We're Back

We're back, and dry. Some non-San Diegans who have been following the blog have written to ask if Kelly and I made it home safely before the Tsunamis hit. We've been back about three weeks. The tidal waves caused by the world's largest ever earthquake off the coast of Indonesia have swept across some of the places we just visited. I'm glad we made it back before the earthquake, and I'm sad and awestruck by what a powerful blow mother nature has dealt. After only 2 days of counting, there are already more than 7 times the number of people declared dead than from the 9/11 attacks. It's just staggering.

Bangkok, Thailand

Bangkok, Thailand

Our last city. Bangkok was different from the last time I was here, entirely because we stayed at Khao San Road (versus the business district last time I was here). Khao San is a hippie traveler mecca; everyone with a backpack stays here. Officially, we are no longer backpackers, as we are now transporting an additional two large duffel bags full of crap we have bought in India and Thailand.

Much of our stay here was typical Thailand, focused around good food and massage. Bangkok has a few extras, however. We saw the Golden Palace, which houses the emerald Buddha, currently donning his wintertime full golden shawl (his clothes are changed three times a year). We also saw Wat Pho, which I had never seen before. This is the home of the reclining Buddha, which is enormous. It’s 46 meters long, and nearly reaches the lofty ceiling. Wat Pho also had the best massage place, a school at the back of the complex. The deftness with which my masseuse got under my skin and powerfully into my muscles brought shame to every massage provider I’ve ever visited in America.

Of course, Muay Thai (Thai kickboxing) was a must. It dwarfs regular boxing in excitement, as every so often one fighter lands a high kick to the head. The best move is the foot grab. Some of these guys are so quick that when their opponent kicks them in the side, they are able to catch and hold their foot. Then, with foot in hand, they attempt to sweep their opponent’s remaining single leg. When successful, this (obviously) brings their opponent tumbling to the mat. Another edge it enjoys over American boxing is that toward the end of the fight, every blow (and there are many, often in succession) elicits a huge, fast roar from the audience. It’s good fun.

I would like to take this opportunity to express my contempt for Jack Johnson. For some reason, he is the musician du jour in Bangkok. We just now walked back from having coffee, and his music was blaring out of exactly three music stores between Starbucks and our hotel (and you know how far you have to walk to get to a Starbucks). Each time we realized it was Jack Johnson, an annoyed grimace appeared on both our faces. Tragically, I own Jack Johnson’s CD “On and On” (I got it for free from Star when I was competing for Supermouth). It turns out this CD is perfectly titled, because his music just goes on and on. His singing style makes it impossible to distinguish one song from another. After a few listens, his intimate croning starts to sound like an annoying friend constantly whispering in your ear during the movie of life. I will be ditching “On and On” when I get home, along with a bunch of other CD’s I own that, after having sifted through my entire music collection, I now realize suck.

Kelly and I decided to take a dinner cruise on the Chao Phraya River. It was a fitting way to end our 5 month journey. We were served dinner, and watched Thai women play the harp and perform traditional Thai dances. They even brought to life a scene from a Kabuki-like play. I got up and did the traditional dance with them (they didn’t exactly have to drag me up there either). During the cruise, Kelly and I reflected on all the places we’ve been. It was very much like the first hour of the final episode of Survivor, where the remaining castaways are mandated to take a walk and reflect on their time on the island, while a montage of past clips are shown to the audience. For us, however, the clips were playing in our head. There are a lot of happy memories.

During past trips and vacations, usually I have been too preoccupied to have any sense that I am enjoying myself. The experience usually seems blissful only after time sweeps over it like an airbrush, blurring out the pimples to create a memory better than the reality. During this trip, however, I have had many realizations in the moment of how incredible and enjoyable this trip has been. The dinner cruise was one of those times. After some time passes, this trip is likely to achieve legendary status, especially if life finds me in more stressful conditions (but come on, I’m sure that won’t happen).

For those who may not have read my blogs in their entirety, I will summarize our trip for you here by encapsulating each country we have visited with a single word. Reading this list is like traveling to a dozen countries in 30 seconds – all you miss out on is the jet lag and traveler’s diarrhea.

Greece - beautiful
Italy - tan
Croatia - hospitable
Hungary - skippable
Austria - organized
Czech Republic - hip
Germany - friendly
Sweden - expensive
Denmark - blustery
India - overwhelming
Thailand – relaxing
America - home

Chiang Mai, Thailand

Chiang Mai, Thailand

“Afternoon haaaa” from Chiang Mai. This is how Thai women speak. When talking to foreigners, they’ll use just about any English word, followed by “haaaa”. Thai words get the haaaa appended to them as well. This is my second time to Chiang Mai, and much is the same as before. Same great medium-sized city feel, lots of shops at the night market, and many possible excursions to the hills surrounding it.

We arrived in Chiang Mai on the last day of a big Thai holiday (you know, that one). Like the Indians, they celebrate by lighting off fireworks, some of them producing wartime blasts (and the next day’s paper had a story about a kid who blew off his hand and killed his friend standing next to him). Unlike the Indians, they light mini hot air balloons into the sky. A huge cylindrical wick is soaked in something flammable, which is attached by string to a large closed paper tube. The contraption is held steady until enough hot air fills the tube that it begins to float; then it is set free. The sky was covered in distant floating lights, many of which reach heights you’d expect of air balloons. Some of the wicks are wired through time delay to fireworks, which drop out of the sky and explode once the contraption is treetop-high. I have some great pictures of all this, and will post them when I get home (had to archive them in a pinch to free up memory).

We saw a wat. They are called “wats” because that’s what you say when you leave them: “what?” Not that impressive (both the wat and my pun-based joke). It looked like our gompa from Tushita, only the Buddha inside was as high as the ceiling. I mean it would be a great place to meditate, but I’m not sure it deserved a dedicated sightseeing visit. There’s one wat complex in Bangkok we’ll see that I remember being much larger and more impressive.

Today, Kelly and I went to the Maesa Elephant Camp. I’ve never before seen so many elephants in one place. The visit centered around an hour-long elephant show, which was amazing. The elephants paraded around, with mahouts (trainers) on their backs, doing all sorts of tricks and performing many human-esque gestures. They kicked soccer balls (while another elephant tended goal), stacked logs, and flung their trunks around in a huge circle. After this, each was presented an easel and paint brushes, which they used to paint pictures. I wouldn’t have believed it without seeing it; I would have thought the mahouts guide their trunks or something. But sure enough, all by himself, the elephant closest to us drew a picture of a tree with flowers on it. His trunk was as precise as an artist’s hand (though he painted in broad strokes). While the painting was indeed impressive, the most impressive thing I witnessed all day was an excited elephant showing off what in this case can be referred to without hyperbole as his “third leg”.

The elephants we saw today were treated very well, a marked contrast from my previous Chiang Mai elephant visit. At Maesa, the elephants are trained from age 5, and throughout the compound are elephants being fed, bathed, and led around different parts of the camp. Due to the good training, the commands used to control the elephants are spoken or tapped out gently with baton thingees. Of course, there’s still a faint smell of exploitation, but no more than you’d find at any zoo or ranch. We enjoyed the elephants guilt free.

We return home in four days. It feels like so long ago that we were in Greece, or anywhere else we’ve been for that matter. Seemingly odd is that while these early destinations feel like forever ago, home still seems close. Unless my expectations are incorrect (never happens), I’ll snap right back into home life like I was never gone. But put me back in Greece, and I would…okay, well, it would be the same there too…HAPPY?

Back when it was 11 days to go, I reminisced a lot. Now that we have four days left, reminiscing has slowed, and I feel I am hurtling at light speed toward our flight home, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. The days remaining are impossibly miniscule compared to the time we’ve been gone. I am experiencing a slightly surreal feeling at how fast the end has snuck up. When you’ve been gone for as long as we have, it’s hard to fathom that it will just end all of a sudden at a single moment.

That being said, I am really looking forward to home. In that sense, I haven’t changed all that much – I’m still looking forward to the next place, and this time that place is home. But enticing me further are friends, family, and all the comforts and extravagances of home. Without a doubt, the cherry on top of the icing on the cake (which is in a completely separate hemisphere from the straw that broke the camel’s back) is that I need not rush back to work, but can continue to be a total slacker, just domestically. It makes coming home just as fun as leaving. See most of you real soon!

Koh Kradan, Thailand

Koh Kradan, Thailand

We just got back from Koh Kradan. This remote island is just off the coast of Trang, south of Phuket on the Andaman Sea. There is only one hotel on the island. Even so, we still chose to stay there (anyone done Landmark?). Our beach bungalow had air conditioning, but only from 6pm to 6am, when the electricity was activated. The island had almost nothing to do (the point of going there), and I was thankful for my magazines and iPod. I am nearly done rating my entire 7000 song collection. What can I say, it has kept me busy. Hopefully it proves as useful as I currently anticipate in my free-time-having mind.

Kradan was all about the snorkeling, the sole activity offered. Tour boats showed up every day to our beach with people from other islands – a testament to how good the snorkeling was. It was the best snorkeling Kelly or I have ever done. There was a reef that ran the length of the beach, about 150 yards from shore. This reef was teeming with all kinds of colorful fish, eels, starfish, coral, and sea cucumbers. We must have seen between 70 to 100 unique types of fish. Unlike many other places, the fish here were all extremely colorful. My favorites were the parrotfish (rainbow colored) and the clown fish, which is what Nemo is. The orange and white wavy striped pattern on these fish make them my absolute favorite. The clown fish would take refuge in a flowing anemone (or maybe it was moving coral), exactly like they do at the start of the Disney movie. They have the curiosity and grace of cats and the friendliness of dogs. I would swim down and extend my hand, and they would swim out from their sanctuary to investigate it. They lacked the personal buffer space of many other fish, fearlessly tracing different paths around my hand.

What weren't my favorite were the fish that were friendlier than the clown fish. During one outing, I was nibbled by an aggressive school. Kelly had the best explanation for why they were trying to eat me. I had earlier fed them from my hand a banana I found floating in the water. Kelly theorized that the stupid fish probably don't understand the banana as a separate entity from the person feeding them. So they just keep nipping hoping something else breaks off, or perhaps once I stop moving, all of me must be edible. The nipping didn't hurt, but I was surrounded by them and it freaked me out. I was on the shore in seconds.

The beach was blanketed with crabs, and by crabs I mean styrofoam. No, actually, these were real crabs. They each had dug a hole, some impressively deep, which they would retreat to as we walked by. I have decided crabs are the fastest land animal, once you normalize for step size. Each movement of a crab’s legs is a few millimeters, but they absolutely haul ass. Sometimes they couldn’t make it back to their holes and would retreat into the ocean as a last resort. One time I chased a whole beach full of them into the water, flailing my arms around and yelling to impress Kelly. The only ones I impressed, however, were the laughing Thais in the boats just offshore I hadn’t seen.

The amount of water shift from high to low tide was lunacrous. To show the difference, I took a Low Tide and a High Tide photo (labeled in the photo section) from the exact same place on the beach. A good 150 yards of beach was exposed during the afternoon and then submerged by nighttime. In the afternoon, we could walk all the way out to the reef, suck in our guts, and plot a careful course over the reef to avoid getting poked by the giant sea urchins. During high tide we couldn’t have even stood up in that same spot.

Feeling blue? Allow me to recommend a book I read called “The Damage Done”. This book is not very well written, yet provides a horrifically detailed account of an Australian’s 11-year stay at Bangkok’s Bang Kwang prison (his crime was trafficking heroine). Sweet mother of mercy, the Thai prison system is one of the harshest environments imaginable. If you ever are having trouble remembering how good you have it in life, I recommend you give this book a read.

Kelly and I are off to Chiang Mai now. Our trip is almost done. When I get some time I’ll comment on that.

Koh Samui, Thailand

Koh Samui, Thailand

Ah, Samui. Why didn't we just stay here for 5 months? Enough of these non-massage-centric countries.

I love Koh Samui. The downside to this largest island in the Gulf of Thailand is its relative development and crowds. Neither bothers me. What to Kelly was overcrowded was to me simply inhabited. The development enables what makes me love Samui, which is ubiquitous massage, internet, food, good coffee, and red bull (the Red Bull in Thailand is extremely potent, I think they add some bull horn to it). Samui, to me, has a fun, carefree atmosphere to it that fills me with good-natured energy. Kelly thought the vibe was too spring-breakish, but to me it seemed much more mellow and mature than that. The weather wasn't so great while we were there, which is typical for November. We got one nice sunny day, but the others were mostly overcast. Not an issue for me, though (you’ll see why next paragraph).

A typical day found us waking at around 10-11, and walking to Starbucks for a cappuccino and cinnamon roll. Anyone who scrunches his/her face at the thought of Starbucks coffee has not tasted non-branded Southeast Asian coffee. From there it’s either back to the resort to lounge beachside (to read or iPod), or off to the stores for a little clothes shopping (Kelly only). Lunch rolls around soon enough, so it’s a stumble to the resort restaurant for pad thai, green curry, or whatever suits the palette that day. Digestion takes place in the cool internet café, where emails can be checked, pictures can be posted, and online poker can be played. By this time a hopelessly small amount of tension has built up, so it’s off to knock that out with a two-hour massage. Then it’s back to the room for a little CNN update and a shower. Then off to a fresh fish dinner eaten at a restaurant relocated nightly onto the sand. From there, two options emerge. Either we hit the bars, sipping red bull and Thai whiskey until a huge grin spreads across our faces, or we stroll down the main drag of shops by night, stopping to purchase $2 latest release music CD’s and share a freshly opened coconut anointed with two straws.

There's massage, and then there's a two hour Thai massage for $10. I saw the same woman every day, who kneaded, stretched, and cracked me, herself pressing, leaning, and standing on me as necessary . I've decided Thai massage is probably the best of all the massage styles, both in terms of how good it feels and how much it relieves muscle tension and brings peace when it's complete.

During one seafood dinner on the beach, Kelly and I were approached by a 10 year old boy, shaved except for a crop of hair sticking up in the very front of his head (a style I've seen on other Thai kids). He slapped a Connect-4 rack on the table and challenged me to play him for 100 Baht ($2.50). Game on (I agreed). I took time to contemplate my every move, each of which was met by a split second decision on the part of Prodigy (the name I am giving him). He went first, and clearly had a pre-planned countermove for every of my possible moves. The most embarrassing part was that I didn't even see his Connect-4 coming before he sprung victory on me. Oh well, it's like a form of charity. I used a magic trick on him for double or nothing. When the rug got pulled out from under him, he was so afraid he had lost his 100 Baht, his face showed no amazement. Of course, I paid him anyway.

The embarrassment of my loss was nothing compared to that caused by my walk back to get 100 Baht for Prodigy. He and his flower-selling cohort came with me. On the way, I noticed tiny white crabs scuttling along the beach. There were dozens of them moving together, and they seemed to be moving much faster and more erratically than possible for crabs, which impressed me. At first, I thought they might not be alive, but sure enough, I put my foot down and they scampered right around it. The kids were laughing their asses off at my amazement. Prodigy picked one up and threw it at me, falling to the ground with laughter when I ducked for cover. Their laughter made a lot more sense ten minutes later, when I noticed a motionless crab by our dinner table. On further investigation, the crab (like the others) turned out to be a miniature ball of styrofoam. Did I mention it was real windy?

One afternoon we took a taxi to a local waterfall (intelligently named Waterfall 2). It was really majestic and foresty there. Toward what we thought was the top, a Thai self-appointed himself as our guide and helped us climb the ridiculously steep and treacherous journey to the actual top. At the summit was a tiny swimming hole where we (predictably) swam. During our hike we got some great photos, which say a lot more than I am writing here.

I was sad to leave Samui, but it was time to try out the remote beaches of the Andaman Sea.

Indiacompetence

The day we left India, she reared her incredibly incompetent, frustrating side no less than three times.

I had been double charged by Jet Airways for our flight from Bombay to Goa. The woman at the counter rang up my total for $10 too much, so after signing the first Visa charge, she had me sign another for the correct amount, saying she would void the first one. The void never showed up on my credit card, so I've spent the past several weeks on the phone getting the run around as I try to resolve the matter. This process culminated in me walking into Jet Airways' office in Delhi. After explaining my situation, the clerk asked for my receipts or ticket stubs. I told him I didn't keep any of that, having thrown them away after the flights were completed. At this point he threw me a "what can I do about it" face, saying without evidence, how could I prove I had been double charged. He next insisted that I produce a credit card statement showing the two charges, which I explained would have to come from the internet. I tried in vain to explain I mainly took the plane. Oh, whoops, I mean...I tried in vain to explain that a printout proved or disproved nothing, since if they had indeed issued a credit, I still could produce a printout showing the double charge but not showing the credit. With Tweedle-Dee still insistent, I rushed (our cab was about to arrive to take us to the airport) to the internet cafe and came back with the printout. Tweedle-Dee took it in the back room, and five minutes later Tweedle-Dum (in a suit) came out, and explained to me that they don't handle these situations in this office. There is a special woman who handles credits, she's 10km away, and I will need to visit her. My Buddha nature was nowhere to be found; instead I was single-pointedly meditating on what a prick this guy was. I got semi-loud and indignant at how horrible their service was. They had made a mistake to the tune of $400, and I was expected to run around to all their various offices to get it corrected. Nobody I talked to on the phone or in person (I had also gone to the office in Jaipur) wanted responsibility for the problem, so they just said they couldn't do anything. I tried to explain I was leaving and could he please call the woman and correct the problem on my behalf. He just kept explaining they didn't handle that. What a wonderful teacher this guy was to show me where I still had to work on my anger...prick.

This was organized incompetence at its finest. But our final day in India also produced staggering individual incompetence, which somehow failed to materialize as noticeably during the previous two months. We saw another Hindi movie ("Veer Zara"), and at the entrance they forced me to hand over my camera's battery. I thought this was an ingenious way of ensuring you don't take pictures, so long as the patron is not counter-ingenious enough to bring a spare battery. When I returned to pick up my battery, they produced it wrapped in tape holding an identifying tag on it. It was non-removable tape, something akin to scotch or packing tape. After trying to remove it, the guy had to help me by producing a razor to scrape off the residual sticky parts from my sensitive electronic component. I have tried, but I simply cannot understand how they have not come up with a better way of identifying the battery than wrapping it in tape. It is obviously a common thing they do (the guy didn't flinch when he asked me to remove the battery). It would seem the "logic" being employed is use whatever approach gets the job done on the front end, back end be damned.

The most horrifying display of back end sacrifice, though, happened at the watch shop. Thinking back on it now, perhaps I should have known better. But the sunglasses and watch store in the shopping complex looked very legitimate. I handed over my ($200 Swiss Army) watch so they could replace the dead battery, visually verifying they had the correct tools behind the counter. She told me to come back in 15 minutes to get it back. When I did, I noticed the backing on the watch was uneven at one part. It was raised off the back, which I showed her by having her move her finger against the ridge, which was rough to the touch. Obviously (I thought), she had erred when re-attaching the backing, and it needed to be re-done correctly. To my horror, when she took the watch back, she produced a gigantic metal file and - wait for it - began filing down the offending protrusion. I put a quick stop to her "final solution" and resolved to try to salvage my watch at Swiss Army headquarters when I get back to the States. She was prepared to destroy the literal back end of my watch to hide the evidence that it was re-applied with all the precision of Bam Bam.

I left India angry. It didn't last long, though. And it certainly didn't dampen my appreciation for the country. But man, if you chart the difference in intelligence between some of the lower-echelon service industry personnel and the upper-echelon software engineers that are stealing American jobs, the result will resemble a graph of monkeys versus monks. Tushita is not the only place in India where both of these are found.

Kelly and I are now on Koh Samui. Our plane got into Bangkok at midnight, and we decided to hop a flight to Samui at 6am the next morning (choosing to do Bangkok on our way out). Samui is just like I remembered it, except it is now strikingly clean! Either that or I've come from India this time instead of California. Also, the beach is totally washed out; waves are pushing right up to the bungalo fronts. When I was here two years ago it was in September, and there was ample beach and a lake-like ocean. We'll stay here a bit, then head by boat and land to the Andaman side surrounding Phuket.

Thailand feels so incredibly nice after India! The cab rides are like floating on a bed of pillows, the food is insanely good, the people are remarkably friendly, everything is modern and clean, and stares at my girlfriend are limited to a more acceptable say-you're-good-looking-and-now-it's-time-to-avert-my-gaze. I miss the cows, but it's really nice to see the dogs here are all fat and happy. I intend to join them.

McLeod Ganj, India

McCleod Ganj, India

McLeod Ganj feels like a small ski town (reminiscent of Mammoth). It is home to a roughly equal number of Tibetans and Indians, and because of this feels almost like a different country. The Indian culture took over during Diwali, however, as Indians came out of the woodwork to celebrate a holiday that is like Christmas and New Year’s rolled into one. They celebrate by lighting off fireworks. My amygdala let out many expletives as M10000’s exploded in the streets. On our walk back from dinner, everyone was loitering in the streets, lighting firecrackers and throwing them on the ground or at each other. At the main center of McLeod we watched a 30 foot strand of firecrackers go off...pretty cool. Apparently in Delhi and the bigger cities they will throw them at tourists, so we were lucky to be in the mountains. We were also lucky we arrived at the Delhi train station the day after five people were crushed to death in the Diwali train rush.

Kelly and I visited the home of His Holiness the Dalai Lama (or as Kelly calls him: double H D L). It was very modest overall, and contained a couple of gompas and a square where the monks debate. We didn't see it live, but on a friend's video camera we saw that after each is done speaking, they slap their hands toward their opponent to indicate it's their turn to rebut. We visited the Tibetan museum housed in the compound, which documents the tragic history of the Tibetan people, who have been abused mercilessly by the Chinese.

Just outside of McLeod Ganj, I visited the Karmappa, who is the highest monk in a sect separate from the Dalai Lama’s. I brought in tied together strands of bracelet rope (is there a word for that?), which he blessed by touching them. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Dutch auction on eBay! Come on, how common can blessed bracelet rope be? I had all of about 3 seconds with the Karmappa; the assistants keep the blessing line moving quickly.

I also tried Tibetan massage, which was good. It was somewhat similar to Swedish or deep tissue, but was slow and methodical and used a few pressure points. The only part that caught me off guard was when I removed my shirt and my masseur remarked, "Nice body." Even stranger than this comment was that I wasn’t put off by it.

Kelly and I fly to Thailand tomorrow, which will be our last country before heading home. It should be a relaxing destination after India, but of course any country is relaxing after India.

Tushita, McLeod Gang, India

Tushita - McCleod Gang, India

May all sentient beings enjoy happiness and the causes of happiness;
May they be free from suffering and the causes of suffering;
May they never be separated from the great happiness devoid of suffering;
And may they dwell in the great equanimity that is free from attachment and aversion.

Kelly and I have been paroled. We completed our 10-day Introduction to Buddhism course at Tushita in McLeod Ganj. Make no mistake, 10 days of nothing but meditation and lessons in Buddhism is a very long time. That being said, it was a fantastic, life-altering experience.

After checking in and getting settled, I quickly discovered a few huge problems. First, there were no napkins in the dining hall. As some may know, I have a passionate napkin fetish. There must be one, and preferably two, napkins on my lap during every meal. As well as providing needed finger wiping and lap protection, napkins instill in me a sense of security while eating that definitely crosses into obsessive-compulsive territory. Second, my two standard-issue blankets were wholly insufficient to protect me from the nightly cold. Tushita resides at 7000 feet, and this time of year is very chilly. Its atmosphere contains not the typical dry, crisp mountain air I am used to, but rather a wet, piercing cold - the kind that easily seeps through walls, blankets, and clothes. Having given all our pre-purchased wool pashminas to Kelly (protocol at Tushita required that Kelly and I sleep in separate dorms), I hardly slept the first night, as I tried to warm the many frozen parts of my body. Most everybody else had sleeping bags. In order to keep pace, on day two I emptied the Tushita store of wool pashminas, and slept toastily from then on. As for the napkins...well...life is suffering.

Our days consisted of morning and afternoon Tibetan Buddhist teachings, sandwiched between meditation sessions (the complete schedule shows the details). The morning teachings were led by Jimi, an ex-monk who has been involved with Buddhism for 30 years. My first impression of Jimi was that of a rambling, hippie Donald Rumsfeld. His teaching style was stream of consciousness; he would start talking, and continue branching from topic to story to topic as each reminded him of something else. At first I was put off by his apparently cluttered mind, but as his teachings continued, I relaxed and gave up trying to learn from him in an organized manner. After letting go (and after he warmed up over a few days), I quite enjoyed his anecdotal style and sense of humor. “Hey, is that Buddhism, man? Well, turn it up!” Jimi was our western teacher.

Our afternoon teachings were led by a Tibetan Lama, whose name I can’t remember. Lamas are head honcho monks. The Lama’s teaching style was totally different from Jimi’s. His points were painstakingly logical and organized, providing a nice contrast. He would sometimes try to make a point so desperately that he would restate it in essentially the same way many times. Lama was very charismatic, issuing questions and hypotheses with great enthusiasm and commitment. He was almost convincing when he insisted “It is true!” after telling stories of the Dalai Lama’s birthplace being revealed to a master through a vision in a parted lake, and of men transferring their consciousness into sheep. Lama was our eastern teacher.

An Australian nun (I forget her name) led our morning meditation sessions, which were "single pointed". Single pointed (also called mindfulness) meditation is an attempt to quiet your mind and focus on only one thing. For us that thing was our breath at a single point, our choice of either our abdomen or the tip of our nose. On day seven, I had an amazing morning mindfulness meditation. It was the deepest meditative state I achieved in the course. The meditation process involves recognizing and labeling your thoughts as they come up, then letting them go and returning to your focus of concentration. Once I left the gompa (prayer center) in my relaxed state, my mind flooded with labels for everything I saw and felt: "bush", "sidewalk", "fresh air"…it was quite surreal. More importantly, I was in a state of bliss, completely free from any thoughts other than those at the current moment. The bliss was striking, actually; if you had told me I had been drugged, I would have easily believed it. Then again, I can also achieve a state of bliss from a strong cappuccino. I reported my experience to our discussion group leader (a new monk from Chile) and was reminded not to get attached to my good experience, but just to notice all the good and bad experiences impartially. I like these Buddhists.

Pam, an American nun, led our evening and nighttime meditations, which were "analytic". Analytic meditation involved Pam issuing soft questions and scenarios on a given topic, such as death or attachment. While she spoke, we would internalize the concepts she was presenting, and draw conclusions for ourselves. We did many of these meditations, and my experiences with them ranged from soul searching to horrible boredom.

In the middle of the day, our class of about 40 students would head to afternoon yoga. This brought a needed physical break from all the stationary mental exercise (although yoga itself involves meditation and breathing). Our yoga instructor (a native San Franciscan) was very good. He cracked me up, though, because at the top of every class he would explain that today we would focus on breath, or today we were really going to work on the physical postures, yet the routine was the same every day. At one point, he gave us a choice of what we wanted to work on the next day. The class told him what we wanted, and he acknowledged what we had chosen at the beginning of the next day’s class, but then led an identical routine again (I’m talking pose for pose). Thankfully, it was a good routine.

Animals are an integral part of Tushita. Though a few cows surrounded the area, the dogs and monkeys ruled the roost. One bitch lives at Tushita, and she was in heat for almost our whole retreat. The two male dogs at Tushita, as well as several from the surrounding area, assaulted her constantly. Actually, assaulted is the wrong word, since she seemed more than willing. The male dogs growled and fought with each other constantly, trying to ensure as many pups as possible would bear their fur color. The monkeys were no strangers to humping themselves. Tushita was crawling with them. Some were aggressive, like the one that charged Kelly for her chocolate bar. But many were docile, and would let us get very close for observation and photos. While we were meditating in the gompa, entire monkey families would traipse along the roof, sending loud clanking sounds which seemed deliberately intended to ruin our concentration. My favorites were the babies that dive bombed their way through the tops of trees – almost every branch supports their weight, so they haphazardly flop all over the place. We found out that after we checked out, the monkeys went rifling through the rooms, sniffing everything for food content.

We were instructed to keep silence at all times during the 10 days except during our discussion groups (one hour per day), and when asking questions during class time. The class mostly adhered to this. Keeping silent was very strange at times, especially during meals and in my dorm of four people. Not until I got into bed the first night did I realize we had no way of checking with each other to make sure everyone was cool with turning the light out. If you think I eat quickly during normal meals, you should see me fly through a meal when there is no conversation and the food is a three-times-a-day let down. About halfway through the class, people started to slack off a bit and have whispering conversations with each other in remote corners of the compound. I can’t blame the talkers…the Tushita staff practically begged us to cheat with teacher comments like, “Everyone is saying what a quiet group this is!” Some students later claimed to be disturbed by the whispering, but to my ears it was remarkably quiet and peaceful. After our last meditation session on day 10, we asked if we could now begin talking. Our instructor didn't explicitly tell us yes or no, but was reluctant to give the green light just yet. We all proceeded to the dining hall, and could not keep quiet any longer. Midway through our chatty meal, an earthquake struck. It was fairly small, but all of our meditations on the acceptance of death went out the window as everyone desperately scrambled for the exits. After the short quake stopped, our instructor yelled out with a grin, "That's what you get for talking!"

After three days I realized, quite painfully, that Tushita is constructed to provide no fun, pleasure, excitement, or stimulation of any kind. It ensures one has nothing to look forward to at any time. Normally during a rigorous 10-day class I would look forward to meals and breaks. But at Tushita the food was prepared to ensure the mouth did not water, and due to the silence vow the breaks were merely another chance to delve deeper into the mind. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not nearly as rigorous as the Vipassana Center next door, whose 10 day course consists of nothing but dead silent meditation from 4am to 10pm every day. Still, by day three I was in a "get me out of here" mindset, as my brain struggled with nothing to look forward to. By day four I started to get some waves of contentment, but on day five, time stopped. I mean that literally; my watch ran out of batteries. But I also mean it figuratively; the day took forever as I dragged along in agony. This was largely due to the cumulative effect of the food.

Yes, I must speak of the food. I let out a mental "uh oh" at the first night’s dinner, which was soup and bread. There was a point at which I was hopeful that after the huge trough of soup was gone, they would bring out the next course. Sadly, once the soup was gone, dinner was over. The kitchen prepared only vegetarian meals, which by itself isn’t a problem. The problem for me was the meals were ludicrously healthy – by far the healthiest food I have ever eaten. But while it was healthy, I’m not sure how good for the body it was. Every dish was carefully prepared so as to contain absolutely no fat, sugar, or protein. Fat and sugar were simply nonexistent, and the only protein came from beans, which cause their own problems if eaten in large quantities. Drinks at mealtimes were a choice between water and tea. I slowly developed an omnipresent gnawing hunger. After the first few meals, I would be "full" for about two hours, then be hungry again. Soon after that, I would arrive to meals hungry, yet sick to my stomach in anticipation of the meal I was about to eat. It’s hard to imagine being hungry yet not wanting to eat, but that feeling had taken over after a few days. It wasn’t that the food was bad; rather, it was mildly tasty health food. It was just that my body knew it was going to get none of what it is used to living on (no meat, cheese, sugar, etc.), and after a while my stomach clued in that soup is almost all water. All this hunger culminated in my becoming weak, dizzy, and extremely agitated by day five. I began to empathize with what Survivor contestants go through on the island. I finally broke on day five and walked down to town (which turned out to be closer than I thought) for a real meal. One chicken tikka (protein), french fries (fat), and Fanta (sugar) later, all symptoms vanished immediately. That night I lay prone, smiling almost unconsciously as if injected full of heroin. From that day forward, I shot up once a day with a meal from town.

The last two days of the class were structured as an all-meditation retreat. Our lectures stopped and in their place we meditated, which amounted to six hours of meditation a day. Day one I was calmer than I’ve ever been, but by day two I was crawling out of my skin. Average those out and you can see I successfully followed the Buddhists’ recommended “middle way”.

During our classes, we learned a lot of the specifics of Buddhism (like the four noble truths, the path out of samsara, etc.), but I will not spell out any of them here. You can get that stuff from a book. Instead, I will give some of my overall impressions, pieced together through absorption from my time at Tushita. Buddhism is a very tolerant religion, which is part of what makes it so attractive. For instance, they believe in ending the suffering of every sentient being, but we were told there were monks who are not vegetarians (May all non-delicious sentient beings be free from suffering and the causes of suffering). They encouraged us to try on everything they taught, and keep only what made sense to us. Another thing I simply adore about Buddhism is that there is no element of preaching to it. There is no desire to convert people to Buddhism; in fact, their standpoint seems to be that it is often better to stick to your existing religion. The logic behind this is that (most) all religions promote the same self-growth and truth seeking that they encourage. They readily endorse Buddha, Jesus, and Mohammed as divine beings, in a very non-offensive way (there was an Indian Catholic priest in our class who was there to try meditation…he loved the class).

One tenet of Buddhism is to look internally instead of externally. Robina, a now rather famous Australian monk who is the subject of the documentary film “Chasing Buddha” (and who also taught the Tushita class before ours), tells how she spent her pre-nun days as an activist trying to change the world, later realizing she needed to change herself instead. This way of looking at the world often manifests itself in subtle ways. For instance, Buddhists believe in putting the needs of others, including animals, above their own. But this belief doesn’t (always) manifest externally. Rather than make sure every (external) animal has eaten before he has a scrap of food, a monk’s focus is on increasing his (internal) mental capacity for loving kindness, so that he may achieve enlightenment (become a Buddha) and become most beneficial to all beings. Also, Buddhists acknowledge a huge distinction between understanding something intellectually versus understanding it personally (I’m using this word "personally" just for convention). A good example is emptiness. A Buddhist would say that "Mary" doesn’t exist independently in the world, but rather is made up of all her body and mind parts, each made up of cells, each made up of molecules, etc. They use the concept "emptiness" to refer to the notion that Mary (and every other thing) does not in reality exist independently, and therefore should not be regarded as an independent entity. This concept (for me) is easy to understand intellectually. But when Mary has just gotten through chewing you a new one in front of a group of people, you would have had to have spent years training your mind to keep your cool, realizing there is no "Mary" actually insulting you.

Somewhere during the retreat, I had a big breakthrough in an area I wasn’t expecting: anger. For 32 years now I have been hell bent on convincing other people that I am right about [any subject]. Going into the retreat, I was already prepared for the logic battles that were about to take place over beliefs in karma and reincarnation. I was definitely going to be right that they do not exist; it was just a matter of whether I could find anyone sane enough to see that I was correct. Coming out of the retreat, I have a completely different attitude about this. I will share my mental shift here to inform, but also largely to repent to the people (everyone) I have steamrolled with my worldviews. I really regret that I have done that so consistently.

I tend to start off casually enough, debating a point with someone out of intrigue or boredom. But I then quickly become angry when my “opponent” doesn’t see my point of view. In my mind, I am clearly right, and it is frustrating beyond belief that the other person can’t see that. I didn’t realize before just how much anger plays a part in my reaction, and how that anger is self-generated. Intellectually, I understand that I can’t always be right, but I don’t understand it personally. Every time a debate arises, it is one of the times I really am right! My change in attitude, which I intend to make permanent (oh please brain don’t snap back to your old ways), takes place on two levels.

First, even if I am right (say I’m arguing 2+2=4), there is no need for me to become angry when someone disagrees. I have a strong need to be understood, and when someone denies me this satisfaction, it infuriates me. This is an illogical reaction; there is just no good reason for this to cause anger. Instead, I can have compassion for someone who thinks the answer is 5. Compassion is a much stronger choice. Second, 99% of the things I’m arguing have no clear-cut answer like "4". They are almost exclusively subjective topics. I have really come face to face with my arrogance in thinking I’m always on the correct side. I confronted it by (predictably) getting riled up during the retreat, then dealing with the feelings internally. My new approach, which is much more sound, it to apply the same skepticism to my own views that I previously reserved only for the views of others.

With this newfound humility, I have also reached a new perspective on scientific discovery and its limitations (science is often at the core of my self-righteous beliefs). Recently, fossils were found of a 3-foot tall, fully-grown human in Bali that lived only 13,000 years ago (very recent in evolutionary terms). The locals of the area had repeatedly told folk tales of shy, hobbit-like creatures that used to live on the island. If one of the locals had told me they believed the small humans existed, I would have instinctively ridiculed them for believing folklore over science. Two months ago, archaeologists “knew” such miniature humans never existed so recently in history. One lucky dig later, and science has a totally different opinion, suggesting the folklore was correct. There are myriad examples like this of scientists reversing previous positions as new evidence arises. So, especially when discussing topics like the human mind or the existence of an afterlife (areas where science has very little knowledge), I now feel every opinion should be respected. Specifically, I have a much more open mind to beliefs based on folklore. Just about all of my opinions on these subjects (and others) are still the same, but I now regard them as best guesses, which warrant no arrogance and obligate no convincing of others.

I also have a new perspective on seeking. Seeking is the term I use to describe the eternal search for more and better that all humans conduct. It manifests as the search for the perfect lover, the better job, the newer television, and the prettier clothes. For me, seeking often transcends even these categories, turning into a completely undefined project to find the "next big thing". I have made steady improvement over the past several years in taming my seeking, which I think I have a tendency to do more than most people. My new realization is that seeking is a horrible response to boredom and dissatisfaction, which (for me) are what seem to necessitate it. Paradoxically, when I feel the most like seeking is the best time to do just the opposite. A much better approach is to slow myself down and get a hold of my racing mind. I gained this perspective after observing my desire to seek disappear through meditation. Slowing the mind and getting in touch with the present is a great reminder that there is nowhere to get to. This is an important realization, because the search for the next big thing in the long run leads to emptiness. No sooner is it discovered than it begins its decline into the same old thing. Of course, as humans we will always have some level of seeking, and there are times when it really does seem to bring happiness (for instance, during a five month trip around the world). I now believe it is important to balance out this human condition with awareness that pegging your happiness to a perceived better future is a mistake.

Autobiography in Five Chapters

"Autobiography in Five Chapters" by Portia Nelson

1) I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost…I am hopeless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

2) I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I’m in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

3) I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in…it’s a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

4) I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

5) I walk down another street.

Jaipur, India

Jaipur, India

Kelly and I have started a weight loss plan. It is foolproof and guaranteed to take off the pounds quickly. Because this plan is bound to be popular, I will share with you the three simple steps to easy weight loss:

1. Go to India
2. Eat and drink in many Indian cities
3. Contract bacterial infection

Alas, we got sick. Well, really, Kelly got sick...I had a sympathetic day-long fever, which was cured with a few Cipro and rest. Kelly got it really bad, though...diarhhea, fever, and intense throbbing throughout her body. We saw a doctor for 5 days. At first, they gave her two antibiotics, which did nothing. After the third day, the final results came back from her fluid tests confirming the existence of a particularly resilient strain of bacteria. After this diagnosis, Kelly was prescribed an antibiotic suited to this particular strain. Immediately after receiving the matched antibiotic (on day 4 of her illness), she made a quick recovery, and is now in great health.

During the first, and worst, day of the debilitating onset of her sickness, Kelly achieved a personal best of 18 trips to the bathroom in one day (she urged me to include these specifics in my blog...no she didn't). Sometimes nature calls, and sometimes she sends hourly spam emails. For nearly 3 days Kelly wasn't able to keep anything in her stomach, and by the third day she had to have an IV drip just to keep her hydrated. The poor thing has been through a lot here in Jaipur. Fortunately, my fever and throbbing headache lasted only 24 hours, so I have been able to care for her. When a man helps a woman to deliver a stool sample, you know it's love. Kelly was also well taken care of by the doctor we saw, who was very professional with a good bedside manner, as well as by the male nurse, who was hilarious and seemed to sadistically enjoy the pain caused by the many shots in the bum Kelly had to receive.

This process has taught me that Indians, at least those in the lower echelons of the service industry, do not understand the concept of a gradual recovery. Every day, as we made our way to the doctor's office, we were met by the hotel staff and rickshaw driver with "All better?" We would explain Kelly was a little better but still sick. But then sure enough as we returned from the doctor's office, "All better?" Of course, this has a lot to do with the language barrier, but also a lot to do with the tenacity of Indians...they like to see things through to their conclusion, and are never shy with the questions.

Unfortunately, this little crippling sickness forced us into solitary confinement in our hotel for a total of 7 days...so we had to modify our travel plans. We will no longer be visiting Udaipur or Pushkar. Our visit to the state of Rajasthan, actually, will have consisted of only a couple non-bedridden days in Jaipur, and an in-depth knowledge of the local medical and pharmacy system. Such is life. We are sacrificing seeing these other places in order to make our Buddhism class in Dharamsala. Our temporary stagnation has got me itching to move on...when I picture our next destination, travel feels almost novel again.

After the sickness ordeal, Kelly and I treated (although at ridiculously low prices) ourselves to a pedicure (for her) and a swedish massage and haircut (for me). In India, only men massage men. This is not such a big deal, but I noticed some differences from a Swedish massage in the States. I was "covered" in a towel that really was never covering me at any point. When I was face up and my masseur was massaging my upper legs, his hands kept gliding across my [cling clang]. Then when he was massaging my (extremely) low belly, he collided with my [honk]. Finally, when I was face down, the liberal use of oil allowed his hands to creep dangerously inside my [eeh yai eeh yai eeh yai]. I figured out later that there was a miscommunication. I had asked him to focus some extra time on my neck, and when I said "neck", he must have heard "butt cheeks". I assure you nothing in that area needed to be any looser. I wasn't violated or anything, but I refer you again to the complete lack of homophobia in India. My next massage will be in Thailand.

I probably will not be able to post again before the 10-day Buddhism course completes, as we are not allowed off campus, not to mention we are forbidden to speak for the entire class period. For those (besides us!) who are curious what we are getting ourselves into, check out the course description.

Agra, India

Agra, India

I added a paragraph about the Delhi smog to my last post. You may not have read it because I added it later to the original post (due to a browser error…long story). Anyway, we were told that the pollution nowadays is worlds better than it was a few years ago, before all government vehicles were required to use CNG (compressed natural gas). My lungs weep at the thought of anything worse than it is now.

We hired a car to take us from Delhi to Agra, then on to Jaipur. This three day sightseeing and travel trip was definitely the way to go. The first sight in Agra was King Akbar’s tomb. Again, for me, this was forgettable. Nice structure with a tomb in it, which is really just a box jutting a bit out of the floor. The highlight of this place was the monkeys. They live amid the trees and grass of the huge compound, and some self-appointed trainers had food on hand so we could feed them. Eventually they cajoled the monkeys into climbing onto our backs for a photo. Feeding a monkey is a tremendous experience. They use their little monkey hands to grab your food-bearing hand, to ensure it isn’t removed from them. It feels strange to have a non-human animal touch you with hands - my pattern recognition circuits keep flashing "human", but it continues to remain a furry monkey.

After tipping the "trainers" way too much, I realized this monkey business is a perfect example of the free enterprise system allowing for a non-zero-sum result. The trainers made great money, the monkeys got free food, and we got a once in a lifetime experience to interact with monkeys. Win, win, and win. Earlier on the road to Agra, we had passed monkeys on leashes, whose owners want money to make the monkey do some kind of trick (we didn’t find out what it was). This is the dictatorship system, and I don’t like it. I much prefer it when the monkey is free to trade favors for food, as well as reject the deal. Also not free are the "dancing" bears, of which we saw several, even though it is illegal in India. "Dancing" is a euphemism for the bear trying not to have its face severed when the owner raises a rope over the bear’s head. The rope is tied through the top of the bear’s nose, as it has been since he was a cub. It's a sad sight to see. The silver lining is that it is much less prevalent than it used to be. The Indian government has been cracking down (somewhat), and most tourists are hip to the cruelty involved, so they don’t patronize the bear slave owners. During a forced stop, one bear owner approached us, and Kelly chewed him out, "(Pointing to the bear) Look at that! You should be ashamed of yourself!" The guy quickly recoiled from our car. Hopefully if enough people respond like that, the practice will stop. I hadn’t made the connection before, but learning about the dancing bears has changed my attitude about animal circuses, which before I hadn’t thought much of. In the battle to end cruelty to animals, it seems the first place to start is ending exploitation or suffering inflicted on them solely in the name of entertainment. Killing for food or using a horse, cow, elephant, or camel to pull a cart are certainly debatable, but all can be done without inflicting undue suffering on the animal.

Ah, the Taj. What a structure! I enjoyed it immensely. It was everything I had been told: beautiful, large…well, basically I had just heard those two adjectives. Actually, one feature I had read about was its amazing "scale". I had interpreted that to mean simply that it was very large, but after seeing it I have a more thorough understanding of what is meant by the word. We hired a guide, who many times showed us an inch long design consisting of semi-precious stones set in marble. That few inches took a week to construct. A quick glance up would reveal that the Taj had miles of that pattern covering it. Now that’s scale! The other thing I had heard was that the Taj would likely take our breath away, which it did, but only because Agra's smog is as bad as Delhi's.

The workers who built the Taj spent 22 years doing so, and got paid 6 paise a day. Using today’s exchange rates, that is 0.13 cents per day - less than a cent per week, and less than a half-dollar per year. Did I mention Shah Jahan (who had the Taj built for his late wife) had a harem of 365 women, one for each day of the year? For the wages they were paid, I'm surprised the workers didn't just phone it in. But in fact the attention to detail obviously employed in its construction is its most striking feature. The Taj has all sorts of fascinating nuances. It took 22 years to build, and there are 22 marbe steps leading up to the entrance. It was completed in 1643, and there are 16 squares and 43 fountains in the garden area. The entire Quran (Koran) is written along its walls, and the writing gets progressively larger the higher up the wall you go, to ensure that it all looks one uniform size from the ground. On the other side of the long thin fountain, there are framed doorways, each offering a perfectly centered view of the dome. Everything about the Taj is perfectly centered, symmetrical, and smooth. It was really amazing, and easily made the Agra Fort, which we saw afterward, underwhelming (and not much worth writing about).

The good hotels in Agra were all booked, so our driver took us to a place that was not so great (we were the only whiteys staying there…red flag!). We left our room with thirty more blood stains on the walls than when we arrived, each blanketed by the mangled mosquito body which had earlier contained it. I am quite the mosquito hunter; we slept bite free. Before leaving Agra the next morning, our driver took us to a store for some shopping. He obviously would get a commission for anything we bought (which in this case was nothing). But he wasn’t underhanded about taking us there, and I don’t mind when a driver wants to take you to a couple of his shops over a three day tour (it’s sort of the difference between meeting your real estate agent at a social get together versus a cold call).

Anyway, the story gets funny after we entered the shop. I find Kelly at the jewelry counter, where a guy has taken a large (egg-sized) gem from a box. He explains that it is the world’s largest amethyst, looted from the Taj Mahal centuries ago, and bought by the store’s owner for $250,000 in 1970. The store looked very legit, and the jeweler wore clear, non-prescription glasses that made him look quite legitimate. I did the quick math: $250k in 1970, we’re talking around a million in today’s dollars, assuming no appreciation. Okay, let’s see…largest in the world million dollar Taj jewel, and it just happens to be at this store we were in. How lucky can you get! I mean, if I were the owner of a million dollar relic like that, I probably would want it in a vault or museum, and heavily guarded. But not this owner. He was willing to have it passed around to shoppers in his security-free store…a store which is staffed by employees far less well off than he is, and surrounded outside by beggars, touts, and thieves without a rupee to their name. Thanks to that shop owner’s selfless risk taking, Kelly and I were able to each put our grubby mitts on the world’s largest amethyst.

Later the jeweler treated me to a one way conversation about how all Muslims are evil. He explained India's superiority to Pakistan by stating that if the entire Indian army peed toward Pakistan they would flood it. He also informed me (true or not) that Indians love George Bush. This is because he has taken a hard line with Pakistan, and their perception is that he will protect India from possible Muslim attack. Take this information for what it's worth...which is a million dollars!

The drive from Agra to Jaipur, it turns out, takes all day. Our driver had told us it was about 120 miles, but I had failed to factor in that a drive from San Diego to LA (roughly the same distance) would probably take longer than 2 hours if the freeway were replaced with a one lane bumpy road inhabited by cows, water buffalo, and camel-drawn carts. We have been in India long enough now that I have adjusted to the crazy traffic. I must emphasize again just how crazy the driving is. I suspect it's the only place where livestock enter into traffic negotiations. As we were weaving around camel drawn carts and jeeps with Indians standing all around the car's exterior (the interior is already full), it hit me how shocked I would be had I just arrived. But with a few weeks under my belt, it was just a normal afternoon drive. The traffic has definitely gotten more "out there" since leaving Delhi. Way more animals are involved now; add elephants and camels to the long list. Incidentally, camels, which I had remembered as horse-sized, are significantly larger and higher up than horses. Anyway, even with my greatly increased tolerance for driving risk, our driver pulled some moves that scared me. On the one lane road, passing is constant, and our driver would often pull into the right lane (remember it's reversed here) into oncoming traffic in an attempt to pass. A few times, he was too optimistic in his distance calculations, and the oncoming car was forced to slow and turn off into the dirt. The times he did make it, the margin of error was often gut wrenching. Unrelated to the passing, we also blew our front left tire. As the driver jacked up the car and replaced the tire, I confirmed that both the blown tire and the spare were balled. Good times.

I am now writing from Jaipur, which is like a smaller, more frenetic Bombay. I must admit it is getting really hard to characterize all these different places in India. Many in northern India are feeling identical. They all look horrifically run down, and have myriad trash heaps, beggars, animals, rickshaw drivers, touts, blaring horns, and staring Indians. One of Jaipur's major differences is that it is a gem hub. We walked along the street and passed countless men with little sachels of gems, which they were frenetically trading with each other.

I am thrilled to report Kelly and I saw our first Bollywood film last night. It was a movie called "Dhoom", which was playing at a really large, nice theater in Jaipur. It wasn't the most traditional Bollywood film, which are typically devoted to a formulaic love story. This one was about a motorcycle gang that performs heists, and the cop and his sidekick who try to stop it. It was a really fun movie. Understanding Hindi was not a requirement for following the movie. We understood the entire plot easily, through the help of its simplicity, as well as the random English phrases thrown in for seemingly no good reason. There would be a long conversation in Hindi, then the cop would say, "I think that's their plan," or the bad guy would ramble along to the sidekick, and then throw in "Don't throw your life away." I'm not sure if this is similar to Spanglish and used regularly, or if they're hoping to break into an English market eventually. The special effects were surprisingly good. Not quite up to current American standards, but it had the feel of an American action movie. There were a few amateurish giveaways, the most glaring being the actors glaring...into the camera. Also toward the end of the movie they decided (all of a sudden) to abandon physics, with cars jumping off nonexistent ramps (a la Knight Rider), and actors jump kicking one another, then reversing direction to land perfectly on their feet. The audience didn't seem to mind. They were cheering throughout the movie, mostly when when the leads got that "I'm gonna kick ass now" look in their eyes, and when the movie's two female leads got their Playboy Presents number. For the Indians it was sexy, and for Kelly and me it was just hilarious. As one lead woman was featured, the movie instantly transformed into a slow motion supermodel shoot. She rode her jetski in slow motion while wearing revealing clothing, all the while the camera featuring her from different angles, each usually focused shamelessly on a single body part. By Indian standards, this is porn, and I now realize why Bollywood is so popular.

The major uniqueness to all Bollywood films are the song and dance numbers. They were really entertaining. The movie breaks out into song just like a musical, except (and this sounds impossible) more gay. The numbers feature the man singing and dancing his love for a woman, and her singing and dancing her coy response, telling him no with her lips and yes with her eyes, body, and smile. Sometimes they have just met, and by song's end they are an item. There is no attempt to make the lip syncing look legitimate, or even make the singing voice sound similar to the actor's voice. The dance moves are riveting, but are moves we in America would do if we were mocking someone's dancing style. Many times the people in front of us turned around, because Kelly and I were laughing at all the wrong times. In the theater, there was no dancing in the aisles like we were expecting, but it was a relatively uncrowded (but still crowded) weeknight showing.

I want to re-emphasize how much being white in India feels like being a celebrity. We met two Swiss girls before the movie started, and an Indian girl approached one of them asking for a photo. They refused, and told us it happens constantly, but they don't like the idea of the fake stories the girl will likely tell her friends with photo in hand. Even when I am not being prayed upon by salesmen smelling white money (which is always), I am still unable to walk down the street and be ordinary. Constant stares. Constant appeasement. Constant attempts to find out information about me. It really is like being a celebrity, and I can identify now more than ever with its novelty and eventual imprisonment. I often long for the anonymity provided once I'm safely in my room, or perhaps behind a guarded door of an upscale hotel or restaurant where only the rich may tread. The movie gave me an insight into my celebrity status. Whiteness is coveted in India. All the lead actors are white. Okay, they're still Indian, but many are so white I would have sworn they were American. Those who are more obviously Indian are sporting impossibly light skin. There were four or so commercials before the movie, and *all* of them were for "Fair and Lovely", a skin lightening cream. One of the commercials showed a darker skinned Indian woman being rejected, applying the cream, and then being overaccepted as her new, light-colored self. The commercial would cause riots in the States, both of laughter and protest. But in India, it's accepted. Whether Bollywood is creating the white is right phenomenon or merely reflecting existing culture, it is at least reinforcing the stereotype. Kelly and my celebrity makes a lot more sense now that I know that we look much more like Indian movie stars than Indians do.

Delhi, India

Delhi, India

I got Delhi Belly. I had wondered for a while whether Delhi Belly was a term used to describe general stomach malaise in India, or referred specifically to Delhi. So now I’ve figured it out. Hours into our arrival in Delhi, my stomach began its new process of digestion, which differs from what I’m used to mostly in its endgame. I get about one minute’s warning, and then I am either in a bathroom or in a world of hurt. TMI? It’s really not that bad. But I digest…let me speak of our final days in Varkala.

My post from Palolem told a horribly sad doggie tale, and I am proud to report I have a happy one this time. Luna, who we found in such a state that our first thought was to put her out of her misery, recovered more than Kelly or I thought possible. By the time we left, she was running around our room (as well as restaurants we brought her to), barking at every nearby organic life form, and chewing on anything she could get her teeth into. It was a linear recovery, every day better than the last. I had hoped she would have a good recovery, but I simply didn’t think it was possible to become as healthy as she did. We’re talking a transition from an inability to walk three feet toward food to literally running after us for it. It will never be known for sure, but I believe she had Lyme disease, which was cured by the antibiotics we gave her. The energy level change could have come from proper nourishment, but nourishment alone does not allow crippled legs to miraculously start working properly.

By our last day in Varkala, we had grown very attached to Luna, and were very troubled about where to leave her. We spent an entire morning on the internet and phones trying to locate a shelter, but they’re all so overrun with dogs and puppies that they basically explain that they can’t help. We even looked into shipping her to San Diego, but the logistics made it all but impossible. Our best lead for a home was a hawker guy who sold greeting cards on the beach, who said he would take her in. Kelly and I were both kind of creeped out by him. He was too eager to take her in, plus he acted kind of sketchy and had horrible teeth. At the last possible minute (the night before we were leaving), we walked past the internet café we had been at all morning, and a nice guy who works there offered to take her. He had helped us out over a few days, and had proven himself to be super nice, and one of the super-meticulous Indians. This is a sub-class of Indians, who are extremely methodical and “by the book” (I can identify a member of this sub-class in seconds…I’ve worked with many of them over the years). We needed exactly this personality type to ensure Luna would receive the rest of her antibiotics we had painstakingly rationed into separate newspaper packets. What could have easily been a heart-wrenching goodbye instead became a sentimental handoff. Kelly and I left Varkala knowing Luna had a great life ahead of her – a life that will probably be spent terrorizing others (she got very feisty and territorial by the end). In my mind, there is no doubt we saved her life.

Okay, Luna has monopolized my descriptions of Varkala. Let me squeeze in the rest. The second ayurvedic treatment temporarily healed both Kelly’s and my neck, but also left us with scabs (you try scrubbing burning oil into your skin for a half-hour). The manager of our hotel looked like Eddie Murphy, but I forgot to take a picture so you’ll never know. Hours before a rainstorm there were thousands of dragonflies at the cliff (we’re talking plague numbers), but again I was camera-less. Right, I think that’s about it. Varkala was a relaxing five days, during which we accomplished a very rewarding caninitarian project.

I am glad we didn’t go to Delhi first. It would have put us off toward India much more, and we would have doubtless been suckered several times. Bombay wins for most beggars…no question. But Delhi isn’t too far behind with the beggars, but is *way* ahead with the touts and scams. Basically, we have not spoken to a single person with honest intentions. This began right away with our taxi ride from the airport. We hired a cab through the official method – at the fixed-price taxi stand at the airport. Once we were off and running, however, our two drivers (he brought along a friend) eventually claimed to be lost, and after stopping to ask for directions on the street (from a confederate posing as a random), we ended up at a tourist office. We were in the middle of nowhere, and this tourist office was suspiciously open at 11pm while everything else was shut down. By “open” I mean all the lights were off and there was one guy loitering outside the door.

I must point out that by this time both Kelly and I were clear that our drivers were running a scam on us. It is literally straight out of the book (our Lonely Planet). Kelly was starting to get mad about it, and I was just going along with it. I wanted to ride it out for the experience. I knew there was no way I was going to let us end up anywhere but the hotel where we made a reservation. And although our drivers were not trustworthy, there’s really never any physical danger involved with any of the scams in India (except for that one where you wake up on ice with a kidney missing). In my mind, it was sort of cheating to tell our drivers we knew they were scamming us. With this in mind, when the driver’s friend told me to go into the tourist office to ask for directions, I countered that they were the ones navigating, so why doesn’t he go ask? He disappeared into the building, then reappeared and insisted I go in. Kelly was fuming by this point, and blurted out “I’m going!” and stormed into the building. Two minutes later she hadn’t come out, so I walked in with an improvised angry face thrown on. When I found her in the backroom with the tourist guy, she looked up at me, defeated. Later I teased her about how she stormed in there ready to lay the smack down and then softened. Anyway, the guy takes one look at my face (I mean it was a really good angry face), stands up immediately, and walks us out of the office explaining that he will now tell our driver how to get to our (desired) hotel. That was pretty much it. Kelly explained to me later that inside the tourism guy had told her all the standard stuff: our desired hotel was too noisy, wouldn’t we like a room around the corner for cheaper, etc.

This was our first scam in Delhi, but man they just keep coming! Around the block from our hotel is a government run tourist office, which is not for profit and totally legit. Surrounding it are dozens of for profit travel agents, each of which has signage designed to make it look like the single legit office. If you didn’t know which was the legit one ahead of time (from Lonely Planet), you would never make it there. This is because there are hundreds of touts surrounding the area, each approaching you as a friend and eventually steering you to one of their travel agencies. They have clued in that people are reluctant to be led directly into a store, so they have taken to pointing you there and saying you can go yourself, then surreptitiously (yet obviously) following you. We have had amateurs approach us in what was clearly a tout scam from the get go, but we have also walked alongside well-dressed men who I would swear were genuinely trying to help us find our destination, until we were walked to a tourist office. One guy trying to get our attention actually got uppity that we were ignoring him and walking past: “Excuse me. Excuse me! Sir!” It’s hard to convey without the tone of voice he used, but it was that a police officer would use if you were ignoring his directions and he felt threatened. It was so convincing that I stopped to face him. I outsmarted him by using my new secret weapon, however, which works beautifully. I threw him some sign language and said a couple of unintelligible “deaf person” syllables, and took the liberty of walking away as the stupefied look spread across his face. Kelly and I had a good laugh about that one. We now trust nobody. Once you realize this is necessary for survival in Delhi, life becomes easier.

Delhi is the most polluted city I've ever visited. Officially I think it's the 4th most polluted city in the world. If Kerala is "God's country", Delhi is God's ashtray. The night we got in, Kelly commented in the taxi, "Boy, it's really foggy." It wasn't fog. My eyes have been burning since we got here, and I don't dare take a deep breath. It's really impressive, actually...most smells will fade after just a short amount of time. But we've been here three days, and I still continually smell exhaust. Landmarks a couple of blocks away are blurred or invisible. This place makes Los Angeles look like an oxygen bar.

Delhi has been an orgy of shopping. Way more good stuff than Bombay. We’re limited to stuff we can carry in our packs, but we’re doing quite well regardless. Mmmmm, trinkets. Kelly has really gotten her spend on, and is shopping until I drop. We saw the Red Fort for an hour today (for me: forgettable…bring on the Taj!), and every other moment was spent shopping, as it had been the day before. Tomorrow? Kelly wants to shop. Ah, well, it’s not that bad. Also, I have no choice. I have to go where she goes, as she gets mercilessly stared at wherever she goes, and I’m not about to allow her to find out how much worse it gets when she’s not being guarded.

A couple of other mini-stories…We bought Subway sandwiches (my sandwich was turkey-ham and lamb pepperoni) for two boys loitering outside, and were mobbed as we left the scene. Right, no more conspicuous charity. One hawker on the street tried to get my attention by shouting out “Babe!”, having just heard Kelly say that to me and figuring it was my name. Indian men hold hands and I will never adjust to seeing it as a heterosexual act. One guy today had one finger softly clenched in the almost-closed fist of his friend as they perused goods for sale. I am not in the least put off by two gay men holding hands, but attempting to re-classify hand holding as hetero (as it is in India) leads to revolt by my synapses.

That’s about it. In two days we head for Agra to see the mighty Taj Mahal, constructed by Indian emperor Shah Jahan as a memorial to his favorite late wife, Arjumand Banu. I can already hear Kelly nagging, “Why don’t you ever build ME a wonder of the world?”

Varkala, India

Varkala - Kerala, India

I spoke too soon about Kerala. In fact, it is only Kochin, a city in Kerala, that we didn't like. Kelly and I left Kochin quickly, and headed for the outskirts to take a backwater cruise in the most luxurious way possible - aboard a houseboat. I was leery about this super-indulgent way to go, but Kelly pushed for it and it turned out to be perfect. Kochin felt wronged that we were attempting to leave her, and wreaked havoc on us as we headed out of the city. Our taxi driver executed a few close call brakings behind a stopped bus or two, but hell broke loose when his car’s hood flew open in the middle of the road. It just leapt from the closed position, and then cartwheeled toward the right (driver’s side in India), hanging only by one hinged side. It freaked our shit. The driver pulled over, and we tried to put it back on, but it wouldn’t go. We were only a few kilometers from our destination, so he took us hoodless and then later doubled back for his cover. In a final display of her fury at our departure, Kochin orchestrated a series of events that found me placing my middle finger directly onto a lit incense stick that had been placed sideways sticking out from the back of a chair on the houseboat. The worst part was that my immediate reaction was that I had stabbed myself with a piece of errant straw, and so I kept my finger where it was, not wanting to pierce it further or risk it tearing off in my finger. Tragically, these strategies are ineffective against fire. The blister healed that same day, with speed that astounded me, but of course now I realize it was because we were out of hexing distance from what I will now refer to as “the evil city”.

The houseboat was awesome! For the price of a cardboard box-sized hotel room in Sweden, we got 24 hours on a swanky yet authentic Indian houseboat, including all travels, meals, and sightseeing. It was just Kelly and I on the boat, along with our three crew (who performed the cooking, steering, and guiding). Few things are as serene and enjoyable as sitting in a reclining chair, cruising along an empty lake passageway through forest. And then came a torrential downpour, which made it even cooler (the houseboat had a sturdy roof). Our stops included a spice house visit, docking for the night, and a visit to the shell refinery. When I say shell refinery, I don't mean oil; they were unloading shells from the lake and burning them, which yields a white powder used for paints and whitewall (or is it whitewash?). The house visit was strange. Basically, we just walked onto a dude's porch, sat down, and stayed. Kelly and I were looking to our guide for any sign as to why we were there or when we might perhaps leave, but he offered no answers. Our (first) host was a 90 year old Indian man who was on his last legs. Speaking and walking for him were excruciatingly effortful, hearing proved mostly fruitless despite effort. He was really nice, as was his son (the teacher), who showed up in a horrible toupay and dialogued with us in excellent English. They were growing spices in the backyard. I'm pretty sure that was the legitimate reason we were there - it was a "spice tour". Except the spice viewing lasted 10 seconds and the awkward family visit an eternity.

Questioned asked us by 90 year old man (with translation help):

1. What agricultural products do you grow in California?
2. How many liters of milk can you get from a cow in California?
3. I am not kidding about question number 2.

Later, we parked for the night in front of a small village with kids who greeted our boat. The kids, as well as everyone we saw from our boat, greeted us with waves and smiles. This has somewhat to do with the friendliness of Indians, and a whole lot to do with boat-inspired friendliness. I have found that boats are the only means of transportation where people are universally kind to one another. You can walk or drive past someone and easily snub them, but float past them one way or another, and it is almost instinctive to smile and wave.

Anyway, the kids were really sweet, and I later impressed them with some magic tricks I brought for just such an occasion. They were dumbfounded. In fairness, I brought some really good tricks. It was fun to watch the parents behind the kids looking on to placate the kids, and then watch their expression shift when they wonder what the heck just happened. The kids were asking for pens, which is a customary gift that we didn't bring, so instead we gave them the first and latest Indian edition of Good Housekeeping magazine. Kids and parents alike gathered around it like we had just handed them fire. It was given as a gift, but after half an hour they gave it back to us. Kelly tried to insist they keep it, but I told her to take it back, afraid the return signaled an attitude of "gee thanks, but please don't pollute our little village with these corrupt appeals to our insecurity and ego." Either that or the magazine just sucked (more likely).

On our way out, the villagers showed us how they turn the inside of a coconut into rope...very resourceful stuff. They have a wheel that spins it, and after enough spinning, that strandy stuff inside a coconut makes rock solid rope. They use it in the construction of their houses, and also sell it. In addition, it keeps many a goat in place.

The houseboat was a great experience. Our hospitable crew took care of us from start to finish (minus the usually standard-issue incense guards). The food was authentic and delicious. I didn't want to get off, but alas we did and headed to Varkala by train.

Varkala, being a non-Kochin city in Kerala, is also very nice. It's a sleepy little town perched on a cliff overlooking a beach with very rough surf (too big and rough for bodysurfing...drat!). We picked out Preeth Beach Resort as a good place to stay. They cut us a good deal on a lovely cottage with A/C, necessary because it's the only thing that keeps the mosquitoes away, and Kelly was sporting about 20 bites. Preeth has a pool, which is why we picked it. It's one of those places that is really nice - it's pretty, has good service, and is clean. It just lacks that final portion of coordinated service and organization that allows a place to charge about four times more than they are charging. It's like the best team in the minor leagues, which is just fine by me.

We have been getting daily ayurvedic treatments, which is a specialty of Kerala. It's a holistic healing system revolving around various forms of herbs, massage, and diet (we're not doing the diet part, but rather stuffing our faces with everything Indian). I had a massage that was very similar to a Swedish massage (long, flowing strokes), except the guy used about 10 times more oil, I was lying on an uncomfortable wood plank, and I was forced to wear a man-thong. No, it was worse than a man-thong. After stripping down, my masseur produced a long piece of cloth, about three inches wide, and proceeded to wrap me from rooter to tooter. Imagine me hoisted like a yoyo atop a string. I might as well have been naked...this cloth wasn't hiding anything. What it was doing, however, was maximally emasculating me. Ah, whatever. After all, an Indian boy is about to rub me in oil for an hour, who am I kidding.

Our stay here in Varkala will forever be associated with Luna, the latest of the sick puppies we have just taken in. We found her outside a shop atop the cliff, eating some bread a local Tibetan shopkeep had given her (she had just noticed her that day). The poor pup can't walk straight. She has something wrong with the coordination of her legs, so she constantly falls to one side, and won't walk at all on one paw (in fact, she only gathers strength to walk in order to reach food). She also had a tick hanging from her left ear engorged to the size of a small grape. My recommendation to Kelly that we leave her alone fell on deaf, caring ears. She's been staying at our cottage since two hours after we found her.

One of our first tasks was to remove the huge tick, which we finally accomplished with tweezers. We named her Luna (as in she used to be Lunatic, but we removed the tick). We bathed her, and saw a local vet to get some meds. We've so far rid her of her ticks, fleas, and mites. We're hoping that helps her mange (skin disease) to heal, and eases her suffering. We've also given her worm medicine, and a ridiculous supply of chicken fried rice. It doesn't matter how much she has eaten, she sits down to each helping as if she hasn't eaten in weeks. She is gaining strength, but her primary walking problem still remains. An internet search determined that her symptoms match almost exactly those of doggie lyme disease (although it mentions the diagnosis is often incorrect). The drug to cure doggie lyme disease happens to be the same drug we've been taking daily for malaria prevention, doxycycline. So we've split open some capsules and started her on it, just in case. Don't worry, parents, humans don't get lyme disease from dogs, and we're obviously super careful with the ticks.

I am worried about Kelly. She has gotten really attached to Luna, and her emotions have caught up to the realization that we will have to leave her in a few days. I have grown attached too, but I know it will affect Kelly much more. We're trying to find a good home for her, but it may prove very difficult here. A lot depends on how she does over the next two days...we'll have to just wait and see. For now, I need to go care for Kelly, who is caring for Luna.

Kochin, India

Kochin - Kerala, India

India, which over the past two weeks has been beckoning Kelly and I closer with a seductive curling index finger, has just bitchslapped us. Man, what happened? Three days ago I was relaxing seaside with a Kingfisher (beer), and since then I have been subjected to...well, let me fill in some details.

In my last post I was dreading our journey on the night train...turns out if was justified. The train was about an hour late, and we were an hour early, so right off the bat we're waiting at the deserted station for two hours - until about midnight or so. One silver lining that absolutely shocked me was there was a station employee there that had a printout of everyone that was supposed to be boarding the train. "One person missing," he said after checking everyone else against the list. Unreal! I could not believe the organizational chasm that had just been leapt, from decentralized blocks of tickets for sale at different offices, now to a centralized list, which they paid someone to print out and double check against passenger turnout! I was dumbfounded. It should be noted I was also dumbfounded by a green flying creature at the train station that I can best describe as either tinkerbell or a flying frog, it looked equally like both.

As the train stopped for all of 10 seconds, Kelly an I each hoisted ourselves aboard, and were quickly directed to our sleeping quarters. We had been told "3rd AC", our class level, consisted of rooms of 8 people. Each "room" turned out to be a subsection of an endless corridor spanning the entire train car. No doors, just a gigantic room configured so that you could call each cramped set of 8 beds a "room". I had never seen a triple bunk bed before, but that's what 6 of the 8 beds were. Having now seen it, an Indian sleeper train car is instantly out as an option for anyone over 50, as I doubt they could reach the varying levels of bunk bed without injuring one of the body's major ligaments - there are no ladders to any level, instead you must grab a handle at the top and hoist yourself up.

The train posed some particular problems for me. Noise, you say? No, the endless assault of snoring, mumbling passersby, and train personnel shouting one room away (this an actual separate room) was easily tempered by earplugs. Perhaps bugs, then? No, in fact the several cockroaches I saw crawling in and around my bunk before I got in it left me alone once I hopped on. No, for me, the first major problem was that my bunk was two feet shorter than I am, with walls on both sides preventing my favorite workaround, the toe overhang. So I slept with my legs bent on top of each other (the bunks are very slim as well, as you might guess). This is okay at first, but over the course of a night the cramps will set in, and they did. This wasn't even the most pressing problem, however. I had taken a motion sickness pill to be on the safe side, but within 15 minutes of being on that train, I already had a headache. After 30 minutes it had begun synchronizing itself with my stomach in the way only motion sickness can. Just as the first few tell-tale burps were sounded, I was getting nervous. I was really trapped. The train was a dark rollercoaster, bouncing and shaking constantly, and there I was squeezed into a top bunk, preparing myself for a sleepless night of puking into whatever I decided was the least offensive place. Desperately trying to avoid that fate, I gobbled down a second motion sickness pill, and reversed my sleeping position so my feet were now pointing towards the direction of travel. After turning around I instantly began to feel better. It could have been the pills, but the speed of recovery reminded me that even in sleep, anytime I am traveling "backwards", I am screwed. Suffice it to say I am now convinced that sometimes a change in position is required to stop people being sick to their stomachs. Mr. President, are you listening?

The rest of the train ride was peanuts after the night portion, but the total ride lasted 16 hours, since it was also late an additional hour arriving. It was as long and as grueling as any international flight. We did meet some very nice Indians from outside Bombay that told us how to travel the south like a local. Oh, to be able to fit in like a local.

We got a nice hotel room once we arrived. Everything should have been rosy, but it wasn't. Neither Kelly nor I like Kochin, Kerala, where we are right now. Kerala is referred to as "God's Country." So far, I call bullshit. I'm hopeful it will get nicer. I think maybe what happened is this: we arrived in Bombay and were all enthused for India. Every annoyance and inconvenience, as with any new relationship, was perceived as endearing. But currently we're encountering the same irritating beggars, sellers, and filth, except now it's horribly annoying. Did the weather get hotter? Maybe that's it. I'm not sure.

Today we saw the Chinese fisherman, and got to pull a huge net out of the water with an ancient-looking wooden lever. We saw Jewtown, which wins for best name. Desperate store owners lined the path to the synagogue, which itself was, for me, forgettable. Then we got into an auto-rickshah. Because we are in "God's Country", he had no idea where we were going, and kept getting lost. We ate lunch with the locals for the first time. I didn't realize we weren't eating with the locals before, but now that I've done it, I see the difference. First off, they were eating with their hands. The waiter spoke no English, so my questions about the dishes (the ones that weren't "finished") were met with his best estimation of their shape and size using his hands. I didn't know that was what he was doing until I ordered "Paper Roast" and was served an aerated piece of bread the size of a small to medium shark. We have been stared at since we arrived in India, but here I was getting extra penetrating stares as I ate my yeastophilic lunch like I would a giant subway sandwich.

Kerala is definitely different from Bombay. The food here is good, but so far is a far cry from the exquisite food we had in Bombay (or Goa for that matter). Also, no matter what I order, it is "finished". "Finished" is the word Indians use when they have run out of something on the menu, or perhaps they never started it. Every single time we sit down to eat, we are presented a menu to peruse, with no information about what may or may not be available. And I kid you not, at every meal we have eaten here so far, the (first) thing I try to order is "finished". One time is fine, but after a few times, I'm wondering why they hand out a huge menu, when it ends up coming down to them pointing to the small list of things actually available during the current meal.

Also, everybody operates slowly around here. Bombay had its annoyances, but most everything was quick. We bought magazines today, and the guy ringing them up took I would estimate 5-7 minutes. I thought it was just a fluke. Tonight's dinner took an hour to arrive after ordering, and when we asked for the bill, the girl sat down and proceeded to write poetry...oh, whoops, that's the bill she just spent 5 minutes of calligraphy on.

It is for these reasons I feel we have been tricked. I thought Bombay would be the worst of the worst, and the rest of India would be a cakewalk. While Bombay most likely presents India at its most intense and frenetic, it shelters its visitors from the true annoyances of India, which I am learning take place once the intensity dies down. It is the anguish suffered when your eagerly anticipated meal is "finished"; the annoyance of the heat and mosquitoes as your server takes the time to hand-craft your bill as if it were a love letter; the dread felt when an overnight train ride feels like a taste (albeit a tiny, tiny taste) of the underbelly of a slave ship.

It's really not all that bad, and I'm sure it will get better. But it sure is fun to rant.