Three Minutes in India

Travel Journal - Entry 11

Ahmedabad 2/16/2008
My friends came to see me off this afternoon in what was strangely a bittersweet farewell. I so enjoyed spending time there. It would have been nice had I been able to stay on longer but my weeks were quickly running out with wild abandon, forcing me to move on. Pulling out of Ahmedabad station the first class seats are being pulled backward because of the direction the train is moving. An interesting sensation for me but I didn't care really. This section cost me three times what I would have paid had I booked to a lower class again (Rs 1300, about $33 for first class) but having gone budget for the past ten days has put me in the mood for a little more comfort.

This d_____ed phone service (Airtel) blanks out on me a lot. At the most inopportune times. And for hours. POS. I refilled it this morning. A boy from the hotel took 100 of my hard earned rupees and my phone number to the local Airtel dealer and now I should be able to text and call until I leave on Wednesday. Now however it grows less and less reliable. And with three days to go still.

I originally bought the phone about two days after arriving here. It was used from a nearby the hole-in-the-wall near the place I got Windows Vista for $4. Along with DVDs of most of the most popular and Oscar nominated movies (6 for 500 rupees, about $2 each). The phone was that old model of Nokia that turns on and off by stabbing your finger deep and long enough into the rubber bar running along the top. Yeah, one of those. My plan was to get the phone cheap (spent $27 but could have gotten it cheaper had I known then what i know now), add a prepaid SIM card and refill it as needed. My USA Verizon phone worked here once I had landed (and much to my surprise). I wasn't about to phone home, but texts were flying off left and right. Luckily I left my charger at home and the battery eventually died. There is no telling what a bunch of roaming texts from India was going to cost my bosses. Oh yeah, and lucky too that the charger I got for it here also fried itself after ten minutes. So in the end it was Nokia or nothing.

The phone cards here are great. They will cover the entire country for about 1 rupee a minute with a few extra charges thrown in here and there, just like home. All in all mine worked well most of the time and it was money well spent for me. However the government requires some documentation of who is buying the phone. Picture ID, the whole nine yards. The first card I bought was made by BPL, who is the other big player here besides Airtel. I emailed everyone telling them of my wonderful Indian phone number and commenced to getting comfortable with it, texting, calling, playing games on the toilet, we were like old friends. After four days of heavy use and watching my balance barely move, the phone just stopped working. The nice text message I got told me that the documentation had been rejected and to resubmit. Huh?

Understand that this was the first time I had heard of any documentation needed to operate my phone. I took the card back to the Cyber Cafe next door to my Mumbai hotel where I had purchased it along with activation for only Rs 200 ($5). I had at the same time added another Rs 200 in talk time which should have lasted most of my trip. The strange Cyber Cafe people took it while I blogged and that's all I heard about it. I had to ask what was happening about an hour later. After some discussion amongst themselves they told me it was all taken care and my phone should be as good as new in a couple of hours. Four hours later it was still blocked. Off to the Cyber Cafe I went again. Honestly these Cyber Zombies, while harmless, were exceedingly bizarre in their dealings with me. Probably because they were doing underhanded things to skirt past government requirements. It is now my belief that they were submitting someone else's face for my phone's necessary documentation. In one of their computers I found a folder containing scanned images of passports, etc. This is probably what they were turning in to the government. Unfortunately they appeared to have used my character one too many times.

So now I was back only this time asking for a full refund, which I got and thanked them kindly. This all happened the day before I was to leave Mumbai for Agra and I wasn't going without a working phone. Inquiring about another SIM card at the front desk of my hotel they linked me up with one of their bellmen who walked me back to the Cyber Cafe. Augh. I wouldn't even go back in. Eventually we went further down the street to an Airtel cubby, one of the hundreds I saw everywhere, tucked into the side of a building. Some words were exchanged in local dialect and eventually it was determined that they could not help me. This documentation thing was becoming a real hassle. One man who was among the small crowd loitering in front of the shop told me he knew just the spot and asked me to wait as he ran to get his car. Unusual he would have his own car. It was broad daylight so I wasn't too concerned. He was big for an Indian guy. About my age. His name was Raj (like most of the other touts on my trip whose names I learned). I could take him.

Once inside his shiny silver automobile with the driver side incorrectly stationed on the right, he reached over and handed me his thin flimsy paper card. It told me that he was a crack tour guide working closely with the Ministry of Tourism. Thanks, I thought, I'll put this in my 'Raj' pile back at the hotel. The stack of cards from all of the other crack tour guides. Named Raj. All working for the Ministry of Tourism. Closely. He told me to call him when i was ready to go to the airport in the morning. No problem, I said. Do I look that stupid, I thought.

We pulled up to another of the hundreds of building-crack Airtel shops and, long story shortened by my headache, I was able to get a card that would also work where I was planning to travel up north. Raj took me back to the hotel. I tipped him Rs 100 for his trouble. I finally had a Mumbai phone number, again. I was ready to face the future.

So now, on the train back to Mumbai, my phone wasn't working at all. There was no way to flag the troops that I would be back in town soon. Lucky for me I was going to the same hotel I had been at the first week. They know me there. And Local calls are free.

Travel Journal - Entry 10

Ahmedabad 2/16/2008
I hoped a taxi to the train station this morning to purchase passage to Mumbai this afternoon. The travel agent on the phone had informed me that the first class carriage was full but that there were tourist class seats still available. I just had to actually go to the station to get them. So I went. Apparently they reserve seats on trains for tourists like me who can't get it enough together to buy their tickets any more than a few hours in advance. Once there I stood in line to speak to a woman behind the cage in a blue sari who was firmly in command of her domain. Other men in line bobbed and cowered at her spiteful glances hoping to avoid her disdain in her lust for dominion over mankind. Simply spoken, she made every little thing as complicated as she could possibly make it. She drew out every little detail, left unsaid essential information for later conversations, sent people off left and right to fill out ubiquitous paperwork without the aid of writing utensils, etc.

Besides not having writing utensils where one might expect to find them, India has a glaring lack of public trash bins. I would carry around something I needed to dispose of for hours upon hours until I had formed an emotional bond with it. When I finally found a place where my western sensibilities would allow me to get rid of it, it was always with mixed feelings that I did so. Anyways, back to the Queen of Ahmedabad Station...

There was behind me in line another foreigner, a woman from New Zealand wearing traditional Indian clothing who I found out was also an instructor at NID (where I toured yesterday). She was booking passage for four, two were her parents I believe and so I assume the fourth was her husband/significant other. But the Queen was making even her jump through hoops as well. This made me think that either Her Majesty's wrath was liberally poured out not just on men but on anyone who wasn't from around there. Which in her case would be most anyone she encountered here. She was beneath the sign which indicated that "Foreign tourists, Mercenaries" etc could only buy their train tickets from her. Perhaps she just didn't like mercenaries all that much and figured we all were soldiers for hire. Because everyone loves American tourists.

She made us all do unnatural things. I felt like a bee who had found pollen and was back at the hive trying to communicate the exact flight path to the rest of the bees through weird jerky movements and halted gestures, as if I were dancing to music that was meant more for musical chairs than for a waltz. We should all have been able to breeze through the line, gather what information deemed necessary and quickly fill out the simple form with Her Majesty's kind assistance (How should I know the train number I want? EVERYTHING IS WRITTEN IN GIBBERISH HERE!!!). Instead, we all had to work our way up to the counter, gather more misdirection and then flutter back to some chair or standing table in order to regroup for another attempt at making headway through the royal bureaucracy.

On some point in the ordeal the other travelers, co-prisoners bound hand and foot in incomprehensible red-tape, sensed that I was nearly at my goal of a train ticket to Mumbai. Time was running out fast. Like a man struggling to complete the last 100 yards of a marathon, they were offering words of encouragement, handing me pens and train schedules and then shoving me back up to the front of the line while confused railway officials still thought they smelled blood and were salivating.

Finally my paper was flat on the counter in front of the Queen. I humbly waited as she demanded my passport then looked over every minute detail of my documents; name and country of origin, the name of the line I was taking, the number and the time it was to depart. Trembling, I stood watching. Finally she turned and began typing into her old computer as a cheer went up from behind me. Soon I was waving the hand sized card stock ticket printout over my head, blowing kisses, shaking hands, and thanking everyone who had made this day possible. Then I bolted out the door for the cab back to the hotel. I still had to gather my things, check out and get back here before it was too late.

Travel Journal - Entry 9

Ahmedabad 2/14/2008
While walking above the trains and people on the overhead sidewalk spanning the platforms alive with humanity, I was intercepted by what I call a runner. A runner is the person that wades into the sea of people and swims about in search of likely paying candidates for their particular service. I think a lot of the runners have been partners if not owners of the business for which they are running, cabbies, tour guides, etc. Mainly cabbies, though. I have previously been scooped up for a cab ride and escorted outside only to be handed off to one of a number of waiting vehicles ready to take me to wherever my heart desires. Most of the time. Sometimes they want me to check out an emporium where if I browse for 10 minutes they will be paid a commission. I usually resist this part of the journey insisting if they don't take me to the hotel directly I would not pay them.

The runner today was the actual cabbie himself. I told him what part of the city I wanted to stay in, he told me '10 rupees' (cheap) and off we went. Passing through the old city, over the bridge and into the new city, we checked three or four hotels within my desired price range (I had grown comfortable with 'cheap'), all of which were full - go figure. Sometimes I wonder if this wasn't just a part of another scam set up to charge me for a longer cab ride in what only seemed to be a desperate search for lodging. Although I suggested going to the south end, the driver assured me there would be no hotels there. Although my friend had assured me that there were indeed via text messages before my arrival, we scooted back across to the old city to the Hotel Serena and I secured a room. The driver then charged me 170 rupees. Sigh.

The room is okay - near but not right on the noisy street. Clear TV with Starz and HBO (anything other than Hallmark channel PLEASE!). I ordered room service for breakfast and hit the showers after a long day/night on the train. I found a nearby cyber cafe where they insisted on taking notes from my ID which I neglected to bring. I also had to take my shoes off in order to enter. I need those sandals bad. I hiked back to the hotel, got my ID, hiked back, took off my shoes and blogged. No one back home was up yet so I couldn't chat with anyone. I got caught up on the few emails I needed to answer and trekked back to my room in what was quickly becoming the afternoon sunshine.

I shaved my face, trimmed my eyebrow forest and fell asleep about 2:30 pm. I guess the train didn't let me rest all that well after all. My cell rang at 5, my friend calling to see about my well being. We planned to meet the following day for lunch. I wasn't feeling very energetic, probably a sign that I still needed to catch up on sleep and that I was a bit under the weather. So I spent the remainder of the evening watching what HBO termed their 'Top 10' romantic movies. "You've Got Mail", "Must Love Dogs", "Sleepless in Seattle", "When Harry Met Sally". "The Wedding Crashers" on Indian HBO is heavily edited which I appreciated in this particular case. I also finished watching 'Perfect Stranger' on my iPod. I had started it on the train but fell asleep during. My iPod was running out of juice and I need to get an adapter plug since the one I thought I had brought from Mumbai isn't in my luggage. I already had the adapter that would allow the iPod to charge from a wall plug.

The next afternoon my friend scooped me up and we got some coffee at Lucky's, the Muslim graveyard with a Hindu cafe built on top. Then we took lunch at an outdoor covered courtyard restaurant called Green House. This was just attached to an upscale hotel called House of MG or Agashiye. It was an amazing cocoon where you could sip cold lime and cilantro drinks in what felt like an entire world removed from the hustling city a few steps away. We them hopped a cab to the National Institute of Design where I was treated to an insiders tour (I was with a graduate). I had a really terrific time, met some friendly people and even had chai in ceramic cups beneath the shade of NID's gigantic trees. It was an all around wonderful day in Ahmedabad.

Tomorrow I am off once again to Mumbai for the very last leg of my trip.

Travel Journal - Entry 8

Overnight to Ahmedabad 2/13/2008
We have a 20 minute 'layover' in Jaipur to load food and replenish departing passengers. Having either been sitting or laying down for the past six hours I stepped out for a stroll down the platform. I bought some hot chai and walked back close to the carriage I was assigned to, sipping my tea until the train whistle yanked everyone inside like the rebound of a gigantic bungee jump.

Walking through back to my berth I noticed all of the Indian passengers eagerly but quietly supping on sumptuous local meals prepared in thin, foil-covered aluminium tins. (Regards to my Indian friends on the spelling and pronunciation of 'aluminium'). I recall the porter coming through earlier asking passengers questions and taking notes. I was not asked if I had wanted a meal however. Although the guy looked right at me as he questioned everyone else in Hindi, he passed me by. I found that odd, suspecting he was preparing for dinner but unsure since he would have indicated something to me, surely. Hmm.

Given the condition of my nose, however (don't forget my cold - nose is quite the drippy mess) I am in no condition to eat spicy food that would more rapidly expend my already dwindling supply of tissue. Since i am virtually at tissue's end I have become a conservator, ready to carry the sign and wear the t-shirt if it would mean I have enough to carry me onto my ultimate destination, Ahmedabad. Or is it Ahmadabad? Depends on who you ask. Anyways, I have taken to rolling up balls of tissue and shoving it up the offending nostril (in this case, right) in a bid to stem the avalanching tide of snot which has been more persistent than the all of the beggar children I have encountered.

I am going to take two Tylenol PM in order to sleep more comfortably. One is supposed to allow for 8 hours and I have roughly 11 ahead of me. Plus the chai and Nescafe will surely flow in the morning, in case I am too groggy to get off when I am supposed to.
----------------------
It is 7:30 AM, approximately 30 minutes to arrival. I haven't heard if we were running late or not and I probably won't if last night's dinner is any indication. The lower berths are already packed and ready to bolt once we land. The entire floor is filled with the bags of an older couple who took both sides of the bottom all the way from Delhi. Because there were several stops earlier, many passengers who started with us are gone. Many who did not start with us are now among us, waiting for our collective arrival at our final station. For now I am unable to collect my bags below one of the lowermost berths, chained and locked onto one of the rings welded to the train. This is done in order to be able to lug as much stuff off the train as one lugged onto it.

I remember being uncomfortably warm last evening beneath the thick woolly blanket the train provides this class of passenger. They give everyone two sheets as well should anyone wish to recreate the 'just like home' sleeping experience. I had kicked the blanket off me, but to the side of the berth that towered above the rest of the sleeping passengers in my compartment. At some point it tumbled to the floor, something I recall being vaguely aware of at the time but not enough to really know concern of any kind. When I became more cognoscente that I was missing my blanky some time later, I pulled one of the sheets from beneath my thin Indian train pillow to once again regain the comfort of covering up while sleeping in public. Of course I had on everything I'd worn on the train in the first place - green cargo climbing pants, maroon Old Navy fleece, maroon Campmor tee (sans shoes and socks) - but I felt that covering was the proper thing to do regardless.

Peeing does not yet seem to be a priority so as I wait for my chance to jump down and secure my belongings, I shall one last time seek the wisdom of the Lonely Planet guide to India and see what they have to say about lodging, transportation, food and what to watch our for in Ahmedabad.

Or is it Ahmadabad?

Travel Journal - Entry 7

Delhi 2/13/2008
When I was in Varanasi there had been a 'mad cow' running roughshod down some steps toward the river with its giant horned head swinging from side to side the whole way. I gave this demon creature a wide berth when I had to venture across the same stretch of walkway it had decided to stop and wait for me on. The same thing happened this morning, only this time there were two berserk dogs in hot pursuit. The narrow walkway betwixt buildings here is just about wide enough for a cow chased by dogs to run down unscathed. No so for the weary traveler who happens to be sharing the same walkway, however. I stepped up into a doorway and let them pass.

All part of the show folks...

I awoke this morning stuffed up. Confirmation of my previous concerns that I have caught some cold. Hope this clears up soon as I just felt like staying in bed today. This is the first sign of illness this trip.

Indian shoe shops and street kiosks do not have my show size. I was looking for slip on closed-toed alternatives those heavy sneakers I brought along with me. I tire of having to removed them at every turn and will give them away if I can find suitable replacements. These are the sturdy warriors that have been with me through thick and thin. They have stepped in all manner of excrement - yesterday at least twice. Yuk, I know. I also seemed to have 'rubbed against' some when I got lost last night, a big brown blecchh clinging to the side of my shoe as I walked through the hotel lobby and up the stairs before I finally noticed the shoey-gooey along for the ride.

This next portion was blogged previously, however as it now appears in my log have decided to include it again here, a little different than before.

Last night I had the bright idea of going out into the dark streets to take photographs of the goings on in Delhi at night. Leaving the hotel with a great deal of confidence, the bazaar still had open brightly lit shops with people walking up and down the street in search of something to buy. Not knowing exactly what I was looking for I went to the end of the street, turned a corner and proceeded to become a little bit confused as to where I had started. These streets already look similar in the day. At night they look identical to me. Not to worry, my compass seemed to work in Mumbai so I figured I could take a shortcut between buildings to find my way back onto the street where my hotel is. And so I did, down a dimly lit alley offset by the staggered setting of buildings so you couldn't see exactly where you were going to end up, just that you could keep going if you thought it was a good idea. Apparently I thought it was.

For about an hour I wandered the alleys searching for my hot shower and thin foam bed. Some paths revealed men hovering over small personal fires for warmth, others had folks walking in the same direction as I was so I would follow them. I figured following someone who seemed to know their way around might help me find my way back onto a street. Some pathways had no light to speak of and many, I discovered to my dismay, were simply dead-ends. I could tell how much I wasn't liking this because it was freezing cold and I was soaked with perspiration.

One dead end offered a territorial dog that growled menacingly as we circled one another, me trying to get back on the 'get me outtahere' side of the beast while it was no doubt sizing me up to determine which part of my body might yield the most meat. I am not too sure how I got into position but once I had a clear shot I took my leave...walking calmly since I didn't want to provoke a chase, but quickly all the same. I walked faster when I heard the pitter patter of tiny toe-nailed feet behind me. When I finally reached the street two dogs shot out past me and into the darkness - sentries of my previous nemesis sent to escort me off the premises.

Travel Journal - Entry 6

New Delhi 2/12/2008
Arrived Delhi this morning from Varanasi. The Scottish doctor on his 5th trip helped me find lodging - walked me past touts and into hotel row a short stroll away from the train station. I would have never known to find this street on my own. Had I asked anyone from around here where I could stay close by on the cheap, I would have no doubt been misdirected into God knows where. I haven't forgotten my last little ordeal here. Tried a place called the Krishna but I didn't have a reservation. Hah. The next hotel, the Hotel Shelton, had a nice room with a pretend balcony next to the big blue neon sign right above the street overlooking the bazaar. It's noisy but it's a bed and I brought ear plugs.

This bed is probably what you would find at the rescue mission - hard wood frame in the place of a box spring with two inch foam mattress. That's how all the beds have been in all my hotel rooms here. Mattresses have been thicker at times, depending on the area and price of the room. In Agra it seemed thicker for a less expensive room. In a quiet, garden-spot hotel that was only 500 ft from the Taj Mahal. Here in Delhi I am on a double wide bed so I put one mattress on the other.

Honking horns and loud music playing outside. This is probably the worst room noise but I'm not too worried. I have been able to sleep on loud, uncomfortable trains so I probably manage now. As it turns out I am here for a festival of some sort. Men were busily stringing lights between buildings and across roads, worships stations with different idols were set up around the bazaar area. And the morning found me listening to the droning of some ancient prayer being recited over a modern enough speaker system - loud and long. There was also sporadic displays of worship marching down the streets in the guise of boys and young men with drums and such at odd hours of the late evening, also chanting loudly.

I think I am catching cold. Oh for my Emergen-C. I was going to bring a few but opted to not. Dang.

I put some forethought into remaining healthy while I was away. I bought these little plastic ziplock pill bags and assembled four weeks worth of daily doses; Vitamin C, Vitamin B12, a multi vitamin, a garlic tablet, a pro-biotic capsule and a fish oil capsule. So each morning after I get a bite to eat (as it is inadvisable to down these on an empty stomach) I take this handful of medical assistance and swallow them like a whale eating minnows, pills jostling for position as they ride the waterfall into the deep dark unknown.

I bought several handcrafted Indian fabric tapestries today after settling into the hotel and heading back out into the bazaar. Also picked up some camel bone jewelry. Different colors. I understand the camels were finished with the bones. I also purchased an inexpensive bag to lug it all around in. No more big stuff - I'm already thinking I am going to have some trouble on the flight home.

Encountered whispering touts again wanting me to buy drugs. Also fake-accented Indians trying to lure me into their shops - they think I am Australian. Haha. Let them. I answered one yesterday in Spanish. He didn't know Spanish so I was saved.

From now on I am speaking Spanish. OLE!!

Travel Journal - Entry 5

Varanasi 2/11/2008
The 3:45 train to Delhi arrived early. Unusual in my opinion. I am cynical actually. After the delay at JFK (flight to Mumbai), the delay at Mumbai (flight to Delhi) and the delay in the train to Varanasi I became so. When the train showed up I just figured it for the one before mine.

Met a Scottish MD on the platform. His 5th trip, traveling light with a very small pack and an umbrella. We talked about how India changes you. Maybe not here, now, right away, noticeably. But it becomes apparent once you return to civilization. "Simplify" was the word he used. I rather felt that the case even before getting started on this trip.


Thoughts of Varanasi on riding out:
The land of Learn and Burn. Hindu spiritual learning hub as well as ghat burning ceremonies. Lots of non-Indians exploring life here. There is music and art, a world perspective reinforced by a non local populace. Very dirty and unsafe Ganga. Trash literally covers what could be a beautiful shoreline. I saw it at its lowest. There was mud and sand. When the water is higher the ghats rim the water; their steps descending down, down into the murk.




I wish some organization could systematically clean up the crap. I saw numerous cows nibbling through mounds of garbage. Do people leave it out for them? Cows like plastic, apparently. At least from what the dining choices I saw them making.

Where is the mind of those controlling infrastructure?

Dos and Don'ts:
Do drive as though lanes do not exist.
Don't hug the opposite sex in public.
May I please suggest a switch in present singular 1st person auxiliary verbs?

The Times of India is one of the most interesting newspapers I have ever read. Always dozens of things odd and interesting. Reminds me of where I am and that life goes on before my very eyes.

Travel Journal - Entry 4

Varanasi 2/10/08
Driving is an art. A team sport in which there can be any number of winners but all must keep their eye on the ball - and not hit anyone or anything. Two lanes are four, four are six. The horn is primarily an instrument of concern and polite warning when approaching from behind. The back of most vehicles have 'Honk O.K. Please' stretching from left to right across the bumper in colorful paint. A cacophony of these blaring horns pushing and elbowing their way into your psyche is the sound of a safe and happy roadway.

I have seen/heard a few horns sounded in anger, however. There have been a few birds too. Flipping. The taxi I took to the airport in Mumbai when I was flying to Delhi got backed into by a rather large and severe looking truck. With a thick black pipe for a bumper. My driver ended up getting me to my destination late. This incident contributed to that. Then he went to the wrong destination despite my clear English instructions. Ha ha. Then he tried to charge me double what the fare should have been. Lucky for me I checked his card, paid him and quit feeling sorry for him that he had been backed into by a pipe-bumpered truck. Inside the terminal I found my flight was late as well. Coffee time!

Out of all of the taxis i have been in, not one has a working speedometer. Not one.

16 pieces of laundry clean and folded, pocket repaired - Rp 150 (About $3).

I want to buy a carrot from the cart of the fresh vegetable seller below.

Sometimes I think I am too negative. I don't mean to be. It's easy to level out there however. Two sides to every story and I am not always right.

Deep talk with strangers. Over chai. I met a pleasant woman yesterday while enjoying some chai at the ghats. From the UK, married 8 years, she is spending 6 months in India. Starting with a stint in the south doing humanitarian work - an exchange program of some sort having to do with health care I believe. Our somewhat brief conversation moved to her relationship; her suspicions of her husband. Another woman. Maybe. Probably. Not the jealous rage kind of reaction but the talk about it kind. More interested in honest open communication that would enhance their relationship than in false hopes or not knowing.

He had joined her in India for a time at the beginning of her work here.

We had 'met' once before at the Varanasi train station. She was assisting some French tourist backpackers who had been drugged, robbed and lost a couple of days to unconsciousness. They had gotten a little too friendly with the natives. She speaks French, caught wind of their plight and was helping them book passage home.

We ran into one another one other time on the ghats and spoke briefly in passing. I hope their marriage works out. He would be the biggest loser if it does not.

Travel Journal - Entry 3

Varanasi 2/10/2008
Kites are everywhere in the sky. The "Kite Runner" kind. Rising, falling, circling to best the others. Cut them. Starting young these kids are soon experts making the sky an acrobatic feast for the eyes. I wish I could get a good snap.

Almost any building is in the use regardless of repair. Shelter is shelter, after all. They make good use of the entire structure. Roofs are outdoor patios for meals, chai, naps, laundry. Kite flying. For bathing and grooming. Prayer.

Monkeys run free in the city. I have seen them here as in Agra, run across the rims of buildings, leap onto wires, inspire concern in otherwise docile canines. And howl from the spires of forts.

The ants on the wall small. And slow. Probably slow because it's cold. Red with black thoraxes. There are big black kick ass ants that I have encountered a few times. All business, these.

Curious kids and older sisters looking over rooftops at me. A man a couple of buildings over has been in front of what must be a mirror working on his hair for the past 15 minutes. He is probably 29 or 30. Grooming is important. People may not be able to effect the sanitation/look and feel of the city at large. But they can certainly be presentable.

Travel Journal - Entry 2

Varanasi 2/10/08
Clothing styles are interesting. For the most part men wear western style shirts, sweaters, jeans jackets, whatever. The styles could be modern but its a little bit confusing in this context. This all became very real for me as I tried to buy another pair of cargo pants since the ones I had brought along were so industriously comfortable.

I had gone into a shop to look around. What I found was that besides the ridiculously high prices ($30 US??), the styles were decidedly 70's or 80's with odd embroidery, scattered corduroy and weird pockets every which way but natural. Nothing I could ever agree to wear let alone pay that much for.

The buying experience must have been strictly Indian - a long U-shaped counter with boys/teens/young men behind showing potential buyers choices based on their size and preference. For me it was to be cargo pants, 38x34. The cry went out and after some time a boy brought a stack of plastic wrapped pants from somewhere in the back. 15 pairs or so, assorted colors. Another guy (my helper) pulled each pair out of its bag, unfolded them for my inspection, and then folded it partially (longways) before doing the same to the next pair.

I discovered that an Indian size 38 is smaller than an American size 38. After trying on the two least embellished pair, which didn't fit at all, the guy measuring me. Leaning over from from behind the counter with his measuring tape, I was told I was a 40. Hmmm.

Yeah so I didn't buy anything there.

For the most part kids here are great. They are children in every aspect. Innocent, curious, playful. Quick to smile. The first set I encountered in Mumbai were all this. I then began to hear about and eventually crossed paths with a few. They were poor, dirty, cuter then hell and annoyingly persistent in running beside me for a sale or a handout. "Hellooo!", is where it all starts. I have taken to pretending not to understand English in order to avoid these encounters. Yesterday after the hundredth kid asked me for something I jabbered back in some unintelligible gibberish I made up there on the spot. Which he merely parroted back to me. Smart ass. But I could appreciate that.

I met these three as they were playing outside my friends flat in Bandra. I asked if I could take their snap and they got all organized and lined up and ready for me. They called me 'Uncle'. That's a term of respect.

At least it wasn't 'Grandpa'.

Travel Journal - Entry 1

Varanasi 2/10/08
Arrived V. from Agra by sleeper train. Will try to make is more comfy this trip (huh?). Upside is no matter what it will take you where you want to go. Like the bus from Delhi to Agra, the light at the end of the tunnel was that is would all soon be over.

One thing is certain about some of these folks here - rich and poor alike - industrious as hell and trying to get as much as possible out of your wallet. From business owners, silk merchants, boatmen, cabbies, to children - how many rupees are in it for them? Tourists are targets simply because we are their business. They eat by how well we are swindled or forced into buying what we don;t want or need. From my hotel balcony I watch one hard at work, the poor white man trying to make sense of it all, looking around, shrugging. We are cattle stomping through their towns and cities and must be herded for maximum benefit, dumb animals that we are.

The chai guy at the big ghat yesterday was great. Some teenager caught me walking toward the burning, warned me not to take snaps and tried to lure me up and over to where all the foreigners were to stand (according to him). Feeling herded I approached the chai guy (old) brewing the milky, sugary tea in a large pot over a fire pit in front of his wooden box stand at the halfway point up the steps, over to the far left. Inquiring about chai he pointed me over to a row of wooden benches - homemade by the look of them like almost everything here. Sitting I was delivered chai in a proper glass, hot and steaming, thus sealing my bid for freedom from the teen aged terrorist who scowled nearby. Occasionally he would lean in to inform me of something so obvious even I had already figured it out.

"Those are the families of the dead", "He is boiling milk". Duh. Eventually I would have been asked to pay him for helping me wade through all this mind numbing confusion of burning bodies and chai making. I stared at him as if to say, "Bugger off", which he eventually did after my second chai arrived. No doubt I might enjoy myself more if I didn't feel like I had to wrestle with so many of these sort. The cabbies/boatmen I can somewhat understand. This is their living. A white boy usually means a job. Others are merely buzzing mosquitoes and need to be repelled.

Prolepsis

So now I am a world traveler. Sure I have only been to one place outside the US (not counting anything in Baja California) but that one place was almost on the exact other side of the planet from me. About 12 hours away on a 24 hour planet. A world traveler. Yeah that's me alright. I flew right over some of the major continents. Asia. Europe. North America. I knew it because my Delta in-flight information map told me so. And how high I was flying (ft and km) and how fast (mph and kph). And the outside temperature in fahrenheit and centigrade. Had I been paying any attention at all I would have learned a whole other language.

So I find myself going through these pangs of longing. Longing to be back eating samosa and drinking Kingfisher in Mumbai after a long tiring day of walking around. Spending money. I guess that is the sign of a good vacation. And a somewhat spent emotional state. I went to work yesterday, the morning after I got back to Fresno. I stayed most of the day but literally ran out of gas. I went home to try and organize everything; things I bought and to whom they were to go, laundry started with piles on standby, get luggage emptied and put away. Clear out the mess that's all over my bed to I can use it to sleep on. About 9 I was out like a light.

At 3 AM I was wide awake. And hungry. I waddled out to the kitchen and fired up some Red Beans and Rice, a gourmet treat from the bayous of Louisiana. Then I came on back and fired up the computer and the TV. The news was on TV. At that hour of the morning it just recycles about every 20 minutes. You see the same report done by the same people over and over again. All in the name of readjusting my internal clock to PST. I'm glad to see Hillary and Barrack getting along so well, mostly. And that McCain didn't really do anything.

I made some instant coffee. Anyone who knows me very well would know that I used to consider this an abomination of the bean. However, as much as I might have earlier hated to admit it, I have grown fond of a certain milky sweet 'brew' since this was what I had almost daily on my trip. And one of my friends in Mumbai bequeathed me with a late Christmas gift; Davidoff Gourmet Instant Coffee. Strong and tasty it helped me face the wee hours of the morning. While feeding my desire to experience something of the trip once again. Meanwhile I have been editing and uploading my snaps, a little at a time. Click the slideshow on the upper right of this blog and you will open the album containing them all. At least all the ones I was able to upload. Eventually they will all be there so stay tuned.

Tomorrow I shall make an entry based on my journal notes.

Perambulant

I'm baaaaack. About 32 hours of travel. Lots of time to read. Finished my book, started another. Lots of time to buy coffee. Starbucks was happy to see me finally. I got skinny lattes at JFK and in Atlanta. Also got mugs to commemorate. The latte in Salt Lake however went uncommemorated. They didn't have the SLC mugs there. No reason. They just didn't.

I also had lots of time to write. So I did.

I looked like a lost vagabond. What was acceptable dress in a third world country became noticeably apparent once I arrived back in the US. I had on jeans that needed to be washed. Badly. I didn't send them in to be cleaned before I left because circumstances dictated otherwise. So I wore dirty jeans, maroon fleece, sandals with socks and Alcatraz. One of the pilots on one of the flights asked me as I was deplaning if I was going back.

Dress was only a part of the weary, spent traveller image I was projecting however. I had an official business-like black shoulder satchel that carried my iPod, noise-cancelling earphones, books, money, snacks, etc. But this seemed strangely out of place with what I was wearing. It didn't fit with any of the other items I was carrying either.

I had the small guitar I had purchased in Mumbai before my 10 day northern cross country excursion via trains, planes and scary buses. Add to this a large bag that looked like something a carpet bagger would be carrying his shifty wares around in. And it was full. I had some fragile food items coming back with me in this bag, Chaat mix. The Bux mugs, my hats and sunglasses. Hawaiian shirt (took place of the fleece at JFK). Chicki toffee (Indian candy) and Muckwas mix (Indian breath freshener). I had bought this HUGE bag of cashews way back in Varanasi. It was a magic bag. It never ran out. It never even got low. I ate all the cashews my poor body could manage but the bag didn't change. It just stayed the same. HUGE. So eventually I took this bag out of the satchel where I had to wrestle it for dominance every time I wanted my iPod. I was put it in the carpet bag instead. I couldn't have cared less if it made every other thing in it's baggy kingdom subservient. So long as I didn't have to see it again. For a long time.

All of this being hauled around with me from one airport to the next. In SLC I walked from one end of the terminal to the other in search for the Bux mug that wasn't there. Before I discovered it wasn't there. There were three Bux and I had too see them all with my own two eyes. But I had 6 hours to chill so why not? I had the BEST Stromboli from SLC Airport Sbarro however, so I forgive them for lack of the SLC Bux the mug.

All the while I had this stuff with me. I got some stares. The further away I got from the international flights, the more interested (or afraid perhaps?) people became.

Frankly I was just too tired to care.