Excerpted from The India Traveler by Marjorie Kircher Copyright © 2013 Marjorie Kircher. All rights Reserved. Published by Gottlieb Press. Available at New Renaissance Bookstore on 23rd Ave., Portland; www.amazon.com, www.powells.com, www.barnesandnoble.com
Available in Europe through Amazon (co.uk, de, fr, es, it) and India.
1973
Travel alliances among “world travelers” were easily made in that cultural time known as the Sixties, which actually includes the early 1970s and the time of this journey. We were all experimenting with our own ideas of freedom. For me, that included the liberty to make quick friendships and trust others. You had to go by your instincts and take a few chances. The friendship with Donald was a disappointment, but I was to learn how right I was to trust Yaman. In retrospect, I already knew more about him from his responses at Dachau. And if I hadn’t hitchhiked to Munich with Donald and been locked out of the youth hostel, I most certainly would never have met Yaman.
Afghanistan…The day we left Kabul will always be with me. We headed out early on a bright morning, rested and eager for an imagined magnificent ride through the Khyber Pass we expected to reach before day’s end. I enjoyed the sweeping views of the barren, erosion-carved landscape as the old bus rounded curves, advancing in a slow, winding spiral down the narrow road of the steep Kabul Gorge, where the Kabul River flowed far below. I marveled at several large local transport trucks on the road, every square inch magnificently cartooned and colorfully painted, bearing the careful English lettering, “Afghani Airlines.” I was surprised when our driver laid on the horn, tailgating the beautiful truck ahead, and even more amazed when he moved to the left side to pass within the small breadth of the mountain road. I looked ahead for reassurance of no approaching vehicles. I felt a little hot and dizzy. Our bus was too close to the truck. We drove ahead of the truck and stopped on the road. Something was wrong.
Nepal …In one of these villages, we spent the night in a local house, made like the others of smoothly sculpted packed mud and straw, with a painted door. The man who owned it had a hurricane lamp and pumped up the pressure to give us light after dinner for a longer conversation. Other trekkers were staying in his house too. We sat at a long plank table with bench seats and drank homemade chung rice beer offered by our host. One of the other trekkers pulled a news magazine from his pack and put it on the table. I winced as I looked at the featured story, “Watergate,” implicating top-level US officials in an unprecedented election scandal. For a moment I wished to be home while this crisis unfolded. My thoughts were interrupted when a young fellow with long blond hair suddenly crashed to the floor, passed out cold in mid-sentence of a story he had been telling. Chung beer creeps up on you.
Poon Hill…There were eight of us there, not counting the cows. We just sat, grinning and containing it all quietly. Conversation was simple. The emotion I felt was beyond expression, but it may be described as sublime joy. I was very honored to be there, in Nepal, sitting on the grass gazing at these towering Gothic forms: the jagged, icy peaks of the Himalayan eternal snows. Home of the abominable snowman, for all I knew maybe he had loped up that very mountain. I squinted my eyes, looking for tracks. A month ago, it had all been on the other side of the world somewhere, and now I was here, on the other side of the world. Kansas was then as geographically remote from me as the Himalayas had been all my life.
1983
I enjoyed my nostalgic return to the intense sensate experience. I thought of details in an Indian landscape: stunning colors of the women’s saris, the sun striking water jugs atop womens’ heads, the tinkle of glass bangles sliding down a moving arm. I was able to scratch the cultural surface a bit more through friendships with Indians. I met the German medical students Marianne and Gabrielle in Nepal, another start to a long cross-cultural friendship. I learned to wrap a sari and realized at journey’s end that I should have been wearing one. I was most happy spending time with Indian families in daily life. I understood a little more, especially an appreciation for the complexity of the Indian culture. Yet, many mysteries remain. How could the people living on the streets or in the slums of India, destitute, smile so genuinely? Why do Westerners come home from India so happy?
Available in Europe through Amazon (co.uk, de, fr, es, it) and India.
1973
Travel alliances among “world travelers” were easily made in that cultural time known as the Sixties, which actually includes the early 1970s and the time of this journey. We were all experimenting with our own ideas of freedom. For me, that included the liberty to make quick friendships and trust others. You had to go by your instincts and take a few chances. The friendship with Donald was a disappointment, but I was to learn how right I was to trust Yaman. In retrospect, I already knew more about him from his responses at Dachau. And if I hadn’t hitchhiked to Munich with Donald and been locked out of the youth hostel, I most certainly would never have met Yaman.
Afghanistan…The day we left Kabul will always be with me. We headed out early on a bright morning, rested and eager for an imagined magnificent ride through the Khyber Pass we expected to reach before day’s end. I enjoyed the sweeping views of the barren, erosion-carved landscape as the old bus rounded curves, advancing in a slow, winding spiral down the narrow road of the steep Kabul Gorge, where the Kabul River flowed far below. I marveled at several large local transport trucks on the road, every square inch magnificently cartooned and colorfully painted, bearing the careful English lettering, “Afghani Airlines.” I was surprised when our driver laid on the horn, tailgating the beautiful truck ahead, and even more amazed when he moved to the left side to pass within the small breadth of the mountain road. I looked ahead for reassurance of no approaching vehicles. I felt a little hot and dizzy. Our bus was too close to the truck. We drove ahead of the truck and stopped on the road. Something was wrong.
Nepal …In one of these villages, we spent the night in a local house, made like the others of smoothly sculpted packed mud and straw, with a painted door. The man who owned it had a hurricane lamp and pumped up the pressure to give us light after dinner for a longer conversation. Other trekkers were staying in his house too. We sat at a long plank table with bench seats and drank homemade chung rice beer offered by our host. One of the other trekkers pulled a news magazine from his pack and put it on the table. I winced as I looked at the featured story, “Watergate,” implicating top-level US officials in an unprecedented election scandal. For a moment I wished to be home while this crisis unfolded. My thoughts were interrupted when a young fellow with long blond hair suddenly crashed to the floor, passed out cold in mid-sentence of a story he had been telling. Chung beer creeps up on you.
Poon Hill…There were eight of us there, not counting the cows. We just sat, grinning and containing it all quietly. Conversation was simple. The emotion I felt was beyond expression, but it may be described as sublime joy. I was very honored to be there, in Nepal, sitting on the grass gazing at these towering Gothic forms: the jagged, icy peaks of the Himalayan eternal snows. Home of the abominable snowman, for all I knew maybe he had loped up that very mountain. I squinted my eyes, looking for tracks. A month ago, it had all been on the other side of the world somewhere, and now I was here, on the other side of the world. Kansas was then as geographically remote from me as the Himalayas had been all my life.
1983
I enjoyed my nostalgic return to the intense sensate experience. I thought of details in an Indian landscape: stunning colors of the women’s saris, the sun striking water jugs atop womens’ heads, the tinkle of glass bangles sliding down a moving arm. I was able to scratch the cultural surface a bit more through friendships with Indians. I met the German medical students Marianne and Gabrielle in Nepal, another start to a long cross-cultural friendship. I learned to wrap a sari and realized at journey’s end that I should have been wearing one. I was most happy spending time with Indian families in daily life. I understood a little more, especially an appreciation for the complexity of the Indian culture. Yet, many mysteries remain. How could the people living on the streets or in the slums of India, destitute, smile so genuinely? Why do Westerners come home from India so happy?
1997
My glass bangle broke, falling from my wrist and landing with a shattering tinkle, scattering colored glass pieces between the ribs on the bottom of the boat. The eight-year old fair-haired N. Zealander boy named Angus responded, “Hurry, I’ll help you gather the shards so you can remember!”
My glass bangle broke, falling from my wrist and landing with a shattering tinkle, scattering colored glass pieces between the ribs on the bottom of the boat. The eight-year old fair-haired N. Zealander boy named Angus responded, “Hurry, I’ll help you gather the shards so you can remember!”
Just walking around the block in Madras was fascinating. We observed people carry on their activities outdoors, reflecting a highly socially interactive culture, and perhaps underlying that, a temperate tropical clime. We saw a big group of kids playing a lively game of marbles on the street. Women in those gorgeous colored saris gathered for water at the public spigot. An old wrinkled tailor man foot-pumped his treadle sewing machine outside his shop. Children played nearby on a portable Farris wheel, set on wheels so it could be rolled from one neighborhood to the next. A man turned the Farris wheel with a hand crank.
In Madras, women and men walked into the ocean waves clad in their street clothes: colorful saris or rolled-up trousers. Mitch and I walked barefoot on the soft sand, dancing along the foam of the breaking waves. Vendors grilled corn on the cob over wood embers on metal tables set up along the beach. Though we were on the edge of a major Indian city, the beach was clean, almost no litter save a few discarded corn cobs and flecks of charred wood.
Photo credits: 1, 4 & 5 by Mitch Gilbert; 2 & 3 by Marjorie Kircher
