Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I'm Yours!)

All You Ever Wanted

I am sitting curled up in my little sleeper bus compartment with Emily. We just argued with the bus wallahs about extra "luggage charges." I am not one to want my luggage stolen, but I lifted half of the luggage myself, and dont buy into that crap.

Chotou showed us a great day. We met him yesterday when we were dragging our huge luggage from the train station. We blew him off for a good ten minutes, but he was persistent and we gave in, eventually letting him drive us to the tourist office. While Emily went inside and called a guest house, Chotou and I talked about tons. His family, how he drove Michelle around for a month in Jaipur (she was a writer for lonely planet), past girlfriends, and it ended with me explaining the holocaust (he spoke breifly about how hitler stole the swatstika, a hindu symbol). We tried to explore that night, but found it next to impossible on our own, and ended up pouring sweat in our hotel room eating pizza (bad) and watching Blood Diamond (good).

This morning Chotou was waiting outside our hotel room. We hired him to show us around all day, and went to a lassi wallah to get the best lassis and samosas in the city. I hate yogurt, but the saffron lassi I had, served in a ceramic, unglazed glass, loaded with sugar and bursting with flavor, was the best beverage I have ever had. Chotou and his driver Ishmael then took us to the Maharaja Gaitor Crematorium, whiched overlooked all of Jaipur.

The huge mosuleums of the Rajputs of the area were astounding, inlaid with carvings from indian mythology and history; the pouring rain had no effect on dampening the mood of this magical place. And the rajput history is interesting as well; apparrently one king, over 7 feet tall and 4 feet broad at the shoulders, was "too big" (wink wink) to have children. Another had 114 children in total from multiple wives, but all died from cholera or malaria, the oldest living to the age of 14.

Next we were taken to a textile factory emporium, where we were seated on comfortable couches and served piping-hot chai. The "owner" started to take bedspreads nad lay them out in front of us. It started at 100 rs, then proceeded a few hundred higher and higher, no pressure to buy of course. All of a sudden, we are looking at multi thousand rupee pure silk, hand sown bedspreads. While the factory emporiums are much cheaper than a street wallah, at some point you're being ripped. Eventually we left, but not before spending a couple thousand rupees on bedspreads; at least we'll sleep like rajput kings (or so we were told).

A few samosas and cups of chai later, we found ourselves in the maharaja's observatory; one raja was very interested in astronomy and had a huge playpark of astronomical toys built for his pleasure. Climbing huge staircases and peering down ino red hemispherical wells made of sandstone, it felt like visiting a 300 year old skatepark. We had no idea what each instrument calculatedm, so we snuck up to a tourgroup to hear the description; we were confumbled upon discovering everyone was french, or at least speaking it.

It was a festival day for some reason; a huge royal parade was going on. Huge painted elephants paraded the street, with their riders elegantly and brightly dressed. Women in beautiful dresses danced in the streets, and indian marching bands paraded in uniform. The two hour affair was the coolest parade I have ever seen. After wandering around the town center for a while, we stumbled upon an indian outdoor concert; one of the most bizaare things I have ever seen, it was amazingly similar to a free outdoor concert back home. Hopping back in the rickshaw, we went and got some beers before dinner.

Now I have to say indian beer is terrible; kingfisher- the main brand- isn't bad, but because of poor water supplies glycerin is added to all the beer batches. However, we found the one stand that sells an indian black stout beer. While probably considered watery and weak in comparison to other stouts, this one tasted like liquid gold.

Anyway, we pull over outside a resturant and are talking to Chotou and Ishmael when a couple of guys our age, slickly dressed, approach our rickshaw. Only a few moments earlier, Chotou had tought me some hindi slang, and these unwelcome guests received my first hindi presumptions about their mothers and sisters. More shocked that I spoke hindi than being insulted, we stared talking (mostly because they wanted to hit on emily). These guys were well educated, and we spoke english, hindi, spanish, and italian for about an hour.

We grabbed some excellent dhaba dinner, wolfing down orders of egg cury, mattar paneer, and chappati, along with plenty of sliced raw onions and tomatoes, with a few green peppers. Chotou and Ishmael drove us to the bus, and we said goodbye to our awesome helpful rickshaw wallahs, promising to call them if we are ever in Jaipur again; we still haven't met their families.

Kids with Guns

Right now I am sitting perched atop the Yogi guest house in the old city of Jodhpur, a dense maze of blue painted cubic buildings amongst the rise of mosque and jain temple spires and telephone towers. It must be nearing one am, and the stars overhead are illuminating the monstrous Mehangarh Fort on the rock outcropping only a few hundred feet to my right. Sipping on a fanta and watching the streets below (my only comrades in vigilant duty of wakefulness are the white, brown, and black steer wandering the allies; I don't think they sleep). I am coming to realize my time here in india is about to come to an end.

Walking home from an indian dinner, which was delicious and one day I will regret taking daily food for granted, I realized all around me had become a normality. Passing men sleeping in the street, having teens calling out to you, and not noticing the "filth" or buzzing street traffic was suddenly shocking. It was then I noticed that in the roundabout of a four way intersection there was a traffic light. It was not hanging from wires, but rather perched atop an ancient town-square gazebo. Also another not on functionality, only foreigners use raincoats. Today Emily and I explored the huge fort-castle overlooking the town. It was pouring rain and so we spent an hour under a gated archway, and when it rains, it really rains, no sissy sprinkle crap. Eventually we decided to see the fort-we didnt have all day- and got soaked through our raincoats in seconds. It was then I noticed all indians didnt even bother; stopping the rain was futile, and enjoying it a must. It was at this point we joined in the carefree attitude. Goofing off is fun in india; em rode rode a barricade cannon and i took back massages under falling gutter watter. All this accumulated in me seeing if our rickshaw driver was ticklish, and he didnt understand english in the slightest.
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Awkward moments having past, I have pressed my luck enough and wont be touching anyone else. Tomorrow-another visit to the famous Omelette guy of Jodhpur, and we are waking to see the sunrise over the blue city. Aujo!

Everyone's a VIP to Someone

I've been packing all day, and am somehow leaving india with way more stuff than I arrived with. Em and I are going traveling in a few days, and we are going to be hauling huge rolling suitcases through little allies and lifting them onto the tops of buses; the square shape of those suitcases is an inconvenience for once. Em and I just spent the weekend together in Mumbai (Nadeem was busy wrapping up his Imam report, at last count over a hundred pages), and we're at the brother and sister stage- we both bug each other for fun.

We haven't known how to thank Assef, Doussef, Neelu, and Yakub for all their hospitality. Night after night they have fed and entertained us, housed us, and cared about us. We couldn't have asked for a better home away from home, and I will miss them (especially Yakub, who has been a grandfather or uncle figure to me) all dearly. Eating with forks and knives instead of fingers and chappati will be a poor replacement; like wise I no longer know how to eat over a table, but rather on the floor. And Ishal; what an amazing 15 month old. She had changed so much over the course of the three weeks I was traveling, becoming more energetic, balanced, and playful. I will miss having a toddler around; it reminded me of how far we have all come and how to laugh at the little things. In an attempt to thank them, we are making a fish shaped pinata for ishal to break; there is nothing to truly give nadeem's family, so hopefully this memory will do.

Mumbai was....hectic. Its a huge city on a peninsula, but with little sites and few sit-down resturants. Emily and I spent it walking around and sitting on the rocks by the crashing arabian sea. We visited the tomb of a muslim-afgani mystic, which was in a mosuleum set out on the rocks of the sea, only reachable at low tide. The walk there and back was full of beggars - children, women, and the horribly crippled. Its heart wrenching to have poor children following you the whole walk, begging for change; the low school fees in india are still too much for many lower class families.

The white-washed tomb with multiple piercing spires and domes was less impressive up close, but the fresh sea breeze and view of cargo ships and the coast made it a relaxing place to spend some time away from the rotterdam-esque bazzars and backstreets of Mumbai. There was a blind man standing perched near the mosuleum, wailing some beautiful arabic or hindi tune. His whole body shook and trembled as he held his arms across his chest, his eyelids fluttering over their hollow sockets. This devout blind man was given a gift, even when another was taken from him. His singing image pierced my soul, and the meloncholy, never-ending vocalizations made me think of the sad and beautiful realities of being blind, much less being blind in India.

Cherish every gift you get; not everyone gets a seeing-eye dog.

Midnight Voyage

We've been watching the television all night at Assef's and Neelu's house; this is the first time since I've been here the house television has been on, and this time there are no cricket finals. At 6:45 pm today, bomb blasts started going off in the city. All throughout dinner, we stayed glued to the TV and watched the counts rise. As ofright now (9 pm), there have been a reported 17 blasts and 18 deaths; the political parties are pointing fingers at each other, and various ministers are asking not to point fingers, hoping to quell the possibility of any retalitary attacks.

Less than a week ago, there were 7 or 8 blasts in Bangalore, and two people died. Rithi and her family are just fine; it is still yet to be determined if these attacks are related. We were going to leave for Mumbai tonight, having one more weekend in the city. Needless to say, we aren't leaving.

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I have spend the last few days inside. Doing crosswords, watching the news, sleeping. Im going nuts. Again. We are going to leave for Mumbai tomorrow night, and when we get back, we will be going to Jodhpur and Jaipur a few days after.

There were a total of 17 bomb explosions and 49 deaths; two bombs were planted outside of hospitals to cause even more terror. There seems to be little motive for these blasts; what has been stated refers to the history of tension between hindus and muslims, especially with the 2002 riots in Ahmedabad not that faded into history.

Anyone Else But You

Well, I'm back on the train; 14 hours from Delhi to Veranasi, 4 hours in town, and now 26 hours sitting right where I am. Funny thing - I have not seen or met any Korean people in India until yesterday; the last train ride and this tgrain ride I am in a car surrounded by them. And on the way here, I asked if they had a travel book (I lost mine, if you aren't keeping up), and they did - in Korean.

Veranasi is one huge head trip. It is said Shiva gave puja here (prayed) for twenty years, and so it is a very holy place. The river ganges especially, because it is the source of life and subsistence on the dry, incredbidly flat indian plateau. It is said if you are burned along the banks, you will escape reincarnation and go straight to heaven.

Knowing I would only have a few short hours in town, I stashed my bag in the cloak room and hired a rickshaw wallah who spoke english to show me around. We went first to the Ghats, and to get there one must weave through narrow city streets where women are washing clothing and dishes, men are sitting and spitting paan, you can buy anything one needs for urban life from a 100 different vendors, and cows and water buffalo roam the streats munching on garbage.

The ghats themselves are simply steps leading to the bank of the river, many atimes with a temple or shrine roadside. To truly see the ghats, you need to rent a boat with a guide and some rowers. First leaving shore, you send little floats crafted of leaves afloat, armed with flower petals and butter candles, serving to bless your family upon mother Ganga. As you row upstream, you see women and men washing and little boys diving and swimming, enjoying the water. Among all this are tops of buildings and temple spires; its monsoon season and the lower banks are flooded over 50 feet.

And then it starts to smell wierd, something I can't describe. Giant flames leap from stacks of wood; it was a burning ghat. From 100 feet ashore you can see everything, including the ceremonial positioning of the body on the pyre. After cremation, the ashes are put in a pot and dumped in the river; charred bits of wood and flower petaals had been floating downstream the full boat ride. Not everyone is burned on wood; it is very expensive because after hundreds of years of traditon Veranasi has run out of wood and forest, and so has firewood shipped in. Also, holy and pure people are thrown directly in the river, rather than burned. This includes Sadhus, cildren under 10 (dont know the difference between right and wrong yet), animals (same), and lepers, all have a stone tied to them and thrown in the water. Lastly, those who die by cobra bite are put in the river, but are tied to a banana tree so they float. The cobra is a holy animal because it hangs around Shiva's neck. To be a true Sadhu, one must find a cobra stricken body downstream, and say montras over it. If this is done within 21 days of death, the person is supposed to turn to life.

The holiness of this place is overwhelming, but it is not all Veranasi is famous for - also silk. There is a neighborhood where hundreds of silk handlooms run, it takes 20 days around the clock to make one silk sari. So now I'm broke and headed back to Ahmedabad. I guess I will work for IAVN doing research and putting together a future travel guide, and hopefully learn how to cook something. After that, Rajastan, Delhi, and NY!

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8 pm. I'm going crazy, and there are 20 more hours on this train. I shift between shuffling cards and reading Moby Dick. About an hour ago I hung myself out the traincar door cursing like a pirate at the rapidly passing countryside. Pretending I was at the bow of a ship and claiming to bury my treasure on the remote island of Sri Lanka, this kept me entertained for a good half hour. Ya har!

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11am. Being onan indian train is like going to a chinese resterant for dim sum. Thgere are way too many people, all crammed together wanting a seat. And then people walk up and down the isles all day yelling the food products they are pandering. So maybe its more like a ball game, except you have to share your seat with an unwanted friend. And this too shall pass.

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5pm. The train is running about four hours late; this severely upset me. Im so sick of all this bullshit, this hustle and bustle, being asked by blind men or starving children for change. I miss the comforts of home, and the ignorance to the world's problems that comes with the american way of life. I wonder if Ill ever be able to enjoy it the same way. I think of resturants and grocery stores, and all the luxury and unfathomable service they provide. And I think of water fountains, clean streets, and completely paved roads.

I once asked my parents if we could stop mowing our front lawn. We pay someone alot of money to mow it, and waste alot of water keeping it green in the summer. The answer is obviously no; despite the fact that we use the front lawn only as a farther distance for the mailman to walk or the paperboy to throw, the lawn must be kept in perfect condition. Property values, I was told. It would decrease the value of our neighbors houses, and they could bring up a legal objection. I got it, but it just doesn't make sense. Grass can be cut if a neighbor decides to sell their house. What kind of petty bullshit does suburbia engage in? I think suburban america was invented to occupy the middle class with petty problems; to ignore the larger questions that a meaningful existence asks. Well, its not anything a trip to Home Depot or Bed Bath and Beyond can't fix.

I'm sitting in the doorway of the traincar, with my legs fighting the wind. Its really the simple things that make you happy; the sun beating down on me and the endless fields of crops that zoom by seem like the perfect background to ending my three week lone travel. When you feel like crap, soak up the sun and try to be with the ones you love.

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11pm. Now we aren't getting in until 6 am tomorrow, how long have I been on this train? I passed up dinner thinking I would be in Jamalpur soon. I was near an open door getting some fresh air and being pissed at the 14 hours late train when two policemen (armed with M1 rifles - what americans used in WWI) approach and ask me to return to my bunk. I look around, seeing people scattered everywhere, laugh, and plainly say no.

I don't think this went over well. Alot of conversing in hindi later and looking at my ticket, they left me alone. When I did go back to my bunk, I found out the policemen stopped by and moved the stray man out of my bunk. I was kindof bummed that they walked away and didn't return; I had my cell phone out waiting for them, so I could pretend I was busy. I was going to say I was talking to his mother, and she said to leave me alone. I was really hoping that one would be translated right.

What More Can I Say

I'm back in Delhi, specifically at the Red Fort. I hope to make it to the Jama Masjid and then find some non-indian food before I return to Ahmedabad tonight.

I took an all night bus from Manikaran, and talked most of the time to Matan, my seatmate from Israel. We talked mostly of American politics and foreign policy, and he thinks the upcoming elections are rigged for Mcain. Honestly, a black man named Obama can't be president, he said.

His brother is a conspiracy theorist, and beleives 9/11 was planned by the US government to support a war for oil - and all the paperwork and evidence was destroyed in building 7 of the world trade center complex - apparently not very close to the towers, but it fell anyway. He suggested viewing a documentary called Loose Change, which points to alot of inconsistencies surrounding 9/11.

All I know is that while 45oo US soldiers have died in Iraq, over a million Iraqi civilians have also perished, and the US government tends not to care or acknowledge this. We are selfish assholes, and the world should hate us. Oh wait, they do.

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I'm still in Delhi. I was told at the train station yesterday I need only show up an hour before the train comes, and buy my ticket. So I waste the entire day, taking long meals and drinking beer; I also went to the red fort and jama masjid, but it was fast sightseeing since I had been there before.

Well, I slept in a room about the size of a cot, plus a foot to one side to get in. I slept pretty well, I guess skipping a nights sleep will do that. Today I bought my ticket to Varanasi and went to the zoo. The zoo was pretty good - there were beautiful jaguars and cheetahs. So there was no train to Ahmedabad today, so I could not go until tomorrow and get there the day after, or go to Veranasi for a half day and spend about 42 of 48 hours on a train. This will be a good test of my solitary sanity, because I have been dreaming of company or familiarity for a while now.

I talked to a street vendor last night for a long time; Lakush was selling maps, and for some great reason he decided to sit down and talk instead of continuing to pester people. He was a really great guy and like alot of the not-dirt-poor but not well-off people, he lived elsewhere and traveled to tourist locales. I gave him 50 rupees at som point, and we continued talking. When he got up, he said, "No one just gives me money," and in friendship gave me a map a half an hour before he tried to sell me for 400 rupees.

Really, less well off people don't want your sympathy or your money, they just might want someone to talk to.

The Lovecats

On a separate note, anyone want to go see Wolf Parade in Toronto on sat. August 9th? Tickets arent sold out and it could make for a fun of age weekend.

Do It Again

Today has been incredible. I took a local bus for a few hours from Bhuntar, where I arrived at 3 in the morning and wandered around in the dark (with stray dogs howling and following me), to Manikaran. Buried in the hills of the Parvati valley, the bus drove around steep cliffs where it was a rock face on one side, and a raging brown serpent of a river on the other. Riding atop the bus for the first hour, lurching with the tons of metal going around cliffs, while chatting with locals and feeling the fresh wind in your hair is indescribably awesome. The second hour, when things got steeper, the driver crammed everyone inside. Being packed like sardines is an experience for everyone to have once, and having hindi hip-hop pop blaring as the soundtrack just adds to it.

Upon arrival in Manikaran, I found the a guest house and dropped my stuff and began wandering. Manikaran is famous for its hot springs, and resulting Shiva and Sikh temple. The town is mostly a pilgrimage site, and most of the shops are for devotional objects and food. Sadhus wander the town (religious men who have given up worldly possessions and beg to get by), with a combination of huge wrapped dreadlocks into a cone, or beardlocks, or both.

It is said Parvati and Shiva meditated here for over 11000 years. One day a jewel fell from Parvati's ear into the water of the raging mountain river, and Shiva was furious when his disciples couldn't find it; his third eye opened. At that moment, the king of the serpents appeared, and hissing, brought fourth the jewel, among many others, and the hot water. His anger vanished from this moment. Manikaran is a sanscrit word, deriving from mani - jewel - and karan - ear - , so jewel of the ear - Manikaran. The water is said to have healing powers and ranges in temp from 88 to 94 degrees C. Upon stepping into the temple, one notices people boiling rice and walnuts in the sulfurous hot springs. Upon being blessed and respecting the Shiva statue, you are fed rice cooked in the hot springs. Pilgrims travel all over to collect this water, cook in it, and bathe in it. This is not a western place.
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I wonder if there is an inherent superiority based on being "western," ie european or americans holding mosre wealth than the third world, as defined by the cold war. I realized I just called over my waiter at dinner, and asked him what was being built just outside my mealside window. Once I was told it was to be a new police station, I realized that I 1. expected my waiter to speak english (which he didn't), and 2. expected all my questions to e answered and responded to. Maybe this is not that different from what a waiter does in the states, as wait on the needs of the customer. But somehow to have these miniscule yet spoken demands to my waitstaff was difficult to bear after the fact (currently typing this up, i am laughing at my liberal, overthought, but poignant bullshit).

Who am I to just command around the actions of another? Why are we not in different shoes? why is it I am used to the way the man from atop the bus reacted when he got the answer to his question, How much does it cost to fly from the US to India? I just feel so much guilt about my society. It seems like they invent jobs here for the sole purpose of giving another person employment, not for the work needing to be done. For example, every time a person is shoveling on the side of the road, a rope is attached to the pole, so that another person can tug on it and help with the labor. Is this because work is so strenuous? Or because the men are too weak to do the job, probably from malnutrition? Or is it a way to get someone to participate in society, with little hurt to the investor's pocket?

The US has forgotten about places in the world like this, otherwise it would not let such groveling and brutal poverty continue. Surely in the US, a small fraction of society living in the street the way masses do here would cause a stir. I suppose it is not in our country's responsibility to change such things, but I feel like we have always tried to promote the upward motion of the human standard of living; where is the humanity of being plugged into "24" or "Desparate Housewives" when people struggle to pay 50 cent bus fare to visit their family on holidays?

The power just went out in my resturant, and as I look out, in the entire town as well. Well, a generator just went on, and now the only power and source of light is the Sikh temple.

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Today was beautiful. I woke up late, since I was up in the middle of the night writing and reading the Ramayama. I washed my clothing with a bar of soap in a room with a large in floor tub of hot springs water. It takes over an hour to wash three days' clothes by hand; Im never going to take a washing machine for granted again.

After this I decided to take a hike, and sat set straight up the hillside the town was on after inquiring. There must have been thousands of uneven concrete steps, and the panorama made me feel like I was Frodo climbing to mordor (if I don't get heat for that I'll be disappointed). But really, I felt like a hobbit when I was going up and up hand over hand and foot over foot, trying to keep myself as close to the mountain as possible; my two sides alternated jutting rock face and a precipitous fall, disguised by long green grass and the occasional crop terrace. As I ws passing huge telephone towers and the occasional slate-roofed house, I started to get worried about time. I didn't start my hike until 4 pm, and I had been going uphill for almost two hours. I really wanted to make the top, or at least be able to see into the adjacent ridge.

Well, I got into a flatter area, with alot of little terrace farming patches and eventually stumbled upon three or four slate roof and tin sheeting houses; how the families got the building materials this high, I don't know. I realized this was as far as I was going to make it. There was another summit buried in the clouds which couldn't be seen from ground level; in the next valley was an even higher snow-peaked mountain, its craigy tips only partially visible.

And then a wirey twenty year old popped up next to me holding a tiffin, carrying his dinner. Hotam Ram lived in one of these little houses, and of his two older sisters and two younger brothers, he is the only one in college. Kullu college is 45 km away (not to mention down the hill), and he would go to school for a month and then come home for three or so days. Hotam was really amazing and I respect him emmensley; He said the little village (if you could call it that) I was standing in was named Shushanceri. This translates to cold, cold, long-field agriculture; "Life is hard here" is an understatement. The only income and subsistence is from puny hillside apple trees, wheat terrace farming, and a cow. I gave Hotam my email address, but he hasn't seen a computer since 9th or 10th grade. Hotam wants to be a teacher, "to teach the little ones." His eyes lit up so much when he said this, I pray he achieves this noble but seemingly difficult task, they don't even have internet at his college. Maybe one day I'll hear from him.

The rest of the day wasn't nearly as cool. I hiked down (telling myself, one step at a time, when I could see thousands of meters down a few feet from my footsteps)' and eventually dipped my aching muscles in the hot springs pool of my guest house. Now I'm eating mushroom, olive, and tuna pizza (really good!), and might go shoot some pool.

Back to Ahmedabad in a few days! I think I may stop for a night back in Shimla before going through Delhi to Gujarat. Whooo!!!!!

Welcome to Jamrock

Right now I am sitting waiting for my bus to Bhuntar. From there, supposedly are hotsprings that can boil rice, and beautiful hiks in the Parvati Valley. The ride to the bus stand was great. Dharamsala is actually 5 km from Mcleod Ganj, where the life of the town is. Walking downhill and munching on a sandwich I realized I wouldnt make it to the bus on time. So I flagged down a young looking guy on a scooter. He was out of petrol and couldnt stop if on a flat, but luckily we were on the downhill. Cruising back and forth across the hillside, the huge orange red sun was setting. Rajiv - the guy - said this is why they call it the land of the gods - Jaanat - hindi for heaven.

It was an old scoooter from 95 and it stalled in a passing town where the ground was flat. In restarting the motor and kicking the start, the engine exploded with force and sent the scoooter zooming foreward on a wheelie. Luckily, we survived. But everyone in the street thought we were goners.

Mcleod Ganj was amazing. Less touristy than Manali, the hillside community of Bhagsu offered much more community, and I got to know a handful of people, two guys in particular. Rory was a scottish mate, and him and his band are all traveling separately around India, and then meeting up and writing. He was going to Java in a few weeks, but was using Bhagsu to recharge his batteries. Owen is from Ireland, and was spending a half year in India. Owen I sat next to on the bus from Manali to Dsala, and I originally despised the guy because he was so big. But both of em were lovable, and could drink me under the table. and did.

Bus is really shaky and hot. Im close to the back door, which doesnt close, so its got a breeze. We just went over a huge bump, and I must have been lifted off the seat a foot. And now a woman behind me is gagging and puking out the window. Whoo. I love India.

I think fog rolling over the crest of a mountain is perhaps the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It slowly envelops the hillside, unthreatening but unstoppable, a cottonlike blanket to warm the jutting rocks and green hillside.

Well, the fog approached me faster than I thought it would. Soon I found myself huddled under one of the sparce trees my newfound veranda offered. The only comorting thought I had as I was caught in this torrential downpour was that I am incredibly grateful I haven't seen a single bolt of lightning in India. Looking out on the rain, I wondered what I was afraid of. These hills have held the largest raindrops I have ever seen, and the rain comes and goes like the drop of a curtain. Yet I realized I was missing an opportunity. I came to this outlook in the middle of two dividing green mountain ridges to drink a bottle of beer and watch the sunset.

So I stepped out (leaving the secondhand book I bought under the tree) into the rain. It seemed that almost immediately a rainbow burst out over the left ridge. It semed like the arc was a magical rasta flag with its read yellow and green lines painting the sky. Ank I watched as this extended all the way into a full bow, with each colorul end tucked behind a steep and precipitous green line that cut the skyline distinctly.

Out of the edge of my vision I saw red. The fog and haze was slowly turning into gorgeous cumulous clouds being painted in red sunshine. As the sun set over the right ridge, I turned to watch the shapely clouds illuminated. Turning back on the rainbow was tough, but it was fading anyway. Simply amazing. Directly in front of my vision, the two ridges met with flat ground to show the underlying lowlands, the eye drawn to it by a meandering brown stram which seemed to weave its own particular path. I could see layers upon layers of clouds; those above me , those I was envelped in, and lower-lying horozontal stretches. As I turned to my right as the scene was shifting again, I was shocked.

You know, today was a bad day. I meandered around town, contemplating my self doubt and with no real purpose but to wait and see what fate holds for mee in the next few days (moving on, being inspired to do something radical, or to continue wandering in this small mountain town). And this was seemingly unreal, like something larger than myself was reassuring me. Crystal white and erie-ly large and up close was the moon, peering down among the clouds and the remaining half rainbow. Try as I might, no words deserve this moment. And at some point the rain had stopped.

I have to say I am firmly attatched to material objects. Not that I expected not to be, but it is still hard to face when one realizes how much worthless objects can mean. Two nights ago, on a wild saturday night drinking adventure with Israelis, I lost my camera, scarf, and travel book; all three extremely important to me for extremely different reasons. Im afraid to leave Dharamsala, as I know nothing about where I would go. And I dont know what to do about my camera, I have retraced all my steps, along with convincing myself since it was a serious camera, it would be the last I bought for a long time.

As a sidenote, there is an excellent dread-mullet sitting next to me right now in the Haifa cafe.

More on this in the future, but the Tibetan population is seriously oppressed here. Over 1.2 million tibetans have been killed or tortured by the chinese government, and the population has a 2000 year independent history of china, which has been retaken in the last 60 years by the People's Republic of China. Additionally,the second in command to the dalai laman the Panchen Lama (born in 1989=under 20 yrs old) was abducted by the chinese government in 1995 and has not been heard from since. You think about it.

Ridin' Dirrty

Dharamsala is cold. and foggy. and israeli.

Last night (or the night before?) the bus was supposed to get into town at 7 am. I guess we took the shortcut through the mountains, because we arrived at 3 am. unloading our stuff and no cafes or boarding houses being open, an american (yours truly), a scot, an irishman, an indian, and an israeli sat down to a game of cards in the middle of the street, while a japanese couple and dutch couple watched. As time passed, it got lighter and friendlier, probably due to the shared exhaustion and multiple bottles of bad indian whiskey.

And all of a sudden, Will, from Yorkshire, England, comes stumbling onto our band of renegades. He was wandering through town, as whatever he was on was wearing off. He stopped and chatted for a couple of minutes, mostly of the magic of sacred geometry (everything is made of it!). He has been around town for two months, and i always seem to see this tattered figure wherever I go.

And when i stumbled into a cafe for a cup of coffee before hitting the sack at 8 am, riding dirty came on the soundsystem. yes.

I've decided to go trekking. It involves mountains, a guide, and some horses carrying your stuff. We'll see how it goes.

Lonesome Day Blues

Ahm peacing out of Manali.

Overall a great experience. I feel as if I am finally at peace spending time with myself. At first, traveling was difficult; my mind racing against unwinnable thoughts. What am I doing? Where do I want do go? All this kind of bullshit thats not really bullshit if you are twenty, alone, and have enough time to slow down and think. All of this, I owe in part to Evan.

My second night in Manali (of three total), I walked into a rooftop cafe and joined a dreadlocked dude who didn't have any company. We start talking, and to be honest it was clear that Evan was a smart and satisfied guy. Being 39, and a cab driver from australia, I wondered. But he said he spent all day shuttling around well-off people who thought their lives were shit, and who had everything. The anynomity of the cab gives people 15 to 20 minutes to unburden all their problems on a sociable and empathetic cab driver, and Evan helped me alot. Maybe only because I wanted to hear him more than talk my self. When talking about worldviews, visions of self and community, acheivement, girls, and happiness, he had many insights, and said he had seen along many of the same lines at one point or another. He said that like himself, he was enlightened (or as I think of it, burdened) as being a thinker (I hope this doesn't sound pompous) to be a thinker, and that the best medicine was reflection. Forget TV or drugs. Those are just instant changes of perspective, whereas real changes of perspective (what we all desire) are much slower.

Normally I wake up groggily and feeling like going back to sleep; I think this is an effect of a seemingly mundane existence which we can get caught up in. Its like when we do something repetitive, we get sleepy, and even the mention of going out or doing something more preferable wakes us right up. Anyway, the following morning I woke up, and was awake immediately. Honestly one of the first times this has happened in a long time, and I hope to remember this perspective on tiredness.

So what have I been doing? Well, I saw two 500 year old temples, one on top of a treacherous hill. The other was swarming with tourist touts selling junk and old women clutching very furry rabbits, which are subsequently shoved in your arms in demand for rupees. I guess holding a really fuzzy moving white ball is worth paying for. I also checked out an amazing Tibetan gompa with a 25 foot high bronze statue of buddha inside. The building itself was being meticulously hand repainted, and it is incredible to think that this seemingly impossible task must be undergone a couple times a decade, for the last 300 years, due to the damp and varying climate here. I also found the natural hot springs, funneled into pools for each sex in a temple. Excruciatingly hot, the sulfurous water was bearable only after a half hour of wading and receding. Being a mix of Western and Israeli tourists, screaming local children, and derobed tibetan monks, it was a great place to take a soak, with an open roof looking onto the beautiful sky.

So I've met some cool people, locals and Israelis (which are everywhere, half the guest house signs are in hebrew), and read and am learning how to enjoy not doing everything. For those of you who don't know me, I am a perfectionist and an overacheiver, and have been fighting the impulses these traits bring for the past year or so, and Manali is certainly helping. However, I don't think I'm going to spend a month sitting in one of the cafe's smoking a chillum like some people do; vacations here start brief and turn to an elongated, hazy stay (at least for the Israelis). I had a jacket made here; with tailoring and how I wanted it, it cost only about 12 dollars (which is still kindof a ripoff in India, but this town is 100% tourist economy).

The outlying areas are very tibetan, and they rely off of hash production or apricot and apple harvesting. An amazingly meager lifestyle, especially in direct comparison to the tourists. And many of the shop owners here are from Rajastan or Kashmere, who come from May to October, leaving their families behind in order to make some money here. One kid had high hopes to study abroad, but being the oldest in his family and working in Manali at the age of 16 to help bring stability to life in Kashmere, it was hard to take chai with him and stay optimistic, and then turn to more jovial topics.

Blah, my ipod's almost dead. And I am at least a week from being able to chare it.

Bouncing Around the Room

This morning I woke up with the intention of rolling out of bed and being at the Jakhu temple bright and early so as to see the Himalayan panorama before the clouds gathered. So of course I rolled over at 10 am. AFter taking a shower and cursing myself, I started on the trek up the mountain. Figuring it would be a short excursion, I ate a few handfuls of peanuts and downed some water before setting off.

Knowing that the temple was at the crest of a 2500 meter hill, at some point I left the road and started climbing a well-worn path. Well, eventually the path led to an uphill outcropping of shoddy houses. On asking a man, who was carrying a large bowl/tray of vegetables on his head, I followed a much more overgrown path uphill. As I continued to crisscross uphill through the lush, wet shrubbery and trees where the hill could provide some dirt and enough flat space to grow, I started to wonder. It was obvious this was not the normal way up, and I started to worry I would end up on a different peak. Still, I had seen few other ways of reaching the top, so this had to be right.

Finally I saw a red flag over the crest of green. Then a red roof, and then the concrete walls of a building. And then the road. If I had justed stayed on it, I would have had a quick, leisurely stroll to the top like everyone else. But I like the way I came. It was reclusive, exhilarating, and made the sights to come well-earned.

AFter removing my shoes, I started to explore the compound. First off, its covered in monkeys everywhere. Monkeys sleeping, nursing their babies, and monkeys peskering visitors for dried cickpeas. The temple itself is said to hold the footprints of Hanuman, commander in cheif of the monkey army that helped RAma is his struggle against the demon Ravana, all entailed in the Ramayana. And so naturally it should be a respite and hotbed for these baller animals.

Well anyway, I was stooped down taking a photo of a statue, when all of a sudden I find myself bellowing, offbalanced, and mysteriously seeing the world distincly fuzzier. A monkey ran up and stole the glasses right off my face! When I was warned that they were a pest, I guess I didn't really understand. Anyway, after consultinga guard and with his help, I bought some chickpeas, and looked for the monkey, a needle in a haystack, especially with everything looking like I was wearing those drunk goggles from health class in high school. Well I found him, perched in a tree. With some coaxing and alot of help from my uniformed friend I got my specs back; It was clear he had done this before (the monkey and the guard).

The temple itself is a whole 'nother experience, upon climbing stairs and ringing an overhead bell, you enter a colorful carpeted room full of Hanuman images, and an ornate shrine in the middle. Two holy men are sitting in front, one ferrying offerings into the sanctuary, which is adorned with multiple statues, gold and brass bowls, flower struings, among the burning oil lamps. The other was conducting ritual blessings upon visitors. AFter going through the motions, I wanted to leave quickly to not lose anything else to the monkeys. Well after talking to a few people ( a man who had been planning to visit the temple for 40 years, and some Indian boy scouts) I scurried down the mountain being famished. And somehow I came down the mountain the wrong direction. Smooth.

So finally I sit in a cafe, munching on a veggie burger and sprite, in bliss. When I'm starving, indian food just doesn't cut it. And to make me fel more at home, a phish tape just came on. I guess I am doing something right. So I am going to find a bus ticket to Minali and split tonight.

The region I will be traveling through tonight -- the Kullu valley, is surrounded by impressive valleys on each side, and served as one of the only trade routs between central asia and the northern plains of india, and has been invaded by most major rulers from the north and south, for owning the Rohtang pass (3987 m) means significant trade between china and india and the right to tax it. Today the economy revolves around apple and cannabis production, most of which is done by tibetan refugees in the area. The locals wear topis, the square wool hats of old. And the tibetans (most having arrived from exile in the 50s and 60s) spend their meager income from tenant farming on expensive sliver and turquoise jewelry, fancy headscarves, and other adorning items, which somehow I learned is part of a rare continuation of tibetan buddhism and its practices.

thats all for now, stories to come.

Glory Box

I have a question -- where are the violent problems of India? Yes, in 2002 there were religious riots in Gujarat (which I will talk about another time) but there are so many that are not well-off and still so few security problems.

In the United States, poverty leads to alternative sources of income, some of those being illegitimate. Drug dealing, stealing, and gambling are huge problems in the states. In fact gambling is the fastest-rising addiction in the US, and in many ways (similar to the lottery, a form of gambling) is reverse taxation; the less fortunate are more likely to risk their strained assets than that of the upper-middle or middle class.

Drug dealing, too, is a huge problem, especially among the urban poor. While studies have shown that drug use is equal across economic and racial barriers, those who turn to drug dealing as a living tend to be of lower status. I don't understand; is it an American cultural attribute that leads to high drug use? Drugs are used in India for religious and recreational purposes. In Rajastan, food and drink enhanced with cannabis, Bhang, is widely available and used. And I have seen a large share of clothing adorned with the cannabis sativa leaf, alluding to its use among the youth (and for once, refreshingly, these symbols are not connected to bob marley in any way).

And the third avenue of wrongdoing I have mentioned, stealing. Some American poor resort to crime as a fix to dire financial problems. The United States has a population of under 350 million, and yet it has the largest per person incarceration rate. Now India has over 1 billion people living on its subcontinent. Given, India could be split up into multiple countries (it has over 22 official languages and 12oo dialects), but the population living under one dollar per day (general world standards for poverty) exceeds 260 million as of 2006. And yet these individuals that compose a fifth of the population cause little stir. Sure they are groveling on the street, or working as shoeshiners, bicycle rickshaw wallahs, or nut vendors. But they aren't resorting to these vices (although alcoholism is on the rise in India, despite limited accessability) or criminal behavior.

Is it cultural differences? Has the 4000 year history of the Indian civilization led to a self respect and humility that has not developed in North America in the last 300 years? Or do the basic tenets of capitalism (a much larger force in American history than Indian history) lead to an unstoppable greed or necessity that overcomes morality? Or perhaps the social welfare state is much more present in India (I don't think it is)? I don't have the answers, but these are just thoughts that have been spinning lately.

On another note, Shimla feels more like a european city than resembling the other indian cities I've experienced. Being the capital of Himanchal Pradesh, I'm sure this accounts for some of the organization and street cleanliness. However, the state gov't certainly isn't well off - the gov't buildings and state library are pathetic.
Everyone spends the last third of the day strolling in the town ambience, enjoying the communal atmosphere. Marble and brick and pavement cover all that isn't hilly green; there is a complete absence of dirt and dust. And everyone is dressed in button downs, sweater vests, or stylish t-shirts. Perhaps its too cold up here for the poor to grovel and live without shelter. But this is a whole different side of India I have yet to see.

All The Small Things

So my sanity is at risk; I left my ipod charger at home, and had been charging it through my computer. Now that I am on my own and separated from my computer, I have about 5 hours of listening for the next two weeks. Its kind of sad to need it, but I'm traveling alone and all that jazz. And in case you haven't figured it out, the blog titles are songs that come up on shuffle -- and yes I still have a love for blink 182.
One of the only other times I listened to my ipod was on the metro. Dancing, doing a little white boy shuffle, as I waited for a train got looks. But you know what, I think they were jealous of my sweet moves. And I get looks anyway, sowhy not?

...........................

(A few days ago).... This has been a completely unreal, normal, crazy, rational day. Again I find myself sitting on a train, one of the few awake. The crack in the window provides a great nighttime breeze to ease one into sleep, as the countryside, illuminated only by traincar windows, goes zooming by.

Emotions are temporary, and on this journey I must learn to realize that and therefore come to terms with in the moment happenings. Right now for example. There is a beautiful young baby curled against her mother sleeping; only a few hours ago I was miserable from the wailing. Now it seems so unreasonable to harness those thoughts as it is of course part of traveling.
Or take the man sitting on the end of my reserved bunk. This bench is mine; I as well as he knows that. But I'm sure he has an unreserved seat, and I don't want to make him sleep on the floor, like the people I walked over to use the loo. I don't "need" all my legroom, and if he is happily slumped over himself, so be it.

Today I treated myself and three others to the best and cheapest food I have had yet. Wandering Jamalpur and not wanting to eat candy, fruit, or raw veggies I ducked into one of the resturants (dhabas) lining the street. On the left as you enter is a man on an elevated platform, scooping food out of huge copper pots onto plates. Its blazingly hot, as to the right a man is spinning an firing roti (flat bread), practically sitting on the tandoori oven, and then expertly fishing out the bread with two long metal pokers.

I handed the guy a 50 rs note and waved at the change, figuring I would feed someone else too. The man waves in three hunger squatters who can't afford lunch, and hands them a plate full of food. Inside, two little boys continued to ferry me roti, daal and rice. Every time I said baas (enough), they brought more food. I was confused, but continued to stuff myself. Note to self: Busy, grubby looking resturants are that way because they serve the best food on the block.

...........................................
In Delhi...

I have no idea where I am. I signed into a hotel near the biggest mosque I have ever seen. It took me over two hours to find the place, but my room has a great view of the Jama Masjid. I spent the afternoon exploring the red fort - built by the Muhgols in the 1400s. It was beautiful and a true testament to the empire's power. Now I sit in a western resturant, thinging about going out. I have explored using the metro, which is great. So when I ordered dinner I asked about three different dishes, and then chose one. The staff proceeded to bring me all three, and Im proud to say I struggled throuh 2 and a half of em.

Next Day:

I tripped over a sheep laying on the pavement as I came out of the hotel today. wow. I traveled across town and bought an overnight bus ticket to Shimla, 10 hours away. Its in the foothills of the himalayas, and was the summer capital for the british. Its supposed to be an interesting mix of tibetan and raj influences. I also prayed in the huge mosque today, and went up one of the minarets; the view of delhi was impressive, but I was not impressed with delhi. There is so much pollution that you cannot see that far, and it seems to be mostly sprawl development with little zoning. And I just got back from the bazaar, which truly comes alive at night. Stores selling shoes, clothing, food, and just about everything that is used for everyday urban life, spilling out onto the street. Add in animals, motorcycles, beggars, and people chewing and spitting paan everywhere, and you just might start to get the picture.
I was hanging out and talking to a paan wallah (chewing tobacco worker), and he made me a sweet one. They wrap betel nuts, coconut, and a mix of spices in a leaf, which you stick in your cheek and chew. You can swallow the sweet ones, but with tobacco you spit it out, which is where the red stains all over the pavement come from.

And I was in a bar earlier nursing a large kingfisher and reading about Jainism, and celine dion coms on the sound system. I burst out laughing, and the few people around me are confused. I guess titanic theme music is taken seriously worldwide, because I have heard this song in multiple bars. I'm going to start a tally of celine dion songs i hear here (not counting nadeem's ipod). Also, I have heard enrique eglesias played three times in the last half hour.
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Now Im in Shimla...... its awesome. The city is on the edge of a hill, and the lower valleys are enveloped in fog. I pray it clears, but in the meantime I'll wander the bazaars and do some reading. There is a famous temple to Hanuman (king of the monkeys, helped Rama win an important battle in the epic Ramayana), a 40 minute hike uphill. The town is swarming with monkeys, no one here notices, but they are like the dogs or goats of Shimla. Im going to wake up early tomorrow, take the hike to the temple which supposedly is swarming with monkeys.

And its the Fourth of July! im going to go find some fireworks and be an idiot in the middle of town tonight.

Like Like Dope

I'm sitting in a dank cyber cafe, pondering my departure tomorrow on my own. In the corner a trashy hindi game show is playing, and a few men are smoking rank cigarettes and laughing. And this is normal now. It makes me wonder what else I take for granted, things I see every day that were shocking on the first. So what shocked me today? As I was in a rickshaw being driven across town, we passed a large hindu temple where a bunch of elephants were gathered outside. Every couple days the elephants are there, and its my favorite part of the ride; im always tempted to flag down the driver and have him drop me off so I can pet and play with the gentle giants. Anyway, today I saw an elephant with tusks, and I completely forgot that they grew on elephants. They are so valuable that it is rare to find them.

What else. I bought a watch in the market today, realizing I had not really kept track of time for the last month, except going along with others that were doing so. Anyways, I felt like I got ripped off on an imitation sony watch, which I payed about a dollar for. I know the American economy is plunging, and standards of living are dropping as gas, milk, and heat all become a larger expense. Still, I wonder where our priorities are. I know I will go home in a month and walk in my suburban neighborhood. Everything will be spotlessly clean, including the sidewalk and road itself. There will be no garbage to be found, and everyone's grass will be freshly cut and green. I am not saying that our economy isn't struggling, but I think maybe we should prioritize to focus less on appearances.

I have found that when I walk on the street, if a person is not poor, then they may be better dressed than I am. In India, appearances are important because it shows you can afford to pay for a shiny belt buckle or button down shirt. If you can afford hair gel and a comb, you spend (too much) time in front of the mirror. And I simply wander around in a cheap t shirt and sandals (and pants). But people seem to spend their money on what is important, despite current fashions (which I think are kind of worthless, but never going to disappear). How do we stop consumer culture when its all we know? We should be spending money on food, clothing, and cigarettes, like indians do. I guess being abroad has just changed my concept of necessity.
Still, we have everything that is important in America: food, shelter, and family. Why do we need expensive furniture which we have only for the couple days a week we have guests? It just seems like we have nothing real to complain about, so we find something mundane.

And i also think about how everyone at wes and in fashion is skinny. like emaciated skinny. And these are the more wealthy people in our society, who can afford to eat food without any calories in them. Well guess what, here, fat is in. Cause it means you can afford to eat. Being called a skinny boy is an insult. Sure, people are getting fatter as the mcdonalds and subways roll in, but that is expensive food here, not cheap like it is in the states.

So what am I saying? The rest of the world thinks we are doing ok. I really don't mind being cheated out of a handful of rupees on every interaction, because I wear clean, unripped clothing, and know when my next meal is coming. So, I'm thankful. Why is the US less devout than some other countries? because we have things to turn to other than religion. Many here are extremely religious, and I understand completely; justice and equality are not so much to ask for, and one must beleive in redemption if they are to continue struggling. Religion takes inward reflection, which means self-evaluation. And its easier to look at others than oneself.
Am I promoting religion, no. But I do beleive in faith.

Since We Last Spoke

There is much to write about; the last week has been a growing whirlwind of inspiring conversations and moments, along with its dreary and difficult sun-baked tasks and obligations. However, first I want to spreak of a new source of inspiration, the NY times bestseller Three Cups of Tea.

Over the last month, I have questioned many times my objectives in traveling and volunteering abroad in India. Being delegated to mundane office tasks, and spending time reading the news onlineat work did little to fuel the dwindling fire of passion for "exotic" or "moving" work abroad. I see the poor and suffering every day, whether it be people sleeping on the street, or emaciated cows eating trash, or charity kitchens where the undernourished squat, waiting for their turn to eat, that is if enough rupees are donated by passersby on that given day. But there seems to be little connection between my actions and change for the better.

Well Greg Mortenson's life story of establishing over fifty schools in rural Pakistan and Afganistan almost singlehandedly reminded me of the difference one person can make. In Three Cups of Tea, Dr. Greg, as he became known to the men, women, and children of nuerous treacherously balanced villages in the peaks of the worlds most isolated mountains, drifted in the wrong direction after a failed attempt to summit K2. The village he stumbled upon, and the promise he made Haji Ali, Korphe's cheif elder, moved Mortenson from climbing mountains to moving them. He promised to return the following year with the money and supplies to build Korphe a school.

Throughout this suspenseful read, Greg befriends everyone in his path, including Tom Brokaw, descendents of Ghengis Khan, and taliban warlords. This is a must-read, and it painted beautiful scenery for my imagination as I work my own path towards the Himalayas.

I just booked my train ticket to New Delhi, where I will start my adventure. From there, I will take a bus to Shimla, with plans to continue on to Manali and Dharamsala, the home of the Dhali Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. There is also an amazing buddhist festival during July in the northernmost state, Ladakh. However, I plan to spend most of my time in Himanchal Pradesh, where I can hike, meditate, meet a ton of Israelis, and open my eyes.

The moment I booked my ticket was the most terrifyingly alone I have been in my life. Here I am with four friends, and even being surrounded by them still I want to curl into the fetal position making myself safe. The image of cold mountains is desolate, as is negotiating India's rail system alone. It is easy to be picked up in the sand storm of loneliness and self-pity that accompanies it, especially while traveling. After a single day of contemplation and reading my guidebook, I was amped. This is an adventure of a lifetime and I hope to treat it as so. With a few backpacking lessons in the bank, and more to come, July first calls my name. And after the Barcelona bus station (where my day pack was stolen by an african-immigrant based theiving team), I won't fall asleep on public transport without my bag under my arms.

So if you haven't figured it out already, I no longer work for SPRAT. Over my time there, Mr. Johwer (my boss) and I did not always see eye to eye, mostly due to cultural differences, where our opposed personalities did not extinguish the growing tensions. In my final moments with SPRAT, I was disappointed to leave my great coworkers, but proud of the way I lived my beleifs and took a stand against motions that challenged them. While in the future I may not always have this luxury, my actions left me smiling that entire afternoon, knowing I showed myself and my American coworkers/interns respect.

My day today was pretty gnarly (yeah, total pipe dream, brah!). I woke up today, finished the aforementioned book, and after some lunch caught a rickshaw for one of the first times with my butchered hindi carrying me without a hitch towards the Jami Masjid. It was not the first time I had been to a mosque, but certainly my first time praying at one. Nadeem had invited me along for the most important and well-attended prayer of the week, friday afternoon.

After kicking off my thongs and briskly walking across scalding hot marble, I proceeded to the central washing station. If I was going to pray, surely I had to wash first like everyone else. Gingerly approaching the wash basin turned fish pond (with fish food floating liberally on the surface), I took a seat in the ring surrounding the water on one of the only free stools. I proceeded to wash my feet and hands (right and then left), and finally my face and mouth.

Eyes turned to watch the last stage; surely this white boy at a crowded mosque won't rinse his mouth with pond water. Well, the mouth is a muslim's most holy body part, as it issues prayers to Allah, and I proceeded to brush my teeth with my fingers. I then stood up, feeling surprisingly refreshed considering I was facing a possibly grim 24 hours with my innards, and bumped into Nadeem.

The 500 year old mosque we sat in (built in 1412, to be exact) must have been full with over 5000 men, and a few women towards the back. While I didn't catch a word of the sermon delivered in Urdu, the beautiful melodic wailing that followed from the cantor figure was mesmerizing. After this, individual prayer began, and I stumbled through following my neighbors in bowing and putting my forehead to the floor, all the while reciting the Shema.

The Shema says that there is but one God, and I figured praying, no matter how it is done, is important, and it wouldn't matter that I was facing Mecca and not Jerusalem.

All I can say is what an experience. Later that day I stumbled into a Jewish synagogue late, and still did not feel at home. Because I was late, I was forced to do much of the praying on my own, and stood and mumbled to myself at the back of the congregation of about thirty people. After a day of religious observance, I didn't think I did poorly, all things considered. It was at that moment I realized I was sitting on the women's side of the congregation. A tradition I have not regularly experienced in the states, I scurried to the men's side and avoided eye contact, continuing my praying solo style.

After a round of Shabbat Shalom's, I headed back to Jamalpur, dreaming of the feast awaiting me in a muslim home. Daal, chippatti, and watermellon never tasted so good; the only thing that could have been a suitable addition to the spread was matzah ball soup -- its good at every meal.

In afterthought, I had another religious experience today. In the middle of the afternoon in search of a cyber cafe I got my cheapest rickshaw ride ever -- three rupees. I guess being one of seven passengers is economical; hanging out of the driver's side front seat an inch from buzzing traffic would cause anyone to pray.

Disco Infiltrator

To walk down a street and not know whether you are being led to meet friends or to be robbed is an interesting feeling to say the least, and it is something I have felt twice in the last 24 hours.
The weekend passed relatively uneventfully until Sunday night. On Sunday, we were all going to take a public transport bus (a bad idea) and see the opening of another caravan center. These centers give free english and computer classes to the underpriviledged and and to date have educated over 6000 men, women and children. I hear it was a success and definitely an event to witness (despite bing in mostly Gujurati and Urdu), but I spent the day at home sick. It seems that I only get sick when I eat, so it is on and off. Keeping weight on in this country is proving more difficult than I imagined, so I am subsidizing my diet with as much soda and sweets (indians love em) as my stomach can handle.

Anyway, Saturday night Kamalbai (brother Kamal) invited us to a classical music recital in memoriam of a famous tabla (hand drum) player. Upon arriving, we slipped off our shoes and entered a freezing, packed room and sat on squishy mattress pads. The music was gorgeous. The first group consisted of a tabla player and two sarangi players (which is a fusion of cello and sitar). It seemed as though the two men were dueling with the beautiful folk melodies on their instruments; it was incredible how quickly they could escalate from a mellow vibe to an intense fervor of playing that could easily be guitar solos in a sold out ampitheater show.
I do not lie when I say I was disappointed when these performers finished after an hour of hard work; the vocalist that followed was talented, but did not hold my interest in the same way it did for most in the audience.

Ok, back to me being unsure about where I am walking. So Sunday night we are always full of energy, resistant to work in the morning. Instead of sitting in the house, I decided to take an evening stroll and do some street photography; Jamalpur truly comes alive after dark, when the boys and men sit outside on stoops, joking laughing and smoking. Whenever I walk around I get looks; some would say I don't exactly blend in. Pointing a camera at seemingly mundane things does not help. While I was stooped shooting a conglomerate of abandoned street bicycles, some teenagers called me over to them.

I said what the hell, I want to make some friends, plus I was sick of relying on Nina or Nadeem for communication. The kids were pretty cool, just some high schoolers and college kids wasting time on a summer night. It was full of jokes and taking shots at each other's masculinity. They eventually invited me to hop on the back of a bike and go to Ellis bridge to meet up with some of their friends. They said there would be girls there, and I could tell this was a big deal; girls are very shy and often not present.
I passed on the venture; sure the kids were nice, but I wasn't going to end up on a different end of town stranded without pants, so to speak. Still, that night I couldn't sleep.

So I stayed up reading and reflecting. In the morning I watched the sunrise and listened to the sounds of the city stirring from a light but deadening slumber. It must not get quiet until 5 or 6 in the morning, even then it is quiet for only an hour or so. Still, the starting sounds of milkmen clanging, women starting to beat laundry, and rickshaws honking at dogs and goats to clear the road is gradual, surprising, and then normal.

I decided to go out and see everything come alive myself. The streets are full of people sleeping on cots in full daylight; the only awake soulds are the school children, all in matching kurtas or belly-button high blue shorts, waiting for the schoolbus (a rickshaw piled high with other schoolkids). I always get catcalls like "Hello, what country?" or "Hey America". This morning a few old men gathered at some benches taking in their morning smoke called to me, and I decided to join them for a minute.

In the poorer areas there is much less english spoken, so communication is its own game. They had something they wanted to show me, though. I was led through an alley of shanties to an artists alcove. There was a man working on a gorgeous carving of the god Shiva on a totem-pole-esque log of artistry. I felt sort of helpless; why were they so eager to show me this art in such a poor area? Surely I could not afford any of the art, nor fit a totem pole in my suitcase. They said I was the first foreigner to see the artists' work, and it seemed like an accomplishment to them. This just made me feel more helpless. Sure, I took sculpture in high school and at Wesleyan and enjoy art, but I was nobody and I thought that was clear.

So I was full of grace (or tried to be) and after looking and thanking and promising to return in a few weeks when the present work was done, and finally bowed out. That didn't stop the crowd of semi-clothed children from following me most of the way out. The little ones giggle when you say goodbye in hindi.

No sooner am I walking back home do I see Yaqub and his wife on a scooter, out to do some morning errands. He is wondering what the hell I am doing coming out of a brokedown alley at 7 in the morning when I should be in bed. After an explanation and the following shake of the head, we continued on our ways. So that was the start to my day. Some breakfast, a nap, and work all followed. It may not have been the most exhilarating story, but it's moments like this I remember where I am and am glad I'm open enought to try and embrace it.

Room Games and Diamond Rain

The Mumbai Oddyssey begins.....

I sit on the third tier bed in our open-door A/C train car. It is amazingly quiet, and the only signal that we are moving is the gentle rocking back and forth of the car; its much like being at sea. When I laid down and curled under the covers, I was quick to notice my feet are the only ones on the train that stick out into the aisle. Its 6 am now, and our train gets in at 6:30; I am going to try to nap. This is going to be a long day.

... ................. ................... ............. .............

Today we met Rahat at the apartment. She is the president of the Women's Empowerment Front, and the first muslim woman I have met who has divorced her husband. Being the founder of an NGO and associated with many more in the Mumbai area, we hoped to pick her brain and learn something about the structure and power dynamics in these indian organizations.

We talked for hours aout where gender roles, religion, and civil liberties meet. What was so interesting to me in particular was the fact that even after divorcing her husband, Rahat still beleived that a man should have control over a woman to some extent, albiet very limited. While I think her definition of control is slightly different that what is brought to the American mind, there was still some aspect here which was twinged with traditional gender dynamics (on a side note, it took me a full five minutes to come up with that ambiguous phrase for fear of offending anyone. Thank you Wesleyan.). The conversation was very informative, and to say the least, thought provoking.

What was formerly known as the Prince of Whales museum was our next stop. Having left my student ID in New York (stupid idea), I had to pay 30x more than everyone else to get in. It held some ancient hindu and buddhist sculpture, indian painting, and tibetan jewelry and arts, along with some terrible 17th century european art. There was also some incredible ivory carvings from tusks of elephants. The entire surface of the tusk would have lattice-work adorning it, with intricate figurines carved within, compromising the core of the tusk.

Set in a beautiful old mansion or government building once built by the british, it seemed like a prime example of british colonialism in India; all indian culture, but english culture and language. Aspects of british culture are evident everywhere, but seem to be slightly hidden by the last 60 years of Indian independence.

From there we traveled to the Gate of India, a huge but somewhat unimpressive arch created by queen Victoria (?) when she visited India, a sort of gateway for her arrival and monument to her presence and the event. In the surrounding plaza were plenty of hawkers and stands, resteurants and cheap chatchke vendors. We stopped for an afternoon snack and a beer, and eventually made our way home for family dinner.

Following family dinner we decided to paint the town red and see some of the night life. After a few misteps (read fancy 30-somethings bar and creepy sports bar) we found the right place, a smokey club named Leopolds. Complete with a DJ spinning American music, a somewhat sketchy dance floor, and good indian bar food, it was exactly how we wanted to blow off some steam on saturday night. The one problem with Indian night life is that last call is at 12:30 and the bar closes at 1, unless the manager decides the night is fruitful enough to pay off the police and stay open until much later; it wasn't one of those nights.

Still, the end of the night came with dancing and one of the best interactions with an Indian we've had yet. As soon as the music ended and the bar was closing up shop, this large Indian man turns to us, noticing we are Americans, and decides we should all sing songs together. This was brought on by our continued protests for more tunes, and so we created them ourselves. The man bursts out into the Celine Dion titanic theme song wholeheartedly, and we can't help but join him. Upon the sad but entertaining ending to this song, he proclaims, "lets sing; backstreet boys, savage garden, ricky martin, anything!" I think we did one more, given not as epically as my heart will go on (but lets be honest, you can't be more epic than Celine Dion unless you are singing Bohemian Rhapsody or Don't Stop Beleiving). All in all, an exciting first day in Mumbai.

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Saturday after a night out started way too early; I feeli as if being done with breakfast by 9 am on the weekend is a crime. But we had a big day ahead of us, starting with an hour and a half long train ride. We were going out to a wayward province to meet Rahat and see an orphanage. She has connections with many NGOs such as this one, but wanted to show us one firsthand to give an idea to what a volunteer, if sent her way, could accomplish.

The local railcars are a completely different experience than the long-distance ones; riding first class is a must. People take chickens and huge peices of luggage in second class, and it is often packed so tightly you could not even manage to get off at your stop if you tried. And the doors to the car don't close, so people can breath and hang out of the car. A sad looking little girl with a baby slung around her neck came on at one stop, and walked around singing a sad hindi song and playing the spoons with to rocks to the beat. Its sad to know she is probably part of a raqueteering bracket and will not be allowed to reap most of the money she begs.

The ophanage, Amcha Ghar (translated as Our Home), was incredible. IT was run out of a woman's home with her husband and their many pets. Susheela currently has 32 girls living with her, ranging age from 4 to 18 years old. Not all of them are orphans; some still have one parent who is a sex worker or of some other unsuitable employment. As we were walking up the stairs the girls were singing a song to us and they all came up one by one and said their name and the grade they are in; it was one of the most inspiring welcomes we've had yet. Apparently there are hundreds and hundreds of applications to get into homes such as this one and not nearly as much room; these girls were lucky to be hand chosen.

So the next 5 hours were spent playing with the girls. They immediately dragged me to the kitchen to show me their pet turtles, and since they only had two, they kept a couple ceramic ones in water to keep them company. Taking pictures and playing and laughing was one of the most happy, inspiring, and beautiful afternoons of my life. There was no reason to feel sad for these orphans, they were being well fed and educated, and surrounded by so many friends. One of my favorite moments was playing with clay with a 12 year old. We made everything she wants to eat and get as presents on her 13th birthday, wich is next week. Leaving was hard, and none of us looked foreward to the trainride home, but all around were thankful for the amazing experiences of the day.

Just Like We Break Down

Mheh...first day back to work. This past weekend we traveled to Mumbai and explored, with little monsoon issues. The previous week I was lying in bed, thats why I have been out of the loop. Something about the food and my body and me not liking it, resulting in a never-ending fever and other fun stuff. but I'm back and ready for some more.........

Hoodoo Voodoo

I just got back from my afternoon scooter ride with Piyush. Let me say that he must be one of the fastest drivers that the Ahmedabad roads have seen. Himanshu promised that the ride would be perfection, and it was close. It would have been perfect if it were not for a little accident we had with another scooter. The man yelled in hindi that Piyush couldn't drive, and this happening in the first ten minutes of the afternoon made me beleive him.

Still there is nothing like weaving in and out of cars, bikes, children and rickshaws at 60 km/hr. And when we were crossing a bridge in Ahmedabad over the river, I could not help but stretch my arms out and look up. Being unrestrained and squashed behind a small indian man driving way over the speed limit in the enveloping sunshine was one of the most freeing and enjoyable things I have done in a long time. And to top it all off, Piyush sang beautiful hindi songs under his breath as we rode; it was the perfect private soundtrack to the visual and emotional colorwheel that was my afternoon.

Our first stop was a caravan center. Caravan centers are classrooms in poor neighborhoods that provide the area with vocational and english classes, along with personal finance advice. The room, while dim and grimy, is still an incredibly valuable service to the community, and all are thankful. I cannot help but think of the American school system, where there is so much more offered, but so few students care to learn. All the children want here is a chance. Its as Himanshu said when I asked him what he does after programming at work. He said, "programming." Everyone is just trying to do a little better.
One of the most eye opening moments of the caravan center visit was when the manager, translated by Piyush, explained to me the history of the building. Painted white with blue shutters, window frames, and tile floors, it was easily one of the nicest structures in the area. Apparently it was a housing facility for those affected by leprosy only ten years ago. Reassured that there were no traces of it or lepers around (my ears shot up when I heard hindi hindi hindi leprosy here hindi hindi), it was explained that this was why SPRAT was able to afford the nicest building in the area. On the way out, the man joked that he could take me to a certain area and show me leprosy. I am still warming up to Indians' sense of humor.

Our next stop was a proposed site for another Muskaan (adventure) park. This consisted of an abandoned lot scattered with garbage, and a few goats looking for a morsel to eat. Since SPRAT has little money, I asked how they acquired the lot for free.
Piyush pointed over a brick wall at the ajacent lot. The odd smell I had noticed was eminating from a tall smokestack, and my vision was filled with the machinery and the image of a large, towering chemical factory. Surely having such an industrial polluter next to a childrens park cannot be a good idea. After inquiring about the health ramifications, I realized it was pointless. Free land was free land, and pollution is present all around the city, so why not at such close proximity? I do not agree with this logic, but it seems that I can do little to steer the NGO away from this.

Our last stop was the existing Muskaan park. What an incredible place. There are huge play structures, climbing walls, and ziplines for the neighborhood kids to play with, and all of it is made with recycled materials. All the free space around the city is dirty and filled with trash, except for this space. Upon arriving here, I understood the importance of creating play parks for kids. This way, kids can run and play and see green grass. They can play cricket without getting run over by a car or bike. And the kids love it!

Original Pirate Material

            Wheww.  Its Sunday, our one day off from work.  It is so nice to not be in a stuffy office, and I will always appreciate a two-day weekend from now on.  Today we ate some indian-styled chinese food.  Probably one of the wierdest cuisines I have ever had, just sweet sauces with noodles and rice and cheese, really not close to either culinary tradition.  Anyway, we went kurta shopping at the outdoor mall, and experienced the Indian version of Walmart.  While not nearly as large, it was still a force to be reckoned with.  Anything you need, at cheap prices, but hindi.  And I wonder what it will be like being white and wearing traditional indian clothing.  I get so many looks anyway (I think I am the tallest person in the country), that maybe this will tamper that.  Well, probably not.

         

      A few days ago we were wandering through an outdoor market, looking around and trying to find a cart with something tasty to eat.  Finding veg food on the street is harder than one would think, considering so many restaurants are veggie.  Vendors cook tandoori food in large brass pots on the street. These ten gallon containers have blazing fires under them, so you literally have to roast off your eyebrows to get your food.  But word on the street is its the best you can get; if you can make a living cooking, then you're in business. And its cheap!

          When we were leaving the market, I stumbled upon the only temple in Ahmedabad.  I had been looking for Magen Abraham temple for some time, but I could not find it.  Upon investigation, there was no Saturday morning service because it is a working day.  However, I did return to Havdalah services on Saturday night.  After talking to the kids outside the temple, I tentatively rang the bell on the gate.  I was let in, and a short, balding, brown man with a kippah on took me to his office and asked me a number of questions.  Upon finding that I was staying in Jamalpur (the muslim district), he doubled the efforts of inspection and I could see furrows on his brow.  Apparently there aren't many Jews from that area, nor was I to be trusted.  After leaving him some numbers and names, I was led to the sanctuary.

           I don't know what I expected from services, but it consisted of myself and four old men praying out of decades-old prayer books.  When it came time to drink some wine for services, we were given cold chai tea (Gujarat is a dry state).  Also, the eternal light was a real candle, and was lit as soon as Shabbat was over.  For those of you who do not know, Havdalah, the service ending Shabbat and welcoming the new week, occurs on Saturday night and allows observant Jews to renew regular behaviors.  While the service was short, I promised myself I would return and establish a relationship with the congregation.  

    

       I wonder how the Jews in Ahmedabad (about 300) actually arrived there.  Are they converted or traditional Jews?  What is the Jewish life like within Indian culture?  How are Jews treated among a community that has religious tensions?   From the Hindus and Muslims I have talked to, they have been incredibly respectful and interested in my religion.  However, I wonder if this is because I am a coworker or a guest.  Hopefully my continuing relationship with this little synagogue will begin to answer my questions.

           A few days ago we attended a "Citizens' Meet" after work "To Protest Against Charge of Sedition on Times of India & to Uphold the Freedom of Expression."  Last week the Times of India ran a number of articles detailing allegations of bribery, crime, and complicity with the mob against the new Ahmedabad Chief of Police.  The Chief, O.P. Mather, decided to file charges against the Times of India, including sedition, defined as conduct or speech inciting people to rebel against the authority of a state.  A few human rights organizations put together this meeting to protest the restrictions on free speech, presumably being used for stated "national security concerns." 

                     I thought I had escaped the shadow of overreaching and encroaching regimes on personal freedoms when I left the United States, but I guess not.  Perhaps the limitation of civil liberties is becoming more engrained in today's democracies around the world; in order for a government to maintain authority in an ever-globalizing political atmosphere, ideas and actions are being restricted.  Thomas Jefferson said that there should be a (political rebellion) every 20 years.  Its a shame such ideas have disappeared; it seems like there is little effect within the democratic system when one tries to exercise their rights.  And as a disclaimer, I am not encouraging or promoting any rash actions for any individuals, and do not take any responsibility for any resulting actions.  I also cannot be held to my own opinions and ideas, they may well change tomorrow.

      Anyway, the room was packed full of people and a sauna faucet must have been on in the small room.  Most of what was exclaimed was in Hindi, but the gist of what was said clamored for the corrupt government to be removed, along with the allowance of more civil liberties.  Even more so, people were upset at how there were little direct action to take.  There was no clear answer, but the presence of local paper and TV media could not hurt.  The meeting itself was empowering to watch and I am glad to have seen it, however sad in the sense that the urgency and pain painted on men and women's faces could not easily be erased.  

        

         Later tonight........dinner and Indiana Jones in Hindi.  Aujo (bye).

New Digs

My favorite new thing to do is cheering "USA" over and over again when kids ask me where I am from. Apparently the combination of cheap t-shirts, sunglasses, being over 6 feet tall, and the lightest skin on the continent earns some celebrity status.
My new friend Himanshu, the skinniest man I have ever seen, really loves high-fiving and so is glad to have Americans around in the office. He also loves the movie Independence Day, which I own on VHS. Obviously we were friends from the first moment. Vishal, another awesome dude, is teaching me hindi, and we read bollywood magazines together and talk about bad American actors.

Last night we went to the Rifle Club, which is essentially a glorified country club. The pool is probably the most beautiful body of water I have ever seen. The only thing that held me back from jumping in fully clothed was the heat lightning in the air.

Yesterday during work I went with my boss, Mr. Johwer, to the Indian DMV. He diplomatically shmoozed his way into an office, avoiding a three hour queue in the heat. While my boss chatted up the military-dressed official, Emily and I were served chai tea. All of a sudden the shortest woman I have ever seen burst into the office and started talking to me. At first I thought she was young because she stood at around 4 feet tall, but from the lines on her face this woman was over 70! She was quickly ushered out of the office, but only after shaking our hands. This country holds interesting moments around every corner.

In other news, Obama clenched the Democratic nomination today. I have to say it has been a tremendous turnaround for the senator, who at the beginning of the primary race had to defend his mere four years of senatorial experience. However, I will be proud to promote all that he stands for this fall. Its truly interesting that Hillary is still able to maintain the spotlight (she said she may take a VP bid if offered). Honestly, I will be disappointed with Obama if he does not break from the Clintons this electoral year. If he is truly Change you can Beleive In, then thunderthighs should stay out of things.

And I'm not sure if anyone else agrees with me, but there are unlimited numbers of stray dogs that wander the streets. The thing is, if you take the time to look at them, they are all beautiful. I guess animal shelters fall low on the priority list here; I am sure Bono will be on it soon.