The Abydos helicopter and related carvings can be found under the ceiling, near the entrance of the temple

Abydos, one of the holiest cities in all of Ancient Egypt, was an important necropolis from the very beginning of the known Egyptian civilization. This is where, much later, illustrious Pharaohs Seti I and his son Ramses II built a magnificent temple, known as the House of Millions of Years, dedicated to the god Osiris. Today, this temple still stands and the whole place bathes in a tangible mysticism unlike any of the other temples in nearby Luxor.

Even while the temple is replete with carvings of the finest quality, one of its most stunning sights is a plate of hieroglyphs that is easy to miss but not dismiss: the so-called Abydos helicopter and its nearby carvings seemingly depicting modern vehicles – mind you, those were apparently made over 3000 years ago.

The usual explanation given by egyptologists to account for this imagery is that they would actually consist of a palimpsest – meaning an illusion caused by overlapping glyphs. At one point, the original glyphs would have been covered with plaster and new carvings would have been made over them. As part of the added plaster fell down over time, the new shape or the illusion would have been created by the two sets of overlapping carvings. A rather satisfactory explanation, is it not?

Except that Jiri Mruzek, through geometry and mathematics, has well demonstrated that the glyphs in question do not appear accidental, random or chaotic (which would likely be the case if the glyphs were the result of a palimpsest). It is also statistically improbable that a palimpsest involving only a few illustrations in a small amount of space would result in the creation of four figures that resemble vehicles (a tank, helicopter and two kinds of flying ships).

Still, also of interest and quite supportive of the palimpsest theory is that another set of hieroglyphs with strong similarities has been found elsewhere in the temple. Palimpsests can also be found in other ancient Egyptian temples, such as Karnak in Luxor.

These matters aside, playing with the idea that the glyphs would indeed represent vehicles, I wonder about the context where the images are found. For one thing, the emplacement of such unusual carvings would be very odd. If they were really consciously carved to depict such machines, why would the carvers put such extraordinary glyphs on an ordinary stone slab supporting the ceiling near the entrance? Another aspect that makes little sense is that nowhere else can such carvings (depicting vehicles) be seen in the temple or elsewhere in Egypt – they are isolated and without obvious context.

They are not entirely isolated in the broader perspective of ancient world culture, however. Some ancient civilizations report about flying crafts or provide artifacts hinting at the possibility of such machines. The Vimanas of Vedic India are a case in point.

Since the official position of egyptologists is very clear, it would also be interesting to get the impressions of other researchers – something I am in the process of gathering. As I obtain more viewpoints by different experts I will post these below.

Brooks Agnew, physicist currently organizing an expedition to the North Pole, had this to say about the Abydos glyphs when I contacted him:

I looked at the header plate at Abydos for a couple of hours in different lighting conditions. Your’re not allowed to use lighting or flash up there, and the scaffolding had been moved, so I couldn’t get a great photo without timed exposure. [...] I took about 50 shots of this plate, because the only ones out there on the internet are all the same photo. I am convinced that the plate has not been touched or re-carved since it was made.

John Anthony West, self-proclaimed heretic egyptologist, was very clear about his view on the carvings:

They are not helicopters and tanks! Both require an advanced, highly sophisticated and extensive industrial base. They do not fabricate themselves out of thin air. Do you suppose that in all we have found in Egypt, we would not have found some evidence of the kind of massive industry absolutely required to produce mechanisms of this sort?

To which I replied that the machines might not have been manufactured in Egypt or the carvings could refer to a vision, dream or a sighting – though I personally find the whole thing unlikely given the position and context of the carvings which would be rather odd. West replied:

Yes, exactly.

I see no reason to challenge the palimpsest explanation. It is (apparently) known that Ramses II, plastered over the original work of his father (for reasons unknown) and carved into the surface – in the process carving into the original – and when the plaster fell off over time, voilà: a tank and helicopter. Edmund Meltzer, a thoroughly responsible and unusually open-minded academic put forth the theory. There are other palimpsests in Karnak temple, so no shortage of precedents.

I then heard back from Christopher Dunn, an expert on Ancient Egyptian technology:

I have studied the glyphs at Abydos very closely after taking hi-resolution images with a telephoto lens. The Egyptologists are correct when they say it is palimpsest. Moreover, a true depiction of a helicopter would not have the blades clipping the tail fin, and there would be a stabilizing vertical rotor.

The West Bank of Luxor features an impressive concentration of tombs and temples dating from Ancient Egypt

As I walk out of the train station in Luxor, I’m provided with a breath of fresh air. The pressure from Cairo starts to dissipate at once: what stands before me is a pleasant-looking city of low, pale buildings that do not aim to overtake nature. This is the modern reincarnation of glorious Thebes – the capital of Egypt when it was an empire.

Grateful to be here, I quickly breathe in the surrounding earth, water and air before following the taxi driver, Hani, to his car. Other drivers prowling around try to bait me but Hani yaps at them in fierce Arabic – I’m his.

Thirty seconds into the drive, the remains of Luxor Temple, a graceful religious complex built by a series of illustrious Pharaohs more than 3400 years ago, stand out by the edge of the Nile. This is not your average neighborhood.

In front of Luxor Temple

My eyes and mind are captivated by the millennia-old colossal pylons that appear then quickly withdraw from view. Simultaneously, Hani reveals a fixation of his own:

- You want to go Edfu, Kom Ombo, one hour, two hour. You go, I take you, my taxi.

I’ve barely arrived in the world’s biggest open-air museum, featuring an impressive concentration of ancient Egyptian temples and tombs, but Hani his ready to move on, with me in the passenger seat, to other sites some hours away.

I turn my head, blocking him out of my consciousness; the streets are presently bordered with endless trees generously blooming in pink and white – a gorgeous spectacle by any standards. Hani changes his tone of voice and attempts to give fresh emphasis to his sales pitch:

- Edfu, Kom Ombo, Abydos, Dendera… Ed-fu, Kom Om-bo, A-by-dos, Den-de-ra. I drive. You go, yes?

In what is quickly turning out to be a hypnotism séance, Hani repeats similar incantations every minute or two over the next few kilometers. Telling him I understand the possibilities and taking down his phone number do not appease his ambitions. It is not understanding Hani is after, it is commitment. And so, he just goes on.

Meanwhile, as we move away from the city and proceed to the West Bank of the Nile, the environment transforms itself into large fields of cane sugar, banana plantations and patches of date palm trees.

Farmers and kids on donkey carts smile and wave at me – pure charm. But Hani does not like the competition:

- English: one. Arabic: wahid.

Hani grabs my hand and proceeds to teach me Arabic numbers. I’m encouraged to repeat after him. I go along, it’s much nicer than the hypnotism session and his enthusiasm is to be appreciated.

- English: two. Arabic: itnayn.

And so it goes while time proceeds. Hani has slowed down to something like ten kilometers per hour in order to, presumably, prolong the drive. He claims we’ll get arrested if he goes faster. The moment stretches out, becomes timeless like the surrounding vestiges of Thebes. The donkey carts with the laughing children might catch up with us now.

- English: thirty. Arabic: talateen.

Hani won’t let go of my hand. I’m getting a firmer and longer version of the usually loose Egyptian handshake. I would prefer his two hands to be on the wheel, but I decide to relax and begin to wonder which of the Ancient Egyptian gods should be called upon to intervene.

When Hani finally let go of my hand, it is to grab his cell phone. He clicks on it a few times and proudly shows me the screen: a scantily dressed Arabic woman with her legs not really crossed.

- English: beautiful. Arabic: gameela.

The effort to bond is lost on me but I congratulate him on his fervor. I’m not sure if he just licked his lips or not but I try to focus on the small mountains appearing in front of me. In the distance, the desert rises into solid cliffs. Beyond lays the famed Valley of the Kings where numerous tombs of Pharaohs have been found – including that of Tutankhamun with its fantastic treasures.

- Repeat, English: beautiful. Arabic: gameela.

Gameela, I say, my mind picturing Tutankhamun’s majestic golden death mask.

Hani clicks on his cell phone again: the screen now displays his firstborn child. First the professional woman posing, then the newborn child. Priorities are revealed. A few more words of Arabic later, Hani pulls up the picture of the seductress again.

- English: fuck. Arab: naak.

The Colossi of Memnon

What is it that I see before me? Two massive Pharaonic statues make their appearance in the distance. Hany waves in front of my face.

- Mister, listen to me. English: fuck. Arab: naak!

But I’m distracted by the grandeur of the Colossi of Memnon: the twin statues of Amenhotep III are growing larger as the car advances. These used to stand guard in front of the Pharaoh’s temple (now virtually non-existent due to damage inflicted by the Nile waters over time). I feel a slight shiver of electric excitement and uselessly attempt to share this with Hani.

- English: fuck. Arab: naak. You like? Naak good.

I might resort to impatience any moment now but I find I have a little bit of diplomacy left in me. Yes, yes, I understand, fuck, naak.

- Fuck. Naak. Naak. Fuck. In Canada, yes? Naak.

Hani is getting excited and laughs like a hyena. He grabs his genitals over his pants and starts to make motions. To think that, for once, I had gotten a good deal on the price of a taxi ride. Is this the climax? I surmise we must be approaching our destination.

Seconds later, indeed, Marsam Hotel is in view. Hani drops the sex talk and resumes the hypnotism session. Realizing I will soon slip away, his speech accelerates. Destinations bounce back and forth in the car. Desperate repetitions are made. The car finally stops.

I step outside and glance around. The setting is perfect. I’ll be staying here for a few weeks and I could not have hoped for a more picturesque location: in front, the Theban hills with their tombs and colourful village houses dominate the panorama. In the back, sugar cane fields shimmer in the breeze all the way to the Colossi of Memnon. On either side of the hotel, remnants of Pharaonic temples bestow magic. I’m blissed out.

Hani is paid and thanked for his services. Until the last moment, he crudely tries to build ties, but this is an encounter that will not get a sequel.

- Call me. Remember: fuck, naak. Good. Yes?

The Great Pyramid of Giza viewed from the adjacent cemetery

There they are, suddenly. The taxi takes a corner and the pyramids of Giza seem to appear from nowhere, so close to the city. My sister and I are in immediate awe: even after seeing them in pictures and videos hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times, the last of the ancient great wonders still manage to impress.

Less awestruck are the taxi driver and this man who just jumped in the car five minutes ago. He says he simply wants to be dropped off at his house on the way, yet he quickly becomes interested in our itinerary.

It will take us nearly an hour before we are able to shake him off and painfully find our way back to the not so obvious back entrance of the site (where he led us to, hoping we’d go on a camel ride) before staring with the hundreds of other tourists at the remarkable remnants of this high civilization.

Thankfully, the site is vast. While hot spots like the Sphinx and the Great Pyramid are swamped with tourists, it is fairly easy to get some time alone around the other two main pyramids – it seems to be too much of a walk for most people (either that or tour groups don’t stay long enough to visit the whole area).

The Giza complex provides a fascinating contrast: on the one side, you have grey Cairo expanding into the far horizon. On the other side, the golden desert begins and seems to never end. They are two infinities; one where you are never alone, the other where you might never see anyone again.

At the rate the city is growing, however, the pyramids may well soon become captive of the suburbs – temporarily captive, that is. One is inclined to think they will outlive these more recent structures as well.

Zooming in on the pyramids from Cairo Tower

Standing close to any of the pyramids puts a lot of things into perspective. Contrarily to the Sphinx, they are bigger than I would have imagined. That anyone could really believe these millions of gigantic blocks were pushed and pulled onto ramps says a lot about the shortcomings of the mind. Whatever the case may be, how magnificent they must have been thousands of years ago dressed in their original limestone casings and surrounded by greenery provided by the then-nearer Nile.

Apart from the facade where the entrance of the Great Pyramid lies, the structures are surrounded by a security perimeter of a few meters. It’s therefore not possible to touch or climb on the pyramids – except, perhaps, with the help of a contribution made to the officers on guard…

After an energizing lunch which resuscitated us from the hassles of the morning touts, my sister and I head back to the Great Pyramid, ticket in hand, to go up to the so-called King’s Chamber.

The real entrance partially revealed

The current entrance of the Great Pyramid is not native to the structure. It was made by men under the orders of the Muslim caliph Abdullah Al Mamun in 832 AD. The caliph was interested in the treasures and knowledge that might be found inside.

What is left of his efforts is a tunnel below the real entrance (which remained, at that time, concealed). Today, we still enter the pyramid through this bastard tunnel. Thus the initial passageway looks like the rough walls of a cave before it reaches the smooth and even walls of the real corridors made by the Ancients.

The feeling inside is immediately peculiar: while there are no hieroglyphs or artistic embellishments of any kind, there is a mysterious (and claustrophobic) aura inside the passageways. The awkward positions one must take and the physical efforts required to climb up make the upper chamber inaccessible to anyone in less than good health.

In a mere few minutes, I am utterly soaked in sweat. My heart pounds as I proceed deeper into the semi-darkness of the pyramid. Am I alone? I can see or hear no one. I stop to catch my breath – why were the passageways made so steep and impractical?

As I reach the upper floor, I nearly have to crawl on my knees to make my way inside the main chamber. As one might feel deep into the Earth, I am enclosed by the massive weight of the stones and the accompanying silence. A small neon light helps to reveals part of the chamber but my eyes have not yet adjusted to the darkness.

The heart throbs, the eyes search, the skin drips, the mind wonders. By its bareness, the chamber astounds. The only thing inside looks like a large and empty sarcophagus in the back of the room. Here also, there are no apparent inscriptions – only mystery. The chamber’s ceiling is high, the perimeter about 180 square meters. Am I really alone? I can see or hear no one but the feeling is dense.

And then, the surprise: I speak aloud and the room comes alive. The acoustics in the chamber are nothing short of astounding. The smallest sound produces layer upon layer of ethereal echoes and reverberations. Impulsively, I begin to chant a mantra – the result is magnificent and begs for more. Listen to Paul Horn’s 1977 Inside The Great Pyramid album for an taste of this.

If indeed the pyramids served as ritualistic temples where mystery schools performed initiations (as opposed to the generally accepted but flat idea that they were elaborate tombs for vain Pharaohs), then one would think the Ancient Egyptians would have used sound here to a significant extent. Given what is known today about the influence of sound on our consciousness and body, the acoustics of the chamber should provide the means to powerful effects. Of course, our far ancestors would not have needed our particular scientific perspective to come up with an understanding of such matters.

As I make my way back to the entrance, still in awe, it feels like I am stepping out of a short-lived but potent dream. Grateful to have had a moment alone inside the pyramid, I switch places with my sister who will come out of it as amazed as I – enough so that we will both want to come back another time and face flocks of desperately insistent touts in order to bathe again in the mystery of some of the world’s greatest monuments.

Looking towards downtown Cairo

As I step out of the plane, sensations are immediately assaulted: is that a khamsin, a sandstorm, I’m walking out into? Whatever it’s called, wind blows in every direction carrying with it sand that blankets our surroundings with a brownish-grey veil. All I can make out in the fading brightness of the day are shapes of buildings and blinking lights.

A young Egyptian man, an airport employee who’s welcoming visitors, laughs kindly as I clumsily make my way down the plane. That playful laugh – my first encounter with a charming demeanor I will come across several times in the next few days.

When my sister and I get to Pension Roma, a popular budget hotel in downtown Cairo, the stiff and ill-disposed clerk informs us that our reservation has been given to someone else and no other room is available. I made the mistake of starting the reservation on the day of our flight departure and not that of our arrival in Egypt.

Remind me to include this in a traveler top ten list of stupid mistakes.

But for every stupid mistake, there is a simple solution. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for as we are sent back to the after-dark streets of Cairo with our luggage and a travel guide in hand.

Cairo wakes up at night

As far as we are able to tell, we start to walk in the direction of another hotel listed in the guide. The intensely crowded streets are a lively and frenzied scene where people and traffic move about in a scattered and hypnotizing fashion. Even while surrounded by filth and commotion, Egyptians appear graceful and seductive with their large dark eyes and proud bodies.

As I will notice over the following week, Cairo by day may be hectic and busy, but the real action takes place when the feverish sun lowers over the horizon – and if the ancient Egyptians stayed up late to take notice of the stars, today’s crowd pays tribute to lights that shine much closer to the ground.

Surrounded by manmade glows, my sister and I pass by countless dazzling shops that will stay open past midnight (especially shoe shops, much to her distracted and delayed delight). After walking a while, I am amazed at how safe the area feels and how little of an attraction we constitute to the locals who go about their business.

With little bargaining power as the evening advances, we end up getting a comfortable if costly room in a nearby hotel. We don’t know it yet, but this is just the beginning of a concerted plundering operation – we’ll get used to be on the losing end of financial negotiations in no time.

When we wake up, the Friday morning streets are quiet and atmospheric as prayers take place all over the city on this Muslim day of worship. But not everyone is praying. Touts loose no time honing in on us.

A little more than twelve hours into the country (seven of which were spent sleeping), we’ve already dodged a visa scam at the airport, fallen prey to the outrageous price of a taxi driver and rebuffed a few crappy-hotel touts on the hunt. The day, the week, will keep them coming like baseballs you have to hit.

Long before we learn how to swing and hit homeruns, we meet Abu at Midan Talaat Harb – a downtown roundabout that will be the stage for much hassle. The middle-aged man charmingly lures us into his shop, sells me a Bedouin scarf (which, I am told, makes me look like a terrorist) to wear over my shaved head and then manages to trap us into his perfume palace just next door. We are, now, it seems, friends.

No time is lost inviting us to sit on cushioned banquettes as we enter the small ornate room. Hundreds of bottles of essential oils and pretty perfume flasks are lined-up on each of the mirrored walls. Bourgogne velvety fabrics make for an Arabian-style tented ceiling. Somewhere, a cheap radio plays solitary Arab music at low volume. It all works to great effect: I’m charmed as I take in the old-world bric-a-brac ambiance.

Abu’s Perfume Palace: Not quite one of a kind

Meanwhile, Abu deploys his arsenal: a whole mythology of his family’s involvement in the creation of the perfumes is provided (supplemented with large black and white photographs), obligatory mint tea is prepared and bottles of scents are opened and incessantly applied to our skin.

It hardly matters that we politely decline his many offers to buy the fragrances, Abu remains undeterred. Fifteen minutes later he’s pouring papyrus oil into a small bottle, nearly puts it into my bag himself and conjures fifty pounds from my wallet. My sister resists better than I this time but a day later she will get screwed into buying papyrus murals at a bad price.

The perfume episode will repeat itself (minus the purchase) no less than four times in four different shops in the perimeter of one block over the next 48 hours. The same stories will be told, the same tactics deployed. Abu’s spell will lose some of its charm as we quickly close ourselves off to the sound of Hello, my friend!

After a day of wandering around, we gratefully take refuge in our room with mixed feelings about the Egyptians’ blend of friendly and predatory behaviour. It can be hard to remain enthusiastic about somebody’s kindness when money is so unabashedly involved – yet I suspect the Egyptian psyche capable of harmonizing the two without invalidating the camaraderie altogether. At the very least, if no friendships are made in the five weeks ahead, psychological self-defense skills will be developed.

As we go to bed in our air-conditioned room, the loud prayers that have been reverberating through speakers across the city suddenly end. For a minute, only the substantial sound of traffic is heard. Then, club music begins to play at high volume in the building in front of ours. After duty comes pleasure.

Half asleep, I ponder that while many foreigners come to Egypt to take in all they can of the country’s pharaonic past, Egyptians take all they can from foreigners – their needs very much belonging to the present. A drive through poorer areas of Cairo a few days later will make this plainly apparent.

This picture by remusse

The Drukpa Kagyu Buddhist monastery in Dali, a short distance outside of Darjeeling, is the main seat of His Holiness the XIIth Gyalwang Drukchen. He is at the head of the Drukpa Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism and is considered to be an incarnation of the Buddha of compassion. He was officially recognized as such by His Holiness The Dalai Lama in 1967.

When arriving in Darjeeling by Jeep, the monastery is the first impressive structure one encounters.

This was the first Tibetan monastery and the first Buddhist monks I encountered while traveling in India so I was quite excited to be there. Many of those monks are actually of Nepalese and Bhutanese origins.

A friend and I spent some time inside the main temple before a group of young monks came in to perform daily prayers. The gold-platted Buddha statues inside the temple, off limits to cameras, were huge, gorgeous, finely made and remain the most impressive ones I’ve seen in the country.

This candid monk came to hang around me as I sat in the prayer wheels hall. He was quite curious about my camera and enjoyed looking at his miniature self in the screen.

The large prayer wheels make bell sounds as they turn and set into motion the prayers engraved on them. As I sat quietly, lay pilgrims recited the Om Mani Padme Hum mantra.

Outside, below the main courtyard, two monks playfully folded robes…

… while, others looked at the hustle and bustle of the streets below. This being February, much of Darjeeling was camouflaged in mist and haze. The normally spectacular view of the Kangchenjunga mountain rage couldn’t be seen.

Large colourful frescos adorn the exterior walls. Even more striking are those inside the main temple, from floor to ceiling featuring numerous saints and Buddhas.

The zapper shown here is a model made in Auroville

Trusting Myself

Before going to India for the first time, I seriously wondered whether I should take any vaccines (none are obligatory). I personally do not adhere to the principle of invading my body with such substances nor do I trust the pharmaceutical companies that manufacture them. There are too many documented cases of alarming side effects and equally objectionable fear-based campaigns surrounding them. But still, I was going to India…

Ultimately, my own instincts told me to not interfere in such a way with the natural processes of my immune system. I thus declined any vaccines and prepared instead using homeopathy and other natural products.

Aside from the inevitable occurrences of relatively inoffensive stomach bugs, my trip went well health-wise. That is, until I caught a stronger set of parasites that consistently caused cramps and diarrhea every time I ate. It was not immediately dangerous but quite uncomfortable and weakening.

Thus, while in Auroville, ironically, these bugs kept me guessing for more than a week. I tried several of the natural products I had brought with me along with some local natural medicines – but nothing resolved the situation.

When a local family learned about what I was going through, they told me about the zapper. I had never heard of the device but I was to test it first hand as they lent me a unit in their possession.

According to Canadian-born Dr. Hulda Clark who invented the device, the zapper is an electrical frequency generator that simultaneously kills bacteria, viruses, parasites, worms, molds and fungi inside the human body.

For the machine to do its job, one only needs to turn it on and hold the hand sticks for periods of about 7 minutes as the vibrations are relayed inside the body mainly through the blood and other liquids.

Without going into too many scientific details about how this works (read about it here), the idea is simple: parasites and other pathogens, as do all matter, physically vibrate at certain frequencies. By submitting them to certain ranges of high frequencies which they cannot sustain, they are killed. The rest of the body, vibrating at higher frequencies than the bugs, remain unaffected.

The principles at work behind the zapper are similar to those involved in the work of Royal Raymond Rife, an American scientist who did much research on frequency therapy in the first half of the past century. He successfully treated (and documented) several people with cancer but his effective and inexpensive technology was apparently suppressed by the American Medical Association. Hulda Clark (now deceased) has also treated many people with cancer and aids using the zapper, but most people remain unaware of this.

The device I used in Auroville is made by Hans of Innovations Unlimited. It is an imitation of the device invented by Hulda Clark and there are now several different models being manufactured and sold in the United-States and other countries.

Intrigued by the device, I lied down on my back in my hut, and put it to test. At first, I followed the suggested protocol of zapping my body for three periods of seven minutes at ten to fifteen minutes intervals. As I relaxed during the process, I noticed a slight tingly sensation in my hands where I held the two silver sticks that are part of the machine (it is all very small).

After a short while, I became sleepy. The sensations in my body were pleasant – especially in the legs and the root energy center (chakra) where I could feel energy circulating. It felt like an energetic massage of the lower energy centers.

Still feeling some malaise in my stomach, I continued to use the zapper at various intervals for a few hours. After that, all discomfort in my stomach was gone and my appetite became strong. I ate a full meal and was able to assimilate the food normally. The zapper had worked!

Naturally, I raved about it to friends and people I met (there was always somebody around with stomach bugs). One woman who tried it following my recommendation also felt similar energy circulation through the charkas though the sensations reportedly vary from person to person, of course. Hans, who built the model I used, said many people feel sleepy while using it.

For the remainder of my trip in India, which lasted six months, I often used the zapper when I felt something weird going on in my stomach. Every time, the discomfort went away. I can therefore personally attest to its effectiveness and just as the manufacturers have reported, there have been no identifiable side effects.

Because it is so small and light and because it has proven to be impressively effective, this is an ideal tool to stay in good health while traveling. It may be used for prevention as well. Some people use it every day while I tend to use it a few times a week at different times of the year even when I am not traveling.

The Times Of India on the morning of November 27, 2008

From the get go, this was to be a special trip. It was my first time overseas and thus my first time ever on a plane. Boarding the giant flying machine, anticipating the take off and experiencing the flight itself all had a special feeling to them.

Much to my dismay, the special feeling did not extend to the two ladies sitting beside me on the plane. They would not be brought to appreciate the occasion as they talked loudly and continuously about furniture and pension plans. The romance of plane flight was further compromised as a cramp-inducing meal was served shortly after we took off and a few hours later, an equally appreciable breakfast was served as we were now entering some European time zone where it was morning. It remains unclear to me how it was decided that our stomachs would be influenced by the time zones.

After a pit-stop in tidy and expensive (and quite enjoyable) London on November 25th, I landed in Mumbai the following day. It did not take long for India’s shock treatment to enter into effect: the airport is actually surrounded by vast areas of slums and the impression it gives as the plane descends to land is not related to anything that could be described as tempting.

Many people were killed at Victoria Station

Unfortunately, I was not the only one coming to the megalopolis that day: in the evening, a group of about a dozen terrorists (allegedly affiliated in some way or another with Pakistan) stormed the touristic neighborhood of Colaba along with a few other targets in surrounding areas. There were shootings, bombs and hostages taken in various locations.

I was residing in the adjacent neighborhood of Fort and – thanks to the exhausting time I’d had in London and on the two flights – I fell asleep as soon as I got to the hotel in the afternoon. I did not hear a thing and indeed was not aware of any of it as I stepped out the next morning. None of the staff there bothered to inform me about what had been going on but they did inquire whether I would have breakfast in my room or not. It seems Indians don’t like to give bad news.

As a God from above – Picture by Mark Hillary

In the best of circumstances, Mumbai is already something of a shell-shock. The taxi ride from the airport to the hotel, which took about an hour, had me wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into: massive amounts of filth and dump in all directions, a frenetic going about of human and animal activity intersecting everywhere with a frightfully aggressive traffic, incessant displays of tragic poverty, all in a maze of decaying infrastructures of gigantic proportions. Somewhere in the eye of the storm, there were Bollywood stars, singing idols and fat politicians. But for now, these only appeared on billboards.

When the black and yellow tuk tuk taxi stopped near the side of the road during a traffic jam, I came eye to eye with a ragged teenager of perhaps 15 years of age. He sat and looked at me persistently for a few minutes. His hard stare travelled a long distance, from his world to mine, carrying with it what I interpreted as accusations. I could not handle his stare and looked down.

As the taxi proceeded, I did not know if the world was coming together or falling apart before my eyes. I thought perhaps the end of the world had started early in India before it did everywhere else… the numerous vultures, making patient circles over the city, only added to the sense of doom.

So when I got out of the hotel the morning after my arrival, I did not find it particularly odd to see roadblocks and military personnel all about. For all I knew, it was just another day in Mumbai.

As I began to walk towards Colaba that morning, hostages were still being held in three nearby hotels and some terrorists were still suspected of being on the loose. There I was, walking about and trying to look not too impressed with the place and no one, not even military or police officers, advised me to go back to my hotel. At one point, one man made a swirling sign with his hand as to infer that I was crazy in the head but I did not understand what he meant at the time.

I was surprised that even at 9am, everything was closed but I thought perhaps the city liked to wake up late. I began to wonder if something was going on when I could not see any tourists in an area that should have been swarming with them. By that time, I needed some water and came upon a corner convenience store that had its door half opened. The lights were not on inside, but I entered anyway. A man tried to stop me and gave furtive glances out of the window. He didn’t want me to come in but nervously agreed to sell me a water bottle before ushering me out. It felt like I had just bought water on the black market.

Upon returning to my hotel, the staff informed me of the situation and it was only then that I knew of the attacks.

The next two days I stayed indoors most of the time, photographing newspaper headlines and getting the news from the jaded clerk at the front desk. By the third day, most of the hostages had been liberated and shops were opening as tensions calmed down. I made my way to a train station to book a ticket for the first train out of Mumbai going to Delhi. On the way back to the hotel to get my stuff, I stopped in an Internet café to write some emails to friends and family – but the timing poor, again.

Mumbai Taxi – Picture by Rick Bradley

As I sat typing alone in the café, an employee came to warn me that the radio had just announced that some terrorists were on the loose and shooting in the streets in the area. The staff immediately arranged for a taxi to bring me to my hotel. They told me to lie down on the seat so as not to be visible from the outside.

My heart thumped as the driver struggled to find the right address. I peaked out from time to time to see where we were going. He finally left me off somewhere because he could not find the place. Of course, the taxi thought his services were worth twice as much as in usual circumstances but I was in no position to argue. I was lucky to find the rest of my way back without getting lost.

When I arrived back at the hotel, the staff told me I was crazy. It was then announced on the radio that the reports of lay gunmen had been false and that no shooting had actually taken place that afternoon.

Quite glad I now had my ticket in hand; I began to prepare my things to leave a place I had quite enough of. But Mumbai had one last ordeal for me before she let me out.

When I made it to the train station at the time of departure, I met John, an Australian who had also gotten to Mumbai on the day of the attacks and who was now going to Delhi on the same train as I. He had been staying in a hotel where he could actually see and hear the fighting going on over the hostages at the luxurious Taj.

With over a half hour left before the train’s scheduled departure, according to the train station clock, I went to the washroom. Upon walking back to where we were waiting it out, I looked at the station clock only to see that the time had been advanced a whole half hour in a matter of two minutes! I glanced over to where our train was supposed to be and sure enough, there it was leaving the station without us!

I yelled at John. We grabbed our bags and started to run. Spending one more night in Mumbai was not an option that either of us was considering.

Clearly, we were not going to make it. I was in sandals and our bags were too heavy to have us run as fast as the train. Two coolies dressed in red saw us and took our bags and ran with us.

We ran after the train like in the movies and were finally able to jump on board one of the last wagons. It was a close call. On board, no one had an explanation for the missing time (as I was to discover, no one ever has any explanation over all sorts of administrative mystery in this country).

Mumbai taught me a few things. First, you get what you ask for. Before coming to India, I was hoping the place would shock me into disbelief. I partly chose this destination because I did not want to risk being bored on my first big trip. … Yeah.

Second, life might not just be entirely random. I unknowingly flirted with danger in a couple of instances yet no harm came to me. I actually managed to walk through the whole thing not knowing it was happening. I wanted to book a hotel in Colaba before getting to India but I did not succeed in doing so. I also wanted to go out for diner in that neighbourhood the night of the attacks but instead I fell asleep.

The train ride to Delhi was comparatively relaxing and I appreciated the diminished pressure – that is, until I set foot in the New Delhi train station where hordes of touts jumped on us like sharks after a piece of bloody meat in the sea.

… not bad for my first three days out of North America.

Students from the Tibet Hope Center

Yes, McLeod Ganj is that irritatingly busy little town located right above Dharamsala in northern India and made famous by the presence of the Dalai Lama and thousands of exiled Tibetans.

Western and Bengali tourists disembark by the hundreds to pose, party, chill out, meditate, talk karma or catch a glimpse of His Holiness. Kashmiri shop keepers will no doubt resort to emotional blackmail to sell you overpriced shawls and trinkets. Local Indian taxi drivers may just run you over as they honk themselves to oblivion on the overcrowded streets of the hill town. Equanimity has never been so useful.

But don’t hurry away – underneath the samsaric dust cloud of modern agitation, there are quite a few volunteer experiences that can transform your stay in the hill town from a tourist trap into an uplifting series of encounters with friendly Tibetan exiles.

Their community is struggling to maintain itself culturally, materialistically, and spiritually. McLeod Ganj being the main hub for the Tibetan movement outside of the homeland, there are many ways to make a difference through volunteering here.

Both short and long term opportunities are available. In many instances, prior experience is not necessary. It also does not matter if your English isn’t perfect in most cases. Look up the current issue of the free Contact publication (usually published once a month) when you get there or check out the online version for up to date opportunities.

With birds living and flying inside the building (it’s slightly risky but has its charm) you can offer your time and skills for English conversation classes, French classes, health care needs, computer classes, environmental causes, grant writing, fund raising, as well as provide yoga classes or massages. www.lhasocialwork.org

English conversation classes are the highlight of this dynamic enterprise. Like most conversation classes in McLeod Ganj, they take place every weekday in late afternoon.

Groups are set up outside and during the cold season they gather around a fire with hot tea. You don’t have to come often– even just one time will make a difference. They are also looking for various kinds of teachers. THC on Facebook

Specializing in long-term opportunities, Volunteer Tibet dispatches volunteers to different non-profit organizations and governmental agencies in the area

Musicians, art teachers, after-school program coordinators, webmasters and designers, computer technicians, business consultants, fundraisers, translators, gardeners, environmental teachers, human rights activists, writers, counsellors, dentists, physiotherapists, event coordinators, and pharmacists are all needed. www.volunteertibet.org

Contribute by participating in English conversation classes and offering tutoring to ex-political prisoners and their families. Small-scale and intimate.

Also try the excellent non-profit Japanese restaurant next door, Lungta, operated by the same group. The tofu-seaweed salad is a wonderfully healthy alternative to the standard white-flour momos and thukpas. www.guchusum.org

Rogpa – which means friends and helpers – is seeking volunteers in its baby care center. It helps single mothers and families as they work and become self-sufficient, knowing their children are being cared for. This is a favourite of many volunteers. You can also give your time to work in their shop. www.tibetrogpa.org

If you will be staying in McLeod Ganj for a long time you can also inquire with these organizations directly about long-term opportunities: Tibetan Settlement Office; Library of Tibetan Works and Archives; Tibetan Women’s Association; Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts; Tibet Museum; Institute of Buddhist Dialectics; and the offices of the Government in Exile. Monasteries may also be interested in getting help for various tasks.

A group of hijras in Delhi. Picture by rahuldlucca

Already, the train journey from Chennai to Kolkata was proving to be a challenging one. As we were getting nearer to one of the poorest areas in India, there was a constant procession of beggars. We were four westerners and too many Indian men sitting together in a regular sleeper-class train compartment.

At every stop, children, men, and women dressed in rags and despair would offer food, goods, or entertainment in the hopes of making a few rupees. Their eyes robbed me of any ease I might be feeling about being there and owning what I own.

Still, the most disturbing encounters were yet to come.

The hijras – eunuchs, transsexuals, or transgender men – announced themselves by clapping their hands and making a racket. When they arrived to our compartment, they stood in all their weight and flamboyance, requiring money before allowing us to quietly continue with our travels.

Indian train rides can be quite scenic. Picture by pladys

The first group that came around did not insist much and were relatively easy to ignore, but the next one proved to be a more experienced and robust couple of go-getters. They quickly selected a sweet-looking Indian man in his late twenties as their victim, and baptized him ‘Uncle’ for the occasion.

The bigger of the two hijras got close to him and began to spurt, in an unpleasant tone of voice, what sounded like obscenities in Hindi. Sweet ‘Uncle’ blushed profusely and said nothing.

No one said anything, actually, but everyone was staring. None of the other Indians looked like they were about to fight this man’s battle. The New-Zealand woman sitting in front of me could not hide the disdain, disbelief and horror from her face as the situation escalated.

For myself, I thought it was not a time to appear impressed. Luckily, I had read William Dalrymple’s City of Djinns: A Year in Delhi, in which he tells the stories of a few hijras in Delhi. I knew of their existence, but I did not know they carried out their business on trains, and it was unclear just how far they were willing to go for the money.

As the sweet Indian man was not surrendering any rupees, the big hijra stepped in front of him, lifted his own sari a few times and proceeded to dangle and swing what was left of his ‘manhood’ nearly into the face of the victim. More vulgar sounds ensued and the hijra then bent over to whisper into the man’s ear before slapping him repeatedly on the cheeks.

The intimidation culminated with the two hijras assaulting him, grabbing his wallet and self-serving themselves with the money.

They cursed and left, saying something that might have meant “What is the world coming to, seriously!” It would have made a good scene in a Pedro Almodovar or David Lynch movie – depending on your perspective.

The woman from New Zealand looked like she wanted to call the police or did not understand why security wasn’t there already. Perhaps it was her first day in India. My friend sitting between me and the victim looked on with a stare that had lost some innocence. I figured we were coming out of it all the more learned about the world.

Pinky. Picture by Whitney Lauren

Hijras are often referred to as members of the ’3rd gender’ in India. They themselves will describe their sexual identity as being neither male nor female. Many have undergone castration, or are otherwise of ambiguous sexual status.

Hijras are usually rejected for what they are and the way they live. Still, they are tolerated when they show up uninvited at special ceremonies such as births and weddings where they cash in for performing dances and blessings. Avoiding confrontation and the curse of the hijras seems to be the priority for Indians in such circumstances.

In any case, they are marginalized and largely left to their own devices to sustain themselves – which include prostitution, dancing, singing and sexual embarrassments of various kinds.

It was not always as such for the hijras. Their presence is recorded far back into India’s history. During the time of Moghul rule, before the British, the hijras had a place at court and were valued by society. They did not have to resort to the often vulgar means of survival they lend themselves to today.

Yet, as a result of their marginalization, a closely-knit subculture has evolved, and in recent years hijras have slowly emerged on the national stage, standing up for their rights.

A few more groups of hijras came along on the train before we reached our final destination, but none were as ferocious as the first group.

One hijra touched my face at some point so as to provoke me. But without looking at him I simply raised my fist slowly and slightly.

He left without insisting.

I was later told that it was a very bad idea to take on a hijra as they are notoriously aggressive and can come back with reinforcement. Was this simply prejudice or wise advice from a kind Indian man? I was perhaps lucky to not have found out.