I Am TOAST

As I was out walking in Kathmandu if by "walking" you mean "trying not to get killed" I thought about the last day of my Damascus, Syria, vacation with Little Westside Jonny lo these many years ago.  The city was so compelling that our desire not to miss anything overrode our premonition that the best thing we could do was to stay safe in our hotel room, and so out we went into the funride that was the main souk.  Mostly we walked around shouting: "I'm toast" or "I am FRIED" or stopping, looking around, and saying with a deadpan expression: "I got nuthin.  I am done."

We have a couple of days here at the end of this vacation and my desire to see everything this morning overrode etc. etc. etc. so out I went.  I walked for about an hour on the foaming, frothing, swirling Kathmandu streets until my brain switched into a very fundamental regulatory state where all it could handle was basic life functions like breathing, handling my heart beat and blood pressure, and attempting to ambulate me out of the path of large, dangerous, metal vehicles.  I couldn't look up because the pavement is cracked and irregular and gone; I couldn't look down lest I tangle myself in a morass of electrical wires or impale an eye on something hanging from a shop, not exclusive of dead chickens and bags of Lay's Potato Chips; I couldn't just look to the right or to the left or straight ahead as I needed to jump and dodge all manner of flying things, the worst being motorcycles that would come exploding out of narrow alleys and doorways.  I crossed the street a few times which is as close to hang-gliding as I ever want to get. Whew.

The tableau was very repetitive: banged-up and thoroughly locked metal doorways; trinket shops; food shops; chip and pop shops; and bicycle after bicycle laden with grapes, oranges, and small bananas.  People are hustling.  It looked seriously like if they didn't sell enough they didn't eat.  I have no idea how a consumer chose one bike over another.  The bikes were a trip: beaten into a molten stage and each employing a totally unique, hand-fabricated basket or cage to carry the wares.

Whew.

FOR MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY WHO WOULD LIKE TO SEE WHAT WE'VE BEEN UP TO IN MORE DETAIL . . . .

Might be some recovery in here but more of a trip diary than anything. I'll update this as I work through my notes.

UPDATED 1/30/15

1/8/15: New Delhi

A night at LAX to make sure that we get to our 9AM international flight with no trouble.  A last night where we’re still in control, where we still know the rules.  LAX to Houston: 3 hours; Houston to Munich: 9 hours: Munich to New Delhi: 7 hours.  Oof-dah.  We did sleep a good chunk of the time especially on the last leg but we’re still talking 30 hours door to door.

1/9/15: New Delhi

We have some trouble getting through customs with a very friendly smart-ass customs agent who spoke flawless English.  He wouldn’t let us pass without the name of our first hotel, an establishment arranged by our tour guide and nameless to us (the Suryaa - like we would have remembered that even if we knew what it was).  He eventually relented a bit and agreed to let us in if we gave him the name of any of the hotels we were staying at.  Struck out on this as well and we had no luck getting hooked up on the airport wireless to check on the itinerary saved on email as the instructions were in Hindu.  After 15 minutes he figured we weren’t going anywhere and he waved us through.  U.S. customs wouldn’t even let us on the plane without proving we had an Indian visa and Indian customs wouldn’t let us through without a hotel.  We should have said we were backpacking.

Sahul, nattily dressed in slacks and a plaid sports coat, is waiting at the airport.  Not a city to arrive in jet-lagged and late at night.  The drive to the hotel was a darting jag along darkened streets.  The air smells like smoke - Sahul looks perplexed when we mention it.  We have to pass through a check-point to get onto the hotel grounds - the guards open both the trunk and the front hood and we have to put our luggage through an airport-type screening device to get into the hotel.  The Suryaa is a large, colonial looking place.  Everyone speaks flawless English and is impeccably attired.  We are served rosewater as we wait to be checked in.

Forecast this morning is for “Smoke.”  This is my first First of India - many .  As the sky brightens we see that we’re in a very nice hotel in a chaotic neighborhood.  Another place with none of the anal-retentive qualities of our Western society.  The traffic is chaotic plus - use of car horns to warn pedestrians and each other is endemic - it sounds like someone just won the World Series.

A little shopping - K buys an Indian jacket and scarf (“I make you good price”); an excellent lunch; a meeting with Sahul to get our cell phone; a nap; and that’s the day.

1/10/15: New Delhi

Elephants are a big deal here.  There are 3 important animals in Hinduism: elephants, monkeys, and cows.  Elephants are the biggest.  A lot of monuments and spiritual places are decorated with them.  We visit Akshardam Palace where the wall surrounding the entire periphery of the very large palace is covered with one long frieze showing elephants in every possible situation, and it’s carved in sandstone.  Akshardham means the eternal, divine abode of the supreme God, the abode of eternal values and virtues of Akshar as defined in the Vedas and Upanishads where divine bhakti, purity, and peace forever pervades.  This amazing structure is comprised of 20,000 statues, floral motifs, and exquisite carved pillars made of stones.

Toilets are a trip.  They are rarely unattended and the attendants are on you like white on rice.  They turn on the water and hand you towels and lurk behind you as your bashful bladder rebels.  They are happy with a small amount of money but small denominations are hard to come by.  I pay when I can and I flee when I can’t - I’ve had guys pluck at my sleeve for 20 yards as I try to get out.  None have hot water.  Soap is not common.  It’s a win to get a sit-down toilet - it’s not unusual to see “Western Toilets” advertised.  If they’re local, you get a squatting spot over a hole.

At Akshardam we get our first taste of security surrounding visible state monuments.  There is a lot of Hindu-Muslim tension and there is a lot of fear of terrorism from Pakistan.  The trip will provide us with many opportunities to get opinions of the most contentious of neighbors.  In many places there are 2 or 3 levels of inspection including metal detectors for people and luggage X-ray machines for parcels.  Most of the time a hand search is standard so there are separate lines for men and women, and the women get a covered area.  Our hotels - nice ones catering to Westerners and wealthy Indians - all have extensive security although the searches we’re subjected to are pretty cursory.

One of the most important buildings of Old Delhi is the Red Fort, built during the years 1638 – 48 when the Moghul Empire was at its peak. In 1638 Shahjahan transferred his capital from Agra to Delhi and laid the foundations of Shahjahanabad, the seventh city of Delhi. It is enclosed by a rubble stonewall, with bastions, gates and wickets at intervals. Of its fourteen gates, the important ones are the Mori, Lahori, Ajmeri, Turkman, Kashmiri and Delhi gates.

After the Jama Masjid mosque  -  an open air, no enclosed space complex - we take a rickshaw ride through the crowded market streets.  The guy pulling us appears to weigh about 125 and he’s responsible for 300 lbs of American beef.  We wind through the clogged lanes, dodging people and bikes and other rickshaws, the ever-present motorcycles careening through at a high rate of speed.  My ass takes a pounding on the slatted wooden seat, jarred by the rutted, deteriorating pavement, bent almost double by the canopy obviously made for someone 8 inches shorter than me.  There are different types of markets as we proceed - marriage market, paper market, card market, etc. etc. - that sell mostly wholesale but also to those who make the trip to save a little money.   It’s an absolutely chaotic scene.  Our little pilot works me for a tip the whole time and we take care of him.

Overhead - barely - are incredible tangles of electrical wires.  They look like a ball of string a kitten has totally destroyed.  They look like an electrocution magnet.  It is beyond my powers of description to tell anyone what they look like.  I fail to see how any of them do anything.  It is madness.  I can only imagine the percentage of the hook-ups that are legal and generating any income for the service providers.  My job took me around a lot of electricity and I’ve seen what it can do to human flesh when unleashed - I wouldn’t get within a hundred yards of that mess.

We end up at the majestic Humayun’s Tomb. Humayun died in 1556, and his widow Hamida Banu Begum commenced the construction of his tomb in 1569, fourteen years after his death. It is the first distinct example of proper Mughal style, which was inspired by Persian architecture.

1/11/15: New Delhi

Driving is a blood sport here.  It is beyond belief.  I like to drive; I am a good and aggressive driver; I think I have some not inconsiderable driving skill; I would not survive for two minutes here.  It is absolute chaos and I don’t mean it’s chaotic - I mean it’s chaos.  There are cars and tons of motorcycles and bicycles by the million and rickshaws being pulled by small men and tuk-tuks (CNG powered three wheel scooters used as taxis, personal vehicles, and for commercial transit) and carts pulled by donkeys, camels, and horses and huge, battered buses, and the most terrifying Mad Max trucks you have ever set eyes on, garishly decorated, “Horn Please” or “Sound Horn” painted on the rear panel.  These conveyances move at a high rate of speed and obey no rules of god or man.  People pass on the right and on the left and on the berm.  It is perfectly acceptable to use the opposite side of the road, swerving back in front of the car one is passing at the last instant.

The cherry on the top of the Mad Max cake is the use of horns.  Everyone is blowing them constantly.  At first it sounded like pure mischief but we’re beginning to sense that there is some kind of comprehensible messaging going on.  Taps and chirps and blows and long, extended blats.  It doesn’t seem to bother anyone - I’m used to a culture where the horn is sometimes used as a warning but usually to display displeasure - here it seems to be communication, a bunch of people sharing information.  It’s LOUD, I’ll say that much.

The day begins at the most famous Sikh temple in Delhi: Gurudwara Bangla Sahib.  This is an amazing experience.  The complex is bustling with Sikhs in their famous turbans which covers up the long, long hair wound up underneath.  The part of the temple where worship occurs is nice but we’ll see nicer - we make the requisite counterclockwise circuit standard in India.  Inside are 4 unbelievable musician/singers playing instruments I’ve never seen before and we listen to the music for a while, transfixed.  We exit the temple and enter a huge communal kitchen where volunteers - everyone volunteers their time from the most wealthy to the very poor - are providing vast amounts of food - bread, dal, rice, and other unnamed specialties.  Trays are passed out; spoons are passed out; food is labeled into the trays and people eat.   Clouds of steam issue from huge pots boiling away.   Everyone is barefoot - everything is made from scratch.

It is a very humbling place: all sit together, all help out.

The tour also includes a drive past the imposing India Gate, the Parliament building and the Rastrapathi Bhawan, the President’s residence.  We briefly visit the Lotus temple located in south of Delhi. It is lotus shaped and has rightly been given the name. It is made of marble, cement, dolomite and sand.

We then head to Qutub Minar, in red and buff sandstone, the highest tower in India.  Qutbu'd-Din Aibak laid the foundation of Minar in AD 1199 for the use of the mu'azzin (crier) to give calls for prayer and raised the first floor, to which were added three more floors by his successor.  All the storeys are surrounded by a projected balcony encircling the minar and supported by stone brackets, which are decorated with honeycomb design.  Pilgrims used to be able to ascend the tower until it became a favorite spot for distraught teen girls to fling themselves from.

1/12/15: Transit to Varanassi

On our transfer to the airport we approached a single lane bridge - car after car drifted to the left before angling in sharply in an attempt to ooze forward a little faster - it reminded me of a huge mass of jetsam swirling around faster and faster before being sucked down the drain.  On the bridge itself motorcycles, horns blaring, try to squeeze by between the car and the concrete railing - at one point there was a crunch on the left side: a cycle had gotten too close.  Our drive rolled down his window and there was a brief, unheated conversation, but no one inspected for damage or anything like that.  Try that in The States.

I don’t think you need a driver’s license in India.  It can’t be necessary.  These people can’t have taken a test to demonstrate any capabilities to do anything competent or responsible with a motorized vehicle.

Sahul showed up late without the flight tickets and it took a while sorting things out before we left the hotel.  He and the driver sit stone-faced on the mad drive to the airport, answering blandly when we ask if we’re going to make it on time.

“I’m sorry but you’ve missed the flight,” says the gate agent after we maneuver through security.  We rebook and take the next flight, 3 hours hence.  Little do we know that this will not be our last travel travail.

Our transfer agent is there to greet us when we arrive, although no one bothered to tell him that we were going to be late.  It’s dark and we speed toward our hotel on a narrow road, lights flashing, horn blaring, dodging people, animals, and other vehicles on the black road.  Little do we know that this will not be our last terrifying road experience.

Drugs aren’t a huge problem here - more of an indulgence for the wealthy.  The stuff is expensive - the exact opposite of The States.  Alcohol is not readily apparent although our guides talk about the prevalence of home brew, which can be deadly to the consumer.

1/13/15: Varanassi

We are up at 5AM for an early transfer to the most sacred spot in the Hindu religion: the River Ganges.  We drive in dense fog on narrow streets lined with shops, steam pouring out of small restaurants,  as far as we can before proceeding on foot.  The streets are full of cows and crowded with pilgrims.  It is, as we’ve come to expect, borderline chaos.   The cross streets, even at this hour, stream with traffic. Shakeel has a very deliberate and meditative walk - he doesn’t seem to be hurrying but he is walking with purpose. He doesn’t look behind as cars and motorcycles fly past.  At each cross street he moves slowly and carefully across, holding a hand out just as a bike seems ready to hit him, but they always stop.  It seems like a computer game where we’re earning points for not dying.

We crest a small hill and there it is: the Ganges, only one side of which is holy.  Down to the river itself where we step into a wooden skiff piloted by a wiry young man who proceeds to row us out into the middle of the river.  There, arrayed before us, is an amazing scene: temple after temple stretching down the banks, funeral pyres surrounded by mourners sending smoke into the sky, hardy worshippers splashing and bathing in the what-must-be frigid waters, dozens of floating candles and garlands of flowers drifting with the current.  We row up stream for a while before turning around and heading the opposite way.

The funeral pyres are for all Hindus except for 6 cases; Holy Men, who don’t need the supplication; pregnant women because there are two persons; small children who haven’t been alive long enough; and cases of snakebite, cholera, and leprosy, which indicate some bad juju on the part of the deceased, requiring that they come back in the next life and make good.  The big problem is that the funeral pyres cost some money so the poor simply float their corpses out into the river to decompose there.  Yeech.  Needless to say we kept our hands in the boat.

Both SuperK and I feel strongly the spiritual vibe which surrounds the river.  I ask Shakeel if he would say a short prayer (he has admitted to being “not very religious”).  He nods, confirms our names, then bows his head, prays silently for a minute.  It’s powerful - SuperK appears to be close to tears.  While it’s supposed to be amazing to see the sun rise and strike the temples, it somehow feels appropriate that the whole scene is dim and smoky and indistinct.  It was an amazing experience.

After the boat ride we walk back up into the old town.  The stone lanes are narrow, full of garbage, speckled with manure, the old houses crowding close.  Shakeel tells us it’s a well to do area, that every house has water and electricity, active sewers.  It looks like tremendous poverty to us.

On the way we see the Kashi Vishwanath Temple which is right next to a mosque with a dome of gold leaf.  Because of a terrorist attack way back in 1992 there is heavy security - metal detectors, heavily armed soldiers everywhere - Shakeel sniffs it off as politics.

We stop by the Bharat Mata Temple, which features a big relief map of Mother India engraved in marble and we also visit the 18th century Durga Temple, commonly known as the Monkey Temple due to the huge population of monkeys.

We visit Sarnath, one of the holiest Buddhist sites in the world, where Buddha preached his first Sermon after Enlightenment in 590 BC.  Here he revealed the eight-fold path that leads to the attainment of inner peace, Enlightenment and Ultimate Nirvana. We also visit a museum which houses an excellent collection of Buddhist art and sculptures found at the site.  There is a path around the ruins in a nice park - we stroll slowly around and feel tremendous spirituality for the second time in a few hours.  Close by is a huge Buddha built by the Thais and a nice little museum full of antiquities from the sites.

There are 4 holy sites in Buddhism - I jot down the names as best as I can, determined not to look them up later.  What you get is what you get:

Lumbrici - where the Buddha was born (the spelling is correct as I later see it on the 100 rupee bill in Nepal.

Bodh Gaya - reached enlightenment

Sarnath - previously discussed or have you forgotten already?

Kushinagar - where he died.

“There is suffering.

Suffering has a cause.

Suffering can be stopped.

The methods used to correct suffering: aspirations; speech; conduct; living; meditation; effort; mindfulness and something I can’t read which looks like “video.”

Buddha was pretty cool.  He said that there were 27 previous Buddhas and many more to come.  He wasn’t going to get too big for his own britches.  He is The Awakened One: he knows almost all.

The Hindu gods are very complicated.  We are told repeatedly and by many different people that there are 330 million of them, which inevitably prompts me to ask, very seriously, what their names are.  The tour guides are very earnest and sincere and they have to pause for a minute to make sure that I’m joking.  We like the idea that it’s OK to believe in a god or many gods or no god at all as long as one strives to be pure in heart.

Before we enter many religious sites we’re required to take off our shoes.  Worried about infection and disease and the like I’m faced with walking around on dirty pavement, wet pavement in one pair of my severely limited sock supply or risk going barefoot on alien soil.  I’ve gone both ways.  Let me tell you this - I have worn some dirty socks for more than one day here.  It’s never good when I’m faced with the choice on a clean sock day.  See a 1000 year old temple or dirty my last pair of clean socks?  Think about it.  And it’s amazing to leave my $225 travel shoes - saved up lovingly for travel only - with some scroungy guy outside a church.  More than once I’ve thought: “I’ll never see those again” but they’re still in my possession.

The last event of the day takes us back to the Ganges: the AARTI of the Ghats. We pay for some plastic chairs perched above the riverfront where we have a bird’s eye view of the proceedings.   It’s a combination of music and dance performed by monks, accompanied by continuous bell ringing and a hell of a lot of burning stuff, meant as thanks for another day.  Before things start there is a high speed invocation to the gods blaring over loudspeakers - it sounds like a cross between an auction and live horse race call.  I almost expect someone to say: “Will you welcome!  From Varanassi!!  Black Sabbath!!!”  There’s a lot of smoke and noise, and it’s a fitting end to our day.

As we wait for the ceremony to begin, SuperK, noting that Shakeel has wandered off to pay the Hindu priest the equivalent of $9 for our premium box seats, leans over and confides: “If he doesn’t come back, I’m sleeping right here.  There is no way we could make it back to the hotel alive.

1/14/15: Transit to Khajuraho

Our ride to the airport arrives damn early and we make it with plenty of time to spare.  Alas, no airplane - north India is socked in with thick fog which wreaks havoc with air and train travel both.  The wait is disconcerting in the tiny Khajuraho airport - there is precious little in the way of information being presented to us and no gate agents to help - hell, there is no gate.  The one prehistoric information board lists our flight with this vague instruction: “Check In.”  It provides this information right up to the time we get on the plane.

We land, of course, in the dark and play the requisite game of chicken as we make our way to our very, very nice hotel.

The food is very spicy.  The food is always very spicy.  It is spicy at breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  If you order it not spicy, it comes out spicy.  It’s a different hot than the jalapeno/Mexican spicy I’m used to, a heat that burns the mouth.  This spicy causes beads of sweat to pop out on my forehead without frying my mucous membranes.  I’m gone Indian spicy twice and handled it well  - most of the time when I ask for it hot it comes out standard hot, not scorching hot.  I sent one dish back and the waiter seemed to be impressed that I liked the spiked dish that he put in front of me.

A line I’ve heard a lot: “That will be chargeable, sir.”

This evening we head out to a program featuring talented dancers showing off steps from many different regions.  We were prepared to be underwhelmed and were pleasantly surprised when they ended up being professionals from Mumbai.

1/15/15:  Khajuraho

Khajuraho is known for 11th century Jain temples.  They included:

Kandariya Mahadeo: The 31m high temple is the largest and most typical Khajuraho temple with exquisite carvings and intricate and detailed craftsmanship in stone depicting divine deities, celestial maidens, eternal lovers, gods and goddesses. This temple is dedicated to Lord Shiva and enshrines the 'linga'.

Chaunsath Yogini: The temple is the earliest temple of the group that has survived.  It belongs to 900 AD and is dedicated Goddess Kali.  It has the distinction of being the only granite temple here.

Chitragupta Temple: This temple is dedicated to the Sun God (Surya Dev).  It faces towards east or the rising sun and the imposing image of the image of the deity in the inner sanctum is as high as five feet and is shown driving a horse-drawn chariot.

Vishwanatha Temple: This temple has impressive entrances with magnificent stone guarding its northern steps and royal masonry elephants taking care of the southern steps. The three-headed image of Lord Brahma in the temple is not less captivating.

Lakshmana Temple: A pretty Vaishnava temple flaunts a lintel over its entrance depicting the divine trinity of Lord Brahma, Lord Vishnu and Lord Shiva along with Goddess Lakshmi, the wife of Lord Vishnu.

Matangeshwara Temple: Situated outside the premises of Western group of temples, this Lord Shiva's temple is known for the daunting eight feet high lingam (male organ representing the natural process of reproduction and the continuity of human life form) that it enshrines.

All of the temples save one - very active - was open to the public.  People were streaming in and out of this temple, ringing bells, genuflecting, preparing food, steam billowing into the sky.  We are openly stared at, an occurrence much more common in smaller towns and rural areas.

After lunch our guide Annid, a Khajuraho native, offers to give us a tour of his small town.  We get our first taste of the caste system, officially passe, vanishing in the big cities, but very much a way of life in the rural districts.  The four divisions are: Brahmin, the holy men; Warrior, the soldiers and officials; Commercial, merchants and the like; and the Untouchables.  We walk through the different areas of town where these folks live and honestly are hard pressed to tell which is which - Annid tells me he can tell by their dress and manner of speech, but the dead give-away is the surname, which marks everyone with certainty.

As the trip proceeds we’ll get a strong sense that there’s an ingrained prejudice at work - the upper three castes are dismissive of the fourth, they speak with an authority and a sense of superiority.  The caste system ensures that people with money keep it.  We’ll work with a man later for many days that we’ll suspect may be an Untouchable, doomed to his position because of his birth.  He’s uneducated but smart, picking up decent English just by speaking it with his clients.  He’ll have a tenuous hold on his work -  people at his level, with no prospects, are interchangeable.

This is a cultural experience.  This is not particularly relaxing - there are long periods of fairly hectic travel interspersed with some amazing sights.  There is not that much to do here outside of the major tourist attractions.  We are seeing a huge area very quickly - it almost seems like we’re going from Boston to NYC to Washington every other day.  It is very enlightening and somewhat nerve wracking.

1/16/15: Transfer to Agra

Hound of the Baskervilles vacation - I don’t think we’ve seen the sun yet.  Fog - dense fog - covers the area again.  I’m the only person in the breakfast restaurant of this swanky hotel and the staff is on me like white on rice - they’re very enthusiastic and friendly, talking a mile a minute most of it indecipherable to me.  I toy with the idea of saying: “Please go away so I can sip my coffee in peace.”

We are dropped off at the Indian Rail System for our trip to Agra - private, first class compartment.  We open the door onto a small room that appears to be right out of the 50s.  There is a standard desk fan bolted to the ceiling, a bunch of dim fluorescent lights, a tired leather seat looking out a dirty window, and a bright shiny “Incredible India” poster on the wall facing us.  We will know this single piece of reading material very well in 10 hours or so.

It is, of course, very foggy.  We start off in high spirits, watching the countryside flow by, snacking on a couple of packed lunches that we have - it was advertised as “way too much food” which will not prove prescient many hours hence.  The train slows, stops, sits, moves forward slowly, stops for an extended period of time, over and over.  There seems to be no rhyme or reason and at times we sit for a half an hour.  Lights outside are at a premium - we see the names of stations about ½ the time and we can find them on our itinerary about ¼ of the time.  The not knowing is exhausting again, as the hours tick by in our small coffin.

We arrive at the Agra train station in the fog and dark and chaos.  A guy from the company finds us somehow and we’re delivered shell-shocked as usual, to our hotel.  It is a constant repeat: high spirits and optimism, punishing travel, trying to figure out the opaque tippng system, the sanctuary of a nice hotel.

1/17/15: Agra

The Taj Mahal was built by Shah Jahan, a white marble memorial to his beautiful wife Mumtaz Mahal. This monument took 22 years to be completed and was designed, and planned by Persian architect Ustad Isa.  Apart from its stunning design balance and perfect symmetry, the Taj is also noted particularly for its elegant domes, intricately carved screens and some of the best inlay work ever seen.  

We are stared at openly.  We are a couple of white people made more unusual by the fact that I’m tall and pale and wear a porkpie hat.  We are the exotics.  We have been asked many times if it would be OK to be photographed and I’ve caught a few people trying to surreptitiously sneak behind us to grab a shot with us in the foreground.  I always sidle over and smile broadly and am invariably thanked.  The darker and the more rural pilgrims really find us fascinating.

We make a stop at the Red Fort - a red sandstone structure surrounded by chahar-bagh, a foursquare formal garden. Built by the famed Mughal emperor Akbar in 1565 AD, the fort is predominantly of red sandstone.  Ensconced within is the picture perfect Pearl Mosque.

1/18/15: Transfer to Ranthambore National Park

On our way we stop at the mosque complex Fatehpur Sikri.  Muhammad Akbar accessed the throne at the tender age of 14. Akbar, who was without a male heir heard about Saint Salim Chisti and visited him in the year 1568 - the saint blessed him with 3 sons and in gratitude Akbar ordered the great mosque of Fatehpur Sikri built. As a mark of respect to the saint, Akbar shifted his capital to Fatehpur Sikri and built various secular buildings like the Diwan -I-Am, Diwan-I-Khas, Jodhabai palace, Birbal's house, Marian's house and the Panchmahal.

As stressful a trip as I’ve had in a while.  Big, big newness - big, big culture shock.  I’ve never had an experience like India.

I have seen some absolutely fearless merges.  People will stack up 8 cars wide, using lanes, in-between lanes, the median, the berm, and then play a game of chicken, horns sounding, in an effort to gain a single car length.  The motorcycles obey no rules.

1/19/15: Ranthambore National Park

1/20/15: Transit to Jaipur

We are riding the tiger.

My favorite music is performed by Black Sabbath and my second favorite group is AD/DC.  I like a lot of music of a similar ilk but these two groups are far, far above anything else that catches my fancy.  I like to listen to them still, 45 years after the first time they deformed the air that produced the sound waves that registered in my ears.  I play the music loud and I can listen to it for a while but I can't play it loud for very long.  I get tired of the frantic pace and I get worn out from the assault on my senses that heavy metal played loud can produce.

India is like listening to Black Sabbath at Volume Eleven non-stop.  I catch my breath in my nice hotel compounds and then back into the fray I go.  It is, frankly, exhausting.

India is like trying to read over the sound of a jackhammer busting up concrete in the street right outside.  Eventually you may be able to ignore enough of the racket to actually get some reading done but it's going to be tough.  Then, when the jackhammering stops you can't believe how quiet everything is.  I have been listening to a jackhammer for 15 days.

1/21/15: Jaipur

Our hotel here - a very nice one, almost 100 years old - is like many you find in India.  There is a narrow opening on a busy, noisy, dirty street which leads back to an architectural gem behind walls with a green, peaceful courtyard, lined by the buildings themselves.  You can always hear the traffic boiling past on the streets outside.  It’s never quiet in India.  Kite flying is a huge pastime here - the kites are light affairs of thin plastic stretched over lightweight wire and the sky is filled with them, some impossibly high, others in tactical combat, the trees and wires and buildings covered with those that have fallen.  They make a peaceful fluttering overhead.

It’s difficult for us to tell the difference between nice neighborhoods and shabby ones.  The streets inevitably look the same - cluttered, poorly maintained roadways and sidewalks, where the latter exist, garbage everywhere, animals everywhere - dogs, pigs, cows - warrens of small shops filled with men lounging on plastic chairs, huddled around smoky wood fires, engaged in all manner of commerce and skullduggery.  I have no desire to strike out on my own and explore and I’ve almost never said this in all my travels.

India is the definition of chaos.  It is Black Sabbath at full volume.  It is a Metallica guitar riff.  It is intense and exhilarating and frustrating as hell.

1/22/15: Jaipur

1/23/15: Transit to Jodhpur

I get the sense that India is growing too fast for it’s capabilities right now.  The middle glass is exploding, people are buying cars and stuff, and the infrastructure isn’t keeping up.  60% - 70% of the population is under 40 - there’s a tremendous amount of energy and India is growing at the rate of one Australia per year.  I had expected to see more poverty than I have - there seems to be a strong, thriving middle class and plenty of rich people.  It’s hilarious to see nice Mercedes and BMWs maneuvering through the dented and damaged city streets.  Don’t get me wrong - there are people living in appalling conditions with nothing in the way of a social safety net to help them out, but a lot are doing fine.

The people are very, very, very nice.  Everyone speaks English - good English including waiters and maids.  Hands are clasped, heads bow slightly: “Namaste.”  It’s a lovely greeting.  The people are as kind and gracious as any I’ve ever met anywhere.  There’s a genuine sense of pride and friendliness - I feel like the people really care.

1/24/15: Jodhpur

Our first stop of the day is Mehrangarh Fort. Situated on a steep hill, Mehrangarh fort is one of the largest forts in India, spreading over 5 km on a perpendicular hill and looking down 125 meters, presenting a majestic view of the  city horizon.  This Fort is one of the best in India with its exquisitely latticed windows, carved panels, elaborately adorned windows and walls of Moti Mahal, Phool Mahal, and Sheesh Mahal. A collection of musical instruments, palanquins, royal costumes, furniture and the cannons on the fort's ramparts are well preserved.

Then off to Jaswant Thada. This 19th century royal cenotaph built in white marble in commemoration of Maharaja Jaswant Singh II and three other cenotaphs stand nearby. The cenotaph of Maharaja Jaswant Singh holds the rare portraits of the rulers and Maharajas of Jodhpur.

Virtually all the food that we eat here is prepared fresh.  Packaged foods invariably have outlived their advertised shelf life and I mean 2014 and beyond.  We're not talking a lot outdated - we're talking outdated.  The  Coca Colas are outdated.  I am under the impression that when a Coke is bottled it has like a 20 year shelf life.  When do they buy this stuff and more importantly, where do they get it?  Are there big consolidators who buy outdated stuff and resell it?  Blows my mind.

At breakfast I had to beat off the staff who wanted to refill my coffee cup until I actually wanted a refill at which point the two young men I flagged down nodded agreeably, big smile, and then disappeared forever.  I didn't really need any more coffee anyway which kind of sucks.  This is a tea country so Nescafe is the norm even in a fine restaurant.  They take a hot pot, pour in a big dollop of brown powder, and add hot water, right in front of you.  They're not pretending it's coffee.

I had deep fried vegetable balls, oatmeal with olives, brown toast with marmalade, grilled tomatoes with cheese, and a variety of Indian breads for breakfast.  Good stuff.

1/25/15: Transit to Udaipur

On the drive we stop and visit the Ranakpur Temples. These temples form one of the five major pilgrimages of the Jains. Built in the 15th century, Ranakpur temples are known for being the largest and most important temples of the Jain cult.  The temple complex is positioned in an isolated valley on the western side of the Aravalli Range.  This temple is wholly constructed in light colored marble and there are more than 1400 exquisitely carved pillars that support the temple.  The Jains don’t worship any gods but rather a series of prophets.

In a bit we stop by a step well.  A stunning young woman is riding a team of water buffalo that walk around and around, pulling a series of buckets full of water up from a deep well, the water spilling off into a series of canals that feed the wheat fields.  I teach her son to give me a high five - he smiles broadly.  Little victories like this make the trip worthwhile.

I’m beginning to see that I have some limitations as a person.  I don’t sleep as well as I used to, my stomach is not as accepting of new foods as it used to be, and I don’t have the energy to go like a bat out of hell 16 hours a day.  And don’t get me started on my bowels or my bladder, two things I never used to think about let alone consider as a topic of concern.

In all my travels there have been three spots that I found so challenging as to be often uncomfortable: Syria, per-war; far, far back into the jungle in Ecuador, in a primitive camp; and India.  These three pushed the boundaries of my comfort zone.

Dogs are disposable here and cows are venerated - the exact opposite of The States where canines are man’s best friend and cattle are confined to small pens, pumped full of antibiotics and super-charged feed, and slaughtered in a barely humane fashion.  It tugs at my heart to see the state of the dogs here, all of them homeless, and to pass over squashed puppies on the road.  It’s not for me to say which is right.  Part of the issue, I think, is that dogs consume food - and food is something that a lot of people don’t have enough of - and don’t provide much utility in return.  Cows give milk to drink and make yogurt, and their urine and manure is valuable as fertilizer and fuel.

1/26/15: Udaipur

Every car and truck looks to be 50 years old and reclaimed from a salvage yard after a demolition derby using hand grenades.  The big trucks and buses are painted garish colors and have all manner of icons and saints and gods hanging from every mirror or protuberance.

Today a motorcycle veered too close into the path of Sitaran.  He slows, glares at the guy, and opens his window.  The two move slow forward and shout at each other as they proceed.  Sitaran speeds up and continues to drive without comment.  He is a very nice man but we think he has a temper and a big aggressive streak - he sure shows it behind the wheel of the car.

Often when we’re driving I’ll look out the side window or just close my eyes.  It is just too nerve-wracking to look forward - we are engaged in a constant game of high speed chicken and extreme tailgating - I can only assume that our professional driver knows what he’s doing although our perception is exactly the opposite.

This is what overpopulation looks like.  The density of people in India is 10 times what it is in The States.  The earth is being stripped down to the mud here - this cannot be sustained.  It can’t.

I see four vehicle manufacturer’s: Tata, Suzuki, Toyota, and Mahindra.

India is a Mike Tyson haymaker.  I can clearly envision what it would feel like to have a young Mike Tyson, in shape, wind up and deliver a roundhouse punch as I stand there, inert, dumbfounded, defenseless.

Round 10.

India is standing on a frozen lake slickened up with a sheen of water and hearing the ice start to break behind you.  You start to run and fall, get up, make a series of comical slip starts, and take a devastating face-first pratfall.  The cracking ice gets closer, big chunks snapping off and disappearing into the frigid water.  Somehow, some way, you make it to your feet and begin making some forward progress, always slipping and sliding, on the absolute, utter, naked edge of control.  The ice is snapping inexorably toward you.  You must move or die.

This is my India.

We are beginning to suspect that everyone has an angle here, that we are being sold something at all times.  I have begun to distrust everyone.  I don't like feeling this way but it seems like I'm being maneuvered into position constantly.  It feels like a whole shitload of ulterior motives is falling on my head like acid rain.

Tour days follow this pattern: a monument or two, then a stop at a collective or a factory or a workshop to "see how things are made in the old ways by true craftsmen."  Or widows or poor rural workers or war orphans.  There is no pressure to buy.  You can just look.  You are just like a guest in their home.  Absolutely no pressure to buy.  

Where are you from?  Oh, Vacation City, do you know Mr. So and So?  He is from Vacation City and he bought 12 of these things to give as gifts or he got home and then contacted us and bought 48,000 of them because he was so astounded at the price.  Here, look, in my guest book is a letter (from 2004) that Mr. So and So sent.

Once in the shop the vendor sucks in a huge breath of air and talks non-stop until there is no oxygen left in the room.  The item in question - usually carpets or scarves or wall hangings or blankets - are piled three feet deep in front of you with rapid descriptions of the item in question.  No prices are given and there is no pause to let you ask.  It is incredibly stressful to polite Westerners, although as the trip has progressed I confess to have gotten quite good at bringing the proceedings to a close.  Abrupt, you might say.  Brusque.

Our driver, Sitaram, is a quiet young man who mostly drives.  His English is decent but we don't think he needs to chat us up - he really is a quiet guy, although he has the driving skills of the most venomous demon in hell and the aggression of Jack Lambert.  He swears us to silence.  He makes us shake his hand on this vow, without telling us what secret that he is going to divulge.  He looks into our eyes to make sure our word is our bond.

"The guides work with the expensive shops - they make a commission," he says.  We had suspected as much.  We weren't being shown any shops that sell trinkets or cheap collectibles.  I think being from The States probably marks us as having the wealth of Midas, and I mean the muffler guy.

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1/27/15: Udaipur

The hallway in our hotel is long and has no windows, and there are no lights turned on.  This is as it should be.  It makes sense.  I spend a little too many of our remaining rupees so I go to the Travel Desk which advertises Money Exchange.  No one is manning the desk but the usual horde of staff is milling around and they direct me to the front desk.  I wave a 20 at the receptionist.  He looks at me for minute and says:” Can you come back a little later?”  I go find an ATM.

Our guide is Sazid. We start out today at Saheliyon Ki Bari, an elaborate set of gardens built in the 18th century for a bitchy princess who got depressed when the monsoon rains stopped.  There are a lot of fountains not working or kind of working which Sazid attributes to something or the other.  We barely  pause - nothing works, really, most of the time.

When we arrived Sazid asked if the gardens were included in our itinerary.  We replied in the affirmative at which point he mentions that he doesn’t have the cash for the entrance fee.  We fork over some bills which he promises to repay.  He mentions the cost of the next attraction, an amount that we definitely don’t have as we’ve been trying to burn through all of our Indian money before stocking up on Nepalese money.  He makes a call to a friend who meets him in the street halfway and lends him some cash.

Then we take a boat ride out onto one of the series of seven man-made lakes that weave in and out of the city.  It’s cold and windy - we bounce out to a summer palace plopped on an island in the middle of the lake that rulers used to cool off in the heat of the summer.

We finish at the City Palace, a massive series of palaces built at different times from 1559 A.D. The balconies of the palace provide panoramic views of the Lake palace hotel. Its main entrance is through the triple-arched gate - the Tripolia, built in 1725. The way now leads to a series of courtyards, overlapping partitions, terraces, corridors and gardens - a harmonic profusion hard to describe.  The Mor-chowk (Peacock courtyard), gets its name from the vivid mosaics in glass decorating its walls.  There are rooms with mirrored walls and ivory doors, colored glass windows, and inlaid marble balconies.

We’re relaxing in our room after the tour when the phone rings - it’s our contact, Havdeep.  When we arrived in Udaipur he asked if we wanted to attend a traditional Indian wedding as his cousin was getting married.  Since we had just arrived we told him we’d let him know later, assuming he’d forget about the invitation.  He was calling to extend the invitation again and, although we were very tired, we didn’t want to be rude and we did want to see what the spectacle was like.  It’s very common to pass elaborately decked out party wagons pulled by tractors or horses, festive music blaring, dressed-to-the-nines partygoers dancing along.

Sitaran gets lost on the dark streets, none of which have ever had a street sign or marker of any kind.  After driving for nearly an hour on chaotic streets I lean in and tell him it’s OK if we can’t find the wedding.

He points at a motorcycle speeding ahead of us: “We have an escort.”

Navdeep had sent someone out to rendezvous with our car and personally lead us to the wedding.

We arrive to an otherworldly scene under a big tent: bright clothes, music blaring and people dancing, nuts and seeds and sweets being passed out on metal trays, men sitting in plastic chairs, women clustered around the entrance to the inner sanctum, the groom sitting shell-shocked on a blanket, at one point mounting a horse, symbol of power.  A couple of older men who speak English attach themselves to us and explain the proceedings: the bride and groom have never met although they’ve spoken on the phone, the actual marriage will take 30 minutes or 3 hours depending on the whim of the Brahmin priest, until almost everyone gets up and abruptly leaves.  We’re told they’re going to eat dinner.  We quietly decide to go back to our hotel, trying to figure out how to politely decline, until more than one person comes up and firmly insists that we go to eat: they are not taking no for an answer.

Off we go to a restaurant where a big meal is being served outside.  We eat the spicy food standing up, wondering about the wisdom of eating Indian food prepared outside by unknown hands.  Did I say it was spicy? Holy mother of god is the food spicy.

All in all a hell of an experience.

1/28/15: Transit to Kathmandu

We flew Jet Airways from New Delhi, India, to Kathmandu, Nepal yesterday.  It was a standard jet; the attendants told us how to buckle our seat belts so that if we actually hit the ground at 750 miles/hour we'd be quickly cut in two, feeling no pain; and there was a furious food service. Everywhere but The States a meal is provided, irregardless of the length of the flight (1 hour and 15 minutes in this case) or time of day (1:30PM).  Before the food cart comes down the aisle it's pretty standard to see the drink cart, and we weren't disappointed.

Here they came, the darling Nepalese women, with the drinks.

"Beer?  Beer?" they repeated over and over, handing out 8 oz cans of an unknown brew.

"WTF?" said SuperK.

We waved the stewardesses off.  Soon, the food cart came down the aisle and we were offered Veg or Non-Veg.  No drinks.

Never in my life have I seen this.  

Another grueling day of travel. We are picked up at our hotel at 6:30AM - we arrive in Kathmandu at 5PM.  The time in Nepal is the same as in India plus 15 minutes.  India was 5 and ½ hours ahead of New York which is 3 hours ahead of Vacation City.  I think they’re throwing in the 15 minute increments just to fuck with us.

Airplane travel is tough enough; international air travel is even more complex what with Visas and customs and security in airports that are different than The States and not consistent even in the host country to boot.  Passports here, not there; metal detectors out the whazoo but an alarm doesn’t mean that you’re going to be checked; hand searches are common and I mean touching your body hand searches; a complicated Visa procedure in Nepal.  We are toast by the time we get to the hotel.

Kathmandu has a more coherent feel than India but it’s still 3rd World chaotic.  Tiring, we’re a little disappointed.  Everyone has face masks on - we assume because of dust - and the streets heave with traffic - not the No Rules driving of India but still a little nuts.

Lights are at a premium here.  The cities are dimly lit at night and so are the rooms and even the airport.  Our hotel rooms have a confusing array of switches, most of them not activating or deactivating anything.  Sometimes I can’t figure out how to turn a light on - sometimes I can’t figure out how to turn them off.  In my room here I have a full complement of switches - very few of them connected to anything that I can tell - built into my nightstand.  I’m afraid to use them lest I turn something off that I can’t get back on, or vice versa.  And the airports are eerily quiet - there are no announcements and no TVs.

1/29/15: Kathmandu

We are reflecting back on Sitaram who we have spent the better part of 10 days with.  A quiet, proud man.  We speculate that he is a member of the Untouchable caste.  He is unfailingly polite and never asks for anything - one of the few people that doesn’t have an obvious angle.  At one point he confides his circumstances to SuperK: he has no education so no ability to find a better job.  We had assumed that his position as a driver was a good one when in fact he makes no salary - he’s dependent on tips - and none of his expenses are covered while he travels 7 months out of the year, facts that were unknown to us.  So the 3 months when the monsoons come and no one travels he has no cash flow.  It becomes obvious that this is one of the hard facts of overpopulation and undereducation: this guy is eminently replaceable.  It reminds me of books I’ve read talking about The States during the beginning of the Industrial Age: if you were hurt or couldn’t keep up or perceived as a troublemaker you were out the door just like that.

When our time with him comes to an end he hugs both of us warmly and we demand, over and over, that he gets an email sent to us through a friend as he has no computer.  It almost seems as if it was very difficult for him to even pass along his contact information.

We talk about this, SuperK and me.  We talk about sending him some money from time to time.  We may or may not do this, to be honest about it - the logistics of this won’t be easy and that’s IF he contacts us at all - but it may be that the reason for our trip was to be put into a position to help someone who could really use the help.

Now: Actions or just talk?

People here are a cross between India and Tibet in appearance.  Dark hair and skin but more of an Asian visage.

As the sun sets a rousing high school band begins to play what sounds like a repetitive fight song.  Lots of energy but not much of a tune - later we learn it was a wedding band trying to fire up the participants.  

Periodically the electricity in the hotel will flicker and cut out - a few minutes later it’ll pop back on.  No one bats an eye.

Our room features a desk lamp and a floor lamp that are hard-wired into the wall.  The confusing array of switches located on the walls and on the floor and on my bedside table don’t seem to affect them one way or the other; sometimes they’re on and sometimes they’re off, and when they’re off, that’s that.  They can’t be turned on.  It’s like a puzzle to me - I wander around trying various combinations of switches and toggles to no avail.  Last night about 11PM the lights clicked on - I got up and turned them off.  This morning they didn’t work again.

The desk clerk informs us in broken English that a kind of rolling blackout exists.  Our guide today tells us that one of the big problems with attracting tourists is that the hospitality infrastructure sucks.  Yeah.

1/30/15: Kathmandu

Our bed is sub-par so I tell the desk clerk today that it’s hurting my wife’s back.

“We’ll change that out, sir,” he replies.  What do you say to that?  I’m dubious that it’ll be done.  It sounded suspiciously like a blow-off.

We head down to Durbar Square and visit the temple of Lord Shiva, Pashupatinath, with two tiered golden roof and silver door, considered one of the holiest shrines for Hindu. The Square, with its old temples and palaces, is where the kings of Nepal are crowned and their coronations solemnized. Interesting things to see here

are: Taleju Temple built by King Mahendra Malla in 1549 AD, the temple of Kal Bhairav, the God of destruction.

We visit the Stupa of Bouddhanath, east of Kathmandu. This ancient colossal Stupa is one of the biggest in the world, and the center of Tibetan Buddhism.  It’s a lovely, sunny day so we eat lunch on a rooftop restaurant overlooking the temple and watch the pilgrims and monks, dressed in red and spinning prayer wheels, circumnavigate the site.

The Buddhist temple of Swayambhunath situated on the top of a hill west of the city is on the most popular and instantly recognizable symbols of Nepal. The temple is colloquially known as the “monkey temple” after the large tribe of monkeys which guards the hill.  There’s a great view over the Kathmandu Valley from the stupa.