Darlings.
Pardon the absence, we've been staying in an Ashram on the foothills of the Himalayans, busy studying yoga, breaking various house rules, and scarfing up vegetarian food. And having deep, wise conversations with swami masters.
All around us is lush green vegetation, and the Ganges river which emits a hallucinogenic hazy blue color. There is thick jungle and hundreds of cows who amuse themselves by finding traffic to impede. Having been raised by a farm girl and nursed on horror stories of people being kicked, gored and trampled by these gentle creatures, I give them a wide berth. You might be a holy animal, but that probably makes you a cocky entitled jerk who will never get punished no matter how many americans you render... dead.
My macabre imagination is well supplied here, surrounded by a holy river full of laundry, trash and grandpa's half burned ashes, and gardens full of jumping snakes and pythons capable of sucking you from several feet away into their jaws. Or at least, this is what we were told by a very earnest student at lunch. Do you judge me if I believe him?
The Ashram itself is a very beautiful collection of cottages and well tended gardens and then a meditation hall, learning centers and a dining hall. There are also very attentive guards who rat on us when we sneak out to buy junk food after dark. Our first night here we took a self guided tour and ended up (by accident) in the guru's private quarters. He was very friendly, and kindly pointed us to less interesting parts of the complex.
Side Note: We are sort of like mischievous monkeys, so adorable that no matter how many filthy-yet-holy rivers we jump in, or how many times we forget to take our shoes off outside buildings, you must love us. We have yet to find a limit in this love.
Food here in ashram land is tasty indian veggie food, lots of dhal, curries, fried breads and pastries and sometimes lassis, sometimes salted warm milk.
Yes, salted warm milk. We decline such delicacies, like the terrible guests we are. My favorite food is the fried pastries we eat in the morning, to compliment our daybreak diet of toast and peanut butter. My mother told me as a wee anklebiter that I would have to go forth and diversify my diet. Apples, carrots, chicken fingers, peanut butter and pasta didn't cut it. I would "never find peanut butter in faraway places like Argentina, China or India."
I raise my Skippy peanut butter to you each morning! The wisdom of this message is not lost on me however. You can catch me eating everything on my plate (veggies, fruits, indian junk food!) except this garlic SUPER spicy sauce some sadistic person created as a torture tactic for persons of Norwegian origin.
One final note, with regards to our no longer secret language of french. It is a good thing we use Senegalese slang words, because there are lots of people who speak french here. It was a nasty shock when we realized our uncrackable and definitely private conversations were decoded by fellow francophones. Rage.
The internet is not good enough to upload photos, but they are pretty sweet and will be added when we are provided with quality wifi. Which will be a while.
Pardon the absence, we've been staying in an Ashram on the foothills of the Himalayans, busy studying yoga, breaking various house rules, and scarfing up vegetarian food. And having deep, wise conversations with swami masters.
All around us is lush green vegetation, and the Ganges river which emits a hallucinogenic hazy blue color. There is thick jungle and hundreds of cows who amuse themselves by finding traffic to impede. Having been raised by a farm girl and nursed on horror stories of people being kicked, gored and trampled by these gentle creatures, I give them a wide berth. You might be a holy animal, but that probably makes you a cocky entitled jerk who will never get punished no matter how many americans you render... dead.
My macabre imagination is well supplied here, surrounded by a holy river full of laundry, trash and grandpa's half burned ashes, and gardens full of jumping snakes and pythons capable of sucking you from several feet away into their jaws. Or at least, this is what we were told by a very earnest student at lunch. Do you judge me if I believe him?
The Ashram itself is a very beautiful collection of cottages and well tended gardens and then a meditation hall, learning centers and a dining hall. There are also very attentive guards who rat on us when we sneak out to buy junk food after dark. Our first night here we took a self guided tour and ended up (by accident) in the guru's private quarters. He was very friendly, and kindly pointed us to less interesting parts of the complex.
Side Note: We are sort of like mischievous monkeys, so adorable that no matter how many filthy-yet-holy rivers we jump in, or how many times we forget to take our shoes off outside buildings, you must love us. We have yet to find a limit in this love.
Food here in ashram land is tasty indian veggie food, lots of dhal, curries, fried breads and pastries and sometimes lassis, sometimes salted warm milk.
Yes, salted warm milk. We decline such delicacies, like the terrible guests we are. My favorite food is the fried pastries we eat in the morning, to compliment our daybreak diet of toast and peanut butter. My mother told me as a wee anklebiter that I would have to go forth and diversify my diet. Apples, carrots, chicken fingers, peanut butter and pasta didn't cut it. I would "never find peanut butter in faraway places like Argentina, China or India."
I raise my Skippy peanut butter to you each morning! The wisdom of this message is not lost on me however. You can catch me eating everything on my plate (veggies, fruits, indian junk food!) except this garlic SUPER spicy sauce some sadistic person created as a torture tactic for persons of Norwegian origin.
One final note, with regards to our no longer secret language of french. It is a good thing we use Senegalese slang words, because there are lots of people who speak french here. It was a nasty shock when we realized our uncrackable and definitely private conversations were decoded by fellow francophones. Rage.
The internet is not good enough to upload photos, but they are pretty sweet and will be added when we are provided with quality wifi. Which will be a while.
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