video: india

kite fighting-jodhpur



ganga aarti-rishikesh



delhi being delhi



best.rickshaw.ride.ever.-agra



rain-varanasi



sunrise-kanyakumari



backwaters-kerala



sunset, alleppey



elephant bath, hampi

video: west africa

'festival'-toubab diallo, senegal



samba & nabou-toubab diallo, senegal
[ed. note: their performance earlier in the afternoon was much more inspired]


typically, the end of may marks the beginning of the rainy season in senegal. the rains first fall around casamance and in the atlantic just west of the country. besides bringing much needed water for vegetation and daily needs, the commencement of rains confuses many fish which are inadvertently fooled into shallower depths than they are accustomed. my visit happened to coincide with a two week period in which it is possible to catch fish by going no farther than a few feet past the shoreline.

rock fishing, part un



rock fishing, part deux

rosetta stone

those who know a little about africa, know that the lingua franca in african countries is more often than not that of their european colonizer. those who know a bit more, know that there are thousands of languages spoken on the continent, with the majority (if not all) being further divided among several dialects. while basic french aided my travels through senegal, mali, burkina faso, benin, and togo (i was pretty comfortable with english in ghana), i made my way more easily and respectfully by picking up a phrase or two of the local tongue. the following videos are a small slice of a handful of local languages as spoken by its native speakers.


wolof (senegal)


bambara (mali)


dogon (mali)


songhai (mali)



bariba (benin)

why i travel

delhi, india

eight countries, dozens of cities, hundreds of nights in foreign beds, thousands of kilometers, and the million magical moments that comprised my summer of 2009 will come to a close this evening. fifteen weeks of buses, boats, metros, zemi-johns, tro-tros, sept-places, rickshaws, bicycles, cars, trains, mopeds, and feet will be capped off with one more voyage, this time by plane. while this was not my first time to forsake the familiar for the foreign, there was enough from this trip alone to inspire subsequent adventures. just as no picture of the taj mahal, no wooden mask, no train ticket stub can approach an appropriate summary of my experience, neither can any talking point address why i do this. as the question is generally lingering if not asked, the following is a very adumbrated list of why i travel......

to hear 'inshallah' on two continents

to bathe in the ganga

the african night sky

to look totally out of place, but feel like i completely belong

so that next time i hear someone's horror story about delta airlines, i can offer my own about djibuka transport

to sign autographs on rail station platforms

for terre rouge roads

to improve my french

so that places i could once barely pronounce become the stage for some of my life's most sacred memories

to see for myself what all the fuss is about

to see a men in turbans ride motorcycles

for west malian thunderstorms that provide a re-introduction to near-pant wetting fear

to be pretty sure you're the only person on the indian subcontinent wearing sandles emblazoned with the burkina faso flag

because the examined life is worth living

because how else would i meet samba, souleymane, imran, sanjay, hilal, hamadou, or any of the hundreds of other people who touched my soul

for vistas of ubiquitous baobabs

for clarity

for a better understanding of the difference between 'have' and 'have not'

who are you and why are you asking? leave a happy man alone

for perspective

to pass through ouahigouya, ouagadougou, fada n'gourma, and natitingou consecutively

to (finally!) be well-received just for being a u.s. american, but to realize we still have a long way to go

to put on jeans in udaipur, realizing the sand in the pockets came from ghana

for gentle shoulder taps on buses and trains that transform ipod isolation into conversational kilometers

to hear 'the power of love' by celine dion in cape coast, ghana and be reminded of when you last heard it outside of sikasso, mali [blogger note: neither hearing by choice, of course]

so that when my maker asks me where i traveled, i can respond, 'got a minute?'

to look back and move beyond

to bypass the walkway and cross the tracks

for crepuscular moped rides through rural indian villages

to realize the value of a sunset

to find the fuel and ideas for my next destinations

to hear an indian casanova say the word 'cock'

to keep a promise and hope you'll get to make a million more

to witness a portuguese airport official look impressed while leafing through my passport

because trimming a beard (or {gasp!} shaving) is just plain unethical

to realize that i owe life far more than it owes me

for the next batch of questions

to find my inspiration

to realize the value of a sunrise

to stare down and ultimately conquer a plate of plain spaghetti noodles, knowing i hadn't kept any food down all day and had absolutely no hunger, but that it was the only way the malaria medicine would take

to learn how to tell between pure saffron and its imitators

for 5 rupee cups of chai on the train

to light a candle in a lotus leaf, make a wish, and set it free on the ganga. then to turn around minutes later and see the candle is still alit

because i am me and this is what i do

to impress travelers in africa by telling them i'm going to india; and impress travelers in india by telling them i'm coming from africa

to join the exclusive i-had-the-runs-on-a-long-distance-indian-train club

to accept the fact that this is not a phase, this is not one last hoorah before my 30s, this is not working through any sort of psychosocial matter, this is what i was born and meant to do.

for all these and a crore more.


but, again, if you have to ask, you'll never know.

namaste.

superlatives

delhi, india

when not attempting uncomfortable sleep or offering sex education lectures to indian adult males, time spent on indian trains can be fertile for self-reflection. with the hour of departure looming ever nearer, the final rail journey fully in the rearview mirror, and the muddy/fecal alleys of delay being peppered with ceaseless rain, now may be as good a time as any to offer my take on that which was. for your reading pleasure or casual disinterest, i present the superlatives of my voyage.

best sunset
hanuman temple, hampi. the sun seemed to explode like a red paintball behind a bouldery ridge, while the villages and river below gradually dimmed. simply incredible. honorable mention: just about every sunset i saw in west africa.

best in pack
cotton/nylon blended hiking pants. packed almost as an afterthought, i hadn't realized that men wear long pants throughout much of muslim africa and parts of india. breathable, tough, comfortable, and most importantly, i never baked inside of them. honorable mention: head lamp.

worst in pack
alarm clock. if there were not statutes against it, this dense piece of non-functioning garbage would be returned through the front window of the duane reade on broadway. i want my $4 back, and punitive damages for transit costs.

best local dish
jolof rice, ghana. a healthy portion of baked chicken mixed in with a variety of vegetables, sauteed in a subtly spicy sauce, served over a fluffy bed of golden rice.

best ride
the bus from the senegal/mali border to kayes, mali. two hours long with a window seat in the back row to myself, we rolled through the late afternoon with nothing but an endless vista of baobab trees, the only interruptions being idyllic villages constructed entirely out of mud.

worst ride
oahiguyou to ouagadougou, burkina faso. we left just after sunset, but were packed into an airport shuttle's bigger brother like sheep. we sweated for a good twenty minutes before the bus finally departed and my lower half went from pain to numbness to sharp pain in the course of the trip.

too little time
dixcove & busua, ghana. i only had one night to spend on an idyllic beach sandwiched by two traditional fishing villages, one of which featured a break suitable for surfing.

too much time
dakar. should have slept in the first day, seen ile de goree the day after, and gotten my malian visa at the border (where it was apparently cheaper too). honorable mention: varkala's time should have been donated to hampi.

next time
timbuktu, niger, more time in ghana, leh, kashmir, nepal.

best vibe
hampi.

best city
lisboa. to be overly critical, i was on the whole unimpressed with the cities i visited, making this award similar to the 'most desirable real estate in nebraska' honor. however, lisboa was worth days and days beyond the 12 hours i was fortunate enough to give it a wander.

best bucoli-city
southern burkina faso/northern benin. this is like the best picture award, having seen some of the best rural scenery the planet has to offer. offering terre rouge against the backdrop of verdantly green rainy season vegetation, driving through this part of africa was a feast for the eyes.

most disappointing
1. not seeing live music in bamako
2. not seeing a tiger (parks are closed during monsoon)
3. not taking a boat on the niger river
4. i did not surf
5. i did not go scuba diving

most depressing
seriously, the heineken bar at newark's liberty international airport. despite traveling through some of the world's poorest countries and seeing the stark inequality of india, there was something so tragic about the gathering of souls in this pre-departure airport lounge.

best westerners
the spanish. factoring in both quantity and quality, these iberians were consistently great company and friendly to the locals.

worst westerners
1. the english guy at the ghanaian embassy in ouagadougou. this guy was an absolute jerk to the receptionist (i loved it when the superior came out and scared this guy out of his knickers).
2. the english family at the restaurant in jaipur. who splits a bill in india? when you're dining with family? they not only told the waiter to split the bill so father and son could pay separately, but they proceeded to debate the most miniscule items line by line. and the total? less than 10 pounds. they probably paid more to a neighbor boy to water their plants while they were on vacation and then proceed to ruin thirty minutes of it arguing over pence.

best book
extremely loud & incredibly close by jonathan safran foer. honorable mention: kafka by the shore by murakami.

biggest con
the omelet guy in bamako. the damage was a little more than us$20, but it was an absolutely stupid, transparent, easy-to-spot duping that was executed to absolute perfection. it had all your classic elements of a good con: offering protection from a perceived third party con, building trust, and using the sun to fatigue the subject. i'm still shaking my fist in his general direction.

best splurge
sushi & ayurvedic massage, bangalore.

best save
not shipping from ghana and storing at the guest house in delhi.

best sign of hope
accra, ghana. i did not see all of it and i hate to be one of those people making inductive leaps based upon infrastructure, but i was impressed. just about all african cities can show off a central business district or two, but accra has more depth to its prosperity than most that i have seen. i departed with some hope that development that can lift all boats is possible in africa.

worst sign of hopelessness
slums outside dakar. several kilometers outside the city, the drive to the east is lined with poor, informal settlements. these are, unfortunately, not an aberration in africa or the world. what was so disconcerting about these particular communities is the sheer distance and state of the road lying between them and the city, their only opportunity for economic advancement.

most pleasant surprise
kayes, mali. the guide book trashed it and while i would agree that it's not a vacation destination, i was able to make a pair of friends and enjoy the beautiful views of the senegal river.

best accomodation
under the stars, dogon country, mali.

best acquisition
tie: hand-woven tapestry carte d'afrique and the vintage bollywood posters.

worst acquisition
1. malaria
2. hypersensitivity to car horns
3. hate this one: an ability to ignore people.

thing to hate i am jaded of but know that i am going to miss
the 'we are all human' conversation. i strongly endorse its thesis and strive to live by its principals, but i've had some form of this conversation every day for the past hundred days. plus, the people who engage in this conversation tend to be of the more intense variety.

fallen comrades (things lost along the way)
1. adapter for francophone country outlets (fell out of incompletely zipped pocket between parakou and cotonou, benin).
2. orange hand towel (left on restaurant table, delhi).
3 & 4. camera battery charger and usb cord, taj mahal. wake up at 5 to catch the sunset and the overzealous security guard told me i couldn't bring these innocuous items inside. i tucked them behind a corner of a nearby building and, as expected, they were not there when i returned from the taj.
5. in the neighborhood of 10-20 pounds.

aside from obvious (family, friends, college football, burritos, etc....), reason i am ready to come home
green backpack. i subscribe to the 'all eggs in one basket' theory of travel, and the light green north face backpack is my basket. it has my passport, wallet, emergency money, camera, spare medicine, and anything i could need in a day. due to its value, it is always with me: next to my head on the overnight train, set on the sink during bathroom trips at restaurants, at my feet or on my lap during auto transit, and on my back while walking (and sweating profusely) through some of the hottest climates the world has to offer. i am ready to not have to look after this bag (it feels like the home ec baby assignment with a bag of flour from junior high) and it needs to be washed. badly. thing could probably hitchhike by this point.


blogger's note: thanks to the readership for sharing in my travels, any questions/comments are gladly welcome: there's nothing i love to talk about more than travel (well, maybe horses, cause they're so cute!). there will be one more posting from here, but in the next week or so i should have several videos to upload.

fox

mumbai, india

it simply must be described. the 'when in rome' adage has led me to do, or especially eat and drink, some crazy things, but never has an activity so pedestrian packed such a punch. what could this be? i went to a bollywood movie in the epicenter of bollywood at the regal cinema. for those of you who may never get this experience, the following is a summary of two hours in air-conditioning, piecing together the plot of a film almost entirely in hindi. i now present to you, deepak tijori's 'fox'.

the plot
arjun kapoor has it all: the beautiful girl, skyrocketing success as a criminal defense attorney, the mumbai penthouse and flashy sportscar, and the ability to pull off a semi-mullet. but his conscience gets the better of him after an old, sari-clad lady screams at him and spits on his shoes outside of the courthouse (my guess is she was the mother of a victim killed by one of his clients). in a riveting scene of scotch-induced self-reflection, we see that arjun can no longer defend the sleek, handsome man who always wears ascots. he has to leave. so he gives it all away, takes to the road, and opts for the simple life in goa.

simple life indeed. he grows his mullet into male heartthrob length hair (like tom cruise's character in magnolia) and passes his time between his sailboat and art nouveau beachfront mansion. once an old man seeks and gains his friendship, we see that fortuna has more in store for arjun. the old man has a manuscript that will 'change his life' (that phrase was said in english, clearly for my benefit). arjun reads and loves the crime thriller, 'fix the fox', but the old man (coincidentally) dies during the night. arjun takes the manuscript to a publishing house where a vivacious, leggy editor agrees to take a look. the sexual tension could be cut with a khanda.

the book is published and enjoys astronomical success. arjun's first love interest finds him and they enjoy a few cutesy scenes that involve kitchen flirtation and her wearing his oversized shirts. however, the captain of the goan 'crime lab' (not making that up) receives a tip and it turns out (dun dun dun) that the murders and characters in the novel are from a real case. arjun is jailed and must rely on his heroine to do the legwork on the outside. it is not until we see a choreographed group dance-off between the sexy editor and the guy with the ascot that we can tell they've been in cahoots the whole time (the way that they say 'dance to the music' is so sinister.....yet so sizzling). the old man, the murders, and even the initially benevolent seeming goan police captain are all apart of an ending that will want for nothing and expose everything, except for kissing on the lips, of course.

reasons to love this picture
1. there are not one, not two, but three reading montages (3!), the music for each being some fusion of electronica. the first has arjun reading the manuscript through the night, occasionally changing position in the bed or brushing his flowing mane back with aplomb, spliced with the bedside clock indicating the elapsing of time. the second montage features beach denizens devouring copies of 'fix the fox', the printing press struggling to produce enough copies, and images of the sexy editor's boss screaming with elation at the book's success. the third is similar to arjun's, but it features the 'crime lab' boss reading a copy at his desk with a tense, furrowed look as the minutes glide past on his office clock.

2. it is well known that westerners can easily find spots as extras in bollywood films. what was so funny was how obvious and out of place these extras were in fox. primarily at the party where arjun celebrates his success, but also in line to get arjun's autographs, were a number of western tourists. the seriousness of some tense scenes was easily diluted by seeing mop-headed gap year kids (obviously passing through to goa for a month of getting stoned) prominently screened behind the protagonists.

decorum
in a theatre that seated into the hundreds but was filled into the forties, it was important not to move from my assigned seat (showed to me by the usher with flashlight). after you stand for the indian national anthem (it's preferred that you sing), anything goes. receiving a call on your cell phone? answer it! got something to say to your neighbor or nobody in particular? scream it!

i will be going to another movie in delhi, mark my words.


call center etiquette
in passing from bangalore to hampi, i met a young man on the railway platform who started chatting with me. he had worked for a call center for a year or so and told me that he talked to a lot of americans on the phone. what disconcerted me is he said that out of ten calls, one or two will be nice, while six or seven will use 'slang'. after a couple minutes, i realized that slang meant swearing. it was highly embarrassing to talk with this skinny, sweetfaced, innocent indian young man and realize that people from my country verbally trash him because they're having a problem with their kenmore. time for u.s. america to grow up.

cricket
the only sport i have ever watched that is even more boring after you learn about it.

my chapati doesn't taste the same
.....the jasmine doesn't smell so sweet and the sound of the waves gently lapping against the shore is not what it used to be. let me explain. inside that man who looks like he professionally participates in civil war reenactments; inside that man who cannot fit into the internet cafe with shoulders squared and head unducked; inside that man who was screaming profanity-laced invective at a 13" computer monitor at 7 am this past monday, is a boy. this is the boy that knew beaches in the summer, skiing in the winter, and a great family with a terrific dog. he also knew that when the university of colorado played football, they would field a competitive team. the boy and the man (cause really, are they ever different?) remember darian hagan pitching to eric bienemy. they remember charles johnson's speed, matt russel's tenacity, and christian fauria's hands of glue. they remember a miracle in michigan and a clipping call that gave the buffs (and one ten-year old little dude) a national championship.

so then the question must be asked: what the fuck was that? all summer i read about how the buffs were going to develop the run, have a solid d, and make a serious effort at a big-12 title, only to walk over to a cybercafe after my train arrived and witness them lose thoroughly to colorado state. a fucking mountain west school. complete, utter, absolute shit. i have been patient. i've sat through the past few seasons and told myself to calm down, reassured myself that everything will get better. there is no more time for that. just once in my adult life, i would like to watch the buffs play a meaningful game in november. just once would i like to see the gameday crew in boulder, giving serious airtime to discussion about my team and national title contention. if you can't do it for the boy (or the man), at least do it for the dog: punkin really was terrific.

mumbai

mumbai, india

this is the first indian city, or place in india for that matter, that has surprised me. the entire sub-continent has shocked and awed, frustrated and amazed, wow'd and silenced me, but mumbai is the first place where i said to myself, 'self, this is mumbai?'. this is not to say that when i saw delhi/varanasi/rishikesh/etc, that it matched exactly to what my mind's eye had anticipated. but when i walked the streets/ghats/trails/etc of delhi/varanasi/rishikesh/etc and told myself where i was, it all made sense. based upon the things i had subconsciously picked and chosen to remember of what others have told me about mumbai, i think i was expecting more of the good ol' fashion indian chaos. there is some of that, to be sure. but why do i see so many reminders of london? buenos aires? rio?

there are black taxis navigating wide, paved roads where vehicles follow more than a semblance of order (lack of rickshaws is my hypothesis) . while many buildings are a little old and worn, they look stately and stuffy enough that one can still imagine them sharing cups of tea across their wrought iron fences (pinkies distended, of course). there is the wide promenade along marine drive where people walk for exercise in the funny way that people walking for exercise do. the silverware shares tablespace with cell phones in the cities numerous restaurants and the wide open lawns of the cities parks and the trees lining the streets add a sense of healthy animation to the metropolis.

it is not like this for all, of course. the jury is still out for slum tours as far as i'm concerned, but the 'no camera' policy of reality tours convinced me to go to dharavi today. with over 1 million people in less than 2 square kilometers of real estate, dharavi is asia's biggest slum. it is sandwiched between wealthy zones of the city, giving it a sharp visual juxtaposition to its neighbors from the outside, but also economic opportunities that other slums do not. this slum's economy accounts for over half a billion u.s. dollars per year according to estimates and our little group of five got a first-hand look. residents take buffalo and goat hide and transform them into jackets. locals melt down aluminium and several forms of plastics to sell back to manufacturers. when this is all added to the wages people can earn from finding work in nearby wealthier neighborhoods, the picture is not entirely bleak.

but it is still a slum. 'smells like shit' is not a simile in dharavi. those fortunate to have the aforementioned jobs perform them for 12 hours a day, between 6-6.5 days per week, in conditions that would have us calling osha within seconds: spaces are too crampt, fumes inhaled are too toxic, and monthly wages are less than a weekday lunch shift waiting tables at a rural applebee's. a walk through the residential quarters is just as depressing. we squeezed into a 5' x 8' space that a family of four calls home. narrow alleys (barely wider than my shoulders) snake underneath hanging wires and over streams of liquid one would never think of drinking. but the people persevere in ways i can barely imagine.

this is not to say that there are two mumbai's or two india's. there are hundreds, thousands of strata that occupy these geographical spaces. but there is something off-putting about walking through dharavi and then seeing a teenager with cell phone walk out of a churchgate cafe with a shirt reading 'i <3 money'. she really should, but i don't think she understands the first about why it's so precious.

hampi-ness

hampi, india

if one were to take the rustic boulder croppings of moab, utah, scatter them in and amongst rice paddies and lush tropical vegetation of southeast asia, then sprinkle in centuries-old ruins, temples, with a dash of indian chaos, they would have hampi. fields of boulders extend into the horizon from both sides of the sinewy, strong river and the entire setting, from the hues of the setting sun to the pace of the sporadic, gentle rains, seems to subconsciously invite its inhabitants to slow down. a beach town without the beach. a holy town without the holiness. smiles without reason.

for some reason, easily understood yet impossible to define, hampi seems to be the place where so many come just before their return home. it looks to clearly be an entrypoint for the goa circuit, yet its more subdued vibe doesn't lend itself to glow sticks and heavy techno. instead, it has been where those who are looking for a bit of an indian decompression chamber can gather to swap stories from the rearview mirror, fears about the reintegration to the "real world" (quotes emphasized heavily), or to lose themselves in a late afternoon moped ride through the surrounding villages or a sunset from one of the bouldery crests.

in my opinion and experience, every trip needs a hampi. or a tofo, a mancora, a jericoacoara, a lamu, or any other place that's let you process all that's behind and what lies ahead. i still have one sun over a week remaining, but with that time spent in mumbai and delhi, or in transit to and between these places, i realize that this is my last gasp. vast reservoirs of serenity can dry the second a foot touches the floor of a railway station. the few drops that remain will certainly be challenged by the confronting intensity of india's two principal cities. that is not to say i do not look forward to being further shocked and stimulated by these urban behemoths, i dare say i love that aspect as well as anything. but it may not be the most desirable immediately before one reintegrates to their home far away.

and so i am here for one more night. thinking about past and future and ensuring i have enough light to give the world's weakest moped one more spin through hampi's rural veins. i will order one more cheese pizza and not feel guilty that i'm not eating thalis, dosas, or another biriyani. i will watch one more movie at the guest house next door and not be furious if someone else chooses a vin diesel flick. every journey deserves a vacation and mine has one more night.

backwaters

alleppey, india

ah, kerala. this southwestern indian state would provide wonderful pictures to adorn any calendar, especially for a year consisting of 12 july's. partially because the weather here is definitely sweat-inducing (though not rare in this country), but mostly because the idyllic landscapes of verdant palms and narrow channels would make anyone's annual vacation dreams come true. named the backwaters, this label refers to an intricate network of interconnected, natural waterways extending from the coast of the arabian sea well into the interior of the country. for centuries, locals and colonizers have navigated these canals and lagoons to transport the spices, coconuts, and crops produced by its fertile soils. these days, i am just one of many tourists being shuttled through for pure pleasure.

my past few days have included an afternoon canoe tour, a full-day ferry ride between two of the region's principal centers, and an evening of watching the sunset over a beautiful beach with locals. all have been exactly what the doctor ordered. besides the delicious consistent setting of soaring green palms over blue waters, there is the local flavor. there are the fishermen in their canoes, casting out or reigning in their nets. there are the men at waterside chai stands, drinking and smoking with their dress shirts tucked into the mundus (sarongs) wrapped around their lower halves. there are the women smacking their laundry against the rocks at the waters edge in what looks to be a more tedious process that one i use involving quarters. add to this the passing of the occasional shrine/church/mosque (they've got all three here, and a subtlely named 'jew town' as well), the loudspeaker playing traditional music or making a political announcement surrounded by serene silence on either end, and the clusters of schoolchildren frantically waving hello and you have my idea of transportation as entertainment.

misnomer?
in the heart of the eisenhower era, the people of kerala elected one of the earlier communist governments and has since maintained a system akin to democratic socialism. of course, the idealistic academics who ushered in a system that included land reform and increases in education have given way to kleptocrats using blue-collar speech while lining their own pockets with money from the connections only power can provide. still, kerala enjoys one of the highest standards of living in india (despite not really having industry or major commodities to export) and the literacy rate is well above 90. again, the system is far from infallible. yet i can't help but admire the timing of being in a state with some basic healthcare provisions for its populace while i read reports from u.s. america of people shouting down representatives in defense of thousand dollar ambulance rides. maybe this place is not quite the 'backwaters' it is supposed to be?

fashion and function
let's put the matter to rest. in the battle between style and comfort, india has to be the best place to be a woman. there is no place in the world (that i have seen) where the women are dressed so beautifully. they are clad in the richest, most vibrant colors and accessorize with some of the most refined accoutrements, all of which appear to be loose, flowing, and ridiculously comfortable. basically, if i were to crossdress, i would do it here (i haven't......yet). since they have the clothing, all they need are for their civil liberties to ascend from those of the medieval ages and the women here are good to go!

contact info
for those of you needing to get a hold of me tomorrow, i will be in bangalore during the course of the night in u.s. america. just call the tech support number provided the last time you bought a computer/television/phone/appliance/anything and tell them to look for the long guy with the long beard. can't wait to talk to you!

in case you were wondering
i would kill for a burrito. i would mame for a barbecue burger cooked medium rare with swiss. i would level whole villages to have a huge slab of vermont cheddar cheese or a fresh spicy tuna roll.

varkala

varkala, india

sometimes the first one is the charm. having just dropped off my bags at the guest house, i had barely made the right turn along the pathway when i came to hilal's shop. i was really just sizing up the offerings, but he suggested i go inside in the least aggressive manner i've encountered in an indian shopkeeper. he asked how much i thought a particular item was worth. i told him the highest price i could afford. he told me his price. i repeated my ceiling. he lowered his and said sweet, deferential things such as 'the customer is always right'. i told him that this mantra is what transformed my nation of pioneers and roughnecks into a babbling band of obsequious, pant-wetting apologists. i think he understood. nothing was purchased in the few minutes of negotiation or after the ten minutes of comfortable conversation that ensued.

i spent the next forty hours wandering along the varkala cliff. beautiful. thin palms hang over the 100-ft tall cliff that drops precipitously to the breaking waves below. by day it looks like a proficient students coloring book where the green rushes straight to and not beyond the edge, just to where it encounters the royal blue of the arabian sea. i came for this and a little bit of relaxation as the sunset of my trip nears ever closer. to let the jaded part of me speak: unfortunately, so have many others.

the edge of the cliff is never more than one meter from a trampled brick path, on the other side of which are restaurants, shops, hotels, restaurants, shops, hotels, restaurants...... inside these restaurants, shops, hotels are tourists, tourists, tourists, and people who make their living catering to tourists. i've enjoyed myself immensely sitting at the front of one of these restaurants, drinking ginger tea, staring out into the ocean and devouring a good book. but then i heard a neighboring table of four yorkshire-accented female college students weigh in on the important matters of the day such as wishing they could be 'one of those' who eats anything and remains rail thin and then the intricate, intimate processes of the college application process. i realized that if i stayed her any longer than a few days and heard more of this drivel, i might end up throwing myself off the cliff.

but then i returned to visit hilal yesterday morning. we reached an agreement on a few items [undisclosed as they are for a member or two of this blogs readership] and business was done in a matter of three minutes. after that little matter, he gave me a chair and he took his own behind the counter. he smoked cigarettes and i drank chai. he told me all about kashmir and he did so in the way that only people who truly love love love a place can describe their homes. we sat for a couple hours and exchanged contact information afterwards. it feels odd to say that my best memory from this paradise was when i had my back turned to its greatest attraction, listening to a shopkeeper compete with the whir of an electric fan.

sunset, sunrise

varkala, india

if one were to capture the atmosphere of a renaissance fair or a less-axe body spray infested portion of the jersey shore, add religious fervor and a rival to the statue of liberty, and then fill the whole thing with indians, you would have kanyakumari. kanye-east, as i like to call it, is found at the very southern tip of the indian subcontinent. the bay of bengal and the arabian sea kiss opposite cheeks of the indian ocean at this point and slightly to the east, no more than a football field from shore, are two miniature islands. on one is found a pair of temples dedicated to the nineteenth century ascetic vivekananda, who spent a few years meditating on these rocks. a couple first downs away is an island with a 133-foot tall statue dedicated to the tamil poet, thiruvalluvar. for twenty rupees, i spent a fair amount of the afternoon shuttling between these two and the lookout point nearby.

architecturally impressive? sure. a worthwhile diversion on a monday? you bet. mindblowing? not quite. i'm sure that were i armed with a greater knowledge of the namesakes for these monuments, i would have a greater appreciation for the monuments themselves. but i found a way to make the destination worth the journey even if i wasn't completely into the subjects commemorated.

anyone can watch a sunset on a beach, but today had to be the first time i'd seen a sunrise over the ocean when i wasn't still celebrating from the night before. i set my alarm for five and left hotel loshi alone, only to join what seemed to be a mass that grew like congealing drops of dew on a leaf. i walked with a growing throng of sadhus and hindu devotees along the main road, rounded the kumari amman temple to join even more, and finally took a spot on the concrete ghat steps that grew denser with early risers. 5:30, i bought myself a chai in a small paper cup and watched more and more people enter, then looked below to see the families and small groups stepping into the mild surf. still dark.

there was no cheering when the sun came into view just beyond the vivekananda temple. there were touts offering their photo services or small necklaces or maps of india and some people appeared absorbed in their minor conversations. but to sit on the ghat steps with a multitude that would be an impressive crowd at any high school playoff soccer game was special. to realize that it was for no greater occasion than to welcome the start of another day: that justified the trip alone. so primitive, so pagan, so indian. if only all morning alarms could evoke so much.

tally from 44-hour train ride
cups of chai: 4
apples: 2
bags of masala potato chips: 2
bananas: 3
disappointing egg biriyanis: 1
thoroughly disappointing egg biriyanis: 1
stale chapatis to accompany that spiced, relatively bland sauce: 3
70 rupee bags of pistachios: 1 (there would have been more had i found them)
cups of coffee: 2
liters of mineral water: 5
issues of economist: 1 (thank you chennai newstand!)
times i was asked if i was married: 3
" " " " why not: 3
times a grown man (older than me, but not by much) asked me if it was true that americans were very sexual people, but asked it in such a way (including whispered, hushed tone) that it felt like he was my 12-year old younger brother: 1
times this has happened before: dozens
pills of cipro taken: 2 (mahatma's revenge had terrible timing)

ridin' the rails

khajuraho, india

i might be certifiably insane. saturday, just after the big hand and the small hand rendezvous at 12 to introduce the afternoon, i will board a southbound train. 44 hours later, this train will run out of track less than 1 km from where the sub-continent will run out of, well, sub-continent. for lack of better terminology, this will be known as the cmonjohnjustbuyaplaneticketyoucantbedoingthistoyourselfanymoreyourealmost30anditstimetostopseeinghowmuchdiscomfortyourbodycanendure- part of the trip. but it's not as bad as it seems [note: i write this before the ride]. i'll have a fully charged ipod and a pair of books, plus i gave myself a rare splurge and opted for 2-tier ac, the highest class available on this train. rain or shine, leg cramps or fluffed pillows, this will prove to be a memorable trip and perhaps the right occasion to describe one of india's most iconic experiences: travel by rail.

tickets, please
i don't believe one must display such personal strength and determination just to buy a train ticket anywhere else in the world. i am eternally grateful to a cohort of australians who gave me the website where foreigners can purchase rail tickets, otherwise i would have spent far more time doing so at the stations. this process is less than straightforward. for one, the signage is awful. many stations have more than one building and the bookings for foreigners and locals can be in different locations. to not know exactly where to go is to be at the mercy of the sharks circling the parking lot. one directed me to the wrong building, hoping this would make me more susceptible to enlist him as my chauffeur to my destination. carrying 20 kilos on my back in muggy rajasthan, i walked across the rail campus to find the designated window in the correct building. he had left my side meters back, after i lucidly pronounced a succinct phrase in the command form that he appeared to understand immediately.

mind the gap
the rail stations are home to some of the most shocking moments of my experience in india. i knew to expect the stark poverty in this country, but the concentration of destitution on the platforms is obscenely high. there is generally at least one disheveled child under the age of six that will follow until you've ignored them enough, occasionally tugging at your pants and always pleading. old men and women will be sitting on platforms or stairs, hands cupped and extended to all passersby, moaning a weak, pitchless ballad in the hopes of receiving some form of charity. then there are the crippled. i have seen children with s-shaped spines, clubbed feet, several missing limbs, grotesque scars, legs thinner than baseball bats, and am only grateful that i only heard of and did not see the man with elephantiasis of the testicles. it is bad enough that these handicaps exist, but to know that many of these injuries were received to make them effective beggars is horrifying. and since it is their primary source of income, these deformities are pushed in your face to achieve maximum affect (having an arm stub brushing purposely against you is not easily forgotten).

all aboard
the ride itself is nothing short of spectacular. to date, i have opted for the sleeper class, where prices are obscenely low (us$7 for one 900 km trip) and the cultural immersion is the best. these carriages are divided into several open compartments featuring long benches arranged in groups of six, three stacked vertically on either side of the window. in theory, everyone sits on the lowest bench until night, when people get into their respective berths for what i've found to be, surprisingly, a not unbearably uncomfortable nights sleep. there are fans along the ceiling and the temperature is reasonable so long as the train is moving, which, thankfully, it generally is.

so the price is right and its just shy of the amenities of its big brother, 3 tier ac. but what sleeper has is what a republican campaign manager would brand 'the real indians'. my companions between jodhpur and hardiwar, clad in white linen, adorned the window with flowers to signal that they were on a pilgrimage. the children of a nearby family couldn't peel their eyes off of me, the exotic foreigner, during a trip from delhi to jaipur. add to this the men carrying heated thermoses and chanting 'chai/coffee' in their snuggly indian accents, the vendors selling anything from english novels to peanuts to toy guns to playing cards, and then the occasional eunuch parading through to offer blessings and you only need the dancing tigers to have a bona fide circus. all of this may sound chaotic to some, but i'll aver that one train ride in sleeper class is enough to justify the airfare to this corner of the world. having said that, i won't be pining for it when i'm riding in style this weekend ('oh, champagnewallah, more bubbly over here good sir!').

kama sutra

khajuraho, india


three young men are sitting on their respective mattresses in a hostel in varanasi on a saturday night, watching the hbo presentation of 'forgetting sarah marshall'. why? well, the movie is a personal favorite and it was best to take it easy with a 5 am boat tour the following morning. cultural differences were evident as hbo shows commercials here, even one for a morning-after pill (?!). disappointing, yet unsurprising, was that there was censorship. it was expected that the more profane scenes would not be shown, but the real curveball was that shots involving innocuous kissing were blocked.


fast-forward two days to the beautiful town of khajuraho, known for its distinct temples created almost exactly one millenium ago. the dozen or so sandstone and granite structures, varying between 20-40 meters in height, are neatly spread out upon an area no larger than a couple square kilometers with well-manicured lawns around and between. the interior of the temples feature a raised platform, central recess, and a statue of the deity it is dedicated to, but the main attraction is the exterior. the outer walls are covered in thousands (per temple) of intricately carved figures ranging from a few inches in height to a meter. most are beautiful but fairly conventional for those who have a temple or two under their belt: carvings of soldiers, battle, local animals, and flattering images of gods. but in and amongst these more traditional images are a few that would certainly be banned from a midwestern libraries bookshelves or two.


there's the slightly suggestive couple standing hip-to-hip that makes several appearances. there are a few coquettish glances etched in stone. but then it gets steamy. that girl is sitting like....wha? and then what are those two girls doing with his... oh. wow. there are passionate scenes between couples and depictions of orgies that would make the members of motley crue blush. there's even bestiality!


i will admit that i dedicated more time to these temples than i gave the individual structures in palenque or macchu pichu. but what is so interesting is the juxtaposition between these two days. one millenium ago, there existed a culture that seemed to be cloaked in fewer inhibitions, while presently even a kiss between two consenting, clothed individuals is too suggestive. a poll i saw in the times of india showed that 72% of indian respondents believed that homosexuality was a disease. there are still arranged marriages and enough husbands shame their wives into suicide that it is a well-documented phenomenon. that's not to say that these temples are sufficient evidence that all was free and fair back in the day. but it is a reminder that in a world rife with poverty and inequality, we spend a little too much time worrying about seeing a female's hoo-haws or a male's pee pee. i can't help but see the parallels in my own country where too many people are way too concerned about gay marriage or abortion, and not enough about seeing that their fellow citizens can go to a doctor.

varanasi

varanasi, india

where the ganga swallows the varuna and assi rivers is found the holiest city in hinduism, varanasi. the city of shiva is considered so sacred because to die here is to free oneself from moksha, the cycle of birth and death. i don't know that i've noticed an inordinate number of old people here, but there are enough sadhus here to suggest this is like a filthy south asian version of palm springs or florida condominiums. i don't mean to suggest that anything terribly untoward is occurring here, but one can't help but notice that a religion's most sacred river is aesthetically disgusting.

lining the western bank of the river for well over two miles are a series of ghats, essentially concrete steps descending to the river where pilgrims can bathe themselves in its sacred waters. or burn the dead remains of their relatives. or do laundry. maybe i should go back to the previous. there is one functioning and one dormant burning ghat as far as i've been able to tell. at these ghats, processions march their deceased, covered in orange saris lined with refulgent golds, down to the banks of the ganga. the family members then place the body down and splash water all over it for a minute or two. at this point it joins the queue and is eventually surrounded by firewood (the price of burning is based on the type and weight of firewood used).

there are a series of levels allowing for several bodies to be burned simultaneously. yesterday, there had to be close to a dozen miniature pyres burning and the action goes through the night. if you have not had your morning coffee, there is nothing more sensorally explosive to alert you than to see a stack of logs with the lower half of a human leg sticking out. we basically sat along the side in the viewing area, solemnly taking everything in.

but while i will not enlist myself as an opponent to a ritual that has a great deal of meaning to so many, so much so that they spend money and time that they do not have to give their kin a respectful ending. what i will say is that as these bodies are disposed in the ganga, along with the detergent from the laundry and the shampoo from the bathers (some of whom are right next to the burning ghats), perhaps there's a way to combine tradition with respect for mother earth.

tip my cap
mark twain said that varanasi (then benares) was '...older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together.' while the quote continues to be iconical, i would just like to point out who wrote it. from a guy who is traveling via vayama.com, uses internet cafes, and likes to space out on trains listening to his ipod, i have to raise my glass to a man who did it all (and more) in the age of steamships.

a tale of two rickshaw rides
an hour before a late night train ride from the agra train station, we were treated to an autorickshaw driver who quoted us the correct price off the bat and then drove us smoothly on trafficless roads to the blaring, yet beautiful, soundtrack of indian music. to steal from david foster wallace, what i know about indian music can be written on the rim of a shot glass with a dull crayon, but i will say that the next time you hear that high pitched female lead in an indian restaurant, it all kind of makes sense here.
....and then we arrived in varanasi the following morning. our driver did not take us to the hostel we asked (the price was reasonable, but he still received a commission). the city provided an excellent backdrop for the beginning of an advil commercial. lots of rickshaws, motorbikes, buses, cyclists, children, and, of course, cows throughout the streets. our driver must have been training for the urban auto slalom. at one point he knicked a motorcycle, whose driver tried to give a piece of his mind. the only problem is that his mouth was filled with saliva from all of the pan (local chewing tobacco) in his mouth, so he gargled his invectives instead.

agra-business

agra, india

there is something about landmarks that brings out the misanthrop in me. i attribute this to the sensation that there is something about monuments that transforms people into monumental fools. case in point: today, i witnessed perhaps the worlds most photographed building and arguably the most deserving of this distinction. we were queued before 6 in order to see the taj mahal in the pink pastel light of sunrise and were among the first dozen to make our way through the metal detectors (the security officials could work as tailors, so thorough was their search). we rounded the pathway, passed through the red stone arches, and saw that iconic scene that embodies a continent.

beautiful. stunning. gorgeous. name your superlative and we can enter it here. the white marble structure sits a bit elevated and the absence of structures behind give the impression that it is almost levitating behind the reflecting pools and manicured lawns. the early morning air almost has a bit of haze to it, giving the sensation that what lies before you is otherworldly. when the sun does change out of its pyjamas and enter the picture, the fine detailing at all elevations becomes apparent and is just as captivating.

but before the sun is seen, the shenanigans are already apparent. it must be disclaimed that i am a tourist and i know that i am a tourist. this doesn't bother me, it just is. but when the camera-clutching individuals become a throng, a certain decorum escapes. a breathtaking work of art becomes the backdrop for people to use depth perception and perspective to take ridiculous photos. multiple people held out their finger to give the impression they were tickling (?) the top of the taj. multiple groups alternated shots where one person would jump and the point-and-shooter would catch them mid-air. are they trying to jump over the taj? what on earth would possess multiple people to have the same ridiculous idea?

i know, i know, it's not that bad. however, a scene that should inspire serenity should not be the platform for grown men to actuallize their id. it's hard to take a moment for yourself, look at the reflecting pools, and have one of those moments of clarity when hiruka and yoshi are trying to spin a centuries-old monument beneath their fingers. as the pictures testify, i certainly had my camera out. it's entirely possible that i stepped into somebodies shot or slowed them in their path. but silence, people. self-restraint. it's pretty damn golden, especially when you're having your once-in-a-lifetime screening of one of the world's most inspiring settings.

fellow travelers

rishikesh, india

i've always walked a delicate line between loner and gregarious, with myers-briggs putting me a few yards on the introverted side of the field. i suppose this means that i have a certain selectivity that extroverts may not. since i am comfortable alone, if found in the presence of others it is usually because i enjoy their company. there have been times where i have been alone not of my own choosing (see: high school, much of), but for the more than two months that i have been trekking through africa and india i have been without arranged company. solo. independent. alone.

while i may not have been part of a backpack-toting herd hopping from station to station, that doesn't mean that i have literally been alone. every breakfast that starts out solo, every train ride that starts with gazing out the window, or every lazy afternoon with a good book tends to be pleasantly interrupted by gentle taps on the shoulder. it has been one of the highlights of this trip to have strangers, locals, come up to practice their english or help me practice my french. they want to hear my opinion of obama and offer condolences for michael jackson. they often ask how tall i am and many times just want to hear my accent. sometimes the conversation will last for an hour and others it will just be a moment. they always, always wish me well. what i do know is that this would not be possible were i in a group. for one, groups tend to be insular. for another, they can be intimidating to locals (who may already be somewhat intimidated by westerners).

tonight will mark a minor sea change. delhi will be the site of a reunion with a pair of buddies from brooklyn with whom i will travel for the next ten to twelve days. i am besides myself with excitement. i can't wait to catch up with good people, share all the (inappropriate) jokes that pop into my head, process everything that we see, and speak without having to translate american cultural references. it will feel nice to know other people and to have them know me. i have to admit that part of me is nervous as to whether i can play well with others after so much time alone in the sandbox. however, another potential worry does not exist. knowing what i know of taylor and peter, i don't see us ignoring locals or bypassing unique experiences to sit around and have beers. while i have definitely missed all of my great friends and family, i have looked with sympathy and not jealousy each time i've seen a table of four europeans or israelis laughing it up, near entirely ignorant that india lay just beyond their table.

move over rats and snakes
...and make room for monkeys. i am terrified, petrified, catatonic with fear at our closest cousins on the phylogenetic tree. the other day i went to the remains of maharashi mahesh, the ashram where the beatles stayed 40 years back that has been slowly reclaimed by the forest since its closing in 1997. with nary a human soul on the grounds with me, i walked back under a covered canopy filled with monkeys hopping from branch to branch, alongside monkeys frolicking on the tree trunks and nearby vegetation, and past a few chasing one another across and through my pathway. how i did not soil myself can only be attributed to divine intervention.

testify!
i believe in the cleansing power of the ganga, because it worked for me the first time. what happened: i stepped into a pile of sacred shit and vishnu's river worked its magic in no time. skeptics may abound, but consider me not in their ranks.

yoga

rishikesh, india

i went to my first class in college. it was less about aligning my chakras than it was to see what the combination of college girls, spandex, and intense stretching was really about. i was not disappointed. interrupting the scheduled program was the fact that i was expected to participate as well and it turned out not to be as easy as i'd visioned. this was not simply stretching; it was challenging everything from your frame to your muscles to the most obscure cells to reposition themselves. it was amazing that the human body, something we've been equipped with from the start and been able to operate with some efficacy a bit thereafter, could be positioned in ways that we never put it in the course of our lives. i mean, we have these things, our bodies, always. yoga showed me that if we can reimagine ways that we can position these vessels that we control all our waking hours, then we can really imagine anything.

i probably attended a couple dozen, maybe more, classes since moving to new york. gyms are boring and the idea of pushing metal from the shoulder up, then back down, then back up...just doesn't seem very interesting. yoga offered a work out, but seasoned it with a splash of nap time. the student budget and the gift of a bike got in the way of spending $15 for an hour class. but since i came to india and the price became 100 rupees ($2), i figured 'when in rome'.

my first indian class was in pushkar, on the lawn of a complex right beside the lake. i did one sunrise and one sunset class along with a south african tourist. our teacher was a 63-year old man who was a spitting image of an indian version of ariel's father from 'the little mermaid'. he sat upright in his pink pants and orange shirt, talking us through the positions and then provided little sermons about the dangers of cigarettes during the relaxation part of the class. he slicked his hand through his long gray hair while he pontificated. i took one course in udaipur, this time the instructor was an indian version of an italian-american resident of bensonhurst who still lives with his mother at 32. despite his paunch, the man could put his forehead in some pretty creative places without moving his lower body. his course was pretty tough and his relaxation lecture was about how yoga does not mesh with weight lifting.

i've gone to about six sessions here in rishikesh. this place is the self-bestowed yoga capital of the world, though it would win that distinction in an objective contest. there is an ashram across the narrow street with courses for beginners from 4:30 until 6. the spacious room has massive windows that open onto the ganga, with light provided by the gorgeous chandeliers above. our instructor looks like the indian version of prince, if prince were capable of growing a beard (though the beard seems to further feminize our yogi). he speaks his english from his molars, which is almost reason enough to attend. but with the consistent practice i have seen results. i was clearly the best at the tree pose this evening (i bring the competition even to yoga) and i'm seeing some real progress in my elbow standing. before too long, i might redefine what it means to do the eagle (seeing a 6'5" thickly bearded dude stretching should inspire at least one poem). at the very least, it's keeping me off the streets.

namaste

hare krishna

rishikesh, india

i've made a decision: i like rishikesh. i wasn't entirely sure that i would and the choice to come here (and for an entire week, at that) was a true roll of the die. it happened to be somewhat convenient geographically for a gap in the itinerary between a tour through rajasthan and meeting arriving friends in delhi. it also received a few recommendations. it is always risky where you decide to take longer periods of rest during a large trip. travel, contrary to conventional wisdom, is not easy: there are exhausting bus rides, frustrating negotiations (constantly, constantly), continuous movement, and the mental stimulation can sometimes be taxing. for these reasons (and countless others), every big tour needs a place where you can set the pack down for an interval, where you can sleep in, chill out, do the laundry, and catch up with those books you've been carrying for weeks. for early august, i came here.

rishikesh is one of several hill stations throughout india: places (in hills) where people escape the heat of summer. with its holy status, rishikesh has attracted heat escapees and hindu devotees for centuries. but with the arrival of four lads from liverpool in 1968, this place was transformed from a regional mecca into an international bastion of yoga and meditation. the beatles came and stayed with maharashi mahesh yogi, writing nearly half of the tracks that would eventually grace the white album. word got out and this place was 'put on the map' (disregarding aforementioned indian history, of course).

i feared that by coming here, i would develop rishlash (not the term for an injury suffered in a japanese car accident). rishlash would be an overdose of the commodity that no place like rishikesh provides: inner peace. basically, the people in all the new age bookstores from berkeley to boulder wish they could be here. you couldn't throw a lotus without hitting an ashram and whichever way your downward-facing dog pose is facing: there is a yoga center in that direction. i certainly partake in and appreciate the local culture and those westerners seeking to inject a little more east in their lives, but i always fear those who take too much of anything.

i feared that i would run into people from all over the world who'd decided to find their answers along the ganga and beneath the himalaya rather than where their problems arose (see: escaping). it would be easy to drink the chai in such an idyllic setting; there's a reason this place inspires so much devotion. it would be easy to see so many people in states of bliss and feel compelled to join the most seraphic form of groupthink. fortunately, what i've seen is different.

i've found my fellow travelers to be open-minded, expectedly, yet more grounded than my worst fears had predicted. and the locals: they're indian. all that one loves and hates about india is present here. the surprises (one man, out of nowhere, yelled to me, 'everything is possible' from the street the other day), the vivid colors, the crippling poverty, the begging, the unprompted feeding or smacking of sacred cows, the incessant (and i mean incessant) honking, the conversations (came across a man in the middle of a path in the forest yesterday, sitting in the rain, who asked me to join him and we talked for ten minutes), the remarkable kindness, the insane (why is that sari-clad, toothless, old woman screaming at that man like that?), and my new favorite: the hindu pilgrims.

sitting next to a hindu pilgrim or hindu priest is to realize that you are traveling. it is one of the most poignant reminders that people from two worlds can inhabit the same physical space. they (generally) have long hair and long beards (implies saintliness and i agree), usually some form of painting or marking on their forehead, wear a towel around their waist and occasionally a shirt (both are nearly always orange), and carry a small wooden staff. they smoke their indian cigarettes, drink their chai, and most are dependent on the goodwill of others for food. some are quacks or fugitives, to be sure, but to see the way they are respected and supported by the community is humbling. their ubiquitous presence along the narrow pathways overlooking the ganga has added the culture to my rest, the spice to my curry.

so even if this place was not inhabited by so many exotic souls, if it wasn't so relaxing, if it really wasn't so peaceful and real, and even if i wasn't enjoying just the chance to not move for the first time in weeks (months?), i'm sure i could think of another reason for why i'm enjoying myself in these hills. but for now, the aforementioned should suffice. tonight i dine and rest, without rishlash, to be sure.

ganga

rishikesh, india

were the river not considered sacred, it would still be a sight to behold. the ganga, or, as we're led to believe it is called in the west, the ganges, makes its first appearance in the limelight in this beautiful hill station six hours north of delhi. and it is beautiful. i have been told that during other times the water is transparently blue, but it presently looks like the world's widest, smoothest coffee-flavored milkshake is winding its way between the humble, fertile foothills of the himalaya. when seen with the morning or early evening mist as it shrouds the distant banks, it is easy to understand why so many come here.

because of its positioning between the himalaya and the plains of northern india, rishikesh has been a prominent site of pilgrimmage for many hindus. believing that a dip in its holy waters can cure or cleanse a person of all past sins, the banks are lined with several ghats dedicated to various deities. while this sacred bathing can be done anywhere along its thousands of kilometers, methinks the pilgrims wise for doing so here. downstream, the sacred meets the industrializing and the ganga becomes one of the world's most polluted rivers. its closest approximation to freshwater might be in and above rishikesh, so the metaphorical flow from vishnu's feet will soon meet the ingrown toenails belonging to yours truly.

strange bedfellows
it has almost become a rite of passage for former soldiers in the israeli army to come to india, specifically the north. for one, india is affordable. for another, the quiet mountains and abundance of mild euphorics offer a welcome contrast to what must be years of taxing service. it is not uncommon to see hotels with hebrew welcome signs and to find israeli dishes on many menus. it is also not uncommon to see swastikas. actually, they're everywhere. the symbol itself dates back thousands of years and is seen as a symbol of good luck in hinduism. it adorns temples, paintings, front doors, and often is painted onto foreheads. one could never expect a culture to change its iconography for its misuse in distant lands, but i can't help seeing black-and-white, reel images of marching german soldiers each time i see one. pretty sure i know how the israelis feel, but still they come.

salty beef
the sight of free-roaming cows is not new. they were everywhere in west africa, though they were being tended to, so seeing them in the streets has not been a shock. what i did notice the other day was that many of these cows have gray hairs. as in, they are old. while we like to pump 'em full of 'roids and get them on our value meals tout de suite, the cow enjoys a sacred status here and gets to live without seeing the knife. i have seen more than one receive chapati from a local, but they tend to subsist as scavengers of human trash from what i have seen. still, the gray hairs have got me thinking. i don't really want to see this, but i find myself curious as to what happens when a cow dies of old age. are they euthanized before that time? are there special civic squads to provide it a decent burial? i am especially curious because i've noticed that the piles of sacred fecal matter don't seem to disappear too quickly and am pretty sure that a thousand pound rotting bovine would smell far worse (and be worse to step in, of course).

sample conversation involving myself and street/train food vendor
me: hello, what is that?
them: [unintelligible]
me: hmmmm.....what's in it?
them: [unintelligible]
me: okay.......how much does it cost?
them: [heavily accented] ten rupees
me: that sounds good, i'll take one

sacred texts

jodhpur, india

i love lonely planet. my bookshelf at home has a space reserved for tattered copies from journies past and i look forward to adding two thick, dusty, and worn editions from this summer to my collection. their writers have saved me considerable time and money through their research and have directed me towards remarkable people and places i never would have otherwise encountered (and helped me avoid those i would never want to encounter). as india is less a country than a continent, having a 1200+ page how-to guide written in an easy to follow manner is an irreplacable asset. however, an experience in jodhpur has reminded me that not all benefit from objective travel advice.

one nugget of common knowledge that lonely planet has shared is that if a rickshaw driver suggests that your hostel is full, dangerous or has burnt down, it is so that they can direct you to another where you are charged a higher rate and they pocket the commission. something to be aware of, certainly, but just a few firm responses can have you on course to your destination. the big problem is that it is mentioned for every major city in rajasthan (probably elsewhere, i just haven't looked), creating almost a sense of guarded paranoia in traveler's once they descend the bus stairs or exit the train station's turnstile. these warnings have a way of eroding the confidence of external suggestions, even when they don't come from rickshaw drivers, and reinforcing trust in only those hostels and restaurants gracing the pages of the guide book.

and so when i arrived in jodhpur, i rebuffed the first few offers from the man waiting at the bus station. i told him i already had a place booked (little white lie), but soon i saw that he wasn't a rickshaw driver. then, he said those sweet little words, '150 rupees (us$3)'. even if there was a commission involved, that price couldn't be beat. so my rickshaw followed his motorcycle and soon i saw that right by the suggested guest house where i was going (from lp) was his own guest house. bed, bathroom, lock, i'll take it.

soon we were chatting on his rooftop, soaking in the night sky as mahendra pointed out mehergahr fort and other jodhpur points of interest. he went on to explain how he meets arriving buses and trains, hoping to convince tourists to at least look at his guest house, even saying 'i pray to god that we will be in next lonely planet'. an appearance in lp, or even its poorer, red-headed bastard cousins footprint or rough guide, can mean the difference between prosperity and penury. to have your hostel listed in the sacred text is to receive the seal of approval that will be seen by thousands, perhaps tens of thousands in a given year. and they will come. and to be omitted is to almost cease to exist.

radhika guest house is lovely, but it has no shot of appearing in the next edition of lp in my opinion. its setup is just a little too close to the literal term 'guest house' and not to the industrial connotation more appealing to the editors at melbourne. however, radhika has a shot through word-of-mouth and i intend to do my own share of trumpeting on its behalf. because while other guest houses may have more table space and a wider menu, they don't have the extended family i have stayed with for three nights. mehergahr fort and the main market in town were both fascinating, but they couldn't hold a candle to the three hours i spent on the rooftop watching sonny and gautham, 14 and 10 respectively, kite-fighting. if i hadn't been staying in a residential community, i wouldn't have seen the zigging, zagging, bobbing, weaving, ducking, and diving of dozens of kites cast against the pre-sunset sky. i think that alone is worth looking outside of the familiar and trusted pages.

octopussy

udaipur, india

if you failed to notice its three mentions in the lonely planet or in the brochures for the individual sites, then you will eventually discover through word of mouth that octopussy was filmed in udaipur. for those who have not seen the film, there are multiple hotels and restaurants in udaipur that offer nightly screenings. last night, i caught the last forty-five minutes in between bites of vegetable biryani and garlic naan.

in case you're not familiar, this was one of two 1983 installations in the james bond filmography, this one starring roger moore. two of udaipur's gem locations, the lake palace and hilltop monsoon palace, were featured prominently, while a hotel in the decadent city palace also hosted a few scenes. it is not totally alien to hear people or see signs boasting of a location where a film was shot. after all, i'm from denver, where filming of the second die hard installation grabbed the front page and the fact that a broncos wide receiver filmed a mcdonald's commercial in one hallway inflated the egos of half my high school. but here? it just doesn't make sense.

udaipur is a centuries city with postcard-worthy views around every corner. the lake palace sits regally in lake pichola, watching the aforementioned, imposing walls of the city palace fronting the eastern edge of the lake. the entire town is ringed by verdant hills and if the vistas aren't enough, this town is dripping in hindu temples and a rich yet blood-lined history. so that is why it is so surprising that a town already armed with its own rich tales would proactively market itself as the host to a movie from the decade of wham! and massive cell phones. it's not as if this was the only james bond film (not even unique to its year) and, if memory serves, i don't think it went down in film lore next to casablanca or gone with the wind.

but even this cynic has a softer side. i do specifically recall octopussy and viewing it as a wee lad. my dad shared his affinity for bond films with me and i think this was the first that he shared with me. so on one hand, i decry the marketing dependence on this decades-old feature film in a city that already has so much to offer. on the other, its great to get reminded of people and places that my passion for travel dictates that i be absent from for long stretches of time.

pushkar

pushkar, india

it was well past dark. i found myself sitting atop a concrete platform in the middle of an empty, lush valley with the rain steadily increasing over my shelterless head. i dug into my dhal, alongside the twenty college students i had just met, and wondered: how the hell did i get here? the answer is found in a simple chain of events, but sometimes explanations do not adequately capture just how bizarre reality can be.

like the griswold vacation of decades prior, there could have been a wah wah wah on the soundtrack when i arrived in pushkar. the lake of the hindu pilgrimmage town (where the indians are pilgrims and the pilgrims are indians) was almost entirely dry. as the significance of the town is found in the ritual of bathing in the sacred waters accessible by 52 ghats, this is kind of a big deal. fortunately, a few of the ghats had concrete wading pools and the hordes clad in orange have continued to come, leaving me plenty of visual stimulation for my three days here.

one of the must-do's for this town is to climb up to savitri temple, an hour above with sweeping views of the town and surrounding valleys below. yesterday afternoon, when i reached the archway just shy of this temple, about a dozen young men, many still wearing school uniforms, were sitting. i sat with them to cool off and before i knew it they were teaching me a traditional rajasthani dance set to a download played on one of their mobiles. they showed me the proper protocol in the temple, helped me avoid the monkeys that were swarming near the summit, and shared light conversation on our descent. towards the bottom, i received an invitation to their party, which i accepted.

they were students in the teacher training program at a university in nearby ajmer. based on conversation, let's just hope these are not india's english teachers for the next generation. we walked away from pushkar along the tar road that bisected the green valley, kicking rocks and making jokes along the way. about 5 km from pushkar we reached the site of their party. what they had referred to as their palace was actually a concrete water bunker, with steps leading up to the flat platform no bigger than a couple hundred square feet. we met some more of their friends and helped them finish the two bottles of whiskey, then saw indisputable qualitative data supporting the hypothesis that rajasthani's cannot handle their liquor. but while the three prime examples of intoxication sang and danced (if you can call it that), the rest of us dug into the bati (bread) and spicy dhal that the cook had prepared. so through listening to the conversation among friends, savoring the amazing meal, and being honored and pampered as an esteemed guest, i realized that if i couldn't see the sacred lake of pushkar filled with bathers, i may as well soak up my own bizarre immersion in rajasthani culture.

know your hindu deity, part 1: brahma
brahma was an active part in the creation of the world, but has been at rest since. legend has it that brahma dropped a lotus leaf on the ground and that this town, pushkar, arose (hence pushkar as the home to one of few temples dedicated to him). brahma is usually depicted as four crowned and bearded (see!) heads facing in the direction of the four points of the compass.

tourist info
for those travelers looking to buy tickets at the train station in jaipur, be sure to go to the kiosk designated for foreign tourists, journalists, handicapped, and, yes, freedom fighters. when i bought my own ticket, i wasn't asked which one i was, meaning it was entirely possible that i rode from jaipur to ajmer like so many comrades from the spanish civil war.

stereotype defeated!
always love it when a stereotype takes a tumble, especially if its mine. to date, and this is fact, i have not met any cool italians while traveling. i actually hadn't met too many to begin with, but the ones i did meet tended to be insular and traveling in groups, often clinging to their guide. plus, the whiny, primadonna nature of their world cup team from 2006 gives me enough reason to bedgrudge them. until two nights ago, that is. we shared a brief walk back from our separate dinners, but danielli seemed like a pretty cool, well-traveled guy. i haven't seen him since, but the meeting was enough to shatter one glass ceiling. israelis, you're on the clock......

indi-adar

jaipur, india

i do not blend in, this much i know. i did not fit in anywhere between dakar and accra and at this point my appearance wouldn't seem appropriate in any place save for a norwegian whaling vessel in its third month at sea. but one difference between india and africa is that i felt i knew the rules of the game. my afric-adar was operating pretty efficiently when it came to deciding who was genuinely helping me and who was viewing me as a giant $. it was never perfect and it really never could be, but i'd accumulated enough experience that my opinion to a fellow traveler would deserve consideration. here i have no clue.

maybe i'm being a little too self-critical. what i do know is that the new skin tones, accents, surroundings, means of transportation, and sheer scale of everything changes the traveler's algorithms. stepping out of the train station, the hotel, the restaurant, or just simply being out is an invitation to everyone to talk to you. within minutes you are offered tours, offered rides, offered chai, or given the nebulous 'just want to talk'. it's the latter that is the social tightrope.

but so far, so good. i arrived in jaipur last evening and went for an innocent stroll which found me refusing the first two offers for tours of the city and then buying one guy a 3 rupee chai before he had the chance to give me the indian version of a timeshare presentation. a little further down i met imran. he was with three gentlemen, one of whom was visibly yet innocently intoxicated, and they offered some pretty funny conversation. eventually, imran told me he had an autorickshaw and that he could take me around to various sites for the whole day for 300 rupees (about $6). this price is a little higher than the one in the book, but there was something about imran that told me he was good company. when he refused to play the negotiation game it sealed the deal.

so, today was my day with imran. he took me to a tower overlooking the city, took me to the royal cenotaphs, the awe-inspiring amber fort, then to a textile and carpet factory. along the way he showed his mastery of english terminology related to anatomy and correctly conjugated biological action verbs. like most foul-mouthed people i've found, he was a true salt-of-the-earth, sweet soul. he explained a little about each site before i entered, also telling me if it was worthwhile or not to shell out the extra rupees for a local guide. the textile factory stop was straight out of the hired driver playbook, but he explained that i was under no pressure to buy and that he received a 2% commission on anything i bought, which i found refreshingly honest. for our final stop, the guide book would have suggested the pink, crenellated walls of the city palace. instead, imran guarded my backpack while i played soccer on a muddy, goat-excrement peppered field with the muslim denizens of a random jaipur community. i feel that to date, my indi-adar may be working just fine after all.

delhi

delhi, india

it is at once everything that i expected and nothing that i was prepared for. that's not to say that delhi is overwhelming, though it is very easy to imagine how this could be the case for some. it's more that there is no way to prepare the central nervous system for a stroll through delhi. walking through delhi is like watching the men's, women's, doubles, and mixed doubles finals of wimbledon all being played on the same court at the same time. and you're standing in front of the net.

the streets are a parade for the senses. walking through a narrow bazaar or down one of the narrower side-alleys is to walk past a store with refulgent jewelry, then another lined floor-to-ceiling with colorful shawls and saris, then one with basic sundries densely aligned along its walls. if those aren't distracting enough, then add to it all the decorative signs at eye-level and those for businesses on the two or three floors above. all the while you have to be mindful of human traffic, potholes, puddles, and all the passing bicycle-rickshaws, autorickshaws, and mopeds swerving their way through. the spice shops and incense stands are felicitously placed past the open-air urinals to help you forget what you just smelled. then a quick stop and 10 rupees (20 cents) gets some fresh-squeezed orange juice to wash out the residue from the few-too-many kingfishers you put back the night before with those crazy australians.

and then the people. they are absolutely beautiful in the way that only people with unexpected physical features can be. some are darker, others more asiatic, some have flowing white beards while others recently visited the hindi makeup stand. similar to africa, walking the streets here invites looks from everybody. but while i was used to receiving attention or at least being able to elicit a smile with a mere wave in africa, it's different here. it's more than a stare but less than a scowl, but they look so intense, so stern when they look at you. they're sterning at you. and they are everywhere. delhi feels like a garden where the people are the nonnative species that was introduced and flourished just a little too successfully. an indian census demographer's job is more difficult than trying to count single strands of fabio's hair in a wind tunnel.

from the department of can't make this up
the two nights that i spent in accra were at the salvation army where they have some dorm beds with prices friendly on the traveler's cedi. both times i was there, morning meetings were called for all of the staff. you guessed it: they used a hand bell to call everyone to assemble. since i did not see the person ringing the bell, it remains possible that said person is wearing a santa claus costume.

if you fly air emirates and have a connection in dubai, there is a restaurant with a complementary buffet. i noticed when a family sat at the adjacent table that the woman, clad in a full black burka down to her yellow shoes, was also wearing a wedding ring. my guess is that the wedding ring is a reminder that she is married, just in case one couldn't already tell.