Opportunity Knocks

“Marbh le tae agus marbh gan é”  -Irish Proverb

 ”Yes we can.”  -Sen. Barack Obama

That last post was nearly 5 months ago.  Wow.  Well, I don’t really have much to say, but I figured I should tie up this loose end true to my procrastinating form, so the blog doesn’t jump into some confusing land when next I alight.  And I wanted to do Sikkim justice.  It was a truly beautiful place, the first stopover being in the earlier mentioned “ghost town” of Ralang.  Very remote.  Not really the kind of place you could fill up more than a day or two, but somehow we managed to.  We first tried walking to a “nearby” gompa, but this promised to suck the remaining daylight hours out from under us, and we eventually hailed a cab.  At the monastery, we found young monks playing cricket–one of them with the keys–who let us in and showed us the colorfully intricate butter sculptures Tibeten monks are renowned for.  Tasty. Kidding. Eventually we decide to forge on to Yuksom, the most mountainous region  of Sikkim.  There are not enough jeeps headed that direction that day, so we are forced to ride in VERY close quarters with a group going up and around the mountains.  Think: contortionist–wedged in the back of a small jeep one buttock cheek placed uncomfortably on the knee of a displeased stranger, the other jabbed by the handle of someone’s bag of something sharp.  Evert tells me not to be a hero, but I am the smallest.  Small people have to be heroic.  At least there were no cows.  

We walk around Yuksom a bit the night we arrive, and meet an American couple who’ve been traveling around for years and have a lot of good stories to share over the local drink, Tongba. (fermented millet served in bamboo container.  Strong)  Back at the hotel, Evert takes his shoe off to discover a large amount of blood, though apparently without injury.  Wasn’t until hiking the next day and the discovery of still more blood and something–eek–writhing in his shoe that we realized we’d had our first encounter with leeches.  The whole trail we were on was covered in them, the wait on the trail, drop from the trees, you must be constantly vigilant.  Not cool, leeches.On the way out of Yuksom we share a vehicle with a young girl to whom Evert offers a cookie out of our just opened package.  ”Thank you,” she says, and takes the package and exits the vehicle.

At this point, there are only two days left to my flight out of Delhi and Evert’s from Mumbai.  I was going to take the fancy train for once to get back to that terrible city, but being of limited resources, I normal-trained it to Calcutta and caught a plane from there.  This not without incident, of course.  Wallet stolen, I had to book the Calcutta-Delhi ticket on Evert’s card.  When I arrived at the airport, they notified me that my seat had been canceled, because the seat wasn’t purchased under my name.  Wallet stolen, I had what was nearly exactly enough to buy a new ticket.  Blessedly, I had less than 24 hours in Delhi, so I was able to get by and even eat!  I left India with 10 rupees in my pocket.  About the equivalent of a quarter.

New York has been kind and malicious in equal measure since my return.  Writing this is like going back in a time machine to something that really feels like yesterday.  Somehow, I have managed to miss India.  I do not know how.  I’ve had the pleasure of seeing several of the people I met along the way already.  Amme stopped by on her way home and I found a 1 buck Greyhound offer to Toronto to spend a week relaxin with Eric from Dharamsala.  And Evert’s coming friday.

Next stop?  Probaly Morrocco to see Dom, though I doubt I’ll get there till next spring, lease/school/funds permitting.  (I signed a lease, I am in school, I have no funds).  Let’s hope that pans out.  In the meantime, I’m trying to apply for a medical study of jet-lag with an all-expense paid trip to Paris for something to treat my itchy feet.  And of course beyond that I’m traveling here; navigating the the waters, new opportunities and other weak metaphors that constitute this crazy adventure called life.   Until then…Cheers.   

Go Obama. 

“This rather simple epitaph can save your hide your falling mind:
Fate isn’t what we’re up against there’s no design no flaws to find.
There’s no design no flaws to find.”

-The Shins, Young Pilgrims

All things considered, the 45 hour train ride under the emotional condition I was in wasn’t all that bad.  It was by far the most crowded train I’ve been on yet.  There’s a rule that people can still board a train if the train is full, and this can mean not everybody gets a seat.  On this train, it meant that for 2 nights, some people slept on the floor, which is a really really dirty place to be here.  I luckily had a bed up top, so I was sort of removed from the madness, but anytime I had to go to the bathroom, I had to literally climb over and on people, sometimes from berth to berth, like a monkey on a jungle gym.  That’s how crowded it was.  Insane. 

When I arrived in Varanasi, more than anything I needed friends and familiar faces, and I knew just where to find them.  They didn’t immediately recall my name at the Elvis Guest House, but they did remember me, and I was had the warmest greeting by the owners and all the help and support in the world.  They put me in a room twice as nice as the one I’d stayed in before for the same price and drove me all around town on a motorbike to banks and stores and anywhere else I needed to go to get my wallet situation sorted out and never asked for a cent.  The offered to lend me as much money as I needed.  It was really great to be there.  I bought a cheap but cool mantra ring on the street.  One night I went out with Lala and a couple of girls who were staying at the hotel and was explaining that it had been a rough couple of weeks but that things were looking up.  At “looking up”, I made a great, broad gesture with my hands and flung my ring into a pile of cowshit and trash.

The last time I was in Varanasi, I spent the night under two blankets wearing every article of clothing I owned, bought scarves to wrap around my thighs, and STILL couldn’t sleep for the cold.  This time, it was too hot to think.  You sweat standing still in places you didn’t even know you had sweat glands.  Hot.  For kicks, I went to see Lala’s family Baba.  It was a good experience, even though I felt like he got a few things wrong about my past and personality.  He said I was emotional, can you imagine?  Overall, he said I didn’t have any major problems in my life, and he did seem to understand that my biggest obstacles were romance and jobs.  So he made me a talisman for that.  Here’s hopin’.  Apparently I don’t get a steady job for a while, but when I do “fame and fortune, no problem”.  Der.

In Mumbai on my way down to Goa, I met a guy from Norway, Evert, and he mentioned an interest in heading to Sikkim (as was I).  He took the train and met me in Varanasi and then we went on together north, towards fresh air.  We encountered some trouble entering the State of Sikkim itself because of a holiday and were forced to go instead first to Darjeeling, home of tea.  

Darjeeling is a beautiful place, very reminiscent of Dharamsala in both natural surroundings, architecture and people.  It’s chalk-full of Tibetan culture which means the best momos I’ve ever tasted.  We ended up spending more time there then planned because we were both trying to figure out our plans for getting back to our respective countries, he leaving one day before I do.  Still, if I had to waste time somewhere, it was a nice place to be, and I did eventually escape to Sikkim as was the goal all along.  We arrived last night.  You need a special permit to get in, but it’s free and easy and the drive is outstanding though crowded.  Right now, we’re in a small town that reminds me of the old west, minus the Indians and Alicia Silverston posters in restaurants.  I’m excited to see the Buddhist gompas later today and then maybe test out the momo fare in this region.  I have one week left in India.

Just a cheerful little addendum to yesterday’s post:  My wallet was stolen on the bus today.  I should have caught it.  I remember thinking to myself, “hmm, the bus isn’t that crowded, why is this woman sitting next to me?”  But her baby was cute, she was practically shoving it in my face.  I thought she was just being friendly.I will not let this make me hate people.I will not let this make me hate people.

“So live and learn.  The snow is melting never to return.  Cross your ‘t’s and dot your ‘i’s and write ‘the end’ and maybe someday it will snow again.”  Ass Ponies, Last Night it Snowed

This blog does not have a happy ending. But this blog is not the whole story.

I’m better, thanks. I booked a ticket south to Pushkar and low and behold, run into Amme there. We are both a little worse for the wear–she has a cold and I’m coming out of my first authentic Indian bedbug experience. Weee. Pushkar is lazy but nice. Amme’s been trying to get to a place called Mt. Abu for a month now, and so I decide to tag along on this, her 3rd attempt. It’s a lovely hill station very popular amongst honeymooners and things are cheap. There’s a Jain temple there intricately chiseled out of marble. The detail was amazing, but unfortunately you’re not allowed to take pictures. And the experience was somehow less glorious as we became the main attraction for all the temple goers. I would make a terrible celebrity. India has given me a new appreciation for these poor people. Everywhere I turn, some one wants to take a picture of me, or just stare, or even the occasional autograph request. I was asleep on the train one morning, and woke up just in time to catch the guy in the berth across from me snap my picture. Aggravating. Amme and I were in a restaurant in Mt. Abu, the only customers, and the staff was standing in the corner, talking. We wouldn’t have noticed they snapped a picture, but they didn’t turn the camera sound off on their cell phone. The wait staff. We told them not to do it again, but really, what can you do?

We both head to Bombay after Mt. Abu, but on separate trains. I take the bus down the mountain by myself. As I am exiting the bus, I pause near the front and address the two men standing in the drivers area, asking them which way to the train station. One immediately starts in speaking rapid Hindi, and it does not sound like directions to me. The other says nothing, just stares. Doesn’t make any indication of having heard me, just stares and reaches over and gives my boob a squeeze. I am wearing two backpacks, one on the front and one on the back. He is standing some 3 feet away. No way this was an accident. Infuriated, I take off my shoe and hit him a number of times, saying something ridiculous like, “Not OK!” But he just continues staring, as if nothing has registered at all. This makes me angrier and I tell him I’m going to get the police.

Lucky for me, the police station is across the street. I run over and speak with an officer, pantomiming the situation, grab and all. To think back on it, I probably looked crazed pointing in the direction of the bus stand, groping myself, making a driving motion, pointing again and stamping my foot. But it got the point across. He follows me back to the bus stand, but that particular bus has just left, I spot it headed down the street.

“Well, that was it. It was the driver of that bus.” I say, a note of resignation in my voice.

“OK.” he says, and to my great surprise flags down a guy on a motorbike, jumps on, and goes after it.

I go back to the station. They put me in the chief’s office and give me cold drinks and we talk for a while. Very nice guy. After a bit he asks what I want to be done if they catch him. I guess I hadn’t really thought about that. They don’t exactly have a system to put his name into, and what are they going to do? Fine him? I want him to know it’s not ok to do that. There are way to many men in India with a skewed idea of the rights of western women to let him get away with that, but at the same time, it wasn’t an attack or theft or murder. Anyway, eventually they haul about 10 men into the room I’m in. They ask me about the first guy they bring in, apparently he was the driver. It wasn’t him. I felt awful for having identified the wrong man and confused as to who was now driving the bus. They let him go and march in the others. The guy who did it is among them, and I point him out to the chief. He gets up from behind his desk, walks over to him, and delivers a powerful backhand to the guy’s right jowl, saying something in Hindi. Then they take him out of the office into the entry way and 5 officers (two of them women) proceed to beat the living crap out of him with broad leather belts and their bare hands. I am so uncertain as to how to feel about this. I imagine my face was sort of horrific, because a couple of the cops saw me and thought it was hilarious. They dragged him back in the office by the hair and made him say “sorry” and touch my feet. Then they took him out again. I would have felt less uncertain about how to feel if they hadn’t have beat a couple of the other guys they brought in too. Not as hard, but they still hit them, despite my request that they leave everyone alone except the one guy actually responsible. The chief tells me they are all friends and were drinking and shouldn’t have been, that’s why. That’s how I got my own personal 2 man detail in India to the ATM. I bet I looked pretty important.

When I got to Bombay, I found I didn’t have any underwear.  I wasn’t thinking and used my bag of dirty clothes wrapped in scarves for a pillow on the train and didn’t grab it when I jumped off.  So that was unfortunate.  Otherwise Bombay round II was good. There was a lot I wanted to do I didn’t have time for the first time. We hung out with other people from the hostel and went to a Bollywood movie. Amme and I went to the market and I bought a cage and a leash and flea powder and the rest in anticipation for Keap. I booked a ticket to Goa the next night and emailed the shelter to let them know I was coming. That day a guy walked up to me on the street and asked if I wanted to be in a Bollywood movie. This is pretty standard in Bombay, so I said yes. Next day they loaded a bunch of westerners on a bus and drove us out to the studios. We waited for hours before anything happened. I’d talked to a couple of people who’d done it before. Amme had shot a commercial and she said there was a lot of waiting and bad 80s wardrobe. Another girl told me they wanted to put her in a short dress and have her lean against a pole for part of a movie. She asked if she was playing a prostitute, and they told her, “No, you’re just a girl on a Saturday night without a date.” Hmm. Finally we find out we’re in a ballroom scene. There is apparently a princess from England and she is throwing a party and we are her friends. They ask if anyone knows how to dance. I raise my hand, assuming everyone knows the basics of ballroom dancing, but the cheese stands alone. No one else raises their hand, and suddenly I am lead female dancer. They give all the men suits and the women black dresses in varying degrees of tacky. Mine is tight, but long and flowy on one side…on the other side is so short they have to provide me with bloomers. Nice. The dance instruction at the beginning of the shoot is absolutely tedious and the filming is worse. 7 hours in heels, mostly just standing around doing take after take of the princess walking down the stairs. My one moment of glory is when the princess reaches the bottom and looks around at the room. They pull me out front so mine is the first face she sees. Sadly, I didn’t get to stick around long enough to follow through with the dance because I had a train to catch. You should be able to see me in the movie though, in the next 3-4 months it should be out in India. Called Karzzz.

I take the train to Goa. I’m excited. When I get to the shelter, it is lunchtime and not many employees are around. One guy points to the puppy area and tells me to look over there. Keap isn’t in it. I spend another 10 minutes looking around, but don’t see her and eventually go back to the desk where the guy pulls out some paperwork and informs me they put her down the day before because of an eye infection. I am so stunned and sad and angry that I don’t say anything to him, just turn around and leave. Since then, I’ve mainly laid in bed and slept. I’m still feeling a lot of these emotions, plus a feeling of guilt for having delivered her there. I sent an email saying I was coming. They couldn’t wait one more day? I don’t know what it’s worth, but the place is called International Animal Rescue, and they’re a bunch of bastards.

I’ve still got all this stuff I bought for her laying around and I’m trying to decide what to do with it. Thankfully I have a train out of here tomorrow morning. The bad news is, I am headed back to Varanasi, and that is a 40+ hour ride. It’ll be good to get away from Goa, but I sure hope I can find a way to keep myself busy.

“In the boundless panorama of the existing and visible universe, whatever shapes appear, whatever sounds vibrate, whatever radiances illuminate, or whatever consciousnesses cognize, all are the play or manifestation of the Tri-Kaya…Impenetrating all, is the All-Pervading Essence of Spirit, which is Mind.  It is uncreated, impersonal, self-existing, immaterial, and indestructible.”  -Lama Kazi Dawa-Samdup

After Bundi, Amme headed to the desert for the camel safaris and I was north bound to the Pakistani border. I had two reasons: first to see the Golden Temple, holy capital and hub of Sikhdom, and second to go to the actual India/Pakistan border and watch the closing of the border which I’d heard was quite a sight. And so it was. I arrived in Amritsa (home to Golden Temple) in the morning after an overnight train on which I actually slept for once. I was put in the same compartment as a family with three hyper-active children, one very small who said nothing but laughed and stared, one chubby little guy who kept insisting I eat his food and share my cookies, and one girl who spoke English just well enough to be at first cute and then aggravating.  Mostly, she just asked about what I was doing as she saw me do it.  Questions to the effect of, “You read your book?”  “You take dinner?”  “You sleep now?”  But asking each many times.  Eventually, she sleeps.

The Golden Temple had a really good vibe.  It’s a giant complex that is buzzing with activity 24 hours a day, and as a pilgrimage site, pretty much everything is based on donation-accomidation AND food.  Not that it’s living the high life, the free bed was basically a plank of wood with a dirty sheet and the food, though delicious was the same every meal of the day.  Still, I really enjoyed the spiritual and welcoming atmosphere of the Sikh community, and the temple was a shining beacon of gold set on a clear bed of water with Punjabi music always floating in the background.  Around the back of the temple was a food stand which smelled delicious.  Assuming it was free food like I’d had for lunch, I stood in line, gave a donation, and got a bowl of wonderful wonderful hot and fresh hallwa, which I ate immediately.  Turns out I was supposed to take it into the temple as an offering.  Oops.

The border closing ceremony was extravagant to the point of hilarity.  There are stands set up on either side, and each are filled with thousands of people who have come to cheer for their home country.  Beforehand, there are people out in front dancing and leading cheers to which the crowd responds “Hindustan!”  After this, there is a shouting match between one guard on each side, basically boiling down to who can yell ‘hey-o’ the longest without taking a breath.  Then, the guards on either side march really proudly up to the gate (I’ll put a video up), Indian and Pakistani, only inches between them, and perform what can only be categorized as a spectacularly choreographed dance around each other as the gates are open and the guards proceed to their flag  pole.  This is followed by the painstakingly slow reigning in of the flags, so no one country’s is ever above the others’. (Did I punctuate that correctly?)

I took a taxi from the temple to the border with an Indian family visiting from Bombay.  We stopped at a small temple on the way out, and a “water park” on the way back.  I was not expecting these excursions, and was perplexed by the excitement garnered on the trip to the water park in particular.  It was literally a park in water…just as if someone took a playground and set it in a pool.  It was also apparently closed, but the family thought it was awesome and made me pose for several pictures with them in front of it.

In the temple, I stayed in a room with a couple of people who were also headed to Dharamsala, so the next day we make for the bus together, picking up more travelers as we go.  Although we arrive at night, Dharamsala has such an exquisite and peaceful ambiance to it, that I believe I might stay the rest of my time in India.  Set in the Himalayas, the village of Mcleodganj is like stepping into Tibet.  With all that’s going on  right now, there are daily marches and vigils and a constant awareness of the injustices in  Tibet proper.  One morning, I went out for breakfast and ended up following a line of monks through the streets.  I didn’t know where they were going, but when I got there, someone told me that the Dali Lama was going to make an impromptu appearance shortly.  I waited a while, and finally a car drove up.  He stepped out and was immediately surrounded by security personnel, but he took a few steps towards the crowd and smiled out at everyone.  I was about 6 feet away from him and of course, OF COURSE, the day I accidentally bump into the Dali Lama is also the only morning I decide that I won’t be out of my room long, I can leave my camera to charge.  But maybe it’s better to experience that sort of thing as fully as you can and not through a lens.  He never said a word.  People were shaking and crying and chanting, and he just stood there smiling and very calm.  I was expecting him to make a speech, but this was arguably more poignant.  Then he went inside.  I will never wash these eyes again.

The rest of my time in Dharamsala was relaxing and full of friendly people and western amenities.  But I couldn’t stay.  I don’t know why.  In fairness to my initial impulse to stay long term, I was there 4 nights, which is more than anywhere else I’ve visited in the last 2 months.  I’d been traveling with a fellow I met in Amritsa, but we both booked tickets onward to other cities, I was headed out to a lake and tall, dark and Spanish was going to Delhi one day before me.  With my last day, I joined a few of the other people I’d met on the bus to Mcleodganj on a hike.  Canadian Eric and Swedes Hanna and Jonathan.  We set off into the unknown, following signs leading us to the “Waterfall Cafe”.  4 hours later, we are clinging to a little used mountain goat path through the mountains, praying to see the occasional white arrow painted on a rock or tree, and there’s a storm a-brewin.  The trek becomes treacherous when it begins to rain, and treacherous and uncomfortable when it begins to sleet.  There is thunder and lightning directly above, but we keep heading upwards hoping to find the cafe, because we know how far civilization is behind us.  I am dressed for summertime and absolutely freezing.  We do finally find the cafe.  It is a hut, covered by a tarp.  The one lone boy operating it serves tea.  We seek what shelter and warmth there is to be had there until the rain stops.  Then, for some reason, we decide it’s a good idea to climb the waterfall up to the glacier.  There is no real path anymore, and we’re basically scaling rocks now.  So here is your image:  me, in sandals and shorts, clinging for dear life onto wet rocks on the side of a Himalayan mountain pass in the snow–across the divide is a herd of mountain goats who travel effortlessly in the same direction as me, baaaahing.  I bah back.

My bus is a 10 hour, overnight, local bus.  When I tell people I travel via local bus, they tend to give me looks of awe/concern.  It’s not that bad.  Sure the private tourist buses are a lot more posh and have beds, but as we know, there is no amount of sleep/comfort to be had in a bed with a strange Russian man.  I’m off to a place called Lake Renuka, a splendid and serene place that I may lay my head for a time and gather my thoughts.  23 hours and no meals later I’m using what’s left of my energy to drag my bag 2km in the dark, hoping there is a room open in Rishikesh.  There are few things worse than spending 23 hours on a bus, but one of those things must certainly be spending 23 hours on 6 busses.  Allow me the breakdown:

Bus #1:  From Dharamsala to a town called Nahan, this is the overnight portion and I spend the evening trying to sleep bent over my knees with a Tibetan man who has fallen asleep on my shoulder.

Bus #2:  From Nahan to Lake Renuka, this is the 2 hour ride on a narrow road in a big bus with an over-confident driver.  Terrifying.

Bus#3:  From Lake Renuka to Nahan, this is the bus I get on when I get to Lake Renuka and find it has completely dried up.  This time I have a more cautious driver and the knowledge that I’d made it one direction in one piece and I actually fall asleep.

Bus#4:  From Nahan to some town that starts with a P, this is the bus where hungry/sleepy Blair becomes aggressive/angry Blair and yells at 3 boys in limited Hindi, “NO!  DO NOT TAKE MY PICTURE!”

Bus #5:  From P-town to Duri Dun, this is the bus that I waited an hour at the station for because they told me it hadn’t arrived yet.  It had arrived and was PACKED by the time I got on it.  I climbed to the roof to secure my big bag (apparently an odd sight) and then got on board the mosh pit at the B.O. concert.  After a while, one man is nice enough to offer me his seat.  It is a seat meant for 3 people, but I sit in it with an Indian couple and their 5 children.  I doubt I would have been able to fit in the seat had I not been hemmed in by a sea of groin.

Bus # 6:  From Deri Dun to Rishikesh, this is the bus where I finally admit I don’t know where I am going and will stop in Rishikesh, I don’t care if I have to sleep on the banks of the Ganges in cow excrement.

When I finally arrive, I find that all the ashrams are a 2 km walk from where the bus drops me, and there are no rickshaws, so I walk in the dark, stub my toe on a small stone, and go down–hard.  A nice Italian guy circles around to ask if I’m ok.  We walk to the living area together and I bombard him with questions like where is he staying or what kind of yoga he’s doing/where.  He seems a mildly frightened, but helpful nonetheless.  At this point, I think I should cool my heels in Rishikesh and do a yoga retreat.  The next day, he introduces me to his yoga instructor who offers a 5 day course.  Perfect.  But for some reason as I’m walking to do my first class that night, I stop halfway up the hill, turn around and walk back.

I guess my main problem was Nepal.  From the beginning it was my plan to spend at least two weeks there in this part of my trip.  But see, there are slated for April 10th now the first democratic elections, and the Maoists in the region aren’t happy and are threatening to derail them with violence if necessary.  Of course this makes me want to go even more.  Of course I want to be there when it happens.  But I am influenced by anonymous parties (ack!) and my sense of daughterly obligation not to lie to my parents.  I spent all yesterday in a toss-up.  I really wanted to go, and didn’t know where to go if I wasn’t headed there, and though it may sound trite to you, I really had something of a crisis which spilled over into bigger questions in my life like why am I so indecisive and maybe that’s the best way to live or maybe I’m psychologically incapable of commitment or impossible to love or why am I doing this anyway and why don’t I get a job and where do I go next and what’s the point of going anywhere after all, well I’m here, aren’t I, so I must attach some amount of importance to it, but what about the underlying reason we do things, can’t I figure it out, aren’t I here to learn, isn’t the mind really the only adventure there is can’t I figure out a cause to stand for already?  And so on and so forth.  I guess the crisis is not yet fully averted.

Needless to say, my trip to the travel agent today was arduous because it is impossible to purchase a ticket if you do not know where you are going.  Lesson.  I waste 1 1/2 hours of his time trying to get him to solve my life’s problems before I finally book an overnight bus to Pushkar.  I wanted to go to Nepal, but I phyched myself out.  I wanted to go to Sikkim, but it’s too far for my bus-laden mind to comprehend right now.  I miss my dog, but all the trains to Goa are booked solid.  So I’ll just go south.

“Was it a credible future? Was it an incredible past? Whatever the answer, it was an immense escape from the actual.” -Henry James, The Alter of the Dead

Hello Friends. Happy Holi. I’ll get to it, don’t worry; you look older when you worry.

Keap and I had a nice pretend life in Goa. Eventually I decided it was highly impractical to cart a puppy around India, and had to leave her with a shelter there. It was terribly hard for me to drop her off. I cried in public. Twice. Before this, I posted a bulletin on an online Goan community board, and then I went to Mumbai immediately to put some distance between me and the situation/unstable emotional territory I’d wandered into. Another bus ride, another early arrival, another opportunity to be cheated out of a bunch of rupees by the rickshaw driver. I checked into the Salvation Army hostel, the first hostel in India I’ve stayed in yet. There, I met a mah fellow American Amme, who I found out was headed in the same direction as me. We decide to head to the train station to get tickets to Udaipur. They’re all sold out, but she gets on the waiting list while I opt for the considerably cheaper bus option.

I would have liked to spend more time in Bombay, maybe be an extra in Bollywood, but my timing was such that I could only stay two days max because I wanted to be in Udaipur for the big Holi celebration. So not too much to speak of in Mumbai except that I received a reply to the puppy posting, which told me the shelter I’d left her at practiced euthanasia because they had so many dogs coming through, up to 30 a day. Obviously, I panicked. I wrote the shelter and told them if it came down to her not getting adopted and having to be put down, I’d come back and take her. I was worried I was already too late. Bad day. I got an email back from the main office in the UK from a guy who promised me he’d call them at first light and see if she was ok.

I had a bus to catch. Amme was getting nervous about being able to board the train, so she came with me to take her chances on getting a bus ticket. We were told it was a 16 hour journey from one source and 27 from another. And we have seats, not a sleeper. It was a wonderful and much less stressful turn of events to ride with a buddy. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it “fun filled”, but it went by pretty quickly and it was really super to laugh with another American. It was a government bus, which meant we were the only westerners aboard and they set us up in the front seats in a kind of glass enclosure. It was a lot like being in the zoo. A bunch of strange looks and mysterious conversation you know is about you and probably something to the effect of, “look honey, they scratch themselves just like we do!”.

In Udaipur, I got another email telling me Keap was not only fine, but “very cute” and will most likely be adopted. If for some reason she is not, they have agreed to hold on to her for me until the end of April. So that’s just great. Amme and I set up at a hostel in Udaipur where we met a guy Gary from London and Jason from CA. It’s really nice to have friends around, but at the same time a strange feeling because I’ve been on my own for so long and only in the last week or two have had constant human contact. I almost feel less like I’m in India, but I don’t so much mind the break.

Then Holi begins. Holi is the India-wide hindu celebration of the beginning of spring. I’ve been looking forward to it since I arrived and planned very carefully exactly where I wanted to be when it happened. I didn’t know too much about it except that it involved throwing bright and various colors all over other people in the streets and is celebrated virtually all over India. Despite my brewing excitement, I was warned a number of times by locals to stay indoors on the big day to avoid certain dangers inherent to big drunken public holidays. But I was not to be deterred, this was what I’d been waiting for. Besides, I wasn’t going out alone, I was traveling in a pack with Amme and 4 guys from the hostel, so I didn’t anticipate anything I couldn’t handle. The night before the paint, there was a big party in the center of town, at the main temple. That day there’d been bundles of hay all over the roads and I’ve never sneezed so much in my life. That night, they set fire to the bundles and bonfires seemed to lurk in turned corners where you least expected them. There was a massive bonfire set up in the middle of town, but not yet ablaze. When we showed up, people were crowded around the hay and a stage upon which were two types of dancers: western and tranny. In India, though it is the norm for grown men to hold hands in public out of friendship, it is not acceptable to be gay…unless you are also a transvestite. Then no one bats an eye. So onstage were two lovely ladies accompanied by a few poor tourists who seemed to be there of their own accord. One of them looked like Gandolf. Hat and beard and everything. Amazing.

Eventually the time came to light the bonfire. There were a lot of people packed into the space, so the cops came around with sticks waving and warned everyone to move back. Then they laid out a perimeter of firecrackers around the hay and down the street. I was standing in the front, about 2 meters from the firecrackers, unafraid. I couldn’t see when they set off the train, but I heard it loud and clear, and this was confirmed by the large amounts of people and mayhem running out of the streets into the center. Of course when the fireworks started getting closer, I panicked like everyone else and tried to push back, back in the crowd, screaming and yipping like a little girl as the explosions nipped my ankles. But this was not enough. Once that danger had passed, I had to go around to see the point where the fireworks met the hay. I should also add that there were further fireworks taped to the hay pile. I had my camera out to take a picture, but the moment I aimed, there was a huge explosion and I jumped back once again. The setting was accidentally on video, so I captured that moment pretty effectively. I should post it in the next few days, with any luck.

Next day, we gather our forces and ammunition, don our white clothing and head out into the streets. All is full of “Happy Holi!”, and color color color. The nice people walk up to you, dip their hand into their paint dust and smudge it nicely on your face, and maybe give you a little hug. The mean people and children throw it in your eyes and up your nose and down your shirt and the really mean ones try to nonchelantly grab you as they hug. Then you yell and a policeman comes with a giant stick and chases and beats the offender. Unfortunately, they beat a few people who weren’t causing trouble as well, but at least I felt like they were looking out for us. Basically, the danger people had warned me about boiled down to the attempts of groping by drunken men to whom women, especially western, are taboo. And while this was very disrespectful and terribly annoying, I never felt myself in any mortal danger, and overall enjoyed myself. By the end of the day, I was absolutely covered in paint. It still stains some parts of my body, and I think it might be a few days to really get it all off.

I was all set to leave Udaipur for my next destination and say a sad goodbye to Amme, but because I’m such a good time, she decided to go where I was going.  Yay!  So we head to a charming little place called Bundi.  My plan was to first visit the biggest fort in Rajastan in a town called Chittor that was on the way.  Our bus from Udaipur arrived early in the morning and the bus to Bundi left later that night, so we had plenty of time to see the fort.

However, as we tried to leave the bus station, we were met by armed police officers who denied us entry to the road.  It was strange, and we couldn’t understand why, but ok, we’ll take another exit.  On the other side of the station, we tried to hail a rickshaw, but the driver informed us that both the road and fort were closed.  We misunderstood him to explain that the closure was a result of a hindu/muslim holiday.  Of course, this makes no sense and does not explain the presence of the entire police force, and we finally find out that in actuality the fort and road are closed due to hindu/muslim fighting that broke out the day before, leaving over 30 shops on fire.  Today, there was a curfew and nothing was open.  And there were no buses out until the evening, so we had some time to kill.  We found one restaurant that was open and set ourselves up there, ordering a ton of food, watching Battlestar Galactica on Amme’s iPod and playing card games on a deck we made ourselves out of index cards.  So there, ill fated fort expedition.  So there.

Bundi is small and covered in pale blue.  It’s a beautiful, quiet little town where the people are friendly and the mattress squishy.  There’s a massive palace and fort complex on the hill overlooking the city, and we took a small part of today climbing  up there to see what we could.  The palace was impressive, but we were mostly concerned with the monkeys, which had virtually overrun the entire complex.  The guidebook warned to bring a stick, but we had no idea what we were in for.  They were everywhere, that house was theirs.  They growled and shook their ears at us.  We threw rocks and hissed at them, but eventually made a run for it.

“She stayed long enough only to miss things, not half long enough to deserve them.”

-Henry James, What Maisie Knew

Ah. All anyone ever needs to unlock their full intuitive potential in this lifetime is a little meditation and a little Henry James. You know, I didn’t write for a while because nothing too exciting was going on, and then I became too busy to write at all and before I knew it, what has it been, two weeks? It’s a good sign, believe me. India is opening her arms to me and it’s a nice warm hug…today…

Kochi held up its end of the bargain in being island-like and relaxing and I held up mine in renting a bicycle and gorging myself on Indian sweets. Aside from being severely overcharged for a load of laundry, my time there was positive. I rode all around the area in which I was staying and then up to an area called Jew Town, where the streets are filled with the smell of spices and incense and the architecture is pure Dutch Colonial goodness. After this comes Hampi, arguably my favorite place in India so far. I’ve never seen anything like it, there are boulders everywhere; mountains old and crumbly, now just piles as far as the eye can see like crumbs under the table where God was eating a giant peanut butter cookie. Throughout the last couple of thousand years, people have used the rocks to chisel temples everywhere. The landscape is practically littered with them-some glorious testaments to man’s ability to work and some of man’s ability to realize “There’s no way I’m going to move another boulder for King fancy pants. No way.” I spent a whopping 3 nights here meandering around, mostly captivated by the natural landscape. I’ve got a question: can someone please explain boulders to me? I know as mountains grow old, they crack and deteriorate, but what is it with these groups of just 2 or 3 giant boulders in the middle of a flat plain? How did they get there? This I do not understand. Look at the pictures to see what I’m talking about, it makes absolutely no sense to me. Aside from rocks, Hampi was green and lush and hosts a river to boot. To cross this river, you have to catch a ferry. To catch this ferry you have to hike up your skirt and go into the river. Go figure. My last day there I decide I’ll check out this “Monkey Temple” everyone keeps taking about. I cycle out there, which is hot enough, but when I arrive I am informed that the temple is on the hill, and only accessible through the 600 step pathway. It is the dead of the afternoon heat, I am wearing a long skirt, there is no shade…ah, why not? The temple was unimpressive and the monkeys were scarce, but the view was incredible, so no regrets there. I bought another overnight bus ticket onward to my next destination. I thought this time would be better because it was a “sleeper bus” with bedesque structures. I get on and all situated in my compartment when two guys–one Indian, one traveler–stick their heads in.

“Just one?” Asks the man who runs the bus.
“Yes”.

“Ok. You take one more, no problem.”

Ehh, the compartments might qualify as the size of a small twin bed. It’s not a huge problem, but I wouldn’t call it no problem at all. I look at the other guy who is to be my “roommate” and this is an awkward moment where I

1) Don’t want to seem rude or to imply that he is in any manner indecent

2) Know we have both been sold the ticket and thus have an equal claim of the seat and

3) Don’t want to say “no” only to have no choice and then have to spend the entire time with a person who knows how little I appreciate their presence.

We just stare. For some reason, they go away, and I intuit the other traveler is sitting with someone else in the bunk below mine. I believe I have won, though I am not cerain how or what. Then the bus conductor comes back. He leans in an lowers his voice and offers me the chance to make him a bribe to get the bunk all to myself. His generous offer is too much and I decline.

“Then you will have other person!” he says

“Fine!” I say, “but it has to be a woman.”

“No woman!” he returns. “Indian people coming! It will be man! Indian man!”

“Are you threatening me with an Indian man?”

It’s a ridiculous idea and I pretend that it doesn’t make any difference to me, but we both know it does, a little. He goes. The other traveler poke his head up again and asks if the guy just asked me for a bribe too. Then he says he’ll sit down there, but if more people do get on the bus, he’ll move up, so I feel a little better. Besides, I imagine the conductor was bluffing. It is obviously a tourist oriented sleeper bus, and I can’t imagine them picking up more people. Buuuuut they do.

Welcome. Welcome to an 8 hour overnight journey with a Russian stranger in a twin sized bed in the bus that never missed a pothole. Welcome to the longest awkward moment of my life.

We’re not going to the same place, so I get off the bus in the morning and bid him adieu. Most of the people on the bus are headed to Goa, but I’m aiming for a place called Gokarna, literally, “cow’s ear”. It’s earlier than the sun, and there are only a few other people now standing on the platform of an abandoned bus stop in the middle of nowhere. There’s a group of Israeli’s traveling together, myself, and two other independents, an Irishman and a Canadian guy with positively the coolest game I’ve ever heard of. He had it on his GPS system/tracker/thingy. Other people who have similar devices can hide treasure all over the world, and anyone with this thing can go and look for it. Mom, Dad: This is what I want for my birthday. The three of us decide to form a merry little band and head down to find a beach and somewhere to sleep. We find it and spend the next three days lounging around the beach, playing guitar, and sipping lassis. All very calming minus the one day we tried to find our way into town over the mountains and ended up missing the track and doing quadruple the distance via climbing up and over jagged rocks and through many thorns. As great as the beach was and as good of a time as I was having, that little voice was nagging me, reminding me my time here is half over, and maybe I’ll find something better even if I keep moving. The boys were more susceptible and stayed behind. I took a tuk tuk and a number of buses and walked down a long dirt road and found myself at a train station in the middle of absolutely nowhere with no train coming for the next 5 hours. I decide to stick it out and wait rather than turn back.

Have I mentioned anything about the Indian dogs? They pretty much run wild around here. They’re everywhere you turn, and not really concerned with humans, but usually in towns because that’s where the food is. They all sort of look the same: thin, bleak-eyed, short haired, kind of mangy looking. It is exceedingly rare here for people to keep pets. Having a dog as a pet is virtually unheard of. I don’t pay them a lot of mind, I just sort of got used to them as I did the cows.

At the train station, I see a puppy. Cute one. Being the ONLY customer at the station, I’ve been bothering the station manager all morning with mundane questions about routes and times and lunch. Still, I think he was at least a little surprised/annoyed when I walked over with a puppy in my arms and asked if I could take it on the train. At the time, I wasn’t all that sure of what I wanted to do with it, just that it had spent the afternoon sleeping on my lap and was small. At least half of me was dedicated to keeping it and bringing it back with me to the US. The other half was allergic. In a spectacularly serendipitous turn of events, another traveler eventually showed up who had also found a dog, but she’d had hers for 3 months and had gone the length of getting it vaccinated and all the paperwork and everything, so she had both supplies and advice. I intended to go to Mumbai that night, but now with the dog in tow, I turned my sights for a region of Goa where the girl gave me the address of the Animal Rescue Center there that could help me and answer my questions. So right now I have a puppy. Her name is Keap and at present she’s asleep in my lap. Last night she slept curled up in my armpit. It was really cute up to the point where she wet the bed and then it was still cute but kinda gross. Again today I took a series of buses, no questions asked. Just hand people the address of the place and they tell me what bus to get on. When the bus lets me off, I am once again in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The bus driver gives me a weird “you’re pretty far from home, aren’t you” look and points me down a dirt road. I walk with my big 20k bag on my back, my smaller 10k on my front, and a little dog in a box. When I finally reach the place, it is closed and isn’t open till monday. A really friendly Swedish girl offers us a ride into town on her scooter, so we’re all set up there for now. Got my own scooter and everything. I made a caller out of some nylon rope I carry around, and I bought a little shoulder bag to carry Keap in, because all the cool kids ride around on motorbikes with dogs in their bags. Monday I’ll have more information and maybe even a decision, but until then I’m pretending I live here and this is my life and my dog. And for now it is.

“However, if we aren’t learning something from a new experience, it’s usually because we aren’t paying attention.”-Tom Robbins, Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas
Ah, Puri. I guess there’s good and bad in everything–I didn’t get on the train because it was full, so I did have to wait another day…but then I was assured a seat…so that was nice. Also, I met some good people in Puri, so ok if I had to extend a little. One evening I was sitting on the beach and a German girl came up to me and asked me to watch her things while she took a dip in the ocean. Then, she took out a sketchbook and said, “and this is you”. I had seen her out of the corner of my eye, but I didn’t realize she was drawing me. We talked a while and then a philosophy teacher I’d met from Singapore, Chau, came and joined us. Chau and I grabbed dinner and spoke for a long time, the most philosophical banter I’ve had on my trip yet, very refreshing. On my way back to my guesthouse that evening, a cycle rickshaw driver came up to me on the street and, laughing maniacally, swatted me with a towel before passing on in to the night. I’m…not really sure what that was about.

My next move was a stopover in Chennai. I’d read there wasn’t much to see or do there, but Biu, a girl on the train who was a student there convinced me to stay overnight. Can’t say it was that exciting, but no harm in looking around. Next morning, I took a bus to Pondicherry. Now here was a place I’d heard was great, so I was expecting a lot. This enthusiasm was quickly dashed upon the hot rocks of the high season–all the guesthouses were full. Drenched in sweat, I carried my home through the streets and finally had to settle on a room that was too expensive, but apparently the last in town. Pondicherry and I were off on a bad foot. I sought in vain a way to plan my next move, but for reasons unknown the train station (which I walked 1-2 km to) wouldn’t sell me a ticket, and the bus station (same distance, other direction) was having technical difficulties. But I’m told the bus to Kochi is rarely full, so I shouldn’t need to reserve. Pooped, I hired an auto rickshaw back to my hotel.

“30 rupees!” the guy tells me.

“No thanks, I walked here for free.”

“No! No! It’s too far, impossible to walk.”

“I’m telling you: I. Just. Did. 20 rupees.”

“No, no. Too far.”

So I go to leave and another man comes up and says quietly, “20 rupees OK.”  I go with him. As we walk to his tuk-tuk, another pulls alongside us and the driver and smiling, yells, “Do not go with him! He is cheating his fellow!”
“Cheating his fellow?” I say, “He agreed to 20 and his fellow wouldn’t. That isn’t cheating, that’s capitalism, baby.” My spirits are suddenly lifted, bringing to full light a certain me-ism that is my inability to really relax in a place unless my exit is absolutely assured.

It should here be noted that I am at present writing this in my notebook (thanks Kerri) in a park, and a bird has just pooped on me.

Onward. Pondicherry has a distinctly French colonial flare to it, which is a welcomed change of pace insofar as that brings with it easily navigable (albeit numerous) streets. I rented a bike for a few hours one day and decided it was not an objectionable way to get around. I was afraid of the lawless, take no prisoners attitude of Indian trafic, but I daresay I fit in well. It gave me a more thorough look at Pondicherry than I would have had otherwise, and finally a better impression of the mid-sized town. Small towns are one thing, peaceful and charmingly personable, and big cities-I love big cities- are vibrant and full of curiosity, but something about a medium sized town, I don’t know, always seems like it’s mocking me.

That said, it’s a nice walk down the promenade with fresh pineapple stands abundant and the wind-thinned waves vaulting themselves onto land and taking you by surprise if you’re not paying attention, standing too close to the rocks. Nearby is a lovely park of the green and clean variety that everyone seems to agree is a nice way to spend the afternoon. Crow excrement aside, I have to concur. In one corner, there’s a slow and heavy wind chime providing a constant undercurrent of melodies as people sit, talk, play, or stare at the curious white girl who refuses to move from her bench even though the sprinklers have come on.

I do manage to catch the bus to Kochi, an overnighter, and it is not a pleasant experience. Initially I was excited because I had two seats to myself, so I thought for sure I would sleep soundly. Turns out, I couldn’t sleep a wink. Another meism, or maybe this is true of people at large, is that it’s easier to get physically comfortable in smaller spaces. Or I guess more specifically, if options are limited.

In fact, I’d like to see a study to that end, maybe, with prison inmates. If the setup is an empty concrete room in both cases, who would fall asleep first: the person in the 15×20 foot room, or the one in the 3×5? And would the person in the bigger room sleep against the wall? These are the questions I keep myself company with. Doesn’t that sound like a good time?

After hours of contorting my body into positions that would put a yoga master to shame, I discover the best way to go is sitting bolt upright with a scarf tied around my eyes like a bandit to keep the light out. When we reach Kochi, I stumble into the light bleary eyed and sleepy like a child in my refusal to bring myself around to full consciousness; I kind of float off the bus and slosh about looking for my sunglasses, batting my hands at the sun. First order of business is to eat followed by bicycle rentary. I got plugged into a homestay by the driver of my rickshaw, and it’s more than I usually shell out for accommodation, but it’s got a homey feel to it and I have full use of a kitchen, so that should help cut costs. Besides that, I’ve spent today napping. Kochi (Conchin) is actually an island only accessible by ferry, so I’m feeling right pleasant and may stay here a few days.

And in other news, my own heart Dominick Mach left for his Peace Corps staging in Morocco yesterday. He’ll be there for two years, and you can keep up with him by following the bouncing blog link here and read all about his travels and how inspiring I am. Furthermore, my other darling daring friend Emily Clyne leaves for her El Salvadorian Peace Corps adventure in 3 days, and she’s got a spiffy website here, complete with travel blog.

 ”The phenomena of life may be likened unto a dream, a phantasm, a bubble, a shadow, the glistening dew, or lightning flash, and thus they ought to be contemplated.”

-Buddha, The Immutable Sutra

 Leaving Kolkata was kind of hard.  I ended up going to volunteer for Mother Theresa’s outfit with my roommates.  They’re all going to school to become doctors, so they worked in the medical ward.  I had no idea what to expect.  What I found out was that the medical ward is not so much there to provide treatment in hopes of rehabilitation, but rather the sisters bring in men and women from the streets on the verge of death so that they can treat the ailments and pain, allowing these people to pass on with peace and dignity. 

I worked in the woman’s ward, where the women lived side by side on cots, most unable to move due to mal-nutrition, many also suffering from diseases from Tuberculosis to painful bedsores to Hepatitis to a slew of unidentified bacterial infections and worse.  The volunteers walked around and took care of them, bringing food and water as requested, helping them to the toilet, bathing, and putting lotion on their skin.  We also assisted the nurses in giving medical attention.  For those who could walk, we did a short stretch and “exercise” program to strengthen their muscles.  The patients ranged from despondent to exuberant.  One woman didn’t realize she’d been taken in and every time someone passed, she put out her hand and asked for money and food.  Of course the atmosphere had its encouraging aspects to be found in the untiring efforts and a kind of bleached optimism in the volunteers, some of whom had been working there for years on end.  I wasn’t there long enough to get a real sense of it, but it certainly made an impact.

Aside from this experience, I’d really grown quite attached to my roommates, and it was sad, even difficult to say goodbye.  But as my dad so correctly put it, the important thing is that they were worth missing.  And in traveling and in life, the inevitability of impermanence is well worth remembering and appreciating; and so far as I can tell, provides greater meaning and a richer experience than the things that linger too long then peter out.  In truth, I imagine I’d rather have it this way, so that if I have the occasion to be sad, it’s only because I was at one time so happy.

 The train ride to my next destination was largely uneventful, with the exception of being awoken in the middle of the night to terrifying screams coming from the berth across and down a little from me.  I tried looking over the side, and as much as I could ascertain from the situation was that the poor fellow was having a nightmare.  Someone across from him had woken him up and was talking to him, but he appeared still pretty shaken.  However, it was hard to get a good look because the guy across from me was concerned that I might be scared and kept repeating, “He ok, miss.  You sleep.” to the point that I felt obligated to turn around an commence my slumber.

Now I’m trapped in Puri, a beach town (poor me) on the eastern coast.  It’s not really such a great beach, and I wouldn’t really swim in it as it’s used as public toilet for the locals, but if you can ignore the beach hawkers with real pear necklaces for cheap! it’s nice to sit on the sand close your eyes, hedging your senses to intake ocean and sun in full.

Yesterday I did this for a while, and then went back to get something from my room.  Getting there, I realized that what I really wanted were bangs –a decidedly challenging task with a swiss army knife, something I unfortunately learned only after having begun.  Though they’re mabe a cm shorter than I envisioned, I am overall pleased with the outcome.  I’d been tossing the idea around for a bit, believing it would make me look sassy, possibly european, and also a little like a secret agent.  I had my reasons, ok?

 Currently, in my attempt to leave Puri, I’ve booked a waitlisted ticket South.  All the trains are full.  This leaves a real possibility that tomorrow I will embark on a 24 hour crowded train ride without a bed, so the next entry might contain a story of woe.  Or whoa.