Infini-tea

A lot of movement over the past week is making it difficult to recollect my thoughts.  I don't have much trouble remembering the sequence of events, so I'll look back and see if anything pops out.

We drive for several hours to reach our next destination up in the mountains of Kerala.  The temperature drops significantly and a cool breeze is almost always present.  We stay at a hotel located inside a wildlife preservation park, or a tiger reserve as it is commonly called.  This sounds really enticing at first, but we soon learn that we're essentially trapped in this area from 6pm until we depart the next day.  You can't actually go anywhere without a paid guide (despite paying the entrance fees to the forest service), and there is only about a mile of road to walk on in between gate and preserve entrance.  Strangely this makes me feel cagey and a little frustrated.  The preserve feels like an amusement park and all of the attractions cost quite a bit more.  This place gets a large number of tourists so I completely understand the need to regulate foot traffic and waste, but I can't shake that lingering frustration for a while.

We partake in an early morning nature walk at Periyar.  Our guide takes us for a long walk through the preserve and just getting to move freely (after paying, of course) improves my mood significantly.  We didn't see anything "as advertised" such as tigers or elephants, but there were some cool features to discover (admittedly most of these would be lost on us without a guide).  The cicada are numerous in the trees, and we find ourselves in the thick of their impressively loud stridulation.  I can feel the air pulsating in my ear canals and it borders on pain.  I can hardly hear our guide speaking anymore so I just smile and nod as we walk along, catching fragments of information.  A cool experience overall, but prompted some much needed expectation adjustment.  Exploring natural areas in India is far different from what I imagined.

On the following day we travel to one of the most beautiful unnatural areas I've laid eyes on.  Our altitude increases even more as we drive into the mountains.  Eventually the dense forest all around us recedes to reveal hundreds of square kilometers of tea plants.  The terraced hillside seems to proudly display all of these well manicured bushes.  Women slowly move between rows on the steep inclines, expertly snipping the young, fresh leaves and storing them in sacks which they then haul on their heads.  The tea estates stretch as far as I can see, and that distance is notably greater now that we've left the pollution-ridden cities.

We arrive at our destination, Munnar, a town nestled in a quaint little valley.  It's fairly populated, but the people seem to adhere to higher standards of waste management.  This is the first place that I've seen different receptacles for trash, plastic, etc.  The roadways are lined with anti-litter slogans, some of which are very strongly worded.  While littering is illegal, it seems that they don't really impose fines in most areas.  Munnar is either stricter about it or the inhabitants are more conscientious.  Nonetheless the river in the town center is riddled with trash, but far less than any other place we've visited.

Varun and I take advantage of our free evening and hike up past the engineering college, following a goat path to the top of the hill.  I feel much more liberated now that we won't be fined for exploring the area.  We take in the view for some time before heading down.  It was a nice moment to share with somebody.

The following day consisted of some standard sight-seeing.  There are a number of tourist destinations heading up to the water's mountain source which we stop to admire.  At each reservoir the water gets cleaner and bluer until I'm looking at a miniature Lake Tahoe.  The vegetation is lush and the weather is fantastic.  We take some time to walk around each reservoir and soak in the environment.  It's beautiful, but I also feel like I'm getting overloaded with "the sights."  Even just walking through town, wandering, I feel a little bit more in touch with India than hopping in a car to go to the next place on the list.  I'm happy I get to see so much, but I feel the diminishing return.

On the way back down from Echo Point we see a few more wild elephants.  A number of cars are stopped to check them out, and forest service officials stand nearby to keep people at a safe distance. Jagadeesh informs us that an elephant recently died from ingesting  plastic.  So it seems the guards are there to keep the elephants safe.  It's hard not to feel misanthropic in this moment, yet what does searching for a scapegoat accomplish.  I'm certainly responsible for my own share of death.

I nap the afternoon away before heading out for some solo time.  I exit the hotel, turn right, and I don't come back until sunset.  This road takes me up into another series of hills covered in tea estates.  The view is elating, and I get frustrated with how often I am compelled to stop and take a picture.  It's all beautiful!  Keep going!

Eventually I decide to head straight up into a tea field, marking my route with cairns as I go.  My goal was to get to the nearest peak, but after a while I find myself up against a barrier of dense forest.  The forest that likely covered this valley before the tea companies moved in.  I take a moment to consider why I find each one so beautiful.  The tea bushes are so uniformly arranged that they offer a pleasing symmetry.  But the forest is thick and wild, and I can't even find an opening to fight my way in.  It's simply not meant for me to enter, not unless I were to damage it.  As much as I want to get by, I concede and turn back.  Off limits.

Munnar offered a great deal of freedom which I loved, but I am constantly reminded of the cost of displacement.  Of course any human settlement seems to displace animal and plant life, but it was really tempting to say this one felt more pastoral, at least compared to recent destinations.

With our India trip winding down, we head to one last tourist spot before parting ways with Jagadeesh.  It's another tiger reserve so I dial back my expectations in preparation.

Alleppey

It turns out that I misunderstood our plan for the next several days.  Cochin was indeed hot, but we weren't there for more than an hour before embarking on a 6 day travel package.  We have a personal driver for the duration, and the pace is much more rapid as we go to a new town almost each day.  Admittedly I'm quite content to have a break from dealing with logistics especially after some nonsense we had to deal with in Colva.

Cochin is remarkably less dense in terms of population.  The roads are calmer and it feels less polluted.  After getting out of the stifling heat of Goa I feel like I take my first deep breathe in days.

After just a few hours of totally undeserved air conditioning, our driver Jagidish brings us to our overnight houseboat leg.  From here we cruise along the beautiful backwaters of Alleppey.  This is also a notibly popular tourist destination as there are more houseboats moored here than I can count.  We see even more out on the water and I try to imagine how crowded it must be during peak tourist season.  Fortunately the horns aren't used often on these slow moving beasts.

I spend most of my time on the upper deck of the boat, watching the scenery around me.  The waterways are lined with modest houses and palm trees, but just beyond you can see miles of rice fields which seem to be top notch feeding ground for egrets and herons.  Many people are washing their clothes in the water along the banks, producing a wet smacking sound as they whip them clean on the stone sidewalls.  A few anglers cast their lines out as we move along.

The waterways seem endless.  We eventually make our way out to an immense bay which I assume means we've reached the ocean.  Hawks and swifts fly overhead, hunting, only to be accosted by dozens of crows when they finally make their mark.  The wind has picked up, making the water choppy, but the breeze is a welcome sensation.  I watch the birds and the people until we dock for the evening.

We enjoy a nice meal prepared by our crew and then attempt to smoke the opium we acquired in Goa.  It is a bit of a fiasco and we end up throwing out the drug after hours of attempts.  The tobacco we used to kindle the opium ends up being all we feel in the end.

Thousands of flying insects had congregated around the tiny light on the upper deck, so we spend the rest of our evening with it off.  As we make our way back to bed we are greeted by a rather large and terrifying spider that made it's way toward us in the dark.  Both spider and humans seemed pretty grateful that we didn't encounter each other in total darkness.  I'll keep my headlamp handy from now on.

This leg of the trip wasn't necessarily eventful, but it offered a nice moment to decompress and reflect.  My thoughts wandered all over the place.  Back home, last week in Mumbai, how much ground we've covered in such a short time, to what I imagine the future will be like in Thailand and beyond.  On one hand I love the freedom of travel, but moving rapidly to so many different places leaves me feeling exhausted.  Facebook is a danger as well, triggering the "missing out" feelings and sending me into nostalgic daydreams.  I start to miss my friends and routines even more, and not having the option to satisfy those desires makes the longing more intense.  Barely three weeks have passed, but I take my homesickness as a sign that I was doing pretty well for myself back in California.

It's a wonderful thing to be thrown into new territory, but I'm slowly realizing and accepting the cost of travel on my mind and body.  The rewards are many and there are still plenty to reap, but I wonder if this will be it for me.  It's too early to tell, but I suspect that several months of travel will scratch the itch.  The idea of settling in one place for a while seems to suit me better.  Though my attitude may improve when things slow down again.  Each place has a different vibe and I can't predict what will happen next.  I suppose the difficulty is that we never stay in one place long enough to cross the threshold and see its lasting potential.  The nature of travel is just that.  You only have it for a short time, but I usually want more before moving on.  This might just be how things work for a while, and I am trying to temper my expectations.

Goa

I have mixed feelings about Goa.  Perhaps it was from the hyped up expectations that it turned out to be quite underwhelming at times.  It wasn't without its moments, so I'll just do my best to share it all.  I want to write these entries while things are still fresh in my mind, but maybe it's too recent and my ambivalence is coloring the experience.

A few notes in general.  Haggling in India wears me out.  It's hard to tell when you're getting taken advantage of, but I realize that I have more dispensable income to throw around.  The problem with going to tourist hotspots is that you hardly ever get a break from it.  You learn to guard yourself and ignore people.  Hello sir.  Sir!  Step into my shop.  I give you good deal.  You like drum?  Taxi?  Sir!  As I mentioned before regarding Delhi, friendly people would approach us to chit chat or offer directions, but quickly try to get us into this shop or that bazaar.  This even happens during cab rides.  It's inescapable.  But then what's more alarming is when people approach us with something legitimate.  I get caught off guard when people ask me for directions (which happened a handful of times in Goa, where the tourist ratio is higher), and my first thought is,"What does this person want from me?"  So the problem for me isn't so much the stress of constantly being targeted, but rather how automatically I seem to ignore everyone.  I hardly even turn or shake my head anymore.  At some point you filter out the noise, but then it becomes increasingly difficult to tune in when necessary.

Anyway, Goa.

We met an older American gentlemen named Gary in our hostel and went with him to the flea market.  Not having much tolerance for the stifling heat, I rent a scooter and hit up the beach for a quick bite and a drink.

The beach at Anjuna is reminiscent of Isla Vista, but with beachside bars/restaurants/clubs (instead of bro-ey house parties) producing irritatingly loud and repetitive dance music.  People appeared to be enjoying themselves though and I imagine alcohol might adjust my mood.

Did you know that there are 12 different species of Kingfisher in India?  Even the Common Kingfisher is beautifully colored and sings a unique birdsong.  How unusual that this bird would symbolize the flagship of the Indian beer market with the cheapest, crappiest beer you can possibly imagine.  And at 80 cents a pop, my imagination takes a backseat as I numb my senses and give in to the college throwback that is Anjuna beach.

The first two nights we stay in a hostel with other travelers.  After a few weeks with only each other in private rooms we were yearning for some social interaction with strangers.  The hostel was indeed a blast, and we made some like-minded friends in our two short nights there.  We also met many unlike-minded people, but I found this to be useful or amusing rather than irritating.

On the first night Nicole and Varun call it an early night while I go out to the beach with about eight or so of my new buddies from England, Australia, Finland, and Holland.  We head to the only place that is still blairing music at 2am.

Admittedly I'm having a blast on the dance floor.  We're all silly-dancing and sweating Gulabs in the humidity of the night.  After about thirty minutes the gang takes a break outside on the beach, but I'm not done yet.  Jussi and I head back upstairs to get this pit started again and we soon meet the coolest Russian couple ever.  George and Julietta are my favorites, and we quickly lock vibes and dance in overdrive.  George moves like an explosion and I try to copy him.  We're both smiling and laughing and dancing up on each other like I would with my close friends.  His wife throws in some more elegant moves and gets us all dancing cohesively in a circle.  This goes on for a while before they tucker out and we all retreat to the beach.

Our group staked out a large table but it was full, so I continue to hang with these two fascinating Russians.  They tell me how they love to dance and hate drugs and drinking.  I really admire that they know how to let loose without something so easily infused in our lives.  I can't deny that I enjoy the taste of alcohol and the temporary euphoria it brings, but it is so dangerous in ways I don't need to spell out for you.  I'm happy that it's further from my life than it used to be, but it can return without much thought.

Fortunately I was feeling pretty lucid again after sweating out a gallon of water, and I got to have what I thought to be a remarkable conversation.  George told me all about the escalating conflict in the Ukraine which I knew very little about.  His English was good, but we felt a language barrier as he was trying to explain such a complicated issue.  I did some supplemental research later and it struck me as one of those things I might hear about in the news at home but glance over before returning to blissful ignorance.  But given George's emotional intensity during our talk, it's difficult to ignore that empathetic connection.  He was clearly distressed about what his government was saying versus how he felt and saw things, even though he is technically safe in Moscow.  From what I've read there is a lot of corruption and clandestine treachery going on, and it might lead to the breakup and annexation of the Ukraine by force.  I still have more reading to do on the subject, but my interest is piqued.  I appreciate having this moment with George and Julietta to bridge not only a cross-cultural gap, but a national one as well.  It slowly breaks down the walls we've erected all over this earth.  In some ways they might protect us... from each other?  I try to imagine an earth without nationalities and what my life might look like if I could do away with such mental impediments.

I'll probably never hear from George and Julietta again but my thoughts gravitate back to them each day.  How long will it take me to forget this fleeting encounter?  That's the beauty of single serving friends: when you realize that time is short and make the most of it.  It leaves a longer lasting impression.  I still enjoyed my time with the other travelers, but it didn't run so deep.

Incidentally Steph from the UK assumed that George and Julietta were on ecstasy.  I also later found out that she thought I was gay, perhaps from the dance floor antics (and making out with all of those dudes!).  I tend to be more physically comfortable around guys and I not entirely sure why.  I did find her attractive but I'm not the type to move in and flirt on the first night.  Or second.  I definitely notice a guys exhibit this sort of behavior to Nicole even within a few hours of meeting here.  I see that she's not really fazed by it and in most cases it's easy to turn them down without any awkward tension.  I have trouble imagining it going so well if I were doing the same, but I also wonder how much I actually want brief sexual encounters.  Would it really enrich my experience here?  Or maybe I'm just saying that because I'm not getting laid.

On Thursday Varun and I find a really lovely stretch of beach comprised of smooth pebbles of all sizes and colors of dark red, yellow, and black across the shore.  It felt so nice to walk over them with a satisfying crunch.  We then hiked straight up a goat path to the top of the hill for a nice view of the land.  India feels big, but then again you can see for miles where ever you are in the world.

On Friday morning we decide we've had enough of Anjuna and decide to head for the quieter beaches in South Goa.  We arrive to Colva to find it's really more of the same, and we're not too enthralled by the beaches in Goa.  The water looks clean enough, but the bacteria count is almost double the "safe" level from fecal matter running off into the ocean.  Even though I never fully went in the water, my feet are itching furiously.  The itching marks the beginning of a few particularly rough days for me.  I must've been so dehydrated from the heat and alcohol that my body decided to retain excess water in my hands and feet, causing a fair amount of itchiness and pain.  On top of that, I broke out with a rash all over my body.  I'm not really sure what attributed to it other than washing my clothes in a bucket with soap and tap water, but I seem to be through the worst of it.  Cochin will be even hotter, though.  Oh boy.

Elephanta Caves

Today we make the journey to Elephanta.  I avoid working out so I don't bring on any stomach issues.  I eat a hearty breakfast of eggs and oatmeal before taking the doxycyclin just to rule out that possibility as well.

The ferry costs us about 3 dollars.  It's a big, two tier vessel with benches and chairs cast about to accommodate the large number of passengers.  We move at a decent clip and the breeze feels refreshing.  Sitting still in Mumbai can be miserable, so even the slightest breeze from walking comes as a relief.  We pass by a network of pipelines and an impressive navy cruiser.

It's a short hike up to the caves, but the heat makes it feel difficult.  Also travel isn't conducive to getting much cardiograph conditioning, so we're huffing and puffing while the locals don't seem to sweat.  The stairway is lined with market stalls selling the usual fare of souvenirs.

At the cave entrance we were treated to a spectacle of hundreds of painters and sculptors filling the dark passageways to create their own renditions of the cave walls.  As it turns out there is a festival going on over the weekend, part of which features an art competition.  We didn't stay long enough to find out who won, but we got to witness the behind the scenes as each artist diligently went about his or her work.  Although the caves were quite busy, this event definitely enhanced the experience.  I'm sure we would've enjoyed the caves regardless, but this added so much flavor.

We spend the rest of our afternoon being pummeled by the sun as we explore the old fort and cannons that mark the summit.  Varun and I meet a friendly dog who we named Gulab.  A monkey steals an empty lassi bottle from me, and we watch them relentless take food from other passersby.  Nicole befriends several more puppies.  The usual.

Getting back is a bit chaotic.  The return ferry "system" resembles that of anything in India, after all.  After being kicked off of two different boats they finally let us embark.  I sit on the floor of the boat and write for a while, enjoying the occasional ocean spray to come up over the side and cool me off.  The heat cycles will likely get more extreme as we head south to Goa, so I relish this moment while I can.

Happy Holi!

Today is March 17th, and it is Holi.  Two days prior, Vinod advised us not to wander very far from our hotel for Holi, and to avoid crowds.

We do precisely the opposite.  Although we get a late start, we come upon many groups of people dancing to loud sound systems or drum circles, and mostly people playing in the street in the vicinity of any water truck.  Some people light up when they see us and pop our Holi cherries.  Bending forward to receive my knightly honors, the boys cover my head, neck, and cheeks in deep purple powdered dye.  I am laughing hysterically but doing my best not to eat or inhale any of the paint.  Varun and I exchange a look of "this is awesome" and march onward to the next group.

After two weeks of stark cultural contrast and identity struggle we have finally integrated amongst our Indian brethren.  I'm being facetious, but these Holi moments did seem to make me feel more inclusive.  People were exceedingly kind (or drunk) and were eager to pull us in to the festivities.  At one point some small boys rub ash into our hair.  They couldn't seem to afford the dye so they were using remnants of the large fires that had since burned out.  Varun says we might've been pranked, but I didn't really mind.  We turn another corner to find an especially large group having an epic dance party under an array of sprinklers.  Eager to cool off and wash the pasty ash out of my hair, I throw myself into the middle and start white-guy-dancing my heart out.  The locals welcome me right in and start showing me their moves which I don't have too much trouble imitating.  The girls form their own private circles of elegant and cohesive dance, but the men are not shy about grinding up on each other with cruder dance moves.  I look to my side and see Varun dancing his heart out.  Life is good.

We decide to end on a good note (were any of them bad?) and make our way back to the hotel.  Not realizing how far we walked in the excitemrmt, it takes us quite a while to return.  The distance felt especially protracted as we took an alternate route through a Muslim district which seemed to carry out business as usual.  The rest of our afternoon is spent cleaning off paint and rehydrating.  Despite water being all around I dared not drink it, although I did consume some sweet-milk offered by one of the many groups.  Fortunately my stomach did not protest later.

Each day that I am well feels like a blessing.  Every successful BM is a relief like never before, especially when squatting over a hole on a moving train.

March of the Penguins

On Saturday morning we found ourselves with VIP status again.  Vinod came down from the suburbs to pick us up for a day with the Varuns.  Varun and his relatives have any number of last names that we can never seem to remember, so our American sensibility finds the need to reduce them to childish simplicity.  In this case, Varun represents his entire extended family.  Meet the Varuns.

Vinod's family consists of his wife Manjula and daughters Ujjwala and Diya.  The youngsters are 15 and 10 years old.  The eldest is fiercely intelligent and driven, while Diya is much more of a free spirited rascal.  They were both somewhat shy at first, but when I asked Diya to show me her French homework they became invigorated.  Ujjwala has taken it upon herself to teach Diya her studies, but she seems to enjoy complaining how hopeless her little sister is.  It's somewhat endearing to me, but I can see Ujjwala felt compelled to assert intelligence at every corner.  Diya got to correct my poor French pronunciation as I quizzed her on vocabulary and she seemed to enjoy being the teacher for once.  Both children seem to be prolific readers, which they share with their mother (who used to be a teacher).

Our day was one of leisure.  We drove everywhere we wanted, our first stop being an upscale shopping mall.  As you might guess, Western food chains in India are more popular than the Indian restaurants.  McDonalds, Taco Bell, and their ilk replace any beef items with vegetarian imitations.  McPaneer or McVeg, etc.  Nicole confirmed that the Taco Bell nachos do indeed taste the same as nachos back across the pond.  Vinod and I ordered Indian food while Varun and Manjula got a stir fry noodle dish.  This is all very interesting so I'll skip to the next part.

Vinod asks us if we want to go see the flamingos and we naturally agree to this.  During our time in India we've learned to say yes to everything, even if it's a guy in a park offering to clean your ears with a long, sharp metal object.

So we go for a little drive, which roughly translates into meandering for an hour in crazy traffic, navigating through slums and eventually ending up at a jetty which terminates on what I guess to be the east side of the Bombay peninsula.  It is windy and dirt continually blasts into our faces as Nicole runs off to befriend a pair of wild puppies.  The seashore here looks a bit strange.  At low tide the shoreline recedes to expose a beach of mud which extends for miles where the haze eventually cuts it off from sight.  (The distance from water to treeline is about a kilometer, so when high tide returns it covers a lot of ground.)

Scattered across this muddy bay is an innumerable amount of flamingos.  Gazing out for some time, we can see the pattern of pinkish white dots slowly moving across the mud.  They are still quite far away but coming closer at a pace of one flamingo per hour.  This is the daily feeding ritual that occurs during the winter season before the flock migrates to cooler weather to avoid the impending monsoons in late May.  Vinod eagerly opens the trunk of his car to pull out a bulky backpack full of camera equipment.  He assembles a long telephoto lens and begins snapping shots of the flock.  Other species blend in with the crowd and he quickly parses out the egrets and herons and other little specks that all look like flamingos to our naked eyes.  They could be any bird for all we know, so we just begin to refer to everything we see as penguins.

As the penguins quietly stalk their prey one by one (well, it's quiet from this distance, but it could sound like horrific screaming from up close), our attention is diverted by activity within regular ocular range.  Right on the bank of the jetty we see little creatures hopping to and from the puddles littered along the muddy shore.  Penguins, perhaps?  I know some penguins can swim, but these little ones appear to have arms.  No, definitely not penguins.  Vinod calls these amphibians mudskippers, named most symbolically after Lord Mudskippington of Wales.  If I were to name them they would be called flappers or meatslappers, named onomatopaeiacally for the delightful sound they make when scurrying to and fro.  They don't look all that appetizing, but one man's junk is a penguin's feast.  There are perhaps millions of them along the shore, probably the primary source of nourishment for the thousands of ravenous penguins.

Wanting a better look at our new fascination, Nicole slides down the jetty bank and carefully finds a stable path leading to a ruined fishing boat.  One false step and you might be up to your knees in thick, gray mud.  There are a handful of boys playing in this mud a few hundred feet away, searching for treasure, but I don't imagine Vinod would appreciate such adventurous spirits riding in the leather interior of his car.  Side note: Although eating beef is a no-no, for some reason street vendors selling leather belts and wallets is okay.

Nicole takes cautious steps inside the boat, which has slowly been splayed open by years of harsh sunlight and tidal activity.  It's internal support structure bows outward like a rib cage, and the creaky sounds are not putting us at ease.  Nicole doesn't seem to mind, and she takes up a perch at the stern to watch the mudskippers from a better vantage point.

The flabgulchers seem to have more sophisticated eyesight than we thought.  Not only do they react to changes in light caused by shadows, but it seems they could determine Nicole's actual position as well.  They are also likely sensitive to vibration, but it's hard to determine how much the boat or the mud was dampening it.

We watch Nicole watch them for a while, and then we notice even more minute activity in the muck.  Smaller yet than the glubslumpers, we begin to see tiny crabs no bigger than a thumb emerge from small dime-sized burrows equally distributed along the jetty mud bank.  We are mesmerized by the waving motion of their big white claws, which we thought was used to attract mates.  We read later that these fiddler penguins (or fiddler crabs if you want to be "correct" about it) make this exaggerated gesture when they are feeding on little clumps of sediment,.  Vinod stepped down into the firm mud to take some close-up shots, but doing so set off their alarm and they all quickly disappeared.  It seems one disturbance kindles the defense mechanism like a cluster of nerve cells.  He waits patiently in a squatting position until the crabs come back out of their burrows and start waving again, as if to challenge any penguins: "Bring it."

The jetty offered us several hours of quiet contemplation.  It was nice to have a moment to enjoy this scene in Bombay.  A lot of the ocean horizon is marked by large industrial factories that seem to be anchored to small islands around the bay.  I'm not sure if these are oil refineries but I do notice quite a few pipelines pointing to shore.  The factories produce booming mechanical sounds intermittently, and it strikes me as this massively epic yet lonely call.  It all seems like it belongs out there, perhaps only because I'm used to seeing it.  I wonder how many millions of years it will take for the landscape to reclaim its natural state.  Maybe everything will perish and the earth will slowly blanket the factories in dust, compounding the layers and taking them back into its folds.

Snapping out of our respective headspaces, we get back in the car and return to Vinod's.

Before parting ways, Manjula made sure to stuff our faces with delicious food.  One dish was comprised of little fried dough balls filled with potatoes and onions.  Each ball has a little hole torn out to add a sweet and spicy tamarind juice.  These little balls explode in your mouth with the best flavor.  She feeds us about 20 each, and then 10 more until we're falling out of our chairs.  Then she makes another dessert to really put us into a coma: fruit custard.  My first bite induces Nirvana and I am forced to close my eyes in ecstasy.  I open them to see Manjula looking at me with a very pleased grin on her face.  "It's only just okay," I say to her playfully, breaking up with laughter.  I look over at Varun and Nicole to see similarly stupified and sated O-faces.  The Varuns know how to eat.

Ode to the Monumental

Friday morning was a bit rough for me.  I experienced quite a bit of nausea from working out and possibly taking antibiotics on an empty stomach.  I was also likely somewhat dehydrated.  Varun suggested that we spend the day checking out museums on foot instead of what he had planned (which involved a one hour boat ride).  Fortunately this gave me plenty of time to do damage control and get my stomach in order.

We took the train to Churchgate, the southern most stop on the central Mumbai peninsula.  It is one of the more ostensibly British areas from an architectural standpoint.  It's an interesting contrast to see these magnificent buildings marked in Sanskrit lettering.  We passed by an enormous cricket field on our way to the Museum (or the museum formerly know as Prince... of Wales).  This museum houses a large variety of artifacts spanning from early Harappan civilization to around the early 20th century, including regions such as Europe, China, Nepal, India, Tibet, and other Asian countries.  You get to see a lot of the overlap and transitions especially as religious influences spread across these areas.  Admittedly a lot of the pieces don't capture my imagination too much, but the museum also offers a variety of short term art exhibits.

One gallery featured exclusively black and white drawings from Indian artists.  These were a highlight for me.  I learned about an artist named M F Husain, who was a member of parliament for six years.  In that time he scribbled out some really hasty but incredibly striking sketches of politicians during heated moments in Indian political history.  In his foreword, Husain emphasizes that these aren't caricatures.  For each depiction he will come up with a sort of symbolic language that is conveyed through the drawing.  These symbols seem to represent the attitude to the issue at hand, and then it is infused with a sketch of perhaps the main speaker or perhaps another person involved.  Upon first glance you wouldn't ascribe much artistic value to these notepad doodles, but they seem to be more about capturing ideas than any realism.  This was appealing to me because it makes drawing seem more accessible.  It doesn't have to be so well articulated by the skill of your hand, but of your mind, to communicate something.  I'll stick to words for now, but I'm keen on exploring where my mind might wander if I indulge in drawing.

A few museums later we stumble upon another gem.  This gallery featured large portraits over multiple canvases, usually spanning over 15 feet in width.  The one I want to share was done in ink over an acrylic background.  It's titled Serenity by Ompal Sansanwal.  You can check it out here: http://www.saffronart.com/fixed/ItemDetails.aspx?iid=38682&a=Ompal%20%20Sansanwal&pt=2&eid=3647

It was so easy to get lost in these massive portraits.  I'll share a few more favorites from that installation when I have better internets (or I could forget entirely, but hopefully this will hold me to it).

In lieu of museum overload, we decided to end our day here and return to the hotel.  We've been starting out rather early in the morning to beat the heat and humidity, but somehow the days are blowing by so quickly.  It feels like I barely have enough time to write down some thoughts before sleep takes over and the next adventure begins.  All seem so rife with experience, and I realize it's a shame that I didn't embrace "ordinary" life with the same eagerness.  Nothing so familiar seemed worthy of writing about.  I hope that I don't let anything feel so ordinary ever again.

1384 Kilometers

I am currently on a train heading to Mumbai, sitting across from the most adorable little girl.  Ever.  She is sharing a small table with me, coloring in a landscape she created (perhaps inspired by the beautiful countryside).  The clouds are blue, and she occasionally pauses to stare out the window and contemplate her next move.  The sun shines bright yellow and orange on the trees and house below.  The house is colored radiantly.  She is missing her top two front teeth and is very shy.  Perhaps it's because I look like a crazy person.

Varun and Nicole share a bunk, engaged in debate, while I'm surrounded by this new family of mine consisting of the little girl and her parents.  We don't talk much but we exchange the usual travel chatter and a few jokes.  If I didn't already feel fat enough I endure their glances as I eat some ice cream that was placed in my hands.  I want to explain that I normally work out a lot and you just can't see my impressive physique under all of these folds of skin.

Establishing a workout routine while traveling has felt next to impossible.  Varun and I managed to squeeze in some simple yet effective floor exercises in the cramped space of our hostel, but I'm really starting to miss running.  Something about the polluted air makes me really hesitant to even attempt it.  We'll see what Bombay brings.  I'm also jonesing for a climbing fix but I don't expect I'll find any in India.

Gym climbing isn't common here and our schedule isn't flexible enough for outdoor trips.  I'd say it's no big deal, but my mind wanders off to Sanctuary so often, daydreaming about all of the good times I've had with my friends.  Before I left I even started a few new projects that I was looking forward to completing.  I spend a lot of time thinking about climbing, imagining different possibilities when I'm stumped on a route.  Sometimes I'll have what I think is a great solution and then I'm especially eager to hop back on those routes during my next session.  And I have to be patient with my warm up.  Not only do I need to get my body loosened up, but I need to get my head back in the right space.  Climbing can be really frustrating if you expect immediate progress.  Sometimes it's best to hop around on easier climbs and just remember how enjoyable it is to move so freely.  Then when the endorphins are kicking in, hit that one route hard.

In lieu of my recent finger injury I had to put some serious brakes on climbing, but I was almost back at my regular level of performance before I left for India.  Nursing a strained flexor tendon also forced me to climb much slower, lest I shock load the hand and cause even more damage.  In this process I really focused on performing movements as efficiently as possibly.  I've found that my mindfulness of form has increased dramatically in the last year, and this is largely from watching and imitating the friends I climb with.  Monkey see, monkey do.

Brian has a particularly feather-light style that makes me green with envy.  A lot of that stems from his razor sharp mental fortitude.  Nothing gets in his head, and as a result he performs flawlessly.

I haven't climbed with Nicole in a while, but she has an unbreakable endurance when it comes to those hard parts.  She pushes past exhaustion, ignoring our suggestions to take a rest.  And sure enough, she shatters those limits then and there.  Solid determination on that one.

Rachel is one of my favorite climbing buddies.  She does some of the weirdest and most creative liminal problem solving I've ever seen.  It's pretty inspiring to see someone with such an unusual style that also turns out to be wildly effective and fun.  It makes me wish I had done the same route the way she did it.  We all have different styles, but hers is pretty unique.  I hope I get to climb with all or my buddies again when I return.  It'll be really cool to see how much progress they've made in six months.

See what I mean about climbing?  I can't tell if writing quells the desire or kindles it.  My head is in the clouds as a dark India flies by outside the window, lit up briefly by an occasional thunderstorm.

Our train ride is 16 hours long and I'm hoping I don't have to take a shit.  So far my body is cooperating.  I enter a deep state of meditation where I am in harmony with my body, slowing down its processes to reach equilibrium.  Or perhaps it was the sight of the urine sloshing around on the floors that tightened up my intestines.  I imagine falling over as I try to take care of business, and these thoughts turn out to be an effective "emergency stop" button.  As long as it's not the emergency exit I think I'll survive.

Turns out I spent more time reading than writing on the train, so you can forget about any breaking news.  It's all yesterday's jam at this point.  I finished Murakami's memoir on running and it was a pretty nifty account of his fortitude and perserverance.  Interestingly he divulged some things about himself that I recognized from Norwegian Wood.  It's a useful reminder that you can draw from personal experience in fiction.  It doesn't all have to come out of the ether.  I suppose that would be impossible after all.

You're right.  I can't make up my mind as to whether this blog is about books or travel.  Everything is rattling around up in there.

Bombay is much more humid than Delhi, so we feel a significantly higher drain in our energy levels as we depart from the train.  Varun's uncle Vinod was waiting for us at the station with a private driver to take us around town until our check in time.  We spend an afternoon getting to know him while sight-seeing and eating at more upscale restaurants.  The south part of Bombay is much nicer than we were getting accustomed to in Delhi.  The hostel at the YMCA is more like a hotel.  We have air conditioning and ample space for activities.  I already feel undeserving of such nice amenities, much preferring something on the modest side.  Unfortunately we are told that Bombay is more expensive and traveler hostels are not central enough for tourists.  I'll probably be grateful for it all when we leave, but it just feels so fancy.  I'm also looking forward to the freedom of spontaneity when we arrive in Thailand.

Parliament House of India and Indira Gandhi Center for the Arts

My knowledge of Indian culture and history is tiny.  It's interesting that many foreigners know about happenings in America, but it doesn't seem so reciprocal.  I guess I'm not very aware of lots of world events, largely due to lack of effort.  But I'm learning where I can.

Varun's grandfather died a few months before he was born, but fortuitously we were able to see a glimpse of his legacy through a family friend.  Ravi seemed more than delighted to show us around Parliament, where he and Varun's grandfather worked along side for more than a decade.  While it was an interesting visit in terms of learning a little politics, I was really happy to get to meet more locals and get a feel for Indian culture.

It quickly became clear that Ravi is very well-liked.  He shakes the hands of dozens upon dozens of people as we walk around and in between the Lower and Upper Houses.  He exchanges a lot of backslapping with his colleagues, and I see how all of his gestures are disarming, endearing, light-hearted, and good-natured.  He reminds me of my father in the same way Dad knows everyone around the neighborhood or at the airport.  They both clearly love their jobs, and it's largely because of the rapport they've built with the countless people they've befriended.

Ravi takes us to the cantina for a short break where we indulge in coffee and what I call the Indian coffee cakes: idli and vada with coconut chutney, and gulab jamun smothered in syrup.  Every meal on this trip has been amazing, but these South Indian treats are especially delicious (especially after all of the day's walking leading up to it).

Our bellies are full (for now) and we wander through the rest of the facilities with big, sated grins.  Their library looks amazing, containing texts from all languages including many of India's regional languages.  It's amazing to think of the diversity that comes from a place I once thought do homogeneous.  I didn't even realize that Sikhs are of a separate religion.  Even the parliament represents dozens of political parties, including two communist parties differentiated by religion.  If we can see the difficulty of the bipartisan system (consisting of a handful of religions) going at it so zealously, then what must Indians face with dozens of languages and countless religions, all of which are just as integral to their cultural heritage?  This is the sound of my brain popping.

Making our goodbyes, we head towards a little facility that we happened upon earlier in the day.  I must mention that most of the properties along any given street are behind gates.  The gates are sometimes open but it is unclear whether the guards will permit entry.  From experience we've found that the guards kindly escorted us out of an area if it's off limits, so we decide to take advantage of the "see what happens" method.  I imagine the guards are there to prevent the many homeless people from sleeping on the lush properties.

In this instance we are drawn in by a modest banner saying something about a bazaar and film festival.  Approaching the building we see another banner: 9 award winning films are to be shown over Friday through Sunday.  Very cool.  (The next film doesn't start for a while so we met up with Ravi for the aforementioned shenanigans.)

I can't say I'm even remotely acquainted with Indian cinema.  The snippets I've gleaned of the Bollywood scene don't appeal to me at all.  But a few minutes into the first film, Kurmavatara, quickly shattered and expanded that view.

Although a fiction, Kurmavatara is rife with history (particularly about Gandhi) which is something I've been seeking more of.  The film itself is about a television director trying to make a daily TV serial about Gandhi.  The fictional director hears about a man who bears a striking resemblance to Gandhi and wants to cast him in his serial even though he has no skill in acting.  Rao is so dedicated to his government job that he is reluctant to take part, but pressure from his family and their poor living circumstances forces his hand.

Remarkably, this is similar to the case in actuality.  Girish Kassaravalli casted a person who was not an actor (Doctor Shikaripura) to act as a person who is not an actor (Rao) to play Gandhi.  This film takes advantage of the layering to create tension between director and actor.  We see the fictional director's authoritative stranglehold on how Gandhi is supposed to be perceived, constantly comparing his serial to other acclaimed films.  His vision is specific, and you can't help but wonder how much of this is representative of Girish's personality as a director.

Over the course of the film, Rao begins to read more about Gandhi's life (at the very frustrated director's behest) to understand his emotions in lieu of the country's potential separation.  As he learns about Gandhi in this way, he begins to challenge the director's vision.  "Gandhi wouldn't do that."  Now we are playing with conflicting truths, both stemming from literary and filmic representations of a man.  This elicits a constant need to assess which reality is more valid.  What we choose or want to accept.  I mentioned Wallace before, and I'll mention him again.  The overlap here is remarkable to me.

The other two films were interesting but I didn't engage with them in the same way.  They also depicted more Indian history, providing a lot of texture and nuance to my budding understanding of this new world.  This is the part where we break into song.  A Whole New Woooorld.  Yes, India is just like Aladdin.  Varun is the genie, I'm the sultan (my beard is getting there), and Nicole is definitely the monkey Abu.  In our version of this story she slings feces when she's tired, hungry, or happy.

I do want to mention the last film we saw: Mr and Mrs Iyer.  This film is about two strangers who meet on a crowded bus heading to Calcutta, one of which is wielding a shrieking infant.  The bus is chaotic, loud, cramped, and the last place these people want to be.  Halfway during the ride they reach a road blocked by traffic.  When they learn that anti-Muslim extremist groups are creating turmoil, roads are closed and a curfew is instilled to protect people.  At this point a witching mob emerges from the trees and forces their way into the bus, interrogating the Indians on the bus to weed out the Muslims.  They force one man to bare his penis when his name is not proving sufficient.  We quickly learn that our dashingly handsome male lead is Muslim, and in an act of bravery the female lead places her baby in his arms and gives him a Hindi name.

Sure, you could just watch a trailer to get the gist, but I wanted you to have some context for my critique.  The rest of the film plays out as the newly wed couple flees to a remote cottage where their fear of the mobs brings them very close together.  Mr Iyer is desperate to flee and save himself, but now Mrs Iyer fears being abandoned and pressures him to stay (the film seems to forget that there's a bus load of people stuck in a nearby town who can help, and/or that she was perfectly equipped to handle the ride alone before they met).

Unfortunately the film wavered along this line for too long, having moments of profound connection totally undermined by the detached aloofness of Mr Iyer and the pining, helpless Mrs Iyer.  One conversation they had was absolutely amazing, in which he acknowledges how he was saved by being named by a woman, which is something a man normally does.  This was a potentially very empowering moment, but I felt like it was wasted by the director when it was glossed over and didn't actually change their attitudes.  I can't help but shove my bias straight into this one.

Now the interesting part.  Who am I kidding?  Everything I say is utterly amazing!  (If you're still reading this monstrosity, I think I owe you a debt of gratitude in the form of alcoholic beverage).

There was one question I wanted to ask in the Q&A (can you imagine what it might be?) and I was so happy that someone else asked the same thing that was stewing in my brain.  A young girl introduced herself to Aparna and expressed her gratitude for such an honor and proceeded to ask why Mrs Iyer felt so helplessly dependent on Mr Iyer.  In my idealist magical fantasy land this question would provoke a life-changing discussion and shatter what I find to be an absolutely limiting vision of a woman's role in a film (which totally failed the Bechdel test, by the way) and in life.  My young heroine, however, was sadly met with a dismissal of her question.  "Is that really what you thought?  Are you married?  Do you have a child?"  I was quite disappointed that the director wouldn't even entertain the possibility of this interpretation, especially something that was so painfully obvious from my perspective.  My disappointment eventually turned into a shameless tyrade of petty criticisms before I could swallow my pride and accept the reality that not everyone thinks the way I do.

I still feel a little outraged.  If I had any courage I would've shouted out in objection to Sen's comments, but I feel as though being a man and foreigner automatically nullifies any clout I might have.  I just want her to question her own message, I thought.

But the fact that a young girl would identify and question this romance gives me great hope.  The act of challenging such a thing in front of someone so revered means that women in India (and hopefully everywhere) are becoming more independent in their thinking.  But perhaps it just comes down to a matter of taste.  Surely many people find this representative of their ideal relationship, and in my case I fixate on these glaring details.  I don't like to be so contrary, but it's more of a defensive reaction on my part.  I wouldn't want somebody to dismiss my feelings either.

I'll spare you any more reflections, but I simply had to convey how stoked I was to come upon such a gem.  Not only did we get to see three fascinating films over the weekend (we came back on Sunday), but we were treated to a Q&A with the director after each screening.  Getting to hear each director's thoughts and stories regarding the film really enriched the experience.  And on top of that, it started to give me a greater appreciation for the complex diversity that makes up India (even if I didn't particularly "enjoy" a film, it was still a catalyst).  I'm excited for whatever comes our way next.

Tonight we are taking an overnight train to Bombay.  Supposedly it will be even dirtier and more chaotic than Delhi.  At this point we haven't fallen ill and our stomachs are in relatively good shape (the oily street food can sometimes take its toll, but nothing inordinately painful).  I fear the worst is yet to come, but we take what precautions we can.

I should also mention that we've been sterilizing our own water from the tap with a UV light.  My first sip was a leap of faith, and for hours after I was questioning every little feeling going through my stomach or sound in my bowels.  It doesn't taste very good, but at least we're not beholden to street vendors selling bottled water.  A two liter bottle only costs about 50 cents, but it's more about the principle of minimizing waste.  I'll save you any further preaching, but you should realize by now that I'm just better than everyone else.

Road to Agra

The roads here are quite a thrill.  On Saturday morning we hire a driver to take us to Agra to see the Taj Mahal.  The cost of this trip for us is approximately $75 dollars.  After seeing that the cost of fuel is pretty much on par with prices back in the States, it's a wonder to me that our driver can make a living off of this.  Estimating conservative fuel economy (most of the cars have sub 1.5L engines, making the BMWs on the road equivalent to Hummers), I would say that the 440km round trip costs at least $25 dollars in fuel alone.  Some of the money we paid also goes towards tolls, state fees, and the tourist company commission.  There are several toll roads in this short distance, and we notice a sign that winners of the Indian Gallantry Award need not pay.  Are feed waived for life?  How does one win this award anyway?  Sounds prestigious.

I'd guess that our driver earns about a third of our total payment.  1500 rupees to drive three tourists over a duration of about 11 hours in insane traffic, and even to wait for us while we do our sight seeing in between.  Not only does it take up our entire day, but his as well.  He is modest and reluctant to accept our offer to pay for his lunch.  He never expected a tip at any point, and his respectfulness and patience was admirable beyond measure.  Talk about entitlement!

Rana has been a driver for 25 years.  Despite the calamitous traffic I feel safe in his hands.  It is normal to go within a few inches of other automobiles, rickshaws, people, cows, dogs, and so on.  Essentially most of these interactions would be considered a near-accident in the States.  I should also note that most of the cars, though run down by American standards, have virtually no scratches or dents or anything indicative of unsafe driving.  During the whole trip I only saw a handful of dead animals and one automobile accident.  The ones still alive clearly have excellent spatial awareness.  These dogs dance with death and eat trash daily, yet they would likely outlive me if I were driving in this country.

Being stuck in traffic at home is exhausting even without all of the people and animals, so I really admired Rana's endurance.  Once we left the seemingly boundless Delhi area, I assumed we would be cruising through rural areas at a much more liberating clip.  While we did drive through more agricultural areas and little towns, they are packed full of people.  There is typically only one main road heading through these towns, and they aren't separated by long, desolate stretches like I'm used to back home.  So this is where India's population is.  And by "this" I mean everywhere.

It feels like we'll never make it, but I don't mind.  My brain is alert for the whole drive.  I'm constantly trying to figure out this new form of driving intuition that makes California seem like "easy" mode.  Just as I think I begin to understand the etiquette and practices, some new event will force me to reconsider how it all works.  Perhaps being American makes me inclined to organized systems, and maybe India simply doesn't fit into any concept I could come up with.  The nuances are fascinating nonetheless.  India truly feels like floating through the cardiovascular system, Magic School Bus style.  But this creature we're in doesn't resemble a human, but some alien being with multiple hearts.  It is quite a trip.

I should also mention the Taj Mahal.  That was our destination after all, right?  Not that I wasn't impressed with it.  As Varun said, if you can't appreciate one of the seven wonders of the world then you should probably take a moment to question yourself.

The symmetry of the Taj is remarkable.  I tended to enjoy it more from the adjacent mosque which had very few visitors and ample space.  The Taj seemed to amplify the light from the sun, blinding me with its presence.  Also sweat and sunscreen may have been partially responsible.  It's a beautiful palace, but I found myself drawn to the immense landscape in the background.  How amazing it must be to live and explore along this river with the immense Taj visible for miles.

After being sent down one aorta after another, we are eventually swept back into the veins, depleted of energy after a long day, returning to our little hostel.  I manage to sleep for a bit during the ride despite the incessant honking and excitement.  I guess you get used to it.  There are lots of things about India that I can't imagine getting used to, but resistance is futile.

New Delhi

Stray dogs roam the streets, chasing passing cars. I'm surprised I don't see more dead animals until later in the trip, considering we almost run a few over on the way to the hostel. Smog lingers heavy in the air, burning your eyes and drying out your throat. I imagine I'll get used to it. Trash lines the streets as we drive into the market district of new Delhi. The place is eerily devoid of people, but it is 3am after all.

Our bodies are in disarray after 20 hours of air travel, utterly confused by the light outside and exhausted from lack of sleep. The gentleman seated to my right during our first leg became frustrated when the flight attendant was too busy to answer his page. He was waiting for another beer to get him through that flight. It was uncomfortably tight and difficult to ignore it. Maybe this beer was just the little solace he needed. Already somewhat irritated and muttering curses under his breath between sips, he didn't appear to be enjoying it much.

How indignant, I remember thinking, that the woman sitting behind me on our second leg would tell me to move my seat up. I was already feeling sleep deprived and I just didn't want to be disturbed. I complied begrudgingly. The person in front of me reclined their seat. Why can't I? Why is this so unfair? Why am I the one that must give up my little shred of comfort? The woman behind me doesn't speak English. She couldn't verbally communicate that getting out of her seat is quite an ordeal for her. Asking for help through a language barrier can be quite difficult, but why did I immediately clench on to my desire for comfort over hers? This sentiment is better conveyed by David Foster Wallace, but I tend to regurgitate some bastardized form of it. He speaks of our inclination for unconscious action. The automatic default setting. This mode of thinking is easy because of course that is all we can possibly know as we drudge through life. Each moment is so vivdly about our individual self, indulging and giving in to that little voice that will not be sated by such thinking, but instead makes the thought patterns more consuming yet pointless Not only can this setting be automatic, but it seeks to get caught in an infinite loop. But of course we are not always like this.

There are many times, and I am sure you've felt them too, that helping others and elevating their needs above your own might bring you joy. We can debate how there is or isn't such a thing as true altruism, but this is more about your choice to think a certain way. You can easily feed that automatic cycle, because easy is so appealing. Constantly trying to guess how people might feel about any given situation is exhausting and often frustrating. But regardless of how much effort a choice makes, which might one day be measurable, we can acknowledge that choices are available in any of these instances. Not necessarily choosing how to act, but choosing what to think about. Feeding an angry voice in your mind just forces you to relive painful realities again and again. Those events may not ever change, but something mysterious doesn't want us to consider any alternatives to how we feel about those relative injustices. Offenses against my self. Me. Why me?

Wallace talks of the capital T truth in this way. A rigid, monolithic truth about who we are and how we feel about everything. This draws some interesting parallels, and universally I begin to see these patterns emerge in unexpected ways. Sometimes it is hard to clear that dissonance when such realities are presented to you. It shows you that ugly inner conflict. It is often growling and screaming and tearing into you, burrowing as deep as it can. Sometimes it wins, and we are consumed by rage or grief or frustration, which then spills over on those close to you.

Now more about India.

The first night of our arrival I was too oblivious to realize how many people sleep in the street. The wagons and market stalls of the daytime become the become beds at night. People sleep in the backseats of the numerous rickshaws, but the ground suffices for most. The people cover themselves entirely in blankets and don't stir until dawn. Even the dogs fashion little beds out of trash piles for a few short hours.

Standard "bedtime" seems to be from about 2 to 6am, then the marketplace slowly comes to life: pigeons cooing near the windows, a man ringing tiny, clinging bells asking for a daily pittance, the occasional motorcycle passing through the narrow alley, slow, shuffling footsteps preceding a feeble knock on some door (followed by shouts which surely mean please leave in the nicest way possible).

The morning prelude is pleasant. The streets are still sleepy, but a few nice young men have food carts set up for those who grab a bite to eat on their way to work. The chai is delicious and sweet. The larger food stalls are boiling milk and preparing all sorts of bready goodness. Nicole and I stop for chana masala with parantha one morning. Or perhaps this is becoming most mornings as I add to this journal each day. Without much warning, the gentle commotion outside gives way to the day's cacophony. An orchestra of horns, bells, and shouting accentuate the immense bustle of bodies that flows through the main bazaar, one of the many capillaries of the large, living organ that is Delhi.