From Golden Temples to Sunsets

Amritsar, and more so the Golden Temple, seems to be like one of those places that loads of people mean to visit but as they leave the 'A' section in their Lonely Planets they thankfully forget the hidden treasure. I do beleive, and you can quote me, that every foreigner in town could proudly boast that they were staying in the same Golden Temple residence. A good hint was the bandanas everybody got to cover their heads inside the holy place.

Sikhism: Whereas some religions don't let you near their holy place without being one of them, Sikhs take the pains to feed up to 60 000 people a day, lodge a good 10 000 and serenade several million by loudspeakers. The kitchens file you in to sit on long carpets and despite the growing need to flex your legs everyone crosses them in penance...yet the food makes it all worth it. Dal, sweet rice, chutney, potato and chapathis are slopped onto metal plates to no end, Oliver Twist's dreamland. To give back Karan and I tended to clean fifty plates, peel as many potatoes and make as many oblong chapathis to dissaproving looks from the pros.

The temple itself was picture heaven and regardless of hour or temperature, the lake around it would be filled with eager Sikh pilgrims going for a dip in holy water that I'm sure is never cleaned. Watched the passing of the Guru Gobind Singh (holy book) from the golden temple to another along a (golden) causeway was packed every night and crack of dawn. First time an Indian girl every laid a hand on me was then when a spry Sikh teenager shoved me out of the way of her camera-phone recording of the bi-daily affair. Before slogging back the 9 hours to Palampur, Karan and some Danish girls and I zipped up to witness another daily celebration at the Attari Indian-Pakistan border. The marching and cheering, singing and dancing was enough to get a feeling of the emotional connection between these two ever-warring, ever-linked countries. The guards of each country, sporting fan shapped hats and opposing colours goosetepped their way toward each other at the gates to shake hands and return, entirely friendly, yet shockingly competitive. We were annoying alloted to the foreigner grandstand and later realized we would have been the only ones not shouting the songs from the main stands, making India seem a little too soft to the touristless Pakistan.

Back chez Bobby in Palampur, Karan and I designed our legacy to be left at the school. Though put under considerable pressure by the dazed Principal to spend five days painting the God of education on the walls, we held our own and finished a two time lines running down the hallways. The students eagerly slopped far too much paint on their cardboard pallets and helped add illustrations to the global and Indian events. Hardly anybody focused in those last few days and I could always spot a few heads poking through classroom doors to see what new, confusing battle was being depicted. Said goodbye to my kids on the last day and received a conglatulatory note from the Principal.

"Max Lloyd-Jones son of Peter Lloyd-Jones has been of great help." I asked if he wanted my mother's name as well and he blinked twice and lauged before continuing to punish a passing by boy out of class with his fist. I promptly scrunched up my notes of critisism.

On to Manali, with dreams of ski lodges and powder to be swiftly headbobbled away into the inconvenient truth of global warming. BUT! I did adopt a stray dog :)