Holy Roller

(Left: Ram Jhula suspension bridge over Ganges at dusk.)










Yoga festival behind me, I was left to discover beautiful hilly Rishikesh.. It is quieter than other parts of India I have experienced thus far, reminding me somewhat of the Russian River (although the Ganges is much wider and there are no redwoods). The four door Toyota truck picked me up at 10:00 a.m. for an 18 km trip down a stretch of whitewater on India’s most holy river, “Mother Ganga.”

Always a big fan of rafting and having been on a schedule for the past six days, I was ready for a little outdoor exploration. From my point of view thus far, the river was not rapid and I had read that the river was mostly Class III and IV rapids. In the midst of an 8 month drought, I expected mostly Class III water. As it turns out, further up the river, where it narrowed and big rocks held their ground firmly in the middle, the Class IV water was waiting for us.



My raft mates were a British couple in their mid-sixties, traveling for six months, three of those months in northern India. Graham and Marian, both on their second marriage, were out to see Australia, Malaysia and India. Within five minutes of meeting Graham, I realized that I was more listening to Graham than meeting him. Graham was enthusiastic to talk about anything he wanted to talk about, including “those ridiculous people near the ashram (his age) wearing those crazy head thingies”. Yes, Graham was not only not a yogi, but he criticized the appearance of others, mostly because he didn’t know anything about them or yoga.

Like me, he had attended the riverside aarti ceremony the previous night, but his take was quite a bit different than mine. Graham was a sightseer and Marian was his sheep, following him wherever he roamed as long as she didn’t have to carry her pack. Many times he gave me tips in which towns I could buy liquor and ranted about the great expense of Indian wine. Marian and Graham were moseying through retirement at their own pace on their time.

When I explained to him that some of the people “his own age” on stage with head dresses the night before were multi-millionaires (specifically Gurmukh, the Kundalini teacher, and her husband also a teacher at the festival) from Los Angeles, he sat back with a stunned look on his face. I’m not sure the new facts changed his opinion, that wasn’t my intent, but I though it might change his perspective. It certainly stopped the chatter about those “weird people”.

My take is, if their (the yogis) goal is world peace, compassion and taking responsibility for their actions, then it can’t be all that bad. In fact, I’m not sure there is a higher goal for mankind at the moment. What do we need more than stability, sustainable resources and people taking care of themselves? Seems like it would resolve many pressing issues on the world stage.

But enough solution oriented banter, back to the Ganga, which did not disappoint. With a raft of only four, including the guide, we were not a rafting power house. The Ganga posed two Class IV rapids, the primary danger being the shallow big rocks our bodies would slam into if we were tossed. Graham and Marian were ready to “get down” on just about every Class III or IV rapid. “Get down” is a command sometimes barked by the guide if he sees the rapid about to toss the boat. The Ganga did not require such maneuvers on my day, but during the slow parts of the river, the scenery was beautiful as monkeys frolicked on the beach, sadhus did their laundry and birds glided between the hills.

Actual time on the water amounted to maybe three and a half hour with a couple of swim breaks and a cliff jump along the way. With the remainder of the day before me, I walked to Lakshman Jhula, the town just upstream from Rishikesh. Graham had told me about a good German bakery that served international food. My stomach grumbled at the though of some non-Indian food and ordered a non-stop march straight to the bakery.

A two kilometer walk up the hill from my room, I found most of the westerners in town sipping lassis, chai and reading the paper at the bakery. More importantly, I found croissants, homemade chocolate chocolate cookies with sunflower seeds which were surprisingly good. The owner had cornered the market.

While Indian entrepreneurship is high, the irony is that often shop after shop sell the exact same items. I’m not quite sure how they do it, but it is common to see two camera shops right next to each other or seventeen bead stores selling rudraksh mala, the string of beads used in puja made from the nuts of the rudraksh tree. But if I start asking questions about India now, my system could overload. For now, I’ve resigned myself to going with the flow, the only way to go here, otherwise disappointment and aggravation will be at your doorstep. Hakuna Matata.