Nothing in the car seemed real and at this point, nothing in this life seems real. Each decision we make brings a cascade of consequences that make my internal voice scream, WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING.

I imagine we looked like a carefree family driving home from a holiday. Vinnie’s hair had just been cut but it was much longer than in our previous life. Three suntanned kids were snoring, packed into an SUV that was filled to the top with suitcases, bicycles, and sand. The vineyards and cow pastures and quick glimpses of ocean were met with the excitement that you feel on holiday. “Look how gorgeous!” we repeated, but we didn’t say “welcome home.”

At this point what is home?

Beatrix claims she’s from a bathtub or “from Chinese” because she knows she was born in a bathtub and can vaguely remember studying Chinese at her Singapore preschool.

Rocco has begun practicing a new accent. I can hear him deliberately dropping the harsh American ‘R’ (sugar) with a very odd, very Brittish-and-not-at-all-Australian ‘Ah’ (sugah). He’s struggling to work out where he’s from, which is more than a little difficult because he doesn’t look incredibly Singaporean and has never lived in the United States.

Every time we leave the house for longer than a few hours, the kids get curious and, I hate to admit it, a little worried. “Do we live here now?”, “Where are we going?”, “Is this Australia?” Only bubbly, chubby Oscar, who doesn’t mind where he is as long as there is food, doesn’t seem impacted by the upheaval of the past few months.

Our conversation on this drive was disjointed. On the surface we spoke about staying or leaving but we were dancing on a delicate spiderweb of questions about what makes us happy as individuals and together, who we are as a family unit, and what we want from life. How can we resolve any of this in just three hours?

Ten years ago we set out to explore Asia and we stayed. Ten months ago we came to Australia on holiday and we stayed (for the record: we got locked in, then locked out, and then we applied for a visa to stay.) It feels like we’re getting farther and farther from home and I’m just not sure where to go from here.

The post Continued stress and anxiety first appeared on Urban Hikers.

There aren’t many people who spend their year off looking for gaps in a market. I certainly didn’t. But Vinnie did. I met people, ate food and explored. Vinnie met people, had lunches and explored the tech scene. It’s the subtle differences that matter in this story.

It started in Beijing. He woke up early, squeezed into the MRT at rush hour, and dropped in on a few tech companies to get a better understanding of how they tick. I got out of bed late and casually strolled past the shared outdoor toilets of our hutong on a quest to revisit my favorite street food breakfast. The companies that he visited showed him around and then showed him out the door. The Chinese tech scene was too hostile to foreigners and he wasn’t going to get the inside view he was looking for. I was much more successful on my quest for delicious Jianbing.

I didn’t know that this was going to happen in every city. If I had just insisted that we spend the entire year at the beach, our life might be completely different.

Instead we hit up Hanoi and HCM, Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok and along the way Vinnie’s big brain began to churn. He spoke with young entrepreneurs, he reached out to bloggers and event organizers and he met with friends-of-friends in the tech scene.

I thought he was being friendly. It was amazing to get a street-level perspective on a city and we joked about putting together an app called ‘travel like a local’ so people could bypass the guidebook and get an authentic night out in a new city.

The joke, apparently, was on me because he was already putting the pieces for his next business together. I’m not sure he knew it. I definitely did not. But I should have, right? We were there, joking about starting a travel company. Clearly he was busy thinking about his next move and I was only thinking about our next city and our next meal.

(Judging from the photos, I probably should have held back on a few of those meals. Yikes!)

Then we visited Singapore.

And that’s where it came together for him. It was the perfect mix of generational experience in the tech scene, government backing and eager entrepreneurs who had tasted Silicon Valley and wanted more.

He’s written a lot more about this topic, if you’re interested. It has everything to do with my life but I couldn’t care to bore you with the details. But this is how it went down:

I survived scooter burns, overweight amorous Russians and broken-down high-speed canoes in Vietnam while Vinnie sat in a cafe in Singapore planning. “Planning what? Planning why!?” I was already jealous and frustrated and weren’t we supposed to be backpacking?

In Thailand I ran into hill tribes who were traveling by elephant, slept next to Germans in pink budgie smugglers and paid a blind man to sit on me for two hours a day. Still Vinnie preferred to spend his time in Singapore, meeting, lunching, more planning.

The planning came to an end and he brought hundreds of people together for the first hackathon in Sout East Asia. If I were a more supportive wife, I would point out that years later every single corporate would have a digital outreach arm that hosts exactly this event. I would mention that several of the participants became notable entrepreneurs in the SEA tech scene. I might even link to the write up in Straits Times, the leading publication approved and supported by the Singapore government.

But I’m not that supportive and I look back on this event as the night that locked me into an unconscionable contract. This wasn’t the life that I wanted and I knew pretty early on that it was going to be rough going.

Vinnie dropped the bomb at dinner, he wanted to stay. I cried into my Swenson’s sausage hamburger served with a side of chili sauce. I cried because we’d been on the road for nearly a year and all I wanted a hamburger with ketchup. In Singapore a hamburger costs $17 and does not include fries. It definitely doesn’t include a beer. We wouldn’t be able to afford this meal until 2018.

I cried because although bright, clean, and colorful, the culture in Singapore is repressively obedient, conformist and driven to material success. It’s not enough just to enjoy life, in Singapore you need to show that you enjoy it. Flash your labels, your cash, your cars and your wealth. And if you don’t have enough to flash, fake it. I’m incredibly bad at faking it and we certainly didn’t have anything to flash.

I cried because I’m fucking prophetic and so is he. I knew that this was not the place for me and he knew that this was the place for him. Vinnie was convinced that he saw an unmet need in early stage investment in SEA and he wanted to go for it.

I looked at my soggy sausage hamburger and calculated.

Singapore makes its presence known at night. During the day you see the bright sky, the sun searing down and you’re prepared for the heat when it hits you. At night the air looks calm, the ocean water is flat, and you walk outside to gulp the cold air and refresh your lungs. Instead of crisp night air you’re met with the slap of humidity as it immediately chokes your airway and wraps itself around your body. You feel the weight of humidity on your body, even as you sit very still, processing.

The exact calculation I made was this: it takes two years to fail. I can deal with anything for two years – ANYTHING. If he makes it two years, that’s success and we’re also able to leave. So fail or succeed, we have a two year adventure.

Oh, baby Kristine of 2011. The things you didn’t know.

This travel log shut down, notably because VCs are gossipy buggers and the more I wrote about our lack of money, questionable housing, and the struggle to launch a venture firm, the less legit Vinnie looked.

And really who would give this guy money in 2011?

But people did. And companies did. And sovereign wealth funds did.

And Vinnie was right. There was an unmet need for early stage funding in the SEA tech scene in 2011. And I was right, Singapore is not a good place for me. But I was also dead wrong because it doesn’t take two years to build a company and succeed or fail. It takes early mornings calls and late night networking, it takes weekends of conferences and fellowships and graduate programs, it takes months spent in an airplane flying after deals and years of crushing rejection or celebratory deal signing.

And nearly ten years into this life, we were in therapy to understand how we got here, how can we slow down and where could we go next. What would it take for us to be able to leave?

There was absolutely no way of knowing that all it would take a global pandemic and some really good burgers and beer.

The post How we got here first appeared on Urban Hikers.

Yes, it seems that in our search to find the least expensive hotel in town, we’ve landed at the notorious Hotel 81 – a chain of hotels known only for one thing: hourly room rentals.

After a full 24-hours in transit we arrived at the seemingly clean and upstanding Hotel 81 to find a drunk, young man bartering down the cost for a room, “What if I rent for two hours, better price?” Even in our blurred, travel weary state we knew what we were getting ourselves into but were happily surprised to find a small, clean room with a separate toilet and shower.  Sure the windows are locked shut and the bed is more of a PVC laminated water-resistant mattress but Hotel 81 is certainly a step up from the living conditions of last year.

The slightly sketchy clientele and the appearance of the round-the-clock housekeeping services at Hotel 81 doesn’t bother me as much as it bothers our Singaporean friends whose reactions to our new home run the gamut from abject revulsion to curiosity and hysterical laughter. “What does it sound like in there!” one friend asked. “Singaporean men are…. you know.”

(And for the record, I don’t know, it’s pretty quiet up in Hotel 81.)

The post Life at Singapore’s most famous Hourly Hotel first appeared on Urban Hikers.

Does this sound insane to you?

Travel was always in the cards. At one particularly gross apartment our wall furnishings included a massive paper map of the world. Each month as we saved money for our fantasy trip, we would color in a different country.  Of course that map only lasted a few months before we were evicted and moved to our first real home – spending the travel money on increased rent and a couch that didn’t smell like the whorehouse that it came from (all of this is true).

Packing our bags and selling all of our earthly possessions (it’s amazing how many possessions you can accumulate in a real home) wasn’t a difficult decision.  It may have been made rashly and without a lot of planning or concern for our likely living conditions, but it was an idea that had been percolating for years.

Moving to Singapore is more of a strategic decision than a dream.

We chose to backpack through Asia because it was cheap. Our colored-in wall map indicated that we had an estimated US $50 to spend everyday for travel, housing and food. We didn’t know our Shanghai Shakedown from a Singapore Sling but we wanted to explore what was out there.

Now knowing what’s out here – a booming economy and fabulous business opportunities- we’re going to stay for a while.  It’s time to hang up our quick dry underwear and reclaim our rightful place as hardworking members of society. And with all this business going down, maybe we’ll be able to increase that daily budget.

Hello to our new life as Ex-Pats.

The post I don’t know why you say goodbye, I say herro! first appeared on Urban Hikers.

An extra five pounds is certainly preferable to a fist in the face, which is what might happen when you start drinking in South America.

The fastest way to make an enemy in Peru is to mention that their national drink, Pisco Sour, is originally from Chile.  And no matter how much you kick back in Chile never insinuate that, technically, the grape brandy in their favorite tipple originated in Peru. In fact, don’t talk at all, just shut up and enjoy that frothy bitter sweet concoction sent down from the Gods of alcohol.

Food and drink are heated topics worldwide, every country believes that their food is the absolute best. (And they’re all wrong, the award for best food in the world has already been given to San Francisco.) As usual the Middle East brings some very impassioned, very loud voices to the great food debate.

Hummus.

In the Middle East this dish isn’t doomed to linger on the appetizer list. It’s not a dip or a salad or a less-fattening alternative to mayo on your sandwich. Hummus is a meal meant to tide a working man over from morning to night. Huge steaming bowls of creamy, olive oil soaked chickpeas are served alongside massively fluffy, steaming hot pita and perhaps some deep fried falafel.

It takes a lot of work to arrive at point where you can lift the last bit of bread and wipe it across the naked bowl to make certain that the last vestiges of hidden hummus are properly consumed. Most westerners can simply not eat that many beans in one sitting.

BUT I CAN.

Hummus scooped with raw onions and crunchy pickles. Hummus covered with fuul or whole chick peas. Hummus served with meat, hummus with mushrooms, hummus with tahina. I ate it all. Everyday. That is, until I discovered just how many calories a blue-collar bowl of hummus contains. A lot.

HUMMUS.

I refuse to state which (non-)country had the ultimate bowl of this deliciousness for fear of destabilizing the entire region and causing The Great Hummus War.

And because I’m such a peace loving person let me warn you now: no matter where you eat this be careful how you say it. It turns out that my American accented “hum-us” sounds suspiciously like “Hamas” in Arabic…

The post Food Wars first appeared on Urban Hikers.

And I was scared.

I felt very similarly as I took the bus to the Israeli border and walked up to the imposing 26 foot high security wall, continued through the intricate set of turnstiles and down a chain-link fence alley way into Palestine with nary a security check or someone at the border to approve my passage.

In my mind I was thinking, “You’re not in Israel anymore. This is PALESTINE!”

But instead of PALESTINE! I found Bethlehem, a quiet little town surviving from the trickle of tourists that make it across the border. Tour buses of people come to visit the site of Christ’s birth, to kiss his star and absorb some of the holiness that might still lingering in the air. I did this too but after saying my respects to baby Jesus, I wandered around the city streets looking for signs of PALESTINE.

Instead I found love, peace and Banksy!

Bethleham is just too small, I reasoned.  It’s not the “real” Palestine. It’s not the place of malcontents and keffiyeh wearing radicals waiting for statehood. The next day I once again crossed the border, this time into the de-facto capital of the West Bank.

A young Israeli soldier with reflective glasses, heavy black boots and a large automatic weapon boarded the bus to check our papers. Seeing my passport, he studied me.

“This is the bus for Ramallah.”

“Yes,” I responded in my most polite, deferring to authority voice.

“You want to go to Ramallah?!”

“Yes,” with a little less certainty.

In a deep, serious voice he said,”Be very careful”

His words reinforced what I believed, that I am heading to a dangerous place. I am going to find PALESTINE!

I was mentally prepared. I imagined refugee camps, a smattering of chaperoned women with babies and angry men openly carrying guns wandering the rubble strewn streets. I fantasized that my blatant American accent would insight an Anti-American riot culminating with a chorus of bearded men shouting “ku-lu-lu-lu” and shooting machine guns into the air as I was shoved in a van and whisked away to be held for a ransom that was never to be paid. Or at the very least I would get some hostile looks.

So two things should be obvious: one, I clearly have an overactive imagination and two, none of this happened.

Instead of a poorly developed, poverty stricken town, Ramallah is a lively, bustling city overflowing with men, women and children. Ice cream parlors filled with families line the street and jam packed shawarma restaurants are busting at the seams with teenagers on cell phones. The foot traffic on the sidewalk swelled into the street where taxis, buses and the odd new model Audi struggle to move an inch.

There is no sign of rubble or collapsed buildings. Instead you see store upon store and the streets filled with things to buy. Outside the open air malls mannequins with headscarves and full-length grey trench coats stand next to piles of sneakers and lipstick. Nuts, dried fruit and gummy bears sit in huge barrels. It’s nearly impossible to resist the siren call of freshly roasted coffee that wafts from every other shop entrance.

Instead of a rowdy, unemployed youth and angry, radicalized machine-toting men, each and every person I met was unerringly polite.  “You’re from America?” they repeated after learning my homeland. This was quickly followed with “You are welcome here!” or “Welcome to Palestine!”

I walked through the refugee neighborhoods and peered into the homes clearly equipped with the modern basics. I wandered the markets and lingered around the male dominated tea-and-hooka stalls.  I searched high and low for assurance that I was indeed in that famous non-state, the center of conflict in the middle east. Instead I found myself in a peaceful, modern, and distinctly Arab city.

I was in Ramallah just days before Abbas headed to the UN to ask for statehood and when my own government was thwarting that effort. I am amazed at how Middle Easterners – from Jordan to Egypt  – have separated the person from the politics.

It’s intimidating to break out of your comfort zone; no one wants to find out that their assumptions or their stereotypes are misguided. I’ve continued to confront the fact that ‘Arab’ doesn’t mean radical, the Middle East isn’t all bombs over Baghdad and perhaps what I’m sure I “know” is just something I heard on the news.

(My camera broke falling off of that bus to Ramallah so I borrowed the most accurate pics I could find of that city.  Here are some shots of Bethlehem.)

The post THIS IS PALESTINE! first appeared on Urban Hikers.

For Jews it’s the cornerstone of the world, the location of the Holy of the Holies and where your prayers go straight to heaven. For Christians these are the streets where Christ walked, where he healed the blind, ate his last supper and eventually died for the sins of the world. For Muslims it’s the third holiest city after Mecca and Medina, where Mohammed ascended to heaven.

The city was destroyed by the Romans, sought after by the crusaders and remains a core issue in the Israeli-Palenstian conflict.

This is SERIOUS SHIT.

Entering the city walls is like entering a spiritual vortex where millenia of religious struggle weighs upon you. And then there are the guns. Lots and lots of guns.

Groups of Orthodox Christians dressed in bright colors and headscarves wander alongside orthodox Jews with huge black hats and curly sideburns who brush past Muslim women covered in all-encompassing black dresses. Everywhere you look there is a different sect, a different set of beliefs, a different uniform, a different way of worshiping God.

At every church, every temple, every wall there was a person covering their face, crying, or rubbing their religious accoutrements against a holy stone, or kissing the building. Groups of tourists carry a huge cross to recreate Christ’s final steps. They stop along the way to drop their cross in the same place where Jesus fell for the first time or pause to pray at the place where he met his mother.

It was a lot to take in and the intensity of this religious furor left me depleted and bewildered. I expected to feel some connection, some familiarity with the rites and rituals of my upbringing. Instead I felt as confused as I was when I cleansed my soul in the Ganges, entered the Masjid Negara or meditated my way towards enlightenment. It all felt foreign to me.

And mixed in with all that religion, politics is simmer just underneath the surface. Little kids run around aiming plastic pistols at each other. Gates to the Temple Mount are guarded by men with machine guns and when they see a non-muslim heading to entrance, they block the path with their gun. All religions are allowed to the Western wall, but to get there you pass through metal detectors. Groups of Israeli soldiers with guns mill around the plaza.

There are way too many guns in what is supposed Holy Land.

Squabbles between different sects of Christianity is not unheard of. Five different groups of Christians claim ownership of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre – the  site where Christ was crucified – and run the site by ‘status quo.’  Everyone must agree before changes are made to any common area but agreements rarely happen.  There is ladder from construction that took place in the 19th century still leaning against the building. The can’t agree to move it.

I spent several days wandering the old city contemplating WHAT DOES THIS MEAN. Surrounded by all that religious piety and political tension, I felt exhausted and not at all uplifted.

Finally I decided that it doesn’t mean anything – it’s OK that I don’t want to carry the cross down the Via Dolorosa or believe that my prayers at the Western wall go straight to God. It was enough to be there and witness, once again, the diversity that exists in our world and remember that I don’t have to understand everything.

So after four days in Jerusalem, I said a prayer for my Grandma and I felt comforted by this quote from the 14th Dalai Lama,

I don’t think there could ever be just one single philosophy or one single religion. Since there are so many different types of people, with a range of tendencies and inclinations, it is quite fitting that there are differences between religions. And the fact that there are so many different descriptions of the religious path shows how rich religion is.”

(Pics of my first few days, no photos of the temple mount because my camera fell out of the bus and broke.)

The post Are you there God? It’s me, Kristine. first appeared on Urban Hikers.

I arrived prepared.

At the airport in Amman I was ready for lascivious, predatory taxi drivers and questioning stares from burka clad women. My guard was up: shoulders back, reflective sunglasses firmly in place and Beyonce loudly cheering me on in my headphones.

Perhaps my guard was too firmly in place. A man waiting outside the airport attempted to help me – to sell me a ticket, direct me to the next bus and place my bag in a pile of other luggage. In return he received a stern dressing down, replete with finger pointing and accusations that he was either overcharging me or attempting to steal my only possessions. The words, “My Husband!” and “Italian Mafia!” may have have been thrown around.

It turns out that he was the bus driver.

He had clearly heard the accusations before because he calmly pointed to his price list and time schedule. The bus left 20 minutes later with my belongings firmly secured in the back of the locked trunk. This was my first indication that my expectations may be off the mark.

This was confirmed the longer I stayed in Jordan.

On the street strangers would approach me, wanting to know where I came from and why I was traveling alone. Instead of the ardently anti-American refrain that I had prepared for, each and every person gave a huge smile and proclaimed, “Welcome to my country!” -or- “You’re American? You’re welcome here!”

It wasn’t just the absence of anti-western sentiment that surprised me; the most difficult aspects of travel – bargaining, transportation, and avoiding touts- were far easier in Jordan than in Asia. The word ‘No!’ actually works in Jordan! Bargaining was as simple as saying, “I’ll only give you 50cents for that bottle of water.” Cabs readily turned on their meters and the only guide who offered his services was a 75 year old homeless man.

In fact, the only problem was that too many people wanted to help me. Women on the bus made certain that I paid the correct amount and counted my change. Cars would slow down to ask if I was lost or if I needed help. Everywhere I went men warned against other men, “watch for dangerous guys at the beach! Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you..”

Confronted with all this kindness, I left Jordan with the feeling that I was missed out on the best part of this country. I felt that I couldn’t accept this genuine hospitality because I was a single woman and it might give the wrong impression.

Every night I relaxed at the same restaurant and every night after serving his tables my very gentile waiter would invite me to join him at his table for dinner. I really wanted to sit with him, to ask questions and hear about his life. Instead every night I declined – smiling demurely, sitting all alone, enjoying my second sweet mint tea. I knew this man wasn’t interested in me romantically but I didn’t sit with him because I didn’t want to give his friends the wrong idea.

I am the type of person to say ‘Yes!’ and I enjoy finding myself in unusual, interesting, and exciting circumstances -  the very experiences that have made this trip so memorable. But in Jordan I felt that I didn’t have that luxury. Although I felt incredibly safe, it was clear that I was in a man’s world and that there were specific gender roles that I needed to follow.

I enjoyed my time in Jordan – it’s safe, stunning and full of warm, welcoming people. But to really enjoy every minute and take advantage of every opportunity, it helps to bring a friend.

The post All The Single Ladies! first appeared on Urban Hikers.

Every time we left for a new city I would think, “OK, this next city will be different. There will be fewer people, better roads, more development.” But that never really happened and after a while I lost that sense of expectation and became accustomed to India. Not just accustomed, we joined in, becoming active participants in a life filled with constant stimulation.

Gradually we developed an ever-present state of preparedness – we were constantly ready to face the onslaught of traffic, prepared for the crush of humanity that you face while getting on the train and geared up to fight off the touts, the vendors and the beggars. We became numb to the sorry state of garbage disposal, readily accepted the abject poverty and eventually enjoyed bargaining for each and everything we purchased. Instead of all the insanity, we simply saw why ‘India is Incredible!’ and enjoyed the ride.

And then we left.

Our flight landed in Dubai, one of the wealthiest cities in the world. We stared at the gleaming marble floors, the crisp reflection in the spotless mirrors and the heavy sense of quiet. Instead of talking in normal tones, we whispered, uncertain of the rules in this pristine new environment. In the hotel we marveled at the hot water and called the front desk to learn if we were allowed to flush toilet paper in the toilet (yes, you can).

Outside we were faced with a resounding lack of car horns, no one was proudly inviting us into his store, or gazing up at us, motioning for food. No one pushed against us to rush out the door or crowded us at the ATM. Where were the people, the animals, the LIFE?

Suddenly, we deflated. We went into withdrawal. The adrenaline that kept us pumped for months drained away leaving a shell of exhaustion. We acted like accident victims who could only look at each other and say, “Did that really happen!?”

Yes, I believe it really did.

The post So this is exhaustion… first appeared on Urban Hikers.

Oh my God, Varanasi.

It’s impossible to translate the utter shock, dismay and overwhelming fascination that you feel when confronted with this place that’s “older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together.” (Thanks Mark Twain!)

This is the famed city where the faithful come to die so their spirit can be released from the cycle of birth and death. Where male family members cremate their loved ones in open funeral pyres and scattered their ashes into the Ganga. The very same water where thousands of people dip to cleanse their souls and wash their laundry. Where toxic runoff from local factories mix with cow excrement and untreated human sewage to form a potent brown liquid with 120 times the level of fecal bacteria permitted by international safety standards.

We woke up early to visit the flooded ghats. Stairs leading down to the bathing area were covered with water and lonely traffic signs in the river marked the height of the monsoon rains.  We gazed at the current for a few minutes before spotting a large tree trunk floating our way, hitting into boats and getting caught in the fishing wire. The tree moved closer, it’s flexible branches spread in a distinctly familiar position, wrapped in what looked like gauze… What is that? Could is be? Is it possible?

The tree rushed closer to the bathing ghats where several people were washing and drinking the water. The tree slowly came into focus. We blinked. Nooooo…. It was not a tree. IT WAS A BODY. An uncremated, decaying, human body floated down the water, brushing against the pier where we stood, staring slack jawed in shock.

It was at this moment that we decided that we would NOT be joining the bathers as they dipped in the most polluted river in the world.

The next few days were no less interesting. We wandered around ancient alleys, maneuvering around massive cows and into crowds of colorfully dressed pilgrams carrying bottles of dirty brown river water. Skinny sadhus and gregarious holy men approached, asking for food or money, dabbing your forehead with color or shoving a basket of hissing cobras in your direction. Images of Lord Shiva were painted on every surface, flower offerings and remnants of milk colored the narrow walkways. People stood with their heads bowed, lighting candles at small shrines or smoked charras in front of the tall temples that line the river.

The monsoon rains poured down and the Ganges rose to meet the flood water on the street. We walked through the knee deep brown rapids trying not to think about the potential for water borne illness.

In this crush of humanity, with cows, traffic jams and millions of people, it was impossible to forget the reason why we were all here: the spectacle of life and death.

The sandalwood smoke from the funeral pyres drifted over the city, through the ancient walkways and temples. The alleyways spread between two burning ghats, a walk in either direction would eventually pass by the very open display of life passing from it’s physical form into ashes. Beside the burning ghats, children climbed the massive trees that were soon going to be sold for fire wood. At the water men carried their dead loved ones for their final bath in the Ganges. And in the street, right in front of your eyes, fire envelopes what used to be a living person. A foot turns brown, curling backwards as it’s reduced to charred bone. The untouchable man whose family has been burning bodies for centuries pokes at a wayward arm, returning it into the flames.

Varanasi marks the end of our time in India, it’s truly the culmination of everything that we’ve witnessed in this country. A place where striking poverty blends with unparalleled color and beauty. Where life screams past you in a rickshaw and death is just a part of the journey. No matter what God you believe in, he’s waiting for you in a temple, at a shrine or under a Bodhi tree in India.

And let’s not forget those Holy Cows.

The post The Spectacle of Life and Death first appeared on Urban Hikers.