Wanderlust Heaven!

My room has a nice big mosquito net around the whole bed. We don’t have that at home!! Of course, we don’t have 6-inch skeeters at home either. At night when I lie down on the bed and open up the net, I feel like I’m in some palace, the bed is so large, with four posters, and the gauzy net is all around me like fine silk.

I traded in my big motorcycle for a cool little Honda Activa scooter. Now I don’t have to worry about my foot reaching the gearshift. Last week I skinned my knee when I spun out on some loose gravel. But the nurse was really nice and gave me some candy while she bandaged my knee. And she didn’t even yell at me for being a stupid little kid!!

I’m not wearing a watch anymore. Yeah, of course I like the watch you bought me. But time really doesn’t matter that much here. All you need to know is that when the sun’s up, it’s beach time. And when the sun starts to go down, it’s still beach time, preferably accompanied by grown-up drinks. But get this – there are cool bars everywhere and they serve everybody, even me! It sure wasn’t like this at home.

A few days ago Benji and I rode down to Candolim Beach. I remember going there a long time ago with Jan and Craig. But this time there’s a huge barge stuck in the bay! Wait till all my friends at school hear about this! Some dumb drunk captain screwed up and beached his huge ship right next to the beach – and it’s been stuck there for six years! We thought that Boston Harbor was bad.

Me and Benji talked about trying to board the ship. But there might be bad guys there. Or it might smell like pooh. So in the end we just went swimming near it. And then we were hungry. So we went to a beach shack called ‘Calamari…Bathe and Binge.’ Benji had fries (he calls them ‘chips’ – how weird) and I had some sloppy chicken dish. And a cold beer. Because everybody can drink here in Goa. So there.

While we were sitting at Calamari we read the back of the menu. It said that Calamari was rated the fifth-best beach shack in the world by some overseas newspaper. The other ones were in Sicily, Morocco and England. Maybe we can take a family vacation to those places when I get back?

Soon after that it was Diwali, the biggest Indian festival, and there were cool celebrations everywhere. And lots of Chinese firecrackers. Our counselors wouldn’t let us buy any, so we just hung around and watched Indian kids light them. I read in the newspaper that every Diwali tons of people get hurt by firecrackers. I remember back at home during one Fourth of July, Billy threw a firecracker at me after lighting it. But I ducked and it missed me. So there.

Another day Benji and I rode our bikes all the way to the northern border, right near the state of Maharashtra (the state with Mumbai in it). That was fun…the roads got pretty narrow and we had a few close calls. There were cows wandering all over the place and I started daydreaming about juicy hamburgers at Wendy’s. When I get home I really want to eat a few double burgers with everything. And chili. And frosty’s too. That would be really cool.

When we got back from the northern border – where we swam and talked for a while – we went to an all-day party at a beach shack called Curly’s. All the big kids were there. Lots of funny little cigarettes. People were acting kind of funny. Loud trance music was playing. One big kid was nearly naked and he was throwing his body around like crazy. He had a big funny strange grin on his face the whole time – he looked really happy. I wonder why.

We stayed there for a few hours. Some of the kids from our bunk were there – some people from England or one of those places where they speak English too. One kid was too tired to dance or even stand – he had a droopy smile on his face. But he was really nice and we sat there with them for a while.

That night my tummy was killing me. I think I ate some icky veggies up north or at Curly’s. And I had to keep going to the bathroom. Boy, I really hate getting sick. And Dr. Brodie’s thousands of miles away – I guess I’ll have to figure something out myself.

The next day we rode to the state capital, Panaji. There’s an awesome enormous white church high on a hill in the city. We went inside to look. There was a funny sign there. It said something like ‘Communion is not a prasad.’ Prasad is the Hindi word for ‘snack’ or something like that. I guess Indian non-Christian people were going to mass and standing in line for free wafers. And the Christian people didn’t like that. I don’t understand what the big deal is. At synagogue we’ll feed anyone who walks in, won’t we?

We ate a huge lunch at Hotel Venite. The place looks really crappy from outside, but inside it’s really old and cool and has that old smell that’s sometimes good. We were starving and the food was excellent.

We rode around the town some more after lunch. We saw a graveyard with lots of graves. I held my breath for a while but then I couldn’t any more. And there were some new gravesites there, some from 2006. That was really sad. The graveyard was next to a big church, and everyone buried there had Portuguese/Christian-sounding names. I think there are still many people like that in Goa.

After riding around the town some more we crashed the pool at the Goa Marriott Resort. You’re supposed to be a hotel guest to use the pool, but I think they let any white people right in. I wonder what happens if black people try to go in. What do you think they do?

The pool was fun. Then we had a coffee at the Panjim Inn, back in Panaji (Panjim is the old Portuguese name for Panaji). Then we rode home to Vagator.

The next day we went to the closest beaches, Vagator and Little Vagator. The former one is full of touts and vendors and Indian package tourists. It was way too crowded. And there were some funny smells. Benji and I swam there for a little while, then we drove down to Little Vagator beach. That was cooler. And we ran into some big kids from Bean Me Up. They were acting a bit slow…one of them said they went to a pharmacy before and found some really neat stuff there. But Benji and I just went swimming. There were some big rocks and then the good swimming place was right between them. Some girls with big bazongas were swimming there too and Benji and I stayed there for a long time. The skin on my fingers got all pruny and stuff. But we still stayed there.

When we came out of the ocean we hung out for a little while with our bunkmates. The girl had taken off her bikini top and she was really letting it all hang out. I think that’s illegal in Goa…but Benji and I didn’t say anything, we just had a look. I didn’t like them, personally. The magazines at 7-11 have much nicer ones.

Then we went to the Shore Bar, where we had gone before. The sun was going down and we wanted to have some ‘sundowners.’ Which is a grown-up word that means ‘drinks when the sun goes down.’ So we did that. And we ate some chips (French fries). I remembered that some dumb US Congressman changed the name of French fries at the House of Representatives mess hall to ‘freedom fries.’ How dumb can you get? What do fries have to do with freedom, anyway?

We did some other cool stuff later in the week. We went to an amazing 200-year-old house/restaurant called Casa Portuguese for dinner. I drank a cashew feni and it was really tasty. We also went to the weekly Anjuna Flea Market and I bought some neat stuff for you – I’ll keep it here till I go home. I hope you like it. It’s a surprise so I won’t tell you what it is. But it’s not alive, don’t worry. And it doesn’t smell bad either. This is what the market looks like:

Benji signed up for an introductory dive course. I already did that stuff so I just hung around the bunk reading. And I went swimming some more. That was really fun. But I miss you. Please write more often. And send comic books too. Do they still make The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers?

Love,

Mike

That was 4 days ago. In that span, I’ve had a simply amazing time doing almost nothing. I checked into Bean Me Up (but am awaiting some better rooms opening up – I’m staying for almost 2 months), I rented a motorbike, and I let the rigors of 4-5 months of traveling wash off me. My first day I hopped on the bike – a 250cc Indian make, not particularly great but serviceable – and went down to Baga beach to laze about and go for a few dips. The ocean’s temperature here is perfect – like bathwater. Bought a cheap shirt so that I could avoid doing laundry as long as possible. Had a late lunch – fresh (I think) grilled prawns with mashed potatoes. Went for another dip after lunch. Went back to the hotel, met the owner Lisa – a very switched-on lady, reminds me of my yoga instructor in Tokyo, Leza. Perhaps there’s something about these American women who post themselves far away in non-obvious spots, running a business and blending in with the local scene.

Went for a run as the sun set, my first run in a few weeks. Felt the pain…my lungs and stamina were pretty weak. Vowed to run regularly, now that I was back at sea level. Power went out when I got back, and it was hot, so took a quick cold shower, then hopped on my bike and rode to Mango Tree for a beer and dinner. The 10-minute bike ride cooled me off. And Mango Tree is in one of my favorite parts of Goa…on a stretch of road near the beach with a few restaurants and shops. Cows wander freely in front of the place and it feels out there on the frontier, far from the package tourist scene in Calangute and Baga.

It felt a bit like overnight camp…I wondered if I should sew nametags into my clothes so that they won’t get lost in the wash.

Was getting disillusioned with my motorbike. It was challenging to find neutral gear (necessary to start the damn thing), and in low gears the bike kept stalling. I vowed to switch either to a Japanese bike or to a simple scooter.

The next day I woke up late…it was market day in Anjuna…which has a massive, well-known flea market which consumes Goa every Wednesday. I had lunch at the excellent Shore Bar (see below), where you can sit on a reclining chair and vegetate for hours…while knocking back Kingfishers and reading. I sat there for a couple hours, swam, then walked over to the market.

The Anjuna Market is an experience, but it gets to you. The vendors just don’t understand how to sell to foreigners. It’s all ‘hello friend, where are you from, what is your name, where do you stay, come look at my store…’ Which violates nearly every sensibility we’ve got. Speaking for myself – my ideal shopping experience is to spot a funky display, get intrigued, then browse without having someone breathing down my neck. I don’t want to make friends with the vendor…I really don’t want them to know my name or where I’m staying. My paranoia runs too deep for that. So I rarely buy anything at these markets…but it does occur to me that teaching a ‘Western Retail Science’ course might be hugely lucrative in India/Goa. At least until the usual rip-off artists enter the market two days later and cut the price in half…

On the advice of one of the waiters at Bean Me Up, went over to Nine Bar that night. Wednesday nights are big in Goa – after the flea market, everyone congregates at the main bars, Looda’s, Nine Bar, Paradiso, etc. Nine Bar is heavy on trance/techno music. And tiny joints winking away in the dark, on the patio overlooking Little Vagator Beach. I won’t incriminate myself, but let’s just say that I was later spotted at Mango Tree, wolfing down a large platter of chicken au gratin. I would have sold the motorbike for a plate of food at that point in the evening…particularly given that I had a minor spill on leaving the parking area, due to 1) my crappy motorcycle driving skills and 2) the terrible gear configuration of the bike. Ripped my pants but no blood drawn. Again vowed, this time seriously, to trade the bike in the next day.

At Nine Bar the dance floor was heaving. Most of the foreigners there were tattoo-laden…which always makes me wonder how many people I come across in daily life have tattoos but keep them hidden under clothing. Judging from the crowd at Nine Bar, 93% of Westerners have tattoos…but of course that’s a sampling bias. It’s probably more like 5%, but nearly all of them were at Nine Bar on Wed. night. Smoking funny little cigarettes and ripping apart bags of cashew nuts and potato chips. Long live the Nine Bar!

The next day I met the fellow staying in the room next door, the aforementioned Aussie Benji. It was his first time in Goa – I was planning to tour around the northern section, as soon as I traded my bike. I arranged that, Benji rented a bike from the same vendor, and we set off for Anjuna and points south. Benji was an excellent wingman, and his sunny and spirited disposition reminded me of why I tend to like Aussies. We first went to Shore Bar, got front row seats, and spent the next 3-4 hours having coffees, swimming, chilling, and having a good lunch. Talked to a Scottish fellow next to us – who rolled a large spleef and sucked it right down while eating veg pakoras. The Scot pointed out a guy on the beach who was emerging from the surf in his birthday suit – which is not legal in Goa, despite the generally laid-back nature of the state. Apparently this guy is insane – he was seen the previous day walking around laughing for no apparent reason. Which doesn’t sound insane to me, just happy – but I understood.

Eventually moved on to Baga Beach, which was a bit more crowded but still entirely pleasant. Had a beer, got a snack, lazed in the surf, and watch the sun go down.

Goa has stunning sunsets. Which does not set it apart from many Asian locations – the difference is that the other places usually can thank air pollution for their sunsets. Manila Bay is famous for having multi-hued vistas, brought on by its millions of belching cars and trucks…

At 7 p.m. we went over to Nine Bar. Much quieter this time…no flea market that day. Benji and I had a few beers and chatted about life. We talked about Bean Me Up and decided we both liked it immensely. The restaurant opens on Halloween with a big party. Benji said that his buddy in Sydney (half-American, half-Mexican…I love it) has great Halloween parties – and said that Halloween is the start of summer in Oz. Which is a funny thing…I’ve spent a lot of time in the Southern Hemisphere, and have become used to the reality of spending Christmas/New Years at the beach…but have never thought of Halloween in the South as bringing on summer. And Benji said that Easter is the closer…like we in the States look at Memorial Day and Labor Day as the bookends to summer.

That’s about it for this week. Couldn’t be enjoying Goa more…you’ve gotta get over here sometime, it’s a special kind of place. It’s now Friday, and I’m looking forward to a wild and wonderful weekend spread across the beach, cafes, dance clubs, and who knows what else…Goa really has so much to see, it’s an entire state and I’ll have my hands full for the next 7 weeks. Perhaps I should consider this period a ‘scouting trip.’

Oh yeah…I’m still working my way through the Bill Bryson book ‘A Short History of Nearly Everything’, and some of the concepts in there are hard to fathom. I won’t bore you with everything of note, but one bit stood out for me. Which is this: atoms are incredibly long-lived, and they don’t perish when the animal or plant which they’re part of dies. They are recycled ad infinitum…and show up again and again in subsequent generations. So get this: everyone living today – all of us – have huge numbers of atoms from previous generations, and one scientist has estimated that all of us have around a billion atoms from historical figures like Shakespeare, Genghis Khan, etc. So Mike Slone has a billion atoms that were once part of Jesus Christ. Not sure how that makes me feel…cosmic, I suppose. The catch is that it takes a while for the atoms to move around – so Elvis’s atoms are not yet spread around and I might not have any of those. Chew on that for a while and get back to me.

Next day we hiked to Lahesh Cave, a natural hole in the side of the mountains. Fairly short day – only 5-6 km – but the approach to the cave is challenging as it involves picking your way through a meadow strewn with huge rocks. The meadow at first is not that steep, but later on it gets steeper, and the last 1-2 km to the cave is really a scramble up a rocky slope – not much grass nor flat surfaces. When we reached the cave I was beat – and my feet were sore. Took off my shoes and let my dogs bark for a couple hours while Suresh and Satish gathered water, made tea, and cooked dinner. I read V.S. Naipual’s book ‘India: A Million Mutinies Now’ and starting psyching myself up for the next day, when we’d climb to the summit and then walk back to Triund – probably 18 km of walking in all, with the summit climb being quite challenging as I remembered it. Here’s a quick look at Lahesh:

Talked with the guys in the cave while we ate. Dinner consisted of white rice, a few chapatis (flat unleavened bread), dhal (lentils), and tea. Decent, filling stuff – but I was already daydreaming about meat and beer. Found out from Suresh that Mr. Saini, the head of the Regional Mountaineering Center (I mentioned him in my previous posting), is the father of the fellow from Himalayan Heights, the trekking agency I was now using. That was a revelation – as you may recall from last week’s entry, I was surprised that Mr. Saini, a presumably impartial government employee, steered me away from two well-known agencies and towards a new one. Which, I now knew, was his son’s agency – and Mr. Saini undoubtedly had a financial interest in Himalayan Heights. I was later to see Mr. Saini lounging in a TV room with his wife at Himalayan Heights’s guesthouse, called the Ekant Lodge, where I stayed post-trek for two nights. He didn’t seem to have any problem broadcasting his presence there – no conflict of interest concerns. I wasn’t that surprised to hear of the connection, in retrospect – India is full of these background webs and links and that’s part of the way the society gets by. And to be honest, Mr. Saini turned out to be a good guy – he had always given me (and Jan) good advice, this time as well, and he and his family looked after me well at the Ekant Lodge.

That night, while tossing and turning, felt very cold and noticed that the zipper on my sleeping bag had come off the track – causing the bag to come open at the side. I cursed the agency, and the cold, and briefly tried to fix the zipper. Most of you know about the generally weak repair skills of the Jewish people – and I am a good representative. But I was saved…Satish got up to go take a piss outside the cave, and when he came back in I got him to come over. He was able to coax the zipper back on track, and then I closed the bag up. That was a huge help…but while he was fussing with the zipper I had some (homophobic?) concerns about us being so close to each other…and I silently prayed that Brokeback Mountain didn’t enjoy wide popularity in India!

Next morning, we set out at 6 a.m. to climb to the pass. Satish estimated it would take 3 hours – but the rocks were dry, we had energy, and we got there in a bit over two. Satish was surprised – he said that I was a ‘very strong trekker.’ Of course, he was in the front and was a much stronger trekker – but I didn’t hold him back much and together we made good progress. So we got to the summit (I hate the verb ‘summitted,’ by the way – too cocky) around 8 or so. It came on fast – I suppose I was looking at the peaks to either side of the pass, and thinking we were heading there. The pass is well below the peaks, as passes generally are – so when we got to the top it felt sudden, but rewarding nonetheless. Spent 45 minutes up there, taking photos (see below) and resting. There’s a plaque dedicated to two climbers from Rajasthan who died in an avalanche thereabouts. Sobering to see it.

Did a lot of thinking and reminiscing while at the top. The last time I was there, in ’92 with Jan, I was a 25-year-old business school student spending the summer interning in Bombay. I had no firm job in hand, very little money, and my India job didn’t clearly link to any high-paying jobs. So that much was in flux – yet I was a happy guy. My family was well (my mother was alive then), my sister was in graduate school, I had made some great friends in the first year of b-school, etc. Long time ago…Clinton had only been President for a few months, and I’d seen a year or so prior a victory parade for the first Gulf War down Constitution Avenue in Washington. Back then I had hated old Bush…but now I’d be very happy to take him back.

I thought about my mother while at the pass. So much had happened in the time since my last visit, including her illness and passing. I was able to remember the fun times we had as a family back before then – all of her random names for our dog, the children’s books and articles she wrote, her colorful clothes, our family holidays – and I thought she’d be happy at how things had turned out for us. Bonnie and I were doing well in life, and Dad had remarried and was happy. The first few years after losing her were very difficult – I suppose she knew they would be – but we got by and had well and truly turned the corner. I smiled as I had those thoughts and felt close to her, somehow, all the way up there in the high mountain passes, way up there above the clouds…

We walked back to Lahesh cave after that. The downhill walking was not easy – my ankles and knees were shot after a couple hours, and for days afterward I arranged my activities to minimize downhill walking.

Adhered to a few general principles as we walked downhill. Watched out for unsteady rocks, and if I had to step on one, I did so in the middle to minimize the rocking back and forth. Always tried to have a fixed point – didn’t have both legs in motion/in the air simultaneously. Didn’t extend the leg in motion that far, and tried to use my hands as much as possible. Basic stuff, really – nothing that requires deep contemplation, but you do need to get into a pattern or you find yourself struggling. Of course, the guides just plowed ahead and never ever stumbled, whereas I’d do so once in a while. But managed to stay on my feet and not fall during the entire four days…

I noticed the converse nature of the elements at certain points. For instance, it’s hell trekking in the hot sun – but in those parts shielded by clouds and trees, the rocks tend to be wet and slippery. So you’re never really sure what you want…the best situation is to have alternating situations and just adapt to them.

Also was well aware of the cow and sheep shit all over the place. It was more difficult to deal with in ’92, when it was rainy – then the shit would spread all over the rocks and make them even more slippery. Now, much less of a problem – and the thing is that sheep and cow shit doesn’t reek that badly. All they eat is grass, and their ‘output’ is pretty natural and uncontaminated. Unlike, say, human shit or dog shit. I imagine that animals don’t get constipated – their diet and lifestyle is the same day to say. Anyway, it wasn’t that hard to trek in and amongst piles and pellets of animal crap.

Got back to Triund late that afternoon. Was very tired…pitched the tent and tried to take a nap. Used my fleece jacket as a pillow – warm and comfortable. But Triund was loud and busy that day – a party of 40 or so trekkers was moving through, and thankfully left after a couple hours. Another party of 15-20 volunteers pitched tents and stayed the night – I’d never seen so many people at Triund and silently rued the loss of peace and quiet at this special spot.

Compared this trek to our ‘92 trek, and found that this was much less demanding, on several fronts:

1 - Better weather. In 1992 we were fighting through both the monsoon rain and the August heat. This time, the only hassle was the cold weather at night. But I slept only sporadically during both treks, so that variable didn’t play a major differentiating factor.

2 - Improved fitness/stamina. I was probably in slightly better cardiac shape in ‘92, given that I had been running in Bombay, training for the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington later that year. But I had been nailed with a few cases of Delhi belly that summer, and had lost too much weight - I didn’t feel that strong during the trek. This time, I was a bit more ponderous, but steadier, and I was able to climb the hills more easily. Satish told me I did very well on the tougher bits.

3 - Easier trek and load. We only went to the Indrahar Pass and back this time, whereas in ‘92 we went on to Bharmaur - another 2+ days, which included an overly demanding two days in one (hence, the plunge into the cow trough). Also, I was carrying less weight this time…although it had been 14 years between treks, I remembered being weighed down in ‘92 and was ruthless this time in keeping my load light.

I never felt overwhelmed during this trek. In ‘92, there were some hairy times…lack of water, carrying a heavy load up steep slopes, etc. Some real lessons learned…

Made it back to McLeod Ganj the next afternoon. Checked into the Ekant Lodge, emptied out my rented pack, and took a nice long hot shower. Walked over to McLo’s and ordered a huge meal – chicken spring rolls, club sandwich, ice creams, and of course a couple large Kingfisher’s. The first bite of meat and the first sip of beer were extraordinarily rejuvenating. Not sure what that portends for my future…but it was wonderful in the moment.

Went to a small ‘movie room’ that night to watch The Big Lebowski. McLeod Ganj has a couple places with a big TV and DVD player, and for 30 rupees (under a buck) you can go see movies there, they run them throughout the day and night. It’s an ingenious system and a very civilized way to go see a movie. And The Big Lebowski was pretty good – liked the storyline and random mayhem throughout.

Next morning walked down the hill to the local Buddhist monastery. Recalled that when Jan and I visited there in ’92, I had a severe case of the shits en route and had to relieve myself next to a little stream…and as I had no toilet paper with me, I used my hand and the river water for cleaning. That was the only time I had to resort to the ‘local system’ and it was a funny memory. This time, nothing of the sort happened, and I enjoyed strolling around the monastery.

Walked back up the hill and wandered over to the major Tibetan religious-political-social complex, Tsuglagkhang. The Dalai Lama lives in part of this area. He was away at this point…I had written a letter and posted it from Bangkok a few weeks earlier, probably too late though – he sometimes sees foreign guests if they write to him early enough and he’s in town when they visit. He also has public audiences from time to time. Not easy to line up schedules, so I wasn’t that disappointed not to see him. If we were to meet, I’d probably tell him a couple Jewish jokes and ask him for some Tibetan ones – apparently he has a great sense of humor, and we all know he’s got a great smile.

The complex has some large and interesting statues inside…and plenty of offerings to the Buddha. Noticed that one of the offerings was a box of Oreo cookies. Apparently the Buddha has a sweet tooth…or prefers things to be black and white…

Popped into the Lung Ta Japanese vegetarian restaurant for lunch. The Japanese art and signs brought back some good memories. And the set lunch of the day was spot on – several plates of food, rice, soup for under two bucks. Very unlike Japan! The food was tasty…and the next day sushi was the special. Briefly considered delaying my departure from Dharamsala just to have the sushi, but decided to move on to Shimla as planned.

The final thing I had to do here was to try to go see my old guide Raja, in Dharamkot village. As mentioned earlier, he’d become a big local businessman and was busy. I did find him at his trekking shop, though, and we had a good chat. He remembered me and our ’92 trek – we had a few challenges after finishing the trek in Bharmaur, like a rockslide that closed the road back to Dharamsala, necessitating a lengthy 2-3 side route through Chamba and the utterly heinous railhead city of Pathankot in the Punjab. Our night in Pathankot was hell on earth – we arrived at the bus station only to be besieged by scores of beggars waiting on the platform, we had to walk around the streets (full of burning trash and staring fellows) till we found a crappy hotel that overcharged us. The beds were dirty and probably full of bedbugs – every time I lay down I was overcome with itching and took a cold shower. Didn’t sleep one second that night, and the next day fled the place with glee and horror.

My trek this time was much less full of drama, being shorter and just to the pass and back. Anyway, Raja and I shared some memories and laughs. He’s put on a few pounds and lost a few hairs – sound familiar? Here’s a shot of the two of us, my friend Jan will certainly appreciate it:

I promised him that I’d return before long (certainly before another 14 years passes), and that I’d do a trek with him and his agency. I plan to follow through on that promise, perhaps even next year.

That night was my finale in Dharamsala. Again went out to McLo’s and had dinner/drinks. It was rainy – strange for the post-monsoon season – and the town felt even more relaxed and asleep than usual. As I sat down at a table I heard Tracy Chapman playing on the sound system – brought back some old memories of Tufts (where she and I were both students in the late 80’s) and Boston. After a few minutes a young woman sat down next to me and we started to chat. She’s from Tibet, and fled three years ago to Dharamsala. We talked for almost two hours. She taught me about Buddhism, I talked about my round the world trip. She was intrigued by the Goa bit – she’s never seen the ocean and desperately wants to. I invited her to come visit me in Goa later this year, and we’ll see what happens. I walked her back to her place, said goodnight, and then went back to Ekant for a few hours’ rest. I was taking a bus to Shimla, the Himachal Pradesh state capital, the next morning.

The ride was long – 8 hours – but uneventful. Noticed en route that Lays potato chips are found in virtually all outlets, and that some stores are actually painted up to resemble a bag of Lays. I wonder who the Indian distribution manager of Frito-Lay is…s/he did an amazing job.

Shimla is a lively, semi-large hillstation that the British used to head up to every summer when Delhi became unbearable. It’s now a very popular getwaway for Indians, and some tourists, at a few points during the year. This was one of them – it was honeymoon/Dussehra/Diwali season, October is a busy month in India – and Shimla was full of holidaying families.

Enjoyed my two days there. Saw a lot of monkeys – some of them are pretty large, and those at the local temples have been known to grab bags and run off. The official line is that they think there’s food in the bags…but I’ve seen renegade monkeys at Nepalese shrines before and I know they’ve been trained by people to rip off valuables. I saw a Japanese girl’s bag get taken by a monkey in Kathmandu, and she was crying her eyes out. I imagine that monkey ran down the hill, handed over the bag to his trainer, and got a treat from him…

Classic British colonial buildings in Shimla – gives the town a framework and nice atmosphere, feels a bit lost in time (as much of British Asia does). The impressive Christ Church looms over the town at the top of The Ridge…the Viceregal House just out of town is a massive Scottish baronial building where discussions were held on the partition of the subcontinent into India and Pakistan in the mid-late 40’s. Talk about momentous decisions…I took a short tour there and was impressed by the architecture, and the general British work on buildings, roads, infrastructure. Now the place is the Indian Institute for Advanced Studies – sort of a self-guided research house for post-PhD. folks.

Had lunch at a small hotel that featured river trout. Excellent lunch, much like the trout I had in Manali. I think that river trout is moving up on my list of favorite foods – it’s just very hard to find the stuff in most places.

After two days in Shimla, traveled onward to Delhi to see my old business school friend Hasmeeth and his family. Was taking a train most of the way, but had to catch an early a.m. bus first to the railhead in Kalka. The bus ride was 3+ hours on a local bus…not that clean, but certainly cheap. I guess I’m pretty cheap when it comes to these things – I could have taken a cab to Kalka for the rupee equivalent of US$20, but chose the crappy $2 bus instead. Sometimes I’m able to convince myself that I’m poor, as in the old days, and then I’m able to keep my budget low. Cleaned the seat with my handkerchief (you’ve gotta carry one of these with you at all times), sat down, and rode to Kalka. Then walked a bit and caught the train to Delhi.

The train ride was better, but still pretty cramped. Meant to write this entry on that ride, but people were coming and going, moving around the cabin, and I decided to wait until I got on firmer territory. Got re-acquainted with the general Indian tendency to take off shoes and socks on trains and buses and let their dogs bark. I’ll simply say that some dogs bark more loudly than others…

Got to Delhi, met Hasmeeth’s driver next to a Wimpy’s restaurant, and we drove to Hasmeeth’s office to meet up. When I got there, he was on the phone with our mutual buddy Jan, mentioned multiple times above. Jan and Hasmeeth are in business together in India, and were discussing the latest stuff. I talked to Jan for a bit, then Hasmeeth and I went to his residence to see his wife and adorable baby daughter Adia. Adia is extremely good-natured…and I can’t stress enough the importance of that quality. In an earlier posting I mentioned a few critical (in my opinion) attributes – including being witty. Well, after being on the road for all this time and observing people getting along, or not, I think that being good-natured is perhaps a foundation quality. I’ve seen quite a few couples squabbling over petty things in hotels and restaurants, and it’s not an attractive thing to have to watch. Reactions?

Went out for dinner at The Kebab Factory – very nice food, and they had an odd yet enticing buy-one-get-one-free deal on wine – so we bought a bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape, which I was surprised to find in stock. Hadn’t had a bottle of wine in weeks, and was pleased to get back on track with Chateauneuf de Pape – which is one of my brother-in-law’s favorites, if I remember correctly. Drank one bottle with dinner, and brought the other home, hopefully to be consumed right after posting this blog!

My final observation, in the midst of my short couple days in Delhi visiting Hasmeeth, is that the toilet in the bathroom I’m using has a very funny brand name. Many things in India used the prefix ‘Hind’ or ‘Hindu,’ as the Indian name for the country is Hindustan. Well, my toilet’s brand is ‘Hindware.’ I don’t think much more needs be said…

Final bit: I posted a short video on YouTube, please check it out (and excuse the amateur camerawork). The website is http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bfLi_H4CVO0. This video features a group of Tibetan schoolkids chanting songs and welcoming the Dalai Lama back to Dharamsala. I think you’ll enjoy it. See you next week, from the beautiful beach state of Goa…

· We got a flat tire later on. Superman fixed it up in 10 minutes, with no help (we would only have slowed him down), and then got to a petrol station where they repaired the flat tire (now for use as a spare). I should mention that the roads were in terrible shape – and it was zigging and zagging around mountains all the way.
· We got stopped by an Army/police fellow at the juncture to Keylong. I had considered only going this far, to break up the trip. Keylong to Manali was about 5 more hours. But I’d decided to do the entire 18 hours at once – would make for a better story. Anyway, the Army guy made a lot of noise and proceeded to inspect all the driver’s paperwork. It was fairly obvious he was looking for a bribe. I got out of the jeep and stood next to him and our driver – not that I could really do that much, but I wanted to put a bit of pressure on this chap and at least let him know that a foreigner was watching him try to secure a bribe. In the end, some combination of Superman’s spew and my presence got us off without paying a single rupee.
· Finally, the roof rack in the jeep in front of us (we were traveling with another jeep, in case of problems – normal practice in this region) gave out. Superman helped them sort out their problem. The luggage on their roof had to go inside their jeep, displacing three of their passengers – who then got stowed into other vehicles, one into ours. That made a tight fit even worse. My nuts felt like they were in a vise for the rest of the way.

So we reached Manali after about 18 hours. If we had been stuck with a loser driver, it would have taken much longer. Superman was a rock star and got us there despite the many hassles along the way…

During the drive I tried to listen to my iPod – desperately in need of some pleasure. It didn’t work – all that happened was that the hard drive sounded ‘stuck’ and that an ‘Apple Service Center’ URL popped up on the screen. I was bullshit – I knew that iPods didn’t have a stellar record of longevity, but this was less than a year and my iPod is one of my secret weapons to escape from torture. I put it away and seethed for a while…

As we entered Manali, we got stuck behind the longest line of lambs I’d ever seen. It was about 9 p.m., and apparently that’s when the shepherds bring the animals back from the pastures. Beats me…I know next to nothing about ‘animal husbandry.’ But there we were, trying to get around thousands of lambs. Took about 20 minutes, then we were in Manali center.

I had last been in Manali, and HP state, back in ’92 with my friend Jan. We had both spent our business school summer break working in India – in a previous post I covered that story. After wrapping up our work, we traveled north, and spent most of our time in HP. We were to go trekking out of Dharamsala, but bounced around a few other towns before and after. Manali was one of them. It was during the monsoon season, and the rain was at times ferocious – so much of our time was spent heads down, ducking in and out of hotels, restaurants, bars, and train stations. This time the weather was excellent – like autumn in New England, probably a bit warmer, so I could look around a bit more calmly.

I had a few memories of my previous time in Manali. Running into a German fellow, Oliver, who looked like Jesus and who seemed to be one day ahead of us wherever we went in HP. Honestly, we ran into Oliver in every single town we visited – perhaps he really was Jesus.

I also recall staying in a very modest hotel called the Mona Lisa. You don’t forget things like that. Even if very stoned for most of the time. Other memories come back too…meeting a very friendly French woman named Isabel, and hanging out with her in various towns. That was before email, and travelers used to go to all sorts of means to stay in touch with each other. One method was poste restante – you can send a letter marked ‘poste restante – name X’ to post offices in most places, the post office will hold the letter for a month, and you can pick it up by showing ID. Another, perhaps more cool way to communicate was to post messages at various bakeries – in each town there were 1-2 that had message boards, and when you reached a town you could put up a note there, addressed to your friend, saying you were staying at the Mona Lisa, proposing a time/place to meet, etc. Isabel and I stayed in touch this way – we met in Dharamsala, and were both planning to travel to Kathmandu. She got there first, and left a note for me. We met, hung out for a while, and later on met again in Paris, where she lived. Excellent memories of that time…

Back to the present: our jeep finally stopped at a shabby hotel off the main drag (‘The Mall’). I decided to check in there, being exhausted and wanting to be near the food/drink spots. I got a room – nothing special, but it had hot water and I took my first real (i.e., not bucket) shower in over a week. That felt amazing – and my face still felt as smooth as a baby’s bottom, thanks to the shave I got in Leh. Decided to re-check my iPod – perhaps charging it up would help? I plugged it in, and tried to switch it on – and to my complete surprise, it worked fine. Not sure what the problem was…the battery could have been run down, but I didn’t think so. More likely, a power surge in Leh had hit the unit and ‘confused’ it. The battery charger on the iPod is small and doesn’t have any sort of surge protector – whereas my laptop charger seems to have one. Anyway, I was jazzed - $400 saved right there. Reminded me of my camera problem at Fuji Rock in Japan – I think I wrote earlier that some beer splashed on it, and it seemed to be dead. The next day, it had dried off and worked fine. Perhaps I’ve found a way to reverse my most hated of laws, the law of entropy – all of my broken stuff magically fixes itself within a day.

Went out to fill my belly. Manali was absolutely mobbed – it was Dussehra, a key Hindu holiday, and half of Delhi seemed to be there. Noticed a placed called Khyber – which my guidebook had mentioned as a decent bar. Popped up there, found a seat at the bar, and ordered beer and food. The only beer they had was ‘9000,’ another Indian ‘strong beer’ that tasted about as crappy as the Godfather beer I’d had in Leh. But it was potent – 8.25% alcohol. Had some lamb saag (with spinach), chatted with some Indian holidaygoers next to me, and sauntered back down to the street to have a wander.

It was good to see Indian families at play. As I mentioned earlier, Indians probably aren’t the most relaxed people in the world, and it was good to see them at least trying. And I couldn’t fault their exuberance – they were truly enjoying their holidays, eating street food, playing cards, shopping, etc.

Checked my email – got a note from my friends Ken & Carmen, she had just given birth to their second daughter (Cristina) in London. That was great news…of course, I’m such a lame friend that I haven’t been over there in ages and haven’t even seen their first daughter, Victoria. Anyway, I’ll be in London in mid-December and that reminds me that I should pick up something nice for the girls (not for Ken) while here in India!

So I was back in HP for the first time in 14 years. And that made me wonder – why had it taken so long to return, when I had been dreaming of the place all that time?? Why can’t we do what we want? Perhaps the process of socializing people doesn’t work that well…it’s always easier to concentrate on the here & now and not chase your dreams, or to stop the inertia (which, as Newton taught us, requires friction/external force). All I can say is that I’m still getting used to being able to do whatever I want – and I hope I get completely used to it (despite the likelihood that it will make me an even more selfish person – at least I’ll be happier) and never lose it…

I saw a Japanese tourist, standing on the sidewalk holding some bags, looking utterly confused and overwhelmed. I almost went over to help her out…but thought better of it. Being overwhelmed is part of the Indian experience, and she’ll be better off for figuring it out herself.

I’m not sure I got this point across thus far: India is one of the most colorful countries in the world. Of course there’s the Hindu religion, with its pantheon of gods, tales, and holidays redolent of incense, flowers, pujas and ceremonies. But everyday life is full of colors, smells, traditions, etc. There’s never a dull moment in India…at the very least, if you’re just standing there looking bored or stupid, a tout will come over and try to get you to buy a rug.

Case in point: Indian profanities. I was walking back to my hotel, and recalled some Indian swear words/phrases that my friend Hasmeeth taught Jan and I years ago in Goa. (ago in Goa…nearly, but not quite an anagram). One key word is ‘bhenchod,’ which literally translates as ‘sister fucker’ but which in reality is used like ‘fuck’ in English. I’ve heard Indians say ‘bhenchod, it’s hot today’ and ‘I need to go to the bhenchod bank.’ I started laughing to myself as I entered the hotel…these little bits of life really spice things up and keep me on my toes. I really should have kept a journal before…there would probably be 10 books coming out of those notes.

I slept like an old dog that night – not surprising, given that the jeep ride didn’t offer much rest. I got up and felt incredibly powerful – like I’d survived an Herculean task and was ready for the next – surviving a typical Indian breakfast. Which I proceeded to have – a masala omelette, some idlis, chai and pickles. Decided to go to Old Manali, which is where many foreign tourists hang out and which is more picturesque than the town center. On my way out, I noticed the Mona Lisa Hotel across the way – I’m pretty sure that was where Jan and I stayed in 1992. Still looks like a dump…of course, my current hotel wasn’t exactly stunning.

In Old Manali I wandered about, took some good photos (see below), and visited the Manu Maharishi temple, where they were having a festival. Manu was the Hindi Noah – apparently we’ve all got our versions of the flood saga. Listened to the music and watched them dance around for a while – people seemed relaxed and cool.

As I walked to an outlying part of Old Manali, an old woman beckoned to me from a balcony. I looked up…she tried to sell me some charas (pot). Which I found incredibly funny. I declined – not sure why, but I had been hearing about drug busts around Manali/HP state and decided to play it safe for now.

Went to dinner at a respectable restaurant that night. Sat down solo, got a menu, ordered a Kingfisher beer – thankfully they had this brand, saving me the torture of choking down Godfather or 9000. I had barely taken a sip when a cute Indian girl came over, asked me if she could sit with me. I think I spat up my beer in my haste to insist that she join me. We chatted for a bit – it turned out that she was a university girl from Delhi, that she was at the restaurant with her friends, and that these friends had dared her to go over and chat with the ‘rugged foreigner’ as they called me. She won the bet…and we both seemed to enjoy chatting. She stayed at my table and we had dinner together. Not sure what her friends thought of that, they kept looking over and giggling. I really must spend more time with university girls…

The following evening I was to catch a bus (not jeep!) to Dharamsala, a 10-hour overnight trip. Before the ride I had all day, so went over to the cool little village of Vashisht. It’s a mellow place, you can really lose yourself there for as long as you like. Vashisht has hot springs and a little temple…and German bakeries, of course. In one of them, I saw two Westerners chatting – one had a completely tattooed face, the other major-league Rasta dreadlocks and a Seuss-like tall hat. That was a bit odd…decamped to the ‘World Peace Café’ for a drink up on the roof patio, which was a brilliant place to spend an hour or ten, reading and relaxing. Incredible views from up there…

I had to do a couple things on my laptop, which I proceeded to do – and managed to get a wireless signal, allowing me to check email, which still seems to be an addiction, or at least distraction, for whatever reason.

I turned off the laptop and read a bit of V.S. Naipaul’s India, which is helpful in understanding the many contradictions comprising modern-day India. A solo foreign lass sat down at the next table and was very chatty – turned out she was from Boston (we didn’t know each other), had quit her job, and was traveling around the world too. We talked for a while, but after a while I felt like moving on and headed out. I think she was looking for someone to hang out with – or at least a sounding board. I did give her some India travel advice, but didn’t feel like much more than that.

As I walked down to the Manali road I noticed a series of locals carrying buckets of debris on their heads. They were clearing a housing site, apparently. The system they were using was quite inventive – basically the equivalent of the old fire department’s bucket brigade, where one person hands off water to the next down the line. In this case, the garbage-carriers were handing off pails to the next guy and running back up the line. Made for faster work – in Western countries it wouldn’t make sense, as it took 5 laborers to do the work. In India, labor is cheap as nails and it was the right way to go.

Had a beer in Johnson’s Café – one of Manali’s nicest restaurants and a good place to kick back for an hour. It was Gandhi’s birthday – I knew that much, as it was plastered all over the place – but didn’t know it was therefore a dry day alcohol-wise around India. I did get the beer in Johnson’s – but the shades were drawn and Gandhi’s birthday was the reason. The previous day I’d had lunch there – HP state is famous for its trout, and the dish I had at Johnson’s was excellent – covered in almond sauce, with a nice (safe) salad on the side. The trout reminded me of the trout my parents and I had at a little hotel in southern France in 1990 or so, when we drove from Paris down to Nice. It’s funny how different travel memories seem to join together after a while…

Took the overnight bus to Dharamsala – 10 hours, but it wasn’t bad at all. There’s a good story in here, which I’ll get to soon. The bus was mostly full of locals and Israelis. After we got going, people started to nod off – there wasn’t any light in the bus, so nobody could read. I took out my laptop and tried to watch a movie, but the DVD was pirated and was a dud – there was nothing on it. Yet another pirated movie lesson…

We stopped late at night for a bite at a roadside dhaba (snack shop). Chatted with an Israeli woman who had just finished her army stint and was traveling in India with her father – who I believe didn’t say a word the entire ride. Anyway, we ate and then got back on the bus. Fell asleep, in fits and spurts. Woke up and thought I’d dropped something on the floor. Felt the floor, it felt like there was a rug or something on the floor. That was bizarre – I felt again and this time I thought it was a dog, at least a living creature lying on the floor. As I felt it a bit, it smacked my hand and I pulled back – but I still didn’t what it was. I was woozy, confused, and fell back asleep for a while.

Might have slept all the rest of the way to Dharamsala – or at least the next dhaba stop. But at some point, I was awoken by something on my lap – it was the Israeli girl. It was she who had fallen asleep on the floor of the bus – she had been sitting with her dad, but he was large and she had no room. And it was she I had ‘groped,’ in fine Japanese subway train fashion, as she slept on the floor and I searched for whatever it was I had dropped. I guess she thought I was feeling her out and was interested in some fun…so here she was, seemingly interested in further gropage.

I was pretty surprised, but not unhappy with the turn of events. I looked over at her dad, who could probably kick my ass, and he was out cold. So the Israeli and I shared my seat, and a bit more, over the next hour or two. I’m sure the Indian guy across the aisle woke up and gasped at one point – but I really didn’t care, he was a shmuck (or whatever the term is in Hindi) and anyway, his feet really stank and I felt like giving him something to think about.

Eventually the young lady returned to her seat, and we soon pulled into the McLeod Ganj section of Dharamsala. It was 4:30 a.m., and we were all brain-dead. It’s standard practice in India to just show up without having a hotel booking…which was the case here and now. But it was before opening hours, so we were a bit stuck. I knew a nearby joint called the Green Hotel, where I believe Jan and I stayed in 1992. I headed that way and the Israeli girl and her dad came with me – they didn’t seem to have a clue about where to stay. We ditched the rest of the passengers without a second thought.

The Green Hotel’s reception was closed, but a Tibetan monk popped onto the street and said he had rooms available. We took a quick look and said yes, at least for that night – we all were in dire need of sleep. I took a room on the first floor, the Israelis one on the second. The room was basic, but the mattress and duvet were comfortable and I lay down and passed out for a while…not sure how long…then heard a noise outside, it was a scratching and hissing sound and I immediately thought of the classic horror flick The Shining. Was hesitant to check out the noise, but it didn’t stop so I reluctantly got up and opened the door slowly. It was the Israeli girl – wanting to come in. She had more energy than I did at that hour – of course, she was in her early 20’s and just mustered out of the Israeli Self-Defense Forces, an outfit I probably wouldn’t have qualified for when I was 20 or so.

So that was a completely random night…and proof positive that strange things happen while traveling, if you open yourself to them. For some reason I’m congenitally open to odd experiences, I can’t seem to close myself to them!!

Wandered around McLeod Ganj all that day, it was a place I’d fondly remembered for 14 years and a very special place. Most are aware that it’s the residence-in-exile of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan community in exile. I won’t get into the history right now…but will just say that it’s one of the more unusual and intriguing communities on the planet. It’s far from a secret – tons of tourists visit and there are quite a few long-term foreign residents. Anyway, I walked around and remembered many things from back in ’92 – the corner where Jan posed for a picture, with his umbrella held high and a cow eating garbage next to him. The Dalai Lama returning from a trip and thousands of people in the streets, welcoming him ‘home’ with incense, music, and chalk drawings of dragons on the pavement. Not sure how many of the things I remembered were actually falsely recovered memories – sometimes I think I did or saw something that wasn’t actually the case. And this was a 14-year gap in visits.

Did a few things that day. Organized a 4-5 day trek to the Indrahar Pass, where Jan and I trekked in 1992. I decided to just go over the pass and right back to Dharamsala – whereas in ’92 we went all the way to Bharmaur. I had less time this time and wanted to get to Delhi and Mumbai by mid-October to see friends.

I also joined the local crowd in welcoming back home the Dalai Lama – real déjà vu, as I’d seen him return in ’92 too. Waited for over an hour, but finally his convoy appeared, and the music and fireworks started up. The Dalai Lama still has a gold Benz and I was able to glimpse his bald pate in the front passenger seat (not in the back – what a guy) as it drove slowly by. Wasn’t able to get a good photo of him, here’s the best I’ve got:

The local kids sang songs in celebration of the DL’s return. Catchy stuff - I’ve got a mini-movie if you’re interested. Here’s a pic of the kids doing their thing:

Went to the Regional Mountaineering Center as well. This place, which Jan and I visited in 1992, provides information on Himalayan trekking and isn’t an agency per se. The fellow who runs it, Mr. Sain, is an authority on the region and wrote ‘the book’ on local trekking. He recommended (strongly) a certain agency which I hadn’t heard of, and steered me away from the two I’d already consulted. I was a bit surprised – I had thought that the RMC would be, a la Western tourist boards, impartial and averse to making commercial recommendations. But I think in this case, Mr. Sain would be getting a kickback from the agency he recommended – and in fact I saw him at this agency later that day. Anyway, I ended up going with his recommendation – let’s see how it goes. The coordinator there seems good, so I’m optimistic that the trek will go well.

Went out for dinner/drinks that night, after practicing yoga in the dark on the patio. The one real bar is McLo’s, went up to the third floor and sat down at a group table with some locals. They turned out to be Kashmiris living there – of course, they own rug shops. But they weren’t pushy, they were actually quite friendly and we all agreed that the Bush Administration (and the Pakistani President, General Pervez Musharraf) sucks. These fellows left after a while, and some Punjabi university students (university students seem to have an affinity for me) came over and sat with me. They weren’t sober – but they were very friendly and we shared beers and the delicious local apple and honey (alcoholic) ciders for a couple hours. They made noises about joining me on my trek, but I laughed that off – I wouldn’t get any peace and quiet with these louts around. Eventually wandered home (picking up the staple toilet paper and bottle of water) and passed out.

Next day walked over to the small villages of Dharamkot and Bhagsu Nag. The former is a Gaddi (shepherd) village – one of the guides on my ’92 trek came from there. I plan to look him up when back from this latest trek. Nice village- full of Israeli travelers, there are signs in Hebrew everywhere and more than a few falafel joints (and joints too). Which reminded me of the Israeli girl – I had moved hotels the morning we had our rendezvous, not because of her – and I hadn’t seen her since. Which was OK with me – I needed to avoid foreign entanglements…

My only previous memory of Bhagsu Nag was of the water there. It’s famous for its cold springs, and there are various canals and pools of water. Since 1992 it’s gotten much more built up, there are many hotels there now and it’s not as bucolic as I remembered. The Indian writer Rohinton Mistry wrote a short story about his visit there years ago…it’s called Running Water, and can be found in the great compilation book Bad Trips. The gist of Mistry’s story is that he visited the town during the monsoon, and when he went to shower at his hotel there was no water. The monsoon rains often wash away the pipes and plumbing, so hotels just boil up buckets of water (a la Leh) and give those to you for washing. Mistry took his bucket shower. The next day, when checking out of the hotel he happened to ask the clerk the English meaning of the name ‘Bhagsu Nag.’ Which, of course, is ‘running water.’ Cool story.

Walked back to town. A bunch of monks were walking in the other direction. One was a Westerner, replete in red Tibetan robes like the other monks. I’d seen a few of these around town, it was an odd sight and I wonder about them. But if they’re following their bliss then good for them. I’m far too much of a pleasure-seeker to follow in their footsteps…but a few weeks in a monastery would probably be good for me. Perhaps when I stop running around so fast…

Have been writing this entry, as I mentioned at the top, from the rooftop patio of the Om Hotel. It’s now dark and I can barely see my fingers, but my typing skills are sturdy so it hasn’t slowed me down much. But now I’m about done – gotta get ready for my trek, which starts tomorrow. And I do want to pop back into McLo’s for some more cider – won’t get any booze during the trek, most likely, so need to fortify myself while here in town. This above all, to thine own self be true. See you next week.