What Have You Done? You Made A Fool of Everyone.

April 14, 2010
Haridwar, India
Kumbh Mela

In the late '60s, the Beatles, at the recommendation of George Harrison, spent a few months in Rishikesh (about 20 km from Haridwar), hanging out with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in his ashram, palling around with Donovan and Mia Farrow, studying yoga and Hinduism, and writing the White Album. The story goes that Lennon wrote the song “Sexy Sadie” (said to have been originally called “Maharishi” until Harrison demanded it be changed) after the Maharishi exhibited some very unorthodox behavior towards the women in the group, as well as tried out his best extortion techniques. In India, then as now, spirituality has its price.

I awoke, a lot worse for wear, bitter and disgusted with myself for thinking this festival was something that I wanted to see. If we had been in a tolerable hotel, or if I'd at least been in a room with air conditioning, semi-clean towels and a TV, I would not have left. But at about 7AM, I found myself out in the worst chaos I've ever experienced. Our road was blocked off at both ends, and we had to pull the white man “my hotel is down there” card a few times just to escape (I was scared about being allowed back). I don't know what the barricades were for, maybe for crowd control, maybe for some other purpose. They didn't seem to hold very well and were only sporadically enforced. We were seemingly en route to the river, to try and at least catch a glimpse of it, when the police shoved (I was literally man handled by a whistle-blowing lady cop 4 times in as many minutes) us aside and I saw 3 passed out women, slung over the shoulders of police, being carried out (we later learned that we narrowly missed a stampede in which 7 people were killed). I was feeling frantic from being poked, pushed, shoved and deafened by the police whistles, when we saw an opening on the ghat and hurried down the steps to the river. I'm not sure why or how that break in the crowd happened, but Kurt, Mio and Stacy all found their chance, and on this auspicious bathing date, went into the Ganges. Maybe they thought I was being a bitch, but I wanted no part of it. Fast as that river was moving (and it was moving – there were chains hanging from the bridges for people being swept away to grab onto, as well as swimmers in life vests ready to dive after anyone unable to withstand the current), there were still millions of people bathing in it, and I'm sure millions of particles of their excrement bathing right along with them. I also am not Hindu, nor do I pretend to be. I don't take communion, I don't offer lotus flowers to the Buddha, and I certainly was not getting into the Ganges.

I am not on this trip for any kind of spiritual enlightenment. My views on organized (or in this case, disorganized) religion are pretty firm. I am happy to observe and respect peoples' customs and beliefs, but I don't expect to be converted to believing in anything but myself. After two days at the Kumbh Mela, my observations yielded little more than disgust.

In India, the Sadhus, or holy men, are revered. They take a vow to renounce all earthly possessions and physical desires (for the more extreme Naga Sadhus, this includes clothes), and on paper, only eat what people give them, taking alms. What money they receive that is not essential for food or shelter, they are supposed to give up. They ride free on buses and trains. Their lives are devoted to God, and they have been known to do things like hold their arms up above their heads for a year, or place a pinky ring around their penis to prove an existence devoid of sexual desire, or roll around in ash. They come to Kumbh Mela from beginning to end, and live in camps. It is in many parts their festival. And guess what? They are, for the most part, as far as I'm concerned, totally full of shit.

I've got a problem with all religious extremists, which is what I consider these guys. Their motives are supposed to be all for god. That means no possessions, only eating hand outs, etc. So, then, why did the first guy we tried to photograph hand the few rupee coins we offered back to us – stating that he only takes bills? What about the other one, who seemed fine enough, but after posing for photos and taking donations from not one but each of us, opened up his leather case to expose a handheld sony playstation that had video of HIMSELF? Why did he even have one? What about the guys riding around in cars? (We learned that the stampede was created by an SUV full of Sadhus. Godlike, don't you think?) What is possibly most infuriating is that many of these guys are from the Brahmin, or priest caste. It is the highest and most wealthy caste in India. These are educated dudes, calculating and conniving. They walk around like rock stars, because people treat them that way. Say you can lift 20 pounds of bricks with your balls for God? Good for you. That kind of “devotion” does not impress me. Its narcissistic, egomaniacal and stupid. I harbor far more respect for people such as Ghandi, who was also of a higher caste yet devoted his life to abolish that archaic system, or Mother Theresa who lived and died with lepers. The Naga Sadhus are opportunists, who sit around and get baked all day and talk about Shiva. They don't give back to the community, they take from it. And there we were, the white people paying them to take their photos and feeding their egos. I found the whole thing nauseating. If I could have found my way back to my hotel alone, I'd have gone.

Thanks to India's wide availability of prescription drugs, I was able to buy some Valium at the pharmacy, which I took and stayed in my room (they moved us to a smaller slightly cleaner room with a tv and a/c) for the rest of the day and night. I had seen enough humanity to last me a lifetime. It's a shame, since I had really been enjoying India up to this point. I just did not need to see all of India at the same time, crowded into a town half the size of Hoboken.

The next morning a miracle happened. I was awoken from a Valium induced sleep at 7am by the bell boy, who told me we had a phone call. It was Arun, our driver, who I thought we'd lost forever. We had been calling him since we left him in the parking lot and his phone was dead. I was in a state of panic over how we'd ever get out of town, and this news was most welcome. He said he'd get to us by 10 AM. I told him to try hard, though did not believe it would happen. Sure enough, at 11 AM, there was Arun, waiting to take us back to Delhi. He'd managed to borrow a bicycle after sleeping in his truck for two nights and going one day without food. I could have hugged him. We knew it would be hell to get back though, and we gave him the key to our room and insisted he nap for awhile. Knowing that I would not be trapped in Haridwar with all of India, I braved the streets again. The crowds were a bit thinner, but the Sadhu bullshit no less thick.

Part of the Naga Sadhu life is to smoke charas, or hash, from a chillum. The vessel, as well as the smoke and the weed are all part of the ritual. It must to take them to another level or whatever. My friends were all into meeting and hanging out and getting stoned with these dudes; for me, the idea held about as much appeal as sticking my hand into a pot of boiling oil. I don't really smoke pot anymore; don't like what it does to me. But hash, well that's an entirely different story. So it was, on my second morning in the worst place on earth, I found myself rolling a couple of hashish and tobacco joints and heading for the baba camp. I was in better spirits than the day before, knowing that I'd be leaving soon, though kind of just going through the motions to go with the flow of my friends. If I had my way, me and Arun would have been hitting the road, 12 hour traffic jam or not.

We wandered into what looked like a private ghat for Sadhus. Immediately a youngish guy, definitely not a baba – he was rocking a loincloth and some beads and long black hair like he was Cassanova- walked up to Mio and she and Kurt followed him into a corner. Stacy had been talking to an older, bona-fide ashen covered naga, who invited the two of us to smoke from his chillum, which we did. The slick son of a bitch also saw that I had transferred a piece of hash from my purse to my pocket and refused my offer of a pre-rolled joint (such arrogance) and kept pointing at my pocket and demanding it. So I broke off a piece and gave it to him, and in return he surprisingly gave me some of his (which has since been flushed). While this was going on, there was major commotion to my right. Kurt had their “friend” up against the wall and was screaming and cursing like mad in his face. Apparently, this young poseur in what is surely a rehearsed move, put his arm around Mio and KISSED HER. All I could think of was what a vain, opportunistic bastard: our very own Sexy Sadie. Kurt should have decked him and split his face all over his ashen friends. He didn't, which is probably for the best, but how still I wish he had. Because here was where I really drew the line – these “holy” men, devoted to god and of the highest religious order and above all sin and guaranteed moksha and bla bla bla, did not a goddam thing when a young impostor compromised their beliefs . He made them all look like fools by using their mystique to 1)get free drugs and 2) make a hugely unwanted pass at a woman and 3) largely offend her husband. This behavior supposedly goes against everything the Sadhus vow stands for, yet not one of them lifted a finger in Mio's defense, or raised a voice in their own to ask the guy to leave their sacred camp. Maybe they were too baked or maybe they didn't give a shit. Either way, it solidified my opinion. John Lennon was right. Their whole self important existence is a sham.

We parted ways with Kurt and Mio in Haridwar. Stacy and I were able to ride via cyclo rickshaw most of the way back to Arun's car, and took off for Delhi at sunset, 48 hours after we arrived. I was drained and sick and had a couple of serious India moments in one of the grottiest roadside squat toilets I've ever seen. I tried to sleep most of the ride home, despite traffic. It was uncomfortable at best. At 2:30 AM, Arun dropped us off at a clean, semi-well appointed hotel in Delhi. The air con was pumping and the towels were devoid of stains. A twin room was unavailable and although I was too tired to care, the bed was giant and round. After our ordeal, I'd have slept on the marble floor as long as it was clean. I never thought I'd be so happy to be back in New Delhi.

So much for the holy Ganges. Smell ya later (eh, probably sooner considering the way stenches linger in this country.)

Walking A Road Other Men (and women) Have Gone Down

April 13
Haridwar, India
Kumbh Mela

The Kumbh Mela is a massive Hindu festival that happens at auspicious places every twelve years. This year's festival started in January and is taking place in Haridwar, some 200 KM north of Delhi, the town where the foothills to the Indian Himalayan range begin, on the banks of the holy Ganges. Haridwar, a spiritual town even when there is not a mass pilgrimage taking place, is 20 KM from Rishikesh, India's premier center for yogis and ashrams. It's a pretty groovy part of the country. That is, probably just about any time except when the world's single largest gathering of humans hasn't descended upon it.

I'll be honest – I had dreaded this since before I left New York. It sounded like an interesting idea, but I was never really sure it would materialize. Train tickets from Delhi had been sold out months before hand and the local bus option was rather unsavory. Some friends who live and have traveled extensively in India told us not to go. As I've said before, I get claustrophobic in elevators, so this probably was not the best destination for me. I was hoping to find a nice spot in Delhi to stay while my friends took off for the Mela. Well, my first Delhi experience was not so good so my choices were to navigate its ugly, shady streets by myself or go along for the ride to Haridwar and hope for the best. Unwisely, I chose the latter.

Our journey to hell began at 6AM sharp on April 13th. Our driver Arun (who I nominate for Indian beatification. There are something like 30 thousand gods here, what's one more?) met us in his sweet, giant air conditioned Toyota SUV and we hit the road. We learned that Kurt had been sick all night with some kind of food poisoning, so I hoped that our ride was swift and we could get him to a hotel quickly. Arun, who had been to Haridwar countless times but never to the Kumbh Mela, estimated that our ride would take approximately 4-5 hours, 6 max with traffic. Sounded good to me. We were cruising in style, with the A/C blasting and Arun's favorite, R. Kelly bumpin' on the stereo. An hour in and things seemed to be going OK. Then we had to stop so Kurt could puke. He wasn't doing so well. Strike one.

We got to probably within 15 (maybe 20?) KM of Haridwar with relative ease. We knew that all auto traffic had been banned from the city and that we'd have to take an auto or bicycle rickshaw to our hotel from the parking area. What we did not know is that the main road to Haridwar was closed. Strike two. We were routed on a detour, and there's where the nightmare began. At around 10:30 in the morning, we hit some serious traffic. I'm talking 1010WINS red alert, “stay home, 12 tractor trailer pile up” style traffic. At first I assumed that it was just because of the detour, and that the multiple buses were causing problems, not being able to pass other vehicles. We took our detour and came to a solid stand still. Arun got out and talked to some other drivers. “8 hours traffic,” he said, laughing. I couldn't tell if he was serious or not. It was only about 12 KM to town. As the midday sun scorched us (had to be 110 degrees; India is experiencing the hottest April in 53 years), we realized this was no joke. This was the beginning of a horror movie.

I can only imagine that Woodstock was something like this, with people abandoning their vehicles on the Thruway and walking miles to the festival. Except it was nothing like Woodstock, save for the wild marijuana plants lining both sides of the road. I didn't really detect a “hell, yeah, I'm going to see Jimi Hendrix, want some acid, man,” vibe. It was a bit more serious. Lots of people were abandoning their rides and walking, Arun even suggested we do the same. Had this been America, people would have been beating the shit out of each other. A two lane highway was converted into 4, with drivers just deciding to create a second and third lane, thus blocking the oncoming traffic entirely. There were no rest stops. There was no water (and we were dangerously low on our supply, having expected to stay on the main road and hit a restaurant), no toilets and little relief from the sun. After awhile, we had to turn the car off to conserve fuel and prevent overheating. Kurt was pale and feverish and was worrying all of us. If there was a way to turn around, we would have. I was contemplating draining my bank account to charter a helicopter. But where would it land? There was no way out. We were completely stuck, trapped between two gigantic fields of palm sugar. People who had been crammed into buses were running into the fields and hacking down stalks of palm sugar, breaking them over their shins and handing them out. Hard to eat, but at least they provided a small amount of sugar and hydration. We had to pee on some farmer's property with little cover in broad daylight, and mid-stream he came running over chasing us away. I'm sure three thousand people saw my ass. I wanted to turn around immediately, and was hoping that Arun would throw caution to the wind, turn on his 4WD, and plow through the crops to get us out. That did not happen.

What did happen was sitting in the car for twelve hours. We left Delhi at 6AM. We finally pulled into the parking area at about 6:30 PM, just as the sun was setting. It was total and utter chaos. We had phoned the hotel, and they could not get to us. We didn't even know where we were. How could they know where we were and moreover, if they were able to send someone on foot, how would we know him/he know us? Strike three. It was getting dark and seemingly all of India was walking, a veritable tidal wave of humanity rushing the town. Entire villages of pilgrims, probably many of them traveling for days, having never before left their homelands, were arriving en masse. It's said that 5000 people are lost and never heard from again at each Kumbh Mela. I was starting to see why.

Trying very hard to contain my building panic, I strapped my mega heavy backpack onto my back, then strapped my other only slightly less heavy daypack onto my front side and we set off on foot with the crowd, no idea where we were going or how far it would be. We had heard rumors that it would be possible after crossing a bridge and walking 1 or 2 KM to get a bicycle rickshaw to at least transport our luggage. Maybe that was true on any normal day at the Kumbh Mela. But we were getting there for the specially auspicious April 14th bathing date, where a dip in the Ganga is even more purifying, and so was everybody else. I had not packed nor planned to carry my bags for more than a block or so, so pain and misery were setting in. I was close to toppling over, not having had any food and little water since about 8AM. Stacy had a bag on wheels, which does not fare so well over terrains of pebbles, sand, cow shit, toes and other detritus. Kurt (who somehow pulled it together enough to navigate the crowds) and Mio had smartly left some of their stuff in Delhi, so their packs were lighter, but I'm sure they were both very unhappy as well.

Picture an entire football stadium exiting through one entrance in the dark with no signs, few lights, no place to sleep (most pilgrims came and just set up camp on the street) and not a lot of ways to communicate (India has 22 official languages and over 300 dialects). It was chaos. There was not enough police presence, and the police that were there were useless. NOBODY, not one single person that we asked, could direct us to our hotel. We knew it was near the train station – a location one might think the cops directing the flow of millions would know about – but we could not get there. There were road blocks everywhere, so we took a total of 4 bicycle rickshaws, some rides only a few hundred meters, just to take a load off. One person would say that the train station was 5 or 6 km that way, another would tell us it was 3 km in a different direction. Nobody knew what the fuck was going on and I was starting to lose it. At 10:30, after approximately three and a half hours of wandering around on foot in a sea of madness, we got to our hotel.

As luck would not have it, our rooms that had been booked online a month earlier at a “new” hotel, were not quite ready. Translate: the goddam hotel was not even finished being constructed! There were piles of debris and construction material on the banister-less staircase, open patches of drywall exposing rebar, broken fans, scraps of tile lining the hallways. None of the door or window frames were sealed. Of course one of the reserved air con rooms would not be possible on this first night, because apparently there were problems connecting the power, or the actual A/C unit couldn't get there or some other such bullshit. The guys running the hotel were total creeps. One of us would have to suffer, and since Kurt was sick, and he and Mio had spent two sleepless nights in fan only rooms, Stacy and I took the room with the fan. When saw it, I recoiled in disbelief. It was an 8 X 8 windowless hole that looked like a cement mixer had thrown up all over it. There was one double bed, a fan, and that's about it. The filth, some of it real dirt, some of it construction mess, was unspeakable. The bathroom, which we later learned had no hot water, was missing a shower head. Just a pipe in the wall that did not spout water. The journey had left us all covered in a thin film of dust and god knows what else, and all I wanted was a hot shower and a clean place to sleep. My shower experience was a cold spout of water about knee high. It was possibly the worst night of my life and for the first time in longer than I can remember,I sobbed myself to sleep, hoping that somehow we would find a way out of this mess.