WHEN IT RAINS, IT MONSOONS

Friday, December 26th at 20:27

Kevin:

It has been an emotional week. We just returned to our hotel room here in Bangalore after saying our goodbyes and sending off Peter and Julia. They will continue their journey and fly off to New Zealand this evening. It is hard to believe that we have spent virtually every day together for the last four weeks. No squabbles, arguments or disagreements, just pure fun and enjoyment. A spontaneous friendship that started at the back of a bus and is sure to last a lifetime. And as the title of their post says, “Good Friends Can Never Be Separated”. We also celebrated a different kind of Christmas this year. One where friends and family were at the far end of a Skype call. With the company of our traveling mates, we did our best to conjure up feelings of home by ordering Punjabi Pizza and drinking beer. Tomorrow makes one week that we have been without our camera. After one of the most memorable days in India, our camera slipped out of my pocket and into the back seat of the rickshaw. By the time I noticed it was missing, the driver was gone and so were three months of photographic memories. No backups and more than likely, no chance of getting them back. It has all been very sobering and has taken its toll on our emotions. We still try hard to remember that we are incredibly fortunate to be where we are and to be doing what we are doing. We also remind ourselves that both friends and memories stay forever in our hearts.

December 27th at 18:26

Kevin:

The Nilgiri Blue Mountain Railway



We are currently sitting in a “Cafe Coffee Day”, India's equivalent of Starbuck's. When we left you in our last post, we were leaving the small beach town of Varkala in the south of Kerala. Having been separated from Peter and Julia for three days, we were anxious to once again reunite and continue our travels through the south of India. We left our comfortable cliff side beach hut early in the morning to catch a train at Varkala's train station, perhaps the cleanest, quietest and most organized train station that we had visited yet. Our reunion with our traveling buds would be in the industrial city of Coimbatore. We would not spend more than a night there and would use the city as our jump off point for a train to the small town of Mettupalayam which we would catch at 5:30 in the morning. After a one hour train ride, we would then switch trains. The train we would be transferring to is referred to as a “toy train” and was constructed by the British to provide access to the tea plantations in the high and hard to reach areas of the Nilgiri mountains. The toy train rides on a narrow gauge track and was designed by the Swiss. It is powered by a steam engine which attaches at the rear of the small coaches and pushes them through steep terrain into the mountain range by use of a gear that engages with the track and must stop on occasion to build steam back up to the required pressure of 15psi. It is a slow ride, taking approximately six hours, but passes through some of the most breathtaking and pristine wilderness. There is also a solar fence (electrified) in some areas to keep the local elephant population from camping out on the tracks. When it is all said and done, you arrive in a small town, colonized originally by the British tea plantation owners, known as Udhagamandalam, or Ooty for short. It was referred to as “Snooty Ooty” when still occupied by the British, who have all but vanished leaving a bustling mountain top village complete with a lakeside carnival, horse racing track and rose garden.

The city of Ooty itself is nothing great to behold and in fact a bit crowded and noisy and Ooty Lake is said to be completely polluted with sewage. However, a quick bus ride out of town and you are in some of the most beautiful and untouched reaches of nature. That is, until you reach the top of the highest peak in the region, and Karnataka for that matter, know as Dodabetta Peak. After hiking 4Km to the top, we were flabbergasted to find a paved road, parking lot, vendors selling everything from souvenir photos to spicy roasted peanuts, and an admission booth, and all situated right on the peak of the mountain. Not what we expected to find after hiking through hard wood forests strewn with wildflowers and animal tracks. In the spirit of “if you can't beat them, join them”, we disregarded our expectations and settled in to enjoy some hot chai and chilli bajji from the mountain top vendor.





Not wanting to resign to the idea that all Ooty had to offer was a mountain top carnival, we decided to head out from the peak on a small marked trail and see if we could find our way back to town by foot. Probably the wisest decision we could have made. After a fairly long jaunt through wilderness, we eventually came through a clearing and saw a small village at the end of the trail. We began our descent and were a bit concerned upon hearing the bark of dogs that appeared to be getting closer and closer and then a woman working in a rice field running towards us with a large knife. Pushing our fears aside, we pressed on, only to find that the dogs were not as interested as the locals who, though not speaking a word of English, were delighted to try and talk to us, laugh at us a bit and then point us in the direction of Ooty after understanding Peter's best sign language. We continued through town and were approached by smiling children playing in the streets who were ecstatic to have their pictures taken, woman carrying the day's load of firewood on their heads and whole families presumably heading to or back from social gatherings with friends and family. Truly a highlight or our short two day stay in Ooty. That night, we would settle into our surprisingly frigid accommodations at the local YWCA with some locally made chocolate, a bottle of locally made Old Monk rum and an attempt to try and light a fire in the fire place that would smoke us out of the room thanks to the unnoticed plug that had been placed in the flute stack.

Madikeri and the Tibetan settlements






As is customary, we would wake up early, gather our things and head back to the main bus stand to head out to our next destination, Madikeri. As mentioned before, every bus ride in India is an adventure. This one would prove to be no different. Aside from being an unusually bumpy ride, we would also be treated to a jaunt through the Mudumalai Wildlife Sanctuary where we would see spotted deer, monkeys and bison all along the side of the single lane, roughly paved road that passed right through the middle of the park, and then be delayed for half an hour as a demonstration (strike) in a local village would result from a large gathering of men sitting in the intersection and waving banners in a language that gave us no chance at understanding the source of their frustration. We eventually, nine hours later, arrived in Madikeri where we immediately began searching for accommodations.

At first, all the hotels located adjacent to the bus station were ether completely full or more than we were willing to pay. Not being dissuaded, we pushed on until we had the great fortune of finding a fully furnished, two bedroom apartment at the “Green Stay” home stay. It was almost like being at home with a kitchen, living room, television and balcony overlooking the local river, also known as the sewer system. Having developed a heavy cough and pounding headache, I decided to stay back while Peter, Julia and Idalis went out to make final arrangements for our three day trek and, to my surprise, bring back a dinner of fresh tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, olives, fresh parota, spicy peanuts, chutney, and our new favorite, mango juice and Old Monk rum. We ate around the coffee table while listening to music and having great conversation, which also consisted of planning our next few days in Madikeri.

Due to my not feeling too well, we decided to postpone our three day trek for one day and take advantage by visiting the adjacent city of Kushalnagar. In a bizarre twist of fate, we would fill our free day with two activities that I think greatly impacted everyone, and would definitely be a day that I would not soon forget. Our first stop was the Golden Temple, a mirage of sorts, which is a Tibetan Village stuck right smack dab in the middle of southern India's most beautiful landscape. A working monastery complete with four Buddhist Temples and a hand full of Tibetan Monks ranging in age from very young to very old. Open to the public, you are invited into the heart of their compound, urged to join in their meditations and made to feel an incredible sense of warmth by their smiling faces, which seem to hide all the secrets of the world in their peaceful stares. We all walked clockwise around the inside of the temples, as is customary, and admired the intricate wall paintings depicting the stories of Buddhism and marveled at the gold statues towering nearly sixty feet overhead. Not having enough, we decided to walk a few kilometers to the adjacent Sera Village, named after the largest monastery in Tibet, and housing approximately 5000 Tibetan monks. We were quite impressed by the simplistic lives undertaken by the inhabitants of the village and were equally baffled by the juxtaposition of tranquil Buddhism living amongst the cacophonous and chaotic buzz of rickshaws tearing down the peaceful streets. A matter that seemed to only bother us and not have any effect on the monks who had settled here generations ago after India granted them asylum from their mother land of Tibet, after the Chinese invasion, and was kind enough to grant them homesteads which they have since turned into fertile land for both the harvest of the body, the mind and the spirit. We even had the pleasure of speaking to a monk named Pema, which means lotus in Tibetan, that urged us to not only undertake our external adventures and travels but to also promise to spend some time cultivating our internal journeys to find true happiness and true self. A promise that we plan to keep!

After a full day enjoying what can only be referred to as absolute peace, tranquility and spiritual bliss, it was not long before we were back into a loud, gas guzzling, exhaust spouting rickshaw heading back into the chaos of an Indian city and a moment that would define the next few days for me. In what can only be defined as a serious lapse in my judgment, habit and compulsion, I exited the rickshaw without checking my pockets or the seat to ensure that all of my possessions were still, in fact, in my possession. By the time I noticed that the camera was not in its proper place, my left pocket, it was too late and the rickshaw and driver were completely out of site. At first, a wave of heat passed over my head, I panicked, and then quickly tried to pull myself back together and grabbed the next rickshaw I could find to chase down the driver. I told Idalis, Peter and Julia to wait for me at the bus station and I set out on the most impossible task of trying to identify a driver whose head I had only seen from the back. Desperately searching a sea of black and yellow rickshaws and retracing all of our steps, I was amazed that we actually found the rickshaw and driver about an hour later. Feeling a bit relieved, but not yet satisfied, I pleaded with him to allow me to search the rickshaw and when my search turned up nothing I inquired with him as to whether or not he had been fortunate enough to find the camera or knew if any of his patrons had. He stated to be unaware of its existence and at that moment I felt my heart drop to the bottom of my chest. At this point, there was not much more that I could do. The driver had enough time to transport several passengers, if he actually had the camera I could not prove it and it was late, getting dark and everyone was back at the bus station waiting for me. In a moment of defeat, I hung my head, got back into the rickshaw and spent the next forty minutes recapturing all of the photos I had lost in my head. It felt as if I had lost a friend or favorite pet. The camera was the least of my concerns. The one gigabyte memory card that held about four thousands photos of Spain, Italy, Greece, Turkey and India was all I could think about for the next few days. It is a lesson in life that I will learn the hard way. Always have a back up, do not give value to material things, the best day of your life could also be your worst, true memories are best stored in your heart and head, etc. Even one week later I still battle with my oversight and carelessness. I reached out to the local police and put up fliers offering a reward, but in my heart I am trying desperately to just let go. I feel selfish at times for hanging on too much. If anything, I should have learned that day that material possessions are not what is important, but rather the inner journeys!

It was not all about loss that day. On the bus ride back to Madakeri, where we were staying, we were corralled from one bus to another due to a flat tire. An obvious tourist that was sitting in the front row of the first bus, ended up having to sit next to us in the rear of the replacement bus. In fact, we had seen him laboring with his backpack and knew the feeling all too well. So, we invited him back to sit with us and save one seat for him and one for his bag. He ended up being Tomaj, originally from Iran but living in Sweden. He also ended up having dinner with us that night, and to our surprise, sitting in the tour operators office signing up for two of the three days of our trek. A pleasant surprise and a great guy to spend some time with as well as learn a bit about m middle east politics from someone who works as a political analyst right in the thick of it all.

Trekking through the Kodagu mountains



Idalis:

Thanks to the German efficiency of Peter and Julia, they had already set us up for a three day trek through the Kodagu mountains, which is part of the Western Ghats. We would climb and descend three different peaks in three days, and stay in two different villages, one night camping in a tent and the next night staying with a local family.

Our young guide on our first day, Leraj, joined us on the bumpy public bus (the only kind there is in India!) from Madikeri to the tiny Vanachalu Village, where we started our first hike. Kevin, Peter, Julia, Leraj, our new friend Tomaj and I all chatted along the way, discussing politics in Iran, education in India, while sampling the cardamom pods growing along the trail. It was beautiful, and despite Leraj's speed tour to the top, we were able to view rugged mountain terrain and coffee plantations along the way. When we reached Nishani Peak, at a height of 1270 meters, we looked out over the green, green hills and gave a silent thank you for being able to see this side of India. We were breathless, simultaneously because of the beautiful sight and very fast pace!

We arrived in the village of Talatmane after a short (and bumpy!) bus ride. We were greeted by our hosts and then had our welcoming beverage outside the home of the family which would be our cooks. We were served hot chai outside their simple hut, where a young calf was tied to a pillar. We sat down on the wooden bench and tried to avoid the cow poop on the floor, and ignored the weird taste of the tea. When no one was looking, I pretended to be interested at the clucking chickens and through mine out!

That night, after dinner (which turned out to be surprisingly delicious!), we made a fire close to our tent. The five of us warmed ourselves close to the flames, talked and laughed and talked some more, and passed around a flask of Old Monk rum. When we were all good and tired, we retired to our simple tents, which were freezing cold and whose sheets smelled like what I imagine to be horse urine. We wore all of our clothes in layers, and still only barely escaped frostbite! Several days later, Peter and Julia would develop a nasty rash (complete with insects under the skin) from those pee-perfumed sheets!

Day two found us taking a bus from Talatmane to the town of Kopathi Kundi, where we started and finished our trek. Our guide was a gem, Mr. Raja, owner of the tour company we used for the trek, and a walking encyclopedia of all things botanical. We were joined by a young and modern Indian couple, Rajeev and Shruti, whom we took the opportunity to question about all things Indian, and became instant friends! Rajeev is a military man and hails from Punjab, while Shruti is a native Mumbian and art director. The were friendly, extremely intelligent, and patiently explained anything we wanted to know about Indian culture. We reached Kopathi peak, at 1375 meters up, and triumphantly devoured our packed lunches! Once finishing our descent, we were greeted by our seemingly tipsy host and given a ride by his increasingly obvious inebriated friend, where nine of us stuffed into a small Tata car and prayed for our safe arrival to our destination. Once arriving, Rajeev and Shruti came to our rescue and bravely chastised the owner of the home stay for allowing a careless person to drive us, something we would not have had the guts to do ourselves. That night, though, we were witness to a rare treat: we were able to enter the village's local temple and participate (albeit confusingly) in a Hindu puja ceremony. We just followed whatever Shruti did, which involved a lot of clasping of hands, standing before a loud clanging bell, and bringing smoke from a small fire to our faces.

Day 3's hike was in the village of Kakkabe. Our guide, Suresh, pointed out local plants on our way up to the peak, which was our highest yet at 1850 meters. It was a steep climb to the top and the last hour proved to be the most challenging, with crumbling rock and stiff winds. Our hard work was rewarded with a beautiful view from the top of rolling grassy mountains and a peaceful, serene feeling we hadn't felt in a very long time. That night, back in Madikeri, we met up with Rajeev and Shruti for dinner and the six of us had a feast (and a few congratulatory Kingfishers) before getting on our overnight bus to Bangalore.

Christmas in Bangalore



For the first time in the history of Indian transportation, our bus actually arrived EARLY to its destination, a whole two hours early, which meant being kicked off the bus into the dark, busy streets of Bangalore at 4am. We knew we'd have to find a place to relax in before checking into our hotel later on, but this proved to be a difficult task. As soon as the four of us stepped off the bus, a crowd of touts and rickshaw drivers began to envelop us with promises of cheap rooms and short rides. It was IMPOSSIBLE to get away from them, and any time we turned a corner, there were more there to annoy and exasperate you. We finally found a “resting room” close to the bus station, and paid 40 rupees each to sit in hard, uncomfortable chairs for two hours, away from (most of) the noise and chaos. What a way to start our Christmas Eve!

When we finally got to our hotel room at the Ashley Inn, I broke down in front of Kevin. Losing the camera, three nights of no sleep, our unwelcoming start in Bangalore, and seeing the state of our too-expensive “deluxe room” proved to be just too much for me. I started crying, and crying, and crying, while Kevin consoled me, dried my tears, and said some encouraging words (“It's a nice room, MumMum. The bathtub isn't THAT dirty!).

Christmas in Bangalore turned out to be great, even though it contained none of the traditions any of us were used to. We did some very un-Christmaslike things, like going to the Hard Rock Cafe on Christmas Eve, ordering pizza on Christmas Day, and watching Shrek 3. We went shopping, walked along MG Road, and blocked out the noise of the million tuk-tuk drivers. Bangalore is a hip, modern city, though still full of India's famous juxtapositions. Young IT professionals in their new Mercedes Benz pull up to traffic lights while little girls with beautiful but dirty faces beg for rupees in the congested, fume-filled streets. Our time in Bangalore was bittersweet, as have been most of our experiences in India, since we were able to spend Christmas with our dear friends Julia and Peter, but also had to say good-bye to them the day after. A range of emotions were felt in this last week, from highs of joy to lows of sadness, just like the title reflects: when it rains in India, it monsoons.

"GUTE FREUNDE KANN NIEMAND TRENNEN"

As is customary when we travel with friends and family, we always ask that they contribute to our blog by adding a post. This is no exception. As Peter and Julia have become quite exceptional friends in such a short amount of time, we thought it only right to let them chime in on their experience. It is a rare treat to find people as wonderful as them. It only proves that true friendship knows no boundaries or limitations. Without further ado, I present to you, their post. Thank you both so much!






Friday, December 26th at 12:50

Peter and Julia

We wouldn't quite call it a shock, but when Idalís and Kevin, who had been our travel mates for more than four weeks by that time asked us to spend Christmas together in Bangalore, we were a bit afraid that Christmas day would be spent in a quite un-German way getting drunk and eating burgers at the Hard Rock Cafe...Well, that's exactly what we ended up doing – and it was “fantastisch” - like always for the past weeks. =)
Who would have thought that from a coincidental meeting of Kevin's and Peter's feet (Kevin's were on top of course and the first magical sentence by him was: “My feet are so big, sometimes it's hard to control them!”) a new friendship would evolve! We must say that meeting Idalís and Kevin was one of the best and luckiest things that happened to us during our travels! Whatever we did, hanging around on the beaches of Goa or Kerala, trekking in the Western Ghats (all sweaty and dirty for 3 days) of Karnataka, sightseeing in Fort Cochin, sitting in a dung hole in Gokarna or simply spending time with our new best friend, the Old Monk (delicious and cheap Indian rum) – we always had a great time and enjoyed their company so much!
Their open, friendly and respecting way concerning the people we met really impressed and inspired us although we know for sure that we will never acquire Kevin's endlessly big heart and his patience with Rickshaw drivers and touts... =)
It's hard to imagine us travelling without them, now that Peter and I will be moving on to New Zealand tonight for another 3 months of backpacking before returning to Munich, Germany. We are sure that we will be ordering four teas instead of two all the time and asking for two double rooms instead of one...it's going to be sad, but we really do hope to see them soon (maybe before their going back to Miami even) in Munich!
We didn't only find real friends but true soul mates.
Take care and lots of Love,
Julia & Peter

WE "VISHNU" A MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Dear Friends and Family,

Just wanted to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas! Even if the weather is cold, we hope that this holiday season warms you with love and joy. Kevin and I are celebrating Christmas in Bangalore, India's technology hub and most modern city, with our friends Peter and Julia. We love you all and wish we could be there to share it with you. Please have an eggnog with extra rum for us and enjoy the company of your loved ones! Merry Christmas!

A PAUSE IN NATURE

Saturday, December 13, 2008 11:13 AM

Idalis:

Sometimes, you just gotta slow down.

India is a country that exhausts you. In any given day, you will have the challenge of dealing with sticky heat, cacophonous streets, confusing train time tables, rusted and bumpy buses, wandering cows and flying cockroaches, frequent power outages, tainted food, bad water, perpetually loose bowels, hawkers and shop owners (“Yes madam! Come look at my shop! You look for free! Only 10 rupees! No good business today! I give you good price! First customer! You breaking my heart!”) piles of smelly cow dung, trash, trash, and more trash, insistent rickshaw drivers, and haggling over the price of a room. And that's only by noon.

That's why, sometimes, you just gotta get away. Find an escape. A (relatively) quiet, peaceful place (by Indian standards, that is). The last week has been about decompressing and doing just that (at least the best you can, given a backpacker's budget and a perplexing, disorienting country).

Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary (Kumily, Kerala)






Our new travel buddies and partners in crime, Peter and Julia, suggested a couple of days in Kumily, about six hours east of Cochin, and close to the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary, which occupy 777 square kilometers of the Cardamom Hills region of the Western Ghats. When Kevin and I heard the word “sanctuary,” we immediately nodded our heads vigorously in agreement.

Although having to take an erroneously-named, rusty “semi-deluxe” bus to get there, the drive was quite pleasant. Open windows and cooler air as we ascended up the mountainous region were met with beautiful vistas of neatly-manicured and wonderfully-smelling tea and spice plantations. We even got to watch our first Bollywood film on the oxidized bus, a story about an outlaw who finds redemption. The thin plot unfolded with badly-acted fighting scenes, perfectly choreographed dance numbers, and a scrupulously chaste romantic subplot (kissing on screen is still a big no-no). It's proven to be our most enjoyable (and humorous) experience with public transportation yet!

We really liked Periyar Park. Local ex-poachers have been retrained and now serve as guides as part of a wider eco-tourism initiative. We splurged on a full-day “jeep tour”, which had our driver pointing out local fauna (“that is big squirrel”) from his 4X4. We hiked for three hours through the green forest (pesky, blood-thirsty leeches included) and saw plenty of monkeys and other animals, but thankfully no tigers (easy to miss, as there are only 14 left). After lunch, we went on a canoe ride around a pleasant lake, hiked to a small waterfall, and had our first glimpse of a wild elephant. It was a great day, and by the time we made our way back on the bumpy jeep, were thoroughly exhausted!

Kumily city itself was refreshingly pleasant, too. Our squeaky clean guesthouse had a balcony that overlooked a nursery, and because of the nearby park, environmental clean-up efforts have made Kumily one of the cleanest Indian cities we've seen. There was a cardamom sorting yard nearby, and we were treated to the fragrance of the green pods every time we walked by. It rained all day one day, which made all of our clothes feel damp and cold, but forced us to be lazy. We slept in, sat on the balcony and chatted, and got Ayurvedic massages that proved to be one of the weirdest experiences of my life. One night, Kevin and I even went to a kalarippayattu show to watch fighters of this traditional Keralan martial arts form wow us with their skills. All in all, a surprisingly great (albeit short) retreat.

Cruising through the backwaters (Backwaters, Kerala)






Before leaving Cochin, Julia and Peter had inquired about houseboats to explore the backwaters of Kerala, reminiscent of Florida's Everglades, and a much-touted “must-do” on anyone's list who visits southern India. We booked our punted kettu vallam houseboat (22 hours, 3 meals, two bedrooms, backwater exploring, canoe trip, two punters, cook, and large mosquitoes included) and made our way south to Allepey, where most of the houseboats leave from. A four hour bus ride, followed by a three hour (wet) local ferry finally got us there. The next morning we got picked up by a driver who would take us to a smaller coastal city, Vykim, where we were promised a less-congested route for exploring the backwaters.

We had a good time, made even better by the company of Julia and Peter. The food was excellent, the ride peaceful (no motor on the boat), and the canoe trip hilarious! Trying to get us into a less-explored spot, my Kevin led us so far back into the backwaters, that we couldn't find a way out! Four people had to hoist the two canoes out of the water, onto land, and over into a wider, more channeled route. Everyone (tourists, guides, punters, cooks) were laughing so hard, we had to take a break! Our guide even remarked, “Indians don't even do this!” It definitely made the experience more memorable. At night, the four of us sat around sipping Indian rum, listening to music and playing cards, much to the amusement of our hosts. Our only complaint would be that the actual cruising part of the backwater cruise was quite short, having been moored most of the time. It was kind of like packing for a much-anticipated road trip and getting into a Rolls-Royce, just to arrive at your neighbor's house a minute later. All in all, though, it was a very relaxing trip and our hosts were gracious and accommodating.

Varkala Beach, Kerala

Why stop now? Continuing to “gild the lily” with relaxation, our next stop was beautiful Varkala Beach, a couple of hours south of the backwaters, and where we are presently. Julia and Peter joined us for a few days, and then left to explore some areas of the south. We will reunite in a few days in Tamil Nadu to do some trekking and take a ridiculous, nail-biting train ride. For the time being, Kevin and I are are unabashedly acting as tourists, sleeping in, going to the beach, reading, doing yoga, having a drink at one of the cliff-top restaurants which overlooks the water, and taking a break from curry. We have not seen one single temple while here, and don't plan to. Last night, we had a very un-Indian meal at Cafe Italiano and had our beers served in teapots, because it's technically not legal to sell it. We enjoyed our pasta and “special tea” and admired the twinkling lights of fishing boats in the distance. Right now, Kevin is out surfing, and our biggest decision of the morning will be where to have breakfast and read the paper.

Monday, December 15, 2008 4:23 PM

P.S. Rest and relaxation is often short-lived in India. Last night, in the middle of the night, while sleeping in our comfy bed in our pleasant little bungalow, we were awoken to screams and cries from a neighboring cottage. It seems that there was some sort of domestic disturbance between family members, and any Indian citizen inhabiting the surrounding neighborhood came to watch the spectacle unfold and put their two-cents in. As we don't speak the local language (sorry, they didn't offer Malayalam in school) we're not sure what happened exactly. But we do know there was a lot of shouting, some crying, a bit of cajoling, and a crowd of onlookers who increasingly became active participants. The drama (which took place steps from our porch) did not die down until about 4am, by which time Kevin and I were tired, cranky, and completely fed up with the noise. Lesson number 486 in India: savour the peace and quiet while you can!

THE GREAT ESCAPE

Thursday, December 11th at 18:09

Kevin

It was still dark out, the wind was dead calm and it was incredibly hot for being so early. We were each drenched in sweat after our twilight hike out of Kudlee Beach in Gokarna. Finding out that there was a 6:00 am bus headed to the city of Mangalore, we jumped on it. Even if it was not the city we wanted, which was Cochin, and the ride would be on a state run bus, some of the biggest, loudest, dirtiest and hottest hunks of steel on the planet, it was headed in the right direction and we became elated at the thought of a much anticipated exodus from Gokarna.

Arriving in Mangalore in the early afternoon, Peter and I left the girls in the bus depot with our things as we scouted for a private bus that would take us to Cochin. We struck gold on our first attempt. Immediately opposite the bus depot was a small travel agency that sold us four tickets on a sleeper bus, quite a cool anomolie, that was leaving that evening at 20:00. This would give us about seven hours to kill in the city. While pulling into the bus station upon arrival, I had spotted a very modern looking mall within a short distance from the bus depot. I propositioned everyone to join me for some “air conditioned” shopping. What a relief. Travel days in India are always an adventure in and of themselves. You absolutely never know what to expect, what crazy things you will see (elephants walking in the road, the driver pulling over to let everyone pee on the side, etc.), or if you will actually make it to your destination alive. One thing is always sure, however. When you make it to your destination, you will be a hot, stinking, sweaty mess! This is why a little thing like an air conditioned shopping mall can bring one to tears. All four of us enjoyed some time walking around, soaking in the a/c and checking out some of the merchandise. After a while, Peter and Julia decided they would set off into town to try and see if they could find a place to get their camera repaired. In the meantime, Idalis and I would do a bit of shopping, have a super cheap Indian thali (set meal) in the food court of the mall, catch up on our internet activities (read blog) and find a new pair of flip flops for Idalis who had not only trashed her pair on our hike in Gokarna, but also two other pairs that I had found stuck in between rocks, probably washed in by the tide from other unsuspecting tourists! Sooner than expected, seven hours had whizzed by. Unfortunately Peter and Julia were unable to have the camera repaired, in spite of finding a camera repair shop (in the back of someones house), and made it back in time to have another quick bite at the food court, suck up one last bit of a/c and head out for what was bound to be one of our most interesting transportation experiences ever.

We arrived at the travel agency, where we were to catch the bus, a bit early. We were shuffled around the corner with our baggage and loaded onto what I would call a modern bus, by Indian standards. Our sleeper bunks were numbers 15 and 16 and Peter and Julia had 9 and 10, which happened to be next to each other. We climbed up over the people sitting in the chairs below and settled into our bunks for the overnight ride to Cochin. At first, I spent my time listening to the ipod as I stared out the window and Idalis read her book. We soon found our way out of the city and lied down to get some rest. As has been the case in most places we have stayed so far, the beds are always just a couple inches to short to allow me to completely stretch out. So, I laid a bit diagonal and fell asleep. That is, until the bus started to cavitate, shake and swerve violently. We were not having an accident, I quickly realized, just driving on a normal Indian highway. This would continue to go on all night. A combination of smooth roads, where the driver would speed, swerve and pass people while honking the horn incessantly and then long stretches of what felt like off roading through the jungle at high speeds. It pretty much made sleeping close to impossible. Nonetheless, we managed to arrive in Ernakulum, a section of Cochin city, slightly rested and first thing in the morning. We hired two auto rickshaws to take us to our hotel, Maple Guest House. After a rather lengthy check in process, we rushed to our rooms to find them very clean and very comfortable. Having traveled for over twenty-six hours straight, we finally got the showers that we so desperately needed.

After returning to a more acceptable state of cleanliness, we once again decided to split up for the day. Idalis and I wanted to walk through the markets and visit Mahatma Gandhi Road and Peter and Julia still needed to get their camera fixed. That night, we reunited for a much anticipated Kathakali show. Kathakali is a unique form of ancient theater. Essentially, they are dance dramas where elaborately dressed and made up actors join musicians on drums and bells to depict the struggles of gods and demons by using facial expressions, sign language and music to tell their stories. It is specific to the Kerala region and is said to have been in existence, and barely modified, for thousands of years. There were several options for seeing a Kathakali show. However, we were very pleased with our decision to visit Dr. Devan's Kathakali show. It is held in a theater at his “See India Foundation” headquarters and is a very intimate show where you arrive early to see the actors apply their make up and get a very comprehensive explanation of the history and meaning of Kathakali from Dr. Devan himself, a forty year practitioner and multi-generational inheritor of the Kathakali tradition. A truly incredible experience. The following day we would reunite for a trip into the peninsular districts of Fort Cochin and Mattancherry.

Cochin (or Kochi) sprang into existence in 1341 when a flood created a safe natural port and the chief harbor on the Malabar coast. The royal family moved here from Muziris in 1405, prompting rapid growth and attracting Christian, Arab and Jewish settlers from the Middle East. The aggressive domination of the Portuguese, Dutch and British all followed in the 1500's as each competed to control the port and its lucrative spice trade. Today, you can still visit areas that are rather unchanged and see spice markets, Chinese fishing nets, a synagogue, a Portuguese palace, India's first European church and seventeenth century Dutch homes. In the Mattancherry district, a short walk across the peninsula through the Muslim district, you can see the red tiled riverfront wharves and houses which once occupied the colonial capital's main market and homes of the wealthy Jewish and Jain merchants, which are unfortunately in advanced stages of dilapidation and deterioration. There are even markets that tout the possession of antiques left behind by the Jews when they left in mass to go to Israel in the 1940's.

That evening we would share dinner, as has become our tradition, at Fry's Family Restaurant and enjoy fish molee, cooked in a banana leaf, and a dessert of chocolate fantasy. The following morning an auto rickshaw would take us to yet another bus station where we would board a bus for the six hour ride into the Cardamom Hills region of the Western Ghats and a delightful little town called Kumily.

LAND OF CONFUSION

Monday, December 8th at 15:32

Kevin:

Enjoying very much our stay in Goa thus far, we decided to continue to move south along the Arabian coast of India. Additionally, we have decided to continue onward with our new friends Peter and Julia. Sadly, we left Arambol in the private taxi that we had chartered the night before from the same gentleman that provided us with our scooters. The three and one half hour, 1400 rupee ($28) ride terminated in a beach town at the far south end of the state of Goa known as Palolem. Palolem is perhaps one of the first Goan cities that was affected by a boom in tourism and massive development of the beach front. It is a much larger town than Arambol and has a completely different feel. Where Arambol was a quiet and kind of sleepy fishing village with a touristic influence, Palolem was a touristic hub with a touch of fishing. There were significantly more people staying in Palolem and considerably more businesses, restaurants and traffic. We arrived at “The Place / Sea View” where our driver dropped us off and more than likely received a commission for our delivery. After sending the girls out on a scouting mission to find other possible accommodations, Peter and I sat down with the bags and shared a cold drink. As it would turn out, their exploration would yield no accommodations that could compete with the three hundred rupee a night beach huts being offered at “The Place”. So, we got the keys, filled out the necessary government tourist forms and settled into our thatch huts facing the beach.

Having spent the majority of the morning in a tiny van with no air conditioning and surviving the customary Indian driving challenges, such as traffic, horns, heat, exhaust and uneven pavement, we were delighted once we sat down in a little restaurant on Palolem beach to have some breakfast. Our low table was flanked by a series of pillows and cushions, we were a mere twenty meters from the crashing waves and the restaurant was called “Nirvana”. The owner, who had lived in New Jersey for twenty years and spoke perfect English, joined us for some conversation and insight into the local Palolem culture. It could not have been more perfect with the exception of what would happen exactly five hours later. My time had in fact finally arrived and it would be preceded with the setting in of a massive headache, followed by a nauscious feeling. I would try to lay down to see if it would pass, but it did not. In fact, my rest was immediately interrupted by a loud call to the local facilities. This would then be followed by an evening of rushing back and forth from the bed to the bathroom where I would assume the position of toilet under seat and bucket under chin. A terribly confusing and somewhat disgusting exchange for the body to undertake. Doing all I could to try and expel the demon from my body, I finally had to give in and advise Idalis, Peter and Julia that they would be enjoying dinner without me that night. I was delighted to learn that they found a really nice Italian restaurant where they would dine on homemade pasta and spend hours talking and returning to the beach huts in the wee hours of the evening. I wish I could have been there to take advantage of spending time with them, as eventually, it will end and we will have to part ways.

The next morning we awoke. I felt much better but was a bit tender and had developed a tickle in my throat and a small cough. We would all go out to breakfast at a little all natural restaurant where we would have a great breakfast of muesli, fruit, curd (Indian yogurt) and various types of “German” bread, which we would later find out is not truly typical of real German bread but apparently an effective marketing ploy in southern Indian restaurants. Nonetheless, it was tasty and shortly thereafter we would return to our rooms and proceed to enjoy the balance of our time once again enjoying the Goan beach culture. Peter and I would go for a hike and crawl on, climb and explore the coastal areas while Idalis and Julia would lie on the beach and get sun while gossiping. Julia has been a fine addition to the “Gabba Gabba Girls Club” and Peter has been a great sidekick for adventurous excursions and shares a similar pension, with me, for jumping off of things.

Crowded and overdeveloped beach font aside, Palolem is an incredibly beautiful beach. (When I say overdeveloped, I do not mean the Western variety, as most structures in this state that are located along the beach front are restricted to a height of two stories and are mostly removed during the monsoon season. What I mean is a long stretch of structures lying side by side and making use of every inch of beach front) It is in the shape of a half moon, flanked on one side by an island, accessible by foot at low tide, and on the other by an elevated outcrop with terraced cliffs and large boulders, where Peter and I treated Idalis and Julia to a surprise Sunday morning brunch complete with fresh fruit, champagne mimosas and a breathtaking view of the area. There are countless coconut trees that gently lean over the beach and help to hide some of the structures that have been erected below them. The beach is all sand which is narrow during the high tide, where the sea actually crashes into the beach front bars and restaurants, and surprisingly expansive at low tide when meters of hard packed sand are exposed creating a huge play area for everyone. It was interesting to see as many Indian tourists visiting the beach as foreign ones. All integrate rather well and we were no exception. We took every opportunity to play frisbee with the local kids, have our pictures taken by their fascinated parents and talk to anyone wishing to “practice their English”. We were also fortunate enough to meet some non-locals in the form of another couple with whom we would spend a better part of our last couple of days with. In fact, it was Idalis and Julia who had met them in a book store. Gregor is a German who has traveled extensively and even lived in Brasil, where he met Luciana who was born and raised there. Both seemed relieved to meet a group of people with whom they could speak in their native tongue. Julia being fluent in Spanish, from her extensive travels and time in South America, and Idalis, of course speaking as well, would do their best to speak a sort of modified Portuguese with Luciana and Julia and Peter both speaking to Gregor, who also spoke great English, in German. It was a great mix of people and a rather confusing scenario with up to four languages being spoken at any one time. We would share a couple of meals and some time at the beach together, we would exchange information, wish each other well and then it was time for us to move on.





We would gather our things, pack our bags and catch the local bus, for five rupees (about ten cents) to the local train station. After about an hour and a half of sitting around the train station, watching the sobering clips from the Mumbai disaster on the television, we purchased our tickets and boarded the local train, with coaches lined with wooden benches and packed to the hilt, and headed further south to a new state, Karnataka, and yet another beach town, Gokarna. After an hour and a half on the train, we would arrive at the Gokarna Street station, where, once again, we would be bum rushed by motor rickshaw drivers offering, insistently, their services. We would run past them making a bee line straight to this old, dirty, beat up bus waiting in the fringes. We would get there, ask the driver if Gokarna city was a destination and then throw our bags on the roof and head out for a very long, very bumpy nine kilometer ride into town. Once in town, we got dropped off, I climbed on the roof to hand our bags down to Peter and save them from any more unnecessary abuse. We mounted up and began walking, under the direction of the locals, down this alley between two buildings that was supposed to lead to the beautiful beaches of Gokarna that we had so longed to experience.

The area of Gokarna contains five beaches, Town Beach, Kudlee Beach, Om Beach (which is actually in the shape of the om symbol), Half Moon Beach and Paradise Beach. Most of these beaches contain little to no accommodations and so we decided Kudlee would be our home base. We walked for at least a half an hour with heavy bags in tow over sharp lava terrain and steep passes to arrive. It was nearly getting dark and we had no reservations. As we approached Kudlee beach, we were addressed by a German man who leaned over a wall to inquire about our intentions. He offered to show us a room he had available. At first, it looked great. The grounds were nicely kept, the structures were all relatively new and it had a yoga center, an added bonus. We were escorted high up the hill to a beautiful room overlooking the beach only to be told that it would cost 1200 rupees. Not a lot of money, actually about $24, but far more than we were used to paying. So, we explained our predicament and headed back out and toward the beach to see what type of accommodations would lay in wait for our arrival. We had agreed that this time Peter and I would do the scouting. We had about an hour of sun light left so we hurried on our way. The first place we checked was the “Look Sea”, which had been mentioned in the guide book. Next was a series of other beach front huts, each one worse than the one before. The prices were amazing, ranging from 75 rupees to 150 rupees ($1.50 to $3). However, the accommodations were anything but amazing. Peter and I began to become a bit desperate. Here we were, minutes of light remaining, left in charge of championing decent accommodations and nothing but “dung huts”, as we named them, being available. In addition, we were learning that the resident population, mostly old hippies and weirdos, seemed to be a few stories short of a high rise. Running out of time and desperately wanting a shower and some food, we booked two rooms at the dark and dingy little “dung huts” known as the “Ganga” (named after the Hindu god of purification whom also shares his name with the toxic, polluted river that runs through the central Indian state of Uttar Pradesh and an interesting irony when compared to the establishment). To add insult to injury, the bathrooms were located at the far end of the property, approximately 50 meters away, and the shower was a bucket. In another twist of irony though, it turned out that the food at the restaurant was incredible and the Nepalese family running the place was so friendly and accommodating. In spite of this and the unheard of price of only 150 rupees per night ($3), it was no consolation for the dark, dingy, unpainted, unkempt, stinky, hot room that we both had to sleep in. Ours came complete with a fishing net, a pile of firewood and a mosquito control system in the form of a large lizard, and Peter and Julia's had served as a boarding room for the staff and came complete with dirty sheets and a ceiling fan that resembled the sound of the motorway when turned on high, the only speed that would even begun to cut the intense heat.

Upon arriving, we immediately put our sparkling image of the place aside and started to plot our escape. Unfortunately, every lead would turn to a dead end. We tried to book a train and it was sold out for the next four days, far too long than we wanted to spend. We could not get any accurate information about a bus out and a taxi would have been far too expensive to get us to our next desired location. Our only option was to stay one additional night and arrive at the bus station at Gokarna the following morning at 5:45am, before the buses started running to see which one we could get on. Our stay in Gokarna did not turn out to be a total loss, however. The extra day that we would have to stay afforded us the time to hike to all the other beaches along this area of the coast. A day trip that would turn out, again ironically, into a most memorable experience. The beaches that followed Kudlee, mentioned above, were absolutely beautiful. Definitely the prettiest beaches we had seen in India thus far, and amazingly remote, deserted and natural. Our day long hike would end at Paradise Beach, where we would spend the late afternoon sipping on Kingfisher beers, eating fresh pineapple and enjoying our surroundings, which included the sound of hippies filing and sanding coconut shells to make jewelry. After our long hike, a portion of which Idalis had to do with only one surviving flip-flop, we decided to catch one of the fishing boats back to Kudlee beach. Again, another fantastic decision as we were treated to not only the beautiful coastline from a distance but also an impromptu performance by a pod of juvenile dolphins that were breaching the water and performing an array of acrobatics for our private entertainment. It was a magical day that helped to restore our faith in the beaches of Gokarna and help to make our stay in the “dung huts” a bit more tolerable. The next morning we would awake at 4:30 am, scamper to get our things together, dawn our head lamps and strike out, in the dark, along the same path we had just traversed merely thirty-six hours earlier. Arriving at the bus station soaked in sweat and covered by swarms of mosquitoes we would find a state run bus that would be our salvation and ticket out of this strange, twilight zone like place.

India has proven to be many things for us thus far. It has taught us the limits of our physical tolerances while bringing pleasure to our senses. It has dismantled our most carefully thought out plans but delivered us with spontaneous moments of exstacy. It has teased us with impressions of locations that result in a less than stunning reality and it has gifted us with experiences we could have never expected. It has filled our eyes with intense light and color and our ears with unsettling cacophony. It has filled our bellies with gastronomical greatness and our guts with disruptive turmoil. Its people are incredibly friendly and their processes ridiculously convoluted. It is, indeed, a land of contradictions. What you see is not always what you get, what you expect is usually not what will be delivered. Nonetheless, we continue to press on feeling that the positive experiences far outweigh the negative ones. Above all, it has given us appreciation, for things we have and things we do not want. It has made us proud of who we are and insight into who we want to become. It has helped us to make new friends and greatly appreciate the ones we already have. It has shown us the importance of family and the desire for basic necessities. For all of these things we will be grateful and we will try to hold these lessons close as we continue to press on with open minds and warm hearts.

"HAPPY TURKEY DAY!"

We just wanted to take this time to wish each and every one of our friends and family a safe and happy Thanksgiving Day! We love, appreciate and are thankful for all of you! Please save us a piece of turkey, oh, and some of those string beans with the durkee french onion rings on top.

And, by the way, we are also very thankful that we are safe amongst a rash of attacks that took place in Mumbai last night. Merely seven days ago, we happened to be staying in the neighborhood of Colaba, where the attacks happened, and took the very train, from the very station, where people were wounded and killed. Our thoughts and prayers go out to those families who have been affected. We are also grateful for all of your thoughts and prayers which have helped to keep us safe.

May this day find you in the company of loved ones, nourished by good food and safe and comfortable in your surroundings! HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

GOING, GOA, GONE!

Monday, November 24th at 15:15

Kevin

I am sitting on a cushion at a low table in the restaurant of the place we are staying in Goa overlooking the Arabian Sea. I was just approached by an Indian woman wishing to sell me some fresh flowers. Although I don't very much like saying no, I have gotten quite used to it as I have gotten a lot of practice. The town we are staying in now, Arambol, is far different than those we have visited thus far. It is a small fishing community, turned hippie quarters some time in the late 60's early 70's, with a long beach of fine sand, coconut palms and lots of cows. It still feels very sleepy considering the small army of hotels (beach huts), shops and restaurants that have opened up since the discovery of this beach by outsiders. There are tourists from all over the world, with a majority hailing from Italy and Russia. We have yet to meet any other Americans, which is okay.

We are staying in a place called Samsara and it is a series of five very simple, yet comfortable, beach huts with two regular rooms in a concrete building a bar, restaurant and a yoga studio which hosts two classes daily. The young couple that owns the place are from Italy and Russia. They are very accommodating and very hospitable as is all the staff that comes from various places around India to work for the season, which is from mid November to about March with December and January being the core and most popular amongst visitors. We are happy to be here at the early part of the season and expect to move on before the rush hits. Our stay here has been incredibly memorable and relaxing. Goa's pace is slow and steady. The days drift by with the assistance of a blazing sun and an ocean breeze. Sleep has been restful under the mosquito net with the fan providing a cool breeze and the ocean providing a soothing soundtrack.




We arrived in Goa on a train from Mumbai. A portion of the story is missing. Shortly after arriving in India and weathering Idalis' bout with “Delhi Belly”, we set out to locate the train station where we navigated the application process and eventually purchased three sets of train tickets. One ticket was on the second class sleeper from Mumbai to Aurangabad, a city east of Mumbai, a ticket on what is known as an air conditioned chair back to Mumbai from Aurangabad and last, another second class sleeper ticket from Mumbai to Goa. We had decided, quite at the last minute, to venture a bit out of the way to visit the city of Aurangabad before moving on to Goa. We assumed that it would be a respite from the Mumbai chaos and was in close proximity to a series of Buddhist, Hindu and Jain temples that were carved directly into the face of the basalt mountains (sound familiar?). The two sites we were most interested in were in the cities of Ajunta and Ellora. However, on our first morning's excursion, we were lucky enough to hail a tuk-tuk being piloted by a thirty-two year old Muslim man by the name of Aman. Originally it was our intention to have Aman simply drop us off at the bus station where we would then use the Indian public transportation system to navigate our way to these points of interest. However, after a rather convincing sales pitch and an extra investment of the equivalent of about three US dollars, we decided to take Aman up on his offer to drive us for the entire day to not only see the caves of Ellora, but also to see ancient tomb, an ancient fortress and a miniature, yet still quite grand, version of the Taj Mahal located right in his home town. We were also eventually treated to an authentic and delicious Indian lunch and a random sampling of some of the fruits available along the road side, which he procured for us at Indian prices, rather than the typical tourist price. Aman was kind enough to give explanations about each of the sites as well as answering a slew of questions about Indian culture, politics and history, which we had been harboring since our arrival. The day lasted about eight hours, covered a slew of kilometers and left Idalis and I both breathless and totally exhausted.

On our original attempt to purchase our series of three sets of train tickets, we were advised to check them and then check them again to insure all of the information was correct. We did so and accepted the tickets as adhering to the schedule that we desired. It was later that night that a small voice in my head said, “check the dates on the tickets one last time”. So, I did, and to my horror, discovered that we had only given ourselves one day in Aurangabad instead of the two we originally wanted. After advising Idalis of our error and losing a bit of sleep over it, we decided to try and remedy the situation the following day as there was nothing we could do about it right then and were not about to traverse the streets of Mumbai in the middle of the night. The next morning we set out to attempt to correct the tickets. On our way, we were stopped by touts, again wanting to provide any service imaginable. We repeatedly, yet politely, declined and advised that it was urgent that we make it to the train station to remedy our purchase at the booking office. It was one of the touts that advised us that the booking office is closed on Sunday. However, knowing by now that any excuse was used to just have you hang out a few minutes longer to get just a bit more description and one closer look, we decided to ignore the information and press on. I started thinking as we made our way to the train station that, in fact, the guide book only gave opening hours for the train station booking office for Monday through Saturday. Nonetheless, we still pressed on, and good that we did. We arrived at the train station, made our way to counter twenty-eight, the tourist counter that we had visited the day before, and were greeted by Dina, the incredibly friendly, bright and cheerful woman with a beautiful smile working the counter. She entertained the explanation of our plight, did some research and ended up correcting the dates of our tickets and somehow managed to give us money back despite the fact that we had to pay fines for the corrections and cancellations. We were delighted that our mistake was not permanent and that we would get three whole days away from Mumbai before having to return to catch the final train to Goa, where we currently sit.

Aurangabad was a much needed break, and in spite of being a rather large, and somewhat industrial city, we welcomed the change and felt an incredible sense of peace and spirit in the temples that were carved from solid rock. The interiors of each were incredibly ornate and contained statues and carvings of the various deities represented by the three groups of religious sects that inhabited the area and competed to have the most impressive temples. The competition fueled a level of creativity that was absolutely fascinating and we were the benefactors of their dedicated work where entire temples were created by hammer and chisel by starting from the front and working back and the top working down. You could not help but feel like you were within the presence of greatness. The balance of our trip was wonderful. We stayed at a hotel called Shree Maya, where the staff was incredibly friendly and courteous, the food delicious and the room rather large and comfortable. It made the impending thought of returning to Mumbai, even if for only ten hours, very unsettling. Another great thing to come out of our trip to Aurangabad was the opportunity of meeting Peter and Julia, a young German couple that too had shunned their domestic responsibilities in search of action and adventure. Their course had taken them on a slightly different track through India than ours. Nonetheless, we met in the middle and immediately hit it off. It was as if we had simply reunited with old friends.

Peter is very practical, soft spoken and witty and Julia is very sweet, energetic and vivacious. Both are a pleasure to be around and thus we have made every attempt to spend time together. In fact, we reunited once again here in Arumbol and went out to dinner where we dined on tuna, pomfret and prawns along with salad, chips (fries) and two bottles of Port wine. Port, you may ask. Yes, Port. The state of Goa was only vacated by the conquering and occupying Portuguese a mere forty-eight years ago, leaving an indelible mark on the region in the form of food, architecture and Christianity, Roman Catholic being the dominant religion of the area. A weird occurrence that sometimes allows the visitor to forget he is actually in India. Meat is prevalent, alcohol is tolerated and crosses are everywhere. Our dinner on the second night in Arambol was serenaded by the chants, in Hindi, of the Catholic mass going on in a church right next door.

Idalis and I had lunch at an Italian restaurant when we first arrived in Goa. I had gotten up at some point to use the restroom and discovered two slightly used surf boards lingering around the kitchen. I immediately inquired with the restaurant manager, George, as to the status of the boards. To my surprise, they were for rent at the meager price of one hundred rupees an hour, or the equivalent of two dollars. The next day, the surf had picked up a bit, to slightly ridable, so I grabbed the 5'10” NSP board and headed out for a bit. As I was paddling I came across a young Indian man. We struck up a conversation and filled each other in on the details of our lives. His name was Utkarsh and he was currently in the Indian Army stationed in Kashmir where he was performing his duty and attempting to manage the disturbances in that area between Muslims and Hindus. He was very well spoken and a pleasure to talk to. However, after listening to some of the horrors of religious wars, I decided it was time to teach Utkarsh how to surf. Much to my surprise, he was very much a natural. He laid on the board and managed to keep his balance. I pushed him into his first couple of waves, one of which he rode nearly all the way back to shore. Although he wasn't able to stand in the short time we surfed, I think he had a great time and I hope it helped to clear his mind from work for a little while and possibly even add a new fanatic to the world of surfing. After returning the board, I joined Uktarsh and two of his friends from University for a drink by the ocean. I was introduced to Komal (KK), who is very funny, and Himanshu, who will be getting married in April (good luck Humanshu! Don't forget to send my invitation!) We enjoyed a few cocktails as we watched the sun go down and resolved all the worlds problems. Thank you all for your hospitality and good company, It was a pleasure to meet you!

While in Goa, Peter celebrated his thirty-first birthday (Happy Birthday Peter!). So, we decided to celebrate with a surf. We enjoyed a morning session and an afternoon session of some decent surf. Although the surf in Goa is pretty small and not all that organized, we still had a great time and just enjoyed being in the water. Our celebrations continued the next day when at the behest of Peter and Julia we actually ended up renting motor scooters and covering a distance of approximately one hundred kilometers, all while driving on the “wrong” side of the street and dodging sacred cows and women walking along the road side balancing unusually large containers on their heads . We began our journey early in the morning and did not return to Arambol until the sun had gone down, making driving a scooter, in India, on the opposite side of the road, in the dark, a very challenging, yet unforgettable experience. We managed to visit the Wednesday market in Anjuna to take advantage of some cheap shopping, we then visited the city of Old Goa, a Portuguese settlement with basilicas and cathedrals, and then on to Panjim, another Portuguese settlement and the capital city of the state of Goa. We ended that evening by enjoying yet another meal of very fresh fish, calamari, prawns, crab and, to commemorate a day full of Portuguese explorations, another bottle of Port wine, and all for the equivalent of about twenty-five US dollars.





Our experiences here in Goa have been awesome. We have created a lot of memories and were lucky enough to meet some really wonderful people to spend time with and share experiences with. Goa has both captivated us as well as allowed us time to catch up on some much needed rest and to pursue the propagation of our tans in our attempt to acclimate into the local culture. Life here is incredibly slow and ridiculously affordable. On average, we are estimating that we spend between twenty and thirty US dollars a day, which includes transportation, food, drinks and lodging. You can procure anything that you could possibly need and at a fraction of the cost that you would expect to pay back home. The only draw back is the possibility of a mosquito bite that will introduce your body to Malaria, a potential bite or lick from a stray animal that could find you writhing from Rabies, a severe sun burn that will practically melt your skin off, a bout with the inside out disease that is only ever one sip of water away, careening your scooter off the side of a cliff and one caramel colored cow that the locals say is crazy.. A small price to pay for the slice of heaven that we have found known as Goa!

INCREDIBLE INDIA! (Volume I) A Baptism of Fire

Kevin

Tuesday, November 18 @ 19:54

First of all, I should take a little time to explain the name of the post and how it came about. While still traveling in Turkey, we were fortunate enough to sometimes have English speaking television, usually in the form of CNN or BBC. On the latter network would often run advertisements sponsored by the tourism and culture departments of various countries around the world. The one that was most enthralling and poignant was the one for India. A series of short clips highlighting many beautiful and interesting sites that lay within the border of this massive country. All visually stunning and made even better with the soft and melodic harmony with the words “Incredible India” sung in the background by an Indian woman with a beautiful voice. We decided to assist the tourism board of India by using their slogan to title all the posts for India, and there should be plenty, and exposing our hoards of dedicated readers! So there you have it. Each entry will still have its own ingenious title, but will be an installment.

Second of all, and on a more serious note, though this is technically not our first trip to Asia, as 97% of Turkey lies within the Asian continent, this is our first taste of what may be called an un or under developed Asian country. For all intents and purposes, India is growing by leaps and bounds in many respects, but perhaps most as an emerging global market. Unless you have been here, there really is nothing that you can see, including tourism commercials, or hear that can prepare you for this very unique experience. I am not qualified to pass any judgments or provide commentary in the form of details or specifics. However, as you know, this blog is a way for us to share our experiences on this adventure that we have chosen to undertake.

Upon arriving in Mumbai from Istanbul I think it is fair to say that we both may have experienced a bit of shock. The airport terminal is not all that bad or crazy, but suffice it to say that once you leave it, you are in a completely different environment. For us, one that we had never had any exposure to and could never have prepared for. The Indian people are truly beautiful in so many ways. They are incredibly colorful, charming, helpful, gracious and at times quite persistent. Their food is a cornucopia of spice and flavor, their music cheerful, their crafts intricate and beautiful. However, there is also a rather gloomy side. Again these are entirely based on our individual observations and are in no means intended to offend or judge. There is a gaping and drastic divide between the haves and the have nots. There is a level of poverty that neither of us could have ever envisioned. Mumbai is a city of sixteen million people and the better part of the community is incredibly poor. Without becoming graphic, suffice it to say that both of us were so moved by what we saw on a daily basis that we were practically brought to tears at the end of each of the three days that we were in Mumbai. Growing up in the west is a privilege that I will never take for granted again. Part of my upbringing is to blame for my inability to accept what I saw as “normal” or “just the way it is”. Entire families live in the streets and immediately adjacent to traffic, people sleep in gutters and little naked children relieve them selves in catch basins. Mostly everyone is in search of a way to secure a rupee, a currency that holds little value to the dollar that we are funding our travels with. It is so overwhelming at times and yet, there seems to be nothing that one person could possibly do to relieve the situation. No amount of rupees that we could ever supply would make much of a difference in the lives of some of the more unfortunate. Through it all, Idalis and I have been prompted to have some very intense and deep conversations that usually revolve around how to make sense of it all.
For the most part, India still subscribes to the caste system, which binds people to a social strata, from the time they are born, which most are never able to deviate from. A hopeless situation that is justified as the karma one must endure for actions in previous lives. A hard pill to swallow for a pampered westerner such as myself. Through all the noise and chaos that is India, we have committed to trying to work through it in the hopes that we could learn something from this experience and even better perhaps do something to help.

Our arrival into Mumbai was, for the most part, flawless. The planning that we had done had come in handy. We found the ATM, secured a fixed price taxi, slathered ourselves in mosquito repellent and managed to find our hotel without much difficulty. It was not the greatest hotel in the world, but our twin bed, rectangular room with a detached and shared bathroom was to serve us well, at least for one night. It pains me to once again have to advise everyone of yet another complication that my dear Idalis had to endure. It appears as if on the night of our arrival she brushed her teeth and simply overlooked the fact that the water could be hard on the gentle gut of a tourist. It was probably close to 2:30 in the morning when she awoke me to advise off pain, fever and a compulsion to visit the shared toilette...frequently. We suffered through the night together and first thing in the morning, I headed out into a city that I had yet to see in the light in search of water (of the bottled variety), re-hydration salts, bananas, crackers and toilette paper, the only item I did not return with. I then secured us an upgrade, a room with an attached bathroom and moved my Mum and all of our stuff one floor below. We set up, locked the door and settled in for what eventually became about twenty-four hours of intense fever (103.1), aching muscles and bones and an all liquid expulsion. I stayed with her the whole day and did whatever I could, which was not much, to try to help ease the discomfort. Had the hotel been decent, it may have made it a bit, just a bit, easier. But unfortunately, we got a pretty bad place that I virtually had to scrub just to make usable. (Worse than the Acrapolis in Rome, by far!)

Eventually, Mum's fever came back down to normal, the frequent visits to the lou lessened drastically and we found ourselves up, dressed and ready to tackle the city on our second day. I can't really say tackle, it was more like a tiptoe. We managed to see the Gateway to India, built in 1953 for the visiting British King, some of downtown and the train station, where we spent a great deal of time trying to figure out exactly where to order the tickets, how to complete the required form and select the most appropriate coach class from seven different varieties. After that, we eventually found ourselves navigating the very busy, very loud and very crowded streets to the furthest stall inside of the Kamat restaurant, where we would dine on our first real meal in over forty-eight hours. It took a great deal of fortitude for Idalis to feel secure about ingesting our menu selections. But, it turned out to be an incredibly tasteful, enjoyable and above all, safe meal. So much so that we would return the following night to sample more items that we had not had the room for on the previous night. There are many things to do in Mumbai, the touts will create or customize any tour imaginable for the right amount of rupees, “good price, good price”. However, we really did not get to do too much of the touristic things and were somewhat anxious to try and get out of the city after our few short, though very intense and taxing experiences. The most impressive of these experiences being our actual train ride out of town. It was the Kolkan Kanya train to Arangabad and it would be the second class, non a/c sleeper for us, seeing as it was the only thing available. We arrived an hour early, got a decent fare on the taxi ride and managed to find the correct platform and staging area for our designated coach, S3. As the train approached, we stood confidently at the platform ready to board until all of the sudden and out of nowhere the space between us and the train, no more than four feet, was immediately occupied by at least on hundred screaming, pushing and very determined Indian passengers. At first, we had no idea what to do, simply returned our lower jaws to their appropriate location and stepped back so as not to be a casualty of the mayhem that was ensuing before our very eyes. Second class is comprised of two categories, unreserved seating and second class sleeping berths, consisting of eight bunks per compartment. These classes are the cheapest and the ones most used by the locals. We had no idea and only accepted what was available to us the date and time that we wished to leave. Thankfully, after seeing the dilemma that we were facing, an Indian Transit employee cleared the coach of the unticketted guests allowing those with tickets to eventually board. We did and were somewhat relieved to eventually find our compartment, very much resembling a jail cell, and settled in for what we hoped would be a restful overnight train ride to our next destination. As you may have guessed by now, no such luck. We were, however, pleased to have the opportunity to meet another couple traveling through India, Klara and Zenik from the Czech Republic. They were kind enough to provide us with some insight on the art of traveling in India, including the top bunk theory, for which we are eternally grateful (thank you if you are out there and read this!). At first, the coach was only moderately occupied and a majority of the passengers were students of Architecture from Mumbai University. However, as time passed on our seven, eventually eight, hour journey, the coach became more and more crowded, to the point that people were lying in the aisles, cubbies and even restrooms. Another funny thing about train travel, if you want to call it funny, is that there is a very precise schedule for each and every train and rarely do they ever manage to adhere to those schedules. So imagine how complicated it is to know if you are at the right stop when your scheduled time arrives, it is completely dark outside and there are absolutely no signs indicating the station that you are at, or if they do exist, they are written only in Hindi. Thankfully, once again, the generosity of the Indian people shown through and one of the passengers advised us of when our scheduled stop to Arangabad had arrived. It was five in the morning, again, pitch black and we put on our packs, said good bye to our new friends and set off through a swarming crowd of touts to try and find our way to a hotel along a dark, dirt road.

Idalis:

Mumbai and I did not get off to a good start. As Kevin mentioned, on our first night, I became violently ill. The traditional “Delhi Belly” that many visitors get at some point in their travels here happened to me right away. I woke up at 2:30 AM, sweating and with horrible abdominal pains. My head was pounding, my entire body hurt, and although my fever was over 103 degrees, I could not stop shivering. I will spare you all the details. Suffice to say that it's the sickest I can ever remember feeling. I was somewhat scared, being in a new country, in a crappy hostel that perpetually smelled of turpentine, with no relief in sight. It was a horrible experience, the one good thing coming out of it was feeling, once again, Kevin's constant love and dedication to me. Kevin helped me take cold showers to bring down my temperature, ventured into Mumbai's dirty streets to buy me hydration salts, force fed me bits of banana so I'd have some food in my system, took my temperature religiously, and wiped my tears away when I couldn't stop crying. Not once, in those 24 hours, did he leave my side, choosing instead to stay with me in our hot, stinky, claustrophobic room. He watched over me, soothed me, and kept telling me I would get better soon. Kevin has done many romantic things for me. He's a guy who's not afraid to be affectionate, and his loving gestures have been numerous. This, by far, takes the cake. I will never forget his dedication and concern, his gentle hands helping me into bed when I was too weak. Some girls like diamond rings and roses, but for me, this has been the greatest show of love I've ever felt. Thank you, Amor, for calming my despair and making me feel safe.

I will not lie. Mumbai was hard. Kevin and I felt a range of feelings while there: awe towards the women dressed in beautiful colored saris, sadness at seeing so much poverty, delight at tasting our first vegetarian thali, revulsion at the smell of feces and urine which permeated so many corners, wonder at our first glimpse to the Gateway of India, frustration at the endless touts and beggars, and a million other conflicting emotions. We felt guilty for at once wanting to be pleasant to everyone we met, but having to say no to the millionth outstretched hand. We were greatly humbled by this experience, and our time in Mumbai further solidified our feeling of gratitude. Gratitude for having each other, wonderful families and friends, a roof over our heads, and food in our belly. For me, Mumbai was like having to drink cod liver oil as a child: I didn't like it, but I knew it was good for me.