Tapor

You Gonna Go Crazy For This

2012-02-03T18:02:00.002+05:30

Terminus

A great many days have passed since I started this journey. I am finally coming up to the end of it; a mere 9 hours remain for me in Bharat. Jordan and I will do a combination post soon as we discuss dealing with the idiosyncrasies and fervor of Indian travel. But for now, I write my last narrative:

I left you last in the clutches of Margao, Goa. We arrived in Hampi amidst a great argument between a cheating passenger and the bus fare conductor. The bus was late and packed, something we're quite accustomed with. We found the hotel Vanessa stayed at and spent a few days roaming around Hampi on rented bicycles. I was able to boulder but only for a day as a foolhardy leap around the waterfalls had given me a sore heel. I was eager to have Jordan join me in a little rock wrestling. Hampi was as pathetically touristy as Rishikesh: dry, veg, and inflated prices ruin an otherwise scenic region. No harm, however, as we vacated several days later and headed to meet Donald in Raipur. We took a series of trains, eager to return to them, booked under waitlist and RAC status, that would cause us several social agonies.

Sharing under the RAC status is one of the crucial rules not clearly explained on any Indian rail sites. It's what happens when the trains are fully booked with confirmed passengers and their corresponding berth yet still allows you to board the train and somehow share those berths with existing passengers. The conductors will designate these seats and notify you at the last minute as the charts are prepared for the trains' seating arrangements. It's all very confusing, a feeling compounded by snarky women we argued with about sharing seats. In theory, we were incorrect but enough refusals and talking to English speakers earned us a place to sleep for our 30 hour ride to Delhi.

Jordan has an explanation of our voyage in Chattisgarh with Donald written much better than I could as she delivers an ego-driven retelling of the stomach bug that was.

Lastly, Delhi, as mentioned before, is the bane of this trip. Perhaps one day I'll see it differently (like a visit to India decades later) but for now, it rests among my least favorite locations on the earth. I didn't even bother charging either of my camera batteries for the stay. We bought our gifts for family and friends on the last day, even having tea with a jeweler and weaver in their shop after adoring their wares. It was only upon Jordan's departure eve that I decided to live in IGI Airport instead of spending two days solo in Delhi. I hit up reddit to relieve myself of boredom.

In all, this trip has been worthwhile and sentimental. I feel more connected to my ideals than ever before and only when I get to practice them again at home will I truly feel integral.

Thanks for reading along with me all these months! Stay tuned for the mini-guide and be well, wherever you are.

Slogging through banana plantations, Hampi.

The slogging leads us to a clearing where water falls rest in the background, Hampi.

Carved sandstone temple, Hampi. Inhabited by Chipmunks, Pigeons, and Macaques.

Aforementioned Macacques and modern electricity wires contrasting the ancient temple, Hampi.

Cow, tickling her rectum with a coiled tail and staring at baked goods, Hampi.

Handwashing, Hospet.

En route to Hyderabad.

One of many bellies, Raipur.

A lake few venture to visit, possibly because of the mosquito curtains, Chhatisgarh.

Bulls on parade, Chhatisgarh.

Jordan fashioning earplugs, Chhatisgarh.

Handmade earthenware, Bastar.

Dal for all, Bastar.

Red ants for sale at the market, used in Red Ant chutney, Bastar.

Forested waterway, Bastar.

I'll miss these fellows.

A fantastic waterfall, Chhatisgarh.

Jordan and the gosling, Chhatisgarh.

Thirsty cuties, Chhatisgarh.

Train fellows and victims of a marauding shoe-shiner, Delhi.

Reddit, IGI Airport.

I finally tasted a chicken burger, IGI Airport.

My holdout, IGI Airport.

Whisker Tits (Biscuit Chips)

2012-01-22T14:48:00.000+05:30

Backtrack.

I've got a mosquito bite on my ass. I have furiously looped hair from the humidity. The further North we move, the less I have to deal with these maddening digs into my being. We're in Goa, once home to queer hippies and the "party scene", both of which have dwindled alongside people's disposable travel incomes. We were warned about colossal expenditures in Goa but we're finding no real challenge to our budgets, though we're a good 6 Km away from any beach. After house-boating, flopping aimlessly in the Arabian Sea, and having Indians gawk at us for daring to swim on the beaches, we're venturing back towards our original inclination. Mountains, waterfalls, and hot springs await us again.

It's also well beyond the period in which I was in awe of India. I'm far less impressed with the suspenseful ambiguity and much more peeved with staleness that was imminent on such a long, now monotone journey. I've become homesick but not in relation to a single place, rather I'm fixated on our move to Albuquerque and getting back more of my familiar experiences that I can't recreate here like beer, running, and gardening. I made the mistake of counting the days down last week, like an assembly line worker staring at a watch mid-shift. I've a bit over two weeks left. I look forward to seeing everyone and getting things done.

With that said, I feel as if I have grasped my Indian adventure by this point. I've grown to love a wonderful woman in the process of dealing with a three month assault on the senses and in the most peculiar, nonsensical landscape. I feel as if most people would have been at each others windpipes, but we just grew closer. We skipped working at the farm and paying more than our daily budget in addition to our free labor. Our trip to the Solan distillery was a no-go and our stay in the town soured our memories further. I never fully established a regimented exercise schedule; the stress of being present all the time leaves little room for the constant pull of the physical. But instead, I learned new ways to eat and have less reservation about social mores being dropped amongst strangers. I found that I'm more than capable of guidebook-less backpacking, working a really simple, dependable method to get around on my own terms. I bargain really well and balance my budget even in a place where frugality isn't essential. I chucked things rather than acquired, unlike the travelers we spotted weighing down their packs with extraneous chatchkis.

We're on our way to Hampi and Raipur. Our trains are booked and we just await seating arrangements. To venture more than a thousand miles, it cost us $18. I can't praise the train and bus systems more.; they're so effective once you know the system and how to ask strangers for advice on routes. I don't see myself returning to India again but I've closure on a mysterious location which I entered without assumptions and much knowledge. I regret nothing.

Ever elusive since his presidency, Georgie now caters to tourist scum in Goa.

Meows heard deep in a brick pile. We meowed back and forth for 10 minutes.

My friend, the trash bin animal.

Frightening looking dolls; watch them scheme bloody murder.

Sunrise in Margao.

Who thought this would make for appealing advertising?

We just drank papaya lassies so we glow.

Spent mussels underwater in Kannur.

A tamer beachside than in Alleppey, Kannur.

There are 16 people looking at us, minimum.

There are a lot of churches in the South.

Sunset and catamarans in Alleppey.

Hammerhead and Tuna, snuggling to stay warm.

Communist rally rappers, dig it?

Communist rally parade; no one seemed to know why they were in line, waving flags.

A little AZ love for y'all in Alleppey.

Rice paddy technicolors, Kerala.

A fisherman's bounty, Kerala.

My sole shot of the houseboat we cruised on, Kerala.

Underwater and under the influence of diesel byproducts, Kerala.

Felix and Noga mumbling underwater, Kerala.

A grumpy navigator, Kerala.

Moving towards tourists in stride, Fortcochin.

Same Same But Different

2012-01-05T01:05:00.000+05:30

It's not malaria.

I bring you this update from the South. On numerous occasions, I felt the urge to write and provide the accounts of our trip but instead traveling took over as our modus operandi. I'm also getting chances to write postcards to those who requested them, although they got soaked in what was known as the “big blank” when we were in Kodaikanal.

I wanted to emphasize the grit of India after reading White Tiger but after living through the cleansing mist storms up at 6600 feet in Kodaikanal, I quickly forgot what it was to be disgusted. You see, the mountains were covered in completely opaque rain and fog for nearly two days and it suddenly became too hard to remember the filth while the world was washing us clean. And to emphasize how clean it should become, it conspired with our laundry and travel mission. We had a soaked bucket of dirty, sooty clothing for a few days, as we were too sick from that week's temporary influenza to deal with them, when clouds moved in and ruined any opportunity to dry the attire. Jordan and I were bedewed and cold for the two days before New Year's, unable to put on our then-sudsy longer layers. I'd improvised a clothesline in the toilet room but the moist, chilled air prevented anything from drying. Remarkably, the clouds dissipated in time for our ten second countdown and we spent a half hour sometime in the early morning drunkenly awing at the now seeable sky. It was as if the mist and rain of the past days had washed away the shit year I'd had and was now allowing us to proceed with a tabula rasa.

I'm not sure if it was the numbing of the Northern cold that clouded our minds enough to distract from the filth, but venturing South exposed a number of unpleasant layers we'd deal with soon. Holiday travelers had booked many of the trains we researched and previously relied upon, changing our viable transport to buses. The bumbling shit-carriages are surprisingly convenient, what with their constant departures, opportunistic rest stops, and cheap fares. We were avoiding their locomotion because we read about expensive pricing but found silly fares in place of those written in books and the web. For instance, in Pondicherry, we used a local bus to get to and from town for, wait for it... six cents a head. Longer tours ran from a buck to four. Snagging one wasn't ever really an issue except at late hours and we saved a bunch of money by not eating for long stretches, instead focusing on reading and looking out the windows.

Gone are the days of worrying about hot water heaters working and the efficiency of our woolen layers to keep us warm. Though we've stayed at higher elevations, which are a joyous anomaly in the swelter of the south, we're going to slowly acclimatize to being sticky, finding relief in cold showers. We've also tacked on a group of globetrotters, a new dynamic to our regular solo method of travel. A couple from Australia, Pete and Vanessa, were met couch-surfing in Pondicherry and later met up with us for New Year's to join us and our other new friends, Felix from Germany; and Noga and Michelle from Israel. It's festive to be in a group but coordinating for 7 people is quite cumbersome so we split up and relay travel plans to meet up. In a couple of hours, we'll be together on a houseboat, navigating the Keralan backwaters. We're eating well and sleeping well, if we can deal with the mosquitoes effectively.

Everything is Possible.

2011-12-13T17:56:00.000+05:30

Written last week: I'm in the wild Northeast. Wind gusts scatter sands into my face and saturate my clothes, filling in every empty woven pocket space. I will know the extent of the filth soon because the last time I did laundry, soot and grime filled my wash bucket even three rinses later. I wake up with phlegm missiles mounted inside my nose and shoot bits of dried blood with me everywhere I launch the snot rockets. I keep my nails trimmed and my steripen ensures a placated mood after every sip of water (Thanks Leon!). We've made it to the desert of the Himalayas, to Mudh after seeing a thousand-plus year old Buddhist monastery in Tabo. Jordan and I noted that the adobe-looking architecture is reminiscent of our own Southwest wattle and daub. Pin and Spiti Ladakh (Valley) is generally where we've decided to spend the next few days on account of our guide, Vikas, who proclaimed it his favorite place in all of Himachal Pradesh.

During the summer months, which is coincidentally peak tourist season and carries both the prices and hubbub of these crowds, the valleys are lush with wildflowers and greenery. We're grasping at the bottom of our pockets looking for lucky charms by being here so late into this time of the year. Most guest houses are closed and only through the association of acquaintances Vikas knows are we capable of having places to stay. We've done two house stays, which differ from guest hotels in that a family tends to run the operation and we eat with them in the kitchen-cum-living room. The second family has really enjoyed our stay. We giggle over short utterances in our broken Hindi and have had the fortune to drink some Arak, a potent homebrew of barley and wheat distilled over a week or so. We don't get a choice in food as the vegetable growing season has passed so whatever we can load up on, we relish: multi-colored dal and red beans stewed in a pressure cooker with a potent masala mixture, buttered wheat chapati or parantha filled with potatoes and cauliflower, spinach and shallots slow-cooked with garlic and onion, and fluffed jasmine rice topped with ghee and mixed pickle of lemon, lime, lotus stem, carrot and green mango. We're not complaining.

We're cold, chilled at waking and shivering as we go under the sheets at night. We haven't had a shower for a few days because there's nowhere for the water to be piped in to; it's frozen for most of the waking day. When we washed our clothes, an hour later than we'd wanted to and consequently frost-nipped our fingers, it froze on the line. The toilets here are adjacent to the house but to flush, I have to fetch a bucket of water three stories higher towards the main road, fill it from a freezing snow melt stream, and pour it down the hole. The doorways are short and I learned that fact after smashing my cranium three times, splitting skin on the final hit. Our “heating” comes from the exhaust pipe that runs through the center of our room, which we reach by climbing a confidence-inspiring wooden ladder. The donkey outside our room haws like a drunk woman getting nailed. Once the wind starts, it gusts with enough force to support our bodies leaning into it backwards. It does, however, dry the clothes quite quickly. Clothes, that reek of spent, youthful desire and unisex deodorant that I can only seem to find in the woman's aisle.

Vikas is quite the comedian, whether he realizes it or not. He tells us about “incredible India” like it's being read from the aging poster displayed in someone's travel agency cubicle. He tells us, “If you will be good, I will be the best. If you are bad, I am the worst.” I reckon we were the best as our homestays and opportunities to visit sites in the desolate Pin Valley proved quite fortuitous. We drank with him, the self-professed teetotaler. Shots of his laughter are forever emblazoned into our memories. “Nani! Nani! Nannn-ni, I love you!” he'd chortle. But it wasn't just these two wisps he'd impressed with gregarious behavior. Vikas, or Ranu as he'd let us call him, picked up hitchhikers quite commonly. Of the most unexpected, we'd humped about the dirt roads with three police officers heading to another precinct, two grieving (though you couldn't penetrate through their laughter) women headed for a funeral, and a postman with a rucksack full of letters waiting to be delivered 40km north. He never asked for a rupee, likely a tenant of his religious upbringing.

Days later: We eventually left our valley of grinning gusto to the milder clime of Shimla. More of the same, we felt quite competent to float within India; living in the extremes makes for bravado. We met a man in Shimla who spoke to us about couch surfing with his brother in Delhi but due to slow response time, we ended up having to book a room for Rs. 450 a night. The exchange rate has been favorable for us and though we're doubling things in cost for the USD equivalent, we know it's a wee bit cheaper. Needless to say, we slept in a room reeking of turpentine and put up with the sound of renovations for two days as the industrious hires chiseled away at unoccupied rooms. We met a man named Donald who indulged in cigarettes and scotch with us all night. In fact, he proposed the idea of getting a space for Jordan to instruct yoga sessions in Raipur, if we choose to come by and stay in his hometown. We're seriously considering it as it'd be a convenient way to save on expenses, however paltry ~$20 per diem appears. We're excited to be heading to Pondicherry this week. We're not sure what to expect but cheap imbibition, supposed French cheese craft, and the seafood cornucopia are all luring us in. It's a 28h train ride for us down to Chennai and then a 3h bus to Pondicherry but we'll be able to rest on the train and partake in soda-bottle-obscured beer. It's going to be a pleasure to leave Delhi; we really don't care for the oddball Eurotrash and the mammoth amount of disturbances. Bring on the mid-small-sized cities. We'll miss the mountains and tamer life but the beaches and warm toes await.

We frequented the Indian Coffee House to see her.

Hedonism found in our hotel room armoire. We drank the booze.

Joined panorama of the ICH.

A very successful sunset shot, Shimla.

Guille, our Argentinean comrade.

$.5 for a tray of three cups of coffee and fresh cream.

Bilal, our generous Hotelier in Shimla.

One of many sheep traffic jams in Kinnaur Ladakh.

Splendid roadside vista, Kinnaur.

Villages dotting the foothills of the Himalayas.

The Himalays are snow-capped in the background.

We pose at 12k ft.

Exquisite woodwork at a Hindu temple we were blessed at.

The snow leopard motif prevalent in Himachal.

These looked quite similar to Cherry Blossoms.

Sweet men making sweets.

Wool caps and blazers, traditional wear in HP.

Colorful village panorama in Kinnaur.

Buddhist temple guard.

There are no "cuts" in India, I've concluded. Butcher Shop, Sarahan.

We made a friend.

He followed us for several Kms.

Panorama in Chitkul.

Fine pair of thirst asses.

These geometric stonewalls delineate people's plots. Notice the soil mounds, for the region's famed sugar peas.

All the streams started to freeze, explaining why we found no plumbing wherever we stayed.

Gorgeous Himalayan peaks, Chitkul.

We pose atop a boulder we mounted on our acclimatization hike, Chitkul.

Sheared, washed wool waiting to be spun, Chitkul,

Wood is being unloaded for future use. Adequate amounts are stockpiled for the snow-in.

Hay store, Chitkul.

Halfway up our hike, we look down upon Chitkul.

Valleys and peaks dot the landscape in Kinnaur Ladakh.

Prickly fucks that nearly impaled my palm.

Everyone's favorite: Lichen!

Yeah, if you have a Ferrari..

Tree limbs obscure a cooking feast prepared for a wedding. We heard it all the next evening over the temple's PA system, Kalpa.

Big-ol pots, for the feast preparation.

Evergreens struggle amidst the sedimentary rock formations, Kalpa.

We actually had the chance to boulder on V.choss for a few hours, Kalpa.

The lustrous rock was hard to capture but it was very gneiss, Kalpa.

Nako, approximately. We mediated by a retention pond, not pictured.

Stonewalled pen we really wanted to wander into, Kalpa.

Raw building materials, Hay and Brick, Kalpa.

Stove seen in most homes throughout Kinnaur and Spiti.

Sweet hosts, Tabo.

Religious graffiti, Tabo.

Buddhist Gompa, built 997 CE.

Hand-knotted wool rugs at our homestay in Mudh. Each rug takes a week or so to create.

On-Highest I've ever been-On, 14.1k in Mudh.

Mudh dwarfed by the stately Himalayas.

Jordan roughly as high as we can go without equipment, Mudh.

Vikas and Nani with her daughters, Mudh.

Very old Gompa, Kaza

What is that child doing with its nipple? Kaza.

Private Pranayama instructions, Shimla.

We were boarded by 15k eighteen-year-old boys who rode 5 hours with us, all waiting to get a handshake and phrase in with us. I sang Jack the Necrophiliac to them.

The band leader, Mr. Kandi. He insisted we visit him in Rajasthan. All these boys are going to do exams for Tibetan border patrol and none had tickets. Havoc en route to Delhi.

Common communism in the commons. Blue, Chennai.

Brainzz.

2011-11-18T11:05:00.001+05:30

Rejoice, rejoice!

I'm back, for now. It's been a bit troublesome to get to type or get any alone time with the computer as Jordan and I have been traveling and fulfilling tasks. We rafted on the Ganga, traveled back to Haridwar to get to Ambala, moved on to Kalka where we boarded a smaller gauge rail "Toy Train" and visited Solan, and finally settled in Shimla, where we'll be residing for about a week. We plan on taking a week-long trip to the Kinnaur Valley, northeast of here, where we can camp and rock climb. Our hotel manager has spent the last few days organizing the weeklong excursion to this Tibet-like region.

I've inferred more Indian nuances since I've last written. While some are attributed to my presence as a foreign "other" to the general populace, I feel some are more specifically related to the sub-continent's mentality. For one, I've felt the constant inquisitive staring much more than when I arrived a week ago. Every public arena features scores of social tiers intermixed. These classes intercept my being with varied differences depending upon their status. The homeless, impoverished bodies, who rest under layers of dusty, tattered blankets and seldom shift or show any signs of life, as if to reinforce the defeated nature of their economic position, only glance at me if they happen to be awake. Groups of either gender and age promenade, chit-chat and broach topics I cannot access, only to pause their discussions and reflect to another that Jordan or I are amongst them. Children, clad in woolen overcoats affixed with badges of their respective schools, grin uncontrollably, giggle and shout or tug their parents' hands when we pass. Shopkeepers who watch me often smile when I nod or acknowledge their presence. Single males approach me and ask, "From which country are you from?" "U.S.," I respond. We may further this discourse when specifics like jobs or cities are revealed, dependent on their English-speaking abilities. More often than not, we end talks there, after an extended handshake reminiscent of those that elders like to have stateside. I've been handed several business cards and told of factories that these men manage. All seem to focus on products India's touristic avenues haven't properly exploited. We've had many aggressive touts advertise to us but firm rejections and walking away ends their spiels.

Jordan and I have been trying to restrain our affection in public, though I have a harder time keeping my hands off of her than she does. I was warned by Asha and Fran that Indians may not kindly receive our personal gestures and reject them physically, by spitting or scowling or as they've experienced, tossing water balloons. We're unsure how much of the positioning of our bodies affects these responses but we try to maintain a distance. Our repugnant host in Ambala Cant mentioned to us that we do not appear as if we are married, which we'd told him at first, and that we must be "just-friends." We went to a discotheque last night, remaining the only patrons in a spacious hall for nearly an hour, and discussed our observations with Guillermo, our Argentinian companion. "You are expected to be affectionate as foreigners," he noted. So, in my attempts at a sociological experiment, I scooted Jordan into my space and embraced her intermittently. The ambiguous stares she'd gotten since I've arrived near-faded after that moment. The bar was filled with bored servers who never seemed to interrupt their deadpan stares at her, felt uncomfortable continuing to do so once I'd established the nature of our relations physically and they somehow found work to do. She's mentioned that I shouldn't contact her because men glare at her, possibly insinuating that she's loose or behaving inelegantly.

But from last night's discovery, I want to continue displaying this sort of dominant male behavior to strangers, if it will lead to less lecherous looks. Perhaps this is due in part to ascribed gender roles the Indians make for themselves and we are to take part in this social order ourselves. I, however, am going to grow tired of acting on the defensive if I have to stare others down all the time. The taboo against staring at people which adults abide by in the West isn't felt here. The so-called bar we sat in at Solan had a young man locked onto Jordan for the duration of our hour-long dinner. He refused to break his stare, even when he started to advertise his tourism business to me. In fact, most men speak to me solely, splicing conversation with how beautiful my occidental female companion is. These actions must regard more common gender values held here as the only people genuinely interested to speak to both of us are Westerners or those that deal with them on the regular.

But all is not victimizing social lancing here. Many of our interactions are from purchasing goods. Service is exceptional and the interest people have in us is not limited to just business transactions. Though some seek monetary gain from our piggy-bank reputation, many just want to know what life is like for us back home or what we think of their India. The cost of things seems to be normalized towards perceived product value and not the actual work performed in working with said items, so few seem bitter about the market price despite the effort it takes to sell something. Peeling fruit, brewing sugar-free chai or clearing tables throughout meals doesn't demand any more of a price than if we'd stuck to default options from lazier, poorer attendants. Sometimes, the cheapness of the same products elsewhere surprises us and makes us lament returning to the States to pay our domestic prices for the same things. Blue collar work doesn't seem to be beyond anyone here either, unlike our entitled culture back home. Shimla features porters who carry colossal loads on their backs, uphill in battered flip-flops, and make less than Rs. 300 a day.

We've gone to not tipping unless awkwardly implied upon us and though 40 cents to a dollar on the total sum isn't much, I think inflated prices will take care of any discrepancies on our part. I don't agree with the tipping system as it exists in the U.S., substituting itself for a livable worker wage as through an arbitrary percentage. That being said, I will continue to take advantage of it for my own income as I've had for the past year. Why should any service automatically expect tipping if nothing exceptional was performed for the customer?

Our host here is ineffably gracious in setting up the tour to Kinnaur. Without him, we'd be wracking our noggins on how to tie together every confounding factor for the trip, especially transportation. Though I've had no problem navigating trains and buses by asking strangers about destinations, rates, and schedules, places like the bus transit hubs are a nightmare. They are a cluster-fuck of luggage-clad Indians and aloof Westerners, scrambling to make sense of a completely unreliable transportation system. We re-seat ourselves several times in varying buses as drivers change their minds about the routes. I'll ask a few times how to get to where we're intending to go, grab seats inside, and then find that the whole bus is emptied when the driver reneges on their choice. Rickshaws don't post average rates and our own suggested prices are the only way we parse their fares. Even the elegant booking system of Cleartrip, which we use to book every train, has let us down. We booked seats that were five times the regular price of a lower berth yet we sat in an unmarked rail car with every other traveler. This was, coincidentally, where were met Guillermo and other nice backpackers. Though I've never been on the underground rail in Delhi, which I'm told is a display to be experienced as hundreds shovel in and around the cars with furious fervor, I've felt the calamity Indians seem to experience when getting in and off trains and bus stops elsewhere. There's a harried, uncompromising attitude where you're shoved and boxed in every time the vessel stops. It's quite amusing from my perspective as I'm used to polite and cautious embarking and departure. So, I shove along with the best and tell Jordan to hold onto my pack. Working in a nightclub, porting large loads in betwixt crowds, for the past year had prepared me better than I expected.

Our trip is unfathomably fortuitous. We get bang-up deals and meet sweet people. We spot glorious sites and marvel without interruption. We're alone here, in between the varied interactions with strangers and daily purchasing queries, and we couldn't have envisioned it better. Sparse contact between my friends and family back home has left me with a lot of relief that I'm able to enjoy my months with Jordan fully without worrying about home. I've looked into hashing here somewhat and it seems Delhi is the only option but with their web page covering the calendar up til 2010, I'm hesitant to believe there will be any opportunity to yell, “On-On.” I've spotted the hasher feet stuck to running store entrances and hotel doors but that may be an association I'm making fallaciously. The night I “raced” Jussi in Ambala was the closest I'd come to hashing since I'd left. I was hammered off of the last of our Maker's and the Seagram's Blended Scotch our pimp proprietor Rajesh kept offering. I stepped into heaping, muckish cow shit numerous times in the pitch-black before I ended the quarter-kilo drunk endeavor. Formally, I've run twice here, scantily clad of course, and have never felt more gallant in my life. Everyone is staring down at my junk, as foreseen, and girls have been covering their eyes. There are people on every main drag. Alabaster thighs flexing below a billowing, empurpled running skirt might be too much for the Indian populace. Though the hilly views, bowing roads and crisp air all the more make running less of a chore. I look forward to our trek this coming week and will hopefully write shortly afterward. Below are my various snaps, which take such effort to post online here that you should be licking my heels, detailing a taste of my every day sights. There're fewer cows here in Shimla and the ban on plastic packaging has made approaching subjects less intimidating.

Until later.

Delhi from above. I obtained panorama software after the last entry.

A Languor in Rishikesh.

A very local source of building framework.

Dust covers everything beautiful.

These estate houses look menacing.

The idyllic Ganga.

A colossal sprouting Agave on the mountainside.

Agave where you'd least expect it.

Our entry to the Ganga.

We'd later lose sensation in our phalanges from neglect on the Ganges.

Camping outposts on the Ganga.

Jordan and our technologically-devoted raft guide.

Rafting teams floating behind us.

A temple on our approach to docking.

The Russian presence is strong here. Found inside Topi Wali restaurant in Rishikesh.

A schoolboy who ate breakfast at the same time as us daily.

Preparations for a wedding.

Punishment.

I don't usually take cow photographs, but when I do, I make sure they're the most interesting in the world.

The most lecherous, gag-inducing host ever. Vile. So vile.

Jussi, my RACEist hasher and Rajesh's slave.

Unforgivably ugly progeny.

Unrestricted observation on our toy train from Kolka to Solan.

Terracing in the foothills of the Himalayas.

Glamor in Grunge, Solan.

An engine car for the narrow rail train we took from Solan to Shimla. Our train was 2 hours late.

Jordan's first reconnoiter of Shimla.

A coffee house where M. Gandhi used to frequent.

Array of Punjabi pickles in Shimla.

A British-built church from the colonial days in Shimla.

Mister Guy.

2011-11-16T00:25:00.001+05:30

I could use a lozenge. A liter of Maker's Mark from the Schiphol airport in Amsterdam has stepped up instead. En route to Haridwar last night, on our second seating tier berth, we inhaled fumes and filth from fermented cow patties and incinerating trash heaps. Little people threw cookie crumbs on our laps and knocked over spent tea bags from our chai cups. We didn't bat an eyelash. I began writing this last night but the sleep deprivation we've been feeling, Jordan from a newly minted sleep regiment and myself jet lagged, coupled with transport exhaustion made for two very sleepy backpackers. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. There's a plethora of things I want to tell you about but I'm not sure I can keep half of them up in my head for so long.

Schiphol moving walkway. The ceiling is exposed between those shims.

I'm going to try to narrate through my photography, interspersing with captions or the like. It's tough to snap photos of everything without gagging on the cheapness I feel when living the day to day here. You're lucky to get a view, if anything.

I started my journey hungry. My ma had broiled fish and rice from the night before but I'd neglected to peek inside the fridge. I shouldn't have stressed; the Dutch airline KLM served me disgusting amounts of meals and booze. I sneaked off a half liter of wine for meeting Jordan Monday night. I sat between two middle-aged women on my first leg and two Punjabi grandfathers the second. The grandpas remarked how I looked Indian later, explaining why the older one spoke solely in Punjabi to me. He was ancient and quiet and smelled of caramelized onions. I buckled his seat belt and turned the lights on for him. He would just grin toothily and rattle off sentences I couldn't parse. I barely spent any time moving those two days and my tailbone was quite sore.

So anti-paleo, I almost ate there.

747-400, two floors of Indians and Dutch people.

When I left the gate in Delhi, I inquired about coming in again because I felt as if I'd missed the driver. I'd scanned the nametags held up by the numerous taxi operators but couldn't find my own. Three security guard requests later, they'd managed to let me back in to search. India's airport security seems to be run by military grunts who carry rifles and conversation hand in hand. It reminded me of the IDF presence throughout Israeli public arenas. I found my driver whom Jordan and the hotel in New Delhi had arranged for my pickup. I lamented the fact that I was phoneless and hadn't written down Jordan's cell # either. I wasn't sure of the plan for meeting and assumed Jordan was with the driver but when she hadn't shown up, I'd figured she was waiting for me at the hotel. Little had I known she'd been on transit all day as well and was intending to catch the taxi with me there. A phone call came through him and we'd turned around to grab her, waiting at the international arrivals gate.


Our cabbie.


He insisted I hold this.

Delhi seemed quite groomed around the airport. Gas was filled for us at the gas station where we had to exit the vehicle, presumably so we don't drive off with free petrol. I saw horse drawn carriages, three-wheeled rickshaws and motorbikes carrying three too many on junky roads. I experienced the frightful proximity that drivers practice here, stopping uncomfortably close between road bump queues and other traffic stops. Jordan and I tried our best to restrain affection, having been told by Asha that some unscrupulous Indians will spit or throw water at us, protected in the anonymity of the crowds. It was intermittent finger petting and exasperated grins that got us through until we arrived at the hotel in Pahar Ganj. Tipping here is customary with a roughly 10% mean. Because the driver had to turn around to pick Jordan up, we gave closer to 15%, Rs. 70 on a Rs. 600 fare. Our driver was downright distraught at such an amount, most likely thinking he had a piggy bank to crack in his midst. He shared his disapproval with the audience at the hotel downstairs who hadn't seemed to share his sentiments.

View from our Delhi room.

We walked past what appeared to be a water filter machine and hot plate coils. Our room came with a large key lock, several deadbolts, a king sized bed clad with sheets and blankets, a sitting toilet and bidet nozzle, supposed hot water shower and buckets for washing. We wasted no time to crack into the Maker's and cuddle into the wee hours. It was remarkable to finally be in each others arms after all these weeks of anticipation.

Day Tonight Pose.

Our next day required a top-up of our internet plan, Rs. 999 for achingly slow browsing. I brought a classic Nokia cell to use here but with us never planning on separating, it's dead weight for me to carry. I exchanged $100 at a spice dealer at an unofficial rate, losing approximately 2 dollars as commission.

Our breakfast view.

We had breakfast at a restaurant that Jordan had eaten at before and ended up eating someone's plate as it was served to me. A masala omelet, some Israeli dish of tomatoes and eggs, a Chinese noodle fry and two teas came out to be roughly $3.75. We chatted with the server, who told me I was quite lucky that day, eating someone's meal. He inquired about my flip-flops and tried them on, remarking about their comfort. I tried his on, hesitantly, as I'm not used to such an exchange. He spoke Japanese to me after telling me the story of his Japanese ex, and me mine. We took down his contact information in case we'd see him again.

Breakfast, complete with a stolen dish.

A companion like none other!

After checking out, we went out to obtain some polarized sunglasses. I scored a pair after bargaining down from an initial Rs. 1000 to Rs. 250. I was just as lucky finding a pair for Jordan for Rs. 10 more. They were 20 cents superior to mine as I'd noticed later I was missing a nose pad. Jordan enjoys having me beside her because the touts harass her less. There's a lot of bustle down any street with these shops. Everyone is pushy about selling some crap and some follow you indefinitely. I ignore most of these offers; I'm not in India to buy shit.

A main drag in Delhi.

We found another exchange place, this one with a more preferable rate of Rs. 49.50 to a $1. Someone else invited us for tea, wherever we could meet him, as he was leaving Delhi in a few days. We took down his information, unlikely to see him again. I bought some more secure flip-flips as I was on the quest for rafting sandals. They have several gimmicky branding marks but at Rs. 150, I don't care how they appear or what happens to them. This line of logic might be appalling to the impoverished denizen without a pair of shoes to their name here. The destitute individuals don't evoke any special emotions from me; I was prepared for it. I try not to gawk at the limbless but I feel justified as everyone else stares us down, especially at transit stations. The unusual, Northern Indian stranger, a persona I'm adopting, seems to be coping well with the culture shock. Kenya certainly prepared me and I draw many similarities from my experiences there, though never direct comparisons.

Our server friends at the Everest Restaurant.

Is good, no?

An excellent juxtaposition.

We walked up 3 flights of stairs to have a lassi before our train ride, hoping to overlook what appeared to be a less busy day in New Delhi. Our Nepalese server quietly mentioned beer after we looked through the menu. "They probably don't have a liqueur license," Jordan remarked. Two tall Kingfisher bottles, wrapped in newspaper, came out along with a couple of ceramic mugs. Jordan ordered a lemon mint water too. I spotted a hawk amidst the lighting fixtures. I told another server this but he was unimpressed. "It's there every day. Pigeons, see?" he pointed. This led to our introduction. A lengthy conversation about New Years, prog and classic rock, deejaying, and beaches held us together for nearly an hour. Alox, as he's known in the bars he plays at, dated a Russian woman for a while. We conversed in Russian, and I snickered at my thought, a few days earlier, about how I'd probably never use Russian here in India. I poured a shot of Maker's for him, under the table, but he refused on the grounds of his inability to stop after just one. So the restaurant owner drank it down and requested another minutes later, wanting to feel a buzz so that he could dance to the music being played. Alox said the owner's always dancing. We headed down and out towards the train station after attaining Alox's number. The navigation was quite simple to find our train and I even got into a tiff with some cargo porter as I was trying to take a photo of the tracks below. He mouthed off something about India not being my country so I should move and I told him to promptly fuck off and find his own way around me. First fight in India, check.

The Delhi train yard.

The train ride was quite long but we hadn't taken down the estimated arrival time so we were forced to guess 7 hours. It cost us Rs. 214 to go all the way to Haridwar. For those counting, that's about $2 a head. We drank several cups of chai as the attendants came down the walkway chanting, "Chai, Chai, Chai." They offered Veg Pizza, cookies, chocolate and chips. I thought this was perverse and refused to even think about trying them. Still, everything was done in a very Indian way for something completely foreign. The shit smell wafted throughout the cabin and my throat and eyes itched for quite a while as soot entered my system. A virus entered too, as I've been achy and sick for the past few days. As we exited the train, we made our way down to an alley where a man offered a room for Rs. 300. Unwilling to argue over the price, we settled. That's a $3 room, again for those of you with me. Most of my bargaining is about being fair, not cheap. The next day someone offered the same quality stay for Rs. 250 but we weren't aghast at the loss of a dollar between the two of us. We passed out on what felt like butcher paper lined mattresses and slept the whole night until some cacophony of loogie hawking and water splashing woke me up.

We enjoyed cauliflower paratha, black dal stew with butter and cheese, and teas. We strolled through some backroads and entered a schoolyard where the principal met with us and told us about primary and secondary schooling. I mistook a pregnant dog for a goat and found bitter gourd growing in the street. After checking out, we hopped on a bus to Rishikesh for Rs. 23 a piece. From there, we found a rickshaw that took us to the commercial part of town and we made our way to our home for the next few days, Krishna Cottage. Jordan met some of her fellow students from the program and we headed to our very pleasant room and balcony on the second floor. The hot water works here and the floor is a clean marble plate. The walls are pink, something we've been seeing a lot of since we got here. Baby-making shades, I suspect. You get either baby pink or blue, and no free bowl of condoms as I was led to be deceived.

The bus ride from Haridwar to Rishikesh.

The bridge over the Ganga to Swarg Ashram, Rishikesh. Limbless beggars every 20m.

We had a tasty breakfast this morning at the nearby Oasis cafe and separated for our morning duties: Jordan went to do yoga and I came to write here. We're going to inquire about the hiking opportunities nearby with a special emphasis on the possibility of bouldering.


Splooge, like someone did on our wall.

I get strained trying to remember all of the details and day-to-day itinerary regurgitation. So, I'll most likely post when we get to somewhere new or do something interesting. My cultural examinations are to come but first impressions lead me to believe that India works without a lot of people complaining. Business is innovative, interspersed with Western practices, a kind of remodeling of ideas to fit the culture here. This is consistent with the rest of the world importing foreign ideas, I'm sure. I'd like to date the buildings or trees here but even that proves difficult. The idea that a billion plus people make for a crowded living situation hasn't made me claustrophobic yet; everything is demi-urbanized and people are inhabiting space everywhere but not to the degree of stepping on another. You wont find much quiet space anywhere we've been. I'll see what the mountains offer. I'm thrilled to be here and hope to find inner solace with all the tumult going on for me this past year. I'll post again soon.

Stuffing it.

2011-11-12T11:07:00.001+05:30

Sabbath is over, at least for this atheist. I'm in a forest green robe, pondering over my coming months with Jordan and the subcontinent. I've said this to her but feel inclined to share: I believe this voyage will be my greatest undertaking yet. As daring as my uprooting to Phoenix felt, sleeping on the floor of my step-brother's and knowing none, I feel like I can balk at the mood I once felt. I'm delighted to be doing this with someone who rides the same tonal waves we emit. She helps me forget how tone deaf I appear to everyone else sometimes.

I'm a minimalist. Sometimes, when I acquire a lot more than I feel like I can chew through, I desert the material cache without guilt. It's insensible for me to latch on to anything more than memories. I have less these days than the past and the list grows smaller.

In honor of my glutes and the small of my back, I'm going to try to pack as lightly as possible. I will acquire little more than postcards and chatchkis over these next few months so spare space will need to accommodate little else. I'm going to bring less electronics than I've had during previous vacations but the necessities of having the web and a phone are already taken care of there. I'm following a stranger's packing list. It's not that I lack confidence in my own but reading site-specific recommendations is more useful. I borrowed this one from the IndiaMike.com forum. I'm posting it, word for word so that you have can reference it too, should I see you there.

My Backpack - What goes in and how (with pictures)

I thought I'd contribute to the packing forum for the first proper time with a guide to what I typically pack on an extended (say 1 month+) trip in Asia.

The following is pretty much exactly what I've taken with me on a number of trips across Asia. It assumes a diversity in the climate of the places I'm planning to visit, but also that any extra items required for activities such as trekking may be rented on the road with no need to account for them beforehand.

It assumes that on occasion, I may actually want to look somewhat smart and acceptable for things like special occasions or night-clubs.

It also assumes that while traveling between places, I'm wearing the absolute minimum:

1 pair flip-flops (or thongs), 1 t-shirt, 1 pair underwear, 1 pair shorts and 1 money-belt (w/ passport, cash and cards).

Here is the 55 liter backpack I've used for the last 6 years:

It is divided into 5 sections: 1 at the bottom, 1 in the center, 2 smaller side pockets, and 1 in the lid of the bag. In the above photo, it contains the following:

Bottom section:
1 towel
1 pair thermal underwear
1 sleeping-sheet
1 pair shoes suitable for hiking (but not full-on hiking boots).
1 pair sandals
3 (unread or finished) books

Side pockets:
One side carries 3 pairs socks and 4 pairs underwear
The other side holds my phone, camera and ipod chargers, along with my belt.

Central section:
1 pair light trousers or jeans
1 light hoodie or fleece
1 long-sleeved shirt
1 pair shorts (normally use 3/4 length when traveling)
1 pair swimming shorts
4 t-shirts (including one with collar)
1 bathroom bag (see below)
1 shoulder bag (see below)

The lid
In this section I carry just my guide-book, and whatever book I'm reading at that time. I leave space in this part for things I pick up along the way, as it is the most accessible section of the bag while traveling.

As noted above, I leave space in the main central compartment for my bathroom bag (right) and shoulder (day) bag (left), which each carry a number of items:

I use the shoulder bag as a day-pack for sight-seeing, wandering around etc.

It carries:
1 iPod
1 camera
1 mobile phone
2 pens
1 note-book
prescription glasses
sunglasses
1 lighter
1 padlock (preferably combination)
1 antibacterial hand-gel
1 penknife
1 headlamp

See:

My bathroom bag holds:
1 toothbrush
1 toothpaste
1 floss
1 razor w/blades
1 shampoo/shower gel
1 sun cream
1 mozzie repellent
1 roll-on deodorant
1 small medical bag, which includes:
(water-purifying tablets, painkillers, plasters, bandage, antiseptic solution, antibiotic powder, swabs)

See:

What I don't bring:
I don't travel with a sleeping-bag, mozzie net or anything to deal with rain barring a rain cover for the back-pack which is in a hidden pocket at the bottom. But I generally travel in hot places where rain isn't such a problem. When it does rain, I get wet :D
When it gets cold, I layer up, with the thermals being particularly useful. Only in Nepal have I had to buy extra items, and that was in advance of a 2-week trek.

Note: for many people, the above will be either too much or too little. Everyone has their own preferences and style when it comes to packing. On my first backpacking trip around Europe 8 years ago, I carried an 80-liter bag which contained all of the above and a whole lot more, including a tent and sleeping-bag, and eventually a Moroccan rug. It took another trip after that before I hit upon the above as my ideal pack.

I've just trimmed my beard and will not scoff at paying Rs. 100 for another. Canned shaving cream just sounds like imminent terror. I'm bringing my bouldering gear and a flask. A mimikaki :

Anyhow, I can list off more but it's getting cumbersome and keeping me from actually packing the bag. I've decided to take ~$200 to convert and $1800 on a Capital One Debit Card. It should allow me to convert money at the thousands of ATMs in India without paying conversion or ATM fees. I searched quite intensely last month for such a card. I'm budgeting around $25 a day. Coming home with cash is obviously optimal but I'm prepared to splurge on better class train tickets or getting shitfaced.

My anxiousness is going to make sleeping really hard these next few days. Cheers melatonin.

Allo.

2011-11-12T00:26:00.001+05:30

Preliminary posting here:

I'm using a former, whiny blog I wrote in to restore your joyous opinions of me, not as some prat who seethes wanton hatred of ze world but as some half-dressed, beer-loving, locomotion-obsessed globetrotter.

I should have documented Western Kenya, New Orleans, or Raleigh but hindsight is really clear. So at least I'm starting here, a lot more mature than I had been during those travels and much more motivated to write about them. I'll be packing tonight so I'll let you in on more when I post again. I've last-minute preparations to make now, including seeing family. So, until later comrades!

Feel free to post photographs of yourselves naked. I want to justify changing this blog to an adult one. /kidding

I miss you all already.