As the day comes to an end dusky colours are cast over India’s holiest site, the River Ganga.

Pink, orange and purple rays bounce off the ancient buildings that tumble down from the Old City of Benares to meet the silt filled muddy water that is revered by Hindus the world over.

Boats silently glide through the water, save for the rhythmical splish-splash of the oars. There is an air of tranquility on the river, a far cry from the bustling chaos on the banks of the Ganga. 

Men, women and children are cleansing themselves of the dirt and grime of India’s streets, cooling their bodies from the intense heat of the day, for the long awaited monsoon has still not appeared. Dhobi wallahs  (India’s laundrymen) pummell boldly coloured materials with stones and soap, magically making them clean in the seemingly filthy water they wade in. Sadhus (holy men), stroll along the Ghats wearing striking orange robes, and little else. Their faces are heavily painted with tikka, their nomadic existence evident by their sinewy bodies and matted dreadlocks.

Goats, dogs and cows rummage in the hot stinking piles of rubbish gathering on the ghats, children run and play, flying kites high in the air. Their laughter is carried to us in the wind.  Buffalo meander up the ghats, weaving their own path through the throngs of people and making it perfectly obvious that it is there space that is being invaded by human presence.

Chai wallahs, boat wallahs, dhobi wallahs, bypassers, onlookers, tourists, Burkha clad Muslims, Hindu pilgrims, Sadhus, beggars, children, goats, dogs, buffalo, cows, groups of older men putting the world to right, groups of younger men touting the area for business, selling silk, musical instruments, postcards. Hundreds of lilting sounds, different colours, smells and activities. Everything is vibrant. Energised. Alive.

We approach the burning ghats, the most auspicious place in the world for a Hindu to be cremated. As we step off our boat and climb the stairs we observe the group of tourists standing on a boat, all in multicoloured polo shirts and white socks and sandals craning their necks for a better view of the ceremonies that are taking place in front of them. Some look revolted, some pensive, some awestruck. It strikes me as insensitive and obtrusive but then I have to ask myself, am I really any different to them?

Watching a body burn on a pyre I am aware of a lack of revulsion or negative emotion that I’m sure many would expect to feel.  Watching a body turn to ashes and rejoin the earth is so demonstrative of the fact that it is exactly that, a body, which feels no pain, no suffering and no sorrow, and which really was just a vessel to carry the now departed soul through this life.

But the emotion comes soon after as we climb the ghats and are met with an overwhelming scene.

Groups of men wearing white robes, and with shaved heads (part of the mourning ritual) are huddled round the bodies of their loved ones which are swathed in white sheets and covered in flowers as the last rites and rituals before the cremation ceremony are performed.

The noise is deafening.  Bells toll, horns blow and chants fill the air. Clouds of smoke from the funeral pyres swirl around us, stinging our eyes and catching in our throats. Incense burns heavily, as if to mask the smell from the cremations, but instead, blends with it creating a pungent aroma that clings to our clothes and our nostrils.

A distraught family is led up the ghats, an elderly woman wailing beneath the scarf of her sari, and a young boy sobbing in his fathers arms as they miss the person they love. A mother, a daughter, a son. I have no idea. But all at once I am overwhelmed with the realisation that this is very real for a family. That they are not detached from emotion through lack of identification with the deceased, to them it wasn’t just a shell, or a vessel. It was their loved one. It wasn’t just an interesting cultural experience, or an amazing religious event. It was saying goodbye to someone they will miss. It wasn’t just another thing to check off the list of 100 things to do before you die, or to try to sneak a hip shot photo of to show folks back home. It was hurting and grieving and accepting.

Tracey, one of my wonderful yoga teachers in Thailand talks about how all things in life move in cycles. Day and night, life and death, the seasons, the cycle of the moon. I love this concept and think of it often. I first visited Varanasi in October 2006, my first week in India. I can’t even begin to describe the spiritual and emotional changes that have occurred in the 3 years that have gone by since then.  

And now as I watch the full moon rise over the buring ghats in Varanasi one week before I leave India to return to the UK I realize that I too have completed my own cycle. I smile, because it has been an incredible journey. And I’m ready for whatever is next. . .

 

 

Why You Gotta Act Like You Know When you Don't Know

"Why you gotta act like you know when you dont know. Its Ok if you don't know everything"

Words in a song I was listening to recently that got me thinking. It IS OK not to know everything all of the time. I have spent a lot of time in the past few months travelling alone and therefore having a lot of time to think, to contemplate the past, try to plan the future and figure out what it is that Im going to do with myself.

Inevitably many long bus journeys with only my Ipod, the odd inquisitive Latino, the occasional(ish) packet of Oreos and the deep dark recesses of my brain to occupy me has led me to do a lot of thinking, and there have definitely been times in the past few months that I have managed to convince myself of a whole range of possibilities: that I want to settle down and have babies and work, that I want to run away to India and never come back, that maybe I’m ready to change careers, that maybe I don’t want to travel any more, that maybe I want to be a diving instructor and live on the beach forever. And also, at times that maybe I’m just actually insane. Wacked Nuts. Really. I know your laughing but its true.

Having spent the last few weeks at Rancho Esperanza  www.rancho.esperanza.bvg3.com in the remote fishing village of Jiquilillo on the Northwestern coast of Nicaragua I have had time to reevaluate, re remember the direction that  I’m headed in and gain some clarity of mind that I feel I might have been lacking for a while. Spending the last month at the Rancho was perfect, so perfect that many

times I was supposed to leave and never quite made it. Every morning  the chicken bus would roll by  horn blaring, arms and legs dangling out of windows and boxes, chickens,vegetables, peopleandwatermelons piled on the roof, and I would think "I should be on that bus. Why am I not on that bus. Oh well its OK, manana manana". But, as it has a habit of doing manana just kept becoming today and I guess I always felt like I 

would know when it was time to move on. 

Somehow, the time just didn’t seem right the week before Christmas as I played ridiculously inventive scattegories, and multi-lingual scrabble with people from all corners of the world. Christmas came and went, when we gave out presents to all the children in the village, with Nate posing as a very likely candidate for Santa Claus, listened to some Latin American Christmas tunes, and tucked into some delicious Nica style food and a much appreciated Shiraz for Christmas dinner and I still didn’t feel like leaving and then, before I knew it, 2009 had arrived, and we were round a camp fire on the beach jamming with drums digeridoos, a harmonica, guitars, firedancing, some Glasgow rap and a good sprinkling  of Ozzie talent , as shooting stars sped through the sky and phosphorescence glittered in the crashing waves and lo and behold I still hadn’t left. Sure I had packed my bag 3 times, and yeah every day I said I would leave as I really wanted 

to travel some more of Central America, but some thing stopped me every time. But, as I sat  with some Nicaraguan girls one night chatting about having babies, getting married and politics in an interesting form of Spanglish, drinking  rum and eating some of their delicious Nicaraguan meat and fried plantain dumplings I decided that the next day would  definitely be the day I left. It turned out the Gods were working against, or maybe with, me as I discovered that the lovely Nicaraguan meat feast I had enjoyed so much had been sweltering in the back of a car in the 100 degree heat ALL DAY and must have been what can only be called  rancid by the time I ate it. Suffice to say the next 24 hours proved one of the worst days of my life and as I lay on the ground in the middle of the night unable to move shout for help or open my eyes I decided that maybe this was the place it was all meant to end, that I wasn’t meant to leave and that I would come to rest at the Rancho, and be found partially eaten by the small frogs and rodents that occupy the eco friendly bathrooms. At the time, it didn’t seem like such a bad option. . .however, against all odds I survived and managed to power on to leave the next day for a mammoth journey through Central America. After 3 days, 6 countries, 162 questions regarding my temporary passport from 15 border officials, (all with large guns and an evil eye) 9 buses, one cycle rickshaw, taxis,  4 chickens, 2 pigs, 1 small child spread across my knee for 4 hours, a very nice Australian girl, some funny American guys, a bag of trail mix  and 5 ,or possibly 6 packets of Oreos (when I said occasional earlier it may have been a slight stretch of the truth) and some Abbamania I finally arrived in Cancun hot sweaty dirty tired but extremely satisfied and with a feeling of wonder as the end of another fabulous experience draws near. 

The past few months in Central America have again allowed me to be part of something amazing and I have, as always, learned a great deal. Learning from experiences such as living simply in the Highlands of Guatemala where traditional Mayan lifestyle stands strong amongst the development of tourism, to dancing on the streets to Punta rock and eating some delicious Carribean specialities on Garifuna Day in Belize, hiking up live Volcanoes and taking in  the Colonial beauty of Antigua,  and volunteering at Rancho Esperanza, where Nate, the founder of the Rancho has poured his whole heart, soul and very being into creating a place that children can feel safe, that backpackers can come to and relax, and that a sense of community can be built around  I always find it’s the people you meet along the way that make your experiences what they are, perhaps more so than the places you see or the things you do. People who are beautiful and amazing and inspirational. People who are travelling in spite of everything , who are strong and who are facing their fears and challenging themselves even when life is tougher than many of us can imagine, people who are living life to its limits, following their dreams, and making the things they want to happen happen. People who blow me away by their ability to cope and adapt, by their knowledge of the world and the kindness, care and compassion they have for humanity.

As I fly back towards the US on the last leg of this journey before I return to the UK its easy to become frustrated by the knowledge that I don’t have, the places that I don’t know, the people that I’ve yet to meet and the journeys that I don’t know I’m going to have. But then I realize there are many things I do know, many people I have met, and many journeys I have had. And I can smile and be happy and thankful for being alive and for the experiences I have had and excited for what lies ahead. Because, just like the song says. . . its OK if you don’t know everything . 

Garifuna Day Nov 19th 2008

Crowds are gathering on the warm dusty streets of Dangriga. There is a definite air of festivity in this normally sleepy town where the largest populationof Garifuna, the black Carribean people of Belize, desendants of West African slaves, reside.

The town has come alive since I first passed through, several days previously. The pulled shutters, empty streets, closed signs and general air of “go slow’ ,the Carribean catch phrase I would hear time and time again, is nowhere to be found. Instead music blasts from every corner, every shop and every vehicle in the area. An interesting mix of traditional punta rock, Hip Hop, R n B and of course, some cheesy American pop music creates a party atmosphere. Everyone is grooving to their own vibe here, and nobody seems to mind.

Clouds of dust fly up as Teenagers skid to halt on their bikes, chatting and shouting to each other in the lilting Carribean English that I struggle to understand. Groups of women gather in front of smoking barbeques, getting ready for the biggest celebration of the year that takes place this night and will continue long into the next day.

 I had always imagined women of the Carribean to look a certain way and I wasn’t disappointed as I walked through the town taking in this incredible display of culture and heritage, and once again thinking how lucky I am to be able to travel, and experience such unique and wonderful things.

People have travelled form all over Belize for this event, and as the sun sets over the Stan Creek 

River, and the Carribean sea there are queues of 

traffic drawing up into town, along the roads that probably see less traffic the entire rest of the year. Horns blare as carloads of jovial people hang out of window, calling to each other and to us. . .”hey baby where you goin so fast, this is da carribean mon slowww dooowwnnnn” , waving Belizian flags out of their windows, and inching their way towards the centre of town where the festivities are beginning.

By nightfall the party is well underway. Enticing aromas of jerk chicken, habenero peppers and coconut rice drift towards us in the air, Carribean white rum is flowing on the streets

 and the sound of live music spreads

 throughout the town. Crowds gather round makeshift bands, be it a one man band on the street with some African drums, drawing attention with the unbelievable rhythm and musical talent that seems to be built into Garifuna culture,

or a more recognized Punta rock band, with vocalists, microphones and news reporters galore. Some people are gathered in makeshift arenas, circles of plastic chairs with the band in the middle, everyone huddles up, eager to share in the celebrations. Children run wild in the streets, unsure whether

 to be more interested in the ongoing festivities or in the few

  Westerners who are dotted around, as fascinated by our funny hair, funny faces and cameras as we are by them as we try to

 capture the whole experience in digital, a task I soon decide is impossible, and so surrender my camera to a small boy who takes some much better photographs than anything I could have hoped for.

For a small country Belize has enormous ethnic diversity, with well established communities of Mayans, Hispanics, Garifuna, Creole and Chinese in almost every town, creating a multicultural and exciting atmosphere as different dialects, languages smells, foods and colours are thrown at you from every direction. Tonight nobody cares about race religion or language. The celebration is based around Garifuna culture, but everyone joins in regardless. Even the animals.

Dogs chickens cats and the occasional land crab sniff around for scraps of chicken, fish and the all famous rice and beans. Every meal in Belize is served with beans and rice, or rice and beans. . .you just have to figure out the dfference!! The Carribean food is delicious and unlike anything else I have experienced. 

And so I find myself eating fried fish and rice and beans for lunch, freshly barbequed chicken with beans and rice on the street for dinner, then the unbelievable local dish of Hadat, which is fish in a creamy soup served with plantain doughballs, as what can only 

be described as a mid evening snack and by 9 pm I'm scoffing nachos smothered in jalepeno peppers and delicious melted cheese.

The party continues late into the night, we dance in a tent with hundreds of people, The Belizeans have rhythm, and as I watch them bump and grind on the dance floor with each other to local bands, well known DJs and the odd British 80s throwback I realise that one thing is for sure: the movie White Chicks Cant Dance is so called so for a reason. My attempts to shake my booty like the girls on the floor don’t quite work out, and I soon choose to observe, and perhaps learn how to bust out a move or two, Or, as I watch a British backpacker gyrate awkwardly in the arms of her partner as he moves perfectly in time to the music, perhaps not.

The young people here are representative of a whole new generation in Belize. Amongst the women in traditional dress, and the children with their ribbons and party dresses are young men, in shades, bandanas and oversized Tshirts, listening to black American rap music. Its definitely a generation influenced more by MTV than Garifuna tradition and its amazing to watch the different cultures blend.
But Belize is a nation based on blending. Blending food, blending cultures, blending music and blending traditions which I notice as they prepare for the next days reenactment of the arrival of the Garifuna in Dangriga, a momentous event in the history of this town.

At 0400 as I tuck into my final meal of the day-an all American hot dog, served to me by a young boy wearing a  Fiddy Cent T shirt, who tells me eagerly about the traditional ceremony that will take place the next day I wonder if it is possible for this new 21st century pop culture to blend with the traditional Garifuna tradition. As he eagerly tells me about the traditional ceremony that will take place the next day while he fiddles with his baseball cap and bandana, I think the people of Dangriga are doing a pretty good job.