Monday, December 29, 2008

Islas


Up early for breakfast and to get to the docks before the boats lefgt for their daily tour of the local national park and islands. A lot of hurry up and wait, while I watched seemingly thousands of colombian tourists pile onto the same boats that I too was sucker enough to get on myself. A very choppy voyage out to playa blanca, a miles long stretch of sand about an half hour away by boat where we dropped half of our passengers, and then the rest of us fools on to the national park and aquarium. Disgorged the boat at the island that was about an acre total, and headed to the so-called aquarium, admission not included in boat trip. Holy shit, without a doubt that was the most bullshit aquarium ever, and when I glimpsed it from the ticket booth, I immediately decided not to even bother with the outrageous price for a bunch of docks set around giant nets with fish caught in them. Thats right, basically a giant cage for fish from which one can look down into the water and attempt to view fish. I then returned to the dock where I watched hundreds of colombians climbing out of their boats to overrun the sweltering hellhole of an island. Finally able to get back onto the boat, and headed past tiny islands with solitary giant houses on them (I wonder what line of work those folks are in?), back through the ocean, past tiny wooden canoes that were far from shore, carrying just one aging fisherman and making a very hemingway-esque picture.
Finally made it to the beach, and though a famous one from cartagena, it was not too crowded. Offered some amazing fresh oysters and lobster ceviche upon arrival, which I enjoyed with lime juice, and then was charged a whopping 20k Pesos. I handed over 1000, and walked away. Met some Colombian-Americans who cheerily asked me about my trip, and invited me to go out with them later. I took their phone number and they told me to call at around 1230!!! I didnt. I feel old.
Although, I actually ended up staying up late (for me) that night, wandering the streets of the el centro neighborhood, charming colonial buildings and the streets packed with people until midnite. The plazas that had stood near empty a few hours before were suddenly bustling with people, a few colombian afro-caribbean groups were doing dance routines, some kind of combination of krumping and flamenco. The plazas were packed, people acting like human satatues, selling cotton candy and trinkets, it was like europe. Wandered around some more, talked to a few locals, but mostly people wanted to offer me drugs (perico-parakeet, cocaine) or women (amigo- conozco blancas, indias, mulattas...) No gracias amigos. I think thats the curse of travelling alone, looking forward to meeting up with Bill soon.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Cartagena de las Indias

Overnight flight to Bogota was, for the most part, sleepless. Arrived pre-dawn to stumble through customs and attempt to find my connecting flight to Cartagena in three more hours, hoping I could catch the earlier one since I was so early. No such luck. Waited around the Bogota airport ina terminal with no ATMs and tried to sleep, but found my stomach eating itself with hunger was keeping me awake. That and the blaring telenovelas from the various tv screens around the terminal. Finally boarded the plane and promptly fell asleep, only to awaken to the beginning of the descent toward the coastal city of Cartagena from the mountains. Needless to say, spectacular landscape from the air, high green mountains, low blue marshes and lakes, and an amazing view through the cockpit windshield (not the same security concerns here I guess, the door was wide open), that revealed on one side turqoise glimmering carribean waters and on the other side a snow capped Andean peak. Damn, not many places where one can see both of those things together.
Getting from airport to city was painless, both hassle-wise and financially, although my first greeting upon stepping out of the cab was a swiftly tilting colombian offering me "cuatro gramas de heroina pura." Ugh, No gracias amigo. Found a decent enough hotel for too much money and set out for breakfast. A fair number of gringos abound, but its actually rather hard to tell the gringos from many of the more european looking locals, except that the gringos are generally the ones wearing shorts and flipflops, and the locals wearing jeans and carrying fancy handbags. Felt completely safe here by the way, and read about Cartagena not having seen political or narco terror violence in at least ten years, to reassure all potential fretters out there.
The old town itself is gorgeous, hands down the prettiest colonial town I{ve seen in the Americas, and believe me I{ve seen my share from mexico to bolivia. Bouganvillea spills out from spanish balconies over wrought iron gaslamps, horse drawn wagons clatter down cobbled streets, sun soaked plazas and brightly colored houses wind down alleys... you know, the standard colonial thing, plus an amazing fortresslike wall surrounding the town, and the breezes of the caribbean wafting through when it suddenly feels too humid to move. Somehow managed to explore much of the old city in the afternoon before I collapsed in a sleep deprived wreck. Wandered the old spanish fort, the largest and thickest walled in the Americas.
Cartagena was a major port for Spanish gold coming out of the south, and their primary port on the Atlantic, hence it was a rather tempting target for pirates and privateers for centuries. Not wanting to see the same fate that repeatedly befell, say, Granada Nicaragua (multiple burnings to the ground) the Spanish erected a massive complex fortifcation complete with underwater walls and chains to keep out invaders. It worked. The fort and walls surrounding the town stand today, and I wandered around for a while in the blazing heat, taking occasional refuge in the old tunnels and dungeons, before realizing I had completely forgotten sunblock. I returned to the hotel, over the little causeway past fishermen throwing nets, and lathered up with sun block at my hotel. Out for more exploring, Cartagena truly lives up to its reputation as the gem of the Americas. I paused to sit and read or sip coffee in one plaza after another, each more beautiful than the previous. Some with shady jungle plantings and tropical birds overhead, others with pigeons cooing and ice cream sellers ringing the bells on their pushcarts. The last was full of umbrellaed cafe tables where I sat for a while and rehydrated myself and watched the people drift by, taking photos in front of the massive Botero sculpture. Men and boys came by offering me cuban cigars and/or grams of cocaine, both priced at less than 3dollars. I declined and made my way back through the market vendors selling shoelaces, a man pretending to sneeze and showing off the fake snot dangling from his nose that was for sale for a quarter, (kind of weird in a country infamous for its other products for the nose), and decided to check out the parque central. MUCH less nice than the various plazas I´d been in all day, the parque was nothing but men sleeping or chatting in low voices and prostitutes galore. Okay, to be fair, they may have been extremely friendly though ragged looking women. Back to hotel for a siesta.
Woke to find that it was well after 9PM and I had slept clear through my alarm, the earplugs likely didnt help on that front, though probably did help when it came to the blasting vallenato music seemingly on the other side of my hotel door. I wandered down to the street in search of dinner and foudn the streets completely transformed by night. The afternoon quiet had given way to thumping music, and it seemed like every place that had its wooden shutters closed by day was open for business at night. Scrounged some grilled chorizo froma street vendor, listened to music in a nearby plaza bustling with skateboarding children and ambling old men, and went back to bed not much later.
More of the same today. So no great adventures thus far. Looking forward to my friend Bill Wilson (no, not that Bill Wilson) arriving tomorrow in Barranquilla, though we'll have to see how the logistics work out for meeting up. Hopefully the morning and afternoon will be spent exploring local islands and my next post will be a bit more interesting.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

11/5/08

Few sentiments I can express that haven't been expressed already. What other synonyms are there for "elation" and "relief?" Its the opposite of when something bad happens and you keep remembering the next day, constantly flooded with sadness again and again. I keep remembering "oh yeah, this means the supreme court is saved... oh right, the wars can finally end... health care... global warming and alternative energy... and the symbolism to the world, and the inspiration to the world. No more smug Europeans, I can ask those snotty French why they haven't elected an Algerian, the Brits why no Indians or Pakistanis have been PM yet, or German folk why the German Turks haven't risen to lead their country. And far more important than that, is that our example allows all these former colonial powers can now rise to the occasion, and will competitively feel the need to. What an amazing day of hope for America, what an amazing and hopeful day for the world....
Thats all for now. Off now to lean back, smile, and not have to read polls for a few more years.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Autumn Books

Autumn Sweater/ Autumn Books: I'm feeling Insanely lazy. Reviews will follow this listing soon enough...

Dreams From My Father / The Audacity of Hope

Confessions of An Economic Hit Man - John Perkins

God's Middle Finger - Richard Grant

Shambhala: Sacred Path of the Spiritual Warrior - Chogyam Trungpa

You Shall Know Our Velocity - Dave Eggers

News of a Kidnapping - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov

The Namesake - Jhumpa Lahiri

Mindful Path Through Depression

Full Catastrophe Living - John Kabat-Zinn

Wherever You Go, There You Are - John Kabat-Zinn

American Born Chinese

Blankets - Craig Thompson

Buddha - Osamu Tezuka

The Secret History of the American Empire - John Perkins

Walking Dead 1-8

Outliers - Malcolm Gladwell

Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri

Friday, August 8, 2008

Summer Books

Books of Summer

My Land, My People: HH The XIV Dalai Lama

I snuck reading this on silent retreat in Ladakh, the culturally and ethnically Tibetan region in northern India. A great read, essentially the DL's autiobiography from childhood until his exile. Not just a personal story through, which does move the book along, but also includes excellent descriptions of Tibetan culture, as well as tracing the history of Sino-Tibetan relations across the centuries. I read this, then a month later watched "Kundun," which clearly used this as source material. Definitely recommended for anyone with an interest in Tibetan history and culture.

Shalimar The Clown: Salman Rushdie

And this one I read as I prepared to go to Kashmir- where much of the book takes place. (But see that entry for what actually happened to my Kashmir plans). An interesting take on historical fiction, sort of a contemporary historical fiction, mixing real people and events with fictional ones, which gave a unique view of history and offered a unique understanding of colonialism and its cold war consequences, echoed in layers of personal stories and larger world events. This was a very cool idea, executed very well at some points in the book, and poorly at others. Ultimately, though thought provoking and well written, there were just massive swaths of the book that I was incredibly bored, even though there were parts that made me unable to put it down. A mixed bag overall, with some moments of brilliance and some of utter ridiculousness and boredom.

Bangkok Haunts: John Burdett

The third (and last?) in the Sonchai Jitlecheep Bangkok noir trilogy that began with Bangkok 8. Also, without a doubt, the most ridiculous of the three. Still, I greatly enjoyed this adventure complete with the usual cast of prostitutes and Bangkok mafiosos, with the added dimensions of the Khmer Rouge, snuff films and Cambodian black magic. If you enjoyed the others, you'll read and enjoy this, but it is undeniably over the top.

Are You Experienced?

Ah, lad lit. Sort of like Nick Hornby lite, but extremely lite. I read this book in one sitting on a train in India. The story of a british lad who follows a girl to India for a gap year experience, with hilarity ensuing before he finds himself. The backpacker stuff in the bok did have its moments, like a group of Australians bragging about their various feats of derring-do, but otherwise an entirely forgettable reading experience.

The Great Railway Bazaar: Paul Theroux

Shout out to Matty for recommending this one. Paul Theroux gets on a train in London in the early 70's, crosses Europe, the Iron Curtain, into the Mid East, across India and Southeast Asia as the Vietnam War winds down, through Japan, across the bering sea and then all the way across the USSR and back to Europe. Though feels dated in its views of other cultures at times, the historical value is remarkable and observations of his fellow travellers are hilarious. Highly recommended, especially for other travel nerds. Particularly a good read on a sixteen hour train ride in India.

The Amber Spyglass: Phillip Pullman

A few years after having read the first two, I finally got around to reading this one. Not surprisingly, I absolutely couldnt put it down. Even better than the other two. I also had the interesting expereince of stopping through Oxford on the way back from India, and enjoyed seeing the sights described in the book. Most interesting was the history of science museum, complete with old maps and instruments that were so clearly the inspiration for the golden compass itself, as well as worlds contained in the books: ie, references to muscovites, tartars, and others on the maps. Worth checking out that museum if you are a fan.

What to Eat: Marion Nestle

Okay, another food nerd book. This one is ostensibly a nutrition book, about the pros and cons of various foods and a very straightforward what and how much of what to eat, and written by a well known nutritionist with no ties to industry. The book is organized by food group, and goes deeply into the politics behind the food and why we think its healthy- ie, lobbying from large companies at the FDA, subsidies that artificially lower prices on certain products that we are therefore more likely to eat (ie, corn-syrup sweetened goods), massive advertising campaigns, industry funded "science" and lawsuits against defensiveless "regulatory" agencies that are usually stuffed with industry people anyway. Utterly fascinating in the politics, extremely pragmatic and user friendly in its nutrition advice, I would highly recommend this book. Effectively answers questions like what does organic mean, what are trans fats, etc, etc. Amusingly mocks various specious fad diets, superfood claims, and other food misconceptions. On another note, I'd also highly recommend the muckraking documentary about Monsanto seeds that many people in India had recommended to me:

http://vodpod.com/watch/725926-the-world-according-to-monsanto-wide-eye-cinema-free-conspiracy-videos

And for more GOOD info on food health and politics: Center for Science in the Public Interest

The Quiet Room: Lori Schiller

Oh, the older I get the less I can abide terrible writing. This book, the mostly ghostwritten memoir of an upper middle class Tufts student who experiences a psychotic break and eventually develops schizophrenia is so riddled with idiomatic cliches that its nearly unbearable to read. On the other hand, its readable in one sitting. Writing aside, the story is a decent one and illuminates a lot about our mental health system from inside- inside the system and inside the mind of someone suffering from a very serious mental illness. Wouldnt particularly recommend it, though does have some interesting stuff. Don't blame me if you cant get past the prose.

Coming to Our Senses: John Kabat-Zinn

Hmm, Jon Kabat-Zinn may be the grandaddy of clinical mindfulness and meditation, but this book just lacked something. Although his science is great, and even his ideas are really good, the writing falls a little flat. Further, though a good concept on which to build a chapter- using our senses as a means into mindful awareness, it probably would have worked better as a book chapter not a whole book.

The Wise Heart: Jack Kornfield

Generally speaking, I'm a hueg fan on Jack Kornfield's work as one of the leading American Buddhist teachers. And this book was very, very good, without a doubt- the content was great, writing more than adequate, and the stories and examples both accessible and effective. Unfortunately, having read and listened to a lot of his other material, this felt a bit like a half-hearted rewarming of other material. If youre a fan of Jack Kornfield, you'll find more of his good stuff, but not much new here. If you're new to him, I'd recommend this, its a solid and efficient presentation of his classic ideas- many of which were previously only in his talks, in one book.

God's Middle Finger:

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Hello Dalai... Goodbye India

Somehow I found the train out of Amritsar to Pathankot from which I planned to catch the bus onward to Dharamsala- home of the Dalai Lama and his exiled government. Thankfully, the bus was easier to find than the train- I just headed for the berth with the large pile of kiwi hippies. Actually, only five, and they were not all hippies, more of an assorted group of anglophones than Kiwis. Not with them was the Polish rastafarian who kept telling everyone he had just come from Pakistan. His only luggage was a digeridoo, (thank god he digeri-didn't try to play it on the bus*) and lucky me, I got the seat next to him. A bridge had gone out no the road to Dharamsala, so we had to take a detour. Unfortunately, the detour was a muddy one lane road. Unfortunately, busses and trucks from each direction had decided to take the detour, resulting in a massive traffic jam alleged to be sixty cars deep, just stuck facing each other on the top of the detour road. This made for a bit of standing around time, which was good beacuse I was also really hungry and thirsty. This was exacerbated by the fact that I had a candy in my pocket (given to me as change instead of rupees) that I had decided to try to aid my thirst, only to discoer ut was spicey masala falvored candy. Yeach! By the way, I've noticed that EVERYTHING here comes in spicey masala flavor- from Lays potato chips to cigarettes to candy. Anyway, I got my water and then got to know the group of kiwis a bit as we stood around a tea stall by the side of the road drinking chai, and they were a good group. We decided to wander around and see what was happening in the town (nothing- except that it seemed the town village had turned out to watch the army and police fight with each other about sorting out the massive knot of a traffic jam). A few buses up we discovered a number of nuns from a Korean Zen convent leading their bus of pilgrims to Dharamsala in some ridiculous looking calisthenics. Bored, we decided to join in the aerobics, much to the delight of all the nuns and Koreans. The buses then started, so we all ran back to get on the bus and move sixty feet before stopping again.
We decided to try to play gin rummy but had no table, and so the game soon got out of control, at which point we decided to go up to the roof, where we could watch the beginning of the sunset over the himalayas anyway. We all clambered up and started playing cards on top of someone's steamer trunk, and before we knew it the bus was moving again, with us still on top! Soon we were zooming through the jungle, ducking rhodedendron bushes and sliding all over the place as the bus careened around corners and tilted perilously past gorges with us clinging to the top. Still, it felt safer up there than on the bus- at least we could jump off in the event of a crash. We were just laughing uproariously, waving at the at the locals with cries of "HAL-ooooo!! howareyooooo?" before all bursting into a rowdy rendition of Sadly, after about twenty minutes of wiping tears of laughter from our eyes, the driver slowed to another stop and we were waved back to our seats. It was some of the most fun I've had- if you ever have the opportunity to play cards on top of a moving bus through the himalayan jungle- don't miss your chance.

But the hours of delays meant that a 3:00 arrival was more like 9:30, so, exhausted I found a guesthouse and crashed for the night. Dharamsala itself is kind of a dump, so I stayed where most people do- upper dharamsala, AKA McLeod Ganj- a town about 50% backpacker/ 50% Tibetan monks 10k up the mountain. As I mentioned before, Dharamsala is a small hill station that the DL and his exiles were offered by Nehru back when they initially fled Tibet following the Chinese invasion. Since then, its been the center for Tibetans fleeing oppression in China. It also happens to be full of backpackers and various spiritual seekers, and happens to be the rainiest place in India. Oh, and did I mention its currently the rainy season. It is beautiful however, when the clouds part, which they do for up to minutes at a time, stunning views of bright green himalayas appear, with terraced sides and amazing gorges. The rain is kind of depressing, and my guesthouse felt rather like a moist basement- there was even a massive slug in it, prompting me to move. (and I mean massive- bigger than the ones back in Washington state) . So, the Dalai Lama holds public teachings now twice a year- and this week was one of those weeks, filling up the town, but also really being quite exciting.

I got to the teachings late because I had to register (passport, photos, get an ID made and then through major security), and stumbled aroud until I foud a seat in the aisle. This turned out to have an excellent view of his holiness, only about 60 feet away. Then, when he left the teachings, I was in the front row as he walked by and blessed everyone!! Unfortunately I was not personally privy to a high five from his holiness, but I did get a wave and eye contact. This massively obese Russian woman next to me got quite the chat however, as the Dalai Lama asked where she was from then pounded her on the back and said "oooh, a big one... very big!"

The teachings were alternately obscure and esoteric and then kind of overly simple, but being there, with people from all over the world and the DL himself was a very powerful experience. The Audience was about 60% Tibetan, most of those monks. Then various westerners, as well as Koreans, Japanese, and Chinese and a handful of Hindus and Sikhs. The Buddhist monastics who had come ranged from the bright orange robed forest monks of southeast asia to stark brown and gray Zen monks of Korea and Japan. The temple itself though was kind of depressing, from the grandiose palaces and monasteries of Tibet, these people now had a rambling cement and cinder block complex that was rapidly mildewing, with a definitively industrial and utilitarian feel to it. Still, at least the Tibetans have something to call their own and replace what was destroyed by the chinese in their homeland.

Spent the next few days at the teachings and then afternoons drinking decent lattes and eating cake in all the little cafes around Dharamsala, and hanging out occasionally with the kiwis. They invited me to dinner at their palce in Bhagsu- the next village up the mountain, a little quieter and usually where people hold full moon raves in the shadows of the himalayas once a month. But it was a fun dinner, and I got to know a bunch of the local volunteers, as well as the various local weirdos who havent left Dharamsala in years. Met some cool Tibetans who were back volunteering having lived in the west their whole lives, and then one super standoffishly arrogant american who was literally wearing a fullbright t-shirt, which he was also wearing the rest of the week. (Its a small town, you keep running into people.)

Post-teachings I attended a major rally and then march protesting the IOC choice of Beijing for the Olympics, as well as the continued Chinese occupation and repression in Tibet. The whole town of McCleodGanj seemed to shut down to attend, and thousands of monks, laypeople and western supporters were there marching and chanting the five miles down to Dharamsala town. I have no idea how much media attention this garnered back home, but I gather not much. Still, it was powerful to be a part of, and though I won't get into using this blog as a soapbox, I do strongly encourage people to learn more about the Tibetan situation, as well as the situation of political freedom in general in China before buying made in China goods or supporting the Olympics.

Well kids, tonight I'm back to Delhi on a grueling overnight bus. Hopefully I will have a sober driver, unlike the Irish people I met the other day. They were telling that their driver had started doing shots of whiskey to stay awake. Then they said, without a touch of irony, "But it was only fair, the guy had been driving for 24 hours straight by then!" Ah, only my Irish brethren could make such a comment...

So I likely won't be writing again until I patch together the next set of book reviews- though I may assemble some assorted memories and observations about Indian culture. Thank you all for reading!

(Pics: Himlalayas around Dharamsala, HH the DL, Putting the Cloud back in McLeod, Protesters)

*Yeah, the didgeri-don't line belongs to Zack Whedon superstar.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Borderline...

Pulled into the station at Amritsar and I was pretty well asleep, only when one of the Germans tapped me did I wake up and start gathering my stuff. Five of us jammed into a rickshaw and headed straight to the Golden Temple- Amritsar's claim to fame, and the holy pilgrimage site of the Sikh religion. It was quite impressive, and since we were there at the crack of dawn, we were the only westerners there with the thousands of pilgrims milling around. The light was also impressive at that early morning hour, bouncing of the glowing golden domes. I know very little about Sikhs- save the fact that they don't cut their hair or beards, and keep them in their turbans. The other observation I will make is that they keep lots of stuff in their turbans- like, pens, notebooks, and little combs they take out and comb their mustaches with. Yeah, mustache combs. They are also very proud of their history as brave warriors and vengeance seekers. The museum had enormous photos of the corpses of the martyrs who had occupied the temple in the early 80's demanding an independent Sikh state- (the bulletholes are also still visible), an uprising crushed by Indira Gandhi. But as the caption pointed out "The Sikhs would have their vengeance!" True- Indira was assassinated by her Sikh bodyguards weeks later. Similarly, an uprising against the British was crushed by a British general, who was then assasinated while in London twenty years later! The museum was full of bloody tales and bloody paintings of various sikhs being tortured and beheaded, then getting their vengeance later.
But its not all about being warriors- I don't mean to give that impression. Like many religions in India, it was a reaction to the caste system of Hinduism and the rigidity of Islam. A strong belief in the equality of all people means that everyone eats together at the same table or floor- which we did in the pilgrim hall. They dished out decent dhal and rice as well as chapatis from a machine all for free, which we ate with our turbaned brothers and sisters on the floor of the temple dining hall. That was a fun experience.

I found a hotel and crashed for the rest of the morning, and then got up to look for a restaurant. I trudged around in the heat until some Indian yuppies started talking to me in a way I knew I wouldn't be able to escape. "Which country?"

"U.S. and A" (I've taken to responding to this inevitable and constant question with a little bit of Borat) The same old conversation went on and on, then they asked- frankly rather Borat-like:
"In USA, there are many niggers?"

"Umm, there are black people-African Americans, but they don't like to be called that word.

"Yes, but there are none here so we say that now. Are they dangerous like 50 cent? Do they do drugs? Do you like 50 cent?"

Not wanting to translate the nuances of America's history of racism culturally and linguistically, I fast changed the subject. Next thing I knew though, I was sitting in a coffee shop getting interrogated about western girls, seemingly the favorite topic of eastern men. They kept asking me if I wanted to drink beer with them and go to a brothel, which I kept politely declining. I did take them up on their offer of lunch- the best khulcha in Punjab they assured me. It was delicious too- though I was having so much fun talking to them I didn't even notice I drank the tap water. Oops. (though its been 48 hrs and no sign of trouble) Like most Indians, they kept trying to hold my hand and arm while I walked down the street with them, which was kind of strange- they'd also shout to girls "Englishman!" and point to me, until the police started yelling at them. Then they explained that they liked to stand outside the girl's college and watch them get out of school, but the police wouldn't let them. "Fucking pigs! Fuck the police!" in their lilting Punjab accents. They also kept trying to impress me by trying to use their credit card everywhere- which, shockingly enough was not accepted by the various dhabas we ate at, at which point they'd start shouting "Motherfuckers! I hate these stupid bitches don't take credit cards!" I finally managed to ditch them, though I did enjoy riding on their motorbike and getting a free ride home in the heat.
That night I decided to head to the border and see the only other thing to do in Amritsar- which is watch the border closing ceremony with Pakistan at Attari- the only open border crossing between the countries. I had read that it was entertaining, and some other travellers had recommended it. Since their was nothing else to do, I figured why not spend some time heading out there for what sounded like some kind of subcontinental changing of the guard.
I took a local bus, which was running late on the trip out, and since there were no other Westerners, I figured the whole thing wasn't much to see, or else I was late. Got to Attari, and there seemed to be a festival going on. Food stands were everywhere, people selling India hats and flags, and I asked the guys next to me what was happening. "The border closing!" "Right, but whats all this stuff, is there a festival?" "No- the border crossing- 10,000 people every night!" I headed through the throngs of Sari-clad women and small indian children carrying cotton candy toward the border and what sounded like blaring pop music. I stopped and bought some chips and a soda and headed toward what looked more like a stadium than a border post.

Soon it was apparent that it looked like a stadium because it was a stadium. Imagine a football stadium with a fence running through it lengthwise and a road running through it widthwise. The fence separated Pakistan from India, and the road was for cars that crossed the border during the day. I entered and took a seat on the ground next to the road. It was 120 degrees even at 5:00- I've never sweated through a shirt before that day, and I was literally sitting still not moving. The stands were packed on either side, and ridiculous looking guards preened around in giant hats and menacing stares, the Indians and Pakistanis wearing literally the same outfits just in different color schemes. In the middle of the stadium women danced to nationalist Hindu pop hip-hop and the latest hits (including my fave- "It happens only in India") while the men danced in the stands. (People in India love dancing, at weddings, parties, etc, but the men dance with men and women dance with women). Every so often an MC would start a chant, "HINDUSTAN...." and the crowd would roar "ZANZIBAD"(long live!). Meanwhile, on the other side of the fence the mirror image was happening, which Urdu music and an MC stoking the crowd with "PAK-I-STAAAN....." and the crowd taunting back at Indians "ZANZIBAAAD!!!" Everyone was waving flags and wearing green, white and orange facepaint like it was the Superbowl. Finally, the "show" began. The peacock dressed soldiers from each side would march one at a time to the border while the crowds erupting into wild cheers and chants, goose-stepping and stomping, their faces screwed up into crazy contortions and then wait for the other side to do the same. At last all the soldiers made it up to the front, and high kicked around, almost knocking their own teeth out, before slamming the gates shut so hard one of them fell over, and then they slowly lowered their respective flags. It has to be seen to be believed, so here are some pictures and a youtube link. As the book describes, the whole thing is out of Monty Python's ministry of silly walks sketch...

Came back on another packed bus, filled with exhilarated indians. Found a pharmacy to stock up on more malaria medication, and couldn't help but notice that about half of the pharmacy's stock was aphrodisiacs, including "Spanitch Fly" and "Pusii Brand Sexy Gum." [sic] I think this says something about Indian cultural attitudes toward sex and the sexes.

For Youtube of the border ceremony, Click Here... You may want to fast forward to about 30 seconds in.... But its definitely worth watching!!

Meanwhile, here is the "It happens only in india" video as well, and hopefully will learn to embed video one of these days.

Friday, August 1, 2008

Golden Temple Express Mail

I'm hardly the first to notice that India's labyrinthyne train system, with seemingly dozens of differnt classes of travel that are impenetrable to the foreigner is an apt allegory for india's various classes, castes and ethnic groups, and that the train stations are a microcosm of Indian chaos, but I'll say it anyway. The train thing is nuts.

First, Delhi station means wading through rickshaws trying to strongarm you in, then through the crush of humanity waiting around the lobby of the station, sleeping, eating, cooking, doing anythnig imaginable. As I make my way upstairs touts and various scam artists are calling to me conflicting advice, most untrue "Sir, no foreigners allowed here!" "You must pay fee to enter station!" "Sir, you must have ticket to enter station!" "Sir, foreign ticket office is closed, come to my travel shop!" "Sir, very dangerous inside station..." "Sir, your train is cancelled!" ad nauseum. They also all literally hang on my arm until I reach my destination.

So I made it to the foreign ticket office- a relief from the chaos below and told by the "helpdesk" to take a seat and watched a bunch of sellers sitting behind desks and helping no one. The room was of unfailingly polite japanese tourists who were reluctant to get up until called, so I just approached the desk of the nearest agent, who started helping me right away. The culture clash of the Indian concept of the line and the Japanese one certainly worked to my advantage... Still though, they didn't make it easy: civil servants the world over from the DMV in the states to the ticket sellers in India are all cut from the same passive-aggressive slightly aspergersish cloth. Completely rigid, I was given no information on trains, not sold a ticket on a train because it was less than 4 hours before departure, and then booked on the less-than-ideal SL class of sleeper train, and told I could "upgrade" once on the train. (also told by others that a little baksheesh goes a long way on a train...)

Frustrated by the train business, I decided to seek comfort in an "american day" in delhi. I hit up the coffee shop for an iced eskimo blast, ate a brownie, and then went to the New Delhi McDonalds. Now if I thought the coffee shop in delhi was a scene, boy, check out the McDonalds. Standing room only, with more employees thatn I've ever seen at mcdonalds helping seat people (I was seated with a family, thank god not with chatty young indian yuppies who mostly made up the clientele.) No beef at Indian MickeyD's means a McVeggie delux and fries for about a dollar. The McVeggie was sort of like if you imagine mcdonalds made a giant pakora and slathered it in massive amounts of mayo. The fries tasted relatively normal, but I had a nasty case of Delhi belly from the bad combo of food and actually was sick by the time I got back to my room, where I showered and watched some HBO.

Anyway, waded back through the madness of New Delhi station, to try to find which of the dozens of platforms my train was leaving from. The annoucements are in Hindi and English- should be helpful, right? But it literally has the announcement in English EXCEPT the track number, as in "Golden Temple Express to Amritsar now departing from track number paangch." At first I thought I was just hearing wrong, then I realized that they were not saying it in English.

At last I reached my train, third class non AC wasn't so bad after all, I was in a section with a bunch of Japanese at first. I was seated across from a Japanese girl who was busy gingerly blotting the sweat from her forehead until it was completely dry, then moving on to her arms, then down to wiping her ankles perfectly dry. All told, the effort took ten minutes, by which point her face was again soaked in sweat, rendering her labors completely futile as she started over. Eventually another Japanese found them, and I switched seats with him and sat with some insane Germans and one american in another booth.

The good Germans had come OVERLAND from Germany- trains across turkey then hitch-hiking and trains through Iran, uzbekistan, turkmenistan, and Russia. When they reached Mongolia they bought horses and trekked across to Ulan Batoor, where they then flew to Delhi, having been denied a Chinese visa. (Word among current travellers is that NO ONE is getting into China these days without plane tickets, hotel reservations and a ticket to the olympics!) They were on their way to Northern Pakistan to try to do some first ascents of 6000m monutains. Their gear was vintage WWI army surplus packs made of canvas and leather, and they had quite the stories about securing the Pakistan visas. First they waited a week in DElhi for the interview, then got an appointment for 9am. They had to wait until two o'clock, when they were called in and asked two questions about their destination. The remaining questions were about European girls "You can really just talk to them? You can have a relationship with whomever you wish? The women have no morals?" etc etc. Anyway, the Germans were very cool guys, and after Pakistan they were planning to go back to Iran, then a boat to Dubai before crossing the Arabian peninsula and finishing in Lebanon. Hard-Core. But they were really not-macho about it, just very matter of fact, unlike some other nationalities who are constantly bragging about their ridiculous travel exploits. Maybe it was because they were all friends from scouts.

It was a decent train ride in spite of third class accomodations. In fact, drifting off to sleep I felt more content than I have in all of India, just drifting to sleep, my ipod playing my sleepytime mix on a train somewhere in northern india...

No Way Norgay...

Awoke again at the crack of dawn, this time to visit Thikse monastery in time for the morning prayers and pujas- offerings. Thikse is yet another grand tibetan-style gompa outside of Leh, and arrived there in about a half hour, just in time to hear the end of the prayers. The main hall, covered in ancient murals of demons and boddhisatvas, was thick with incense and the rhythmic chanting and signing of the elementary school aged monks, who were chanting prayers while under the strict eyes of the older monks, who would point at them whenever they became unfocused, as children naturally do. The sounds were wonderful, and the children adorable. But the chanting soon ended, and so spent some time wandering the other temple rooms within the huge complex- more like a mini-city than a monastery. It was a prayer week, so all the monks were making offerings and chanting in each prayer room, making the gompa seem far more active and alive than any of the others. We also ran into a bollywood star and his beautiful starlet girlfriend, which was vaguely interesting- though funny that and Indian probably would have been absolutely thrilled. He was probably unsure what to make of our lukewarm interest. Over breakfast some monks tried to teach us the low incantation of their chanting, which was extremely difficult, but we all had a good laugh. Flagged down a car and hitchhiked bay to Leh, in time for the bicycle descent of Khardung-La, highest motorable pass in the world (18,380ft).
Got to the bike shop in time to have no good choices of bikes left- ragged chains, flat or bald tires and cracked frames abounded. I kept bitching until finally they "found" a trek, or at least the same indian piece-of-shit bike with a legitimate looking trek decal on the side. Secured our permits (going to border zone again) and rode up in a jeep with a few folks from the retreat, as well as some crazy danish kids who were raving about how cheap travel in america is, and one american girl.

The descent began on the one-lane road that though "motorable," hardly meant "paved." The first few kilometers were mostly dirt, anxiety producing in terms of skidding on my mediocre brakes next to sheer drops. The views were spectacular- snow capped peaks leading into desert mountainsides and into green stupa-dotted valleys. The ride somewher between an adrenaline and an anxiety rush. All in all, I do think Bolivia's World's Most Dangerous Road ride (see July 07 entry) was more fun and more beautiful. Eventually reached old Leh, (pictured) the old part of the city where I finally had to pedal. (What- I paid 15$ to pedal this bike?) Shortly after trying to switch gears to go up hill the grinding began, and suddenly my deraileur snapped off. At least it wasn't on the major part of the descent. Unfortunately, took a few wrong turns in Old Leh (where its so steep that many of the streets are just stairs- a la cuzco, peru) and the dregs of ladakhi society- men in towels soaped up and showering from buckets and children literally shitting on the street next to them. Finally made it back to the bike rental place, where, while we stood around chatting, it became apparent that the bike was all messed up. They called me over and started yelling. "What happened, what have you done?" A crowd started to form and more of their friends appeared, including some nine-foot tibetan guy who was yelling in my face "you foreigners, you lie, you crash the bike, now you must pay us!" I tried to explain that their shitty bike and lack of maintenance caused the problem, and that I'd not signed any contract, that I could have been injured, but to no avail. "We have your passport number, we call your embassy!" Norgay, tenzing, Lobsang and the gang were now furious. Someone else tried to calm them down and while their attention was diverted, I started to sneak away.. I was partway down the street when one caught up to me.
"You talk to my boss, you come backhere and talk to my boss!!" "No, I am leaving, I did not break your bike..." "I tell your embassy! I have your passport and visa number!!" (Which they did, because of the crazy beaurocracy/security in this country) Finally I told him to tell the embassy and they would work it out, pointed for him to go back to the office, turned the corner and ran as fast as I could back to my hostel. Spent the next hour panicking every time someone came or went from the guesthouse that it was the guys from the bike shop. I replayed every scenario- the permit office has my hotel name, but I think the permit office is closed, so they won't find out until tomorrow... The embassy wouldnt possibly care... would they? What if they tell a police friend to stop me at the airport..." I finally showered and changed into my glasses, changed outfits, put on my hood and scarf and ventured out to use the internet. Ran into Jim, and had dinner with him then met up with some other folks to say goodbye to Leh. Someone showed me the beginning of a shortcut to my guesthouse that avoided the bike shop. Very helpful until I became hopelessly lost trying to make my way through pitch black dark alleys with only my headlamp. Eventually I stumbled out onto a road, and made it back to my place, terrified of running into Norgay and his bike shop mafia...

Allow me to explain a few things about Indian transportation. I'll start with airplanes. Noow granted, there have been literally dozens of bombs found in the last fwe days, and tensions are running high with Pakistan... Arrived at the airport after cab was thoroughly vetted by cops and military at parking lot. Enter airport, have to explain "e-ticket" for five minutes to the security guard, which I had just watched the westerner in front of me do. Then, walk through a metal detector WITH my bags, followed by metal detecting wand and pat-down. Put bags through x-ray and am told no carryons. Get bags again, this time with stickers on them, told carryons okay, just no batteries. Now go to get my boarding pass. Get boarding pass, get bag stickers stamped, send checkin through. Go through another metal detector and wanding, this time told no carryons, explain that I was told carryons were okay, (and note that everyone else has them). Go through detector and wanding, have bag x-rayed and wanded, then sticker is re-stamped, after perfunctory search of bag. Sit and wait. Then everyone called to tarmac to idetify their checked bags, which are then stamped again. Hurry up and wait. Get in line to go onto tarmac to get onto bus. Get metal detected again. Board bus. Drive bus for ten feet to aircraft. Board aircraft, feel relief that Norgay and the gang didn't track me down. Open bag and notice extra camera battery and multiple tubes of suntan lotion...

The flight over the himalayas was gorgeous...

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Julay Julay.... (or The Baby Lama Drama - Not to be confused with Peruvian entry the Baby Llama Drama)

When I travel, I generally make an effort to learn four words in the local language: Hello, Goodbye, Please and Thank You. Thankfully, in Ladakhi, "Julay" means all four of these....
Spent the weekend at the lovely "Open Ladakh Trekking Meditation Camp," run by a former monk named Vivek who has studied in Thailand and done time as a monk in Burma, now has a family house where he runs retreats outside of Leh. I had arrived late, having been packed into a collectivo like mini-minibus packed with tibetan monks who were playing with their cell phone ring tones.
Although a silent retreat, the western participants all met and chatted beforehand at an opening dinner. It was kind of a scene- a hippie schoolteacher from vermont, an irish guy who the first time he wanted to travel he worked as a mechanic on an oil rig, and saw ports from Saudi Arabia all aroudn Africa, South America, the Caribbean and the states without being allowed off the boat- he quit his job and bought a ticket with the money to go see the world. He was pretty cool. There was an American who had recently graduated from Antioch college, and was surprisingly square (I've emt many Antioch dropouts, but never an alum) who was named Jim and looked like Jim from the office, though much smarter and less smarmy. An American crystal therapist who lives in San Marcos de Atitlan Guatemala (home of the pyramid school), a few woofing Europeans, a Gibraltan who had been travelling for seven years and came to India after a breakup with her boyfriend- the lion tamer in the Japanese circus. This was funny and made for great conversation, because a canadian hippie had also been in the circus in Australia. Anyway, these were a few of the more colorful characters, but most of the people were pretty out there, save one American lawyer who I liked a lot and Jim the American , both of whom I talked to a bunch on the last day when silence was broken.

So, as I said, it was a silent retreat, sleeping outside in tents in a valley of the Himalayas right outside of Leh. The stars were magnificent at night, the mountains majestic by day. We sat outside for much of the first day, in yellow pastures of barley and wheat with crumbling stupas in the distant fields of the other local farmers. Day two we did some hiking in the hills, and then rested again in the fields. The last morning we broke silence and most people decided to stay and trek a bit more, exploring the local palace and monastery. It was a fun day, and then some of the people that had done yoga teacher trainings while in India put on a yoga class which we all did before dinner. It wasnt bad, though a bit embarrassing when they couldnt remember whether to breathe in or out in various assanas. Many of this group then decided to share a jeep the next day to visit more monasteries in the valley.
The monasteries were, as usual, extremely impressive. There was Likir, (below) classically tibetan with a cool museum that had bizarre artifacts like a skull drinking bowl and femur flute for ceremonies, as well as a gigantic buddha outside. Alchi was very different from the other tibetan style gompas, with wooden architecture influenced by Kashmiri mosques, and extremely intricate murals (above) painted on the inside walls. Basgo (left) was built perched on a crumbling cliffside ina moonlike valley that looked rather like Arches or Canyonlands national parks back in the US. I had a great time at the monasteries, but the shared jeep with the hippies really started to grate on my nerves by the end of the day. I really didnt think I could take one more converstaion about how Jesus lived in India, or a debate about auras. I was relieved to return to Leh with a real room, real bed and the first hot shower since arriving in the Himalayas. Of course, woke up super early again, accustomed to arising at 5:00 for meditation, and headed back to Phyang Gompa where a festival was happening. Decided to go local transport on the bus, which was packed full of locals and gringos. The seats were filled overcapacity, so it was standing room only on the bus with a ceiling that came up to about my shuolders. Not the most comfortable half hour ride, stooped over, and the bus stopping to let on more excited monks and local villagers with each town we passed through. The festival was very cool- elaborate masked dances that represented... something... and a festive air at the monastery with merchants, food stalls, and of course beggars everywhere. I finally had the disturbing realization that the beggars I thought were suffering from burns are actually lepers, not burn victims. I also continue to be an Indian media darling, as I was niterviewed about the festival for some Indian TV station. Back today for internet, and signed up to bicycle the world's highest road tomorrow assuming by border region permit comes through...

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Better to be Mr. Late than the Late Mr...

Spent the past few days visiting the incredibly beautiful and dramatic mountains, canyons and gompas of the Nubra Valley, northeast of Ladakh toward the Tibetan frontier. My companions were a gujarati couple who were both accountants for US companies, and a professor who was actually from the university of siberia. And, our idiotic 16 year old driver, who was lazy and careless, not my favorite qualities on one lane cliffside himalayan roads. So up we went, (bollywood soundtrack the whole way) winding over Leh into the mountains, up to Khardung-La, which is the highest point of the highest road in the world, at 18,380 ft. Nothing much there but a little army checkpoint, (we were constantly having to show our permits and passports), and with a crashed plane, a bunch of army trucks and soldiers, and prayer flags flying. And a sign reading "Khardung La - Highest Motorable Road in World - 18380 ft. - NO PARKING." Amazing views in all directions over mountains, valleys, and glaciers, and after parking for a few mintues, we descended into the valley. Unfortunately, we were caugfht in the middle of a 20 deep army convoy, and our driver insisted on passing these guys on our one lane road all the way down the valley until we hit another checkpoint, where we could just as easily have passed them then. Oh well.




Deeper into the valley until we stopped at Hunder- the end of the line for westerners, beyond the heavily guarded little river and bridge lay no man's land, then Tibet. There was a great Gompa that the Russian and I hiked up to, with more amazing views. I was hoping to see K2 in the distance, but other mountains blocked my view.

Stopped briefly by a camel farm, where the Gujaratis wanted to take a ride on the two-hump camels apparently descended from the silk road days. Our idiot driver howver, splashed his way through a stream and mucked up the engine, which meant a much longer time watching the Indian couple prance around on camelback than expected. There were also some nice yaks and montain goats to look at by the time the car got giong again. We then moved slightly back upstream to another charming town with another charming Gompa, called Diskit. It seemed to have apricots on every tree that wasnt a pin-straight poplar, public stupas everywhere, charming little stone walls with brambles on top, yaks wandering about and a prayer wheel on every corner. Mountain streams with little wooden bridges were everywhere, and when you walked over a bridge you could literally feel a drop in the air temperature of a few degrees from the frigid himalayan water.

Awoke VERY early this morning in the hopes of hearing the monks at morning prayers in the Diskit Gompa. We succeeded, but there were not too many monks around. Still, it was very interesting to listen, and the monks offered us some yak butter tea, which I choked down to be polite in spite of its mouth-curdling saltiness. But there was not much else to look at in Diskit, so we moved on to the next town, Sumur, where we looked at another, more modern Gompa. Do you want to hear any more about Gompas? Don't worry, I won't bore you... Heres a picture. And next time I'll add some interior shots as well...

The drive back was uneventful, save for seeing a truck that had recently fallen off the cliff and the halted army convoy below scavenging the wreckage. It was a certainly unnerving to be ther in the immediate aftermath. Happy to be safely back in Leh, and soon at a very safe meditation retreat...

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Yakity Yak

If anyone needs a yak-pun-themed embroidered t-shirts, let me know. Ladakh has plenty. You know, "Hard Yak Cafe," "Yakkin' it Up in Leh," "My Best Mate Went to Ladakh and All I Got Was This Bloody Yak T-shirt. "

Up again yesterday at the crack of dawn, pre-dawn in fact. Delhi still sleeping, which was really strange. Dogs laying under trucks and cuddled up to slumbering cows, rickshaw drivers curled up in their cycle-rickshaws, others asleep just in doorways. The flight itself was easy, and 100% tourists, mostly French (as usual, and with their noses buried in their guides routards.) Got to Ladakh bright and early and found a lumpy-bedded guest house for next to nothing, and tried to nap. Little success, so I set out for breakfast to plan my day. The altitude was definitely noticeable, but not terrible, just a mild headache. So about Ladakh: Its a small town about 10,000 feet up in the Himalayas bordering China/Tibet. Culturally, its mainly Tibetan- technically in fact a part of Tibet and pre 20th century basically fell under the Dalai Lama's jurisdiction before borders were as clear as they are today. In the 1950's, as China moved to Tibet, the Indian army zipped up a few brigades to plant Indian flags and snag the Ladakh region to keep it out of Chinese hands, though border disputes remain. What this means is that Ladakh is basically a little Tibet- often described as the last Shangri-lah, though this apparently also describes Bhutan in travel brochures- which I suppose makes it the penultimate Shangri-lah, and Sikkim- the antepenultimate (is that correct latin scholars?) Shangri-lah. The language and script are Tibetan, and the people are ruddy cheeked like ethnic Tibetans and dress in wool robes, sort of like woolly shalwar kineezes with wooden sandals. Also many monasteries around, so lots of robed monks. However, lots of Muslims are here as well, many refugees from the troubles in Western Kashmir and Jammu, many are green-eyed and fine featured, said to be descendents of Alexander the Great's conquering army. The other people that are everywhere are the indian army- there is an enormous base here that guards the sensitive Chinese and Pakistan borders that are extremely close. In fact, permits are needed to basically just leave town and head a few miles toward Tibet/China. Which I will do later in the week.

So yesterday after no sleep and no sunscreen and no altitude adjustment, I decided to head to the Leh palace (above photo) similar stylistically to the Potala Palace in Lhasa, and perched dramatically above the town. Not much inside, but great views. I ascended further, and against better judgment to a small Gompa (Tibetan Temple) atop the mountain-like hill that was fluttering with prayer flags. Now, I think probably everyone has seen the little greeting-card sized prayer flags commonly found in Tibetan restaurants and hippie dormitories, but some of the actual ones here fluttering in the mountain breeze are the size of bedsheets, and just beautiful when they catch the wind. The little Namgyal Gompa (seen in back of first photo, and in this other photo) was very cool, and as I read about it my book warned not to do the hike on the first day at altitude. Oops. I then became paranoid for the rest of the afternoon- paranoiacally trying to parse out the symptoms of altitude sickness from my sunstroke, dehydration, and general exhaustion from waking at 3:45 AM. I guess the light-headedness was not a sign of enlightenment. Stumbled down to explore a few more temples and look around the town, before becoming overwhelmed with exhaustion and headache, I fell asleep for the night at 6PM, not to wake until the muezzin's morning prayer call at sunrise, then asleep again till about seven.
Got up today and took a taxi ride to Phyang and Spituk, Tibetan style Gompas. I realize there is little more boring than reading about architecture, but they were pretty cool. Elaborate white-and-red monasteries perched on cliffsides, with incredible murals inside the main temples, many dating back hundreds of years. Many of the artifacts inside were smuggled in from Tibet after the Chinese invasion, and the places were mostly to myself and the literal hunchbacked dwarf monk who hobbled around and opened the temple prayer rooms and chapels for me at Phyang. The silence and serenity was lovely, just the sound of the spinning prayer wheel bells, the rushing of the Indus river and the birds. Oh, and in the valley below the sound of AK47s at firing range of the massive military base that sprawls across the valley below.

Hopefully the pictures can capture a bit what my description cannot. The afternoon I spent wandering the town, exploring the Old City- a mud-brick and wood pile of traditional tibetan style houses and alleyways that is slowly being restored by the tibet heritage fund. (Sort-of pictured here with standard veggie garden.) It will be truly incredible when its done- probably by the end of the summer- the houses will be painted brilliant whites and yellows, with bright red windows in the tibetan style. and probably the guesthouses and restaurants will migrate there soon after...
Also got my permits in order to visit the Nubra Valley region for tomorrow and the next day, so will be updating then, and likely incommunicado. After than, doing a short stint at a meditation center for the weekend, and then not sure after that....

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Udaipur -> Delhi

Udaipur was, as I think I mentioned, generally pretty charming, cleaner (though hardly clean) and prettier than the rest of India thus far. Its described as the venice of asia, somewhat apt in terms of both cleanliness and beauty. Most of the town is painted white, old or old looking architecture abounds, and the centerpiece of the town is a giant lake with two major islands that are completely taken up with palaces of raj's past that look like vertiable wedding cakes. Much of the a Bond "octopussy" was filmed here, and the hotels seem to all advertise shows of the film nightly at 7PM, though we managed to make it the entire time without seeing the show. Because it was off-season, we were able to very cheaply stay in a great hotel with phenomenal views over the city, lake, and mountains beyond, and great food in the restaurant. In fact, most of the hotels had phenomenal food.

One cool thing we did was take a cooking lesson. An older woman carefully taught us an exhaustive menu which we then got to eat- Chai, Biryani, Eggplant-Tomato Curry, Muttar Paneer (like saag paneer but with peas), Pakoras, Chapati, Paranthas, Gulab Jamun (lightly fried chunks of milk dough in sugar syrup) I actually felt confident on leaving that I much better understood how to make indian food. The secret, as Americans are just beginning to discover, is adequately cooking ("blooming") the spices and aromatics (garlic, ginger, onions) to deepen the flavor. (The cooking actually changes the chemical makeup of the spices, releasing new flavors). The whole lesson was a lot of fun, and I'm looking forward to cooking for anyone upon my return and a modest break from Indian food after travelling. I also want to learn to make "butter chicken" my new favorite Indian dish- its sort of like chicken tikka masala, but I guess more authentic. (Chicken Tikka Masala is technically a British dish, invented by a Bangladeshi in London in the 1970's).

Not much else of note in Udaipur- though would highly recommend it. We saw a few other Havelis, browsed the antique stores, and each had a mild run in with a cow. (Head-butted from the rear- a little scarier than it sounds and has now sadly diminished the trust and admiration between us and our otherwise adorable (and ubiquitous) bovine friends.

Returned to Delhi yesterday morning to the hotel royal (seemed a more promising name than the "hotel decent" on the same street.) Spent the day wandering around dazed in the heat and smog again and not really accomplishing much. Visited and were mildly disappointed by Fabindia, and the Khan market- though the latter had an excellent bookstore (Full Circle) that I would highly recommend for books or just escaping hellish delhi, at which we spent a long time browsing the books.

Oh, so more again about food. For the past year we lived right by and walked past the Craigie Street Bistro every day. Outside there was a sign posted from Food and Wine magazine which had rated the 10 best restaurants in the world to eat meat. Our Craigie Street Bistro was named #2. The number one spot was reserved for a restaurant called Bukhara in Delhi. Well, finally, we made it to Bukhara in Delhi, though it was different than we would have expected. First of all, its in a big ex-sheraton hotel that looks like a horrible compound of bunkers (not unlike hi-rise and lo-rise to drop the Wesleyan reference). The restaurant itself has decor that is rather like Flintstones-meets-Genghis-Khan if you can imagine it- stone walls, and bizarre tables and seats made out of tree stumps. And no silverware. However, true to its reputation the meat (lamb kebabs) was amazingly tender and piping hot off the grill/tandoor. An amazing bread stuffed with spiced onions that I'd never encoutnered before, and a wonderful dessert that we had been seeking but didnt know the name of (rasmulai- paneer soaked in rosewater basically).

And this morning, Olivia jetted off to London, and I remain here...
I was supposed to go to Srinagar this morning bright and early, but when I got to the airport this morning I read that an IED had blown up a bus of soldiers on one of the highways outside of town. Freaking out, I found another newspaper, that mentioned a different attack on a different highway the day before that one. Figuring that although I had been planning to take the OTHER of the three highways from Srinagar to Leh, I might want to reconsider. Changing flights was a huge and humiliating hassle, but I'm now heading directly to Leh in Ladakh tomorrow. I like my Himalayan adventures peaceful and shangri-la like. So I headed back to Delhi feeling like a bit of a wuss, but you know, I'm a grown-up who makes responsible decisions and now has things in my life worth living for.

The only problem was that a tuktuk drove me halfway to delhi and then insisted I take a taxi and pay them more. Enormous argument ensues with exhausted and sleepless me marching down the highway back toward Indira Ghandi International Airport, with now dozens of taxis stopping to fight over who got to drive me to Delhi and holding up rush hour delhi traffic. MAde it back to the hotel safely, and tried to relax and ponder what on earth I'd do in Delhi. Little was open as its Sunday, so more aimless wandering and time at cafe coffee day drinking my iced eskimo (like a tropical holiday on mt everest! - actual description) and reading my crappy backpacker novel until I was politely asked to make room for other customer.

Standing around in the punishing humidity, some Indian guys (call center yuppies sporting Benneton shirts and Gucci sunglasses) started talking to me. I told them I bailed on Srinagar and they were so upset with me, as if I'd insulted them. But there were bombs on two of the three highways in two days! I tried to explain. No no! Srinigar its like heaven, you must change again and go back to airport, you miss the most beautiful place in the world! It is heaven, it is heaven!!! When I said Americans were not very popular in the world these days they just retorted ad nauseum They can kill so many Americans in Iraq and Afghan, here they only want to kill Indian army, not tourist! In spite of their generous offers to use their fancy phones to immediately re-change my tickets I remained unconvinced, and even more difficult was trying to polite decline an offer of taking coffee with them. Although had I felt better, hanging out with Indian yuppies would have been an amazing cultural experience, I just wanted to be alone and not have my masculinity questioned by a bunch of Indian dudes in tight Bennetton shirts.

So, attempting that, I foolishly sat in a park until a funny little turbaned man approached and started chatting with me about ear hygiene. He showed me a little notebook of lukewarm testimonials from tourists, along with photos of himself cleaning the ears of various dutch, english and japanese travellers in the park and simply would not go away. He eventually started even looking in my ears and tsking and exclaiming "oh my god! So dirty!!" and tried to get his q-tip in until I had to walk away. Ambled my way back to the hotel and rested, past junkies literally laying in the gutter to the quiet of my hotel room where I watched the indian news, amusingly entitled "Weekend Update."

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Walk Softly and Carry a Monkey Stick

Headed out from Udaipur for a jaunt in the country- or rather, a trip to Mt Abu. Great view out the window, proving the old axiom about the journey, not just the destination. Gradually, the touristy shops of Udaipur gave way to local markets, selling objects of actual use to Indian people. Men pushing rickshaws and singing their broomselling or chai-vending jingles passing little tire shops and mechanic shops, with men in turbans sipping chai in circles and chatting. Past camel-carts and rickshaws, weaving around copulating cows and even past a saffron-turbaned man washing his elephant on the side of the road. One memorable sight was a multistory glass and steel hotel going up on the outskirts of town, at least ten or fifteen stories high, but a construction scaffolding that was entirely made of bamboo! I cant believe I missed the picture. Eventually we passed under the sign leaving Udaipur reading "Thank you, please come again!" and we were headed deeper into the countryside. Nothing much for a while but children playing cricket and cement walls, whose only purpose seems to be providing space for signs advertising cement, and the occasional ad for English classes (guaranteed 100% call center placement!!) We pulled up to a roadside dhaba and had some of the best samosas of my life for breakfast, eating on the morning's newspaper before hitting the road again.
Past more shanty towns of trash bag houses and humans sleeping in filth and rooting through garbage, past roadside mini-mosques where Muslim truck drivers stopped to offer prayers. Eventually we came to some sort of freeway under construction- with construction seemingly by hand (and head, given that people were carrying cement and asphault in bowls atop their heads). We'd get up to speed for about three minutes, then suddenly the road would end, drive down some one-lane dirt roads for a few minutes, then back onto the highway, then back off again moments later and on and on for at least an hour. It was as if instead of building the road beginning at point A and working toward point B, they were just letting each village build their own
section. Which, maybe they were, given that just getting people to work must be extremely difficult. Even when the highway was decent for a few minutes, the Indian people seemed to want to drive on both sides of the divide, in both directions, typically in the middle of the lanes.
Eventually we would our way up into the mountains, and the scenery was drastically changed and more green and lush from mostly desert Rajasthan. The views over the valley were spectacular, even with all the fog and haze, and eventually we made it to the little town of Mt. Abu in our little taxi.
We found a decent enough though overpriced hotel overlooking the lake, and set out to explore what the area is best known for- the 1000 year old Jain temples, carved to incredible intricacy in marble. Photography was not allowed, but it will be hard to forget the incredible detail in the enormous temples, the ceilings in particular were almost alive, dripping with elaborate designs that were almost so thin light came through, in the shapes of gods and demons, but also just sea-anenome-like organic shapes. As usual, words cant do it justice, so I will try to import some pictures from elsewhere to demonstrate. The Jain temples are also incredible serene, and just lovely places to sit and escape the chaos and filth of India for a while. After the temples, we wandered around Mt. Abu where there were tons of Indian tourists (a popular honeymoon spot) and almost no westerners. We were photographed like crazy. One girl was frantically whispering to her father, who came and asked us in English where we were from and could the daughter be in a picture with us. We said USA, and the girl looked ecstatic, she was then literally shaking with excitement while her dad took the picture, and was kind enough to thank us for our trouble. The town, as I described, was a funny combo of mostly Indian tourists and honeymooners, and was really tacky in a very Indian way. For example, a cute lake with bright colored pedal swan boats, and a larger dinner boat named "the Titanic" in a fit of bad judgment or perhaps cultural misunderstanding. (What next, our plane to delhi is called the Hindenberg?) The food in town thankfully, was excellent, got the local thali, and there were some great hikes around.
We also stopped by the Brahma Kumari museum, a sort of cult with branches all over the world with a truly bizarre museum with amazing life-sized dioramas of various vices and members that dressed exactly like the movementarians from The Simpsons.
Next day we were up and headed to Ranakpur, site of more Jain temples. Sadly, no stop at the cafe coffee day we passed (the Indian coffee chain that inexplicably doesnt open until 10am!). The road was beautiful, winding through small villages with just a small market, sometimes nothing but a municipal water pump where women and children were gathered, filling their water canteens to carry back to their homes balanced on their heads. In the smaller towns, many of the Hindu women even cover their faces with a veil. Ranakpur was similar in style to the Dilwara temples at Mt. Abu, though grander in scale with less intricate, though still impressive carving. A few pilgrims were there, wearing their pilgrim clothing and walking softly, covering their mouths with a cloth so as not to accidentally breathe in and hurt any living creature. Impressive and beautiful, the place and the ceremonies we observed.
From Ranakpur it was through more incredible countryside and small tribal villages by one-lane road- somehow reminiscent of Italy or southern Spain, hilly and a little bit dry, and huts with brick roofs that probably gave it that Mediterannean vibe. Much of the time I leaned out the window trying to capture the perfect photo of a village scene, or at least village woman with the giant nosering. Mostly came up empty handed. From there it was on to Kumbargarh fort, a decent enough fort and palace complex, distinguished from others mostly by the fact that the views were not overlooking smoggy cities, but just rural landscape, other mountains and green valleys below. Home again to Udaipur, more chaotic and western touristy, but still far calmer than the rest of India thus far...

Tomorrow, more on Udaipur, Tuesday's cooking lesson and other observations...

(Pictures, as usual, not mine)

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Sitar Hero

Okay... where was I last, its been a bit of a whirlwind. So, last place we were was Bundi, a really charming small town approximately between Pushkar and Udaipur. This was the first town where people greeted us with "hellos" on the street that weren't immediately followed by "you come to my shop!" which was refreshing to say the least. Very few tourists, and we stayed in an old Haveli (17th century restored mansion), which was very cool and full of interesting antiques and murals and such, and very cheap given that its the off-season. It was the first place where I finally felt relaxed and adjusted in the two weeks that we've been here- I guess India just takes a bit longer to ease into than most places. Bundi has got a wonderful palace and fort at the top of the hill, and winding streets complete with little cupolas and archways that lend it a very exotic feel, almost reminiscent of Chefchauen in Morocco, partly because of the ubiquitous pale blue paint on most of the buildings. We spent some time exploring the palace in the pouring rain, but it did mean no one else was there. Amazing gardens and arched arcades, marble sculptures, and wonderful intricate hand painted murals that were very well preserved inside of the palace. The views were also incredible over the valley and out over serpentine walls snaking outward along the hills on which the palace and fort were set. Many levels to this fort as well, with some dizzying views downward over sheer drops of a few hundred feet- first down walls which grow out of cliffs. Though very Hindu and Mughal in architectural style, there was something reminscent of tibetan architecture like the potala palace just jutting out from cliffs. We also were browbeaten into renting a monkey stick for the fort, albeit for 10cents. "Mot for hit monkey, for scare monkey"- the monkey stick man carefully explained. Well, no monkeys, so I guess it worked?

We wandered around the town a bit because of the rain, and were invited to chai by a kid named Jaypee, who works placing people in jobs with American companies in call cventeres and computer programming positions. His command of English was great, though maybe just his command of dirty words as he spent much of the conversation regaling us with tales of his various conquests of European and Indian women, and his friendship with the local Raj. Still, another genuine non-sales-related conversation was interesting. The guy at the internet there was similarly obsessed with talking about women, and was explaining his internet business to me, which, not surprisingly, was basically a way to get customers for his hashish business.

Dinner we were invited by an extremely charming and charismatic ten-year-old to her mother's homestay house, where we enjoyed the company of the family's children as we ate at a table in their living room. I really cant believe we didnt take pictures of the family and their charming turtle Gobhi (Cauliflower). Excuse, tortoise, the girls were quick to point out that "turtles live in water and are non-veg so they bite you," unlike friendly Gobhi the tortoise. Well, the girls were charming, with excellent English, and the home cookin' was pretty damn good too. Would recommend stopping by if you are ever in Bundi...


So onward by train the next AM to the Chittorgarh fort, the biggest for in Asia apparently. It was extensive- a few kilometers long, full of interesting temples and palaces. I found the temples particularly cool, as most were at least 1000 years old and Hindu temples that had the distinct honeycomb/cornhusk shape and the the bas-relief detailsof the temples at Angkor Wat- also originally Hindu. Also visisted a very pretty, very serene Jain temple. The views over the fort and landscape were also phenomenol, though overall I must confess that fort fatigue is rapidly setting in.

A miserable wait for the bus on the side of the road, followed by a lot of time standing on said bus, before a seat opened up on the way to Udaipur. Though a bunch of kids wanted to clear their seats for me, I really didnt feel like the extended conversation that would result, so stood until I couldnt take it. Finally sat and had everyone on the bus staring for the few minutes I was talking to my neighbor- this must be what being a celebrity is like. We were also mobbed at Chittor by people taking photos, literally blocking our path until we relented.


But Udaipur again felt reasonably relaxed and clean, and least by Indian standards. Also a lot of tourists, which can be sometimes irritating, sometimes just kind of comforting to have around. A great dinner at our really nice hotel with lake views, and up today to visit the city palace. Again, do you really want to read another attempt at describing a palace? Probably not, okay- but let it be stated for the record that Udaipur has by far the best palace of anywhere yet in India. Elaborate murals, integration of Persian and delements like marble carving and inset glasswork. We also got a guide, which meant we explored less, but learned a lot more. Got to see the Raj's car colelction, including his attempt at creating a solar rickshaw, and looked at crazy old armor, including horse armor that disguises the horse as as elephant so that other elephants won't attack. Beautiful marble courtyards and lawns, and just generally an A+ palace. Classy those maharajas were/are.

(Photos: As usual not mine: Bundi Palace, Bundi Palace, Chittor Fort, Angkor-esque temple at Chittor, Udai Palace, Udai palace - pics of udiapur forthcoming in next blog)