WE'RE NOT IN BOULDER ANYMORE

Glacier Hiking- Do NOT forget your crampons

2009-08-24T07:17:00.000-07:00

When the itinerary mentioned "glacier hiking" I could not wait. I literally flew from the Equator less than 24 hours previously and thought that a trip to an enormous arctic glacier would be the perfect contrast from tropical jungle life. I imagined myself leisurely following a worn trail through snow and morraine, commenting on the incredible size of the glacier from a distance and taking a few digital photos. I did NOT think I would be scaling vertical ice walls- crampons fastened to my full-leather boots, harness cinched and an ice-axe in hand- staring down into dark blue crevasses! This was INCREDIBLE- I felt like Roald Amundsen and Ernest Shackleton trekking the high North... but with a guide carrying dinner and the car 2 hours away! Our guide, Tura, was an accomplished man in anything extreme and Nordic- a veteran marathon and ultra-marathon runner, half-way through completing the Seven Summits, which entails climbing the tallest mountain on all 7 continents, scheduled to summit Everest in 2011, an owner and trainer of over 300 sled dogs and a finisher of the legendary Iditarod dog sled race. Needless to say, I didn't question ANYTHING he said to us.

We spent the entire day in the stunning "Stone Valley", about 1 1/2 hours drive from the center of Tromsø. The hike in was a gentle meander through birch, pine and wildflowers that followed the streambank of raging glacial runoff. I was surprised to see so many plants already familiar to me from my home in Colorado- especially what I know as Parry Gentians and Fireweed, two common flower species that color the Central Rocky Mountains from late Spring to early Fall. The landscape is so similar to what I am used to but I had to constantly remind myself of some very important differences. Tree line in the Colorado mountains roughly is reached around 11,000 feet, above which alpine trees take their characteristic Krumholz form and hikers, anticipating an approaching summit, must rely on rock cairns as guidance. However here, in the Stone Valley, the tree line seemed to be around 1500 feet above sea level- a very similar landscape at very different latitudes. And the sun- it hung in the same part of the sky for almost 10 hours, and it constantly felt like 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Guessing the time, as I found out, was difficult.

When we finally made it to the base of the glacier and Tura began explaining how the rope in his hands was our lifeline for the rest of the day, I started to realize what the day was going to be like. No more hiking through wildflowers. We suited up, strapped on the crampons, secured the ice-axes, locked our carabeaners and started marching towards an ice-covered saddle between 3 large peaks. Before I knew it, Tura was winding his way, which was our way, between crevasses and up ice walls, stepping over cracks and edging along ridges. While my friends and I were busy not disappearing into the glacial caverns, Tura explained in detail the various forms of ice- Whiskey Ice, Blue Ice, Snow and an intermediate stage called Filn- how alpine mountaineers become adept at reading ice and snow, a skill necessary to avoid mistakes that I chose not to think about. Like I said, after hearing his resume, I trusted every single word.

And as we spent hours climbing the glacier, we increasingly gained a perspective that showed just how quickly its body of ice is receeding. Markers since the early 1990s have charted the glacier's recession, with greater losses taking place over shorter time frames. It took approximately 11 years for the glacier to recede around 50 meters through the 1990s and into the early years of the 21st century. Between 2004 and 2006, 100 meters more were lost. Regardless of the major causes, a changing climate is undeniable here in the high North, and the glaciers are just one of the measuring sticks.

After reaching solid ground again, we dismantled the gear and made our way back down valley. Returning from alpine hikes can be just as spectacular as the ascent, as the downhill views offer new sites of distant peaks and blue gray waters. We stopped at a small cabin to eat a delicious dinner of pink-flesh salmon on sliced and seasoned potatoes- a meal that many have said is authentic Norwegian- and made it back to town just before 9 pm. Skål to an incredible day.

Train Bars and Rooftops: Tromsø Nightlife

2009-08-23T16:49:00.000-07:00

With barely an hour to catch a cab, check-in, put down 3 pieces of luggage that had been as battered and bruised as I, take a shower that my airplane seatmates looked forward to probably more than I did and find something that did not smell like mold to wear, I met my program partner Alex Thorpe and 4 international students researching within the University of Tromsø for a thorough cultural exchange in one of the city's most active social scenes: the bars. With a population of just over 63,000, Tromsø is an accessible town with a lively community that seems to enjoy taking advantage of good pubs and delicious food. The crisp, cool air of late summer in Tromsø provided the perfect opportunity to see this city alive on a Saturday night. The streets are spotless and the people friendly, welcoming us at every establishment with big smiles and warm conversation. Mack Beer, the local brew, was quickly in our hands accompanied by a small bag of Tørrfisk, a popular snack of thin pieces of dried white fish that evidently goes well with beer. We completely ignored the bartender's advice to NOT eat it around friends if you want them to sit next to you, opened the pack and began the 5 minute chewing process... it's an aquired taste... and will make the perfect souvenirs.

And so we moved from the old train boxcar bar to rooftops to patios- soaking in the nightlife and enjoying the extended evening twilight. Set right on the water's edge, the city boasts an attractive blend of land and sea, both urban and open to the natural elements. A tent in the center of town was completely filled with people of all ages, cheersing their drinks (SKÅL!) and dancing to the tunes of an energized band that looked like they could play all night. We later found out that Tromsø also hosts a very popular film festival as well as other large music events that attract crowds from all parts- just a few more reasons to return... as if I needed any!

Difference in Latitude

2009-08-23T13:59:00.000-07:00

One overnight bus, three planes over three continents and thirty-one hours took me from 3 degrees North of the equator to 3 degrees North of the Arctic Circle, from the North Rupununi in the heart of Guyana to the azul fjords of Tromsø, Norway. Approximately 9100 kilometers separate the humid, lush expanse of tropical lowland rainforest from the stunning glacial valleys carpeted in birch and pine. A passage between such extremes is spectacularly unsettling- the body moves easily while the mind is caught in an unusual balance difficult to describe- a sensation unlike any other that forcefully reaffirms the immense diversity of this beautiful planet. I grew to love the languid flow of the Essequibo River that cut large and lazy ox bow curves through a forest of a thousand shades of green, the unmistakeable call of scarlet macaws flying two-by-two and the distant rumble of a conversation between orange-haired Howlers.

And yet I was immediately blown away by the sweeping views of stone and sea that shape the landscape of Northwest Norway. My arrival into Tromsø couldn't have been more jaw-dropping, as the airplane glided between steep mountain walls framing the aquamarine waters of arctic fjords. A stunning mix of greys and blues seperated by the dark green leaves of endless trees. The elements found in both locations, though so similar in nature, arrange themselves in such dramatically different ways. Beauty presents itself in such dramatically different ways. And Tromsø, unquestionably, is surrounded by it.

Back on the Trail- Jubing

2008-05-07T05:04:00.000-07:00

So today- what a trip, it threw everything at me. Like I said in my previous post, my rain coat was keeping someone ELSE dry- huge bummer because it's such a functional item. On top of that, it poured for half the day. And this was Himalayan rain- cold, heavy and far away from a drier. I was saturated, and appealing to Guru Rimpoche to deal some serious karmic blows to the loser who nabbed my Marmot. In the long run though, I was surprisingly calm about the whole scenario- what could I do but just keep going? Worse things have happened- like 2 African robberies in 10 hours... So we got to the top of Trakshundo Pass and decided to take a break. The rain was at the in-between phase of slush and snow and we had met 2 really cool Canadian guys- Franc and Etienne- who hiked all day with us and they wanted some food. Not a problem- I was freezing. I was at the point where I didn't really know what to do- I wanted to keep at least one change of clothing dry, but taking off my we coat just exposed me and made my coat really cold! It's fleece... super absorbant- not what I wanted at this moment. But I took it off anyways, threw on my vest, and ordered a huge cup of black tea with enough sugar to give myself instant Type 2 diabetes!
While at the lodge, we met an awesome-crazy Sherpa mountaineer who had summitted Everest twice and knew both Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay. The history in these hills, created by these people, is really incredible! He was extremely proud of his accomplishments- even if those few trips up to 29,000 feet snatched the last few brain synapses required for sane conversation... what a cool guy. We were getting closer, the stories were starting, and we were getting really excited.
When we headed on over the pass, the clouds had cleared and the sun was out- snow had recently dusted the huge peaks that, previously hidden, completely emerged against a blue and white sky. It was incredible- a sign of things to come- it makes the approach that much more satisfying. My fleece began to dry out, I warmed up and had an unbelievable afternoon.
And now, I lay here, on 2 foam pads over a wooden bed- little Nepali village kids giggling below my window. My bucket bath was small, luke warm, and excellent- the most remote shower i've ever taken in my life and absolutely loved it. Naturally, I went to bed with visions of the ENORMOUS spiders I saw while eating in the kitchen and woke up to baby rats squeling just above my head...

Sherpa Dancing and Monastic Thieves

2008-05-07T04:37:00.000-07:00

So we stayed for the popular Sherpa festival which everyone raved about. Our arrival for this celebration seemed really lucky- some might say auspicious... in hindsight, not so much. The low-key day was welcomed but not necessary. We had only been hiking for two days and really decided to stay purely for cultural exposure. During the morning we took a side trip up an adjacent valley to an old Buddhist monastery setup and run by Tibetan refugees- extremely kind and gracious in every way possible. They offered us tea and sweets, couldn't speak a lick of English, and laughed at the most random happenings... but we were in a monastery, what could go wrong? They handed us a paper in english outlining their pleas for cooperation and global recognition of the crimes taking place in Tibet- even this far removed, geographically at least, they are peacefully calling for action. After taking some ridiculous pictures with bald Tibetan nuns and ancient looking sages, we headed downhill for our festival.
We were so excited- a real Sherpa festival, on the day after we arrived... how perfect. People said that Sherpas from all over the valley were coming because the festival was the biggest in Junbesi. Well, we arrived at 5 pm and after some lacklustre horn-blowing and rice tossing we sat around for another 2 hours. Being the courteous western men we are, Kyle and I both gave up our seats for older women and children... which effectively relegated us to the furthest corner of the top balcony- not the best place for a 5'6"er. Craning and twisted, I stretched as best I could once the festivities began...
The first couple rounds of dancers were awesome- masked creatures and wizards in huge flowing robes of all different colors, embroidered with radiating gold thread, stepping in deliberate circles to the ho-hum of Ricola-style Himalayan horns. I have never seen anything like it before, and it bode well for the rest of the evening. Ironic, how things turned out...
After about 15 minutes, the show took a serious nose dive. Out of nowhere, following such unique and incredible traditional dancers came a horde of pre-adolescent boys decked out in the worst western Halloween costumes... the ones left over at the Halloween outlet that nobody bought and are 80% off because the store is going to close. They came out, bouncing to the rhythm of the horns, slowly circling the seated performers who early boosted our hopes for a great show. I thought they were kind of funny- and the audience was absolutely exploding. They were shaking their butts, jumping backwards and giving eachother piggyback rides. I didn't understand, but EAGERLY looked forward to the next round of adults... they didn't come for another 2 hours! Round after round of these boys just poured out of the monastery, doing the same routine over and over again. And the worst part was, no one in the crowd seemed annoyed at all! They loved every second of it. I couldn't believe that these kids were performing like this next to the old, wizened monks sitting in the VIP chairs... is this really traditional Sherpa culture? Was Gure Rimpoche REALLY satisifed with this performance in his honor? I have a feeling, he would have done us all a favor and shut that that trainwreck down!
And the worst of it all is that I left my raincoat in the monastery. I returned the next morning optimistic though- who steals from a monastery? I was sure to be the recipient of some pious Buddhist's good karmic behavior... not a chance. It was gone, and no one had a clue... most actually had no interest in helping me. And on that note, the following day was the only day it rained and I got soaked. Maybe I was reaping the karmic seeds I sowed the night before when I said, with gusto, "THIS BLOWS!"

Day 2

2008-04-23T05:30:00.000-07:00

The second day bears all of this trail's colors- we knew it would be difficult, and "Knowing is half the battle (name that cartoon)". Even though the effort doesn't change, knowing that something will be difficult not only makes it seem easier, but you are more excited to do it... it's all attitude I guess. We walked for 10 long hours that brought us 12 more miles towards Namche Bazaar and over 6000 feet of elevation were gained. We crossed the Lamjura La at 11,581' to reach the high point of our approach trek. I just have to keep reminding myself that I am trekking in Nepal, towards the highest mountains in the world. Like I said before, a constant effort to keep things real. We get glimpses of snow peaks as teasers- the Rowaling Range reaches over 20,000' and is seen on the first day- 25,000' peaks on the second. A taste of what's to come- a carrot in front of this hungry man.
Right now I am laying in my bed at the Namaste Lodge in Junbesi, Nepal- facing my window, staring out at a steep valley cut by a clean, quick mountain stream. The other side is densely wooded by Asian pines and high-alpine firs, interrupted by family homes and farmsteads- some brown in fallow others bright green with abundance and harvest. I am listening to the hum of Buddhist chanting, murmured by local monks in the prayer room of our lodge. The rhododendrons are blooming- deep reds and pinks seem crisp against the heavy greens of mountain pines- stark whites blend and mix with the morning mists and fog. We are staying an extra day here to see a local Sherpa celebration- a festival of dancing and singing in honor of Guru Rimpoche, one of Buddhism's most holy figures. Seen everywhere as a seated monk with a thin curly moustache, the Guru, known as Padmasambhava, peacefully greets even the most foreign traveler into most homes and monasteries.
To stay in the moment, to really acknowledge the experience as it is happening, absorb as much as possible- into my body, my brain, my skin, my eyes, my ears, my feet, my hands- to take this trip with me for the rest of my life- to never leave these mountains. That is my goal.

Day 1

2008-04-23T05:27:00.000-07:00

Our first day took us 9 hours to cover 2 passes and 14 miles from Jiri to Kenja- our bodies could hardly keep up with our spirits and our legs felt great. Very few people actually follow this route anymore into the heart of the world's tallest mountains- airplanes into Lukla have altogether by-passed this part of the trek and given access to many more people who would have been weeded out by miles of ups-and-downs. It is an unfortunate reality because lodges and teahouses along this 59 mile stretch suffer from the lack of trekkers walking into the Khumbu. It further separates tourists from the tour and magnifies the unbalance of wealth between foreigners and locals- no one uses their legs anymore, just their credit cards. Our trail took us through villages and past houses, alongside bhattis and around rice paddies. The scenery was incredible- these people have worked the land and made it their own- carving into the hills and making it provide. It is a new sense of order- still "natural" but heavily humanized- arranged but beautiful, transformed but productive- changed and appreciated. The terracing is ubiquitous and ownership must be understood because it all blends together to cover the entire landscape. There are no fences. There are no Private Property signs. It would be presumptuous of me to assume that the land belongs to everyone- a Commons-type idea does not seem to be at work here- but it seems like there is a pervasive understanding that everyone is in the same boat, living off the land and working just as hard as his neighbor for food and family. This lifestyle seems so simple, but then I ask myself, "Are things simple when survival is at stake?" Subsistence farming to keep your family alive- simple becomes crucial- basic becomes necessary. The sherpa porters here are the most impressive I have seen yet. The whole community carries goods back and forth using a trump-line, the largest being 150 kgs, so we've been told. Imagine strapping a load of over 300 pounds onto your forehead... Up and down these hills- and we can hardly walk down the street... it puts the American sense of effort in a new and very bright light.

Himalayan Trekking... a work in progress

2008-04-23T04:45:00.000-07:00

This trek seems distant to me, which is indicative of how quickly time and distraction affects an experience. My travels through the Solukhumbu District of this Himalayan country were so close to what I have always wanted they sometimes felt unreal- so good I had to concentrate harder, with more effort, on where my legs were taking me- what my eyes were showing me. The TV documentaries and National Geographic articles and Traveller photos position a trip like this into a category of almost unreachability- the Himalayas... Everest... Yetis... Buddhism. What a picture these words create- a world so entirely in your head has a hard time becoming real. But it was a trip that will never leave these bones- a fusion of subjects and objects to produce pure Quality in every way. I felt IN it- I walked IN it. Not content to leave it in the past, this landscape will be walked through again and again.

Kathmandu... it grows on you

2008-04-22T05:56:00.000-07:00

I had such an unrealistic, romantic idea of this city- I imagined close streets, dark, unfamiliar, foreign with an asian influence, mysterious and appealing- the Orient- the unknown. What an awesome image, the "Big Trouble in Little China" type with old men and their wispy beards selling sketchy artifacts in dark alleys... not so much? It was just another sprawling, dirty, Indian-type city- complete with beggars and touts, trash and filth, bad air and run-down parks. There were a few back streets that had the asian mystery I had conjured up in my mind with random temples and a few dragon statues- but at first, I was sorely disappointed. At first...
The more I walked around, re-calibrated and shifted to a completely different culture, the more I enjoyed every bit of it. Probably because my expectation wore off and I enjoyed it for what it is. You have to find those aspects in these places or else it's too easy to dislike the entire package. Similar to India but with its own vibe, Kathmandu started piecing itself together into quite an unexpected and foreign form... exactly what I was hoping for.
It is known as the city of many temples, and it couldn't be more true. Everywhere you walk, there is some type of structure that thousands of people worship. Big asian pagodas with gold-gilded dragons, small clay ovens with Hindu gods, random stupas and innumerable inlaid carvings into every alley wall and corner. This country is fascinating- being mainly a Hindu Kingdom, it did not open its borders to Westerners until around 1950. The plains and big cities are mostly Hindu and the mountains, dominated by the Sherpas, pray to the gods of Buddhism. It's a contrast that cannot be understood easily, as both religious histories blend and weave to form some of the most intricate, beautiful and confusing patterns of spiritual thought I've ever encountered.
Ironically, with all of its emphasis on religious piety and a life led for the divine, Kathmandu has one of the most brutal and violent pasts of the asian continent. In 2001, the "Royal Massacre" took place where the prince, denied a marriage to a rival family by his own blood, went on a killing rampage and slaughtered his entire royal line. Then he tried to kill himself. His corrupt uncle took the crown and their has been revolt and bloodshed ever since. The democratic system has tried for years to establish itself, while Communist parties and other power-hungry political groups fight and kill for any government position. The maoists here are incredibly violent, and interestingly, both feared and supported in large numbers here. While spending time in this beautiful country, the papers repeatedly covered daily killings and attacks leading up to the "democratic" election. In 2004, Nepal had the highest rate of "disappeared persons" in the world.
It has been quite a trip through this land of plains and mountains- peaceful to these eyes, but with such a difficult past for those who call it home. Such a difference between flats and hills, the Terai and the Himalayas, the Hindus and the Buddhists, the rich and the poor- contrasts and contradictions, such heights and such lows.

DRUKYAL

2008-04-22T05:16:00.001-07:00

The Land of the Thunder Dragon- The Land of the Peaceful Dragon- Drukyal is the Kingdom of Bhutan. These names indicate how foreign this place feels- breathes- touches my senses. I not only look and see- smell and inhale. The land feels back. This can be said about my time in India, my association with that land. What a different feeling- rough and beautiful, sweet and rancid, energized and completely barren... this changes all the time, and you become fascinated with the unpredictable.
Bhutan, however, is that soothing hand you eagerly take once you realize just how tired you are. I do not feel separated- a function of mountains and land. No matter where you find yourself, earth and stone welcome you home. It's a comfort in beauty I seek- and what's beautiful, what's "Quality"- that is what defines me, that choice- I agree with Robert Pirsig. And mountain air and alpine scenery... that's quality.
These hills colored tan and green by grass and tree. The air is cool and crisp- temperature affects a body in interesting ways. The heat makes you sweat- expel- shed. You feel burdened, overwhelmed and suffocated. Necessary sometimes, but right now I look forward to its opposite. The cool brings it in- introspective, tight and drawn in. You need inner fuel- the warmth of yourself- hands in pockets, a hunched pose of meek confidence.
Houses dot these hills- strong and purely Bhutanese. Blocks and squares painted white and colored by traditional designs- pagoda like but not Japanese- clean but surprisingly fitting to their natural placements. Deities and spirits, animals and gods adorn every side- protecting and inviting the inhabitants and guests. The buildings are exceptional- the outline is simple and detail is incredible- deep reds, purples and blues- highlighted by splashes of yellow, orange, green and white. The colors place these structures back into the earth from which they came- at home between mountain and tree, soil and sky.
Similarly, one feels equally at home within these elements. Along the road from Phuentsholing to Thimpu, this country begins to reveal the secrets that every set of foreign eyes finds so intriguing. Lowland broadleaves and creeping vines give way to hearty rhododendrons and deep green pine trees. The air clears as the Indian skies blend with and give way to its royal neighbor- mountains filtering out the heavy and unpleasant. Nature's sieve. As you rise, the pines gain strength and size- adapting to the rich life of alpine scenery. Coulds gather and the air becomes saturated with a deep, comforting moisture only available in mountains heights. Thick, heavy breaths feel like cleansing cycles of natural medicine. As I climb, the mists begin to take shape. Clear moisture condenses to a white vapor by changes in temperature- hot to cold- transformation- form demanded by mountain cold. This is the scientific explanation. Change of state. What I see is different- more connected to land and culture- the mystery of this place expressed by mist.
The breath of dragons- real and alive. Exhales from hot, wet mouths condensing as it reaches the dipping mercury. Small wisps here, a large plume- unseen bodies with real life signs. Hidden in earth, behind trees- soft but omnipresent, a cultural icon owned by these people and born of these hills.
A blessing for this mind- a treat for these eyes- an adventure for these feet. A body completely engaged- mind, body and spirit.

TRAIN FOLKS

2008-03-03T05:36:00.000-08:00

My second major cross-country train trip... from metropolis to megacity... crossing an enormous expanse of Indian soil. Mumbai to Kolkata takes 36 hours. As I was reading, I looked up and had to take note of all those around me. A ridiculous but accurate cross-section of this foreign country- available, I believe, to not many people. A benefit to traveling budget- a reward for being so cheap.

A FAMILY
A woman dressed in an orange, pink and blue floral sari, young (much younger than her husband), with gold and green bangles and lips that don't quite cover her teeth. Her husband- older, quiet, the provider- spoiling his son with ice cream and toys, unsure of himself with a flighty look in his eyes. Their child- well-behaved while heavily doted on, a child with loving parents, placated with constant gifts... a seemingly low-middle class family of 3.

MIDDLE AGE MAN
A middle-aged man who announced his seniority by yelling out his seat number and then assertively taking control of it. He yelled through the window bars and across the train tracks to grape vendors, complaining about price (about 25 cents for 1/2 kg) and quantity so much he never got to buy any. He demanded to see my Lonely Planet- I obliged.

RATTY WOMEN
Ratty women walking up and down the aisle, selling their produce by eeiry chants and nasal sing-song voices. One has matted hair, red teeth and half a beenie on, carrying an enormous bundle of strange weeds that look like a cross between cilantro and pea pods- roots attached. Other women carry large baskets of hard-boiled eggs and cucumbers, on which they sprinkle masala and lemon juice. Some sell chickpeas and diced veggies.

BEGGAR WOMAN
A beggar woman, holding out a picture frame of 2 deformed-looking siamese twin babies- on which to put your pity money- the babies look white, and she's a dark Indian.

BEGGAR KIDS
A band of beggar kids- probably a family looking to make money through cheap, unfortunate entertainment. Two young boys, maybe 4 and 8, sommersaulting on dirty floors and shaking their hips while their older, slave-master brother, whacks some broke-ass drum... after which he whacks them. They have facepaint on in the shape of red cheeks and pirate moustaches.

RAGGITY WOMAN
An old, raggity woman has poached the seat in front of me- obviously no ticket but feels entitled to sit there anyways. The family man tries to get her out because it's his- he fails.

EUNUCH
An extremely built Eunuch goes cruising by in a teal blue sari- muscular back and very feminine long hair, tied up in a pony tail.

SCARS
Here comes a woman with scars all over her arms, carrying a sleeping, half-naked boy and begging for money.

SWEEPER
A sweeper woman splashes train dirt and unidentifiable water on my legs.

CHORUS PARTS
Ice cream vendors, dosas, cold drinks, biriyani, playing cards and chocolate all go yelling by. Polio limbs, missing toes, absent ears, goiters. You never know what you're going to get, but it's always unexpected.

Keralan Backwaters

2008-03-03T05:28:00.000-08:00

Sitting now on a long covered boat on the backwaters of this South Indian state- experiencing why people say this is a sub-continental gem- it's stunning. Glassy hazel grey, a liquid landscape- earth and water in an unusual arrangement. Once again, unusual is beautiful. Rows of palm trees and water fronds are the only colors breaking sky blue from aqua marine- so much blue! A contrast between water and sky has never been so confusing- made possible by a green green earth.
A lifestyle more foreign to me than most i've seen. Hot and wet, slow and sluggish. There's no rush here- lives dictated by the tides and currents. Transport and boats, fishing and food, farming and livelihood.

Water-bound and water-given, water deep and water driven.

Contrast on contrast- green and blue- accented by white wings. Almost as if standing out is what maintains- instead of blending in. "The God of Small Things"- I love reading a book in its setting- envisioning the plot unfolding around you- knowing characters were created to travel these fluid streets, love in these backwater homes.

An Imperial Legacy- First Impressions of Kolkata

2008-03-02T03:54:00.000-08:00

We arrived in this city travel-weary and unprepared- unprepared for the dreariness that seems to infect a lot of lives in this sprawling Indian megacity. When I imagined Kolkata (Calcutta), I pictured tight streets crowded with vendors, beggars, colonial architecture, and throngs of people- dirty and overwhelming, yes- but also with the same vibrancy that fuels the engine of the other 3 sub-continental metropoli. I saw Mother Theresa and her fellow nuns of charity performing good acts. I saw large lush parks kept green by tropical monsoons and stiffling, but life-giving, tangible heat and saturating moisture. I saw a town with an imperial past and a modern Indian future. My first impression is something very different. Once again, this place puts me back in mine- unusual, unpredictable, and never easy. A lesson that maybe just cannot be learned... imagine that- a lesson you cannot learn.
We stumbled off the train at 6 am after a 24 hour ride from Jalgaon, a small town with access to ancient buddhist caves in a remote river valley, dating back to the 2nd century BC. More on that later. The vibe of this city was crushing. This is a feeling that words cannot give meaning to- you must experience it. I suppose everyone reacts differently- just like people feel love and anger in complex ways, surroundings influence the body. And here, they seem exceptionally potent. The air was grey and heavy- wet, grimy and unhappy. Through the train station, we had the usual crew of beggars grabbing our arms and pleading for rupees that probably won't do anything for them anyways. What will it buy them? What will it change? I walked by an old woman lying in a pool of her own diarrhea. Hairless mangy dogs covered in scabs wandered the platforms. We hadn't even left the terminal.
Walking into the city requires a 1/2 mile bridge crossing, giving an expansive view of the Hooghley River and the city, home to over 13 million people. The River is sacred to local Hindus, and like every river in this country, is black with garbage and waste. But there are still bathing ghats that people use everyday- to wash their bodies, their clothing, their food, their children. To feel like that water will actually clean something- you must feel extremely, extremely dirty. The ghats are covered in trash. People are packaging produce on the ground that will be taken to the markets, and then to peoples' homes, and then to their mouths. "Fresh" vegetables from the banks of the mighty Hooghley.
Crossing the bridge and passing the ghats, we made our way through garbage dumps, human waste and squatter camps. Small tarps tied from the center median to the ground, forming a half a-frame tent in which families of 4+ try to scrape out some kind of life... some kind of ??happiness?? Watching kids crap on the sidewalk, women burn plastic bottles, and men sleeping face first on the cobblestone, clothing in tatters. And this extends for city blocks in every direction. A Eunuch digs through piles of trash, looking for something I hope to never want, let a lone need. A child sleeps on his back, naked, while his mom stretches her hand out for money. A teenager with obvious mental problems mindlessly drags his foot down the street, drooling, without any pants on.
It's the worst i've seen. I can't believe people, so many people, live like this. Was it worse because I was so tired? My travel direction couldn't have been any more backwards- coming from the urban and developed Bollywood town of Mumbai to this... was that the problem? Had I thought I had seen it all, and could take anything this country threw at me in stride? Or is it really, that bad?
We walked to another train station to buy our tickets to Darjeeling, hoping to get out of here tomorrow. Looking forward to the clean hill stations and clean Himalayan air, Kolkata quickly lost its cultural appeal. But, like all things in India, plans mustn't be made if you aren't willing to break them. The trains are completely full for the next 2 days- and here we stay.
It is truly amazing to me how this city could have been the capital of British India for over a hundred years, and things are this bad. Had they not tried anything to turn this city around? And now, after the legacy of Mother Theresa, and the obvious ability to create modern city life, the government continues to let these people live in such absolute poverty.
The hardest part, after absorbing stimuli that I did not know existed, is the personal response.
It becomes harder to smile.
It becomes harder to talk.
It becomes harder to care.

It becomes easier to get upset.
I becomes easier to say no.
It becomes easier to ignore.

A life of service sounds so good. It feels so good, just the thought. It feels genuine. But from where? A classroom? My bedroom? An office? Sounds and feelings, obviously, depend on your environment. That is what I have learned here today. So how does that translate into my own life? Thoughts to actions? Feelings to FEELINGS? It's not enough to WANT to do it. You must BE ABLE TO do it.
A shower, a nap, and a deep breath (away from the holy bathing ghats) will do me good. But this entry is "First Impressions", and I honor those. Tomorrow, I will try to walk these streets with open eyes. John Burroughs said, "I go to Nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in tune once more." I love that quote. I wonder what he would say about going to Kolkata.

CHOLLYWOOD!

2008-02-13T06:44:00.000-08:00

If you've heard of Bollywood- I'd be surprised. An obvious rip-off from the slightly- just slightly- more developed Hollywood film industry, Bollywood dominates the pop culture in Northern India. "C" movies at best, they are usually about 1/3 recylced romance (one plot was Sweet Home Alabama with everyone in saris), 1/3 Chuck Norris karate action, and 1/3 musical... out of control. NOW- if you've ever heard of CHOLLYWOOD... i'd call you a liar. This is Bollywood's stepchild- straight from (CH)ennai- and with as much objectivity and as little judgement as possible- probably the worst thing i've ever seen. The movies that come out of this industry are like bad 70's films- we had them... we loved them... BUT WE STOPPED WATCHING THEM! These people love them, continue to watch them, and don't stop making them! I hate to be critical- this is "culture"! I should be learning actors names, attending sneak previews, and singing songs. If there was netflix here, I should be queing the shit out of these things. BUT- it just doesn't work like that. There are plenty of things in the entertainment business in the States that I think is cheesy and wrong... I think i'm allowed to have a similar opinion here without risking the "closed-minded" scarlet letter... even if I'm branded, it's justified- this is literally, the worst thing you've ever seen.
HOWEVER- this is not to say that if I had the opportunity to appear on Tamil TV, regardless of quality, I would pass up the opportunity. On the contrary, anyone who knows THIS guy, knows that a showbiz STAR lurks just under the surface- and usually makes an appearance with the slightest encouragement... or a few cocktails! SO- when we ran into Nirmal on the bus heading to AVM STUDIOS- the home of South India's film machine- it was only natural that I was led directly on stage, making my first appearance on Tamil TV! Did you catch that his name was Nirmal...
So Nirmal- here's the breakdown: 60 year-old Indian guy who acted like he was 35 and kept having us ask him how old he was, wearing gold-rimmed glasses straight off of "Three's Company", an orange ascics shirt, khakis that were a just too short, 3 gold chains, 2 gold bracelets, and Jerry Seinfeld tennis shoes- this guy was awesome... and, again, his name was NIRMAL.
When he found out we wanted to see the studios, he immediately started listing off all the movies he personally had been in, actors he was friends with, and the exclusive access we'd get to all the sets with him as our guide. He was loud, effusive, course, and extremely excited. We got denied by the first set we approached, naturally. Undefeated, Nirmal takes us to the neighboring set and, lying through HIS TEETH, gets us into a full-blown tv show. Pointing at me, he starts yelling that I am a Hollywood actor. "He has starred in... 20 FILMS!" "Please let him in, he is visiting... FROM HOLLYWOOD!" This guy was insane- but the most ridiculous part was, they believed him.
And picture us: I was in dirty clothes from traveling that couldn't have smelled worse. Kyle had spilled coconut chutney all over his shirt and hadn't shaved in months. Haley was sweating like a pig and Ryan, jet-lagged and reeling, was falling asleep... Hollywood would have been proud!
Before we knew it, we were being ushered into the "live audience"- which consisted of 20 Indian guys yelling in Tamil, grabbing our hands and laughing hysterically- each one had the most enormous moustache. Within minutes, the music starts playing, the camera is in our face, and we are dancing like cobras- My hands are above my head, i'm waving my neck around, flicking my tongue, my eyes are swivelling back and forth- full blown, dirty, American cobra! As soon as that's done, we are pushed on stage for the grand finale. There we are, jumping in circles, half-yelling half-yoddling, not really sure if they are loving us or thinking, "These are the most ridiculous Americans we've ever seen..." Not sure. Don't care. We took pictures with the stars, rattled off a few Hollywood movies and Broadway plays we performed in, and got the hell out of there. 3 Days in Chennai, 2 hours dominating the Chennai movie complex, 1 Nirmal. Dancing like cobras on Indian TV- Priceless!

SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

2008-02-12T07:46:00.000-08:00

33 hours from Delhi to Chennai- a train straight through the heart of the Indian Subcontinent. Traveling never lets you rest- an obvious conundrum, because weariness is never far behind. As soon as you feel like you are starting to make connections, establish roots, gain confidence- a precarious balance of comfort and routine- you realize how, without much effort, the world can never be predicted. Sometimes upsetting, other times thrilling- always a lesson in humor and humility.
I experienced this once I left my place in Delhi- a well-oiled machine, if that's even possible here. A few choice restaurant-dhabbas, my own aloo tikki walla, friends at my hostel, and a partial but satisfactory understanding of the cities' bus routes. Now I am once again on the move- and in Southern India- fast, crowded, and very different. The language barrier is more pronounced- with very little in English and even less likelihood of us acquiring any Tamil fluency. Food has changed, scenery went from urban to tropical, and the weather has brought warmth, sweat and giant mosquitoes.
But beyond the obvious cultural shifts from North to South, the most unexpected has been in the people- their attitudes- their mannerisms- their lack of patience- and often times, their rudeness. Ubiquitous and consistent, we are met with short-tempers and dismissive gestures. People will help but expect rewards. The language used is forceful and unnecessary. Why this change of character? Why is it so widespread? I have a hard time seperating culture from personality when some people act so gracious and others so unkind.
Today on the bus, we had the conductor charge us an extra 30 rupees for our bags. In the past weeks, we've taken about 5 buses and never have been charged. We were on the same bus as in the morning, they didn't charge us. Our bags were in a place for baggage. No Indians got charged. It's only about 75 cents- but where do you draw the line? He didn't want to give me change from my bus fare, so he charged me way extra- the same cost of my ticket. Now I could say that, in the long run, it's of little consequence. I could easily keep my mouth shut and avoid conflict. BUT- how do you address the problem without conflict- standing up for yourself while being peaceful but clear? If you never do, you will constantly be taken advantage of. If you react, you only contribute to a dislike and a distrust in foreign travelers.
A TRAVELLER'S WISH- ONCE GONE, TO HAVE LEFT A BETTER IMPRESSION THAN BEFORE I CAME.
What is the peaceful path? What is the human path? The person next to me said, "The problem is English." I said, "No, the problem is money." Which is correct? And why do we both feel like the other is wrong?
Another example- we went into a guest house and looked at a room. The price was good and the room was acceptable. I left to look at the guest house next door and while I was gone, the owners of the previous hostel started yelling at my friend that the room was no longer available. When I returned, they yelled the same to me, and refused to explain. Rudeness can be understood through foreign words. They thrust their hands in my face and motioned me to leave. So I said, "Why are you doing this? Why are you being so rude? It is completely unnecessary to treat someone like this. I am not waving my hands in your face and yelling. There are better ways to interact- and your actions are mean." But what did that accomplish? What was their motive? So much is lost in translation-
Regardless of language or culture, there is a sense of humanity, kindness and authenticity- some people have it, some do not. And here, you never know what to expect until it's in your face... a friendly cup of chai or a thrashing, obviously impolite hand gesture.

Peace Mantle Abroad

2008-01-26T00:22:00.000-08:00

My first posting on Peace Mantle, my Mother's company with which I've been fortunate enough to work and now, slowly, incorporate into my international experience. Before I left, literally on the steps of Denver International Airport, in between cracked smiles and brimming tears, my mom passed her cream-colored cashmere scarf onto my shoulders. Love and companionship, health and safety- from a mother to son- bound in the soft fibres of a peaceful mantle. I cherished having this piece of home- whether in my bag or around my neck. I brought it into India's largest mosque, wore it during prayer in Tanzania, hiked with it through World Biodiversity Hotspots, and carried into the Taj Mahal. I brought it everywhere- a way for my mom to join the travels- and me to stay connected. It is communicable- capable of carrying the energy of those you love. You can feel it- electric with intention and family, friends and solace.

I recently passed my mantle on to a family I met in Dushnoke, a small town just south of Bikaner, Rajasthan. They invited me into their home, fed me with what little they had, and entertained a complete stranger as if I were another son they loved. The gift was not a simple gesture of thanks. I did not feel necessarily obligated to give. But I knew that Peace Mantle was benefiting- that if the mission of this company is based on energy, love and intention- our company would benefit from the Indian hospitality graciously given by this beautiful family. It was a gift in both directions- an international exchange of peace on a very personal level- a seed for a new world.

The Delhi Transportation Corporation

2008-01-25T07:15:00.000-08:00

Have you ever felt that you couldn't POSSIBLY get any more ridiculously upset? That if you did, you'd probably explode, and hope to take everyone around you down as well? I literally have not felt such prolonged, consistent anger- which has turned to a disgust- towards anything I can remember, until now. The Delhi Transportation Corporation- the DTC. This "public service" is actually sucking the life force from my BONES- draining me of any patience, courtesies, energy and interest that I had prided myself on... i've got to qualify this, i'm at the end of the line today. I'm writing just after another ridiculous day on the city buses- kind of like grocery shopping when you're starving... not a good idea. It doesn't help that one of my dominant personality traits is persistence- a positive in many ways- but a road to destruction when the situation is just worth giving up.
It all centers around my past desire to see an out-of-the-way enclave just north of Delhi- Majnu-ka-Tila. In my guidebook, there's a short section about this village that made it sound worth visiting... "a small respite from the Delhi madness, known as Little Tibet, quaint eateries, cybercafes, shops..." It sounded awesome- I wanted to go.
NOW- just to give you a quick overview. Delhi is huge- naturally. It's the capitol of probably the most populated country on earth- i'm not sure, but i'm beginning to think nothing ends here, even the census. The buses are surprisingly well-maintained, even though they look like the roof is about to peel off and the brakes sound like the pads wore out around Partition. That I don't mind- it's kind of entertaining. But there are literally hundreds of buses destruction-derbying all over this enormous metropolis, and it's basically impossible to really know which one will take you to your destination. Even the people who look like they take these all the time get confused and pawn your question to someone else... following their advice, even if it is said with confidence, is a recipe for disaster.
In the states, you'd expect to find a very orderly and exact time schedule online- where to find the bus, where it goes, the times (to the minute) and a corresponding map. Here... the website exists... but that's about it. You have an option of scrolling through about 95 "starting points" and then the same 95 "destinations", and then supposedly the site will give you your bus number... it ALWAYS comes up as "There are no direct routes between these locations." Thereby, you're directed to another link "Look for indirect routes." INDIRECT in this city?? You have no idea. The map links don't work, there are 5 stops for each area in town and you never know which one to use (and usually none of them work anyways), and entire lines don't exist. The bus that I take to Oklha, a small town south where a family friend lives, isn't even listed on the website... THE ENTIRE BUS IS MISSING.
So now for my anecdotes- my case studies on public transit confusion and straight up soul-snatching.
1) Going to my Hindi classes- about 4 times a week I take the 520 from Connaught Place (Called Connaught Circus- if Indians are calling it a circus, you know it's completely out of control) to Malviya Nagar. It's 10 rupees, I don't have to think about it, and I go from the starting point to the end... don't even have to watch out the window. Just the other day, we're getting close. I'm reading my book, and thoroughly enjoying the seat that I have basically pushed old men out of the way to get (like I said, niceties are LONG gone). I notice people have been yelling at the driver, but without a goddamn clue about what they are saying, I keep reading. I am thinking the bus driver is new, but i'm not sure... I found out shortly- he was. After passing a few places I recognized, we were getting back on the highway and they asked me for money again. I said, "We didn't stop at the end?? Where are we going?" Not understanding a thing coming out of my mouth, they wanted me to buy another ticket... for the way back! The douche missed the end of the line. My class starts in 5 minutes, I'm spewing out as much Hindi as I can, trying to sound as mad as I really was, and leap off the moving bus, planning on hailing a rickshaw to get to class on time. If I could swear in Hindi, it would have been ugly. Now the rickshaws- usually even if you think the word "rickshaw", about 15 will swarm. But, when you actually need one, like I did... nothing. So there I am, running in my hiking boots and fleece jacket, sweating like a pig, everyone staring because that's what they do- and a white guy running down the street that no white people walk... ridiculous.

2) I tried to get to the museum last week. I had about 5 hours before my Hindi class... MORE than enough time to get to a museum less than 5 miles away, spend some time there, and catch a bus down to class. Not a chance. First, I got on the wrong bus. When I got off, I was clueless to where I was. So, being cheap, I refused to pay for a rickshaw and starting walking. What i've learned from walking MILES through this city is that the British, when creating this urban design, liked star-shaped road layouts. I'm use to the square blocks in America, where one street over, you're still going the same way. Here, if you get off track, you could end up 2 miles out of the way because the roads split away from eachother, out from a single round-a-bout. So, naturally, I ended up further from where I wanted. I finally found my location on my Lonely Planet map and had an idea of where to go. Once I got there, the ONE road that connected me to my destination, was closed- just that little segment... the detour was about a mile and a half. When I got to the museum, three hours had passed and I needed to save an hour for my ride to class.. because traffic here is so insane, it takes forever to get anywhere. In short, I finally made it but didn't have enough time to stay... so I left.

3)Getting back to Manju-ka-Tila. I have devoted entire days to the pursuit of this trip- hours of my life have been spent planning, walking, waiting, standing, asking, circling, going, returning, yelling, laughing... if there's any other human activity related to travel- done. And for what... The first day I really tried was almost a week ago. I had all day to make this trip. My only engagement was teaching at 4:30, and i was confident that, with an early start, I'd be in MKT for the morning and early afternoon, and enjoy a long but relaxing bus ride down to school- complete with sudden jerks and backfires. I had spent time online looking for a bus route (flawed, but my only option) the night before and felt confident that it was pretty foolproof. I was up early- you see, PLANNED! I ate my daily breakfast of 4 dosas and black tea with too much sugar. I was walking to the bus stop at 8 am, plenty of time. I was on the first bus within the half-hour. I knew exactly where I needed to get off to catch the next bus up to MKT. Unfortunately, the bus stop's name doesn't coordinate with the online name... strike 1. So I wander around a bit but finally find my way to the right building, in front of which I am to catch my connection. Unfortunately, there's a detour on the road and buses aren't running. Strike 2. I'm not even sure what side of the road i'm supposed to be on, so I ask some folks. Strike 3. I sit and wait for about 2 hours, because buses are coming on the other side of the road and decide that the bus has to come from somewhere sometime, and I can ask the driver. After all, the bus number is written on the bus stop sign... Strike 4. No bus comes. I don't even think that line runs anymore. So with not enough time to go now, and not enough time to go back to my hostel- I reorganize. I decide to try and make it to Lodhi Gardens- a public openspace that has been maintained and holds some of Delhi's most beautifully sculpted and placed tombs and mausoleums from the 1500s. I jump on a bus that I'm pretty sure goes to the gardens... Strike 5. I end up near my school. So I bust out my map and realize that i'm about 2 miles away- I start hoofing it! Too cheap to pay for the rickshaw, I pay in fatigue. By the time i've reached the gardens, i'm hot, sweaty, and starving. I give people the evil eye and refuse to entertain the "Which country?" questions that every conversation starts (and today) ends with.
I relax- I have about 2 hours before my class starts and I relish in a little solitude and quiet. After a crossword in the bonsai gardens and some Salmon Rushdie near the fountain, I start my on my way back. Now i'm not sure if I just am too stubborn to learn from my mistakes or genuinely believe I understand the Delhi road system, but I chose the long way back, naturally.
I just have not quite figured out that by taking 2 rights, you should be heading back in the exact direction you came from... I miss the rectangles of American urban planning- it allows cheap motherfucker's like me navigate unassisted. So 2 right turns later, and i'm about a mile and a half further from where I want to be when I started. I'm BEYOND hungry now, my eye lids are getting heavy, after all this free time i'm going to be late, and I have negative patience points. I scowl at beggars, threaten to kick stray dogs, and shoo away street urchins. The overwhelming stench of urine makes me angry... and 5 minutes later, i'm entering a class full of kids with the fakest smile I can muster. The DTC really fucked me lup.
That's day 1. Day 2 was just as lengthy, but even more defeating- I finally did arrive at MKT. The last bus told me they were going to MKT but dumped me out about 2 miles from the town. The sign on the highway pointed straight when I needed to go left. It was as if EVERY cosmic force was silently telling me, "It's not worth it! That place sucks"- I just kept on plodding. It took me 3 buses and 4 hours, but I had made the trip. I felt like Vasco de Gama, crossing the deadly seas with no clue where I was going, navigating all sorts of barriers and unexpected setbacks... but unlike his arrival (well, i'm assuming here) mine was no spice coast... Majnu-ka-Tila was just another dumpy urban pocket, extremely small, unimpressive, and lacking. I walked around, literally 5 minutes and I saw it all, and headed back. The icing on the cake- the bus I had been searcing for over the past week, the elusive 260, actually exists. I saw it with my own eyes! But when I came out of MKT, with only a desire to leave that which I had so eagerly and doggedly pursued, I found out that the bus had stopped running for the evening. I was stranded. Once not being able to get there- now not being able to leave. S-U-C-K-I-N-G the life out of me, one bus stop at a time.
LESSONS:
Now if I don't learn something from THIS- I should buy a ticket home immediately! Even if it ended in complete failure, the process was strangely educational. Why did I want to get there so badly? Shouldn't I have realized that maybe, it's just not a place to try and see via bus transportation? It wouldn't have been a concession to my own limitations- I DID, in fact, make it there eventually- but an acknowlegement that the situation is out of my control. I should invest my time and health, mental and physical, into something more rewarding. When is it the right time to say, "I'm ok if this does not work out."? The constant battle didn't rage within the halls of Delhi's Public Transportation Office- my frustration isn't winning court cases in the Indian Congress for Transport Reform. It was all in my own body... was it worth it? No, ha! That's the simple and truthful answer- it wasn't. AND- could I have realized that if I hadn't seen it to the end of its fruitless life? While I was storming towards Old Delhi, I was muttering, "There's no WAY that a bus is gonna fuck me up this badly!" So I kept going. If I had stopped my quest, I think I would have felt like i'd given up. And that's something deeper, a little more tricky to deal with. That innate feeling of failure- regardless of the circumstances.
If there's anything I've learned while traveling, it's the importance of flexibility. When you have a plan- the ONLY time you ever need to get something done- things fall apart. It's the only thing you can count on- uncertainty. To be able to stay relaxed- positive- intuitive and clear headed when things don't work out... it's a skill that i'm confident i'll gain, whether actively or unconsciously. And to have that translate to the people you meet on the road- to not kick stray dogs (i've never done this by the way), say hello to the street kids, smile and entertain the constant and random street conversations- even when you're about to explode...
So maybe my fruitless hours on the DTC will turn into something sweet and edible- lessons learned the hard way... i'm starting to realize, that lessons will always be learned- the way just does not have to be hard.

A Different Kind of Poem

2008-01-22T20:45:00.000-08:00

Written with the utmost respect for and attention to form and convention, my Aunt has crafted a poem definitely worth posting. ENJOY (because I sure as hell did!)

ode to indian poo~
shit for you shit for me shit in india is free free free!
step in it, slide in it, mmm mmm what a smell,
taking a crap there can make you feel swell.
just pull down your pants wherever you are,
can't find a toilet, just crap in a jar, bar, wherever
you are,
you can even crap right out the window of a car.
don't have a car, take a poop in the street,
just remember my friend, take heed where you eat!
-Aunt Ti (Doesn't apply to Telluride)

Meetings in Deshnoke

2008-01-22T20:20:00.000-08:00

I never imagined that a trip to see a temple of holy rats would be so rewarding. 30 km south of Bikaner lies the town of Deshnok, a featureless town in terms of tourist attractions on the desert's outskirts... featureless except for the Karni Mata Temple- a holy shrine dedicated to the Karni Mata Goddess, and thousands of her faithfull devotees... rats. This place is ridiculous- and awesome, naturally. I was swindled outside even before entering by a guy who demanded $2 to watch my shoes for 10 minutes- he handed me a janky locker coin to validate his position. I said I only have 20 rupees (~50 cents) and he was fine with that too. So I left my shoes with him, thinking that 50 cents is cheap to secure the safety of my shoes, and, barefoot, walked into the temple. The rats are everywhere- crawling up the banisters, along the handrails, in the cracks, drinking milk offered by temple volunteers, shitting all over the place- if I ever was concerned about the Plague... but I figured that pilgrims come here everyday in droves- there must be some part of the Karni Mata that brings health and sanitation.
I only stayed for about 15 minutes- my feet, completely out of my control, steered me back to my thick wool socks and waterless hand sanitizer. I'm happy I saw it, happy my shoes were still there, and can't imagine myself trekking out of my way back to this temple again.
But something else would definitely bring me back to this little desert town- I met a family of 3 who are truly special. Inviting me into their home for tea, I was welcomed, fed, engaged and foretold. I don't know their names, and we got through on meager Hindi and butchered English- but very little is lost in translation when thoughts are so pure and people are so kind. Graciousness just emanated- drawing you in and leaving you completely content. We spoke about America, family, caste, religion and schooling. Money, wealth, privilege and travels. Never once was an accusatory word uttered, a judgemental note hummed- humble and good, these people took care of me. The father took a look at my hand and made some interesting comments about marriage, my mind and my family. After a full meal and two cups of chai, I was on my way. I left my Peace Mantle scarf with them, confident that they will naturally allow their own kindness to seep into the fibers. Goodness is found in random alleys, behind unexpected doors, and in simple houses. Traveling to these unmarked places keeps you optimistic- a smile that keeps you moving.

A full moon over India
Rising quickly steeped in cloud
Behind a veil of the deepest blue
Obscured by the sky in which it lives
You're a gentle Son Sister Moon
Keeping lit what is most beautiful
And as you fade the land is lost
An empty sky makes all go blind
But as I come around the bend
I blink
And see your celestial crown
Again

Rajasthan Express

2008-01-22T19:09:00.000-08:00

I spent my weekend at a Camel Festival in the desert of Rajasthan. Southwest of Delhi- it is true Indian scrubland- quiet rolling dunes, punctuated by gnarled trees, wind-swept bushes and an expansive sapphire sky. The air is clear and clean- a sharp contrast to the choked atmosphere of capitols and freeways. I took the Rajasthan Sampark Kranti Express, a 12 hour journey from the nation's capitol into the outskirts of Eastern India- not far from Pakistan- not close to anything similar. I rode in a sleeper car with 2 other foreign travelers: Maya, a 50-somethings world traveler from Germany who has spent a good part of her life traveling throughout Asia and Sven, a 33 year old Belgian straight from Gent who has somehow managed to find a job that lets him take 5 years off at a time, pays him enough to travel constantly, and holds the position for his return.
Maya was an unusual and strangely engaging older woman- divorced, extremely assertive, articulate and fascinated with women's rights to the point of aggression. What intrigues me about Maya is her take on traveling- what is worth seeing, what do you avoid, why... she hates beggars and refuses to give money. She will not visit the Taj Mahal because it is too touristy, instead searches out the festivals NOT listed in the Lonely Planet and Rough Guide. She avoids "anything spoiled" but insists on sleeping in hotels that only foreigners can afford. She hates eating with her hands, thinks her hair got too dusty in the train, and despises Bollywood. But this is her 5th trip to India- what makes her return, that's my intrigue. Maybe you lose your resiliency with age- I hope mine only gets better.
Sven, on the other hand, was much more soft-spoken and adaptable. He's been traveling for years- and many times, his travels last that long. He is quiet and reserved, interested but seems to be hesitant. I invited him out one night to make a tour of the town before heading in to the hotel- he politely refused, being called by a comfortable bed and his tv. My hotel rooms don't have tv's... but he did indulge in a ladoo before calling it a night.
Bikaner- Northwestern Rajasthan- if India had an Old West, this would be their Tombstone. Wide dirt streets lined with low-rise buildings in saloon-style design; ornately carved balconies led onto by wooden, double-hinged doors. Directly above was an old western sky- large and blue, streaked with flecks of cotton candy clouds. If it wasn't for the flashing Om signs and 18th century wall surrounding the old city, complete with turrets and onion-domes, I could have seen myself somewhere in Wyatt Earp's Texas. It's a beautiful scenery, so different from city life. There are hawkers and over-zealous rickshaw wallas of course, but this is life lived outside of tourist scams, big business, and government planning. 25,000 people inhabit Bikaner- main business is wool and farming, helped along by the indisposable camel- the star of my Rajasthan festival.
Every year, the city of Bikaner hosts an "international" camel festival to celebrate local history, culture, and camels. Sitting in the bleachers, I watched as over 30 camels paraded onto the stadium field- dressed to the nines in some of the most fantastic camel costumes I've ever seen. Draping fabrics, sparkling mirrors, garlands of flowers, body paint, and hair-doo's... these camels were here to impress. The men riding them were equally impressive, decked out in white Raj-style outfits straight off the set of Aladdin- red turbans, huge scimtar swords, curly moustaches, and serious bravado. There was traditional Rajasthani music, dancing, a camel dancing and a camel milking contest... it's definitely as entertaining as it sounds. I was even informed that they think camel milk can cure diabetes... I think it works by keeping these people from shoving their faces with sweets. And what festival is complete without a Mr. Bikaner competition and of course, a Mrs. Bikaner contest- unfortunately, they haven't adopted the swimsuit segment yet... swimsuits made from saris...
And these are just the highlights- the days are filled with unexpected meetings, annoyances, camel-drawn wagon hitches, new foods, gas, site-seeing and unplanned wanderings. I found a sweet treat called Boody, small deepfried drops of besan flour dipped in a sugar syrup and served with dried purple flower petals... beauty found even with food- blending tastes, sights and fragrances even in roadside snacks. I was invited into a man's house to drink tea with him and his older mother- a generous and sweet family who loves Americans and makes the best cup of instant coffee i've ever had! People here love to practice their English and reel with delight when you spit out some Hindi- an extremely friendly and approachable people, 99% with pure intention. I made friends with some local boys, who, remarking how emotionally dead our culture is, gave me some advice on romance (I didn't point out the fact that they aren't even allowed to date, let alone try out the efficacy of their poetry that drips emotion). Here are a few examples:

"A strange desire to live around you-
play with your cheeks rather than locks of your hair.
Live to be wrapped around you like a diamond around your body."

"A very strange your act will kill me
Must control on these lovely act and innocent face or you will
corrupt yourself."

Some of the grammar didn't quite match up- I left it for literary effect. Oh yeah, and I was told to have a tear in my eye- and ONLY say these words if I truly felt them in my heart. I'm not sure if i'll ever be back in Bikaner- if I happen to make my way to this western sand town next October, I have a wedding invitation to cash in on. If not, I'm confident the camels will keep dancing and Mrs. Bikaner will always stay beautifully covered.

A Different Religion

2008-01-17T07:36:00.000-08:00

I never before have had the opportunity to spend so much time as a foreigner in such a religious land. Everywhere else I have traveled, the West as it happens, does not wear its spirituality on its sleeve. Here is quite different- it dictates schedules, controls eating habits, influences dress, commands respect, and creates identity. Hinduism and Islam live side by side here, in almost equal numbers- under very different codes. Both seem to be equally zealous in their own ways- the Hindus with their multi-colored dieties that are pictured on both sidewalk shrines and 2008 wall calenders, and the Muslims who are led to pray 5 times a day by a very loud and public devotional song played from minarets all over the city.
However, it's the personal exposure to orthodox lives that have really started to make me think about the meaning of conservative religious thought, the world it creates, and my place within. A friend of mine here is a devout Muslim- following, to the best of his ability, the laws set forth by the Quran. Prayer, food, conduct, attitude, routine. In our conversations I have started to see just how different people can be when religion is involved. Every answer he has comes from the Quran- the words of the Holy Mohammed. Every thing he does is justified by text- he quotes prayer constantly. I brought dates for dessert one evening, since they provided dinner, and he said sweets are bad... according to the Quran.
Now I can't say whether it's right or wrong, good or bad, extreme or pious. I can only say that it is very different from my own experience. But it can prove challenging in discussion- and resolution often follows mere exhaustion. The hardest pit to swallow for me is, in my opinion, the absence of original thinking. I can see this in all religions- laws are set out for people to follow. They are clear, straight-forward, and all lead to some kind of reward. But it can engender conformity and unoriginality- life lived like everyone else, in hopes of the same outcome. There are many things that "aren't right, aren't good." What about the things that ARE right and good- do we spend too much time focusing on what to avoid, for fear of some divine judgement? Shouldn't we be enjoying this life, trusting our own abilities to choose what is right and live a truly pious life?
I am a believer in greater things- we create the most beautiful buildings, sculptures, paintings, and artwork for our own notion of what is divine- it does move our hands in remarkable ways. I can see how it can be twisted though- and often, this leads to such sadness. I have yet to find my way- but i'm learning a lot.
I had the privilege of attending an ancient and beautiful religious tradition that is carried out by one of the more appealing groups of devotees- the sufis. My basic and incomplete understanding of this sect places them as Islamic mystics who rebelled against the strictness of orthodox Islam about 800 years ago. They crave music, relish dancing, dine on poetry, and sing with insatiable energy. They believe in personal communion with holiness and, in effect, lead amazing lives. Quwwali is devotional singing that sufi "monks" perform every friday at the temple of their chosen guru- the men sing in a large group, feeding off each other's voices- rising and falling in unplanned rhythms and currents- one leads while the others follow- they join together- the leader softens while another fills the void. The music fills the room completely- paeans and odes to a person who led a life that inspires others to be better human beings. Their voices are truly electrifying- in a different language, for an unknown host. In my opinion, this is religion lived and followed- divine and encompassing, friendly and engaging, moving and connected to the past, our present, and a shared future- a dynamic way to live and think- original and inspired.

Destruction Derby and Deities

2008-01-17T07:10:00.000-08:00

This might have been something I overlooked at the beginning of my stay in Delhi. Whenever I took a bus, I was so excited that I had even figured out the right bus to take that the entire trip was thrilling. I stared out the window, remembered landmarks, and pretty much tuned out the ride itself. But now... now that i've really started to utilize Delhi's bus service, and therefore spend much more of my time on the bus, and the same routes, I am quickly gaining and idea of public transportation life and a deep appreciation for American driving laws.
In the States, we have very concrete rules regarding traffic movement. Lights, turn signals, yielding, "right-of-way"... it's something I gravely underappreciated. Here, horns replace turn signals, yielding is for the smaller vehicles, and there is only one "right" way- the Indian way. They have become such experts at simultaneously slamming the breaks and smashing their horns, that accidents are surprisingly rare! I've seen more bikers crash into each other than traffic fender benders. It's unreal how maneuverable these drivers have become. But as you can imagine, in a huge bus with 50 people smashed in- it can be a little uncomfortable.
Today- I was on my bus going from Hindi class to my volunteer teaching gig... not too crowded, and not at rush hour (which is so extreme and ridiculous, I can't even do it justice with words). But our driver was in a hurry- everyone seems to be in a hurry on these roads. From a dead stand still, he would floor it- heads would snap back and babies went crashing down the aisle. Naturally, there were 2 cars, 3 rickshaws, and a motorcycle about 10 yards in front of us. Mid-acceleration, just after our heads riquocheted off the metal hand rail behind us, the breaks would be completely crushed- this would happen about 4 times in a row before he actually settled down. The people standing up are literally airborne, holding onto the overhead hand rails while their legs swing out from underneath them. It's really ridiculous.
The best part of this too is that most buses have elaborate shrines to all of these colorful Hindu dieties- Shiva, Ganesh, Hanuman- their portraits are pasted all over the front of the bus with big merigold garlands hanging everywhere... sometimes incense- today there was even a stuffed animal monkey hanging upside down. I'm sure it's for the protection of the bus- good fortune- safety- but fuck, where's the Diety of Good Driving? With over 1,000 gods and goddesses, you'd think one would be the patron of road etiquette! But when you have a seat, and you're not slamming into 4 other people and smashing the people in the bench you're standing over, it can be a truly harrowing and entertaining adventure. I was only yelled at by one old lady today- and since I can't understand what she said- I smile, and quickly take her seat when she waddles off.

FREE SEX

2008-01-16T06:55:00.000-08:00

For as much homeliness and conservativeness this culture breeds into its youth, there seems to be an overwhelmingly popular, albeit underground, curiousity- and at some point in the near future a complete obsession- with sex. To be fair, I don't know about the female side. I'm lucky if an Indian girl even looks at me, let alone talks to me. Sex, naturally, isn't the first topic I raise... plus, my Hindi hasn't really gotten to that point yet. Pillow talk in Hindi could be pretty ridiculous. But the guys- they couldn't be more blunt. And blunt here, especially when talking dirty, can be hilarious. Fuck the introductions, these guys want to talk about sex- and they always ask the same question, "Do you have free sex in America?" Obviously, my response is, "What exactly IS free sex?" Here are some of the best explanations:
"Free sex everywhere you want, yes?
"Like, fucking all the time, like, in the street."
"You can have sex with so many girls, like oral."

And then they tell me that they're all virgins. I've been called old and have been asked what is wrong with me since I'm 25 and not married. It doesn't really click that people get married after the age of 18 in America. One person asked what I eat, because I don't look 25! It makes me laugh every time. But it says something about youth and culture, sex and taboo. I think it foreshadows a transition that India will have to make- and sexually modesty is a ship that won't go down easily.
It's a strange feeling to always be associated with such a promiscuous and lewd society- especially as a young adult who is part of the pop generation. I can't deny it- I know my American identity has very few restraints in the bedroom compared to many other parts of the world. It does make me sad to see how quickly kids shrug off intimacy as trivial and empty themselves for empty pursuits. Are we losing the meaning of sex while other cultures are holding on? Or are they trying to "slip in" to our national orgy at the expense of their own histories?
An extremely obvious manifestation of this culture clash is the contraband sale and purchase of what seems to be Indian porno. I think I have the pleasure of being exposed to this because I literally am living in a place known for sleeze-balls, hawkers, drug deals, and shady characters- I'm having a blast. But there are these stands of magazines that look like porn but haven't crossed the line of complete nudity and absurd positions. (I haven't looked IN one yet, just the cover... note "yet") They have younger Indian girls in clothing where some of their skin is showing- sometimes a wet white button-down and a Catholic School plaid skirt- complete with pleats. I saw someone open one up- which made him extremely uncomfortable, after which he shoved it down his coat- but before it disappeared, only to reappear somewhere else which is not nearly as entertaining of a thought as the Indian subjects, I saw a picture. Seductive and attractive- but not a shred of flesh past the thigh and below the neck line was available. All left for the imagination... So even pornography hasn't made that leap from sari to steamy, topee to topless. But the interest is there, and the layer of clothes is starting to disappear.

A Mother's Burden

2008-01-15T07:44:00.000-08:00

No matter how much poverty you see, I think there will always be times when it just eats your heart. Sometimes mass destitution makes it easier for the passerby to view with indifference- it's large and can stay impersonal in many ways. Everyone blends together- you might even be able to justify your own privilege by saying, "At least there are a lot of them, they must be ok in such a big group." That's what I have done in many ways- you have to figure a way to deal with it here or your stomach will wind itself into a thousand knots and threaten to never come undone.
But when you see the personal side of poverty- a child covered in dirt, half-clothed, coughing- an old man, club footed, pulling himself on the ground with his hands- a woman the age of your own grandmother scavenging in the garbage heap and doing laundry in the most polluted river you can imagine- it's a pill that's very hard to swallow.
At the bus stop tonight on the way home from class, I watched two elderly women, carrying sleeping children and followed by 2 more, not older than 6, walk under the bus shelter, behind the metal bench, and start clearing away the refuse for a place to sleep. No men. No food. Just blankets and children, who carry the family's meager belongings. It's not even possible for me to imagine a childhood spent on the streets. And perhaps even worse, I would never want that experience. I don't want that child to have that experience.
But what do you do? Do you give them money? Will that help? When the homeless beg, do you give? What do you give? Are they asking you because you are white? There are SO MANY... do you give to everyone? I've learned that I like to share what they lack when I can- food, a blanket... money is hard for me to give. I struggle with this. I've had to say no many times, and it's never easy.

Africa Revisited

2008-01-11T07:02:00.000-08:00

I feel like I need to revisit my African experience- because like this city, my trip here could not contrast more than with that to Africa's southeast corner. I am speaking on a larger scale than food, song, language and style. Of course, these things were very different. I did enjoy those components of Bantu life immensely. I want to address a deeper issue- one that deals with the nation- the consciousness of its people- the demographic of loss and apathy.
I was disappointed when I left Africa without saying I had the experience of witnessing cultural African events. I know this is part of the cliche international travel "Must Do" list- see traditional dance, eat traditional food, listen to traditional song and music. But I honestly wanted to see that. We travelled through remote enough areas that I would have felt any ceremony we stumbled upon was authentic. I saw none. The closest I came was watching a group of women on their way to church in Mozambique, singing hymns and clapping holy beats. It's not that I can say these never take place- I could easily have missed the right time of year, been out of ear shot, or just didn't know where to look. But it just wasn't the lack of ceremony. It was the absence of feeling in most people I met- most people I saw.
There seems to be an incredible void where motivation and enthusiasm once flourished. The stories are there. The dress is there. But it does not manifest itself in the present. One finds it in story books and history lessons. Was it taken? Was it destroyed? Was it forgotten? I felt such an idleness there- and it made me sad and uneasy. A whole people, mostly living hand to mouth, not a lot of change- not too much prospect for change- no real incentive for change. Everyone seems resolute on just surviving, and even that seems difficult.
Now I speak from a very specific point-of-view. I only spent 6 weeks there- I was traveling, and did not really connect with any place or people. I also did meet a handful of truly great individuals... so I speak in generalizations. But it's an observation that I consistently dealt with throughout those 6 weeks. I felt bad for even admitting it-even thinking it. I like to think the best of all people, value all cultures. But this culture seems to have been raided and not restored.
I feel sad for the Africans I met, and sad that I didn't see more incentive to turn things around. I spoke to a lot of people who have spent more time- our conversations inevitably turned to foreign aid and "philanthropy". So much money gets shovelled into this continent with absolutely no control over how its spent- more than control, no real interest. Donor countries either put money in to appease their national conscience and propitiate the public, or turn the "donation" into a loan, and further drive these countries- the poorest of the poor- into the ground. More funds are abused, misused, stolen, and lost than anyone can even fathom. What do you do when your goverment officials are beyond corrupt, have no interest in the well-being of their constiuency, rig elections so they never get replaced, and are kept in place by the donors who claim to be making a difference? The people have no choice in certain ways but to tuck their tales between their legs. They have gotten so used to hand-outs that in many ways, it seems their own hands have lost their ability to function.
Is their hope? Many people do not think so. The world will continue to think it's going to with non-stop development money. My recommendation: free education. All development money goes towards free and complete education for everyone- even money to families that send their children to school. Take these kids off the streets and out of the fields, compensate the families for lost income (which many kids are brought into this world to be). Not that this would solve everything- but at least we could invest our money into brain power- and brain power can turn into potential.

Electric

2008-01-11T06:41:00.000-08:00

This country is electric- it pulses with its own voltage, hums to its own frequency. And you can feel it always- and see it manifest everywhere. Like I've said before, this is a country of opposites, contrasts and contradictions. I think the polarity is what makes each side so exciting, and the collective so irresistable. The old and new- walking from the Barclay's ATM to the shadow of a 16th century Moghul tomb. You cannot help but acknowledge the presence of both- such a difference, inhabiting the same street... a street that has changed, but one we share with distant figures with distant purposes. The history is thrilling and humbling- it adds mystery and awe to a place with both familiarity (KFC) and foreigness.
Walking down the street tonight, I was lured to a side alley by chimming bells and women singing- a religious festival of some sort happening, as far as I was concerned, randomly. But there's a purpose behind all affairs- not know is part of the intrigue. Standing witness is the enjoyment. The walls were heavily decorated with colorful flowers, ribbons, bows and banners. The miniature effigies of Hindu dieties stood tucked away in their wall nooks, covered in colors and swimming in incense smoke and candlelight. The small room radiated- living- brought to life by people and custom that have been developing for thousands of years.
You feel the energy of this place wherever you go. There is an inherent motivation in this culture- a pride and enthusiasm that I have not encountered before. Speaking in contrasts- within this country of tradition, change is taking place. Women (younger) are starting to put back the sari and don denim (though not a majority- still young girls wear flashy, but conservative, multi-colored veils and robes made of the most exquisite fabric- jeweled out and decorated with anything that sparkles). Western ways are finding their way in- but not at the expense of anything truly Indian. These people seem rooted- willing to pick and choose what works within their own independent and self-reliant way of living- and easily avoiding what doesn't. It hustles and shoves, dances and sings, creates and ruins, chants and prays, eats and sleeps. Even the silence here, however rare and relaxing, feels loaded with substance and meaning.
These are the impressions of a nascent Hindustani wanderer.

Isolation creates expansion

2008-01-11T06:27:00.000-08:00

I often ask myself what kind of traveler I am. I suppose this is a common question- for there are a lot of different types. The Turn and Burn- do as much as possible in a short amount of time. The Dharma Bum- trying to discover some identity and deeper meaning. The Fratboy- party crash in every city and drink every kind of local booze. The Tour Groupie- follow a very strict schedule, where even "nothing time" has been allotted. There are a lot more, but these are the most common I see. What am I? Do I need to constantly be on the move- making friends- meeting people- conversing? Do I have to live in a ashram- speak very little- meditate? Do I need to see all the monuments- limit myself to inanimates and history?
I like to be on my own. I like to relax but keep my mind working. Is it bad that i'm not actively seeking out invitations to chai and chappati? Is it against traveler code to not meet other wanderers, drink at the bars, and establish as many international connections as possible? I'm starting to realize that the traveler changes with the traveling- and it works best for me when I adapt and bend to whichever current flows my way.
I like my isolation- it gives me space. In this space I'm allowed to expand. With so much to absorb, this space is necessary and I cherish it. Many people invariably work their ways into my path, and I can choose who to accept, who to embrace, and who to kindly turn away. But I keep to myself and enjoy the friendship of my very dynamic surroundings.

I don't care if you're 75- PEDAL!

2008-01-10T06:45:00.000-08:00

I imagine there's not a well-established social security system here. I'm not sure- but just a guess. Most of the Indian elderly aren't out playing bridge and driving golf carts around Boca Raton. I'm not saying that the average American senior citizen is not productive or active- just that the old folks seem to have more luxuries available to them back home. In India, that luxury comes in the form of 3 wheels, no brakes, a basket carriage and sometimes a portable short-wave radio. Enter the Bicycle Rickshaw.

This is one of the funnest, most dangerous, slowest, most humiliating and awkwardly Indian mode of transportation i've run into yet. These guys are everywhere- willing to throw you in their basket and pedal anywhere in the city. There's an average of 15 or so on every corner and about 200 at each train station, bus stop and taxi stand. It doesn't matter how many you've said no to, the next one will invariably yell "Hey friend- rickshaw- where you go- 40 rupees- we go". Sometimes the driver is blacked out and snoring, expertly balancing his weight so he can stretch from his third wheel to the handlebars- fully prostrate. And almost all of them are old... really old.

The first one I took was with my two friends Kyle and Tony. We didn't know where we were going and we really wanted to take one of these- the first guy we came across was about 70 years old. Of course, being stingy travels and ALWAYS on the look out for scams- we bargained him to about 55 cents. He grabbed the handle bars, mounted up, and could barely get his trusty steed moving... we were too heavy, and he was too old. He weighed 100 pounds... maybe. He was 5 foot tall... maybe. When he stood up, put all his weight on the pedal, and still could barely get us going- I exploded in nervous, uncontrollable laughter. I couldn't help it! I pictured making my great grandpa pedal my ass for 3 miles and tossing him 50 cents- it was absurd. When he got off the bike and started pulling, I covered my mouth, muffled my laughs, and threw in a few extra rupees.

The next time I took one of these rickshaws was on a whim- I was far off from my hostel and I didn't know what bus to take. This guy pulled up beside me and before I could ascertain his age, I threw out my destination. He was about 68, 110 pounds. I haggled, of course. I got him to take me about 4 miles for 75 cents- which in local terms is way too much, but I just can't bring myself to do that to someone who's almost triple my age... we'll see how I feel in a few months. Now this trip falls into the "dangerous" category. If you can imagine the hierarchy on the road- you're got huge buses (lots of them), droves of cars, fleets of mopeds, hundreds of 3-wheeler autorickshaws (awesome, but more expensive) and then bicycles... which one gets run over?? But the biker doesn't even blink- we're weaving in and out of traffic, running red lights, going down the wrong side of the road. And all at about 3 miles/hour. The geriatric can barely swing his leg over the handle bars let alone get me going from a dead standstill, uphill, over a speed bump. As we literally creep through the intersection, about 30 sets of headlights and 85 horns are all directed directly at us- an American tourist in the back of some wooden antique, pulled by the oldest man in Delhi. Needless to say, there aren't any seatbelts.

SCHLUD

2008-01-10T06:35:00.000-08:00

SHIT + SLIME + MUD = SCHLUD

This doesn't require an entire page, but definitely added a new, unforseen dimension to the state of Delhi's cleanliness... and my appreciation for close-toe'd shoes and pavement. It rained last night- a pleasure in many ways. The temperature eased, the smog dissipated, the streets cleared, and the lightening broke the midnight sky. However, I was not prepared for the state of Delhi's roadways... at all. The rain mixed with everything- the garbage, the dirt, the oil, the food wastes, the crap- and turned it into one dark, charcoal-hued slime. Unavoidable. Slippery. A third world dirt cocktail. It flips off the rickshaw wheels, sprays from the passing mopeds, and sticks to everything... if anything was going to make me clean my jeans- this is it.
But life goes on, just a little slower. People are a little more cautious- lorreys a little less maneuverable. You can tell, that even if people are wearing flip-flops (gross)... nobody wants to see anyone go down.

FRUSTRATED

2008-01-10T06:23:00.000-08:00

This was my first day spent frustrated- language barriers hit head on. The desire to communicate becomes so strong. I consider myself a social person... maybe an understatement. I love company, novelty, humor, and challenge. I also like my solitude- almost impossible to find hear unless cooped up in my room... no way i'm doing that while there are things to see. But to be a social person without a voice- a painter without a brush, a poet without a pen- we've heard these metaphors before. I'm starting to understand the cliche- and it no longer feels cliche, but very upsetting and real. All I want to do is talk in this language- learn it's history, sing its songs, scratch its script... it's extremely difficult.
I find myself wavering between hesitancy and confidence- an uneasy gray area from which you never stay or leap, but kind of trip around and stumble. I have some language tools at my fingertips, much more to learn, and a dangerous amount of desire to learn everything I can! I want results immediately- there, it's said. I don't want to wait. I want it now. How often do we feel this way but never say it? This won't necessarily speed the process, but it does make me feel just a little better.
I've had 4 classes. This is an ancient language- spoken for centuries and at 800 words per minute. A slight "huh" sound changes the meaning and the same word can be used for "fourteen" and "sex". When I think about this, I relax and give myself a break. It will come, I know it will. And when it does, i'll cherish every word I say.

D.I.R.T.Y

2008-01-09T06:42:00.000-08:00

I have to throw a blurb in about the "sanitation problem" that India seems to be suffering from. Now in all my raves and praise for this incredible country lies the ever-present issue of cleanliness, the elephant in the room that people don't mind talking about and obviously don't hurry to usher outside. This place is... D.I.R.T.Y. I expected it- prepared myself for it- read books and saw pictures of it. I've learned to deal with it- but will I ever be able to ignore it? Who can? It's everywhere. And it's not just trash- which is ubiquitous and has become almost preferable to the alternative. Trash is mindlessly discarded anywhere you could possible imagine. Forget about recycling- i'm still getting used to the act of actually dropping my garbage on the ground on purpose!
But it goes beyond garbage on the streets. There's shit everywhere- cow, dog, human, monkey... it's a constant battle between watching the sites and watching the ground. I actually stepped in shit on the way to the internet cafe tonight... thank God it was dark, or else I might have been really grossed out. And that I was wearing closed-toe shoes.
When I was in Agra, I saw the worst of it so far on this trip. On my way to the Agra Fort, I passed a huge open stadium that had to have once been magnificent, but fallen into complete disrepair. It's grandstands have deteriorated and the field is a dustbowl, used by hordes of kids and bums. When I walked in to see what was happening, I had a small kid yell something incoherent and I looked over to see him, bare-assed, squating on his haunches, taking an enormous dump while causally flipping his pre-pubescent pecker around. I couldn't believe it- and taking a closer look, he was standing in an obviously demarcated, unofficial human shit minefield. It was beyond foul- and completely acceptable. The amount of money coming into Agra from tourists and they can't clean up a huge park arena 100 yards from a World Heritage Site. Like I said, a land of contradiction. Leaving the park was almost as bad as coming in- you have to cross a small stream that has been completely plugged with trash- waste replaces water and garbage grows like trees... an urban river of discard and disease. It's disgusting.
But you take it in stride- it's part of the experience. It's strange how the bad can make the good that much more enjoyable. The overwhelming smell of urine makes the sweet shops irresistable. The hanging smog makes the Taj that much more pure and delicious. It all compliments each other in a very unusual and thrilling way- it's all perfectly Indian. However, I do hope things start changing- it would be hard to imagine what it would be like if it just got worse. It's bad no but manageable. I'm not sure how much longer that will apply.
The best anecdote for the smog is from my trip to the Taj- they have an electronic marquee next to a 600 year old monument that constantly scrolls through the "accepted" and "current" levels of pollution- nitrogen dioxide, sulfur dioxide, and particulate matter. The first two were under the limit- "acceptable". The dose of particulate matter we were enjoying, however, was 5 times the level safe for humans... I think that's why they put the marquee in the back corner of the complex. They have done something to remedy this- they do not allow polluting vehicles within a small radius of the Taj. Either they missed the day in class where they talked about "wind" or they think that the tourists are idiots... it obviously is doing no good.

The Taj Mahal- "A Teardrop on the Cheek of Time"

2008-01-08T05:16:00.000-08:00

I recently made my first solo trip to Agra to see India's most famous monument- the Taj Mahal. It's an easy 3 hour train ride from Delhi and I could not pass up the opportunity to see one of the 7 Wonders of the World. I have never been much of an architecture buff- wilderness and the outdoors have always intrigued me more. India is changing me and its history has captured my attention.
The train pulled into Agra Cantonment Station and I could barely see anything- smog had blanketed the city in a thick, gray vapor. If you could set the sun on "dim", this is what the earth would look like. I knew immediately that this was not the best day for Taj viewing- I planned on doing either a sunrise or sunset and decided to wait for the early hours the following morning. So I jumped in an autorickshaw and headed off for the cheap part of town, the Taj Ganj. My hotel was 100 rupees a night (~$2.50) with a clean small room and a shared toilet and bath with hot bucket water- it's way cheaper with the same amenities that I found in Africa... I was stoked. Immediately, I make friends with the hotel owners- a pair of brothers that have way too much time to do way too little... extremely hospitable, very friendly and well connected to anything illicit. I enjoy their company for a while and then head off to see some sites. With the Taj reserved for tomorrow, I start wandering the streets of the Taj Ganj. I am always intrigued with the people who live and work in such a tourist hub- Agra has a rich, royal history but a pretty impoverished present. Everything seems to revolve around foreigners and it's always difficult to see what real life in these towns is like- away from the tourist traps.
I tend to get lost in these alleyway neighborhoods- small tight streets, no semblance of any "city planning", sharp turns, forks, dead ends... it's 100% entertaining. In some random square this stocky old man with half his teeth and a giant smiling face called me over- Ocktearay-ji, that's how I had to spell it phonetically, is a paan-wallah. He sits in this little kiosk with about 8 ingredients used to make a mild stimulant called paan. It looks pretty nasty, and I had to convince him that I had an allergy before he stopped asking me to eat one. It's a combination of betel nuts, 2 different dubious looking pastes slopped on with an ancient looking paintbrush, canned tobacoo leaves, some masala (spices) all wrapped up in leaves that have been soaking in water from a source only Mr. O knows... I think i'll pass. So he gets all excited and invites me into his shack, clearing a place on his only chair while he sits on the floor. Within minutes of bad Hindi, unintelligable English, and a lot of laughing- there's a crowd of at least 20 people gathered around. Everyone likes to spit out the few English phrases they know and I entertain with my answers, over and over again. "Hello friend. Where you from- French?" "What your name?" These people have a different vibe than the Africans I interacted with. Not that I haven't been annoyed here or hadn't met great Africans- but people here seem to be more genuine, more interested in having a conversation, and less likely to ask for something in return.
My local popularity attracted a school manager's attention, and I soon found myself in the office of a high school headmaster, meeting his family and leafing through his pride and joy- a photo album. His name is Sharma-ji and couldn't have been more thrilled with my interest in his school and the story behind his collection of 30 photos. Again, I was encircled by a crowd of the most excited and energetic people of all ages yelling out there one or two choice english phrases... I loved every minute of it, and would get a few claps and handshakes whenever I responded in broken Hindi. After promising a return to the school if my travels ever take me back to Agra, and giving my cell phone number and email to half the town, I turned to leave only to find Mr. O waiting to take me to lunch... I had made a friend for sure, and the quickest way to his heart is through his stomach. Mr. O took me on a 3 km bicycle rickshaw ride into the Kinari Bizarre, Agra's old town district in search for Dosa and Sambar- my two favorite gluten free options for breakfast and lunch... my only two gluten free options. Of course, I paid- for the rickshaw... and lunch! I expected it, and it only came out to be about $2- I appreciated the kindness and company, and I knew he loved getting away from the monotony of paan-making and into a big meal. It was a win-win, and he led me into the Old Town market and the Agra Fort which were two places I wanted to check out.
After lunch, we split up and I headed to Agra Fort, a World Heritage Site listed by UNESCO. I was hesitant to enter- it costs a absurdly $7.50... I have to remember sometimes that I'm not sure the next time i'll be back, and to stop being such a cheap bastard. So I forked over the money and couldn't have been more grateful I did. This fort is unbelievable in every way and it only added to my growing fascination with Indian history. It's a fort and royal palace that dates back over 1000 years, coming to its heigth around the 1500 and 1600's. It's made of a deep red sandstone and dominated by ornately carved battlements and multi-cusped archways. The physical remains are impressive, but the real experience is had when you ignore the other visitors, quiet their noise, and picture yourself walking the gardens in the time of sultans and kings.
Imagine: Crisp morning air, carries the fragrance of incense and clove- no noise but that of the passing egrets, bubbling fountains, and soft swoosh of robes on white marble. The floor is cold but firm- smooth and reassuring. You stand, confident and relaxed, in an open-aired gazeboo of pearl-white stone, staring over the Holy Jamuna River on which fresh sunlight dances. This is your home.
Now I might be completely exaggerating and romanticizing- but isn't that the joys of imagination? I have a hard time believing that this never took place. I hope it did.
The following morning I woke up early to head to the Taj Mahal, sunrise being a time not to miss. I hoped the smog had cleared and the view would be clear and unhindered. 5:15 am. The entrance fee is a ridiculous $17.50- but I learned my lesson from the Agra Fort and happily handed over my money. It was pitch black and completely empty- appropriate for a mausoleum- cool, solitary and solemn. As I was waiting for any light to illuminate the Taj, a neighboring mosque started it's daily call to prayer... such a scenario I found myself in- I relished in the foreigness of it. Sitting alone, in front of the greatest example of Moghul architecture, built for love, listening to the dirge-like song of Islam prayer. The Taj is said to change colors throughout the day, as the sun changes position in the sky and its rays reflect from different angles off the white marble surface. As the Taj came into view, I began to realize why this monument to life and beauty steals the heart of every pilgrim.
I have never been taken by building- metal and glass, rock and stone- shaped by human hands. The Taj is something altogether different. Like I said, India is changing me. If I was ever enchanted, it happened here- sitting on white marble benches, shared by rajs and dignitaries, sultans and poets over the centuries- I did not want to leave. I could have sat there forever and stared. It captures you completely, and you're not exactly sure why. Fountains, gardens, reflecting pools and walkways surround the enormous white tomb- four towers stand sentinel in all cardinal directions- flanked on either side by incredible mosques built of red sandstone, capable of standing on their own but adding to the already breath-taking scenary- cusped archways on all sides, ancient Persian script around every doorframe, pietra dura precious stone inlay of all colors- topped with the hallmark Moghul onion dome, full and perfectly built- the crescent moon pointing straight into the heavens. It's absolutely stunning- and I rarely use that word but it's so fitting. The onlooker is stunned- physically paralyzed by some unseen enchantment. The worst part, is pulling yourself away.

HOLY HINDUSTAN!

2008-01-08T04:50:00.000-08:00

I had a feeling that India would be all that I could hope for- a place so foreign and unexpected, stimulating and offensive- a place so different from my comfortable American home, clean rivers, and empty streets. I was right in terms of the basic differences. What I underestimated was the degree- and that's what this place is all about... intensity. Colors are brighter here and more infused with the scenary- clothing, spices, jewelry, sunsets, thalis- they exude color in ways I had never imagined. Smells are stronger here and more pervasive- sterility is an American concept, maybe a Western concept. I'm confused when I DON'T smell anything- like something important is missing. The garbage stinks terribly, piss takes on a new definition of pungent, cardamom and clove are pervasive, exhaust chokes the air, the sweets and treats of Delhi make even the most satiated traveler gluttonous. History continually plays a part in the present- temples tower over new buildings, 600 year old mosques still call devotees to prayer, and the Taj Mahal still steals the heart of anyone lucky enough to catch a glimpse. It's a culture so steeped in energy and so alive, you can't help but enjoy every second.
Will the novelty wear off? Will the constant threat of shit, animal or human, on my boots or smog-induced lung cancer ever send me back home? Will the spicy masalas and ancient religious monuments lose their lustre? Will the dinghy guest house rooms and shared cold water bucket baths make me miss home? I ask myself this because I enjoy my present response- absolutely not. There's so much here- so much stimulation- full body, mind, and spirit exercise- the same street never looks the same. Navigating a country with over a billion people- it's hard to get bored. I'm a fan of all things Indian.

BIODIVERSITY DEFINED- UDZUNGWA

2007-12-23T00:54:00.000-08:00

This has been my most recent adventure, and undoubtedly one that will never fade. I made a trip to the Udzungwa Mountains National Park in Mang'ula, Tanzania. I had read about it in a travel book- an overlooked, under-visited tropical rainforest in the heart of southeastern Africa... I had to go. The timing was perfect- my travel mates had decided it was a good idea to separate for a week or so to spend time alone before our transition to travel India. I wasn't partial to either decision, but made my plans with enthusiasm... that's the only way.
I decided to first stop in Mikumi, a town about 300 km from Dar es Salaam which is easily reached within a day. I planned on taking a bus to Morogoro and then grabbing, yes, the infamous daladala to Mikumi town. My reason for this stop over was big game viewing and safari- there's no way that a kid who grew up on the milk of National Geographic and the whispered voice of David Attenborough could, as an adult, visit Africa and not see its wildlife! All of my travellers had done it before, spent a lot of money, and had no interest in doing it again. I went on my own.
The daladala to Mikumi was a highlight- the road passes straight through the heart of this central National Park- and all of its delays, breakdowns, arguments, and backfires put us in the park at the perfect time... dusk. Animals were out eating, grazing, running, and staring our minibus down as we "flew" by at 30 km/hour. I saw everything I could have imagined, from the $3 seat of my broken taxi- elephants with their babies, giraffes with their heads in the trees, baboons, impala dancing in between scrub and grass, gazelle. I was the only one with my face plastered against the splintering plexiglass window- loving every sight! I had not had quite this extensive of a wildlife viewing experience since I made it to this place- the train was beautiful, but biodiverse-less compared to this! Unfortunately, I've learned that the only place to see these animals anymore is in the parks- everywhere else, they have been hunted out. Maybe that's why it's so expensive to visit game reserves and parks here... definitely a bone I'll pick in another posting!
So I arrived at Mikumi town at night- not a huge deal since it's small, quiet and I made my way straight over to a guest house. The owner's name was Mpongi- short, stout, and extremely welcoming. My room was 3,000 shillings ~ $2.50. I threw my stuff in, locked my door, and went and found some straight up Tanzanian bucket food. When i went back, I took a bucket shower... everything seems to come out of buckets here. I had a small bucket, my African fabric towel, and some soap... bathing with a bucket, a small cup, and no lights- perfectly African!
My plan was to wake up at 4:45 and hike myself down the street to a proper hotel, hoping to meet up with early riser tourists and join their Land Rover for a half-day safari. I was looking to pay about $50, which is probably the cheapest you could ever get away with paying for safari here. Just to enter the park with Kilimanjaro costs $600... yeah, that's the bone I have to pick. So getting away with $50 was my ideal. I rolled into the Genesis motel around 5:45 and started throwing out all my Swahili I could muster- most got lost in translation. It's like some foreigner showing up, saying "I look for car-safari- Mikumi. I want others... me, no. Many people, yes. Me, money big! Others, money small. You know if car-to go-today- morning-Mikumi-safari??" Ridiculous- then throw some of my half-assed sign language motions and you've got the right idea. Needless to say, I was lucky to find someone who spoke English. Unfortunately, it didn't work out like I was hoping. He called a few personal friends, since no one from the lodge was going, to see if they'd take me myself. I offered up to $80. A friend showed up alright... in a stationwagon... with no clearance... bald tires... tinted windows.... and absolutely no experience in the park- and it was raining... hard. Just for kicks, I asked if it had 4-wheel drive. It didn't... naturally. My only other option was a half-day solo ride in the hotel's Land Rover for $150. I didn't even bring that much money, and I still had 5 more days and a trip to the mountains! So I declined, went to the local market, got my fill of Uji, and jumped on the next daladala to Mang'ula.
Something happened on that daladala ride that's worth mentioning quickly... which doesn't seem possible with the length of my descriptions, but i'll try my best. I was crammed beyond belief into this minibus- but somehow I managed a seat to myself. I had my huge backpack on my lap right next to the window, anticipating a decent ride to Mang'ula 60 km away. Just when I thought we had reached true daladala carrying capacity, an old woman with her baby shuffled in and stood right next to me. Elderly respect and politeness took over and I offered my seat to the woman, without a thank you... naturally. Politeness often is the first to be squeezed out of the daladala. Anyways, I'm fine. I'm standing there, my face in about 3 different armpits- waiting for my stop. I look down and make faces with the baby, who gets a charge out of the random Mzungu (white person) that must have accidently gotten on board. I had 3 bananas for lunch that I was holding onto. So here's the perfect scenario. The baby gets restless, and the grandma has to readjust. In Africa, the closest person to a baby is automatically chosen to help whatever needs to happen- so there I am, standing, holding this baby by its armpits, and I watch my bananas fall to the ground. I give the baby back and someone in front hands me back my fruit... but only 2 remain- someone has stolen a banana, while I was holding a baby. I only laugh- appreciating the fact that the only thing stolen was an 8 cent banana.

SO- I finally arrive in Mang'ula, and I both realize why I have come and fail to understand how this African park is not overflowing with visitors. It is the most beautiful place I have seen so far on this trip- steep, green, misty tropical mountains stretching past the horizon to my left, right, and center. I walk into the office to setup my hike for the next day- I read in the book that I needed to take a guide/ranger because of the animals. I wanted to get that setup early so I could buy my camping food, find a guest house, and be well rested for my hike the following day. Once again, in Africa, things did not go as planned. There are only a few trails available in this side of the park- all require a ranger- and nothing is cheap. Park Entrance Fee- $20/24 hours. Guide Fee- $10/24 hours. Camping Fee- $30/night. Transportation to trailhead- $10. Now this through me off- especially since I wanted to do a 2-night trip into the park and summit the second highest peak, Mwanihana. This 2 night-trip, where I carry all my own stuff, buy all my own food, and sleep in my own tent in the woods- would have cost me $160. I was shocked, and completely deflated. I told them I hadn't even brought enough money! I begged, pleaded, got angry, and gave the silent treatment for about an hour. Finally- I figured out a plan which they agreed to... a 2 day, 1 night stay- leaving early in the morning so we could do a day hike from the camp in the afternoon. I still had to pay for 2 days of guiding and entrance fee, since I wouldn't be back to headquarters within 24 hours. I said, "This park is supposed to be for the land, the people- access and exposure to Africa's natural history. It should not be about the money." They looked uncomfortable. But I bargained down to $90 and showed up the next morning at 7 am.
The Udzungwa Mountains National Park is listed as a WWF World Biodiversity Hotspot. They have wood elephants, buffalo, leopards, snakes, 70 species of spider, and 3 species of monkeys endimic to these forests... I was in heaven. Within an hour, I had seen the 3 types of monkeys- running, chirping, singing and jumping from limb to limb above my head. I was captured completely- through and through- I felt these mountains in my bones, these trees in my skin. It was so rich, green- alive with more energy than I had ever witnessed. Butterflies, grasshoppers, centipedes, millipedes, spiders... things I have never believed to be of much importance- seemed royal. I stopped frequently, smiling, saying "I can't believe i'm here- i'm actually here." Our camp was nothing special- just the way I liked it. We setup camp, had some mangos for lunch, and my guide Dadi did me a huge favor, and took me half-way up to the Mwanihana trail. Guides are usually not allowed to do this- the park banks on the visitors to stay the extra night an pay the fees. But we got there early, we enjoyed each other's company, and he knew how badly I wanted to spend as much time as possible hiking these hills.
When we had climbed another few miles we reached a patch of grassland that afforded us unrestricted views of the Udzungwa Mountains- 100% pure. Rolling tropical rainforest in every direction, more shades of green than my eyes had ever seen, soft misty clouds drifting from draw to peak. Behind me, the unmistable song of hornbills pierced the moisture-ladden African air as they flew in pairs across a backdrop of grey an green. If a Garden of Eden exists, I can only imagine it looks like this. What a special place, what a treasure on this earth.
I will return, I know of it- Nitarudi apa, ninajua. I can only imagine what other places these feet of mine will travel now that I know places like Udzungwa still exist.

GLUTEN FREE IN SWAHILI... NGANO HAKUNA!

2007-12-22T23:40:00.000-08:00

If anybody who reads this has not heard me say, "Gluten Free is the life for me"- it's high time we spend some more time together. This has become a life slogan, a mantra for health and happiness, my own Hail Mary- if I slip, intentionally or unaware, I am anything but Full of Grace... gas, bloating and diahrrea quickly take its place! Eating is something most take for granted- we have taken a physical necessity, a requirement for life- and turned it into something perfunctory and easy. Especially in the developed world, where grocery stores provide anything, and in mass quantities. Restaurants litter the streets and we become picky with which ones to enter. Don't get me wrong, the convenience and variety available to most people is a blessing of western culture- especially in Boulder and Berkeley, my two hubs of adulthood. Organics, internationals, non-GMOs, fine dining... it's a luxury I have supported and loved. But recognizing this privilege, understanding its place in my life, it's lack of place in most others, and the significance it will have in my future is a seed just breaking my soil's surface, of which I continue to till.
This does not even touch on the idea of ALLERGY! Access is hard enough, but allergy! I can't imagine a life allergic to rice in a place like this- it's everything and everywhere. I never thought myself necessarily "lucky" with the amount of intolerances to food I deal with- but here, I eat like a king... because rice is king- a true kingdom for the gluten free!

STREET FOOD
Just like the hitching debt I owe to my travel crew, they have introduced me to one of the cheapest, sketchiest, and most enjoyable ways to eat in East Africa. And I owe them much more than the money I have saved eating the way we do. We eat in markets and on the side of the road, at trainstations and on the beach. Our food varies very little, but there's always a few questions we ask... in part to make a choice and also to spit out random words and fragments of the kiiswahili we know- and the people, for the most part, love it. We eat "bucket food", so you can imagine the setup:
Usually a group of women, either lined up on the street or with their own little tabletops and thatched roof huts, cooking on charcoal fires in metal pots that probably are older than the women themselves. They make do, and well I might add... screw spending $400 on a calphalon set, I want dinghy, broke-ass aluminum hand-me downs! We walk in and start with "Salaam-a mama, unapika gani?" (Peace mama, what are you cooking) Then they will always fire back, "Karibu! Wali, ugali, mboga, maharage, nyama..." (Welcome! Rice, maize mash, veggies, beans, meat) Our choices then, usually, are between rice and maize mash, and what kind of meat... if there's a choice. Fish and "random" are usually the options. We say what we want, spit out a few more half-phrases which usually make them laugh, and sit down to a meal that costs about 45 cents!
We eat out of rusting bowls and off of communal spoons that get a quick dunk in water (definitely not Evian), and if you get ugali, you get to use your hands... personally, I eat whatever comes with spoons. I can rattle off about 6 different diseases I could easily see in between my grains of rice and kidney beans... Anyone who knows me well, understands this is a far far place outside my previous comfort zone- an evolution, if you will- I have shedded that which does not work, and picked up the necessary adaptions to life on this continent. I barely shared drinks back home- now i'm passing around the pili-pili like it's my job (little hot peppers that everyone shares and squeezes seeds and juice onto their food... third-world Tabasco)! The best part is, I love it- absolutely. It's one of my favorite parts of the day- making my way to the markets and hanging out with the mamas who feed me well. I like to support these entrepeneurs- they are doing something simple but necessary, and in a very special way, provide an insight into daily African culture.
It's not like food in the restaurants is that expensive- you can get a big plate of chicken and rice or fries for about $3.50. I was a little more inclined to do this when I first arrived. I imagined industrial dishwashers, disinfectant and cleanliness in these kitchens- I've worked the restaurants, I have expectations! But my friends quickly explained that cleanliness is in the eye of the beholder- and not in the back of these restaurants. They clean their dishware the same as these women... so why not go to the markets, immerse completely, save money, and let the hesistant white tourists take our spots in restaurants, freeing up a space for me with Mama Jenipha? The laughs I have had and the swahili I have learned place the market high on my "Things You Are Told Not to Do But Must Do Anyways" list.
Here's a list of things I have eaten, so far:
Mozambique- Sting ray, intestines- I think goat but not sure, entire fish
Tanzania- Beef, chicken, goat, fish, stewed bananas

Needless to say, this all comes with rice, beans and veggies- usually a mix of potatos, tomatos, peppers, and leafy greens. It all comes with a "soup"- a tomato-based broth. I can honestly say I have never eaten more beans and rice in my life- it is a blessing that toilet paper in this country costs 25 cents per roll.

UJI
Now this little Tanzanian gem deserves its own section in this litany of gluttonous (not glutenous) adventures. A staple in my diet here- I go to bed just so I can wake up and eat Uji. It is a porridge, made from pounded millet, water and sugar. I'm not sure what kind of millet they use, but it's red in color and has that characteristic nutty sweetness that so many live without tasting... millet and other great grains have been pushed aside by wheat and corn. But it's popular here- i'm not sure how I found out it was millet... that wasn't my first vocabulary word. But we worked through it and I am a better man for the effort. It's not available everywhere, but when you find it you won't be disappointed! It's hot, sweet, and filling- ladled into a cup (kikombe) for you to sit, sip and enjoy. It's not spiced, just sweetened- millet and sugar. If you're lucky, you find someone with a little butter... I had two cups this morning. Once again, you are drinking out of a plastic cup with teeth marks on the rims, probably from the family who once owned them in a foreign country- donated to the third world for tax write-offs and a sense of "contribution". But these people use the shit out of them- they will not give them away... why should they? They still work. They make them money. They still have use.
The other advantage to uji is that it's scalding hot- you cannot suck a cup down, pay your balance and walk away from the cockroaches in 2 minutes. It forces you to sit with others, and often encourages hilarious and valuable conversation. I've met great people while sipping uji- businessmen, housewives, chicken sellers, car washers, masai tribesmen, disabled... the marketplace is a social hub... our "country club" but with free access and absolutely zero health standards! It's a special place.

NIGHT FOOD
I've noticed this mostly in Dar es Salaam, the capital of Tanzania- people eat late... very late. There are street vendors open until midnight, selling anything from meat kababs and grilled bananas to "Zanzibar Mix"- some combination of about 12 different things that look like veggies, matzo and uncooked scrambled eggs... they won't tell you what's in it... kyle loves it... I go for the grilled bananas. But everyone is out- families, guards, singles... it's a late night culture. I have to wonder if it's an Indian influence, which is very large here. Many Indian families call Dar their home, and they bring amazing culture to this port of peace (Dar-es-Salaam means Harbor of Peace). I especially like the guys who walk around carrying their portable pot of chai masala- spicy hot tea that tastes of mulling spices and sugar... a cup is around 2 cents. If you're lucky, you'll happen upon a Tangawizi vendor- ginger. They brew water, ginger and sugar- I could drink about 5 cups... which really only amounts to about 10 cents- but I hold off, not letting the American glutton come out and chug straight from the kettle... people just don't indulge like we do back home over here- whether it's culture, money, or smaller stomachs, I can't be sure. But I do appreciate the difference, and have found I like the outcome.

DALA DALA DALA DALA

2007-12-22T06:01:00.000-08:00

Since traveling is what i'm doing, I figured it was only right to include a detailed section on the way i've been moving about these crazy countries. In all honesty, modes of transportation have been some of the most hectic, dangerous, unreliable and entertaining parts of this trip so far.

DALADALA

As the title of this post, the daladala has become as regular an endeavor as taking a daily dump, and therefore deserves its own section. In Tanzania, this is the Kiiswahili word for minibus- the equivalent of our taxi cab. These are in every regard identical to old VW buses we see cruising the streets of Berkeley, Boulder, and summer outdoor music festivals. However, they have been turned into high-capacity public transportation vehicles without any maintenance or safety precautions...

Imagine: You're standing at a curb in a very hot, crowded city in Africa- the traffic is going the opposite way than you're used to so you haven't really figured out if you should be looking left or right. All of the sudden, 12 broken down soccer mom vans come screeching to a halt, backfiring and rattling, while 15 different guys start screaming at you to get in their dala dala... tugging at your arms and backpack. You figure out that their destination is painted on the front of their jalopy and they do rounds, so you find the one you need and climb in. There are 4 rows of three seats, which should hold 12 people. But wait- they've welded in 4 extra seats in the isle that can flip up... we're at 16. But 4 seats can easily fit more than 3 people... cram another 8 in- add a few babies, and a couple extra who stand, and you've got a full daladala... no seatbelts, no AC... and they will not leave until they've reached carrying capacity. Picture me, smashed in there, loving life! That's public transport... oh yeah, and it costs about 24 cents!

I go in waves with how I feel about these things- I love how cheap they are, and they do make the rounds quickly. I've met some hilarious people in them, and almost everyone wants to help me with my Kiiswahili... Ninajafunsa kiiswahili kidogo kidogo- ninapenda kiiswahili...kugumu lakini nzuri sana (I am learning Swahili little by little, I like it, it's hard but great!) But then sometimes, I think how ridiculous this is- there are students, business men, business women, who are riding around like this- and it doesn't seem to bother them. When the entire door falls off or they breakdown on the side of the road, which happens often, and everyone is late... nobody seems to be at all put off! I have learned to let it roll off my back, and actually enjoy the experience, because this is everyday life. If you have a schedule, forget about it. If you have something important to do, not a chance... too much of this kind of shit goes down every day to make any kind of plans. This touches on some other feelings I have, which will have to come later... time, efficiency, indifference- all part of the package we call Africa. But the daladala never fails to leave me smiling.

HITCHING

Besides daladalas, we have hitched our way across the southeastern reaches of Africa. I would never have done this on my own, and it has been an education that I owe to my travel partners. Some of the best traveling has taken place on the back of rice trucks, tucked under the tarps of flat-bed lorreys, and straddling the bars of pickup trucks. In Malawi, we could find free rides more often than not- people are very willing to help out the stranded traveler. Mozambique cost us more for sure- and Tanzanians like to be compensated for sure. But, when you have no real time table, no place to be, and a genuine liking for places off the beaten path- this is the way to go.

Mtwara to Dar es Salaam, TZ

This is one of the trips that I will never forget, and is worth telling. So we had spent a few days with my friend Sheena (from high school- completely random and altogether perfect reunion) down on the southeastern coast of TZ in a town called Mtwara- beautiful snorkeling, busy fish markets, friendly people... awesome. We decided to head back up to Dar es Salaam to regroup, enjoy the city, and plan our trip to India. We caught a ride to Lindi, a decent sized town on the coast, and a good place to catch the second leg ride up to the capital. No ride came... a risk involved in the venture of not booking a single bus ticket. But the risk is often rewarded, because Lindi proved to be an entertaining town with large markets, funny locals, interesting history, and a good bar with this crazy Indian woman with no teeth who sold us bean balls made in her house... we gave her some of our beer, because I think she's an alcoholic and sells bean balls for beer money... sweet lady.

Anyways, the same people who drove us from Mtwara (really Ndanda, where Sheena works, at a Benedictine hospital up in the hills) had some car trouble and were staying in Lindi, saw us and offered us a ride to Dar... with "car trouble", we should have seen the signs. There was a reliable, safe bus, going to Dar the next morning for about 16 bucks- but they offered a ride for about $9, so naturally, being the cheapest bastards alive, chose the latter... wrong in so many ways. But it has provided the ammunition for this story, so well worth it in my opinion!

We started our 700 km trip up the coast at 9 am... we didn't start moving until bout 11 am- like I said, African time. The comfortable bags of rice we had laid on yesterday was replaced by the contents of someone's entire house, which had evidently been decorated in a lot of rebar. There were about 9 other people crammed in, and the truck bed was covered in rice husks, from the previous load. I was sandwiched on a futon frame, each ass cheek on a separate slat, my friends were scattered around, and we somehow managed to sneak in a dirtbike. We finally started moving.

Within about 15 minutes, we were stopped. This part of Africa has an INSANE amount of road blocks... manned by corrupt cops looking for payoffs and bribes- I can't speak for the rest of Africa, but this is one of my biggest issues with traveling here, not to mention the role of authority (i've already discussed my bribe to the immigration officer... i'll put in a chunk later). We were stopped because there were people in a "Non-passenger" vehicle... every car here carries people, and probably about 90% shouldn't. But, a mere 20,000 Shillings (~$18) and we were on our way... 30 minutes later.

Oh, and it had started to rain.

The entire first third of our trip was on a decent but still rocky dirty road- we paralled a brand new tarmack road that was still in construction phase... even though nothing seemed to be happening. It was the perfect metaphor- here in this part of Africa, it always just seems a little too difficult. There was the new road, but we were driving just next to it, in dirt.

Then we get stopped for round 2. This time, our driver made all of us get out of the truck, walk around the roadblock, through the village and meet him down the road. 2 hours later, we got nervous because our bags were still there... when we walked back up, the truck was stopped, by the cops, because one headlight was out... they wanted $80,000 shillings. Needless to say, there was no place to buy a spare part- so it wasn't about our safety... if we had the money, we could just move on. We waited patiently, got some food, hung with the villagers, and were back on the road by about 5pm. We had gone 250km, maybe. The next 8 hours were spent riding on the top of this semi, in small hammocks we made with the tarp, going about 15 km/hr through Tanzanian jungle on the worst dirt road of my life- we were bruised, tired, hungry, and nostalgic for the bus ticket we ALMOST bought.

To make it even more surreal, we stopped, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and bought about 15 GIANT pineapples... it just seemed like that should happen... the trip was already so bizarre, that it only made sense for us to buy a load of huge pinapples. Like that was a top priority... pineapples. 10 minutes later, we stopped and bought a 150 pound bag of charcoal... naturally.

We got stopped for our third time after our stop for essentials- this time, the police went after us, the Americans with money. They demanded to see our passports, and leafed through it for about 10 minutes, asking all kinds of ridiculous questions- they didn't even know what the TZ visa looked like, and we were IN TZ! The worst part of the whole exchange was the response by our drivers and passengers. When we got targeted, they freaked out! Yelling in our faces, that if there is a problem, they should not be punished- "We will leave you on the side of the road- we will not be punished!" I looked directly at the main antoginist and said you are our friend one minute and will abandon us the next- do not talk to me again. They would have left us for the wolves, after all our waiting. They had no interested in helping us navigate the language barrier, and the police were only looking for one slip up on our passports to hold as ransom. Of course, everything was fine- we left bout 20 minutes later.

Not long after, the driver pulls over at a gas station about 50 km outside of Dar and says we're spending the night- he's tired. Really, he was avoiding a scale, which he knew we were over the limit. So Kyle and Justin slept under the truck, I think just below the pumpkin, enjoying diesel fumed dreams for 5 hours. Tony and I were smashed on some dinghy, torn mattress in the back of the truck- someone else was reclined on the dirtbike, and some didn't sleep.

We pulled into Dar about 7 am, about 20 hours departure. They didn't even drop us off where they said they would. I think i'll be sticking to buses from now on, but in hindsight, it couldn't have more story worthy.

Rovuma River Border Crossing

Here's one more African travel story worth mentioning- because it is so UN-AMERICAN, and therefore, so perfect. To cross into different countries here, you have to stamp out of one, walk through a "no-man's land" unclaimed by either side, and stamp into the next. This was my problem in Malawi- I had not stampied in, and the border patrol took full advantage of my mistake and my distance from where I entered. At this particular border cross between Mozambique and Tanzania, they do things a little differently. It is extremely remote, and we took a pick-up from Palma up to the Rovuma River... jammed. When we got to the border, we waited in line at the immigration office and watched the local villagers butcher a small male elephant. After some weak attempts at bribes that we quickly denied, we headed to the river that separates the two countries. There is no bridge, just boats... dingies.

We are grabbed and coerced into a boat that could barely move- it's pull-start engine just couldn't push the 45 person cargo that quickly. Our trip up the river to the other side took about 15 minutes- we passed buzzards, storks, schools of fish and a huge pod of hippos! When we got to the other side, we haggled prices and finally got back to land- only to climb, once again, into a pick up designed for 5, but holding 30- I was straddling the roll bar, holding on to both avoid falling out of the car and smashing my berries... welcome to Tanzania!

THE GREENEST CONTINENT

2007-12-22T05:19:00.000-08:00

For everyone that knows me, it is only appropriate that I start my online international dialogue regarding the landscape of Africa... the greenest continent... the driest continent... the hottest continent... open and big. If I had to describe the places i've been in one word, it would be that... big. Everything here seems to be on its own scale- the sky is number one. Especially when the land is flat, I have never felt such an immense overhead sky, stretching on forever in all directions. It feels low and heavy, but expansive and never ending at the same time.
From the lounge car window on my train from Dar es Salaam to Mbeya (Tanzania) is where I noticed it first. We went through African grassland savannah- National Geographic worthy. I felt like I was staring at an interactive 70" tv screen with Animal Planet on, but with real sound effects and a muggy breeze. The flat-topped Acacia trees brought me to Africa completely, with shabby bushes and clumps of grasses dotting the horizon. I almost thought I was hallucinating the giraffes I saw, out of habit from seeing them on tv so many times. They just looked so appropriate, as did the elephants and impala! I couldn't believe I was here, really seeing this with my own eyes! A huge deal for the "Treehugging Dirt Worshipper" and the one who was voted "Most Likely to Open his Own Recycling Center" by his high school classmates!
But that's not all East Africa includes- it is not all savannah and wildebeast migrations. I arrived in the dry season, and it's DRY! Everything looks dead burnt- and uninteresting. It doesn't help when you're sweating at a rate of 2 liters an hour! I especially noticed it in Malawi- a very long country known for its lake (aptly named Lake Malawi- where you are almost 100% guaranteed to get Bilarzhia... blood flukes), it's rank as 8th poorest country in the world, and it's AIDS epidemic. Honestly, I couldn't wait to get there! Unfortunately, the world has not been introduced to its people- they would definitely turn the reputation around. More on that later.
Malawi was hot and dry... again, DRY! It is at the tail end of the Rift Valley, stretching all the way from Sudan/Chad/Ethiopia- and the environment has some truly deep-seeded history in our evolutionary past. Randomly scattered across the horizon, as far as I can tell, are free standing rocks- big enough to be considered as hills and small mountains. They give some interesting relief to the flat plains, and look especially attractive at sunset.
Mozambique- in terms of wilderness, this was my favorite country so far on the trip. We drove through BUSH- and African bush is serious hinterland! From the border crossing 200 km west of Cuamba (infamous for theft and lazy, crooked cops- I promise not to revisit this) we drove through the African backcountry. Huge palms, acacia trees, banana trees, mango trees, grasses 10' tall- it is dense, green, thick, and amazing. In the northern areas we traveled, mountains rose out of these forests like icebergs in the North Atlantic- unpredictable, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, some sharp and jagged, others rounded and smooth- and stretching as far in the distance as we could see. Some had waterfalls, others tropical forest, the rest completely empty save rock and stone... again, the nature lover... naturally, in love. I had some amazing pictures- I think someone in Nampula is enjoying those right now...
The more time I've spent here, the more I've learned about the natural landscape- mainly the variety it offers. Africa is definitely a place you cannot judge by its cover- if you come here in the dry season and do not wait for the rains, you will have an unfortunate view of this beautiful land. Similarly, the rainy season can drown even the most skilled naturalist. I have been lucky to see the transition- from dry to wet, lack to abundance, brown to green- this transition makes both seasons that much more bearable... that much more African.

BLOGGING THROUGH AFRICA

2007-12-22T05:03:00.000-08:00

So this is my first stab at setting up a blog, and i'm watching my timer in this African internet cafe hoping it doesn't take too long to figure out. It's disconcerting in a way that the internet is getting so big, and creating such an enigmatic language- who the hell came up with "BLOG" and thought it sounded good? It's great that someone did, though, and I just wish they were sitting next to me showing me the way to do it...
ANYWAYS- here it goes. I'm setting this up similar to my journal- not by dates and times, but by events, thoughts, questions, troubles, and observations. Within a day I became bored of writing what I ate for breakfast, where we went, what got stolen, etc... it was meaningless detail, detracting from a larger picture which offers so much more. So I plan on adding on to this as I go- as my plans develop and my trip unfolds, I will bring as much back to this BLOG as possible. Be Love Only Go! Bring Life Of Gold! I'm reading The Poisonwood Bible, i'm sorry.
Please, write down your words- I will be able to hear your voices through these fiber optics on the other side of the world and smile... depending on what you say. Advice is much appreciated, debate is always stimulating, and love is always welcomed! SAFARI NJEMA... SAFE TRAVELS