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.

Goa, India

Arambol - Goa, India

Palolem - Goa, India

Last night Kelly and I were lying on the beach beneath the stars, which were as visible as they are in the desert, when Kelly proclaimed, “2004 rocks.” I agree. We have spent the last week on the beaches of Goa. Our previous several stops have been so hectic, it’s been a long time (employed people begin seething) since Kelly and I have been able to just relax and hang out. It’s been blissful.

Goa is divided into north and south, each containing several beach towns. Kelly and I visited the northenmost beach in north Goa and the southernmost beach in south Goa. Our first stop was Arambol in north Goa. It turned out to be a lot more primitive than we were expecting. It’s (probably) the last beach in Goa that has not undergone significant development. There were places to eat, sleep, etc, but although many were intended for foreigners, it didn’t feel like it. It felt like a small Indian village, and basically it was, though it housed some foreigners. Almost all Westerners in Arambol live there either full time or a good portion of the year. Because of this, the place lacks any trace of a tourist feel.

Among the hotels where foreigners stay are “regular” (non-hawker) Indians going about their daily routines. Most were involved daily with either construction or collecting and transporting food. Many carried goods in sacks balanced on their head. One night we came across a large group chanting in front of a local church…it was very cool (would have stayed to watch but it was pouring rain). Arambol was teeming with animals: dogs, cats, cows, pigs, chickens, monkeys. It rained most of the time we were there; apparently they were having a late monsoon.

When we first arrived, we were lost. Wandering on the beach with our large packs, we were having problems finding a decent looking place to stay. I approached two foreigners, who took us to where they were staying. Our room was decent – a hair shy of clean, and only a few bugs (we had them bring up a mosquito net for us). It seemed a lot cleaner after I found out it rented for 120 rupees ($2.65). I didn’t bother to negotiate. Our landlord, Piya, was extremely nice, and had obvious long-term relationships with the scant few other foreigners staying at her place. We met her, her sons, and other guests staying there.

I’m really glad we saw Arambol, and I’m really glad we only stayed two nights. It offered a window into what all of Goa used to be like, but the vibe there was way too relaxed to take for very long, if you can imagine such a thing (think hippies).

Palolem in south Goa had a different feel entirely. It was much more like the beach towns I remember from Thailand. Major differences include:
1. It is even less expensive
2. It contains Indians
3. There are cows hanging out on the beach

Palolem proved to be just the ticket. We lucked into a really nice, air conditioned room with CNN, so we were able to watch Kerry embarrass Bush for the second debate in a row (seriously, was Bush about to charge the moderator? I’m pretty sure he has added him to his axis of evil). This is the land of beachfront, sand-bottomed restaurant/bars. The rain we endured in Arambol completely vanished and it has been sunny in Palolem every day. And there are waves! They started smallish but have grown throughout the week. Yesterday I bodysurfed what must have been 2-4 foot waves in ocean conditions that were for me perfect – the current was weak, waves lacked pummeling strength, sets were near constant, and each wave began breaking with a slight crumbling of the water from top to bottom, ensuring I could ride down its face (versus being thrown over the top). The water is in the mid 80’s, which is so warm it is unrefreshing. It’s the warmest water I’ve ever ridden waves in…feels kind of creepily warm, actually. I’m pretty sure one day I impressed a group of visiting Indians with my bodysurfing (or maybe they were just giving another Westerner the aforementioned awe-gaze)…all Indians tend to just bounce around and yell amid the waves.

Oh, speaking of Indian behavior, Kelly and I watched a group of Indian men doing something no man in the States would ever be caught doing. They had partially buried one of their friends, and were each pouring sand over him and rubbing it with their hands. Then they started piling up the sand on his crotch, and smoothing it over into different shapes, laughing all the while. What in America would pass for homo-erotica is in India just a sign of friendship. Also, men in India hold hands.

I must speak of the cows. Cows, despite their great size, are very gentle. They are sacred in India, and therefore roam the beaches (and roads, and backstreets) with confidence. Sometimes they let out a moo so low it leaves no doubt the sound could be emanating from anything smaller than a huge cow. At different times of the day, they migrate to different parts of the beach. This is a slow, mellow migration, culminating in a well-deserved collapse on the sand. The most action they see is when the dogs decide to “play with” slash antagonize them. One duo of dogs had one cow lowering its head like a bull trying to horn them. It even bucked its hind legs to try to kick it. The dogs were too fast for the cow, however, and by that I mean they weren’t horrifically slow. It was fantastic to watch, like some sort of K9 rodeo.

As the beach transitions into the road, there are a gaggle of taxi drivers all standing around, anxious to take you anywhere you may wish to go. They all use the same come-on lines, which is very funny and follows a sequence, each and every time:

Driver: You want taxi?
Us: No.
Driver: Tomorrow?
Us: No.
Driver: Scooter maybe?

At this point we learned to stop saying no, because it only leads to the next offer. I’ve never made it past scooter, but my guess is from there it proceeds to “hashish?”, “whiplash representation?”, and “personal slave?” The “tomorrow?” line is just annoying. It is low season here (they long for December, when Goan beaches turn into one big rave party), and drivers are so desperate for passengers they hope to lock in tomorrow’s journey today. “Scooter maybe?” is downright cute, and the random shift in what they’re offering catches you off-guard. Their voice also increases in pitch with every syllable, for optimal non-confronting display of low status (try it and see how friendly it sounds).

Similar to my experience in Thailand, Goa is saturated with Israelis (probably more so than in Thailand). Kelly and I met a few that were extremely nice and friendly, but Kelly quickly formed a general opinion of them that matches my previous one: they tend to come across as aloof and arrogant, and stick to their own. It’s not that bad, but their presence hasn’t been a highlight. That may seem frivolous to mention in a blog, but they’re a huge part of the culture here; I mean, every once in a while I see an Indian.

Indian bureaucracy update - its legacy continues to justify itself. On Friday, we tried to buy a train ticket for Saturday, but were told there were none left, and that we needed to have booked several days in advance. Of course, several days earlier we had come in to ask about Saturday train tickets, but nobody bothered to tell us that would have been a good time to secure a ticket. How it works in India is every train station and travel agent gets a certain fixed allocation of tickets to sell. Once they sell their allotment, they’re sold out. So one travel agent could tell you there are no tickets left, while another (or the train station itself) could have plenty. Is it too much to ask for some IT guys from Bangalore to hook up the train’s ticketing system to a central database? Of course, the consistent power outages would ensure even that solution would be flawed (power has gone out here many times, although not for too long each time).

Kelly and I head off tonight for Kerala (further south). It is the home of Ayurvedic medicine and supposedly has tremendous backwater cruises as well as beaches of its own. I’m excited to get there, but not excited for tonight’s night train, where we will share an 8-person overnight cabin. I am hoping my stomach cooperates by lying dormant. Speaking of, both Kelly and I have had some mild stomach issues, but so far have not gotten sick. We started out super paranoid about all foods, but have gradually increased our repertoire. In the nicer places, milk and cheese have proven just fine, and even raw vegetables can be eaten in certain places that wash them with bottled water. Hopefully our luck will continue.

One other thing: Kelly and I have reserved a spot in a 10 day introductory Tibetan Buddhism class/retreat in Dharamsala (northern India) at the residence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I am trying to change our flights to accommodate the class, which will involve us returning home 10 days later than planned (Dec 5 if the change goes through). After looking at all the places in India we want to visit (a lot), the extra 10 days will really help (as well as free up the necessary course dates). I think we have to stay silent during the 10 day class. I wonder if we can ask for an exception when we find out John Kerry will be our new president (the class starts Nov 2).

Warning: The rest of this post contains (only) an animal story that involves suffering and heartbreak – it may be best for the tender-hearted reader to skip it. As I sat down at the internet café to write this blog (the first time), Kelly came and found me and said I had to come help her immediately. She took me to a pair of (roughly 3 month-old) tiny puppies she had found beneath a tree. While one seemed just fine, the other was a real mess. It had a quarter size hole in its lower back - a really deep hole - and there were flies buzzing around it. A closer inspection revealed the hole was infested with maggots. The puppy was very weak, and his tongue and gums were shockingly white (a sign of bad health for dogs). Kelly wrapped her in a towel, and we intended to taxi it (and her sister) to a nearby vet.

It was around 2pm, and we were told the vet didn’t reopen until 4pm. We waited. Kelly sat with the sick puppy while it whimpered off and on, as it gained and lost the strength to register its pain. It was pathetic and saddening. When we got to the vet’s office, he wasn’t there (he was out on a house call). Kelly could feel the dog had been deteriorating in her arms for some time. After about 15 minutes of waiting, out of the blue the dog threw up in one convulsive motion, and died instantly after doing so. The vomit taught us another of its problems. There in the dark puddle of liquid was a 3-inch long roundworm, a twisted spaghetti-looking thing that was still squirming.

It was a really sad moment. I think it marked the first time Kelly or I have ever seen an animal die up close like that. What was so disturbing about it was the suffering involved. Kelly’s instinct upon finding the dog was to put it out of its misery (though we didn’t know how to do that humanely…since then Kelly has been told two sleeping pills will put a small puppy out of its misery). I was more hopeful, thinking perhaps the infection could be treated and she could recover.

The men present told us the second, healthy dog was very at risk for worms (which made sense). We stopped at a pharmacy and bought her some worm medicine, which we fed her atop some chicken scraps and rice from a generous Mexican restaurant we’ve frequented here. That dog tore into the food and ate much more than I thought a tiny puppy could. After that, I took her into the ocean to wash off the fleas she was infested with. Then Kelly dried her off (in my shirt…thanks Kelly), and we put her back where Kelly found her. We both went to bed that night very upset. I had a big knot in my stomach and Kelly was crying off and on. After a good cry session, Kelly suggested we retro-name the sick puppy Peppy, since she was anything but. So sorry your final hours were so horrible, Peppy, but we’re glad it’s over.

The next morning, Kelly went to check on the puppy, and found an Australian couple holding her. They had found her on the beach at night being attacked by other (full-size) dogs. They had taken her into their room that night, where the puppy had slept with them (and thrown up her chicken and rice). They named her Waif. Part of the reason I (and Kelly I’m sure) had been upset the night before was because of the dog that had died, but part of it was that we had left this tiny puppy all alone out in the trees behind the beach. We had figured/hoped that her mother must be around somewhere, or she wouldn’t have survived this long. So we were relieved to know Waif was now in good hands. The couple was going to keep the puppy for a few days, then bring her to a proper shelter in north Goa, which finds homes for puppies in, of course, Germany. After just seeing Kelly’s face after discovering this information, I somehow predict we may end up at our second dog shelter of the trip.

Bombay, India

Bombay, India

Kelly and I were returning to our hotel when a man approached us selling something or other. Each of us, in turn, gave him the disinterested response, characterized less by the mild shaking of the head than the lack of energy displayed in our response. This came instinctively to both of us, and was executed without becoming the least bit nervous or agitated. Ah, we have adjusted to Bombay.

We saw a movie at a theater right near our hotel. It was “The Terminal”. We were both pretty disappointed in Steven Spielberg. It was semi-entertaining, but full of so much obvious cliché and things that happen in movies but never in real life. The Indian movie-going experience differs from the American one in two major ways. One, they issue assigned seats. Two, cell phones go off, and people answer them. No less than four people in our immediate vicinity took cell phone calls in the middle of the movie. Many others received text messages, their bright cell phone displays drawing my eyes away from the screen. Granted, they talked very quietly on the phones, but not granted, some let their phones ring for 10 seconds (on the loud ring setting) before answering them. I’m pretty cell phone liberal, but I’m sorry, if you hold high government office, maybe it makes sense your answering a cell phone in a movie. If you are a teenager, Rajesh who lives next door can wait an hour and a half to be told you were in a movie when he called. I’ve heard during the Bollywood films, people sing and dance in the aisles along with the movie. I hope to experience this before I leave India.

We went to the train station to buy an advance ticket for our trip to Goa. Walking in, we were offered help by a gentleman, who walked us over to a desk, explaining we had to fill out a form. He told us the fast train to Goa was canceled, and we would need an overnight one that cost $50. We balked and decided to sleuth around ourselves. Another guy enthusiastically pulled us out of line to visit the “tourist desk”, which turned out to be an empty desk where he could do the same thing the first guy had done. Indians are nice, but nobody wants to help you *that* badly unless they’re making money somehow. We finally found a really nice guy to help us who was buying a ticket himself (we approached him…it makes all the difference). He explained our train was $12 and told us how to fill out the form and where to drop it off. Unfortunately, when we finally got to the front of the line, we found out the train was in fact, canceled. Were those other guys on the up and up? I just can’t see how, but maybe they were…sometimes touts get kickbacks just for bringing in regular priced business. Our choices narrowed to an expensive overnight train, an expensive 11 hour day train, or a cheap day train in second class. Our new friend said he thought the second class day train would be just fine, but in the end Kelly and I followed the advice we had read always to go first class in India. In this case, we decided to fly. It was pricey, but man is it a fast and comfortable way to travel. The train station was our first taste of Indian bureaucracy, and it was a doosy. They have forms to fill out and lines to wait in just to gain access to the line where you can buy your ticket. The procedure is explained in English nowhere in the station. Later I was told we are better off going to a travel agent, as it’s only a little bit more and they’ll do it all for you. Lesson learned (but I’m glad we saw how the train station worked).

Although we had been in Bombay for almost a week, we decided to stay an extra day, and I’m glad we did. On this last day, we experienced more than the whole rest of the week. We hired a car to drive us around for 3 hours to hit some major spots. Our first stop was a forgettable temple. The Jain temple, which we had seen before, was much nicer, and had many people carrying incense and candles toward idols they would then bow before and worship…cool!

Next we saw Dhobi Ghats, the clothes-washing place. In Bombay, this is the one spot where laundry is done for the whole city. I had some clothes washed at my hotel, and I now understand they were transported to this place and back. It is an enormous block filled with people doing laundry by hand. There are large basins of water, people banging clothes against tables, and tons of finished product air-drying. The pictures I took will say it a lot better.

Next we stopped at the Haji Ali mosque. Similar to a temple, except there was a guy with a broom-like device that would whack the faithful on their heads and back as they leaned over to kiss and sniff something I couldn’t see. The mosque was at the end of a half-mile or so concrete pier, extending out into the sea. On our way back, we clued in that all the handicapped and deformed people we had seen lining the way to the temple were beggars that are commonly given some money by mosque-goers. Kelly had heard there are those near holy places that have given up their worldly possessions and survive off handouts. Whether these people were those people I don’t know. Every 7th beggar or so there was a beggar selling a stack of ½ rupee coins. I bought several stacks of these coins (worth about a penny each), and Kelly and I methodically put one in the hand of each sitting beggar, as well as those that walked up to us with arm outstretched. These people were much worse off than those collecting 10-spots near our hotel.

Along our long, charitable walk back, two kids (a boy and a girl) began following us and saying “Pepsi?” Their questions about “Pepsi?” soon turned into enthusiastic, commanding declarations of “Pepsi!” As we walked and didn’t say anything to shoot down the children’s request, their numbers grew. Within seconds there were four children, and one began to hold up fingers to show us how many should get a Pepsi, and then pointing to them all. Kelly and I love Pepsi, and I can’t say I would have had the same response if they had wanted Coke, but dammit I was gonna buy these kids a Pepsi, assuming I could confirm it was not some sort of scam. It wasn’t. By the time we reached the Pepsi stand, we had gathered around 15 kids, and loitering at the Pepsi purchase counter brought the total to about 25. I thought our Pied Piper Pier march was impressive, but the guy at the Pepsi stand explained, “You’re lucky you only have 25.” When I found out the Pepsi bottles were 15 cents each, I motioned that all the kids could have one. The store helpers got out sticks and herded the children into an organized sitting line, where they were each given one Pepsi or Mountain Dew. A couple of feisty kids grabbed one with each hand, but a quick tap with the stick on the second hand solved that little problem. Man, they enjoyed those Pepsis. Kelly had carried one of the girls halfway down the pier, and continued to hold her. She hadn’t gotten a Pepsi, and was having a hard time convincing any children to share theirs with her. She asked one child, who shared his. Kelly praised him so much for his altruism that about five other children immediately held out their Pepsi for the little girl, and in the end she got more than her share. The walk back to our car was still rather long, and we had a following for this journey as well. They were happy with our generosity, but also wanted more. The shopkeepers lining the sidewalk (now we were back on the main street) tried to disperse our followers with sticks and trays, whatever they had in their hands. Many still remained, and followed us until we crossed the street and got back in our car. I didn’t give them any more money or treats, but my celebratory shouts of “Pepsi!” were echoed by all the kids. When the last child jumped off the bumper, we knew we had lost them. I’m sure I can speak for Kelly as well when I say it was the best experience we had in Bombay. We made no pretense that we had effected any change in the Haji Ali pier community, but it felt really good to buy 25 kids a cold treat on a hot afternoon, for a total cost of $5.

From there we drove to the Gandhi house. The day we visited was actually Gandhi’s birthday, which may have explained why it was fairly crowded. The house is where Gandhi used to live in Bombay, and has been turned into a museum. It houses photos and many glass cases with doll displays enacting the many scenes from the movie “Gandhi”…errr…I mean from Gandhi’s life. But thanks to having seen the movie (a second time recently), the posed scenes made sense to me.

That ended our car tour, but Kelly and I headed for an hour ferry ride to elephant island, where the elephant caves are. The caves had big figures carved into them, but after the hour-plus long boat ride and the half hour walk from the dock, they didn’t really grab us. The monkeys we saw along the way, however, grabbed very much. One grabbed an egg from a local kitchen and made off into a nearby tree to enjoy his stolen feast. On the boat ride back, I met two young Indian brothers who were very inquisitive, and we chatted the whole way back. They worked in the software and technology field, one in Bombay and the other in Bangalore. From them I learned that the average Indian employee in Bombay makes $1000 a year, the average software engineer makes $5000 a year. We talked about many other topics, too many to list here. They were extremely nice, and displayed an unusually large amount of interest in me. They asked many questions and wanted to know where I had been, where I had worked, and what America was like.

Once we got back, we headed straight off to Chowpatty Beach, which we wanted to see before we left. We had dinner, then hit the beach to seek out a snake charmer and a head massage. We found no snake charmers, but were approached about a head massage, which quickly turned into a most-body massage. The massage was very different from any I’ve had, and began with a vigorous rubbing of my hair and scalp. It is like when they wash your hair at the salon before a haircut, only 1000 times more vigorous. At one point, both masseurs stopped and scooted away from us. We thought the massage had ended, but rather it was just the police driving by. It is illegal to do scalp massage on the beach (it is, after all, the work of Satan), and we were told if caught we would have to pay them a 10 rupee (a quarter) bribe. I was out of my element on the beach and didn’t negotiate well, so we overpaid, but it was still very cheap by American standards, and the kid had even (mom, skip to the next sentence) cracked my neck better than any chiropractor has.

Kelly and I liked Bombay very much. Bombay is much more crowded than Bangkok (my closest city of reference), but I liked Bombay much better. The food is just amazing, there is plenty to do, and after we adjusted to the constant hounding, I found the city really fun. At least part of my affection for it must come from being treated like a king. Bombay is the most expensive place in India, but still the dollar goes so far that you can walk into any cab or any restaurant and know it will be surprisingly cheap. The people there know you are (comparatively) wealthy, and treat you as a superior (not to mention a consumer). I began to notice the stares I received often had the unmistakable hint of intrigue and awe - the kind of stare I might give a celebrity. I wonder how much of my enjoyment came from that feeling of celebrity - that I was special in a way I am not when I walk around San Diego. While I think (for me) it adds to the experience, it is mostly the charms of India that leave me smiling.