Back to Leh from my 5 kms mini trekking to Dalai Lama Gompa, a good exercise for the coming trekking to Markha valley starting tomorrow morning. Now sitting in the satellite cybercafe connectting with outside. This place is full of surfers, just took 1 minute studied all of them.

They are trekkers and seekers, backpackers and Buddhist followers, Buddhist monks in Tinetern robes, and they come here for both spiritual sustenance and for rugged hikes amid ancient monasteries and snowcapped mountains.

This northern region of India known as Ladakh is a cold desert plateau, a western extension of the Tibetan Plateau in the great Himalayas, on the frontier with China. Local residents include Tibetan refugees who crossed into the Indian Himalayas through what is known as “the roof of the world” and settled into an area now known as Little Tibet. Monasteries perched atop small hills above the valley attract surprisingly large groups of Western tourists, including Europeans, North and South Americans, and a steady stream of young Israelis looking to decompress after completing their military service. These visitors come both to immerse themselves in Buddhist teachings and to master the rugged terrain. But hiking and reaching the temples is far easier for the locals, who are acclimated to altitudes that range from 3,500 to 7,500 meters above sea level.

The tourists are easy to spot, clad in Bermuda shorts and toting cameras, sunglasses, colorful hats and water bottles as they fight the punishing sun while thronging to admire the marvels of craftsmanship on display at the monasteries, known as Gompas. In contrast, the locals’ attire includes traditional outfits crafted from yak wool, long gowns or jackets adorned with turquoise jewelry.

Same as most of the tourist places in India, I am hooked by shop owners all the time, and whenever they learn I am from China, interesting appearance on their face. As probably the very few, if not the first, single Chinese woman travel to Leh and the neibourhooding area, I feel so foreign among all the flat-faced, almond eyed Tibetern Indian in the south side of Himalaya.

Refugees everywhere, some followed Dalai Lama, some just followed the others, Free Tibet, Save Tibet signs all along the street. Ladakhi as a launguage is very similiar to Tibetern, probably just as German and Austrian German. Smoking in kinda not welcome here, but everyone drinks the infamous Tibetern cereal beer.

Still no power outside, must to tough to walk through the maze lanes to my Tibetern room in Old Ladakh guest house. Time for a good mumu dinner.

In the mood of something Francais tonight, sitting in south Delhi, with light off, A/C off, TV off, and mood on. Home sounds so far away. Aanyway even when I was in China I really seldom felt any place real home, as the places I was born, I grew up, I had every first time, and I was leaving before I left for this trip are all not the same.

Elle avait des bagues a chaque doigt,
Des tas de bracelets autour des poignets,
Et puis elle chantait avec une voix
Qui, sitot, m’enjola.
Elle avait des yeux, des yeux d’opale,
Qui me fascinaient, qui me fascinaient.
Y avait l’ovale de son visage pale
De femme fatale qui m’fut fatale {2x}.
On s’est connus, on s’est reconnus,
On s’est perdus de vue, on s’est r’perdus d’vue
On s’est retrouves, on s’est rechauffes,
Puis on s’est separes.
Chacun pour soi est reparti.
Dans l’tourbillon de la vie
Je l’ai revue un soir, haie, haie, haie
Ca fait deja un fameux bail {2x}.
Au son des banjos je l’ai reconnue.
Ce curieux sourire qui m’avait tant plu.
Sa voix si fatale, son beau visage pale
M’emurent plus que jamais.
Je me suis soule en l’ecoutant.
L’alcool fait oublier le temps.
Je me suis reveille en sentant
Des baisers sur mon front brulant {2x}.
On s’est connus, on s’est reconnus.
On s’est perdus de vue, on s’est r’perdus de vue
On s’est retrouves, on s’est separes.
Dans le tourbillon de la vie.
On a continue a toumer
Tous les deux enlaces
Tous les deux enlaces.
Puis on s’est rechauffes.
Chacun pour soi est reparti.
Dans l’tourbillon de la vie.
Je l’ai revue un soir ah la la
Elle est retombee dans mes bras.
Quand on s’est connus,
Quand on s’est reconnus,
Pourquoi se perdre de vue,
Se reperdre de vue ?
Quand on s’est retrouves,
Quand on s’est rechauffes,
Pourquoi se separer ?
Alors tous deux on est repartis
Dans le tourbillon de la vie
On a continue a tourner
Tous les deux enlaces
Tous les deux enlaces.
她的每个手指都戴着戒指，
她的手腕上满是手镯，
她唱着，
谁来对我甜言蜜语？
她有宝石一样的眼睛，
让我陶醉，
她那略带苍白的鹅蛋脸，
一个充满诱惑的让我堕落的女人
我们相遇，
再相遇，
我们不再遇见，
不再遇见，
我们重逢，
我们心里又燃起暖意，
然后我们又分离。
我们都要再出发，
在这生活的激流里。
某个夜晚我又记起，
那篱笆，
已经是很久很久的事了。
在她的班卓琴声里，
她那特别的微笑曾让我那样的快乐，
她动人的声音，
她苍白的脸，
永远俘获我的心。
我听得陶醉了，
酒让我忘记了时间
我却清醒地记得印在我额头的滚烫的吻
我们相遇，
再相遇，
我们不再遇见，
不再遇见，
我们重逢，
我们又分离，
在这生活的激流里。
我们继续错过，
两个曾经紧紧拥抱的人心里又燃起暖意
我们都要再出发，
在这生活的激流里。
某个夜晚我又记起，
她曾依偎在我的臂弯
当我们相遇，
当我们再相遇，
为什么要失去？
当我们重逢，
当我们重温，
为什么要分离？
我们又分离，
在这生活的激流里。
我们继续错过，
两个曾经紧紧拥抱的人

“The world constantly renews itself, and when you look at it that way, regret and nostalgia seem equally futile. The past does live on, in people as well as cities. I have only to look back on that winter in Benares to realize how hard it is to let go of it.”

Mark Twain once visited the Benares Hindu University in Varanasi on a lecture tour. His observation: “Benares/Varanasi is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together.’

Well, it’s hard to believe anything has modernized since Twain’s visit, other than this internet cafe and Cocacola.

Located on the bank of the sacred Ganges River “The Great Mother” in the state of Uttar Pradesh., Benares is the city of Shiva and might be the holiest places in India. Hindu pilgrims come to bathe in the waters of the Ganges, a ritual that washes away all sins. Additionally the city is an auspicious place to die, since expiring here offers moksha — liberation from the cycle of birth and death.

The Ganges River is extremely polluted. Each day about 60,000 people go down to the river to take a holy dip, brush their teeth, and wash their clothes along a 7m area of the river. Along this same stretch, 30 sewers are continuously discharging into the river. Additionally the ashes of the cremated bodies are dumped in the river. From my tiny rooftop room in OM Rest House, surprisingly the river doesn’t look dirty which makes it all the more enticing to join the Indians swimming in the river.

It’s a magical city where the most intimate rituals of life and death take place in public on the city’s famous ghats (steps). Probably it’s this accessibility to the practices of an ancient religious tradition that captivates so many travelers, even at the hottest time during the year, right befroe Monsoon at 46 degrees, the young western yuppies and midlife Japanese drop-outs are wondering in the maze looking lanes, napping in the empty cafes, or spending time for exotic tabla and sitar as what I did.

Benares might is the most difficulty place I have been. The “old city” where most budget travellers stay consists of narrow, winding cobblestone lanes. The lanes are so narrow that when a large cow walks down the street people are forced to lean against the walls to make room. These cows leave piles of manure all over the streets forcing people to constantly look where they are stepping often causing run-ins between people. And power cut every night! Had to count on luck for not stepping on dungs at night on way back from night cafe chats with other lonely wanderlusts from every corner of the world. So many Israels, Hebrew accent and Israels laffes in every small restaurant and internet cafe.

The air is so so heavy, thick and filled with the combined fragrance of urine, cow shit and incense. Flies (no mosquito, too hot for the insect to survive) are buzzing everywhere. A dog gave birth to 4 puppies, 2 of them died right after, and the dead bodies on the street being accosted by the flies. The other midday saw a recently deceased man (maybe heat stroke?) being dragged away by locals. As custom has it, if this man who died here does not have enough rupee to pay for a funeral pyre, his corpse will be thrown in the Ganges.

The rickshaw wallas (men), the touts, the multitudes of beggars, the shoeless dirty children wearing tatters of material for clothing, the limbless men, the lepers, the sadhus, and young boys sent by their fathers to bring tourists to their silk shop, are extremely aggressive and persistent here. Being the lowest season for tourism, the very few travelers are constantly being bombarded by men offering “rickshaw? silk? hashish? massage?”. I constantly hear, “Yes, madam. come see my shop. best silk. best weed. you want an Indian boyfriend?” And am constantly pleaded with for money from the beggars. It’s difficult to continue walking in the face of these unwashed women holding tiny babies asking for food or milk, in fact it’s impossible to continue walking when you acknowledge it. But nonetheless, I cannot give to everyone. Most times one must continue walking or even be stern with a child saying “chaalo” (you go).

I sounds so cold hearted but it’s the reality of this place, have to say Chaalo to the flies and fly-like beggers all the time… If as visitors in this place don’t desensitize themselves somewhat to the harshness of what they see, theywe would never last in India for more than a week.

Yet, given all this craziness there is something so beautiful and unbeatable about this place. Being on the river at night is very “shanti”. As the sun sets children fly kites on the bank while people send floating candles in remembrance of their loved ones down the river. Looking out on the river at least 100′s of flickering lights illuminating the river while puja ceremonies take place on the main ghat which includes singing, bells clanging, and clouds of incense. And the morning when the first bell rimgs from outside of my rooftop window, floating down the river around 5:00am as the sun rose. The majestic colors of the early morning light transformed this intense, magical place and I couldn’t help but feel like I was witnessing something, well, older than legend.

After leaving Benares for 5 days, I start to miss the holy city, profoundly.