Zindiac

New Website

2009-05-15T19:11:00.000+01:00

FYI - this blog is old. Get with the new at 26 Unlimited, my new blog on philosophy, psychology, social and political discourse, cosmology, living a better life, and mind expansion in general.

Macau: The lost post!

2009-05-14T00:03:00.005+01:00

Looks like this one is getting posted a year late!!!

Like Hong Kong, Macau is made up of island territory off the coasts of continental China, and this is not where their similarities end. Hong Kong and Macau are the only democratic regions in an otherwise communist China. Having both been key far east trading powers and providing inexpensive labor under the rule of their respective European conquestors/conquistadors, both HK and Macau benefited from the well developed economies left behing by their former rulers which has put them far 'ahead' of China red in many ways (that is of course assuming that you consider the western brand of democracy plus a predominantly secular/materialistic population as being ahead). One thing I've learned of the portragese on this trip is that though they may have lost out on the Guiness world record for "most colonies/ historical influence world wide" they may have descent shot at their own claim to fame for their persistence in holding on to their Eastern colonies. Having been released for portragese rule a meager 17 years before my arrival, Macau was no exception to portraguese &&clingyness%.

I'd long ago blown my budget for the trip and was working my way into school funds, so I decided that I would stick to a strict budget during these last few days out of country. With about $260 in cash I figured I'd have just enough to get through my 5 days in China, and even a little to play with. When I arrived in Macau I met an American expat who had been teaching English in Taiwan for the past 7 years and spoke fluent Mandrin (that's Chinese, not the language of the oranges). He'd come to Macau for a few days to sort out visa issues and as he was familiar with the city and we were both headed to the inner harbor area my life was made much easier; though I do speak Spanish which is similar enough to pieteshirse, it didn't seem to do me much good in Macau and I was happy to not need worry about figuring out how to get into town. Half an hour later we parted ways as he went to the hotel he'd reserved and I went off to track down something cheaper. After nearly an hour of wandering about the inner harbor and asking hotels about their prices while getting oriented in the area. Most of the hotels that I could find were $50 and up, and anything cheaper was full. I'd been told there were cheap rooms in many of the cities brothels, though couldn't for the life of me find one as I couldn't read the Chinese signs above their doorways, hotel staff played ignorant when I asked about cheaper places and there was no way I was going to play cherades with a chinaman on the streets when looking for a brothel (I can only imagine..). Eventually it clicked: a flashing sign, the number 130, and 'Pen Sio' as the only distinguishable charecters: this had to be it! As I climbed the stairs I was welcomed by an inviting sign with a phone number, two interlocked hearts and the number 60- so they rented hourly.. The door boated the first sign in English which read "rooms only, no prostitute"- things were beginning to look better. I opened the door and entered the modest lobby furnished with a suprisingly elegant array of woodwork that served as seating and tables. The Chinese man behind the desk imediatlet leapt to attention and blathered something in an incomprehensible dialect, to which I responded "room?". His puzzled look told me that this might not be so easy. I looked around the desk and saw an array of signs in English talking about bag storage and checkout times before coming across the pricelist. I pointed to the lowest nightly rate and asked "possible?", he seemed to understand and again blathered on at legnth in a language so alien to me that Martian might sound more familiar.. I shrugged and tapped the price of the cheapest room again. He hesitated before again trying to explain something at legnth but again hesitated and decided to give up half way through, then he simply pointed at the next number on the list; the cheap ones were full (or unoccupiable for some mysterious reason). I considered the prospect of returning into the dark of night then nodded my affirmation. He took me to a room with the air con running full blast, an attached bathroom with a recently wetted floor, a couple of complimentary prepasted toothbrushes on the bedside table, an erotic poster above the bedside mirrors and a small tv mounted in the corner. At $24 this would have to do for the night. After checking in and unpacking my sewn up bedsheet I headed to the store for supplies and crashed after watching a bad movie. The next morning I again 'chatted' with the receptionist (and appearently owner) about getting into a cheaper room and after some negotiating (at least I think it was negotiating) he showed me into a similar roomwith a single bed and a tiny window which I agreed upon, only afterwards lifting the pillow to find some long black hairs.. Aha! So that's why he wasn't so keen on renting it out.

The next day I did a bit of an ambling tour of the city and made my way to the hotel and casino zone. Macau is overlooked by a hilltop fortress built some time ago by the portrigese, and I must say I find it truly amazing that they had the foresight to precisely target what would be the exact location of the recently built Grand Libosa hotel with the cannons of this old colonial fortification; especially considering that the Grand Libosa Casino would relieve me of some 710 Patacas($90) a whopping 382 years after the the forts construction. Now all I needed was a cannon ball, and a bucket of shoddy Chinese fire crackers to extract sweet revenge on those viscous card sharks with their rigged slot machines and weak coffee! Alas it was not to be, for sadly the canon ball manufacturing industry seems to have fallen into decline since cannons lost public interest some hundred years ago.. So short of breaking into a war museum and making off with 200lbs of warped antique metal then hauling it up the hundreds of stone steps that wind their way to the hilltop fortress I was left only to dream of such revenge...

With my Macau budget running low I resorted to a near exclusive diet of cheap noodles served in the cities back alley eateries where no English is spoken. Ordering was often interesting, and I pretty much had to settle for whatever I got served as questions like "sorry.. What kind of meat is this again?" were met with little more than blank looks or gestures of encouragement. I browsed the many shops and markets- minding my lack of disposable income, and checked out some of the sights of the city. Soon enough my three days in macau were ending and on the last morning I treated myself to a fresh mango breakfast which happened to be the best mango I've ever tasted (possibly influenced by the excess of noodles in my diet) and prepared for the trip back to Hong Kong. Between the money lost to gambling and the basic expences of living I was left with little more than the fare for my ferry ride.

Kuala Lumpur

2008-04-29T14:51:00.003+01:00

The plane landed a little before 11pm at the international low cost carrier terminal (LCCT) outside of Kuala Lumpur. I had learned some Indonesian in the days before my arrival and

quickly discovered that my entire vocabulary Indonesian was interchangeable with Malaysian- an unexpected treat! My return to Kuala Lumpur reaffirmed many of the observations that I had hesitantly made during my previous visit. Simply put, KL is a clean, orderly, law abiding, and architecturally impressive city with all of the above likely having some roots in its British occupation that ended some 50 years ago. The crippling effects of widespread corruption are, unlike India, not running rampant and unchecked here. The suburban sprawl that snakes out from the city center is made up of cute little red roofed houses as opposed to the rag tag slums that I have grown so accustomed to and there is a general feeling of success and progress in the air. Though Malaysians population is primarily Muslim I was not once disturbed by overzealous calls to prayer blared 20 decibels beyond the capacity of poorly made loudspeakers; the predominance of Islam is apparent here in other ways: the attire (the head scarf being very "in"), the media, and even in the countries flag. Despite the huge Muslim population Hindus have managed to make their mark with a substantial Indian population on the outskirts of ever bustling Chinatown (again likely due to old British rule). Upon my return to KL I promptly made my way to Chinatown and checked into a quirky budget hostel staffed by at the time by an obvious transvestite. Living chiefly on heaps of inexpensive noodles and satays (kebabs) I spent my 5 days in KL exploring the city and doing a ton of research online (which happens to be less expensive and more informative than drinking). After doing s few of the tourist things (I.e. Going up towers for the view and cycling through the ooh's and aah's) I landed smack in the middle of a massive 'western temple'! At first I was surprised at the parallels with some of the massive Hindu temples I'd seen: each god has his own little compartment where devotees go to pay tribute. Some of the more ferverous will spend a whole day making the rounds while others just poke their noses here and there in search of something special. Where western temples do substantially differ is in their Gods and the rewards reaped from them; you've got Armani, Billabong, Channel, Dior, Esprit, Fox, Gucci, Holister(&co), Indigo- the list goes on and on. The massive six story KLCC shopping center was perhaps the closest I've been to home in months; it was creepy. I decided to look around in wide eyed amazement at the countless accessories sold at astronomical prices. I ran a few numbers in my head... A Boss purse at over $400- that's over half the annual wages of a low class Indian peasant and about twenty times the price of the same thing in Chinatown! I guess that's the price of authenticity (assuming of course that it is indeed authentic and not a clever Chinese replica). After some time spent wandering this modern temple of consumerism I took a little 'time out' by the rather lovely fountain behind the mall. As I say there I noticed a substantial buzz of activity at the convention center next door and decided to see what was going on and whether I might be able to sneak in... Within a few minutes I found myself immersed in an enormous computer fair spanning 3 stories and packed solid with thousands of bargain seeking Malaysians. I let the latent geek inside of me out to play and spent a few hours checking out all the latest and greatest in unnecessary gadgets before realising the fact that I'd just finished condemning a shopping mall not so different from the geekfest that I'd thoughtlessly immersed myself in.. Whoops! Score one for hypocrisy.. Damn! Thankfully I didn't buy much other than a couple dirt cheap accessories that I hope were fabricated by inmates or Oompa-loompa's rather than children. I can't think of much more to say on KL other than that its pretty allright for a big city and certainly showcases Malaysia's success in keeping up with the times. Sadly I didn't get to see any more of Malaysia, so my impression of the place is unquestionably bias- but you work with what you get. After my 5 days in Malaysia I had a flight to catch to Macau- the other SAR (special administrative region) of China and a Portuguese colony up until 1991.

Return to the Great White North

2008-04-19T17:11:00.002+01:00

I flew out of Hong Kong this morning at about 1 am and landed last night in Vancouver at around 10pm (15 hour time difference). It was 1 degree and snowing. I was wearing shorts, sandals and a T-shirt and sorely unprepared for the cold. The whole time I had a big stupid grin on my face: watching big fluffy snow flakes illuminated by airport lighting as drifted down from the heavens to the earth, feeling a strange nostalgia for cold, withdrawing a wad of good'ol Canadian dollars- a currency I hadn't seen in months. I checked my messaged and learned that my niece Kyla happened to be working near the airport that night and would be able to give me a lift to my brothers place- a welcome surprise considering the alternative of busing into downtown Vancouver and heading to Hastings street at midnight on a snowy mid April Friday and hoping the hostels weren't full.

I must say I'm glad to be home- not that the trip was bad, it's just that the past bit of the trip has mostly been layover and not the kind of loose and free travel I prefer. Upon landing in Canada to snow and cold, with a wad of 20's in my wallet and surrounded by my own countrymen, knowing that they would all understand me if I spoke to them and that we shared cultural dispositions. With a line on some work upon my return to Toronto, a wonderful girlfriend who has patiently awaited my return, a pretty solid decision that I would accept the offer to attend York university, and a bunch of friends and family to catch up with... the future is looking pretty damned good and I just couldn't help but grin a big wide grin as I waited for my niece, the first familiar face I would see after months abroad, to come pick me up. So here I am at my brothers place on the outskirts of Vancouver, soon to head back to the Island to visit my mother, and soon after flying to what I hear is presently a much warmer Ontario.

Well, I still have to fill you in on my time in KL and China, but effectively the trip is over, the battle won, and I have returned a little more learned, a little more aware, and a little more appreciative of all the many things that we too often forget we have.

And so begins the next journey; the return to the 'real world', or perhaps the surreal world depending on your perspective. And life, as always, keeps on keeping on.

Hope to see you soon.
-Zac

Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

1 day left in Asia

2008-04-17T05:09:00.002+01:00

As the clock ticks and my flight to Vancouver approaches I find myself sitting in a pension in Macau that doubles as a brothel (cheapest room around.. They have to make their money somehow!). Yesterday I lost enough money in casinos to pay for a 2-3 weeks of moderate living in Nepal (though still sub-fiddlesticks by Vegas terms). As such my budget for china has taken a hit leaving me eating in the queer ambiance of back alley noodle stalls. Much of my time has been spent figuring out the next year of my life and doing heaps of research online. The tail end of this trip is fraught with introspection which has sadly removed me from the madness that goes on around me; which is good in some ways and bad in others. I'll have to fill in the gap of KL later, for now just figured I'd give you a little update.

By the by - I figure we're just over half way to getting Paapu a camel! I'll be sure to extract further funds from friends upon my return to Canada.

See you soon!
Zac

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Balikpappan, Borneo

2008-04-14T11:40:00.001+01:00

From Bali I headed to Balikpappan with four more days scheduled to hang out with Allyson&co before a brief return to Bali. On a stopover with a few hours to kill I sank into a copy of the Herald Tribune and read stories of Free Tibet rallies, an extinguished Olympic flame and a worried Russia once again speaking up against the eastward expansion of western elements beyond the fringes of the European continent (even though the EU promised they would stick to Europe and missile silos in Poland wouldn't do so much to help with a war against Iran as they would against, say, Russia or China).

It would appear the assertion of the American empire has over the past decade blundered so furiously and frequently that its domineering assertation over the global stage no longer goes in questioned, leaving a lot of room for speculation over what might happen in the near and distant future. With China and Russia back on the rise and a small pack of booming Asian and Latin American economies the western world might do well to start giving some serious consideration to its place in the future. Perhaps some day the precedent of intrusive and hypocritical foreign policies against less powerful or more complacent nations will come around to bite us on our asses.. But that's not the point of this blog, so back to the story!

When I finally arrived in Balikpappan and while I waited for my bag to appear I noticed a couple of guys casually loading bullets into revolvers at the desk of a prepaid taxi service. At first my brain tried to rationalize; they were gun shaped cigarette lighters or I had imagined it... But no- there were indeed a couple of guys in plain clothes loading individual bullets into the chambers of revolvers. Once loaded, one of them put his in wax paper then stuffed it down his shirt while the other out his in a cotton sack and put it down his pants, after which they both headed to a corner of the arrivals bay for a bit before vanishing... Can you say creepy? My bag arrived and I got the hell out of there, quickly finding Agus who'd been waiting to give me a lift (and who assured me that the whole gun thing was rather unusual).

We drove through downtown Balikpappan, which seemed to have a fair but going on despite the late hour, and then through what I mistook for military housing but turns out to be a compound for oil company employees. On the outskirts (and thus minutes from work) we pulled into the house- heavily renovated from its original Indonesian design to make it feel more homey and with an ocean view from the kitchen table.

Now as I'd previously mentioned, most of Indonesia is Muslim; though Bali is an exception to this, Balikpappan is not. As such at least half a dozen mosques broadcast their call to prayer five times daily with the volume cranked on failing loudspeakers and occasional oppressive and discordant vocals; sometimes I chose to join them in shouting incomprehensible off key melodies from Allys back yard (probably inadvisable upon some reflection).

For the next three days I chilled out with the family, continued to play catch up with Ally as I picked her ex-pat brain on a variety of topics, We hit the night market to check it out and get a few DVD, and I worked away in Agus's silver workshop under his expert guidance (results classified). Ally provided an endless flow of leftover pastries from her extremely condensed English course and Agus introduced me to just about every kind of deep fried soy bean I could imagine (don't worry - there was healthy food too!).

Soon enough the day of my departure was at hand, and after a final round of farewells I hopped on a plane headed back towards Bali for my final two days there.

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An Oasis or a Mirage?

2008-04-12T21:47:00.002+01:00

A mirage is an optical illusion caused by super heated air at ground level giving the heated area the fluid appearance of a liquid such as water when viewed from a distance. In deserts worldwide these illusions are often mistaken for a pool of water or oasis, but when approached they simply vanish- revealing nothing but hot sand.

I have recently had such an oasis vanish before my eyes; they called it Oasis Hong Kong. When I checked my email late last night I was surprised to see a message from the airline that I'd booked my ticket back to Canada with, and upon reading the email I began to seriously worry. The company had gone belly up and was undergoing liquidation, all flights canceled!! Yippie!

With 9 days before my scheduled flight I understandably became somewhat panicked; at $350 they were unquestionably the cheapest ticket home, and I knew competition for any other cheap tickets would be intense considering the thousands of other budget travelers that would also be impacted. I didn't have much flexibility in dates due to other non refundable reservations so I had to move fast.

The next four hours were spent looking through dozens of airlines and travel sites, checking for flights between April 16th-21st for cheap flights departing and major airports in south east Asia to Vancouver. I ran well over a hundred searches and the best I could come up with was twice the price of Oasis (three times my expected cost of return if I don't get a refund for the initial ticket!). By 2am I was pretty wiped and had done about all I could. I'd found reasonable fares with Air Canada and United, but the cheapest was an unknown company 'Eva Air' (which I was tempted to book as Eva is the name of my gorgeous girlfriend who patiently awaits my return), but after a few calls to airlines that had offered to help out with the Oasis ordeal I found out that Cathay Airways was giving a huge discount that neared my initial ticket cost for people with Oasis tickets scheduled prior to April 23rd from Vancouver to Hong Kong. As I was flying the opposite direction I had to wait for the HK office to open at 9am.

I headed back to my hostel and passed out for 5 hours before heading back to the internet cafe to see where things stood, and within a couple hours I had a confirmed ticket from HK to Van for a reasonable price (though a couple days earlier than initially planned) and had sent in my paperwork for a refund on the Oasis ticket.

Now I find myself with 6 days left on the Asian continent and ready for an early night tonight.

I guess that's the price you pay for saving money on discount airlines; sometimes the Oasis disolves before your very eyes, leaving you stumbling through the desert thirsty, hot and tired... Or something like that.
Z

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Bali, Island of the Gods

2008-04-12T17:05:00.001+01:00

I landed at the Depanser international airport a little after 7pm and worked my way through immigration. I recall seeing a sign over the immigration desk that read "Mandatory death penalty for drug smugglers", I guess that's one way to get the point across! After a quick run through Immigration, collecting my bags, and making my way through customs (hoping that nothing I had with me constituted as a 'drug' here, i.e. Caffine, Indian 'beadie' cigarettes, Tylenol, sleeping pills, IB Profin, some strange pain killers that an Indian pharmacist had told me were unbranded Tylenol, Imodium, a heap of antimalarials that I haven't bothered trying and so on). Lucky for me I passed through without a death sentence (phew!) or even a second glance. Outside the airport I was met by Allyson, my cousin, her son Mykah and her fiance Agus. We headed to Sanur and checked into a swank hotel, or at least by my standards, with posh balconies overlooking the gardens surrounding a swimming pool. I had a beef steak for dinner that night- Mmmm.. I guess the Hindu culture here has a different take on the consumption of bovines, a welcome treat in my case! Ally and I stayed up and chatted late into the night smoking Kretek cigarettes (with the added goodness of cloves) and in my case drinking Bintang beer. The groggy morning that followed was assisted by a cup of Indonesian coffee (1: put grounds into cup. 2: add hot water) and a light continental breakfast. From Sanur we began the 3-4 hour trip up the mountains and back down to the lovely town Lovina. En route we stopped at an eco-resort where we soaked up the scenery of mountainside rice fields while I was exposed to a few tasty local dishes. It was Mykah's birthday and he was just itching to get back to the place that he calls home- his main birthday wish being a sunset on the beaches of Lovina; we made it in the nick of time, delayed by a festival related traffic jam and a quick stop at the family home to pick up Allyson's mother Sherri. Once we hit the beach Mykah promptly stripped down for his birthday swim in the ocean encrusted with volcanic sand on a beautiful beach as the sun tucked away behind Java's volcanoes. Back at Agus's family home we had a bite to eat and continued to catch up on the many years since our last visit and on years before that.

Ally, Mykah, Agus and Sherri stayed for a few days before heading off to Borneo, where Ally teaches English for oil tycoons, and in Sherri's case back to Canada. I decided to stick around Agus's family home for a few days to get a peek at the real Balinese lifestyle. I spent a few days hanging out with Putu, Kadek, Maday, Maday, Kadek and another child whose name I've sadly forgotten. It might be worth noting here that traditional names in Bali aren't gender specific and reflect ones caste and the order in which a child is born, for example: a firstborn child of the lower caste will be named Putu. Now then, Kadek is Agus's older brother (and is set to become the family preist), he's married to Putu and has two sons; one of which being Kadek. Maday is the father of the family and Maday is the mother (one of Maday's four wives). Confused yet? Moving right along, I stayed in the cozy in-law suite that Sherri had occupied for the past few months and was served tasty authentic Balinese dishes by Putu daily. Maday offered to rent me his motorcycle for about $4/day and also got me a 20% discount on scuba diving for being part of the extended family. I spent most of my time chilling out with the family and using what little Indonesian I'd picked up to hack and slash my way through simple conversations, often supplementing my lack of vocabulary with English. One day I headed to an island for a couple of dives and saw some lovely coral and heaps of fish as well as an octopus (sweet!) and a massive sea turtle.

Soon enough I had to head to the southern tip of the island for my upcoming flight to Borneo. I said my goodbyes and took a bus to Kuta the day before my flight... Kuta is a hell of a different Bali compared to Lovina. Lovina is a strip of laid back villages and the locals are super chill, Kuta is a foreigner swarmed tourist ghetto with surfing and partying as the primary pass times. The city seemingly sprawls without end and in fact has in recent years connected with the cities north and south of it. Endless lanes of shops, money changers, 'massage parlours' travel agents, tour organizers, motorcycle rentals, Internet cafes, bars and restaurants wind towards the beach and the main street is more of the same plus a number of fancy night clubs catering to drunken surfers and sun worshipers. An endless sea of tourists; from Holland, Australia, Sweden, Norway, Russia, France, America, Canada, and a long list of others that I've been unable to identify. I managed to track down a fairly cheap hotel and found the cheap food stalls that locals eat at, though still ended up blowing a wad of cash on a few souvenirs, a fair amount of beer and a few fancy western meals. I met a couple of cool Aussies and ended up staying up pretty late chatting with them and a table of other quirky travelers before a crazed Brit whose mind had obviously been twisted by a stint in Vietnam sent everyone packing. Before they bailed I agreed to meet up with the Aussies and some Canadian friends of theirs when I returned from Borneo. The next day I spent a bit more time on the beach before taking a cab to the airport and catching my flight to Balikpappan on Borneo.

-McSurf'n'Turf?

Bye bye Bali high

2008-04-10T12:55:00.001+01:00

On a flight back to Kuala Lumpur, only another 10 days left abroad!! Very hung over after meeting a big group of people and partying late into the night.. Yikes, back to the real world damned soon! Zac
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Answer to a prayer?

2008-04-08T11:18:00.005+01:00

Many of you might have read my previous post 'A Prayer for Puja', regarding the plight of an impoverished family living on the outskirts of Pushkar. I've recently made touch with Paapu and with the continued enthusiasm I've received from my Mother, I've decided to try and help them out.

Paapu was a guide for camel treks, similar to the one I did in Jaisalmer before he and his family befell a series of unfortunate events that landed them in destitute poverty. The plan: Buy Paapu a Camel. The cost of a workable camel that would give this family a capacity to earn a reasonable income is roughly $300-400; not really so much by North American terms- hell, a lot of people blow that on a night out or a hotel room! Think about it- this is an opportunity to truly make a massive difference in the lives of a destitute Indian family and give their children a chance at something more than just the hope of a brighter future.

I'm still sorting out the exact details on how to do this, but it shouldn't be overly complex. The plan as it stands is to collect donations and wire them to an account in Paapu's name. From there he would be able to pick up a camel at the next Pushkar Camel Fair or even sooner. I'd obviously expect updates from him to ensure that he did indeed pull through in purchasing the camel, though as it stands I don't see any better way to go about it. From my experience with this family I fully believe that this would literally be an answer to their prayers.

If you're interested in contributing or have ideas/feedback on this, please do not hesitate to e-mail me at zachamo@hotmail.com. If you have any family or friends who might consider donating feel free to give them the link to my blog.

Thank you all for reading this!

-Zac

Chennai

2008-04-04T12:48:00.001+01:00

The long overdue conclusion to India!

My train pulled into Chennai on March 24th at about 3pm; having departed from Hampi mid afternoon the day before that meant over 24 hours in transit. The trip had taken my by local bus from Hampi to Hospet, then by sleeper class in a train to Bangalore (in which I arrived at about 6am as per prior blog), then onward to Chennai in a second class chair car. I'd been kept up late in the train to Chennai chatting with a retired Aussie and being force fed fist fulls of deliciously flavored rice served with curd on a chapatti. A groggy two hour layover in Bengalore (the place your call gets routed with most 1-800 numbers) ended with me passing out doubled over an empty bench in the chair car. When the train finally landed in Chennai I was greeted by the stifling breezeless mid day heat of the 'hotter' season (which lands somewhere between the 'hot' and the 'hot as hell' seasons, or so I'm told).

With vague directions I made my way to the inner city train station and piled into a train car marked 'Vendors' (beside the one marked 'Ladies' which held about a 50/50 gender mix) with a mass of southern Indians. I hopped off the train at Koddambakkam station and took a rickshaw to Kollywood's 'director colony', where most film directors of southern India's Tamil language movie industry tend to reside (which turned out to be a little less interesting than I'd hoped). I met up with a couchsurfer named Ramki who I'd arranged as a host for my time in town and after a few sips of homemade wine we worked our way into a long conversation about nothing and everything, then he cooked me up a tasty egg dosa with coconut chutney. That evening a few of his friends stopped by for drinks, and the festivities carried on ad exhaustion. The next morning I tagged along to an early game of badminton with Ramki & co and even took a shot at batting at the birdie for a round. Over the following days I used Ramki's bicycle to get around the nearby regions of Chennai's vast urban sprawl (this being India's 3rd largest city yet having no real downtown). I took the train to Egmore, a popular place with foreigners, and explored an impressive museum/art gallery. I got a tour of the city from a rickshaw driver who took me to an English fort from the 1600's , a church (built over St Thomas' burial sight) , a Hindu temple, the city's rather lovely and expansive beach, and finally to a couple of overpriced boutiques that pay rickshaw drivers a commission for dropping foreigners on them which helped to keep my fare down.

Each night Ramki's place would host a variety of drinking buddies, and each day the solar furnace cranked the heat up a little higher. On my final day in India I changed most of my remaining monies, leaving myself a slim budget that nearly failed me, and continued to explore the city. That night I picked up a bottle of rum for Ramki, though kept my own drinking to a minimum. I headed off toward the airport at around 10pm, taking the inner city train followed by a quick rickshaw ride. After a number of unnecessary complications that gave me a final reminder of the madness of Indian bureaucracy I managed to get on to my 2am flight that would end my travels in India and take me onward to Kuala Lumpur.

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Bali High

2008-04-02T11:21:00.004+01:00

Enjoying my time in Bali living with extended family. Just completed a couple sweet scuba dives today and am winding down from that. I'm soon off to Borneo (that's right!) for a few days before returning to Bali, heading to Malaysia, then to Macau/Hong Kong, then Vancouver, then Toronto... none of the above lasts more than 5 days... Busy Busy Busy! Wish me luck!
-Zindonesiac

KL

2008-03-29T12:07:00.001Z

The plane took off after I wished India farewell and within a few hours I touched down in the Kuala Lumpur international airport (the fancy one as opposed to the discount one in which I presently sit). Running on roughly 2 hours of aerosleep I drowsily proceeded through the airport, stopping briefly to use a free internet browsing console and taking a moment to appreciate the comforting sterile beauty of the airport. My beard has grown to Castronian proportions and in wearing my simple green revolutionary-esque cap I had some concern that I might be mistaken for a terrorist.

I hopped on the train between terminals and proceeded through immigration. I passed through without any immigration paperwork to fill nor questions asked; my passport was stamped and returned after a cursory glance. When I arrived at the baggage claim my bag was immediatley within sight (a suprising treat compared to the usual hour long wait back home). I headed towards customs expecting the usual declaration forms, x-ray scans and explainations, but I was simply waved through the whole process without a second glance... There I was; in Malaysia without a single form to fill or question to answer... What a change from India already!!

A man approached me asking if I already had a hotel booked. I tried to explain that whatever he had to offer was out of my league, having only about $60 worth of malaysian ringgets with me, but he insisted and showed me flyers for a variety of hotels priced at $40 and up.. Finally I told him I was not willing to pay more than $10 and he promptly disappeared. I tracked down the bus stand and purchased a ticket to Chinatown, where I'd read there were all the cheapest hotels.

An hour long ride of dozing and I had arrived. Upon disembarking the bus I was greeted with the shockingly clean and orderly city that is KL. Surrounded by towering sky scrapers and wife orderly streets I proceeded into the streets and alleys of Chinatown in search of a much needed bed. I checked into one of the many "backpacker hostels" and decided to explore a little. After a few hours of wandering and getting my bearings I grabbed a quick bite of BBQ pork fried rice and headed back to the hotel for a nap. Five hours later (10pm) I awoke and watched a poor quality copy of 'the golden compass' with some other travelers. At midnight I headed out again in hunger and wandered the streets. During a bite of saucy wormlike noodles (creepy) with a mix of unidentifiable animal bits and pieces mixed in (liver and tripe I think) a fight broke out between a couple of malays outside the restaurant. One looked like he was trying to kickbox with no idea how to do so and the other had akwardly wedged a key between his knuckles... They were obviously either hammered or incompotent. After the rather uneventful fight broke up I headed to a net cafe and got caught up in a bad film playing in their lobby about a carrot loving gunslinger trying to save a random baby from hundreds of gun happy bad guys.

I got back to my hotel at about 2:30 am to a locked gate. After ringing the bell a half dozen times and doing some shouting I have a go at picking the lock to no avail... After a few more rings someone finally came to let me in and I retired to my quarters. I slept in late, still catching up on sleep, and had to check out soon after. Before I could fit down to breakfast I was on a bus to the discount terminal of the airport to catch my flight to Bali. After a Mcquarterpounderwithcheese (I say it quickly for my shame) I proceeded through security and checked my bag (having to pay the last of my ringgets for having 16 kilos rather than 15). A quick stop at immigration and brief stop at the carry on security counter and I arrived here, at the departure lounge. Considering all the steps between arrival at the airport and getting to departures had taken a whopping 2 hours in India, I was much suprised to be here within half an hour... The impression I get of Malaysia is that it is an organized and progressive country, largely westernized and highly efficient. Laws are obeyed here and I would assume enforced as well. What a difference from India - the sprawling lawless make work project boasting a sixth of the world population. The contrast between here and there is immence, and I am somewhat suprised to say that I'm glad for it.

Anyhow, my battery is nearly dead as I have no means of charging it in this country, and as I will be back in Malaysia within a couple of weeks there is no point in rambling on with initial impressions now. Onward to Bali, where I will meet up with some family and probably do some more scuba diving. Paradise, here I come.
-Zmalaysiac (soon to be Zbaliac)

Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

The Departure

2008-03-27T20:08:00.001Z

After three months in India I have become accoustomed to eating meals with my hands, I know most of the scams by heart and no longer pay tourist prices, I wobble my head like a dashboard bobblehead and I know enough Hindi to at least evoke a round of smiles at a chai stop. I am no longer nervous in the video game traffic ('you have 5 lives remaining!') and I've learned to take things as they come. This place no longer feels foreign to me and in many ways I have begin to feel at home.. Alas; this is the end of my time in India. The final hours slip through my fingers like s fist full of sand as I await the flight to Malaysia. I brood upon the the many experiences this adventure has provided and wonder what further adventures are to come. Officially 'Zindiac' comes to an end, though for another month the surrounding adventure continues.. There is so much I could say about this place of mischief and magic, but words fail me now.

Soon begins adventure anew- the return to a thawing northland and the rebirth of spring. I still lack any certainty on what will happen when I get 'home', though I intend to buy a motorcycle and attend a post secondary educational institution. We cannot hope to know the future, and the more we strive to control it the more we are lost to the present.

The plane is boarding now.. I'll have to catch up on my time in chennai later.. For now I bid farewell to incredible India and all that comes with it.

So here it is: goodbye, fare well, and maybe even an 'until next time'..

-Z(indi)ac
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

Somewhere over the Rainbow

2008-03-26T12:30:00.000Z

Exploring Hampi's river banks and boulderous mountains, wandering through six hundred year old temples in varying states of ruin with their countless depictions of Hindu gods (some of whom I've come to recognize and others who remain a mystery) made for a great pass time. I wandered up and down the hills and took shelter from the daily rainstorms in temples and chai stalls. I explored the ruins of old Hampi- a once massive and beautiful city now no less beautiful in it's ruin, all set in that landscape of those precariously balanced Goliaths of stone crowned with teetering temples.

Holi came on the 22nd of March in a rainbow of vibrant color. Though I have yet to learn the basis of this celebration, I certainly participated in the heavily pigmented festivities. Though drugs and alcohol are banned in Hampi it was obvious that a number of people, primarily Indians, were off their rockers on bhang and whisky. The streets were pounding with reverberating drum beats and throngs of multicolored holi-gans. Within a minute of joining the bumping and jumping crowd fueled by drum song I was assaulted by clouds of multicolored tika powder and gout's of tinted water. As the morning drew on the lunatic crowd grew ever more colorfully fervorent as kilos of brilliant tika powder and hundreds of liters of dyed water washed away the distinction between the Indians and the foreigner.

The festival was supposed to end at 1:00pm but continued well beyond the cut off. A few locals who hadn't participated and left home expecting all to be safe were promptly marked with color as the police gradually directed the crowd towards the river where the drumming, dancing, and waves of color were washed away in it's turbulent flow. My shorts and shirt (not to mention my skin and hair) were thoroughly dyed with over a dozen tones, most of which refused to wash out. By mid afternoon the stains of the days festivities stood fast on the faces of the participants and a the victims of the color mob which had ravaged the streets leaving a rainbow of powder and puddles in their wake.

After the end of Holi-day my explorations continued, passing time as the date of my departure neared when I would leave for Chennai; a meager three days of India remaining in the agenda.

With my time in India totaling less than three months it seems several times that has come to pass. What a place this is... One that is nearly impossible to truly capture in words for all of its diversity and contradictions. Despite all that I have seen and learned here I know that I have only begun to peel away the layers of incredible India. Many experiences, thoughts, observations and interactions have gone unchronicled in this long yet brief adventure. There is simply too much here to capture, too much to be said. A novel could be written on even this minuscule glimpse of India, and yet there is so much more here! Only in India.... Only in India.

Bangalore

2008-03-25T01:09:00.001Z

As the train pulls into bangalore I say goodbye to the Australian who endured a two hour long interrogation regarding our countries economics and social norms. As I step out of the sleeper car I am greeted be a beautiful sunrise over the park like train platform and waves of fresh aromatic coffee, perhaps one of my favourite smells to wake up to. I am left with a good initial impression and wish I had time to explore, but alas... The train onwards is soon to arrive and it is one I have to catch. I have 8 hours of second class wooden seating to look forward to before landing in chennai and tracking down a couch surfer who is willing to host me..

Here I am with 68 hours left in India.. And I can't believe it's over already.
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

Hampi

2008-03-24T07:56:00.009Z

Greetings from the 'bould' capital of India; Hampi, boasting over 500 Hindu temples strewn amidst a vast and captivating landscape of enormous boulders. When I heared 'o this place I thinksed to meself "temples and rocks... Can't wait to get there!".

I took the 12 hour overnight bus from Panaji and quickly discovered that I was set to sleep in a double berth rather than the usual single.. My bed, like the one crammed in beside it, was obviously made to measure for a gaunt midget (or is 'little person' or 'vertically challenged' more politically correct?), and the notion of sharing such a cramped space with a complete stranger was a little less than favorable (i.e. dreadful). Luckily the bedspace beside mine was empty for the beginning of the trip- though with half a dozen stops en route there was little hope for this to remain the case. Considering the difficulty I could expect in getting any proper rest, I popped a couple of valuims that I'd shadily acquired for dire circumstances such as this. I awoke several times through the night as the bus leapt over potholes and came to its abrupt screeching halts along the way. I do have a few vague memories of semi conscious observation- the most vivid of which began with "your ticket has 6A sir"... Terror set in. I was in 6B! I'd been expecting this moment for some time but now that it was upon me I was utterly unprepared. Semi consciously pondering how I would make it through the night in a bed the size of a Gary Colemans coffin (not that he's dead to my knowledge) shoulder to shoulder with some snoring English bear!

I sat up and tried to shake off my drowsiness to prepare for my inevitable companion when a string of words magically flowed from the strangers mouth: "you mean I'm sharing with him! No no no." and the reply "yes sir, no problem. You wait only 6 minute and other bed will be empty." Hallelujah! Glorious freedom! I had long ago resigned myself to India though this man had obviously not yet given up fighting. I stretched across the luxuriously spacious double berth, knowing it to be mine all mine, and soaking up every free inch of it with sprawled out limbs.

I was roused from my slumber on a few more occasions to be greeted by hazy glimpses of beautiful barren landscapes glowing in the early morning light before dozing off again into my chemically assisted slumber. Eventually I was fully roused from my dreams to the breathtakingly picturesque boulders that I had previously doubted having any potential beauty. I stared out the window wide eyed thinking "I want to get out, right now, and run up those mountainous heaps of stone. To explore their caverns and crevices, to climb to their precarious peaks and survey the surrounding hills and valleys".

As the bus rolled into Hampi an icing of ancient temples glazed those many heaping cakes of stone. I checked into the first hotel that was offered and got out to begin exploring town, no longer doubtful of the potential of temples and stones.

Humm..... but what happened in Hampi??

Videos!

2008-03-22T13:19:00.004Z

Hey Folks,

I've posted some of my video's for you. The quality isn't perfect, but at least they're not the rubbish stills that you're used to getting! Enjoy!!

The Return North

2008-03-22T11:33:00.002Z

From Murudeshwar I drove north, thinking of that quaint little cabin I'd rented a week before on the end of the beach in Arambol. After a few hours I knew I was getting near, but I eventually realized that I must have missed a turn. I backtracked for the better part of an hour before I found the sign with the chipped paint that I'd nearly missed the previous time I'd rolled into town. My cabin was empty and after negotiating a little bit of a discount based to my previous tenure I was settled right back in. I found a lot of the people that I'd met before were still around town; some of whom had been there for months and had no real plans on leaving soon. The tourist season was near its end and many of the guesthouses and restaurants were closing as the heat at this time of the year was simply too much for tourists. I spent a lot of time on the beach, drinking beer and having long conversations with the friends I'd made. I spent most of my time at a place called Om Bar, which made home to quite an interesting and quirky crew. There was the Buddha, a.k.a. 'Brad Pitt', a portly Brit with a thick cockney accent who endlessly spouted evidence of complicated conspiracies and other such 'coincidences'. There was a jordie (someone from Newcastle) named Kev whose thick and wiry back hair looked tougher than steel wool. Then there was the bartender "Ditch", or 'The Doctor', who endlessly pressured the residents into drinking en mass and was rather jovial and cordial until he isolated someone who he determined he wasn't too fond of (which tended to be nuveau riche Russians who arrogantly flaunted their money), at which point he would drunkenly snarl at their every request and all but throw them out of the bar. You could never pay your bill by the end of the night, as Ditch was usually as smashed as you were; as we all know, beer and mathematics don't mix. On Saint Patty's day we got heavy into it.. A crew of us headed to a nearby beach for the occasion and proceeded to get trashed. By the time the time morning rolled in my plans of an early departure were promptly quashed by a brutal hangover. I managed to pack my bike and began to wonder whether I would be roadworthy by the afternoon.. I had a light breakfast of eggs and toast accompanied by a bodum of strong coffee. A few litres of water, a couple glasses of fresh 'ornage juice', and a few hours later I did a round of goodbyes and left Arambol for a second time- this time returning to Panaji so that I could pick up my left luggage and return the rented bike.

I rolled into town at supper time and checked into a hotel just down the street from the memorably flea-ridden Hotel Elite. That night I woke up to.... can you guess? FLEAS! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I hereby dub Panaji (formerly Panjim) "El Cidade da Pulga", or Flea City. The next morning I was dotted with over 50 bites which I promptly showcased to the hotels management. They fully replaced my bed and washed my personal bedsheet, though offered no apology nor compensation.. Lucky for them the second night was flealess. On my last day with the bike I headed off to Old Goa, the former capital a few kilometers north of Panaji, where there are about half a dozen old churches and cathedrals from the Portuguese days which are apparently among the largest in Asia! Neat to see- especially one massive one that had fallen into ruin nearly 200 years ago. After reluctantly returning the bike to it's owner and giving him a bonus helmet, I prepared from my overnight bus to Hampi.

Murudeshwar

2008-03-22T10:47:00.002Z

I made it to Murudeshwar after sunset but just before dark- just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of the enormous Shiva that towers over the oceanfront. Along the way there I had a couple scares including a 'drop' in an emergency stop to avoid crashing into a rickshaw going the wrong way in a small roundabout. The roads here are pure anarchy: buses will try to pass a chain of overloaded lorries by driving straight into oncoming traffic (they don't treat motorcycles as vehicles and seem to have no qualms in driving them off the road), cows absent mindedly lumber through the roads and stop occasionally to obviously stare at the passing traffic, you pass accidents and wrecks in frequent intervals and occasionally the one and a half lane highway cuts down to the better part of one lane for two way traffic. Chickens, locals, dogs, children, pigs, roadkill and feasting crows all present threats to the motorcyclist, and when they're not around you find yourself weaving around discarded coconut husks, heaps of rubbish and abandoned construction materials. Almost every turn is a blind one, so the 'defensive drivers' tend to do you the courtesy of a warning honk as they bomb through the turn at high speeds in the wrong lane. The bumps are so frequent that I'd consider starting up a business founded solely on the sale of motorcycle shocks and suspension accessories. Half the vehicles are far short of roadworthy, and you can only cringe as you watch the wobbling tires of an overloaded bus struggle against forces beyond their designs intended tolerance. Luckily the speeds are slower than back home, pretty much maxing out at 70km per hour and tending to hover between 35-55 km/h due to road conditions and the abundance of slow moving commercial vehicles.
If all of that wasn't enough, there is of course the factor of the signs which are mostly indiscernible squiggles and dots that leave me guessing at whether that was an advertisement or an important warning. Passing through towns often means unmarked forks in the road leaving you to try your luck and hope the one you chose will get you back onto the highway instead of coming to a dead end at uncle Rajbinder's rice farm. All in all its a hell of an adventure and frequently a hell of a rush, this driving in India.

Murudeshwar is a small coastal town that boasts a few big resorts for upper class Indian tourists and a four armed 40m high Shiva statue that looms ominously over the shoreline. About a quarter of the beach is used by tourists, the rest being mostly abandoned by all but the locals who've gone a little out of town to 'cop a squat' and leave a little present for the ocean gods (left). I went to Murudeshwar for the scuba diving more than anything else, but I found it to be a nice break from deluge of foreign tourists that flooded Goa and Gokarna. From what I'm told few 'gora's' (literally 'white') like me pass through town, and most that do go for the diving. Over the three days that I stayed I saw a total of 3 other white skinned folk, and this is in a town boasting no more than a few thousand inhabitants. It was also damned refreshing to see a fairly thorough south Indian menu with nothing priced over $0.75, and though my hotel room did cost about $13 per night it was one of the roomier ones I've stayed in through the trip and even had a TV (mmm.. Television).

The day after my arrival I headed off for a couple dives with the bearish instructor from northern India who looked as though he could have been Hawaiian. We sorted out out gear then headed off to the beach where we loaded it all into a small fishing boat. We cruised along for an hour, powered by a small outboard motor, before we met up with another boat whose engine had apparently cut out on them the night before and left them stranded. After passing over a spare motor brought from shore we were treated to a tasty snack of tuna boiled in sea water before continuing on towards the dive site. Soon enough we were anchored near Pigeon Island and suiting up for a dive. We did a quick review of hand signals before doing a backwards roll off the side of the boat. For an hour we were submerged at depths up to 20 meters; we explored endless under water fields of boulders sparsely populated by corals, a wide variety of tropical fish, moray eels, and exploded shells larger than me that had been discarded by the Navy. After the first dive I noticed that the backs of my ankles was pretty worn down by my fins, so after a lunch of fresh fish we took the second dive a little more slowly through similar scenery on another part of the island before heading back into town. By the time we returned it was nearing sunset and I was exhausted. I went out for dinner and drew quite a crowd of observers as I ate a dirt cheap fish thali with my hands. I was asked a barrage of questions before heading back to my hotel room and spending a few hours in front of the boob tube before passing out cold. In the morning I took a nice long walk along the beach before I saddled up and headed out of town, working my way north with no particular destination in mind.

Shiva's Banana Powered Chariot

2008-03-20T15:29:00.000Z

Waves of midday heat pummeled me as I rode down highway #17 towards Gokarna. I rode along between the buses and lorries, over pot holes measuring roughly 4 inches deep and two feet long, through beautiful scenery that I rarely had a chance to see lest I risk my life and limbs in averting my eyes from the endless barrage of hazards ahead and behind. At one point I hit a really big pot hole while cruising at about 65km/h and heard a loud bang. The car behind me honked and passed me, waving his hand out the window in the common hand signal that seems to say either 'slow down', 'stop', 'thanks', 'sorry', or 'I'm turning this way', so I looked back and noticed that my some of luggage had come loose and was dangling off the side of the bike dangerously near the rear wheel. I quickly pulled over in as safe a spot as I could find and took a minute to assess the situation; one bag had come loose and the sturdy silk parachute rope I'd used to tie it down with had caught in part of the rear wheel assembly, presumably causing the bang that I'd heard as the military grade rope messily tore in two. A few feet of rope had remained wedged in an axle and had been dragging behind the bike. I took a few minutes to unwedge the rope from the axle and retie my bag before it sank in that this could have easily enough locked my rear wheel and send my flying over the handle bars at a fairly high speed with a car tailing close behind... yikes! needless to say I became much more careful in how I tied my bags down after that one.

Riding in the intense heat and humidity while wearing a full face helmet, long pants, socks, shoes, and a black denim jacket is nearly unbearable. By the time I finally arrived in Gokarna I was an exhausted sweaty mess in desperate search of a hotel room and a cool drink. The Shivaratri festival was a few days off, set to start on the 6th of March, and I didn't really have much of a plan. I'd almost expected rooms to be full, lucky for me the masses of pilgrims that infiltrated the small beach town mostly stay in temples and places of religious orientation leaving the hotels relatively uncrowded. I checked into a tiny room that seemed to have been converted from an office space on the third floor of a hotel near the beach and after filling out all of the monotonous paperwork that India's bureaucratic monster demands I unpacked the bike and moved into my temporary and minuscule abode.

The next few days were spent watching the streets slowly fill with thousands of Hindu pilgrims while the festival's preparations neared completion. I became totally absorbed in the book Shantaram, an epic tome of a novel about an Australian heroine junkie turned criminal who escaped prison and fled to Bombay- becoming a slum doctor, a mafioso, and a player in the Afghani jihad against Russia. My obsessive reading turned me fairly antisocial as I waited for the festival to begin. As the beginning of Shivaratri neared the Hindu's started coming out in packs: there were the Sadhus, the rat tailed head shavers, the merchants, the beggars, the farmers, the elegant saris of wealthy women, the police in full force, the loin cloth wearers and the robe bearers.. Hinduism is so rich in its diversity and history that I feel I've hardly scratched the surface of it.. Then again, at about 5000 years old that shouldn't be a big surprise. Shivaratri began with two days of puja at the main shiva temple while the massive chariot was prepared for a pelting with bananas and then a short foot powered trip down the street. A long line formed at the temples doorway that snaked through several blocks as pilgrims waited for their turn to give offerings and ask blessings. The street to the beach was lined with rows of beggars camping out on blankets. Those widows, lepers, amputees, cripples, midgets, old men pretending to be sadhus, children, the unfit and the unwell, all looking for a hand out and maybe a little miracle. A legion of men and women of young and old wearing the sorry stories of lifelong hardships in the ceaseless creases of their pleading faces. Their hope and pride had long ago been quashed, leaving them little more than a dharma of 'atonement' through suffering in hopes of a better life next time. To these folk no child aught be born, for no innocence should be made to suffer the hopeless wretchedness of such a pitiful existence. To cave and toss some change to one of those wretched souls is to invite a frenzied barrage from their neighbors, driven harder by your display of compassion. They survive primarily on karma- that is to say that the more wealthy tend to drop a rupee here and there for their own karmic sake; lucky for these beggars karma seeking Hindu's walked up and down their lines with heaping bags of rice, giving hand fulls to those who asked and even some who didn't.

On the third day of the festival I packed my bags, planning to ride onward in the afternoon and cover the 70 kilometers that separated Gokarna from Murudeshwar. I'd been told there was some worth while scuba diving down there, Goa having a bad reputation for low visibility and uninteresting sites, and decided to check it out. The final day of Shivaratri was all about the giant chariot of Shiva; at roughly 30-35 meters tall this Shiva chariot towered above even the largest buildings in town. The scale and intricacy of the chariot led me to ponder what lengths these folk would go to were there in fact a living god here demanding such tributes, the wonders that might be made in hopes of a divine blessing (or perhaps just in fear of retribution). Bananas were sold for pennies and thrown in great quantity at Shiva's great chariot- offerings to the great and mighty god. After several hours of priests going up the stairs into the chariot while being pelted by bananas and offering their prayers, the stairs were finally removed and the heavy duty ropes attached to the great Shivabarrow were taken up by hundreds of pilgrims. They heaved and hauled in the tug of war against the inertia of the behemoth chariot- eventually getting the wheel to turn and beginning it's relatively short journey down the street.

Having tossed a few bananas of my own I felt sufficiently Shivafied to leave Gokarna shortly after the cart was out of sight. I hopped back on my bike and began a sunset cruise down to Murudeshwar, home of a 40m tall Shiva statue and some shitty beach (literally!).

Yay for Shiva!!!

South of Goa

2008-03-19T03:14:00.002Z

I was out on the open highway headed to the northern coast of Goa to get me a long overdue piece of that sweet, salty and sandy beach time. The first destination was Arambol, a small beach near the northern tip of Goa that I been told was super laid back and full of hippies. I spent that first day on the bike passing through a smattering foreigner-invaded beach towns and through the lush forests and fields that lay in between. I stopped for a little while to cool down with some fresh watermelon juice at a small roadside beach. The walk from the road to the beach involved crossing a rickety bamboo bridge set between near identical bridges on either side that had obviously not withstood the test of time (see the photo). The first thing I saw on the other side was a restaurant with 'The End Of The World' painted on it's side and immediatley I found my face set with a big toothy smile. Not long after my refresher was complete I was back on the road North. I arrived in Arambol and within an hour I tracked down a small room rented out by a laid back Goan widow whose accent sounded surprisingly Caribbean.

Arambol is indeed a laid back beach town compared to many that I'd seen en route, though it is still swamped with tourism. I proceeded to spend the next few days chilling on the beach, enjoying the endless supply of sunshine, fresh fish, cold beer and all the wonderful gratisfaction that comes with it all. I was still recovering from the flea epidemic of Panaji, and it seemed that I'd carried a few of the buggers along with me.. Luckily that was all cleared up within a couple of days. My skin (other than the back of my neck and my forearms) was still as white as the snow that lays o'er me mudderland, so getting some sunshine was a high priority- perhaps too much so considering the burns I quickly acquired. A tub of liberally spread aloe vera helped soothe my suddenly 'crab red' skin. My neighbors were a couple of quirky Brits, one of which had discovered peanut butter a few weeks before and became a savage raving addict. We proceeded to drink into the nights, smoking shisha and munching on midnight snacks of biscuits and peanut butter sandwiches.

One day I decided to set out on a quick trip up to Goa's northern most beach; a relatively undeveloped patch of sand with a few visitors, fewer accomidations, and lots of sparkling sunshine. It might have been an idealic place to stay were it not for the nearby factory pumping out clouds of brownish haze and the thoroughly polluted river liberally pouring it's poisons into the sea. It was a nice place and I'd met some cool people, but once the itch of flea bites and the sensitivity of sunburn had subsided the itch to keep on moving returned and I decided to work my way south. I hit Margao, one of Goa's bigger cities, and had to guess my way out of town; following traffic down offramps and up on ramps, around twists and turns, and somehow back onto what they call a highway here. The highway varied between perfectly paved straightaways to hand paved pot hole laden patchwork that wound up and down hills and through forests. A few more hours of cruising along the highway and a couple of wrong turns took me exploring some of the local scenery (including a MASSIVE shipping port) before getting back on track. I made it an old seaside Portuguese fort around midday and decided to explore it while the afternoon heat set in. After my tour of the fort was complete I found a small local restaurant and hunkered down for a few hours while the sun proceeded to pummel Goa with a thick and humid layer of thought stifling sweat inducing heat. Once I'd regained my cool and the heat started its gradual decline I hopped back on the bike (I could have fried an egg on the seat) and continued on towards the tiny laid back beach town Agonda.

I nearly passed the tiny roadsign that informed me with its chipped paint that I had to turn off the highway to reach town. I crossed a small bridge onto a road of skull sized stones that slowed me to a crawl. I poked my head into the first hotel I saw and took the first beach hut that I was offered; an isolated plywood shack on the far end of the beach with power and an attached bathroom at the 'big spender' cost of $10/night. One day turned into two, then to four, then eight; I spent much of my time reading, lounging on the beach, swimming, jogging, and chilling out with the uber-relaxed people I met in the smattering of bars and restaurants that were sprawled along the picturesque beach. I came to discover that my hotel was the very last one on my side of the beach, meaning lots of privacy and a near exclusive patch of beach. Mmmm... a much needed break from the chaotic noise and over exposure of the India I had come to know. I finally began to wind down and really relax. The trip had been stressful, constantly planning and moving, seeing and doing, too rarely just relaxing and taking time to myself. In Agonda I got into a routine of stretches, exercise, healthy eating, and introspection. A burst of inspiration saw me writing some 35 pages in my journal in that many hours as I reflected on many of life's subjects. Thoughts of our cultural priorities, assumptions of science, the differences between truth and belief, religion, the origins of life, cosmology, and the abundance of judgment and fear thereof in western society. I came to a few conclusions that revolved around lifestyle and finally began to recall that the moment is the most important thing of life, and to be caught ever planning the future and pondering the past leaves us lost for truly appreciating the good things in life. We lose sight of the things that are right in front of us; closing our eyes to the things we have while we ponder the things we want. We become accustomed to all the little things that make life wonderful and begin to ignore them - taking them for granted until suddenly they are lost, then we regret not having appreciated them (a further error, for in this regret we continue to neglect appreciation the other things we have). All of this ties in to the Buddhist concept of impermanence- one of the reasons I have so much respect for the Buddhist philosophy.. Sadly the Buddhists have, like most 'established religions', strayed from their roots and do not reflect the teachings of their focal figure in the actions of their churches. Bah.. ranting again- sorry about that..

I eventually had to pull myself away from Agonda and continue to work my way south. The plan to get all the way down to the southern state Kerala was pretty well scrapped, but I'd heard good things about another small beach town in the next state called Gokarna. It was said to be much less touristy and I'd also been told that there was an upcoming festival to be held there. At about 115km away and my average speed being about 35-40km/h (yes, that slow.. and I was going fast compared to most other vehicles on the road) it would be about 3 hours away - that is, of course assuming that I didn't have an accident, have to stop for an accident, get lost along the way or encounter other unforeseeable events... I reluctantly packed my things and set out to continue the journey into the southern heat.

Panjim, Goa.

2008-03-15T19:00:00.003Z

The train left from Mumbai's Victoria Terminus an hour behind schedule at about eleven thirty pm. I'd boarded nearly an hour prior to departure and tracked down my sleeper class berth, then I quickly got started on routine unpacking of my train gear; pulling a stuff sack full with sleeping gear and clothes, locking by backpack under a seat, unpacking my sewn up bedsheet and my "yak wool" acrylic blanket, then making a pillow from the half empty sack of clothes and my ever present haversack (which makes for a rough pillow as it housed my journal, a copy of zen and the art of motorcycle maintainence, my passport, a flashlight, some backup cash, my camera, toilet paper, a toothbrush and some other random contents).

Once settled in, I took a few minutes to get somewhat acquainted with my fellow passengers: a couple of Koreans, a Scarboroughtarian, and a small Indian family. Considering the late hour it was not long before I had fallen into as deep a slumber as the rocking and screeching train will allow. I awoke the next morning to the beautiful and thriving scenery that is the tropical landscape of near equatorial India. I soaked it all up- sick of the relative cold of the north and the intensity of the city... Beach Time! For months I had longed for the laid back life of the beach, and finally it was within reach.

I got off the train at the nearest station to Panjim, the capital city of the formerly Portuguese colony turned miniature Indian state, Goa. The train station is a long way out of town so I split on a taxi with a couple Germans who were headed to the downtown bus station. We were dropped off at the outskirts of town and I took up a motorcycle-taxi driver on his offer for a cheap ride to a cheap room. He took me and my backpack on the back of his bike to a shabby little place called Hotel Elite- an accurate name as only an elite budgeteer would give the place a second glance.. I guess I should have asked for a discount considering that I was sharing my room with countless little fleas... well at least some inhabitants got a complimentary buffet.

Once checked in I set out and found my driver was still ambling about outside. I asked straight out how much commission he'd made on me, to which he grinned and blushed a touch before admitting his $1.25 'check-in bonus' on the $0.50 fare I'd paid for the lift. I'd become familiar with the commission racket and long ago made my peace with it- often enough using the service for the convenience it provided. He told me his name was Regu and asked if I needed 'anything else' and I told him that I was in fact looking for a motorcycle to rent. He made a few quick phone calls and proceeded to take me around town at no extra charge to look at what was available. A number of bikes were offered: from the pricey yet more rustic and powerful Royal Enfields to the cheaper and smaller Bajaj and Honda models... but after about an hour we gave up- everything he showed me was either insured in Goa only, was too expensive or just a little too beat up for safe riding. I took a break on the bike hunt and thanked my driver before heading into a local diner for my first taste of Goan cuisine. Food is different down south; from the coconut curries and the fried fish thalis to the masala dosas and steamed rice flour patties served with sambar for breakfast. I thoroughly enjoyed that first Goan feast; a tali which I ate entirely with my right hand (Indian style) amidst a table of locals doing the same thing. The heat became rather intense, much hotter than Mumbai had been and equally as humid- luckily some reprieve could be found in the abundance of cold, crisp and cheap beer. Much the city closed down for a midday siesta as the temperatures worked their ways into the sticky heat of the mid thirties, and I did what I could to avoid any strenuous activity such as movement during those long midday hours. I bid farewell to the table full of Goans that I'd eaten lunch with and headed off once again in search of a bike.

After some hours of searching a lot of conversations on cost and insurance I finally settled on a bike; a brand spankin new 2008 Honda Hero splendour that had been insured just a day before. At $5/day I couldn't say no - knowing full well that of all the bikes I'd been offered, this one was the least likely to fall apart beneath me while I roared down the overcrowded Indian highway. The deal was settled with a handshake and a hand-over of 6000 rupees. I took the bike out for a little spin before heading back to my hotel to figure out what came next. The next couple of days were spent tracking down a few things I needed for the conversion from backpacking to motorcycle touring and figuring out where to store my excess luggage (and there were of course the flea bites served fresh daily).

Once I was fully converted into Motorcycle-Tour mode, with my remaining bags tied, chained and clipped on to the bike, I set out of town to cruise north towards the beaches.

Happy Pi day!

2008-03-14T14:06:00.000Z

Have a great March 14th, I know I have! Mmmm... Blue cheese stuffed steak.. That is a rare treat in a country that considers cows holy!

-Zac
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

Better than eggplant!

2008-03-13T07:20:00.003Z

Hey Folks,

Sorry for my gap in posts, got lots coming but It's a little behind.. Still in Goa, spending my time on beaches - though just finished a little detour.

While you wait for the latest news from me, I've got an interesting article for you that I initially found in the news paper... Newspapers here are strange things.. lots of articles about riots, rebel movements on the outskirts of the country (there are a lot of these), Dowry murders, major arms deals for the military, police brutality, unstable nuclear neighbors and even less stable nuclear families. Amidst all of that, this one really caught my attention. I think you'll like it:

Enraged elephant defies nature, turns man-eater

Rajesh Sinha

Monday, February 18, 2008 09:14

NEW DELHI: In an unheard of incident, a wild elephant killed and devoured a man who came in the way of the herd in the Garo hills of Meghalaya.

Elephants are herbivores. Though they’ve been known to go on the rampage, trampling or battering humans to death or destroying hutments and crops, there are no records of a pachyderm feeding on a human being.

Confirming the incident which took place nearly a month ago, principal chief conservator of forests of Meghalaya VK Nautiyal, who was in New Delhi for a conference of top forest officials in the country recently, said it was not normal for an elephant to eat a man. Nautiyal added it is unlikely the animal will develop a taste for blood or turn into a carnivore.

However, this puts the spotlight on the man-elephant conflict, especially in a state that is three-fourths forest.

Contact with humans has had another adverse effect with the beast picking up some of the vices of men. There have instances of elephants coming into villages looking for locally brewed wine, getting drunk, and going on a rampage, with fatal consequences for themselves at times.

In the last few months, 10 elephants have been electrocuted in the Garo Hills and Ri Bhoi districts of the state when they came in contact with high-voltage electric poles after consuming the local brew.

An indicator of the volatile situation is the fact that it is wild elephants and not militants that are giving state election department and forest officials sleepless nights ahead of the March 3 elections.

“Wild elephants can pose a threat to voters and poll officials in certain areas during the elections with herds coming down from the hills in search of food and local brew,” said a forest official.

The state has identified several polling stations, most of them in the Garo Hills and in close proximity to the Indo-Bangladesh border as “elephant-sensitive”.

Speaking about the problem in New Delhi, Nautiyal said the forest department had to provide protection to polling centres in the interiors of the state and they had even sought the centre’s assistance to compensate victims of wild elephants.

The forest department also plans to deploy trained elephants who, along with their trainers or ‘mahouts’, form mounted patrols to chase away marauding wild tuskers.

-http://www.dnaindia.com/report.asp?newsid=1151519

Mumbai

2008-03-07T13:58:00.001Z

I awoke mid morning to gridlock; an authentic Mumbai rush hour traffic jam. We spent hours passing through seemingly endless urban sprawl before we finally arrived at our destination (wherever that was), and only 4 hours behind schedule! The heat was oppressive compared to the relative cool of the North and I found myself with a few other tourists who were equally sweaty and lost. Someone asked a local how far it was to Colaba- the touristy/upper class 'downtown'. They were told it was a fifteen minute hike 'that way' and pointed in a vague direction which they proceeded to walk. I decided to stick it out with a Dutchman I'd briefly met in Udaipur, which turned out to be a good idea. After asking a few random people we figured out that the walk would be much longer than fifteen minutes, and hopped in a cab with a Swiss couple. The drivers Punjabi origins were apparent, and I quickly learned that Toronto isn't the only city brimming with Punjabi/Sikh cabbies. We asked him how much it would cost to take us to a guesthouse that was in the Lonely Planet which he'd obviously never hears of, and he shrugged and pointed to the meter then handed me a conversion chart. The meter was as old as the degrading rust-bucket Ambassador (very popular car here), which had a peeling layer of paint that would have easily camouflage it in a swarm of angry bees. This came as something of a surprise for us, being that it didn't look like he was going to swindle us... could it be? an honest cabbie in India? If not, where the hell are we... Kansas?

After about twenty minutes of grinding and snarling traffic we made it to Colbada where our cabbie began to navigate on the archaic point system (this is where he asks random people where our guesthouse is and they hesitate, ponder, then point. This would be a great gambleing game; "I've got 2 to 1 odds that he has no clue where the place is, and will double or nothing that he'll send us in the exact opposite direction that the last guy said"). We did eventually find the place, which happened to be unmarked, and proceeded to pay the cabbie and with a little tip for his effort. The hotel wanted an outrageous sum of money for fairly spartan accommodations and they insisted that we wouldn't find anything cheaper in all of town. We split up with the Swiss couple who wanted to track down a friend and continued our search for lodgings. We did of course find cheaper accommodations: in a small place called the India Guesthouse, on the third floor of a low-rise building stacked between other equally forgettable hotels. The rooms weren't much bigger than the sleeper berth of the bus we'd just come off of, it's paper thin walls with no aspirations of reaching the ceiling separated, darkness and silence found but a fragile window in the calm of the early morning hours, and its facilities were shared between all its guests. The manager of the India Guesthouse and his staff were all Nepali, as were the staff of the other hotels in the building; this rang bells in my memory regarding complaints I'd heard in Nepal over the increasing trend of young workers heading India for work. The Dutchman and I settled on our rooms and decided to stick together and explore town. We strolled along the Causeway making special note of the places of interest; primarily the bars (we even found one that had unlimited biryani and beer from noon to four on weekends for under $10 per head). After a few hours of browsing the neighborhood and enjoying some of it's delicious and cheap food, we decided to grab a couple beers and head back to the guest house, not too long after we were sound asleep.

There was no silver ring to be sought in Mumbai, and my only real reason for being there was to give it a quick once over and shipping a package home before continuing my way south. I woke up the next day, which was a Friday, and continued parousing town- making sure to keep my eyes wide open for some motorcycle safety gear. I picked up a nice denim jacket at a huge discount from a posh boutique, then continued to look for a helmet. By the time I realized that the post office would be closed over the weekend it was too late to ship my package, meaning I had to either stay longer than I'd intended, or haul a big bag full of clothes and handicrafts down to Goa and sort it out there. After a few beers in a small sports pub that reminded me of home, I decided to stay. A little something I wrote while there was: "Amazing.. A piece of the west left behind in the heart of the east.. A place where even a hippie backpacker bum like me can blend in with ease. From sprawling slums to posh coffee shops and boutiques, this is a macrocosm of all India's truths and aspirations. Everyone can find a little bit of home in this place. I feel as though I could be at any of these pubs downing pints with old friends.. Reminds me in some ways of the towering anomaly of Panama city, like the umbilical cord of a western lovechild that has neglected to detach and still pulls the native peoples westward with its promises of extravagant wiles".

I saw my first Bollywood film in theaters: a controversial film called 'Jodhaa Akbar', about a Mughal emperor and his Hindu wife. I sat in my assigned seat (a free for all could be dangerous here) and waited for it to start. People around me did their best to speak English, which I've learned to be something of a social status thing. The film began at a little after 9pm with the Indian National Anthem- everyone stood at attention and some sang along. The movie had no subtitles and not a lick of English in it. There was singing and dancing, bloodshed and banquets, lots of 'zoom-in-on-the-eyes-of-fury' shots, and turbans galore. The movie dragged on for two hours before an intermission, after which it continued for nearly another two hours. By the time I got back to the guest house the door was locked and I had to guiltfully wake the sleeping staff from their few hours of slumber to win a few of my own.

I did manage to buy a motorcycle helmet in a remote market that took several hours of walking and then finally a quick cab ride to get to.. Amazing that it was so hard to find such a simple thing considering the tens of thousands of unhelmeted bikers endlessly weaving their way through traffic across the city. I met a Frenchman later that day who was on his way home and somewhat dreaded the notion of his return to the west. My time was spent reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainance, eating with my handy in cheap local joints, eating Kulfi (ice cream) on Chowpatty Beach, sweating, shopping, and chilling out. I even found a Hookah shop and ended up getting a complimentary smoke of their Shisha , which lead me to buying a small trove of goods from them. Monday eventually came and I shipped off my package then prepared to continue on to Goa via train. Victoria Terminus is massive- I never thought I'd see such an enormous train station.. the most memorable thing there was a half dozen barefoot dalits (lowest caste) hauling a huge cart stacked twelve feet high with packages, maintaining a steady jog through the endless crowds of passengers with nothing but Flinstone brakes.

There's always so much more that I could say, but I guess I have to cut it off somewhere.. otherwise I'd still be way behind. Right now I'm in Gokarna - south of Goa, for the Shivaratri festival. Tomorrow I'll be hurling bananas at a giant Shiva chariot- Hurray for Shiva!

Zac
P.s. Will try to post pictures soon, wish I had more time for editing!

Udaipur

2008-03-03T16:06:00.005Z

After Pushkar I decided to head to Udaipur. I'd been told it was a must see and had read that the 'floating palace' was like something from a fairytale. As seems to be the trend I met some other travelers on the overnight bus. When we found ourselves dropped off at a nondescript junction in a foreign city at five in the morning I had an acute feeling of deja-vu... This time there were four of us; a mellow Brit named Tim and a couple French girls Chloe/Caroline [of which one a Parisian and the other was Swiss-French, though I'll be damned if I can remember which was which]. We piled into a tuk-tuk resenting the early hour and got taken around a few different overpriced guesthouses (one of which Tim decided to check in to) before a man named Raju finally approached us and said he ran a family guesthouse with more reasonable prices. We followed him and before long were all passed out. I woke up in the later hours of the morning and headed to the rooftop restaurant things together.

I was beginning to grow weary from the constant relocation that had overshadowed my journey thus far. The 'plan' was to hit Mumbai with lightning fury before heading on down to the long dreamt of beaches of the south. My plans to hit Goa before heading on to the southern states Kerela and Tamil Nandu by motorcycle were beginning to look rather ambitious the more that I figured out the distances involved. My remaining time frame would mean I'd be hard pressed to make it down and back on a rented bike, especially considering the traffic and low quality roads I'd be working through. Maybe just getting down to Kerela and chilling on the beaches would do... But these decisions are for another me, one that I'll meet down the road.

Enough thinking on the trip and its direction, I had two reasons to be in Udaipur: one was for the palace on the lake and the other was a mission from Germany to recover the silver ring from Pushkar. "Mission from Germany?" you ask- yes indeed. My last night in Pushkar had involved a half dozen Israelis and a couple of Germans more or less taking over the hotel I'd been staying in. We got to drinking (which I might add is prohibited in Pushkar along with meat, tobacco, drugs, and eggs) as well as talking. One of the Germans, Lenart, learned that my next destination happened to fall in their wake and he told me the story of the silver ring. "One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them" oh... Wait, sorry- wrong story... Where was I again? aah, yes- "I used to have three silver rings" he said, showing me his remaining two "but on our last night in Udaipur we got drinking with this Italian looking Indian named Pushkar. Cool guy, real smooth. One of the girls asked to see if one of my rings would fit her, but it was too big for her. Then Pushkar asked to see if it fit him. A few minutes later we all forgot about the ring, and didn't remember about it until we were already on the train out of town". He then told me that I could have his ring if I could track down Pushkar and recover it- it was his gift to me. Now I'm not much of one for jewelery, but when it comes with a story like that I'm all for it. I had to get that ring.

I spent most of the day touring the astounding museum set inside the massive and beautiful lakeside palace. I didn't have much daylight left to head to the palace on the lake, so I headed to a tailor instead. After some discussion and consideration I commissioned a suit and a few shirts, though by the time I left town I found myself with two suits and nearly a dozen shirts made by two different tailors (sneaky boy).

The next day I did the tour, checking out a small cultural museum during a blackout (which involved walking through an old dark cellar that's been converted to a modern art gallery with not but a near-dead flashlight to find my way out), then bribing my way into the 'crystal gallery' for less than half the price (lots of crystal), then heading to the publicly accessible palace island on the lake, and finally a failed attempt to get to the 'palace on the lake hotel' using the bogus story that I was supposed to meet one 'Rory Smith', a guest of theirs, for dinner (making sure to flash the blackberry in a vain effort to show that I belonged). Thwarted by their space age computer system! Drat!

That night I tracked down Pushkar, who I'd been told frequented the Rainbow rooftop restaurant. I got a lift by a random helpful Indian who shouted something up when we arrived. "is your name Pushkar?" I hollered to the man who appeared a few stories above, "yes..." he apprehensively replied "I've been sent on a mission by Germany to recover their silver ring!". He laughed. We ended up spending a couple of hours chilling out before I was too tired to keep up at which point I stumbled back to my hotel, silver ring on hand and a smug grin on my face.

Other mentionables of my time in Udaipur include several screenings of the film Octapussy, which was mostly filmed in the city and makes for some comedy and action. Gotta love India on film - let's get pile on an elephant and go tiger hunting- YEE-HAW! Drinking good coffee became a favorite pass time, when I wasn't chilling out with the crew I'd arrived with or browsing shops.

The last really notable thing about Udaipur was a free Zakhir Hussein concert (he's just the worlds best tabla player) held out of town which blew my mind. On my way out of the concert I ran into none other than Pushkar and a couple we'd been chilling with the night I recovered the ring. Luckily I'd been cautious enough to not wear the ring just in case; somehow I gave Pushkar the impression that the ring was going back to Lennart! Tee-hee!

I left Udaipur with a bus ticket to Mumbai and a big bag of stuff to ship homeward. After a quick argument with the luggage keeper over the price per bag [while of course knowing that it's all a scam anyhow] I was piled in to the bus and crammed into yet another stuffy sleeper bus berth, preparing for the 16 hour trip Bombay [which ended up being closer to 20].

'En roulant ma boule roulant, En roulant ma boule.'

A Prayer for Puja

2008-02-27T16:54:00.002Z

We were offloaded from our bus at two o'clock in the morning on the outskirts of the sacred Hindu village named Pushkar. The grimy haze of cheap Indian rum had quickly transformed into a pounding hangover as the veil of dreams was crudely shorn by the bus driver frantically trying to wake us. There were three of us who found ourselves standing on the side of the road in stupefaction: one was a tall spongy-haired Canadian named Adrian whose personality bore a striking likeness to the Mackenzie Brothers and who was soon to begin a long term documentary rafting expedition through the heart of India, and Maddi- a gorgeous light hearted Londoner with a beautiful smile and neo-hippie attire who was traveling India solo while on vacation from the gourmet coffee tuk-tuk with which she made a living. We'd all met pre-departure at the bus station of the isolated desert outpost and former fortress Jaisalmer.

I'd spent the past few days trekking on camel back through the barren desert near the Pakistan border, spending the nights under the stars and amidst the rolling sand dunes. We happened to be the only English speakers at the bus station and after a brief exchange of quickly forgotten names we proceeded to spend the evening holed up in the double sleeper berth they shared, suspended above half a dozen Indians who were contently dozing in their seats. We’d spent hours chipping away at a hefty bottle of Old Monk XXX rum while playing card games and expressing our praises and condemnations of the exotic and chaotic anomaly that is India before exhaustion finally sent us to dreams.

Sluggish and disoriented we gradually collected ourselves and followed one of the two touts who happened to be staking out the roadside bus stop in a last ditch effort to populate some of their vacant rooms. After a quick glance at their lodgings we agreed on the price of a dollar fifty per night and promptly passed out. The next few days were spent taking in the sights and sounds, conversing together at length, wandering town, and soaking up some sunshine and strong coffee.

After two nights in Puskhar my newly met travel companions prepared to continue on towards New Delhi, leaving me solo for another day or two before I too departed. I decided to tag along and see them off but before they could leave they had to pick up a cutlass that Adrian had commissioned for his rafting trip. As they were on foot and I was on a rented Honda Hero motorcycle, I went on to scout ahead.As I was leaning on the bike waiting for them to catch up I was approached by a young Indian girl in a burgundy private school uniform who began asking a plethora of questions. When I asked her name she promptly replied in her surprisingly refined English accent "my name is Puja" which means ‘prayer’ in Hindi.

After the barrage of inquiries that were inquisitively unleashed upon me she cordially invited me to visit her home and meet her mother over chai. After briefly considering the offer I politely declined, assuming that it would be yet another of India's countless scams. The interrogation eased into chit chat as my travel companions came into sight, and upon their arrival her insistence on joining her for chai doubled. We followed Adrian to the metal smith and he said it would be another half hour before his blade was born, so we finally resigned ourselves to this little girls incessant demands.

We set out for Puja's home, which turned out to be a nearby shanty built of discarded bricks stacked a couple feet high with decrepit blankets strung up for walls and a tattered sheet of canvass for the roof , where Puja promptly introduced us to her mother 'Mamta' and her brother 'Lalu’. After a quick exchange in Hindi, Mamta, in her brilliant orange sari, hurried off to buy milk. We began asking Puja about her family and their living conditions, but she could do little to enlighten us as her eyes were too young to properly see destitution. Before long mother returned soon after we were served sweet and milky chai and a basket of flatbread chapattis. After chai Puja's father 'Paapu' came home and as our questions continued we slowly revealed this families tragic tale.

Life had not always been so difficuly for Puja and her family; less than a year before they had lived in a tiny bungalow, owned a camel, and Paapu had the lucrative occupation of guiding camel treks for tourists. He earned four to ten dollars per working day and was easily able to provide for his families basic needs, but this time of relative prosperity was not to last. Things took a turn for the worse when the landlord who’d allowed the family to live in his shack for free sold the property. A lengthy legal battle ended in the new owners favor and Puja’s family was weepingly evicted from their home and left to fend for themselves on the streets in the heart of India’s monsoon season. Not long after their eviction Lalu grew ill and fell into a three day coma that forced the family to take him to the hospital. While the family was out of town tending to their sick son the few possessions they’d held onto were looted by equally impoverished townsfolk. As Lalu recovered Mamta began to experience crippling stomach pains and required daily medication for the incapacitating pain. The respective medical bills forced the family to sell their camel at a loss and reduced them to the destitute poverty that we’d found them in. This family of five had a meager two blankets to wrap themselves in while they braved the near freezing desert nights, and the rest of their possessions couldn’t be worth more than a few dollars.

We sat and chatted with Mamta and Paapu for over an hour while Puja played with my digital camera and proudly showed us some of her school work. As we prepared to leave Adrian pulled a hefty blanket from his waterproof rafting bag and gave it to them as a token of our sympathy. We set out to collect Adrian’s cleaver and then went on to the bus station where we said our farewells then carried on with our respective adventures.

The next day I headed to the market and purchased several kilos of vegetables, flour and rice, then lugged it to the same shanty for a follow-up visit. Much to my disappointment I found it to be abandoned, so after leaving a brief note and the groceries it under a blanket I headed into town. I headed to the top of a mountain to check out what turned out to be an uninteresting temple with a beautiful view, and later went to check out one of the worlds few Brahma temples. Later that afternoon I was warmly greeted by Paapu and Mamta who I ran into in the market. They thanked me profusely for the food and invited me for dinner. I had to decline as I already had dinner plans with my hotel owner and his family, but promised them that I would return for lunch the next day. The next day I found myself speaking to Paapu while his children were in school and his wife made us lunch and I continued to hear their tale.

Paapu wakes up at five o’clock each morning to push his rickety wooden cart about town making deliveries: lugging great volumes of whatever the townsfolk paid him to. On a good day he earns up to three dollars, but this day had he had earned the family a meager fifty cents; well below India’s average earnings which is estimated at about a dollar and a half to two dollars per person per day. This was still enough for an ounce or two of cooking oil, a smattering of inexpensive chewing tobacco and a few sticks of firewood to temporarily replace the cow patties that were most often use for their cooking fire. On most days the family was lucky enough to eat a decent meal or two, but often enough Paapu’s efforts to find work proved fruitless and the family went hungry. In times of hunger and despair not even the Sikh Gurdwara, which claims to be a communal kitchen that’s free to all, would spare them a meal.

As the families sole source of income were Paapu to fall ill as his wife and child had the family would fall into the deepest depths of destitute poverty, but when asked about his families circumstances Paapu responds with humble resignation "that is life… We can only hope that God will help us". Despite their desperation the family has retained their pride and honesty when many would have few qualms in shedding principals and resorting to whatever means necessary to pull themselves from the depths of such abhorrent poverty. As strange as it sounds to western ears the Hindu’s would believe that in their strife Paapu and his family are simply fulfilling the dharma of the lower caste that they were born into; that their trials and tribulations are penance spawned from heinous errors in past lives and the only way to save their future incarnations from equal disdain is by accepting the hardships of this life, no matter how harsh they might be. For the lowest of castes this often means silent resignation to an inescapably hopeless existence, but Paapu and his family retain hope that they will someday recover their former happiness and make a better life for themselves.

Paapu and I sit down to a lunch of stewed onions and potatoes in a spicy tomato curry with rice and unleavened flatbread chapattis on the side while Mamta cleans up. As we finish our meal Puja and her older brother 'Kishal' return from school and sit down and dine with Mamta as I continue my talks to Paapu. I learn that the only reason Puja and her Kishal are in school is due to a foreigners who’d taken pity on them and decided to pay the $60/year expense of a private education, which includes uniforms (which happen to be their best clothes) and all school supplies. Puja aspires to become a doctor some day, but her father much better knows all too well the ways of the world, and tells me that they would be lucky if the outside funding continued until her graduation after which she would be best off marrying into a better life.

After several hours of discussion with Paapu I am sent off with Puja to fetch some cooking oil for supper. En route she pulls me through a back alley filled with children playing marbles (one of the few games they can afford). After some arguing over the rules she joins in the game and within a few minutes her keen eye and acute coordination pays off, winning her a few more marbles to take home. As I probe her with as many questions as she’d asked me the day before her the undeniable intelligence of this straight-A student becomes apparent, but knowing that a bright future is an unlikely dream I can only draw sadness from this. We return with a liter of oil and after fetching a jug of water from the communal well Mamta starts cooking yet again. The children wander off to play and I continue to chat with Mamta and Paapu as the midday heat eases into the slight chill of dusk. Paapu and I eat a simple supper that closely resembles lunch while Mamta yet again excludes herself and washes dishes in adherence to ancient traditions that I cannot yet claim to understand, and by the time we finish the sun is hovering on the horizon. The time has come for me to sadly depart in order to catch an overnight bus and continue my adventure through India. We say our goodbyes and as I am leaving I slip Paapu a 500 rupee note (about thirteen dollars) which promptly earns me a big hug. With that I give a final wave, promise to write to them, and amble on into the sunset.

-End-

Some random photos from Pushkar:

Happy Camel Desert Adventure

2008-02-24T14:02:00.024Z

We drove for an hour through barren sandy wastelands packed with a myriad of thorn trees and tumble weeds that they call a desert. Something was not right about this scene.... Oh, wait! I know- it was raining! Raining in the freaking desert! What the hell?

When I was sold the tour I'd been told I'd trekking with 3 Australians and a Norwegians. My suspicions of deception came true. I found myself in the back of a jeep packed with blankets and a couple of Slovenians named Chris and Katia. After some time our driver branched off the highway and on to a desert trail that took us into the heart of nowhere, where we stopped at a remote hut. We were invited inside for chai by a small family of desert folk who made home of the small rounded mud yurt that we gladly used for shelter from the rain. The mother silently squatted in the corner preparing our chai on a cow patty fire while the children badgered us for pens and chocolate. After chai we returned outdoors to the cool air and sprinkling rain to be introduced to our valiant steeds... Camels

Camels a are strange breed of desert beast that compare to few other animals. They're something like a cross between a cow and a donkey in their habits, but have the vocal cords of a bloodthirsty wookie in heat. They're stubborn, they moan and groan, constantly flatulate, endlessly chew and suffer from frequent and foul smelling burps. Each time we stop they spray gouts of urine and drop pounds of feces, then proceed to sniff each others genitals. Their lazy lurching lumber results in a constant back and forth rocking of the passenger (me) while their horizontal girth gave me greater appreciation for the painful groin stretching yoga I'd done in Rishikesh. At one point our guides ran into some camel toting locals and somehow the decision was made to have a 'marriage' [or mating] between camels. Needless to say this did much to excite the dog and I'm not sure that the baby camel will ever be the same after seeing that happen to its mother. All of this aside I must admit that camels retain some strange cuteness- with their long innocent eyelashes and goofy looking faces.. Better than missing your train I guess.

The Slovenians and I had our own camels while the guides shared one. Out convoy also had a youngster in close tow, its mother being one of our mounts. At one point our entourage grew to further encompass a vagrant desert child who pitched in with the dirty work in exchange for food while constantly singing or asking for chocolate, and a fiery red dog who seemed well known to locals as Tiger. Our guides consisted of a Hindi whose incessant babble and giggling paired with his ever wide and twitchy eyes caused us to wonder whether the desert had driven him mad, and a calm Muslim whose rarely broken silence was at times equally concerning. We spent two nights and three days in the desert, crossing many kilometers of repetitively bland and arid scenery. The first night we ran into another group of tourists and chilled out for awhile at their camp fire before heading back to our camp. A high wind and low temperatures resulted in sleepless efforts to avoid freezing, luckily the next afternoon the mercury skyrocketed and cleared up the former days rain clouds and by nightfall we were much better prepared for a cold night, unnecessary as it turned out to be. We visited several patches of sand dunes along the way as well as a smattering of local wells and tiny villages, stopping every few hours while the guides prepared our simple desert meals from scratch. The food was extremely basic and consisted largely of chipattis, subterranean vegetables, oil, and chili powder. Oh.. then there was the Chai - ha.. did they forget to tell you too? it's made from CAMEL MILK! mmm.... potent.

The absolute stillness and silence of a windless desert night is nearly as awe inspiring as the galaxy revealing its naked self above you. The remote dunes of Rajhastan certainly have their charms, as such the camel trek was a most welcome reprieve from the ceaselessly chaotic buzz that has consumed so much of this colourful subcontinent they call India. The last day we headed to the highway and waited under the scorching sun for our pick-up. Eventually they arrived and took us back to Jaisalmer where I had a 4:30pm bus on to Pushkar (which is where I'd initially been headed when I missed my train). Oh.. did I forget to mention that the desert nearly ruined my camera and that there's still a couple grains of sand in the lens that show in every photo now? HA!

Zac

P.S. Sorry if this one is rough around the edges, trying to catch up!

Jaisalmer

2008-02-20T13:56:00.008Z

The Train:

I was in sleeper class on the train to Jaisalmer and much better prepared than I had been the night before. The train departed at about 6:00pm, and despite the near dementia that total exhaustion was causing me I managed to keep awake enough to meet a few fellow travelers. One that I'd met on the platform waiting for the train was an older beer and chocolate loving British bloke by the name of Steve, somehow we got along just fine. Steve is a postal worker back home, and he'd begun to cycle the English countryside during a midlife crisis. What began as an outlet turned into a hobby and metamorphosized into a passionate addiction. His work is flexible for vacation and he had 6 weeks of it per year so he began to travel and cycle- beginning with a three week tour of Norway, then a longer trip to Thailand, later six weeks through south-east asia, and now he was set to take on India. He had landed in Delhi a few days before and was now preparing to begin his journey from Jaisalmer down south to Udaipur, up through Pushkar, onward to Agra and then back to Delhi- for this cycle-tour he had an ambitious three weeks. He was traveling with his bike and all the gear he needed, which despite his determination proved rather cumbersome on the train. His six bed berth was shared with an Indian couple who kept to themselves and three Polish Jehovah Witnesses of which one enthusiastically spoke English while the others sulked in silence, obviously put off by the language barrier. By eight o'clock I could bear my weariness no longer so I crawled into my sleeping bag and quickly nodded off. When I awoke we were quickly approaching our destination and Steve was speaking with an Indian who seemed to be selling accommodations and Camel Safaris. He offered free transportation to his hotel which wasn't far from the city centre [being that it is a very small city], and after a quick chat we decided to take him up on it. As we waited for our arrival a young Indian girl no older than eight came up to us and asked our names and nationalities followed by a barrage of random questions including our favorite foods. At one point she firmly proclaimed "I hate all foreigners" but when it was pointed out that we fell into this category she quickly assured "I think you are all right".

Jaisalmer:

The Jaisalmer station has unique rules; touts are not allowed inside as to prevent the harassment of tourists [which can apparently become rather excessive] on railway resulting in a single overcrowded exit heavily packed with arm grabbing touts assertively offering the 'best safaris' and 'cheapest hotels'. Steve and I tracked down the man who'd offered a free ride [which apparently all hotels do] and went to check out his rooms. They were reasonably clean and considerably large for the 100 rupees they cost; we were further sold by promises of hot water [which never quite seemed to materialize]. Once settled we set out to have a bite to eat, then for a tour of the great fort of Jaisalmer. Standing tall on a hilltop surrounded by desert this fort was certainly not lacking in presence, though inside is little more than a smattering of shops, hotels, houses, and loads of once beautiful stonework. The sun swiftly sought setting but Steve convinced me to check out a sunset point he'd read about. We took an auto-rickshaw there after refusing to pay an admission fee settled on the bar of a posh hotel with an identical view and a smattering of people who could have easily been mistaken for members of a prestigious German golf and country club. After an uninspiring sunset we headed out for supper at a fancy looking restaurant that was bounds from gourmet where I was served a bowl with equal portions of mutton bone and dried chilies. Before bed I inquired with the hotel owner regarding his Camel Safari and before I knew it I'd forked over a mitt full of rupees in exchange for a receipt scribbled in Hindi and a promise for an inclusive non-touristic camel safari two days later. The next day was spent largely soaking up some sunshine and kicking around town, passing time before my foray into the dunes of the Rajhastani desert.

Motorcycle diaries?

2008-02-19T14:19:00.000Z

Indeed! Despite my being behind on blog posts, I've gone ahead and rented a brand spanking new Honda Hero motorbike with 125 cc's and 228km on the odometer; nothing too fast, but speeds here are much lower than back home. I bought a denim jacket and a helmet in Mumbai, so I'm pretty much set to go. The plan is to tour the beaches of northern Goa then make my way south towards Kerela. No specific plan, just an open road and an open throttle.

Wish me luck?
Zindiac
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

Train to... uh... humm... this isn't good.

2008-02-18T14:30:00.001Z

I sat waiting for my train at platform #2 in Agra's train station after my day at the Taj Mahal. The tourist information office had advised me on which platform the Punjab Express [which I was taking to Delhi] would be boarding and that it was delayed by at least half an hour. I waited for over an hour before the train arrived and I promptly boarded when it did- looking to avoid a second class second-story seating mistake like the one I'd made en route to Agra. The train departed and I passed my time chatting with a merchant from Jodhpur as we chugged along. After a few hours and no sign of Delhi I began to wonder how late this train would be... I had to make my 10:40pm connection to Ajmer and would also need some time to get to from the Old Delhi station to New Delhi and collect my bags before departure. The Punjab Express was scheduled to arrive at 9:20, but as time went on I began to seriously fret; 11:00pm came about and there was still no sign of Delhi, and I began to seriously hope f0r an equal delay in my connecting train...... That's when I discovered real issue at hand: this train was not going to Delhi at all!

My stomach twisted into knots as I stormed off the train at a near deserted station, unsure of what one should do in such circumstances. After a rigorous bout of profanity and a few painful wall kickings I approached the station manager and explained my predicament- noting several times that I had waited for the Punjab Express at the platform that I'd been directed to by a railway employee. Upon a few minutes of pondering he gave me my options: I could catch a train to Jodhpur in an attempt intercept my train to Ajmer or I could take an upcoming train back to Delhi and spend the night in second class with no bed nor bedding and arrive at 5am. As my bags were in Delhi I was left with little choice, and as the ticket booths had long since closed I had to board the train ticket less and hope for the best. Half an hour later and the train arrived; at first I hopped on the 3AC car looking to warm up a little before the cold of the night descended and taking the opportunity to scout out any empty beds that I might commandeer... Alas, I was promptly intercepted by a rail man and told to move along to Second Class so I had to hop off when we next stopped, which happened to be in the middle of nowhere.

As I worked my way down the train looking for the 2nd class car the train began to lurch forward and as I jogged along beside it I found all of the doors to be locked!! Franticly pounding on the door of a Sleeper Class car I began to seriously worry whether this was karmic penance for my hard-assed approach with the cloakroom that morning but luckily someone took pity on me and opened the door - unluckily it happened to be a ticket collector. When asked for my ticket I explained the whole scenario and showed him the ticket for the cozy 3AC bed that I was supposed to be on in the train to Ajmer. He listened in silence occasionally nodding and leaving me to wonder if he understood a single word I said, but after my rambling tale he simply said "Do not worry sir" and motioned for me to follow him as he tracked down the other ticket collector. They discussed the situation in Hindi and eventually came to some consensus which involved kicking a couple of vagrants off a rubberized sleeper class bed and offered it to me. I spent the night freezing my ass off due to my lack of any bedding and a window that simply refused to remain closed in the near freeing desert night.

By the time we rolled into Delhi [5am] I was thoroughly frozen, completely exhausted, and in a mood far fouler than I've been in some time. I stormed into the first office I found and demanded a refund for my missed train. After more than 2 hours of being dragged around the station by various staff, speaking to multiple officials with gradually longer titles, and writing an essay to a general manager, I finally got a fifty percent refund. Upon reflection I'm really not sure that the $7 was really worth all the trouble, but what can I say- I was in a foul mood and it needed venting.

I headed to the New Delhi train station and went to the Tourist Information Office to inquire about departing trains. After some thought I decided to change my plans from Ajmer to Jaisalmer, which would give me the chance to do a camel trek in the desert. As it turned out a train was departing for Jaisalmer that afternoon and it had beds available. I spent the day drinking strong coffee in a vain attempt to retain wakefulness while chatting with an intriguing variety of travelers. We'd all landed in a small coffee shop in Paharganj called the Everest Cafe where I found myself chatting with a Colombian who traveled with his two young boys who'd married a Swiss-French woman and now spent the year between Switzerland and Nepal (when not traveling places such as India), another was Israeli who'd spent nearly a year traveling Africa and was so adventurous as to include countries such as Zimbabwe and the Ivory Coast in his adventures. A few hours of conversation and the time to depart was quickly arriving, so I made my way to the train station, collected my bag, jumped on the metro and headed to Old Delhi.

I decided to take the scenic route to the train station and ended up in a sprawling maze of allies full with electric and mechanic shops that seemed to have a dead end at every corner [It's notable that India's shopping scene operates strictly in zones - this seemed to be the motorcycle and light fixture zone]. I grew a little nervous considering the enormous backpack I had, which to some locals must have looked like a giant golden nugget- I kept my Swiss Army knife close at hand. After several bouts of backtracking and a lot of trial and error I finally found a real road and managed my way to the station. I didn't have to wait long before the train to Jaisalmer arrived and promptly boarded, glad that the doggone day was finally coming to an end.

Mumbai

2008-02-17T13:59:00.006Z

In Mumbai until tomorrow night, then on to Goa where I'll rent a motorcycle and continue south.. Cool city, but I won't talk much on it now as that would be out of turn. I have a lot of blogging to catch up on [and am beginning to realize that this blog is as much for my memory as it is for your leisure] and will try to do that tomorrow!

Z

Life's a Bitch

2008-02-15T16:53:00.002Z

-Dog eating Elephant shit.

The Taj Mahal

2008-02-12T22:19:00.007Z

I woke up bright and early to catch a train to Agra and I tend to be a little grumpy in the wee hours to say the least. With my 2nd class return ticket in hand I set out for the New Delhi Train station to store my bags. The Cloakroom was closed upon my arrival, and would not be open for another 20 minutes (time I didn't have), it was of course fully staffed at the time as one might expect. After trying to persuade the workers to take my bags I locked my bag to the gate of the cloakroom in my bitter mood and started walking away, much to their protest. "Wait sir! where are you going? You cannot do this?" one of them shouts, to which I reply "Well, I have to leave my bags somewhere!" hastily he responds "Come come sir, okay okay" and my bag is admitted. After that little victory against the Indian bureaucratic machine I set out for the Old Delhi train station via subway to catch my train - the plan was to get to Agra on a morning train from Old Delhi then return to Old Delhi on a train leaving Agra at 5:55pm arriving at 9:20pm, leaving me plenty of time to catch the over night train at 10:40pm to Ajmer for which I'd booked a comfortable 3AC sleeper bed, then take the half hour bus trip to Pushkar - a Hindu holy place also well known as a popular backpacker hangout. I got my train to Agra, and after a few ass-numbing hours on the upper story of the double-decker wooden seats I found myself in the town known for little other than scandalous scams, a red fort, and the Taj Mahal.

I took a Rickshaw to the Taj and after using an over priced but desperately needed urinal I got my 750 rupee 'foreigner ticket' of which 500 is apparently tax. It might be worth noting that locals pay a flat 20 rupees to get in. After a few minute wait in the long security queue I arrived at the metal detector which promptly protested my entry. After a thorough pat down and a run through the contents of my bag I was sent back to store my things in a locker- apparently guidebooks are for some inconceivable reason disallowed in the grounds of the Taj...? Luckily they let me fast track the security queue on my second go and within minutes I was inside. After a brief stroll through the outer courtyard I arrived at the entry to the main courtyard and caught a glimpse of it... Amazing - To attempt to capture a glimpse of the Taj Mahal in clumsy and cumbersome words cannot do no more justice than a photograph, but I will try none the less;

Standing tall like a magnificent pearl set in an ocean of blue skies, slender marble towers adorn the four corners of it's sprawling marble pedestal, proudlygleaming in defiance of gravity and adding to the magical wonder that is the TajMahal. A perfectly blossoming marble flower sprouting from an earth tainted with innumerable imperfections, a majestic fantasy palace born of dreams long ago
lost in the endless stream of time. It is like nothing else in this world, and you hesitate to turn your back to it for fear of bursting the bubble of it's illusion.. yet somehow as your eyes reluctantly return for that final glimpse of
its beauty it somehow lingers still, clinging to the skies blue edge like the
age old fairytale daydream that it is, ever defying wakefulness.

Troops of tourists ogled it's magnificence and eagerly snapped their countless amateur photographs of what must be among the most photographed monuments in the world.. I realized by the end of the day that I must have made an appearance in well over 200 various pictures of the thing! The ornate stone work, the mountains of marble, the heaps of semi-precious stones, the identical mosque-style buildings to either side, the intricate decorations and delicate latticework, it truly is a brilliant work of art and architecture.

As I wandered inside I was greeted by the faint scent of bodily odors and an ominous resonance that instilled me with great peace and spawned a contemplative mood. The domed mosque-esque interior houses the finest of lacy marble lattis which appears deceptively fragile and airy, and in the very centre lies a long lost lovers tomb. Behind the Taj lies the river Yamuna and a plethora of birds and beasts that make home on its banks. As I wandered the grounds taking it all in, I was approached by a troop of peppy young Indian gulls who'd apparently been brought together from across the country to participate in the Republic Day parades. Their unique appearances reflected much of the diversity of India; from the strikingly Chinese features of northern Sikkim to the blackened skin of the tropical south. One of the girls with obvious metropolitan upbringing chirpily interrogated me as the others sit back in shy silence broken only by brief responses to my own questions and their occasional giggles. They offer to accompany me for the rest of my visit to the Taj, but I humbly refuse in favor of contemplative and introspective silence. After a few hours of strolling about and a quick visit to the minuscule museum on site, I leave the grounds of the Taj- forbidden to reenter with my outrageously overpriced yet single-entry ticket stub.

I've been told by more than one person that "The real Taj Mahal is behind the Taj Mahal" so I set out in search of the fabled market that is said to showcase the whole of Indian life. After passing dozens of stone masons working on red sandstone refurbishments I finally surrendered the notion of finding such a place; if it does indeed still exist it's certainly not easily found. The day was getting on and I had no intention of missing my train, so after a little more lingering and some photographs of the first camels I'd seen in India I made my return to the train station.

What suits you?

2008-02-10T13:46:00.001Z

Spent today touring the spectacular lakeside palacial testament to disposable income that resides in Udaipur, now I want a palace of my own! To make up for the impossibility of getting my own palace in the foreseeable future, I commissioned a couple custom tailored suits and some shirts.. I think I went a little overboard on it! Oh well, what's a few hundred dollars, right? Ha ha ha..... yeah.. Now headed off to grab a drink with a Brit named Tim and a couple of French speaking gulls, one from Switzerland and the other from France.. Wonder if I can start a fight over who makes the best fondue (brit excluded of course)!

India India India... What a place. It seems like my time is running out, even though I have over a month and a half left here.. Only now am I really getting into it; I knew it would take awhile to get the swing of life on the road, but didn't expect that it would be this long! There is an art to travel, and much of it lies in priorities. We too often plan things out and lose sight of what really matters in exchange for order and agendas.. Travel is a microcosm of life; there are many paths to choose from and making the firm decision to become a doctor at 6 years old is as premature as planning what to do on a trip before you leave. Life should be lived in the moment (excepting forays into the past and future) and the same goes for travel. The concept of two weeks of vacation per year in a passionless job is to me laughable - life is much more valuable than we give it credit for and marrying a demanding job that you have no love for is a sorry way to spend it. Life is a journey, and to me travel is an expression of that journey - one must not clutter things with plans and commitments but rather approach it with an open heart and a willingness to follow it where ever it takes you. Perhaps I am a romantic, straying from the ideals instilled into our society by those who would have is maximize our productivity for their own profit, but if so, so be it. Life is too short and precious to fully subscribe to the western notions of sacrifice in the sake of materialism..

Anyhow, enough rambling and tangents for now! Beer is calling, and who am I to snub that which is many times my elder?
Z

Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

Delhi

2008-02-05T20:39:00.000Z

Delhi

I left the tourist zone of Rishikesh at around 8:30pm and soon after was on a bus to Haridwar. From Haridwar I got an overnight train to Delhi and after a quick exchange of greetings with the nervous German fellow in the bed across from mine, I promptly passed out. The next morning I woke up at the New Delhi train station to a dramatic scene; the German's camera bag had been snatched from his bed in the 5 minutes he'd turned his back to pack his things! "How can this happen? How can this be real?" He rambled to the Indians who'd shared our berth "I ask you how this is possible - you were here, you were here.. you did not see anything? This is not possible! Please tell me how this could have happen!" Apparently this was the second camera he'd lost in Delhi - making for a claimed total bill of $1,600 +/-.. I did a quick check of my things and was happy to find all of them in their proper places [phew!].

I wandered out of the train station and tried to translate my Lonely Planet's map of the area into the bustling reality of Delhi; not an easy thing to do, but after some trying I made it to a hotel that Jason [Rishikesh] had recommended and checked in, then set out to see some sights. The day was January 29th, or the Indian Republic Day - and the associated military parade was said to be worth checking out [apparently starring the French president]. After being juggled around by rickshaw drivers and being told a multitude of lies and pieces of misinformation [You need tickets, there is no parade, Parade is very very far.. 10 kilometers, 'Free ride.. you want go shopping? only 5 minutes.. 10 minutes only'] I finally got to the area where roads had been blocked off and hopped out to work my way down on foot.

After about a kilometer of astoundingly traffic-free highway I made it to the security checkpoint near the parade route. Hundreds upon hundreds of Indians lined up waiting to pass through military checkpoints with thorough stages of pat-downs, baggage checks, and metal detectors [which are common in India but typically ignored by security personnel]. As a tourist I was rushed to the front of the line where I was denied entry with a simple "No Cameras!". A few minutes later, after jumping another nearby line, I was in - leaving me to wonder about the consistency of Indians security policies. Inside the 'secure zone' dozens of military personnel showcased the wide variety of the Indian Armed Forces' mix and match firearms, though the soldiers and police officers found their simple wooden sticks to be much more practical in crowd control.

The crowds were threatened and poked with sticks; forced to squat by the security as the presidential car passed, followed by some of the many colorful regiments of the Indian Army for which we were allowed to stand. From infantry to cavalry and Sikhs to commandos, a wide variety of Indians finest paraded past the throngs of bystanders looking on from a distance; behind rows of fences, barbed wire, and armed guards. The parading soldiers were followed by a variety of floats representing a hefty slice of Indians endlessly diverse selection of cultures and peoples. When the whole thing was over the barricades were taken down, the rooftop snipers eased their tense muscles, and truckloads of soldiers clambered to catch up with the parade.

I followed the crowd to the site of Ghandi's cremation, and after chilling out in the park for awhile, made my way to Old Delhi. Wandering through the winding streets and alleys of Old City filled with curious locals, I slowly made my way to the historic Red Fort. The 400ish year old 'Red Fort' was built by the Mughal empire [Persian for Mongol for their distant Mongolian ancestry] and still stands as an impressive monument of their former splendor, though sadly for me it was closed for the Republic day celebrations. From the Red Fort I made my way through a small electronics bazaar filled with Chinese knock-offs and then on to a Sikh Temple, a Jain Temple, and eventually down more winding streets to the Metro.

Delhi's metro is without a doubt far superior and more efficient than anything we have back home. It's funding apparently came largely from Japan, and it's cheap, fast, clean, and brand spanking new. Within minutes I was back in the neighborhood of my hotel searching for a bite to eat and a beer to wash things down.. Sadly the latter was unavailable due to a city-wide republic day prohibition.

The next morning I slept in and started my day with a cheap yet delectable feast in a local feed-hole, then took the tube towards the Royal Palace. Security was tight enough to keep me out, so after a quick photo I headed down Rajpath to the India Gate archway, and then headed over to Delhi's Modern Art Museum. I spent hour or so of browsing the brilliant sculptures and wall upon wall of not-so modern photography and paintings of people and weddings which, despite their lack of modernity, were still rather interesting to see. With a bit of an upset stomach I headed back to the metro and hopped off at the bustling commercial hub of Connaught Place. After some brief wandering through a jeans and leather market I found myself gawking wide eyed at the multitude of McDonalds, Wimpys, Subways, TGI Fridays and other big chains and coffee shops that presumably attest to Delhi's 'modernity' in its westernization. I wandered into a posh looking watering hole [a bluesless 'blues bar'] and enjoyed some watering with an enthusiastic Frenchman who'd only recently arrived in India. We had a couple of pitchers of Kingfisher and chit-chatted in a hybrid of French and English before hitting up a nearby Subway and making a break for a pub called 'Gem' in Paharganj, conveniently located within stumbling distance of our respective hotels. We met another Torontonian there who joined our table [once the scene with the plastered Nepali who claimed he hadn't ordered food and had already paid ended] and after a few more hours of 'watering' I found myself briefly kneeling in front of my toiled before crawling into bed.

The next afternoon I returned from the dead and spent most of the day taking it easy, though I did manage to: buy a second-class return ticket to Agra (for the next morning), get an onward ticket from Delhi to Ajmer, have a 'shower' with a bucket of hot water, and complete a thorough run-through and assessment of my luggage [a constant game of assessing every item I have and determining whether it's value exceeds it's size and weight]. An early night was followed by an equally early morning, and not long after checking my bag into the cloakroom of the New Delhi train station I was on a train to Agra to see the exceptional Taj Mahal.

Sand sand sand...

2008-02-04T04:29:00.000Z

image/jpeg
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

To the Desert by camel

2008-02-01T10:39:00.000Z

Many adventures to post updates on; Delhi, Agra, trains and Jaisalmer..

At present I'm in Jaisalmer, and tomorrow morning I head off for a 3 day desert trek on camel back. Sadly you're not likely to see any updates during that time [unless I can find an internet cafe amidst the dunes]. Wish me luck!
Z

Rishikesh

2008-01-30T10:05:00.000Z

Rishikesh

By the time I wandered out of the hotel it was well after noon, I stumbled my way down hill to Lakshman Jhula [or Lakshman Bridge] and in search of a real cup of Joe I popped into an inviting German bakery overlooking the (much cleaner than in Varanasi) aqua-marine Ganges. After some time of happily sipping away at on a sharp black coffee and pouring ideas onto paper I joined in on a conversation held by some fellow North-Americans. There was Marvin, a Vancouverite IT consultant who'd just finished a lucrative contract with Telus, and Jason, a prestigious professional photographer from California. I don't think I ever did get the third guy's name; he was a hardcore ashramite and a little too far out me thinks. After a few hours of chilling out and chatting we settled up and headed out for a bite to eat. One thing I must say of India is that the food, though often far too buttery, oily, salty, sweet or spicy, is truly delicious. After dinner we went our separate ways, which for me meant straight to bed.
The next day I met up with Jason and Marvin at the bakery for breakfast, then Jason and I set out to find the so called 'Beatles Ashram' [i.e. the Maharishi Ashram where the Beatles spend some time and wrote most of the White album]. On our way through town we ran into a french girl named Corinne, who I'd met on the platform of the Gaya train station over a week before! She tagged along with us in our search. The 'Beatles Ashram' has been abandoned for about 10 years, and must have began slowly falling back into the jungle long before that. The gate says 'No Entry", though with a 50 rupee 'donation' to the guard such limitations need not apply. The Ashrams huts, halls, and low-rises are still for the most part in tact and unplundered, with the wiring still in place, dry toilets still plumbed, and unused doors and screens swinging in the gentle afternoon breeze. We wandered through the empty huts and dark halls of abandoned buildings, onto rooftops and balconies, and eventually we ran into a couple from South Africa who were sitting around and practicing fire spinning. We sat on the rooftop of one of the main buildings and soaked up the sunshine while getting acquainted. After climbing a rickety latter up and into an old water tank with a neat echo, we bid farewell to our newly made rooftop friends and headed on to further explore.

After several hours of poking around the Ashram and checking out its many nooks and crannies, we made our way back to town and had an early dinner followed by apple pie. After dinner we went our separate directions with a plan to meet up at 7pm for a tabla-sitar concert played by a couple of apparently well known musicians. The concert of entrancing sitar and bubbling table beats went on for a solid hour and a half, after which I once again climbed the hill to my hotel and crashed. The next day I once again ran into Jason, Corinne and Marvin at the bakery - and this time we set out in search of a waterfall a few kilometers out of town. After a couple of hours hiking along the side of the road, then past another 'no entry' sign and along a footpath alongside a stream cutting through a beautiful forest, we finally made it to the small and rather unimpressive waterfall where we met a spaced out American from Tennessee. After spending some time recharging on the banks of the stream, we headed back to the road, stopped for a milky Chai, then headed back to town and, as usual, split up. That night I had dinner with Marvin and we had a long and 'far out' discussion touching on a wide variety of subjects; from physics to sociology, the origins of life and beyond.. yup - hippie stuff. The next morning I woke up early to join Corinne and Jason in their daily Yoga class, which happened to be in the same space that the concert had been hosted. After two hours of bending in ways I didn't know I could, we sat down for a coffee [which is about all I could do with my muscles recovering from unnatural use]. I spent a good chunk of the day online sorting out some changes in flights, catching up on the blog, burning photos to CD, following up on school applications, checking out Ashrams and planning my next destinations. I'd considered checking into an Ashram in Rishikesh, but the road was calling me name and I didn't feel the whole Ashram thing too much at the time. My last day in Rishikesh began with another dose of Yoga, then lots of hanging around town and wandering about passing time until I made my way to Haridwar by bus to catch an over night train [Sleeper Class] to Big Delhi.

FYI - Booked Flights:
March 28th - Chennai to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
March 29th - KL to Bali, Indonesia
-Possible detour to Borneo
April 10th - Bali to KL
April 15th - KL to Macau, China
-Ferry to Hong Kong after failing to recoup my travel expenses in the casinos.
April 21st - Hong Kong to Vancouver
April 24th/25th - Vancouver to Toronto.

Flirting with Pakistan and a first class mistake.

2008-01-28T15:40:00.000Z

Attari

The India-Pakistan border crossing town Attari is well known for the comical flag lowering and border closing ceremony. Our jeep comprised of flirting couples as well as a small family in the back and our driver wore a Bin-Laden like turban and had wild, piercing, bloodshot eyes that I expect could have easily cut steel. He dropped us off about a mile away from the border [due to security restrictions] and on the way to the crossing I passed numerous popcorn stands and kids selling movies of the daily border closing performance [you can watch it here, but this is not my recording]. I could hear waves of shouting and cheering as though from a gladiatorial arena, so I jogged my way down to join the spectating masses.

The border closing ceremony was composed of a dozen or so overdressed border security guards fanatically stomping and kicking their way to the border trying to out perform their counterparts national pride, all the while being cheered and jeered on by massive crowds of patriotic fans shouting from bleachers on either side and obnoxious announcers riling things up over loudspeakers. The ceremony lasted just over half an hour, ending with the respective lowering of flags and then a kicking and stomping return to the respective guardhouses.

When the show was over I headed back to the jeep and after a bit of a wait we packed in and headed back to the Golden Temple. I decided to take another stroll around the grounds and quickly met an inquisitive young Sikh whose aspirations were to someday become a doctor. He asked if it was okay for us to talk, then proceeded to give me a nervous tour of a few buildings I'd missed, asking most politely if it would be alright to leave quiet areas quickly and walk a few feet apart so that people wouldn't think he was trying to take advantage of me. He asked me the usual questions and explained a few of the finer points of Sikhism, and after a chai and a meal in the communal kitchen he set off into the night, never asking for a dime [which is incredibly refreshing in a country where even responding to someones "Hello Sir!" is thought to merit a purchase or donation]. My tour completed and a train to catch, I headed to the train station, packed with dozing commuters, and waited for my train to Rishikesh.

Train to Rishikesh; A first class mistake

The first class train cars from the pre-AC years have been largely disbanded from active service, but a few are still possible to find on select train routes within India. I decided that I must give a try at these first class cars from days of old, as this would have been the first class from the days of Paul Theroux. I tracked down a few trains that still had 'FC' berths available, and it so happened that one of them was in the direction I was going, if a little out of the way. I had the romanticized notion of furnished berths with all the bells and whistles; red carpets, catering services, thoroughly fluffed mint-bearing pillows, velvet blankets, and maybe even a rustic old heater of some sort! I was to be sorely disappointed. I should have started wondering when I saw that my name was the only one listed on the print out for the first class.. I hopped in the car and looked around, wondering if there was some mistake... When I asked the ticket collector what kind of first class this was supposed to be I was told "first class is a lower class, sir", for a moment I was left to ponder whether he had imparted some sort of sage like wisdom onto me, or if this was just more plain old traditional Indian nonsense.

The nights approach freezing up here and I had no heat, no winter blankets, a smattering of broken light fixtures, a few broken fans, wires dangling from once-working electrical controls, a sleeping bag designed for 15 degrees or above, and a grubby pillow less rubberized mattress not unlike those of Sleeper class [though a little bit wider]. My ticket was, of course, the most expensive of anyone on the train; even though first class is of course a 'lower class', it comes at three times the cost of sleeper class and is a even slightly more expensive than the 3-tier AC class [which comes with heating, bedding, catering, and sometimes even working electrical sockets]. I am told that the high price is due to the low capacity of the first class cars, but within a few cold and sleepless hours I became acutely aware of the lacking benefits of the low class low capacity car that I have to myself, especially when I consider that sleeper class at least has enough body heat to keep it tolerably warm. Though I was the only first class ticket holder as the night went on occasional vagrants wandered into the car in search of a free bed. After some near-coercive discussions with a railway employee I managed to eek a blanket out of the 3AC car, but at the end of the day I still found myself locked up in the A berth of the 1st class car freezing my ass off all night long. The next morning I awoke in a daze on a train stopped not far from Haridwar. I quickly searched out a steaming cup of Chai to help me defrost, though the Chai man would not serve me - preferring to serve only the Indians that surrounded his operation while ignoring me. Luckily I ran into a kid with teabags and pot of hot and milky water. Upon reaching Haridwar I jumped on a bus headed to Rishikesh, and within an hour or so I was surrounded by rickshaw drivers who offered outrageous prices to take me to the foreigner area [packed with Ashrams and Cafes as opposed to the clothing shops, phone card stores, and fumbling mechanics that make up the local part of town]. I took a shared rickshaw to the outskirts of where I wanted to be, and on my way down the hill towards Lakshman Jhula A hotel owner pulled me in for a peek at his establishment; after checking out the clean $4/night room that included hot water, I was sold. I did my usual half-assed unpacking knowing that it wouldn't be long before I was once again cramming things into my bag, then set out to check out this ashram-packed yogic centre of the universe [or so some seem to think].

Singh-town

2008-01-24T21:18:00.000Z

Overdue Disclaimer: Please do not be too put off of India based on my descriptions and explanations. India is a place of great contrast - for every genuinely terrible thing I see, I am blessed by something equally spectacular. For each rough day I have, I have an incredible one. For each jerk I meet, I meet someone genuine. India showcases the ups and downs rather than hiding them, and everything is in extremity.

Amritsar

Amritsar is in the Punjab state of India and is located right next to the border crossing to Pakistan. Punjab is renowned as the home of the Punjabi language, the origin of Chicken Tikka Masala, and the birthplace of Sikhism. You've probably had a fair number of interactioins with the Sikhs considering that the Sikh population of Canada is estimated at a surprising 415,150 - making Canada the third largest home of the Sikhs, preceded only by the UK and India; If you've ever had a cab driver who wore a big turban and had a long beard, you've most likely been serviced by a Sikh [next time ask how long his hair is!]. They are a proud family of soldier-saints who share the last name of Singh and live modest lives dedicated to the protection of the poor and helpless. The stories of Sikh martyrdom are seemingly endless, as thousands upon thousands have laid down their lives for a long list of selfless causes; In the late 19th century a contingent of 21 dedicated Sikhs chose the route of no surrender and sacrificed their lives in holding off an Afghan attack of 10,000 men! Stories of Sikh bravery and sacrifice are as many as those of their persecution.

All Sikh Gurdwaras [temples] host free community kitchens that are open to all castes and faiths.

I entered Amritsar and decided I was in need of a hot shower, so rather than heading to the Golden Temples free accomidations for pilgrims, I checked into a guesthouse near the rail station. Once free of my backpack, I hopped in a Rickshaw to the Golden Temple and spent the next few hours wandering its premises. The temple is beautiful, the people are friendly and genuine, the food is great. I almost pushed back my onward ticket to spend more time with these people who seemed willing to take me in at a moments notice, care for me and teach me of their ways.. After touring the temple and area as well as checking out a museum and a memorial park, I decided to pack it in and watch some TV [a rare treat]. As it turns out my guesthouse was right on the train tracks... zzzzzzzzz..Choo-Choo!

The next morning I checked out after trying to visit a museum [under renovation], and headed up to the so called 'Silver Temple' - which turned out to be a much less impressive and less populated Hindi knock-off of the Gold Temple. A few hours were spent wandering the streets of the old city before I jumped into a Jeep headed to the Pakistan-Indian border town of Attari for the border closing ceremony.

Discourse; The silk man of Varanasi

In India, business is hereditary. The caste system retains a strong hold on the culture, and attempting to exceed your perceived potential is looked down upon. Sons born to shopkeepers will shopkeepers be, and this held very true for the silk man of Varanasi. His family had been in the silk business for five generations before him, and his son had taken it on upon his retirement. The life of a Hindi has four stages, the celibate student, the materialistic family man, the hermit in retreat, and finally the wandering recluse. I was lucky enough to stop in while his son (materialistic family man) was off on business; while grand-pops (hermit in retreat) was taking care of business. I got a quick tour of their factory, which sprawled across several buildings. he claimed to have expanded his fathers business from 16 looms to 60, though it had been refused again since those days. I sat down in the showroom and we spoke while I sipped chai as he proceeded to unravel piece after piece, until at least a hundred lay across my lap. He took me through the various qualities and designs, including those woven with silver and gold thread. He spoke at great length of his son, his life, his business and of Hinduism; explaining how very lucky I was to come by while he was running things. "my son would tell you that this one is real silk, or that this is real gold, but it is not. This one is real, feel the difference? I would have told you those were real once too, but I have already made my fortunes, and have little interest in money now." he spoke of the sentiment towards the British during their occupation of India, and how much of the associated negativity had passed on to all white foreigners, "but I know that this is not correct. Tourist is here because they want to seeing our beautiful country! They are not the British!". A couple of American women walk into the showroom and he shoes them off "take them to another room!" he says, "I am doing business here." after an exhausting process of going through the dozens of silk shawls and hangings he has spread out, then several stages of further elimination - during each of which I am reminded not to exceed my budget, I end up with 6 pieces (5 more than I had intended) and a little more info on Hindi's and the silk trade.

2008-01-22T22:17:00.000Z

I returned to Varanasi from Bodhgaya and spent some more time wandering the cities streets and meeting people in the ever flowing trickle of travelers that cross streams along side the Ganges. Plenty of time was spent online: posting blogs, choosing photos, catching up on emails, sorting out finance, following up on school applications and booking flights home. The nights were spent chilling out on the rooftop patio and drinking beer with some like minded backpackers; a Norwegian with long hair who listened to heavy metal but was teaching himself Spanish guitar, a Brit named Victoria who could burp the alphabet to the letter P, and an Aussie named John who'd been staying at the hotel for 6 weeks while learning sarangi. On the note of beer, alcohol is nearly prohibited in Varanasi - though the cannabis based 'bhang' is a perfectly legal and well accepted way for the Hindi population to 'get closer to Shiva'.

India is a chaotic place, with so many scams and tricks that one must learn quickly to make light of it lest they lose their minds. Our hotel manager out it best when he said "...how can you blame us? Look at our gods - Shiva was a murderous dope dealer and Krishna was the biggest playboy the world's seen!" surprisingly accurate and perhaps this does much to explain many of the quirks of India; the very gods they revere mostly liars, cheats, and thieves when it suits them, and they're still 'bribed' on a daily basis for favors masses of Hindis!

I left Varanasi during a strike by the rivers boatmen which had rendered the ghats landlocked, and thus all the more packed with culture. I sat back watching men in loincloths joke around and splash each other in the septic Ganges at first with horror, but soon with a smile on my face as I began to realize that this is to them no different from a day on the beach.

A man stands on the ghats, his body wracked by his violent coughing and a gout of red liquid pouring from his mouth. Is he dying? Soon to be consumed by the fires of cremation? Of course not! He's just had a little pan masala go down the wrong tube! Pan masala is a strange concoction of betel nut, tobacco, and calcium that is rolled around the mouth causing excessive amounts of saliva stained crimson by the concoction. I've become rather accustomed to it, with hotel reception, shopkeepers, train passengers, rickshaw drivers, and a slew of other Indian men [and only men] habitually mixing up the concoction in their palms, rolling it about and slapping it on occasion, then sticking the resulting wad in their mouths and salivating like Pavlovian dogs. Florescent spit stains fortified with bits and pieces of the concoction have painted nearly every wall in India, which causes me to wonder why the spittoon business has yet to explode upon India (of course practical ideas such as this are rarely pursued in India; thus the ever present litter from lack of waste bins, public urination and defecation for lack of washrooms, and all varieties of filth for lack of care).

I arrived at the train station seven minutes prior to my trains departure, having mistakenly assumed that this train would, as usual, be late. My mistake became apparent as I recalled that I had a wait list ticket for a 2-tier AC sleeper seat(just below 1st class AC), I saw that the tourist office was packed and could find no wait list seating register. On top of this, a distant voice voice announced that the train was arriving on time at gate 8. I hauled ass to the train and found a railway employee with a huge wad of paper in hand containing the details of each passenger on the railway behemoth that he served. He took me to the first class car, and for a moment I thought I had been upgraded - but I got my hopes up too soon, as I discovered that the 1st class car is only occupied by a few 1st class berths. He gave me a seat above a drowsy dark skinned Brahman (who I identified as such by the orange string bracelet on his wrist) then stuck his hand out and said "waiting list..". This was the first time I had been asked for a baksheesh (tip/bribe). I handed him 20 rupees, and when he wouldn't go away dispensed an additional 5. He touched the money to his forehead, chest, then forehead again (as they often do), and moved along. I settled in and made a breakfast of fresh rye bread, jam and honey, and we were on our way. I shared my berth with a Bhraman (who could be identified by the simple orange string bracelet on his right wrist) and in Lucknow we were joined by a couple more Brahmans and a sheik. A man in a berth nearby must have been watching excessively loud porno and the moans could be heard from some distance away, though my fellow berth mates seem unfazed by the pornographic noises that now filled the air. After a long night of snoring sikhs and bumps on the line we arrived in Amritsar.

To Atari

2008-01-20T10:32:00.001Z

In a jeep en route to the Pakistan border. Just going to watch the show. Wish me luck!

P.s. Sikhs rock.
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

The train to Amritsar

2008-01-19T01:12:00.000Z

On the train to Amritsar, home of the Sikhs sacred golden temple. There is a bear-like Sikh with a saffron turban in the bed beside mine and his snores have infiltrated my dreams and waking hours (no rest for the wicked I suppose), luckily a touch of rum allowed for some sleep. From Amritsar I plan to head to Rishikesh (home of many ashrams, including one the Beatles stayed in) and from there down to New Delhi and beyond!
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

[A Bull-headed passenger]

Varanasi

2008-01-17T22:34:00.000Z

Varanasi
I arrived in Varanasi around midnight and the train station was packed with Indians sprawled out on the floor trying to catch some shut-eye between trains. It wasn't long before I was accosted by a throng of auto-rickshaw jockeys desperate for a hotel commission. My resistance was weak considering the hour, and I bought in for a lift to a hotel guaranteed to have a room. The next morning I could think of little but finding myself a new temporary residence with perhaps some running water and a few less mystery night-biters. I set out early to peruse for a hotel more to my liking and within a few hours I'd found a few good places and settled on a nice one with a balcony, hot water, a rooftop restaurant and a substantial backpacker population. Once checked in I started further exploring this colourful city on the banks of the river Ganges.

Varanasi is indeed a charming place, assuming of course that you've adapted to India prior to coming here... The things that have shocked me along the way are as present here as anywhere else in this country- public urination, the 2-man shovel technique, herds of cows, wild dogs, the anarchistic traffic, the constant honking mixed with the ever ringing bells of cycle-rickshaws, the cow shit patties plastered on walls for drying to later be used in cooking fires, all of which amounts to an endless assault on each of ones senses. It's an ancient city whose narrow streets and alleyways are full of a wide variety of surprises including grand temples, obscure idols, hustlers, bustlers, beggars, Sadhus, Muslims, tourists, shops, kite flying children, an enormous university, cows, nice restaurants, cycle-rickshaws, silkshops, traditional music and plain old tradition. Of Varanasi's attractions the Ghats are certainly among the greatest; a seemingly endless and timeless stretch of riverside steps and terraces peppered with innumerable attractions. Loincloth clad men swim, bathe, and wash their mouths out in the sacred waters of the Ganges which boasts an astounding 4000 times the fecal coliform population deemed safe for swimming and also plays home to a wide variety of corpses including those of pregnant women, sadhus, children under 10, animals, and the victims of small pox and leprosy.

Sinewy men row boatloads of tourists, locals and wood up and down the river while the ghats population lounges about reading news papers, dancing, offering cheap massages and hash to foreigners, praying, gossiping, pan-handling, or just chilling out. The ghats are spattered with herds of buffalo, ornate temples, a few monkeys and a lot of sewers.

The adventurous wander down to the 'Burning Ghats' where cadavers and corpses alike [excepting the ones mentioned above] are ceremoniously incinerated at incredible costs. The burning ghats are certainly interesting to say the least: bodies wrapped in sheets and gold foil are carried to the ghats through the streets on bamboo stretchers, they're subjected to a final dip in the Ganges before being placed atop carefully measured piles of lumber, sprinkled in sandalwood, smeared with butter and set alight after a priestly discourse. I'm told the bodies burn for 2-3 hours, but that it takes an additional 22 hours before the incineration is complete. No pictures posted for this one, as none are allowed.

I thoroughly enjoyed exploring Varanasi's depths and constantly revealing new sides to the city, chilling out with the many travelers in my hotel, getting tips for the road ahead, plotting my course, and soaking up the city. I spent all of six nights there before I hopped on a train bound for Gaya, then worked my way down to Bodhgaya [or Buddhagaya].

Bodhagaya

Bodhgaya was the place that the Buddha achieved enlightenment, and thus became the birthplace of Buddhism. The importance of this place to the Buddhists is rather overstated in the month of January, as this is a time of mass pilgrimage. On the train I met a Frenchman named Tom who'd been trying desperately to read an English newspaper using a French-English dictionary and a couple of Malaysians who were volunteering in Koklata. After a few hours of chatting and taking in the scenery we arrived in Gaya and shared a rickshaw onward. As we approached the outskirts of Bodhgaya we began to see great droves of monks milling about in numbers that exceeded any that I'd ever seen before (such that we began to wonder if perhaps the Dali Lama himself was in town!). After checking all of the foreigner-accepting monasteries for availability we begrudgingly settled for a couple of rooms in a small hotel.

The next morning I set out to explore the temples and see what was going on; as it turns out Bodhgaya has a truly enormous Buddha statue and number of temples that held a close second to some I'd already seen. A visit to the museum was mostly wasted time and I'd seen my quota of golden Buddhas for the month, so most of my energy was focused on the people there: there were hordes of monks from a dozen nations, countless Tibetans, hundreds of beggars [mostly children, old women, and cripples], noise polluting auto-rickshaws, more monks, and tourists. A lot of people wore surgical masks to combat the dust that hung thick in the air, but I've grown to simply accept it as a part of India. I noticed a number of monks migrating in the late morning and decided to follow them, soon after I found myself in a huge monestary where lunch was being served to several thousands of monks - all waiting their turns with the patience of a Buddhist. Later on I headed to the temple that stands beside the descendant of the Bodhi tree under which Buddha attained enlightenment and was lucky enough to catch thousands upon thousands of monks in their afternoon Puja [prayer]. By the end of the day I was beginning to get tired of the constant badgering of beggars, the rickshaws looking to hook a tourist, the overflow of crimson robes [I even caught one eating chicken!], the tourists, the temples, and the constant power outages - so the next morning I was off to Gaya to catch a train back to Varanasi.

The road south

2008-01-15T21:23:00.000Z

Gorakpur

To get from Lumbini to Varanasi [or anywhere in India for that matter], one has to cross the laxed border at Sunali and make their way to Gorakpur from which trains and buses to a variety of destinations can be caught. My memory of Gorakpur involves people pissing on the side of busy streets in broad daylight, shattered urinals covered in feces, and a train station that closes at 2pm on Sunday - but is still staffed when closed and will still sell tickets to insistent customers. I had a good Thalee in the train station, and that's about all the good that came from this place; to be honest I think that's about all there is to do in this grotty crossroad city, and I was glad to leave it... Both times.

Kushinagar
Kushinagar is the place that Buddha breathed his final breaths, so I should have perhaps expected it to be much lower on the list of the Buddhist pilgrimage sites; of course hind sight is 20/19. There were no auto rickshaws offering to take me to Kushinagar from Gorakpur at insanely inflated prices which is a clear sign that this is off the tourist route, though so had been lumbini. I hopped on a local bus from Gorakpur and half way into the trip we had to pull over, as steam was pouring out of a fist sized hole that had for some reason been cut in the dash. I was sitting right behind the engine [which was beside the driver] for the extra leg room and began to wonder what the repercussions of it's potentially immanent explosion would be. The diver hurriedly sent a man off somewhere, and in a minute he was back with a pale of water. After pouring a couple of liters down through the steaming dash the hole seemed satisfied and we were on the road again. I arrived in kushinagar near dusk and quickly settled into the Vietnamese linh son monastery (which had beautiful temples but expensive rooms that seemed void of any life other than myself and my merry band of mosquitoes). A quick stroll through town in the waning sunlight past the dilapidated temples and separated by the highway and fields of plastic bags and sugar cane wasn't nearly what I had expected not hoped for... They plan to build the largest golden sitting Buddha in the world here, but before they start that I would suggest they put a few dollars into temple maintenance, as they're nearly all outdone by the posh yet vacant luxury hotels that have been built here for reasons beyond my understanding.

After an electricity free mosquito infested night I borrowed the managers bicycle and further explored the unnecessarily dispersed and relatively recently built temples that had much in common with ancient ruins (excepting of course any similarity in age). After a bit of a temple tantrum I decided to skip ahead to see how far the stretch of temple-bearing road went on. I soon arrived at a long ago decayed Stupa that is said to mark the place that Buddha was cremated; on touching it I was surprised at the warmth of the stones - so much so that I briefly fell into superstition. On my way back to town I stopped in on the Thai monastery and was simply blown away! Having seen many crumbling temples housing immaculate golden Buddhas I was most surprised to see immaculate temples surrounded by equally incredible gardens. I stumbled around in awe, which was somewhat spoiled by the fact that most of the grounds and the temple were off-limits... On my way out a Thai monk came up to me and asked the typical "Where are you from", soon after I was made aware that he was designated as the tourist-helper! He showed me through the temples, showed me some photos on his rather expensive digital camera, and explained a number of objects on the grounds [including a lot of golden trinkets, a hair from the Thai king, and pictures of various high-ranking monks in the Thai Buddhist order.] We did a little meditation and he did some chanting, but eventually his cell phone rang and he had to run off to tend to a group of tourists. I was invited to the evening chanting, though had already decided to get out of this place as soon as possible and had to decline. On my way back to the Vietnamese temple I ran into a couple of locals mounted on a massive elephant stationed at a fruit stand. The elephant was slyly working the fruit-man for a nutritious snack of apples and bananas that it gleefully snapped up with his trunk and munched, once complete it started rolling its eyes and swinging its trunk around in a sneaky attempt to snag a few extras for the road before those pesky humans on its back nudged it along.

Within a couple of hours I found myself on the side of the highway waiting for a ride back to Gorakpur so that I could catch a train to Varanasi. As I waited about 6 public transit jeeps/buses passed me by - all of which had people hanging out the sides and standing on the rear bumpers, the drivers of course holding fast to their convictions that plenty of space remained. I met up with an African born Indian who'd been raised in London and his Italian girlfriend, soon after we lucked out on a half-empty jeep and spent the next hour and a half chatting away as we approached Gorakpur. Back in Gorakpur I made a point of not leaving the train station, which proved to be more seedy than the city its self! As I stood in an Indian line[where one advances by force as opposed to order of appearance] waiting to use a train info terminal, as I stood there a number of Indians crowded around in the excitable way the tend to [I once counted 12 people looking at the engine of a broken down jeep; no more than one or two knew anything about engines]. One man stood to me left and was pressed tight against me, despite the relatively empty train station.. I felt something in my pocket, and when I went to put my hand in there I found it to be occupied! I grabbed his hand and told him rather politely that I did not appreciate his hand being in my pocket [which was soon after translated to Hindi for his sake] and he walked away non-chalantly. In hindsight I should have perhaps been a little less than polite considering the situation, but in India it's always hard to tell what to do. I booked my ticket at the ticket office that had closed at 2pm according to the staff, but with a little urging I got my ticket and by 5pm was on a train that would arrive late as usual, landing me in Varanasi near midnight.

Next to come: Varanasi and Bodhgaya.

More Discourse!

Jack
In Canada I'm often called by my last name: Ryan. In Central America Zac became Isaac, and I eventually gave up on pointing out the difference. Here my name is Jack or Shack. Someday I'll find a place where I can simply be Zac... Some day..

Buddhist Temples
So... Temples of Buddha - I've seen a lot of them now, and I've begun to wonder about them. Giant statues of Gold, immaculate temples, millions of dollars spent to make a place of worship.. But is any of this really Buddhist? I mean, what would Buddha think? Would he be like "Humm.. you kind of got the nose wrong on this one, didn't you", or would he be appalled that these had been built in his name? He certainly made no claims to godhood, yet he is worshiped as a Shiva, Ganesh or Vishnu. After reading an intriguing book on the relation between Buddha and the Vedas [Hindis], I now understand why so many Hindis do worship him [Buddha was a Hindi, and most of what he said had been said before at some point or other.. It wasn't until long after Buddha died that the Buddhists were ejected from Hinduism, mostly due to their corruption of Buddhas original teachings]. Anyhow, I've become a little jaded when it comes to Stupas and Temples to say the least; time for something new!

The Indian Interrogation:

The Indian Interrogation is something that all travelers are subjected to on a daily basis. The degree of interrogation depends on several circumstances, primarily the linguistic skills of the interrogator and their interest in pursuing useless information [or lack of anything better to do]. A typical conversation goes something like this:

"Hello Sir!"
- "Hello"

"Where are you come from, sir?"
- "Canada"

"And what is your work?"
- "Computers" [I've given up trying to explain anything more on this one]

"Are you married sir?"
- "No, but I have a girlfriend back home"

"Why is your gullfriend not coming in India?"
- "She's got a new job"

"Your good name sir?"
- "Zac"
"Jack?"
-"Sure."

"Why do you coming to India... Your purpose?"
- "To learn, listen, see, do, be.. To explore"

"What do you think about India?"
- "It's wonderfully terrible and terribly wonderful."

"What do you think about Indian gulls?" [girls] - "I love the saris, very colorful!"

"Canada has free sex, yes?" - I still don't quite understand their definition of free on this one.. but my answer is usually along the lines of 'not quite'.. This typically concludes the interrogation, which is far too often followed by statements like "I am very poor, and you are very rich", or "Do you have Canadian coins", also there's the "Will you take me back with you?" which always involves a long explanation of visas, passports, workforce, economics etc.

Lumbini

2008-01-10T14:55:00.000Z

I set out for Lumbini in the morning and got a lift to the bus station on the back of Raj's motorcycle. The bus was, as I have come to expect, not created with foreigner vertically taken into consideration - luckily I've learned how to thwart the efforts of those cruel anti-westerner bus designers! I took the seat at the very back of the bus at the end of the aisle (which has no seat in front of it). Despite being a little cramped with the excessive number of Nepali that ere crowded onto the bus, I rode in relative comfort. With the help of a chill Chinese girl who was headed the same way I transferred in Bhairahara and arrived in Lumbini just after dusk. She had been told by friends that the Korean Temple took in travellers and was the place to go, having no real plans on where I was sleeping I decided to tag along and check it out. Lumbini is a tranquil place; a walled monistic zone filled with forests, fields and temples surrounded by seemingly endless pastures and farmland. We hiked for about half an hour through the dark and abandoned streets of the walled Lumbini monastic zone/ wildlife reserve and finally ended up on the doorstep of the Koreans who informed us that supper was just ending! We lucked out on a tasty feed of Indo-Korean fusion and soon after were settled into mini-dorm rooms, mine being shared with a Frenchman and a Spaniard. Later that night two bus loads of Indian pilgrims and a third bus of Nepali pilgrims rolled into the monastery and after their occupants unloaded mountains of baggage they began cooking their own feasts in enormous woks that were then ceaselessly used for days and days. It was an early night for me, and the 6:00am breakfast made for an earlier morning [I'm no morning person, and as such propose that the morning hours between 5-8am be abolished!]. After eating more breakfast than I should have, I rented an antique British bicycle and spent the day touring. I biked around the farms outside of the monastic zone and visited the beautiful monasteries and lavishly ornate temples that dot Lumbini, including the temple build around the Buddha's birthplace. It's sort of funny that so many temples and monasteries exist in one place, all associated with the same religion but built by different countries; I wonder if the monks spend their free time poking fun at their international colleagues talking jive like"My temple's better than youuurrrss!", or "What, your country can't afford to finish their temple? When will you capitalists pig-dogs learn.."

One of the places I wandered into was a meditation centre where a human zombification program seemed to be in high gear with a strict regime of alternating sessions of sitting and walking meditation which were as to be done in slow motion and without speaking; the occasional meal or juice break was slipped into this program which allowed between 4-6 hours of sleep per day and required at least 12-16 hours of meditation. Needless to say the few mute space-cadet 'zombification-project' participants who ambled about at painfully slow speeds were a little creepy to spend ones time with, so I didn't stay for very long.

The next morning I set out to catch a misted sunrise in the sprawling forests that make up much of the monastic zone of Lumbini. I wandered along the rough trails while soaking up the tranquility of this wonderful place; enjoying the chirping birds, the heavy fog, the rising sun and the lack of people. I stopped for a minute to take a few photos of some misted flowers and as I got up to leave I noticed 3-4 wild deer of some sort drinking from a river hardly more than 100m away. I snapped a few shots as they meandered away having noticed me too, then sat down to write a few words in my journal. Within a few minutes I glanced up from my writings to see 6-7 jackals rapidly descending upon me! Again I grabbed my camera and as I snapped a few blurry shots before they too noticed me - two of them scattered and came within a stones-throw from me while the rest stayed back.. I began to wonder if this was some sort of hunting tactic and considered my chances against a pack of wild jackals, but quickly reminded myself that they were likely to be rather intimidated by the 6 foot ape that towered above them and were not likley to attack. I watched the main pack back off, cantering in a slick manner with their heads low to the ground - only popping up on occasion to scope things out. As time went on more deer came into view [I counted a total of 9] and the jackals eventually continued to prowl around the forests until a line of monks came down a nearby pathway and scared everything off without noticing any of it. I think it's obvious to say that nothing else of comparable interest happened to me that day.

In all I spent 4 nights in Lumbini and thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere and the company of the people I met. Between the chanting of monks, the blessings received and given, the beauty of the forests and wildlife within, the laid back environment, and the monks with their cell phones and motorcycles, Lumbini certainly made for a memorable experience; but all things must come to an end and for having not initially intended to enter Nepal I figured that the 3 weeks I'd spent there would have to do.

Blah Blah Blah, or Blog Blog Blog?

2008-01-08T17:41:00.000Z

Just posting to reassure those who are constantly plagued and terrified by their ongoing notion of my demise coming whilst on the road.

Posting another blog entry soonish, it'll be another long one. These things are getting bulky! Internet has been SCARCE since I entered Buddha country which has prevented posting, and my blackberry didn't get its usual access until recently.

Before I came here I was told "Every day you will see something that shocks you" and so far that's pretty much been true.. As a result I have a lot to say about what I see. Right now I'm in Varanasi, India; a cool town on the Ganges with lots of ghats [cemented slopes leading to the river used for washing, bathing, socializing etc] and temples where the deceased are walked through the streets to be creamated [which I've yet to see]. Anyhow, just quickie for now! Going to Bodhgaya from here in a couple days - where Buddha attained enlightenment.

Z

Paraglide

2007-12-30T07:28:00.000Z

Paragliding:

Soaring over the terraced mountains and remote houses of farmers with an incredible view of the glacial Annapurna range. Not for a moment did I feel fear, which is somewhat strange considering that we basically ran off a cliff with little more than a harness and a lot of strings attached to a paper thin nylon 'sail'. A Bulgarian named Kristof was my 'Pilot' and took us up up up high into the sky, then asked if I wanted to see some tricks. I said sure considering that my life was already in his hands and knowing that if I went down I was taking him with me. We glided over the lake and he started to rock the sail back and forth until it started to sway violently, the sail would be beside us, then he'd crank on one of the lines to the sail and we'd have a brief freefall with some serious G-Force until we were once again below the sail. These Acrobatics were like a rollercoaster; your gut wrenches as you bomb downwards, then are suddenly pulled back by the resistance of the sail. Hell of a time!

At the end of it all we chatted about gliding and I mentioned Scuba Diving. He said he'd never been but that Paragliding is kind of similar - he doesn't see it as flying, but rather as swimming through the air.

Gliders are like all the other special interest enthusiast groups [i.e. Bikers, Climbers, Mountain Bikers, Scuba Divers, Sky Divers, Surfers, Wind Surfers, Snow Boarders and so on], they're all adrenaline junkie gear heads that eat, sleep, live and often die for the sake of pushing the envelope of their respective hobby/habit. Pilots cluster togeather and talk about the latest GPS equipment, or the sizes and speeds of their sails, tell stories of previous flights, discuss the wind speed at legnth and read glider magazines.

Pokhara:
After the move from Dam Side to the more centeral Lake Side, I spent some time chilling in the sunshine and enjoying the street festival. Lots of drinking, BBQ and Nepali music - all in all a good time! The owner of my hotel, Raj, invited me to go out to dinner with his family one night - which consisted of a cousin and his wife, their three children, the cousin's wife's sister, Raj's wife and his little boy. We headed out to the fair grounds and wandered about - checking out the local bands in their ACDC and Steppenwolfe covers and taking a ride on the ferris wheel. As the night went on it became obvious that they were trying to hook me up with the cousins wifes 15 year old sister despite the fact that she's 15 and that they already knew I have a girlfriend. After a dinner of BBQ Chicken and Mo Mo's [A Tibetan yak/buffalo perogie] the women and children headed home and I was left with the boys. We went up a rickety iron stairwell and into a bar filled with Nepali guys with a live band on stage. I was told that this was a competition, and later had it explained that the back and forth of male and female singing was a sort of sing-off where they one-upped eachother or the guy stated his love and she gave him hell. A cultural experience to say the least, and by the end of the night Raj was hammered and we virtually had to drag him back to the hotel.

The next day was New Years Eve - I spent a good chunk of the day chatting politics and global economics with a German fellow who'd arrived that day, while I held off eating so that I could endulge in a rare treat; a steak. As the night progressed I ended up at a small corner stand that was a popular hang-out for a couple 19 year old British neo-hippies who tended to jam late at night. The new year was passed drinking San Miguel and tenderizing my fingers playing Djembe, and soon after the clock struck 12:00am I headed back to my bed so that I could get an early start in the new year en route to my next destination; Lumbini, Buddah's birthplace.

Discourse:
There's something about men and women that I didn't quite catch in nepali culture, but I did get glimpses of it. On busses, bicycles and roads you rarely see women and after dark they disappear almost completley. Men are out in droves, and after dark it seems that even the married ones are looking for girls [which may be why all the girls hide away]. The women dress in beautiful saris of vibrant colours; Lime green, sky blue, florescent orange, black and white, some beaded and others dotted with golden patterns and mirrors - in contrast to this bright and beautiful attire, the men dress in monotone colours and mostly western clothes. Almost all the girls have nose rings which are supposed to symbolize long life for their husbands, and at supper time the women serve while the men eat, then the women eat once the men are done. Obviously this is largely due to tradition, but I certainly see an element of opression that I hadn't expected here and which I expect will continue through India [I also noticed Kolkata seemed almost void of women]. I'm interested to learn more of the customs and cultural taboos here as they relate to gender, but for now I'm just a gringo observer. Anyhow, enough on that.

That's all for now, In Lumbini now staying at the Korean Temple. Will update you on that once I get a better connection!

Cheers
Z

Pokhara!

2007-12-29T14:08:00.000Z

[View from the World Peace Pagoda, Pokhara]

Leaving Kathmandu:
My remaining time in Kathmandu was spent biding my time and enjoying the break from fast paced travel that has occupied most of my trip thusfar. An interesting and mysterious charecter that we met at our hotel goes by the name DM. His easy-going demeaner, wispy and bright attire and the calm aura he exeuded flagged him as a person of interest, and so he was. DM is a Pakistani who flew to Kathmandu to buy turquoise in bulk then have it made into jewerly to be sold in Pakistan. Outside of turquoise trading he is also involved in the leather jacket trade, mobile phone sales and is an expert trekking guide! His genuine attitude and unique perspective on the modern world was quite a change from the western line of thinking that we're so accoustomed to and he certainly left both Steve and I with many things to ponder. One of the best things about travel is undoubtably the multitude of diverse and unique travelers that you meet along the way and the many intense conversations that form seemingly from nowhere. There's something in the romance of travel that all of it's lovers share, though it's hard to put ones finger on what exactly this is it certainly creates a common bond of the likes not seen in a stationary life.

At a local restraunt Steve and I sampled the bottomless mugs of Tongba (above) - a tibettan millet beer that consists of fermented millet and piping hot water; it's unique flavour and capacity for endless refills makes for a great night cap in the cool mountain air.

Eventually the time came to leave and one morning we took a cab to the shantie clad bus station, felt out the prices of mini-busses to make sure we weren't paying a tourist premium and settled in for the 5-8 hour ride to Pokhara.

The road to Pokhara:
Barefoot children play with makeshift hackey sacks in streets littered with waste as thgoughtlessly discarded as these childrens futures. Some dress in rags and beg with steel bowls while the offspring of better off families enjoy school yard recesses and bright horisons. Roadside shopkeepers who'd be lucky to see a single customer per day leisurely sit in their shops and resign themselves to the simple life of poverty that their descendants will likley share. I think back to the arguement Steve and I had with a handicraft factory manager regarding children in the workforce - his points on the benefits of child labor regretfully hard to refute in a country like this. If a child has the choice between in the streets, begging and stealing to survive or working for a few hours after school to pay for his food and an education that could lift them from the shackles of poverty, how can one say that life on the street is better? In a country where the government is too busy lining their pockets and squabbling over politicas to provide the basic necessaties of the people, what choice do these children have? To condemn child labor here without implementing substantial social programs to reasonable quality of life would be to condemn these children to a life of turmoil and misery in the lowest form of poverty.

As we depart the outskirts of Kathmandu a different picture developes; winding mountain roads and terraced hills with clouds pouring down between them surround us. I observe the mud and brick walled shanties here, their corrugated steel rooftops held down with stones and blown tires, and wonder about the nature of poverty. Talking with Steve we discuss the differences between rural and urban poverty, quality of life, materialism and survival. The difference between a family living on a farm with food, water and shelter but not a dollar to their name, and a family living in on the streets of a metropolis patching togeather a living by foraging garbage bags and pleading for hand outs. As we go on discussing this we pass a busload of passengers staring down the roadside cliff and a transport truck leaning against the steep mountain side of the road. As we go on there are more accidents; a transport turned on its side, a broken down bus with it's engine exposed, and a number of vehicles here and there idly occupying half of the narrow road while speeding vehicles pass them by hoping there's no one coming through in the opposite direction. We stop for lunch at a small diner in a valley and sit down to a delicous mix of curries, pickles, lentils and rice. As we sit a loudspeaker can be heard in the distance, and soon enough we're passed by a communist party parade.

Soon enough we're back on the road to continue the journey, driving alongside a turquoise river that's painstakingly cut its way through the mountains. At one town a child boards with a makeshift violin and begins to play a whining country melody. He rips into song with the harsh and off-pitch voice of a child twice his age who'se suffering a serious throat infection, accenting each line by sucking air through his teeth making a hissing sound [this tooth-hiss is common place in Nepal]. The only words I can understand are Pokhara and Kathmandu, though his skill does suprise me considering his capacity to play his instrument and sing steadily despite the twists and turns in the winding mountain road and the chaotic jerking of our driver trying to avoid oncoming traffic. At one point he stops his song to accept money from a passenger while staring at me. His song comes to an end and he pockets a deacent mit full of bills before hopping off at the next village. Soon after we roll into Pokhara, where we're immediatley accosted by half a dozen locals trying to pull us into their hotels.

Pokhara:

We settle on a hotel well outside of the tourist zone that cost us about $1.25 each/night with a nice balcony right overlooking the river and with a beautiful view of some forested hills and the Annapurna mountain range. In the past few days we've hiked for a few hours through some of the local hills and up to the World Peace Pagoda [below], rented bicycles and hauled up hill to the cities down-town [i.e. the non-tourist city centre], wandered the bustling tourist district and spent evenings listening to the BBC's reports on recent events in Pakistan, Nepal and Iraq.

After a few days in our remote hotel I decided to move closer to the tourist area for conveinance during the Street Festival that runs from Christmas to New Years. Sitting in streetside restraunts watching the long parades packed with bands, dancers, traditional attire and massive elephants as well as the constant long lines of police armed with batons and sometimes adorned with foam padding to deter potential stone throwers. While here we've sampled the local food, the local millet wine [kind of like a millet Sake], and the Millet Whisky [not half bad really, though served in something resembling a ceramic ashtray]. Pokhara is an interesting place; it's full of tourists during this street fest, but also has a lot going on in the local scene. It's immersed in nature and surrounded by forested hills and beautiful mountains. Paragliding and trekking are two of the major activities here, and it seems like a brilliant place to do either. In my time here I've met a few intriguing people, including an american volonteer named Kelsey. Kelsey volonteers in small and remote villages, setting up a unique sort of internet access for schools. These places often have no roads, intermittant electricity and no landlines; which is why his family run orginization provides an internet solution that piggy-backs on the cell-phone network, allowing students to send e-mails and request web pages that will be processed overnight when cellular costs are nominal. He's here for a month on a 3-school project, but this is just a breif vacation from his 8-month project in rural South-Africa.

As of this morning Steve has returned to Kathmandu, and I am pondering whether I will stick around for New Years or if I'll return to India for the end of 2007. I'm likley to go paragliding tomorrow, but other than that will likley take it easy and catch up on thinking, planning and enjoying some sunshine.

And now for some assorted tidbits:

Steve - I origionally met Steve in Guatemala on my trek through the Americas where we have some common friends. We'd not done much to keep in touch since Guatamala, but when we heard that we'd be in this neck of the woods at the same time we decided to meet up. Initially the plan was loosely based on us meeting in Delhi sometime in December, but due to Visa delays we ended up catching up in Bangkok. From there we've covered some substantial ground while keeping sharp by discussing world politics, economics, the essence of poverty and a slew of related subjects. We exchanged farewells before he speeded off into the sunrise on the back of a motorcycle to follow his own path, only to return to the area 4 hours later with news of a massive taxi strike with burning tires and blocked roads - all due to a 10% increase in gas prices. After another night here he slipped away early this morning now that the protests seem to have ended. Solo travel opens up many doors not otherwise available and makes for an ever changing environment with fewer constants than traveling in a duo or group, and I'm looking forward to this change in pace.

The Blackberry - the Blackberry's been little more than a mobile phone for some time now due to an outdated telecommunications network in Nepal, meaning if you e-mailed my blackberry recently I havn't recieved it yet. Hopefully I will be launched back into the high tech world upon my upcoming return to India.

Lost Money - The $200 I left in that bank machine in Hong Kong has been returned to my account! Hurrah!

Kathmandu Lung - the polution in Kathmandu forced my mucus production into overdrive! Coughing, swollen lymph nodes, stuffy nose and flem but no feeling of illness.. It wasn't pretty, but at least I still managed to refrain from joining the locals in their throat clearing tradition of making that awful horking sound. Thankfully this is starting to clear up, leaving me with the question "What's next?"

Cows - Cows and water buffalo are everywhere over here. They wander through lawns, roam the hill side, snack on harvested rice patties and shit everywhere. I rcently watched a cow munching on a cardboard box prepared al dente, and another trying to steal veggies from a street vendor. For some reason these bovine behemoths tend to situate themselves smack in the middle of the road, oblivious to the honking of cabs, motorbikes, busses and transport trucks that swerve to avoid instant hamburger. I simply can't imagine a cow standing on a subway platform in Toronto, or roaming Stanley Park - but here the kind of thing is common place. I suppose that this is just another way to get closer to nature.

Rolling black outs -Nepal has rolling black outs. My first encounter was at the border when I thought a sprinkle of rain had knocked out power around sunset, then again it happened in Kathmandu and now in Pokhara - always at sunset when power's needed. I've learned that these blackouts are planned and that while the nepalese sit in darkness their electricity is sold to India; the revenue of course being funneled into private bank acounts. Reading a local paper I learned that Nepal presently produces a total of 620 megawatts. There are plans to build a new hydro-electric dam that will more than double Nepals electric production, but all of the electricity will be sold to India for lower rates than what the nepalese people are charged. All of this has resulted in the widespread use of crude lamps and genorators to power stores, homes and remote communities.

The Sadhu - A Sadhu is a Hindi man who has been successful in his life and has fulfilled his duties to provide for his wife and children, then renounces money and material posessions to live a life of devout spiritual pursuit; wandering about the land and visiting sacred sites, sleeping in parks, letting their hair grow our and surving on the chairity of the others. The Sadhu life is similar to that of a nomadic monk, and they are greatly respected and well provided for by the people.

The Gringo Sadhu - A white guy in his 50's or 60's with a long beard, scraggly hair, a tie die sheet over his sholders and white pants walks into a restraunt we're eating at and sits down to a cup of tea. With a thick dutch accent he asks me in english if I have a pen, I lend him one and he uses it to write something in a notebook. I watch him from the corner of my eye as he flips through a big wad of US dollars, then asks for another cup of tea. A few minutes later he gets up to leave and when asked to pay he raises his voice and proclaims "I'm living like a Sadhu! you know nothing! you have much to learn." and walks away.

Well, if that's not enough to chew on you'll have to find another blog. Sorry to those I've scared off with this long post, especially those who've still not caught up on the last one. Hope everyone is well!

I'll do my best to tell you if we make it to 2008, as I'll be there before you... Until Then!

Namaste!
Zac

Chilling in Pokhara

2007-12-27T13:20:00.000Z

Well, I have many things to say as usual, but for now will keep it short. I'm in Pokhara, Nepal en joying some fresh air [much better than kathmandu] and will be here for another couple of days. Beautiful mountain views, fresh air, a lake, forests and so on; pretty good place to chill for a bit.

From here I'll be going to Bodhgaya [where Buddah attained enlightenment], then towards Shimla - another British hill station like Darjeeling, then towards Agra for the Taj Mahal, then up to Delhi and around a slew of sites in the region [might get a motor bike to put around], then towards Mumbai, then down to Goa, then Kerla, over towards Tricky, then to Pondicherry, from there maybe to Chennai or over to some islands India has near South-East Asia.. That's kind of the plan as it stands, but it's all up for change.

Plotting out my return and I might try to meet up with a cousin who lives on Bali, meaning I'd be flying out of southern India rather than Kolkata and headed to Malaysia rather than Bangkok to get an onward flight to Bali.. From there back to Malaysia, then to Macau, a boat over to Hong Kong, back to Vancouver and then to Toronto. Still up in the air though, as it's looking a little expensive to do some of this and I may fly direct from South-East Asia to Toronto depending on prices.. Looking to be back in Ontario before the end of April.

Anyhow, enough blather on my 'plans' for now, will update you on the latest soon.
Zac

Christ-Mass Eve Day in Nepal

2007-12-24T13:33:00.000Z

Christmas is not celebrated here (obviously) and as a result I'll be abstaining from the annual western tradition of getting smashed and making a fool of yourself in front of family and friends, but I do wish the best of luck to those of so bold as to fulfill this time honored tradition! Anyhow, let's get down to business.

The bus to Kathmandu which had been arranged by our hotels owner Sanjay was scheduled to depart at 5pm, the ETA was any one's guess [somewhere between 5am and noon the next day was what we were told]. We spent our first full Nepalese day browsing this unusually calm and hassle-free border town and getting a feel for Nepal and its people. Darjeeling had a wonderfully innocent and honest feeling to it; you didn't need to worry much about theft, lies, cheating or other dishonest practises. The people of Darjeeling still have strong ties to Nepal and many still speak Nepalese as their first language, considering all of this we were hoping for a similar feeling in Nepal and we did indeed find it. From our first night we were being told things like "In Nepal is like God", and since we've heard a few more lines like "You are guest and guest is god". At one place I munched on to a Thali they wouldn't stop topping up while Steve and I sipped chai and munched biscuits at a local eatery, when the time came to pay they refused to let us pay for anything other than the Thali which cost about $0.70. Having travelled third world countries and experienced the savvy wiles of tourist corrupted money minded locals I've found that this sort of pure and honest kindness is hard to come by and is to me incredibly refreshing when one is accustomed to the locals preying on foreigners.

At a quarter to five we were rushed to Sanjay's office where we were hurried to wait for the bus. We had been told we had guaranteed seats though the ticket didn't seem to say which seats these were, so we picked some seats in the middle and settled in. The engine rumbled to a start and we lugged ahead for a whopping 10 feet before we stopped for our first break from this exhausting journey. A few minutes later we rolling [for another 20 feet] and eventually we actually did start making some progress. Within half of an hour we came upon what was either an accident or a Maoist protest [the explanation I received included both] which caused us to divert our route for an hour or two of crawling down empty and unmaintained country roads. When we did get back to the highway we cruised for another grueling 13-14 hours of stop-go busing with no legroom and no on board toilet. I was overjoyed to have been hit by a sudden bout of constipation rather than the gut-wrenching diarrhea that had been plaguing me for days, as it meant that I didn't have to stick my rear-end out the window every hour or so and further muck up our dusty bus.

Once we arrived in Kathmandu we hopped in a cab and took it to the Hotel Elite where we checked in to a spotless sunlit sixth-story room with solar heated water and surrounded by a rooftop garden; this was indeed a wonderful change from the horrible Rats Hotel of Darjeeling. For several nights now we've stayed here while Steve looks into business opportunities for wholesale handicrafts and I explore the city and culture. The markets are packed with cashmere and pashmina shawls, yak wool blankets, sheep leather, wooden carvings and metal work. Motorcycle engines rumble as they scoot through narrow alleys and pedestrian packed streets. Mornings are overcast with a thick polluted smog not broken until the mid day sun perseveres [from this smog I've developed a morning cough and an overall mucus overload, which is at least better than the shits of Darjeeling]. In the touristy Thamel area you hear the constant buzz of "Hello Sir" and "Excuse Me Sir", "What would you like sir" and "Please come in sir", "Hashish? Sticky Pot?" and "Buy flutes, very good yes?". My favorite is, of course, the "Excuse me sir!" to which I smilingly reply "You are excused sir." and walk away.

Kathmandu is quite an intriguing place where religion is seamlessly fused with day to day life. There is a fine line between Buddhism and Hinduism, and many people simultaneous believe in each. Temples and holy places are most often shared between these religions with Buddah and Hindi gods competing for popularity, in many temples there are two doors; one for buddhists and one for hindis. Temples and shrines are so commonplace in Kathmandu that it's hard to believe that they're all in use; from palm sized shrines built into street side walls to towering stupas there are simply thousands of the things dotting the city. Be it an image of Shiva, Ganesh, Buddah, Kali or Krishna you can rest assured that it will be adorned with fresh flowers and wears a red dot on their foreheads that is so frequently reapplied that it often streams all the way down to their unmentionables. The locals make rounds saying their prayers, leaving flowers, incense, offerings and candles then move right along with their day.

I've had a few days here to finally start getting my head around the fact that I'm actually doing this trip and will be here for the next few months, though dreams of home still riddle the nights. It's been a great relief to finally stop somewhere for a few days and begin to get it togeather, but I fear it will be some time still before I am fully settled into the ebb and flow of the open road [not to mention writing about it; still needs some grease in the wheels]. Life is good and I'm looking forward to Pokhara, a smaller city to the north-west which will be the last bit of Nepal for me to taste before diving head first back into the chaotic maze that is India [at least there are no more cramped 17 hour bus rides coming up... hopefully!]. I can't wait to give the Indian Trains another run, next long haul I'll be rolling 2AC Sleeper, a substantial upgrade from my ticket on the Darjeeling Mail. Can't wait to get to the beaches of Goa and get some time in under water and on the beaches.

Wishing a Merry Christmas to the Christians, Happy Hanukkah to the Jews, Superb Sulstace to the Pagans, and Cheery Boozing to the rest.
Z

2007-12-21T06:10:00.000Z

Still in Kathmandu, enjoying the wonderful people here and planning on sticking around for a few more days. Internet here is terribly slow, but will try to make a proper post before I leave.

Not in Kansas anymore.

2007-12-18T17:14:00.000Z

It's been several days since my last real post and much has happened in that time, so let us pick up where we left off shall we? I do recommend preparing a large pot of tea because this one will take awhile.

Bangkok:

After shipping a package of gifts and unneeded luggage back to Canada [which will take 2-3 months to arrive] I spent most of my remaining time in Thailand checkling out Khao San and surrounding area. One neat thing about the Khao San area is that there are two beautiful Buddhist monastaries; both are expansive walled complexes with monks wandering about the premis taking on cell phones and checking out market stalls. Prior to entering any temple in these parts one must remove their footware and run the often advertised risk of losing it. The temples of the monistaries hold numerous shrines for various Buddahs and an enormous golden Buddah centre piece. Locals frequent these temples to pray, leaving donations and offerings of flowers, insence and candals. I of course decided to join in and do the same.

Aside from exploring temples and browsing markets, Steve and I quelled our thirst with the local beer Leo. Nights dragged on at a small hole in the wall cantina called Mama's where a rag-tag crew of rugged and surly travelers gathered nightly to satisfy their daily quota of intoxication. Deep conversations about a variety of subjects and stories of all sorts were paired with late night street meat and litres of cheap beer. One night we joined a group of frenchmen who were planning on "Making a bottle in the pool". This involved the beautiful rooftop pool of a posh hotel whose standards far exceeded those of our own rugged $4/night rooms. A "Bottle" is of course a frenchmans mispronounciation of "battle", and this pool 'bottle' an entertainingly juvenile team game where one person would jump on anothers sholders then they would try to nock down the other team using whatever means necessary; intoxication was obviously a prerequisite.

After saying our goodbies, Steve and I prepared to set out the next morning to catch our 12:20pm flight to Kolkata.

The Flight:
A later than planned breakfast resulted in our missing the bus to the airport so we hailed a taxi and asked him to use the meter. Not a chance of course, he wanted a flat 300 Baht for the trip[about $10] so we let him go and flagged down another who was suprisingly happy to do a metered fare. As we got into the cab and I began to regret that I had not done more with my time in Bangkok, I resolved to further explore the city upon my spring return. Our driver began to drive, and by the time we made it to the freeway Steve and I were both beginning to wonder about the quirky man behind the wheel. He frequently sniffled, jittered, and watched his mirrors like a hawk. He wove in and out of traffic driving half in the lane and half in the sholder. He tucked the cab through spaces so narrow that his mirrors were at constant risk, and most frightening of all was that he was flying by ALL the other cabs on the road. This man was high as a kite on Peruvian bam-bam, Colombian pixie dust, or some more savage sort of high powered amphetamines that made him truly invinsible. In contrast Steve and I were in a sorely sobered state and began made to realize our imminent mortality, especially considering the lack of seatbelts. After half an hour of bobbing and weaving through traffic going 40km/h over the posted limit we made it to the airport in what Steve and I both agree must have been a new record.

[Sidenote, As I write this the Communist party of Darjeeling is marching in the streets waving a big reg flag with the sicle and hammer, an image that has been popular in both China and India].

The airport was something of a bore, though it was interesting that Air India Express had employees whose main job was to prevent line jumping [which I have learned is a notorious Indian habit]. In the check-in line we met a sweet girl from Winnipeg named Jadey. She had been traveling south-east asia for two and a half months when she spontaneously decided to go to India with no knowledge of the place, no guidebook and no idea what she was getting herself into. Kolkata is not known as a sprawling indian oasis, but rather as a humanitarian chrisis on the scale of millions in a city resembling a giant garbage heap; we couldn't very well let this poor girl dive in head first and all alone so we decided to meet up on 'the other side'. The flight was fine and soon after take-off we were served a linner of white bread and butter sandwiches. Four hours later touched down in Kolkata.

Kolkata

We arrived at customs where we were asked to fill in the part of the arrival declaration that asked for address in India, having no set plan nor reservations I made up the "Centeral Guesthouse, Kolkata". We ran into Jayda while waiting for our baggage and soon after the three of us set out to catch a cab to Sudder St. Outside the terminal was absolute chaos; hundreds of turban clad Muslims and groups of dark skined mustache bearing Indians aimlessly ambled about the parking lot and we were immediatley accosted by a pack of saavy cabbies who'd been paitiently awaiting a shipment of fresh meat. Knowing that most third world cab drivers are liars, cheats, and/or theives, we laughed at their initial "fixed price" of 500 rupees ($1 = 38 rupees, I'll leave the math to you). After about 20 minutes of negotiating we settled on the price of 250, though later we discovered that it should have cost no more than 150.

The lonely planet guidebook describes Sudder st as the Khao San rd of kolkata, I would liken it more to one of the finer regions of Hell, but to get there one must navigate Hells hideous rearing three headed bowels [which takes about an hour]. I have been through many third world countries and seen a lot of poverty but here it is somehow different, I've been told that the lowest class of Indians are called "the untouchables" and I think I now know why. We passed kilometers of shantie houses built from cardboard, rusted sheet metal, mud, discarded roof tiles, stones, torn tarpulins and scrap wood. Though a degree of destitute and hopeless poberty is to be somewhat expected on the outskirts of such a city, in Kolkatas case this continues right into the downtown core. Limbless beggars crawl the streets pleading for hand outs, mothers grasp limp babies begging for money, ragged children plea for hand outs, meatless men with the look of death in their eyes offer rickshaw rides and people shit in plain view. Garbage is thrown in the streets for crows, dogs and men to fight over, and abandonned buildings quickly become communal dumping grounds. Ancient diesel engines are the norm, and these spew forth thick clowds of black smoke while their drivers honk with such ferocious frequency that it likley exceeds their heart rate. There are no lanes on the roads and only a vague sence that one should occaionally migrate left to allow oncoming traffic by. The number of padestrians far exceeds the sidewalks capacity [when there is one] so they roam through the middle of the streets despite the constant growl of ever honking traffic. One interesting thing is that when traffic stops drivers turn off their engines to save fuel and briefly spare passers by from the brutal waves of thick diesel fog. The rivers of Kolkata all consist of a polluted murky brown sludge; of course this of course this does little to stop people from doing their laundry, bathing, and their 'business' in them. I will surmise in saying that Kolkata is not the place to go for a romantic honeymoon.

We were dropped off by our cabbie in an area of town slightly less shady than the rest, but not at all what I would have imagined of a ''tourist area''. We did see a few other people of similar skin tone but most of them appeared less like trail beaters and more trail beaten; dishevelled, grubby, distant and unkempt. An elderly indian man with a balding head and his belly 'o potting stepped out of the crowd and offered a hand in finding a hotel. He wore somethink akin to a long tea towel over one sholder and something told me that he made a living on hand outs fro tourists that had made it this far. After finding that most hotels were full we settled on a room with one double bed and another single for 500. It had a tv, electrical sockets, hot water, AC, and lots of windows overlooking a busy street corner. Later we discovered that they had no electricity, so most of the above perks were useless. After an ATM finding adventure and a quick browsing of a massive local market we settled in and sat down to a few glases of chai. Chai is the word for tea in Hindi so chai is a vague term, though typically it refers to a delicous sweet milky and mildly spiced tea served in small single use plastic or clay cups . After a bite to eat and a beer to follow we settled on sipping scotch that we'd bought duty free. We spent some time getting to know Jayda better and as it turns out this seemingly naieve manitoban girl was a much tougher cookie than she had first seemed. Working on a post graduate degree in forensic science, she was traveling for research on her thesis regarding the sex trade and its countless victims. At some point that night I blew my nose and looked down to see a black tar on the tissue, this is right about when I started to agree with Steve on the notion of leaving quickly. We all crashed early and did our best to sleep through a night endless honking.
The next morning we said our goodbyes, eager to leave this place behind. Steve and I hiked for some time through a park known as the Maidan, which was full of cricket games and trash. Eventually we made it to a ferry terminal with passage to the main rail station.

The Train

Most Indians need to book their train rides weeks in advance lest they become yet another hopeful name on the waiting list, lucky for us seats are always reserved for last minute foreigners and VIPs. The was to get away from the smog and head to the favorite hill station of the brits: darjeeling. To do this meant a 12 hour overnight train to NJP (whose real name I have forgotten), a quick ride to neighboring Siliguri, then a 3 hour jeep ride into the mountains. Upon arrival at the main Howrah station we discovered that the night train to NJP didn't depart from this station and that we would have to buy our tickets elsewhere. We hopped in a cab and took it to the other major train station where we were again sent elsewhere for tickets, this time to the foreigner reservation office somewhere between the stations! A second cab and we finally arrived where we are supposed to be, now after four hours of trying we can finaly buy our ''sleeper class'' tickets. Indian trains have many classes and many prices, sleeper class being the cheapest for an over night trip at under 300 rupees (about $8). With tickets in hand and a few hours to spare we decided to grab a chai on the street corner where a crazed indian bashed lumps of coal with a stone and frantically screamed a wild scream that only the insane could muster. A final cab ride to the proper train station (the first to use his meter) and we are ready to go.

When the train begins boarding we make our way to our designated car on which a passenger list is posted. We find our berth and pour a glass of scotch to help settle in. The train blew its whistle and began to slowly chug along, leaving Kolkata behind. People hopped on and off the train as we stopped at the local stations, and on the fringes of the city we passed a number of trackside campfires surrounded by carefree gypsies.

Many hours were spent in discussion with a drunken Indian archetect who intends start his own business and another man who sells childrens shirts. Their English was broken and ours was dumbed down, making for long conversations in which little was ever said. Even here the Indian caste system was obvious, the merchant chatting with us before the archetects arrival, then remaining silent through most of the later conversation while the archetect rambled on to nobody's interest. Throughout our conversations their wobbling heads confirmed the Indian habitude I'd heard so much about: the wobble is a sort of over used side to side nod which can be a sign of respect while speaking or listening, can mean 'yes' in response to a question, can be effectively meaningless, or can have a connantations of the generally positive sort.

The train made frequent stops in the middle of nowhere so that the rail police (who informed us drinking was not permitted) could jump out and fulfil their dreams of hunting railway bandits with high powered flashlights and rifles imported directly from WWI. While they did this the higher priority trains passed and we soon after were once again allowed to move. Eventually we packed it in, sleeping in 3 tiered bunks with six to a berth. Morning eventually came and I had the chance to observe some of the beautiful countryside where people lead the simple and universal life of the farm. Cows munching the leftovers of rice fields after harvest and all sorts of tropical trees and vegetation. We passed a train wreck from there days prior and eventually made it to our destination. From NJP we took a tuk-tuk to Siliguri, then a shared jeep for the final 3 hours to Darjeeling. Crammed into a jeep with our luggage on the roof and 12 people packing themselves into the few seats, we drove up the bumpy winding remenants of what may have once been roads.

Darjeeling:
In Darjeeling I got the runs, they've just left me after roughly four intriguing days [Yes, that is a picture of a ''squat toilet'']. We stayed in a dingy hotel whose name will forever be "Rats hotel" to us. With filthy bathrooms, no running water and the 16 year old son of the managers whose name was Rats. Rats was a bright kid but overly curious and with with no sense of privacy. He constantly pestered us (calling us 'brother' and 'uncle') asking for coins to add to his collection, asking about Canada, how to learn better English, asking what each of our posesions was and if he could have them, asking where we had been that day, and so on. We met a Korean girl who arrived late one night well after the towns 8pm closing time. She hungrily gobbled up the food we offered and chatted with us in her broken English. We sat freezing our asses off with little but scotch to fight the cold mountain air that wafted into the unheated rooms.

For two days we explored Darjeeling and found it to be in a state of disrepair and ruin. Beautiful mountain views and numerous Hindi and Buddhist temples dotted the city but this wasn't quite enough to give us a great impression of the place that seemed to have been rotting since the English had left. We had just about given up on the town and prepared to depart when we discovered that we'd been wandering and sleeping in the slums! We found a long road of market stalls, shops, restraunts, cafes and food stalls. At the top of this road was an wide open park where a mix of locals and tourists spent their time relaxing on benches and browsing the shops. Before this we had not seen a single foreigner in the town, and we decided that we had to give Darjeeling a second chance.

On the advice of our Korean friend we went to a new hotel and much to our delight found it to be clean, bright, cheery, had running water and water heaters! Our new hotel was managed by an indian whose head wobbled so much while he spoke that it reminded me of those bobble head dolls that some people keep their dashboards. The owners were served by a younger man with an apron wrapped over his head who endlessly went up and down the many flghts of stairs carrying all sorts of things up and down, all the while singing indian tunes in a disturbingly femanibe falcetto. the first time we really enjoyed a day in this quaint mountain town, free of Rats and the hole he calls a hotel and out of the slums.

An interesting side note on Darjeeling and the whole region between Bhutan and Nepal is that it belonged to Nepal until the English annexed it for its fine views and the possibility of growing tea. Now the whole region is pushing hard for political independance from the unattentive Indian government, with protests in the street by pro-communists and strong support for the regions Gorka political party.

To Nepal

Yestermorning I awoke and prepared for the toy train ride [it's not really a toy, but the tracks are much more narrow than usual] that makes its way down from the mountains and takes its time doing so. After three and a half hours on the toy train, then another two hours on a crowded local bus we arrived in Siliguri, outside of NJP. A long haired wide faced Indian and one whose tattoed knuckles, sun glases and knarled looks identified him as either a crook or a goon showed us where we could catch a shared jeep to the border. A quick thali (mixed platter of curries, rice, flat bread, and often a relish or preserve) we were all ready to go, excepting of course our driver who wanted to wait until his jeep was filled beyond capacity. Eventually he started the old beast up and trolled through town shouting "Nepal! Nepal!" still hopeful for more passengers of which there were none. Steve had spoken with another foreigner about the route to Kathmandu and our choices looked grim: once we crossed the border to Kakavita we could take the 12-18 hour bus that was likley to be stopped at some point by protesting Maoists, or dish out $130 on a flight to Kathmandu.

After a few close calls, an oblivious cow in the middle of the road and more shouts of "Nepal!" we were dropped off the Indian immigration shack and the jeep continued towards the border with the rest of its passengers (indo-nepalese relations are such that their borders are appearently meaningless to anyone but foreigners). We dropped our bags at the door and enter the delapidated shed that must have been built pre-Edison, as all the lights and the television were powered by long wires connected to the few sockets loosely fixed to the walls that powered the place. Two plump Indian men with red barrets sat watching a B&W film from the mid 1900's while giggling like school girls at every line of dialogue; I suspect they were drunk or stoned. A third man sat behind a beat up wooden desk filling a registry with the names and details of invisible tourists who appearently took precedence over the real ones in front of him. A dozen such registries were stacked behind him, dating back to 2003. I seriously doubt that anyone has ever reviewed these forgotten guestbooks, so I'm guessing this whole process was something of a make work project. I suppose that we could have saved ourselves some time if we had simply walked right past this little shed, as this is what everyone else seemed to be doing.

Having done our part for this forgotten division of the Indian bureaucracy we casually strolled past the Indian customs and then by a few laxed soldiers lazily leaning on leaky sandbags [there protect India from invasion?]. We joined the masses in crossing the kilometer long bridge built over a dry riverbed with a view of rice fields long ago harvested and now infested with bovines. Below us and dotting the horison were hundreds of Nepalise walking their bicycles across across the riverbed that seperates the two countries in what must be their daily routine of avoiding formalities all together. As one can expect, no one seemed to give a damn about this. We arrived at Nepals immigration office at sunset and within five minutes in Nepal a few droplets of rain caused a city wide blackout that would last several hours. Paperwork by flashlight, $30 and a passport photo later and we had our visas. By now it was too late to take the bus to kathmandu so we settled into a couple of beers and a room at the Taj hotel. We chatted with the owner and he told us many things about the maoists (of whom he was not particularily fond), the Indians (who he accused of taking Nepals women for brothels and its men for their army, the Gurkas being renouned as warriors), the Chinese and Pakistanies (who give Nepal little but the cold shoulder), and the king (who one friday night decided to murder the entire royal family including the king of time, leaving only himself with royal blood), and his primary customers the Bangeladeshies (who have to visit at least 2 other countries before they can apply for most visas, and so they come through India to the Nepal and once their passports are stamped, go straight home).

Now that I have finally completed this, I am in Kathmandu.. Will fill you in on THAT voyage later.

Cheers!

Zac

Internet down

2007-12-17T10:26:00.001Z

I have a short novel to post, but internet is out here. Will post all once I get to kathmandu, 17 hours.
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Still alive

2007-12-16T06:25:00.001Z

Working on a whopper of a post. Sorry for the delay! Going to Nepal today. Wish me luck!
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Bangkok

2007-12-09T09:54:00.000Z

Greetings and Salutations from Bangkok!

I slept through the whole flight and landed at 1:30am. After going through customs I negotiated a cab fare to the hostel I'd booked a few days before, and after getting a little lost I made it to the place at around 3am. I was warmly greeted by some sobering travelers and chit chatted a bit while checking in, then tossed my bag at the foot of the bunk bed and headed back down to reception for a quick beer and to get low-down on the area from the limey and kiwi that were still up. After a long chat about a variety of subjects, I finally crashed for the night. The next morning I had a great breakfast of soup and samosas, then jumped on the sky train to head down-town, exchange my remaining Chinese Yuen, withdraw some cash and get to Khao San Road [Pronounced cow san]. For those of you who don't know, Khao San is renowned world wide as a backpackers hub; a thai writer once described the road as "a short road that has the longest dream in the world."

"On the brink of Thailand's economic boom in 1982, the Thai Government issued its policy to commemorate Bangkok's bicentennial anniversary and celebrate the Buddhist calendar's lucky year "2525", by launching festive ceremonies in Bangkok to bring in tourist dollars. Tourists poured in from around the world, causing Bangkok's hotels to overflow with bookings. The most spectacular festivities were performed in the Grand Palace. Some backpackers, unable to get an overpriced room, successfully convinced local residents on Khao San Road to rent out vacant rooms in their houses, reasoning that, in return, the guest house owners could earn some extra income and it was convenient for them to travel to their destinations. The guest house business generated more profits than any amateur entrepreneur ever expected. Before long, more guesthouses, restaurants and souvenir shops sprouted along the road in full bloom" -http://www.khaosanroad.com/history.html

Sadly this place is no longer what it once was.. it from an intriguing social experiment into a popular backpacker hub, and now it is little more than a tourist ghetto that is comparable to a blown up version of the west coast of Costa Rica or Cancun. It's loud, full of night clubs and overpriced bars, packed with tourists [and there is a huge difference between tourists and backpackers], goods are sold on the streets for twice their market prices, and all in all the place is not one that I can really say much good about other than the incredibly cheap accommodations [I'm paying $4/night for the dive I'm staying in, which is in an ally a little outside of Khao San].

I've met up with Rachel and Steve here [a couple of friends from Canadia] and spent some time catching up and drinking at a local watering hole outside where locals and backpacker types collide, it's well off the main strip and few touts would give the place a second look; which is perfect for me. Did some shopping in the ENORMOUS and crowded weekend market and bought a variety of local handicrafts - this place was about the size of a full city block [i.e. toronto] if not more, and so it was easy to get lost and near impossible to find a given shop. After 5 hours I'd only managed to cover about a third of the market. Today I've been getting laundry done, cutting some items from my pack, getting ready to ship a package, catching up with people and recovering from a hang-over that resulted from a late late late night. On tuesday I head to Kolkata [which is also where Steve is flying to], and the real adventure begins.

That's all for now!

Shenzhen

2007-12-06T15:13:00.001Z

Paroused through local markets and streets today, trying to get a peek at the real Shenzhen. Ate a lunch of noodles In broth at a VERY local noodle stand for about $0.50 and tried some flatbread with some sort of greenery in it, then headed to the local supermarket... and by supermarket I don't mean grocery store, I mean a market of proportions that can be described only as super! Six stories of shopping with hundreds of vendors selling watches, hand bags, cell phones,phony iPods, usb keys, shoes, boots, digital cameras, tripods, jewelry, beads, video games, dvds, DVD players, dresses, tee shirts, jackets, custom tailored suits, knick knacks, chess boards, saris, hats, sun glasses, binoculars, telescopes, the list goes on... Rolex, Louis viton, chanel, boss, gucci, iphone (by ipod), if it's a major designer, they had a near identical rip off. They would bring out catalogs of designer wares and had copies of everything in them! After unloading some excess funds in exchange for forged goods, I had to run back to the hostel to grab my bag, then head to the airport to catch my 11:20pm flight, that lands at 1:30am..

Check in confused the hell out of me! I had to go through one set of customs before I could check in, after check in we sat on the floor for awhile, then went through another set of customs which I zoomed through because most of the passangers are part of a massive group which goes through seperate customs. Then I went through a third set of customs, and finally arrived at the security check?? Finally I made it to the waiting area where beer was sold for a dollar from vending machines (which I frequented), and where passengers awaited their flights...err, flight I mean..? One flight? Isn't this an international airport? I guess only gates 2, 4, and 60 are for international flights.. time for another beer.. Thank god for tsingtao, elsewise this airport experience might be nerve wracking!

Finally boarding begins; they check tickets as you exit the waiting area, then again at the gate! This is the sort of efficiency only a communist nation can provide. Now on another discount flight, but this time to Thailand! Bangkok, here I come.

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2007-12-05T12:21:00.001Z

Shenzhen is an intriguing place.. Certainly different from the Hong Kong Special Administration Region (hksar). For those who didn't know, Hong Kong is a democracy with its own government; China is not entirely a communist nation!

I found the hostel I had looked up earlier today and after checking in to the 5th floor dorm (no elevator) I decided to head out and explore. Within minutes I found myself immersed in a massive modern art complex!
I found myself amidst amazing art exhibits and not knowing what to expect of mainland China, the walls between life and art collapsed. I found myself in a surreal dreamlike world where anything I took as art could gave not been. Without an interpreter I had no way to tell what was on display and what was not.. Wandering through open doors and hallways I began to explore what must be an art and design school and showplace. Exhibits turned into cafes with private rooms and groups of people eating, sipping tea, and doing things that I cannot pretend to understand. The bridge between art and everyday life was beautiful.

I then stumbled upon a room full of students working on computers, and realized that this one was indeed not art (or was it?). to be honest it was an experience I find difficult to describe other than to say it was pseudo psychedelic .

Things are much cheaper on the mainland than they were in Hong Kong, there is much less widespread use of English, and life seems more simple. I am amazed that I have had as little trouble as I have so far; people have been friendly and helpful, cities and systems well organized and I have felt quite safe and comfortable for the most part. Hong Kong and Shenzhen seem to share the primary pass times of eating and shopping, which makes me inclined to think this to be true of all of China; but I know enough to spare China such judgement, as what I have seen is just a morcel of what this country truly is. Sadly I leave tomorrow, and will not likley have a chance to further explore this one..

The mainland!

2007-12-05T07:27:00.001Z

Just passed through customs into mainland China!! Welcome to Communism.
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Last day in HK

2007-12-04T07:32:00.000Z

Just a quick update this time, sorry folks!

I've been sleeping on the floor of an awsome host named Lisa and hanging out with her and her friends. Having a great time, last night a fellow surfer was headed back to the UK and was s-splurging on $100+ bottles of champagne and eats for a bunch of us. Been exploring Hong Kong and doing a lot of hiking around town.. Went up to the peak of the mountain via tram and enjoyed the view [a little obstructed by smog], and have been sorting out other details of the trip while trying to recover from jetlag.

Today I withdrew $1500 HKD [$200 CAD] and left it in the machine!! Hopefully I'll be getting it back in the next couple days, assuming no one ran off with it [quite possible that the machine took it back].. Damn hangovers and lack of caffine! Visa is sorted out for China, though it offset the savings of going to Shenzhen over Macau; I do think it'll be more interesting to go via communist China though. Heading over tomorrow and flying out on the 6th late at night..

Anyhow - been mooching internet from a coffeeshop for nearly 2 hours now and I really should go.. Hopefully I'll get a chance to give some more indepth reflections on this city of great contrast.

Until next time;
Z

Hong Kong, but where's the giant ape?

2007-12-02T03:55:00.000Z

Nihau! Good Morning, or Afternoon, or Evening, or whatever the heck it is! After a 13 hour flight, Jetlag, and Insomnia it's all the same to me.. But whatever the time of day, the place is Hong Kong.

Already there is so much I could say about this city; the lights, the infrastructure, the action, the crumbling buildings contrasted against the impeccable architecture, the beautiful parks and fountains one comes across at every corner and the quasi martial arts performed in each, the highly efficient subway and transit system, the widespread use of English, the cultural mixing.. the list goes on. All in all, this is a pretty damned spot to be with lots going on.

I landed last night at about 10pm local time and after clearing customs I hopped on Airport Bus A21 which went up, down, over, under, around and about on the layers of weaving highway, crossed colorfully lit bridges, passing a seaport that must have been intended only for an upcoming Chinese space armada considering its size, and eventually hit the city. Thousands of massive apartment buildings, shopping arcades, huge brightly lit advertisements hung over the city streets so thick that one can hardly see the next block, Already I could tell that this place was an enormous organized chaos.

By the time I got the the Chung King Mansion where my guesthouse among others was housed I was exhausted. The entrance was gated off except for a small door and at least a dozen people of mixed ethnicities stood around the entrance offering good times and women.. It wasn't looking pretty. I got to B Block of the 15th floor and rang the bell to the Cosmos Guest House, when no one came I called them. I was collected from the 15th floor and taken down to the 13th - to the Hong Kong Guest House.. After some knocking and a phone call I was dragged another 2 stories down to the 11th floor; another Hong Kong Guest House, here I was given a spartan room with a firm bed and a bathroom which loosely doubled as a shower. Too tired to fight I took it and pulled out my sleeping bag, not trusting the sheets and blanket provided. I managed a few hours of sleep before I found myself wide awake and eventually gave up on the prospect of a restful night. Now we're pretty much caught up, excepting a few hours of looking into a visa for china and touring parts of Hong Kong on foot with the few possessions I have with me on my back. Tonight I am going to see if I can grab some floor space on a local Couchsurfer who's already hosting 2-3 people, and that's about as far as my planning goes. Bangkok on the 6th, and an open agenda until then.

Holy crap I'm in Asia. Wish me luck.
Zac

Hong Kong

2007-12-01T16:02:00.000Z

Home sweet home
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IMG00048.jpg

2007-12-01T00:19:00.000Z

image/jpeg
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All aboard!

2007-12-01T00:10:00.001Z

Here I am, on a double Decker air boat the likes of which I've never seen, in a seat that fits my Canadian ass like a custom made glove, and beginning to wonder if I am the only white guy on the plane. Now it's really sinking in.. Just found out that I need a visa to enter china for my flight to Thailand, so that means a day at a consulate.

Here we go! Blasting off on a new adventure into unknown territory. Buckle up!
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To China!

2007-11-30T19:08:00.000Z

I leave for Hong Kong at 4:30pm today and arrive at 10:30pm tomorrow. Though I have booked a dorm bed in a place called the oasis, it's in the same building as another place called the mirador, which has a bad reputation of having drug dealers and prostitutes hanging out in the foyer.. I also have a line on some floor space in a fellow couch surfers apartment, which might turn out better than the oasis.. Details details details, and the clock is ticking!! Z
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2007-11-29T18:23:00.000Z

Leaving Parksville today, back to the mainland to see my Brother then off to Hong Kong tomorrow afternoon. As I will be arriving on Saturday night I've booked a bed in the dorm of a small hostel in Kowloon. Planning on checking out Hong Kong island on Sunday and then making my way to Shenzhen where my next flight leaves from.

To Asia!

2007-11-28T01:57:00.000Z

Another day in Parksville, BC. I guess I brought the snow with me, as it snowed for the first time of the year yesterday.. Had a nice walk with my mother this aft and enjoyed the lovley BC scenery; amazing how lush it is here, life just thrives! Forests filled with ferns, mosses, shrubs, mushrooms, trees, eagles etc.. I've always been blown away by the beauty of this provinces lustrous forests. Despite an inch and a bit of snow, things are still as vibrant as ever here.

Enjoying some fresh air and family time; planning on seeing my brother Tim and my niece and nephew on the mainland come Thursday, many loose ends to tie up before then.

Anyhow - off for some surf and turf. Hasta la proximo, ऎंड सून तो इंडिया.

Zac