The World in 100 Words or Less

When one thinks about the Pyramids at Giza, one imagines a desert safari to the site in the middle of the desert with a back drop of endless sand. Of course, this can be arranged, but the truth is, is that the city of Giza, a bustling metropolis 11km from Cairo pushes out to the doorstep of the pyramids. So, One’s desert safari by camel is really a 5-minute ride to the edge of the great block structures. This was the most surprising thing about the pyramids: just how urban they were. All I needed to do was take the metro from downtown cairo and then a short taxi to get there, nothing more. The pictures we see of the pyramids, and the sphinx for that matter are carefully angle away from the city, so one does not realize that pizza hut and KFC are literally right across the street. Nothing like fried chicken and Cheops (the biggest of the three).

But, I wont be that cynical. These are amazing structures. Looking up from the base of Cheops, you are amazed that Man could have built these Pyramids, even more so amazed that they did it without the aid of today’s technology. they are the rising symbols of the sky which are immediately conjured up when the word Egypt is spoken. And for good reason. Every chiseled block, from the biggest at the base to the relatively small at the top was carefully placed, so perfectly and symmetrically at the time that we can hardly achieve such feats today. I stood at the base of each thinking what it must’ve been like when they were plastered so the sun would reflect off of them as if they were giant mirrors. Even better, there were hardly any tourists there. The sphinx of course was a different story.

“Is that really it?”, I said to myself. And without cynicism, I can say that of the marvels of Egypt, this should no be one of them. First off, it ain’t that big. Those at home who have not verntured to far off Arabia will of course imagine the Sphinx as hundreds or even one hundred feet high. It isn’t, simple as that. It’s maybe a good thirty-five feet tall. Despite this, the package tourists in their AC buses, and the young american girls in the booty shirts, were snapping away their classic pictures of them standing in front of it. And of course, in a year or so, these pictures will be buried in a drawer or dissapear on a hard drive. So i digress: the enemy of the traveller is the tourist. Though it is hard to draw lines between myself and the tourist when it comes to visiting monuments such as the Pyramids, there are indeed differences.

1. The package tourist will without fail have a camera around their neck (I shoot crude pictures with my camera phone occasionally, i admit it)

2. The package tourist has no problem paying 15 egyptian pounds ($2.30) for a can of coke, while I bargain them down in a minute to 3 pounds ($.50). And thus, the package tourist is the driving force behind the escalation in the price of things worldwide.

3. The package tourist never seeks out their own daily escapes or things to see, its all planned, plotted and paid for well in advance. There is no adventure.

4. The package tourist does not appreciate the sights, but merely check them off on the list, one day to add Niagra Falls, the Eiffel Tower, Angkor Wat, and the Great Wall of China.

5. The package tourist has no respect for culture or etiquette (hence young american girls with their asses hanging out of their tiny shorts).

This is why I plead for everyone to be a traveller and not a tourist. If fellow travellers think of any additions (there are plenty more) message me and I’ll add them on, haha.

So, “check”, i’ve done the pyramids. What else is there to talk about? It’s hard not to mention the Egyptian Museum, both for its great possessions and for its lack of proper identification on the artififacts. Nothing like looking at King Tut’s pure gold mask and reading its title haphazardly written on a little scrap of paper below. A country endowed in so many years of history may also be hindered by it. There is simply too much amazing stuff. Giant sculptures depicting Pharoahs of the past, golden chariots, spears, mummies (a room full of them), and sarcaphogi are more abundant than grains of sand in a desert. It is truly overwhelming. And if anyone makes it, I highly suggest taking a guided tour. not because the guides are that knowledgable, but because they know the important things to see and can get you discounts on some areas that require extra tickets, such as the mummy room, with its stale, air-controlled must, and eery bodies of some of the most famous rulers of all time. Ramses II is kept at 40% humidity and about 14 degrees celsius, just so you know.

Back to the desert.  I spent a week back in Cairo when I meant to only spend two.  But that’s the beauty of travelling, you make your own plans and own rules (it’s perfectly acceptable to eat ice cream in the morning and have a candy bar-how I miss good chocolate!- for dinner). So it’s the desert and I’m on my way to Dahab in the Sinai.  For those history buffs out there, the Sinai makes one think of Mt. Sinai where Moses supposedly recieved the ten commandments, or more recently, where Israel occupied for decades.  My drive to the Sinai started at midnight and I was exhausted even before I got on the bus.  Sleep, however, would not be my reward because the Egyptian guys next to me in their twenties wanted nothing more but then to pester me with questions even though I lied to them and told them I was from Greenland (“Greenland, good place. Ya?”, they say, and I think “How the fuck should I know?”, but nod instead).  What sticks out most about the trip to the Sinai is the checkpoints.  It is such a high security place that we were stopped no less than 8 times by shabbily dressed officers calling for everyone’s passports and papers.  I didn’t know whether to feel relieved by the amount of security or be afraid due to the fact that everytime I handed my passport over they saw my last name, my big nose and my overgrown hair and beard.  Thankfully, stares and smirks were all that I got.

By 10 am I had finally arrived in Dahab. I was greeted by the cool air of the sea and its quaint little city.  Dahab is purely a tourist town, though it is run primarily by the local beduoin people.  It sits at a lovely spot right on the Red Sea, smack in the middle of rising cliffs and mountains and beautiful reefs on the other side.  I had decided in the previous weeks to take a diving course here, because the Red Sea is famous for its fantastic reefs And for its cheap courses.  But cheap by diving standards still means it set me back $300 bucks (as much as I spent in about a month in India).  Just walking into the diving center sparked a previously unknown excitement in me.  I would be going under water, into the deep blue and breathing at that.  After finishing my coursework and watching movies which sold more courses and equipment instead of safety, i put on my wet suit, my wait belt (fat floats), my jacket and then my tank.  As I took my first step into the water I realized why I was doing it.  Always the dreamer, always wanting to bethe Astronaut and fly into space, SCUBA diving was as close to space as I’ll probably ever get.  After learning some skills, I deflated my jacket, my body and head slowly falling under water, and took my first breath under water. Wow, there’s a lot of fish under here.

Back to Cairo. The Solar Eclipse seems like a distant memory, something that happened ages ago, but seems to linger on the back of my tongue. I just keep wanting to talk about it, but can’t find the words. So instead, I make way for more exploring and new things.

After the Solar Eclipse, Jean and I met some american university students studyting in Cairo, and they invited us to come to a party they were having the next night in Cairo. jean had already decided to head further into the desert (the Siwa Oasis), but I decided i’d join them the next night. When I showed up at their place I was amazed to find 15 foot vaulted ceilings, a spacious wrap-around balcony, and nice bedrooms. “aren’t they in college? how can they afford this?” The beauty of living in a “third-world country” is that living is cheap. So life affords them the ability to live right in the middle of the chaos of Cairo, minutes from the famous Egyptian museum and seconds from the backpacker’s ghetto. The party they had that night made me feel like I was right back at school. Dozens of university students, western and egyptian alike, drinking and talking, having a bloody good time. It was a strange feeling being in it all again. I had forgotten what one of these parties felt like. In the following week or so that I spent in Cairo (I seemed to get a little stuck), the guys that I was staying with and I went all over Egypt. In fact the morning after the party we headed out to a little beach spot on the Egyptian coast with the Red Sea.

The drive to Ain’Sukne was gorgeous. Rising and falling mountains and canyons in the desert, sandstorms swirling in the distances and the Red Sea looming larger and larger as we approached. It was amazing. We spent the day at a nice little resort on the coast, swimming in the water, chilling on the beach and taking down an amazing buffet at the end (my first real meal in weeks). But, as i’ve found in life, everything is balanced. By the time we were ready to go, a thunder storm had set in, blowing sand in every direction and eerily lighting the sky. We had arrived in two cars, one a dilapitated Egyptian taxi, and the other a friend’s car.  As I’ve learned throughout this trip, no week, or even day, can be all sweet.  So, the windshield of the aging taxi, scratched and dented from a life of servitude in cairo, gave way under the power of the storm and because it’s…well… a pieace of shit window.  So there we were, the 8 of us.  As the taxi driver feverishly cleared out the shards of glass from the car (this is not American safety windshield glass) we tried to figure out the best way to get home.  Luckily, the wind and rain had somewhat died down so it made it possible to atleast laugh at the situation.  “DO we turn back?” “Do some of us turn back and some of us leave?” “Who gets to leave?” “The car’s not that small, let’s all pack it in, okay?” No we came up with an even smarter plan.  Let three people drive back in the taxi with the driver and the rest enjoy the comfort of the heated (it’s cold in the desert at night), shielded compartment of the other car.  I prayed they wouldn’t ask for me to drive in the taxi.

The excitement was over.  Now all we had to deal with was the fact that girl whose car it was had to get back home by 10 o’clock and we had to drive 100 MPH to get her home, while in a storm. And she had night-blindness.  And she was terrified-you could see it on her face- that her father (strict egyptian, muslim) was going to kill her if she got back late or if he found out she had been sunbathing in a bikini on the beach. With guys to boot!!  Needless to say, the nap I had day-dreamed about in the first 5 minutes of our return trip gave way to bone-crushing grips off the door handle.  But all was well in the end.  We got home safe, her on time, and we even had time to cap the night with a couple of drinks, hooray.  Occassionally, of course, the guys who were still suffering in the slower moving taxi would text message us with “We’re Freezing” or “If I were any closer to Billy he would be pregnant”.

The days afterward in Cairo were spent exploring the city.  The markets, the coffee and tea shops, or simply sitting on the balcony of my new found friends watching the traffic go by.  I felt at home somewhat.  It was the first time in a long time I could reflect on things in the quiet solitude of a home without being badgered by anyone.  If anything, I was the one doing the badgering.  I would constantly ask for things to do and places to see like I was a little kid with countless amounts of energy.  And there they were still in University studying for mid-terms and wanted nothing more than for me to sit quietly in the corner. It’s amazing what daiyly activities become, though.  You expect to be surprised every day.  Whether its the Egyptian museum or the Pyramids of Giza.

I check my watch just to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. It’s 12:40 PM and the sun has set. The stars have come out and there is a 360 degree sunset. This was what I experienced upon seeing my first total solar eclipse. The day before I had left Cairo, drowsily (is that a word?), at 6:30 in the morning to take the 8 hour bus trip to Marsa Matrouh, a beach resort town on the Meditterean. On the bus I met Jean, a 40 year old frenchmen with a soft spot for Scotch Whiskey and stories from his own travels around the world. As we got to Marsa, we decided that we’d share a room after we huffed it from the bus station to the town. We were both expecting to find a sleepy little resort town, but were greeted by a vibrant city. Quickly, Jean and I found a cheap place to stay, had a couple of drinks of his fine Scotch, and headed out to check out the town. We made it to the Sea just in time to see the sun setting, fishing boats fishing, and people swimming in the quiet water. After two hours of walking aruond, though, we were ready to taste some of the fine fish the boats were catching. For 7 bucks you can get a meal of Calamari, Bass, Snapper, Salad, Rice, Pita and Hommus. Not bad at all. Not to mention the fish is freshly caught that day and is expertly prepared by families who have been doing it for generations. After satiating, or rather stuffing, ourselves with food, we decided to call the night early as we would have to wake up at 5:15 am for the solar eclipse.

As the people that know me are aware of, I am not a morning person. The sun of course doesn’t give a flying rat’s ass about this. I awoke to sunlight pouring into my window, disrupting my sleep, but also informing me that I had overslept. It was 6 am and we definitely had to catch the 7 am bus if we wanted to make the solar eclipse with time to spare. Jean and I rushed to the bus and luckily found that the 6 am had been running late and was patiently waiting for us as if it was on purpose. THe bus journey took us along the coast, past bedoin villages and army bases, barren desert and giant mountains. As we approached the town, clouds hung over the mountains directly south. It was a frightening sight, not only because it resembled a waiting army, but because clouds are less than appreciated when it comes to viewing solar eclipses. However, the clouds turned out to be the least of our worries.

Due to the popularity of the eclipse, the lovely little town of Sallum took it upon themselves to levy a 100 egyptian pound fee for entering the town (about 17 bucks, a whole day’s budget). Bus after bus pulled up and was told of the exorbitant fee to be paid. There must have been a hundred people yelling at the guards at the gate in Arabic, which sounds ten times worse than swaring in English. It was a ludicrous fee to pay as sitting outside of the town, a mere 5 km away would provide the same eclipse minus three seconds or so. I couldn’t help but laugh at the whole situation as I patiently waited to be let into the city (I might have told one of the military representatives to shove his Gucci sunglasses up his ass, but I think that was only a dream, Grandma). Eventually, all was cleared up. Jean and I found a nice, little cafe to relax at, to smoke some sheesha (flavored tobacco out of a water pipe) and drink some tea, and wait. It was interesting to see the different people that the solar eclipse had attracted. Europeans, Latinos, Africans, Egyptians, Americans, Asians. It was the most diverse group of people i’ve seen in months of travelling. Not to mention all of them there to see what would amount to a 4 minute event. I soon found out that was a somewhat skewed opinion.

The first glimpses of the Solar Eclipse appear as everyone’s heads turn to the sky, glimsping through dark reflective glasses as the lower right portion of the sun becomes covered by the moon. Cheers ring out and people exchange excited looks as everyone without glasses pleads to be given a pair so they can see as well. Glasses begin circulating around the tea shop we’re sitting at. The beuty of the Solar Eclipse is it doesn’t matter where you are as long as you’re within a particular region. Thus, you can sit and drink shai (tea) at a cafe and merely glance up. No big, tall people to look around or man made obstructions, it’s all happening above at high noon.

As the sun slowly is edged out by the moon, a slight darkness can be seen in the surroundings.  The colors are less brilliant and an eerie wind sets in.  A wind in the middle of the desert! It blows directly along the path of the Eclipse bringing in cool air that gives me goosebumps.  Then in the last moments, as the moon has almost completed its shroud, stealing the sun’s light, everyone becomes quiet.  I look off into the distance and in a split second a shadow moves across the desert.  It is simply darkness.  Not the kind of darkness that one finds in the middle of the night, but something akin to two hours after sunset. Except the sun looks like it has set every direction.  A yellow colored haze lingers for 360 degrees, stars come out and it occurs to you that its 12:40 PM and you’re not suntanning.  I look up at the sky, stealing glances at a black circle with a halo of light. Solar Eclipse.  In the distance I can hear as Muslims begin to do a special prayer as I was told later.  They pray to Allah to let the Sun return.  It becomes an experience unlike any other.  Your mind can hardly accept what you have seen and continually see.  A dark blue sky and noontime?  You use your glasses to look at the eclipse and find that it is complete, no sunlight protrudes, atleast none as strong as normal. And like that, Snap! the moon begins to move further left, the sunlight returns and for a split second everyone squints as if we had all been disturbed in our slumber by the sun.  It spells deja vu from earlier in the day.  As the moon finally moves out of view, dissapearing into a blue oblivion as quickly as it arrived, we all got back on the buses and made the 4 hour journey back to Marsa Matrouh.  The rest of the day, Jean and I couldn’t help but exchange smiles and say “Did you see that?” as if the other had been sleeping through it all.  But in the end, it was like a dream.  An event rarely seen, perhaps once in a lifetime had occured and I couldn’t bare thinking I may never see one again.  Am i destined to chase solar eclipses as do many amateur astronomers? Perhaps.  But there is a lot more on the menu to see and do.

Drink down the coffee, get on the plane. Recap: You’ve been in Thailand, India and are now heading to Egypt. You spent ten hours the day before yesterday getting this damn ticket. Never trust Indian travel agents. You’re at the airport, you get your boarding pass, walk to the gate, read your book and fall asleep. “Last Boarding Call!!”, a voice blares over the loudspeakers, jostling you from your peaceful slumber, reminding you that it’s time to run to the gate and get on the plane. Go GO GOOO!! On the plane now, go to sleep. Wake up, you’re no longer in India.

And so it went. I finished up my Indian experience with a few days in Delhi trying to get to know the place better. Mostly, I just played chess with the Hotel manager and went out to a new restuarant every meal. But to me, it seems that this is getting to know a place. On the first few days of this trip, I blazed through palaces, temples, beaches, bazaars, but what did I see? Indeed I saw these things, but I didn’t take the time to stop and absorb. Travelling is not about sightseeing, it’s about absorbing. Dropping yourself in a pool of information and culture and turning into a sponge; however, without fail, someone or something is always their to squish you, and thus the knowledge is lost. But travelling about absorbing just a taste. Remembering that in Khao Sok National Forest Preserve in Thailand that there’s a a spot to swim in a river and watch monkeys play on a cliff. Its about sitting on a rooftop conversing with the people of Jaisalmer as you fly a kite above. Hold on to one image and forget everything else or risk forgetting everything. Words on paper no pictures digitized and categorized will bring back the moment. Little snapshots that will come back to you throughout life are all the things in the world I can hope for.

So, I’m back on the plane. It’s a nice big jumbo jet and I’m flying Qatar Airways (one of only 3 five-star airlines in the world, and it’s oh so nice). I’ve been told they’re serving the meal soon, I sit back and look at the Persian Gulf below. I am not in India anymore, but my travel guide to Egypt is. The sudden flight to the plane, the rush to get up and go left my poor straggling, brand new, gorgeous “Lonely Planet: Egypt” behind. Oh well, how different could Egypt be?

I finish both flights to Cairo smoothly enough. First the one to Doha, a mix of slumber and eating induced by a night of chess instead of rest. Then, a flight from Doha, Qatar to Cairo, Egypt. I get off the plane, somewhat confused about where I am, and begin looking for the exit. Cairo Airport is a bustling environment of touts, passengers and friends and family. Pushing through the masses at the exit is an experience. I keep my hands in my pockets the whole time, terrified that in my lack of consciousness I’ll be an easy target for a pick-pocket. I get in a taxi and ask him to take me to Talaat Harb street, the only thing I remember from the travel guide. However, I have no idea which place to stay is good and in which I’m going to get fleas. Boom! You are not in India anymore. Arabic words flood into my eyes, Arabic language into my ears, the smell of cow shit and curry replaced by smog and shwarma. I find myself completely lost and no one speaks english, or if they do, wants to speak to me. I’m a backpacker in tie-dyed pants (Indian Color Festival), a weary look, and a rather unpleasant odor. After two hours of searching I finally find a hostel, grab a bed, take a nap, and wake up ready to take on the city.

At the hostel I met John, a young American kid from North Carolina, whose nice enough to show me around the city a little bit. We go get some Shwarma, my introduction to Egyptian food (however poor it may be) and take a look around the neighborhood. Egypt is very different than India. The downtown district is bustling with people, nice shops, relatively clean streets and an air of disapproval when I walk by. I stick out like a sore thumb: my skin, my clothes, my confused and dumbfounded look. But all is fine. Tomorrow, I remind myself I must wake up early and head to the only event I planned for my trip, the Solar Eclipse on March 29th, far away on the Egyptian coast near the border with Libya. I hardly sleep due to so much excitement. I end up staying awake almost the whole night reading Catch-22, which I picked up in Delhi, and looking out on the sleeping streets of Cairo.

I awake to the sounds of the first Muslim prayer of the day, the deep sound of an Arabic man praying to god. Then another voice, then another, the city ringing with the voices of the many. Time to go check out Egypt… Insha Allah.

Here I am, back in Delhi, once again. After spending weeks in villages and small towns, I must say it;s difficult coming back to this city. It’s as if I’ve walked out of my room, having just awakened, only to be greeted by a sun that makes me squint. The traffic, the smog, cow shit, everything is difficult to take when you’ve been away from it for so long. Yes, even a week is a long time. Every week of travelling i’ve managed to cover over 500km (about 320 miles) of railroad tracks, back alley roads and highways. I am truly exhausted. But time necessitates travel, and the fun is in the journey, so I gotta keep moving. But here’s a recap of some assorted events.
After the festivities of Holi, I needed two days to recover. I had been partying hard all day long, drinking whiskey, chasing it with Kingfisher beer (they taste better back home), and finishing off the day with peculiar tasting milkshakes (I think the Indian guys had spiked mine with some of the local “herbal” products). So two days of sleeping and eating later, I decided to keep on moving. Jaipur it was.

Jaipur is the last stop in what tourists call the Golden Triangle: Delhi, Agra (Taj Mahal), Jaipur. Jaipur is by far the shopping mecca of northern India. It has shopping districts as massive, varied and confusing as anything in Thailand, including the Weekend Market. Myself and the three Brits I had met spent a day looking around, taking in some of the sights, but were left rather unimpressed. Jaipur was a city, the so-called “Pink City”. But the years of dirt and decay have left it rather orange and tattered. The history of these places is amazing but one must really strive to look beneath the mud, the broken windows and the rubbish on the streets. Its amazing to look at Jaipur and think that this was once a glorious city. All that is left is a shell of shopping markets and touts trying to get you to buy drugs. Dissapointment doesn’t describe it, because it was twice as expensive as anywhere else to boot. It sucked.

Im being too harsh, though. I will say that Jaipur is the jumping point for seeing some beautiful palaces and forts. In particular, Amber Fort sticks out. Amber Fort is set up in the mountains, 15 km of Jaipur. TO get there, the four of us piled into a rickshaw, leaving me, the big guy. to sit up front with the driver and tried to keep my head in the vehicle so I wouldn’t get killed by oncoming traffic. It was, without saying, rather exciting and frightening. Amber Fort really appears out of nowhere. You are gazing at countryside and mountains, bown up, giving way to the roads and then there it is. A magnificent structure resting on the top of one of the mountains, turned exactly amber by the last embers of sunlight left in the day. We climbed to the top, a breeze compared to the hill temple in Pushkar, and enjoyed sitting in the Kings courtyard watching huge monkeys steal food from tourists. The monkeys are not to be toyed with here in India. While in Thailand they’re pretty docile, here they’ll come at you. The difference in weight doesn’t scare them, because there teeth are bigger than ours and there’s more of them. So I, being the genius, decide to taunt one with a stick. They love recieving presents from you so I offer the biggest monkey a branch. He accepts it happily, but I decide not to let go. He doesn’t let go either. It literally becomes a pissing contest when he tries to piss on me, screaming at the top of his lungs. I decide to yield and move away. And so ends the battle between man and monkey.

That was really the end of Jaipur, save the stop at Pizza Hut.  Leave it to the three londoners to decided that Pizza Hut in India sounds like a great idea while the Chicagoan shutters at merely the idea of it.  So, after we all got sick from that, and learned that Pizza Hut was up-scale in India, we decided to all head back to Pushkar.  For me, I was tired from all the travelling.  I needed a vacation from my vacation as it were.  SO there I stayed and spent another 4 days relaxing, just taking in culture and meeting other travellers.  Oh, of course, I learned hot to really play cricket too.  It turns out the U.S. has a team.  Maybe I’ll try out when I get back home. 🙂

Walk outside, look around. Look to the rooftops, the gutters, the closed shutters.  Listen for running footsteps scraping powder against concrete.  Listen for laughs.

Holi Festival is a Hindu celebration that apparently goes back thousands of years (or so they say).  It is essentially an event commemerating a prince standing up against his father who had decided that he himself was a god.  Everyone throughout India celebrates the victory of the prince, the pious one, over his father, the king, by throwing colored powder and ink at each other.  But, the true festival starts the night before.

By the time I got to Pushkar, almost a week ago now, I was exhausted from the long train journey and the difficult things I had seen no the way.  Somehow, though, three British guys staing at the same hotel convinced me to join them on a hike up a local hill (small mountain) to a very sacred temple. My old knees killed me on the way up, but it was alright.  When we got to the top we were greeted by a view of all of Pushkar, a holy city set around a beautifu lake said to be created when a Hindu god dropped a lotus flower on Pushkar from above.  It all makes for a quaint little town set in the mountains, a mix of raucous foreigners and pilgrims on holy trips.  A very interesting lpace, no doubt.  But from above, it all seemed quiet.  The four of us sat there looking out on a city getting ready for the party of the year and to us, it looked like a town in a toy train set.  We were awakened from our quiet stares by the lighting of a fire behind us.  It made us all jump until we saw that is was the opening of Holi, marked by the burning of a fire and special rituals.  It made for quite a sight.  The four of us sitting there, watching orange embers dance into the sky, and three holy men speaking incantations.  Prepare for tomorrow, I thought.  Don’t wear any good clothes.

So there I was: inching out of the hotel, a bottle of colored water in my hands, ready to throw at the first person I saw.  A young boy quietly approached an outdoor faucet of water, preparing a fresh mixture of the ink and at the same time shifting his eyes around, knowing that he was an easy target.  I attacked swiftly emptying the whole bottle on him, his dark skin turning purple with the ink, his white shirt changing from green to a muddy brown.  Victory! Victory! Oh Shit!

In all my playing and laughing with the young kid, I hadn’t noticed the crowd of Indians, powder and ink in hands, that had grouped behind me, blocking the entrance vack into the hotel, and thus blocking my shelter of safety.  I chuckled, signaled to them, saying with my hands “Show me what you got”.  I walked back into the hotel 15 seconds later.  The manager of the place cracked up, the three Brits rolled on the floor.  I looked into the mirror, hardly recognizing myself through the oranges, greens, blues, purples and pinks.  Well, it can’t get much worse.  Now its time to party.  The Indian guys who had pelted me were more than happy to let myself and on of the English guys join their gang and continue on their drive-by spree of Pushkar.  Pushkar, being a holy city, does not allow aclcohol or drugs within the city limits.  But on holy, all these guys who never drink otherwise get liquored up on whiskey and cheap rum.  It makes for a drunken party, one that probably gets a little out of hand by Western standards.

 So there we were, roaming the streets nailing unsuspecting tourists with color, getting into color wars with other gangs, having a great time.  I found myself constantly reaching into plastic bags, removing huge fistfuls of of powder.  And somehow, the powder wood find its way to a face, a back, a stomach, whatever. Everything was in the moment and you completely gave yourself to the madness.  The best part was that the color was an equalizer of all peoples.  As we got to the rowdy dancing party in the center of town, Indian techno blowing people away from huge speakers, no one could tell between foreigner and Indian.  Everyone was the same and it was brilliant. Pink clouds of powder were thrown into the air and you could hardly see two feet in front of you.  People were hugging and singing, everyone was the same.  The pink powder gave way to yet another color, then yet another, until it all ended.

The party eventually closed down around 3 o’clock, I returned to my room.  For 8 hours everyone had forgotten about anger and hate, sadness and mourning.  I forgot about Jodhpur.  I opened the door to my bathroom and looked into the mirror at a face and body I did not recognize.  My pants and sandals were a mosaic of colors, as were my bare torso (having lost my shirt) and what used to be my face.  I spent the next hour washing it all off.  Greens, blue, purples sinking into the drain in the floor.  The deepest color, the purple, almost blood red, being the last to fall from my skin, revealing the cream shade I had become used to seeing.  I felt revived, having come back from the dead.

I spent that night walking the streets, looking into peoples’ faces, noticing a glimmer of their appearance from before.  A simple nod sufficed as a recognition of their participation in the days events.  Everything went back to normal.  Vendors opened their shops, package tourists appeared from their hotels, still wearing their rain jackets just in case.  The colors on the streets were the only sign of what had taken place.  And within days, that was washed away too.  Pushkar returned to its old self.  I became just another one of those travellers again.

Andy, Nick and  had left Jaisalmer at eleven o’clock on our 7th day there.  It was sad to go.  We had made many friends, both Indian and Foreign.  I will forever miss cooking chapatis in the tandoor oven (I burnt the hell uot of my hand) and flying kits with the little kids.  Letting that strnig out, watching the kite rise nito the desert sun, eclipsing its light, that will be my image of Jaisalmer.  Apparently, though, we were destined to leave.  A horrible storm rolled ni during our last hours in the city.  As we sat no the roof of the hotel, watching lightning in the distance, seeing each other’s faces light up with every strike, it was clear our image of Jaisalmer, the sleepy desert town, and its people would be ruined if we stayed any longer.  It was perhaps the most intense lightning I have ever seen.  Bolts that seemed to shake the ground, thunder that would make your bones crumble.  A blue sky of light, not from the sun, but from charged electricity.  Of course, we read the sign wrong: misery was around the corner.  I write my next words only to vent the disturbing things I have seen, no to glorify them, or make them poetic. Just to say what happened.

Andy and I were standing outside of the Jodphur railway station, having completed the first half of our journey out of Jaisalmer.  We were making small talk with locals outside the station when we heard the most mournful and sad sound ever to enter my ears.  We turned to see a women no the ground, her young child in her lap.  We both noticed the kid wasn’t moving.  I thought back and realized- ni that moment- that I have never seen a dead person so close. Was this going to be remembered as my first time?  And it was a child, shielded by her mother’s arms with a grip that would have made steel crumble like dry bread.  We told ourselves that, tough it was a cry of mourning, the kid was just sleepnig.  We had to go inside and takl about movies and other nonsense to get our minds off of it.  Yet here I am, 7 hours later, writing this down.  Andy and Nick have since departed to Mt. Abu, and I am going towards Pushkar.  I bet Andy is thinking the same thing as me.  Tomorrow, I tell myself now, will be a better day.  It is the day of Holi festival, a part of colors and celebration.  Hence why my train is full of people.  Kids sitting in the rafters and luggage racks, babies on their mothers laps, quietly and reassuredly breathing.  Everyone’s fascinated with the white face, seemingly the only one on this local train.  His little mobile phone is drawing attention too.  However, today is the one day that I don’t feel like making friends.  Yet everyone continues to want to talk to me and I politely agree to discuss politics, history, science, etc.  I tell the guy next to me, hardly a year older than me, but somehow more weathered by the Indian sun, what I saw in Jodphur.  He shrugs and says, “The child will come back a stronger person, the cycle of life begins again” in perfect english, having previously spoken only a handful of words.  I hope to God, Brahma, or whatever, that he was right. Tomorrow is a day of celebration, Josh. Be happy, think about beautiful saris blowing in the wind, fantastic colors flying.  Find yourself at the hotel in Pushkar having a quiet meal, looking at the mountani drinking a coke.  The past is behind you, Jodphur is a million miles away.  Fall asleep and don’t forget to breathe.

My last days in Jaisalmer were spent observing.  Learning customs, flying kites with kids and the like.  I didn’t go to any amazing places, save the beautiful fort and the sacred Jain temples within.  But I must say, it has been some of my most rewarding time here.  I have learned there are only two rules in India: cow means stop, rock means no.  With cows, they’re the closest thing this country has to traffic police.  The cow is revered here, and is thus the only thing that can get people to slow down on the streets.  Don’t believe me?  I watched a guy crash his bike into a tree to avoid one.  The cow didn’t seem phased one bit by the situation.

As for picking up rocks, they are the universal way to get the street dogs to leave you alnoe and cause the touts to rnu for the hills.  You could say that these realizatinos were meaningless, but in a country of chaos, they’re two rules to live by.

16 hours after I had passed out do to some mystery sickness, I awoke to find it was 6 am the next day. I had slept right through and I felt great.  I still preceded carefully, taking more ibuprofen, etc. and deciding to stay at the hotel for the day and relax with a nice pot of chai.

As I opened my eyes, and then the blinds of the windows in my room, I was greeted by a beautiful blue sky and a magnificent Golden City.  Jaisalmer was once an oasis rising out of the sand, buildings cut out of golden sandstone standing like mirages in the desert.  Today, the city is split between a military and tourist economy.  Its location close to the border of Pakistan makes it a strategic location and fly-bys of American built planes are an every day norm.  But it is hard for the occasional plane to detract from this city.  My windows look out noto the whole city, especially its masterful Fort.  The Fort is built on top of a hill that is no longer visible.  The walls of the fort top off some 80m above the surrounding land; it is a big building.  The sun both makes it shimmer and softens the rough exterior at the same time.  Its amazing that invaders were able to defeat this fort.  There is no way to directly attack it, that’s for sure.  All one could do was surround it and wait til they starved to death inside or surrendered, neither very enjoyable.  Today, the fort is home to over 1,000 residents, a dozen or so hotels, a gorgeous palace and a least 1 million stores.  The palace is the forts tallest structure, allowing for 360 degree views of Jaisalmer.  It is a breathtaking site, looking off into the distance where buildings vanish into swaths of sand and brown shrubs. Almost more beautiful than the view are the intricately designed walls and balconies of the palace.  They exude wealth, and at the same time are representative of how this empire was once destroyed.  Slowly, but surely, invaders chipped away at the Maharajas civilization.

I have been in Jaisalmer for some 5 days now.  I wasn’t even planning to come here.  Good thing though.  I had actually planned to go to Varanassi, which was recently bombed ( probably as back lash to a particular President’s actions in India, thanks Bush).  This town is full of interesting peoples and things to see.  I have spent my days shopping for Rajasthani rugs-i’ve even bought a traditional shirt- and playing cards with Nick and Andy.  Altogether it’s been a good time.  It’s very interesting to just walk around the streets and talk to people.  The views of life here ni the desert are much different than in the cities.  People are much more laid back and in some situations, life is even harder.  Water is definitely hard to come by normally.  It makes me feel like a real prick when I look in the back of the hotel and see a fat lady swimming in the pool, the water splashing out and being absorbed by the sand.

So it doesn’t rain in the desert, right? Wrong. For two days straight there was pretty consistent rain.  The locals loved it, good luck, they said.  The lake and resevoirs filled up and a cool air brought in by a tumultuous storm enveloped Jaisalmer.  We all had a great time playing cards on the roof of the hotel battling each other and making sure the cards didn’t blow off to never be found again at the same time.  Unfortunately, the tourists who had gone out on camel safaris didn’t fare as well.  They were sleeping in cotton tents and cotton sleeping bags.  Woops.

I’ve been jumpin around a lot in this installment, but it seems to be suiting me well so I’ll continue.  About 5 days agao Nick lent me his copy of The Kite Runner, a novel I hear is pretty popular around the world right now.  For good reason too.  It’s an excellent story about afghanistan and all of the human emotions.  I finished it in 2 days i was so engrossed.  And, how appropriate that I go onto the roof of the hotel to look out onto Jaisalmer and see two kids flying kites on the roof across the street.  I immediately felt the urge to join in.  I talked to the restaurant manager who was kind enough to take me to a place to buy kites.  I bought two and a roll of string, all for about 25 cents.  We spent the rest of the day flyings the kites on the roof.  They were th simple variety: two crossed sticks holding on a thin piece of plastic, golden in color.  Flying them made me feel young again, and considernig the crowd we developed on the street below the hotel, i found the kids loved them too.  Once in awhile the kite would free itself from the string floating away into a nearby tree, or sometimes, if they were lucky enugh, into the hands of an awaiting child.  TO see the smiles on their faces made me glow golden as well.  I bought ten and passed them out to all of the kids along with enuogh string for the whole lot. The next day kites were flying from all of the roof tops in the neighborhood and all I could do was smile.  That day the kits out- numbered the planes of war. How appropriate it was.