endeavors – she the overbearing imperialist dork, and me the diminutive orientalist geek. And as perhaps evidenced by the embellishments of last week's Cupid story, it will be difficult for us to part, to become solo travelers again. I know I am a bundle of contradictions, but I am not sure that my own are stronger than contradictory parable: do true seekers ever find?

P.S. For further reflection on the toilet paper brand list: "Desire" ... and as a special exclusive bonus, I bring you news of two comedic local brand names of jeans: "Cocaine" and "BJ" (with CK typography!)