Well, Well......

It occurs that it has been a few weeks since I'd hopped that illegal train from Amritsar to Delhi.
I spent a few days in Delhi waiting for a train to take me East to Gorakhpur, from where I would head North into Nepal, onto a town called Pokhara, do some trekking, go to Kathmandu, then head back to India.

Well, that's not quite what has happened.
There was a non-stop 30 hour period if being in transit from Delhi to Gorakhpur.
That was quite the experience and it exhausted me....

I can't realistically explain the last few weeks without more pages than one would be willing to read without being able to read it in segments.  So I've provided the short version:

Trains, being literally "slept on" by a full grown man in a cramped full sleeper car, buses, jeeps, crossing into the Nepal, short distance bus where I got to ride on the roof, back on a long term bus, no sleep for 30 hours, friendly taxi drivers, 2am arrivals, trek preparations, cold weather knock off North Face and Mammut gear for my eventual arrival at snow and cold, relax a few days, meet creepy local mute boy that crawls around windowsills like monkey and knocks on doors in the middle of the night making crazy sounding noises, leave for trek, hike 5 days through Jungle/Mountain terrain and decide it is satisfactory, head back to Pokhara, research how to ride a motorcycle on internet, rent motorcycle for 7 days, ride around random roads, discover secret paths that lead to amazing vistas, get in minor crash on day 4 (honest to god it was not my fault), fear of jail and old fashioned farmer's beating, painful painful painful ride home, as I get to my guest house I see the shadowy figure of the mute boy in the road, he points a gun at me (must've been a toy, but sounded like a real gun 'click') as I ride by, rest sprained foot in bed for 2 days, enjoy last day of motorcycle, get a cold, spend full day in bed, ignore crazy sounding noises from outside the door, make friends with a local family whose restaurant I've frequented daily, watch world cup, haven't drank or smoked in weeks, watching movies in bed, reading american classics, drinking chai 20 times a day, eating vegetarian food, lost a couple pounds, shaved head, payed visit to monasteries, rented motorcycle for day from aforementioned family, still have a damn cold, bought ticket to Kathmandu, will forcefully stay awake a few more hours so that I can go to bed around 8pm and get a good night sleep.

Tomorrow is Kathmandu.
At 7am; another bus.
Yes, Kathmandu.

God speed to all.....

PS - Happy Belated 4th of July

The Train Hop: An Illegal Travel Adventure

     I am at my wits end with computing right now.  It is hot and I have been at this computer, paying for each minute, for over two hours. With every power outage and resetting of the IP Address (despite its not being needed) there has been some strange change in what my fonts are.  I have spent 20 minutes attempting to fix it because it drives me nuts, but alas there is no real solution.  You have to deal with it.  Same with spell checking and grammar, I need to leave and get an ice cold Coke.  Enjoy for now :-)

The Train Hop: An Illegal Travel Adventure

     I ordered my train ticket in advance via an online service but was given the status of WAITLISTED, meaning exactly what the word seems to imply.  My train was to depart from the Northwestern town of Amritsar (home of the golden temple, near to the Pakistan border, and is one of the major cities of the Sikh nation) and end in Gorakhpur.  Gorakhpur rests far to the east (about 1200kms) and is one shit of a place I am told by both Indian and expat alike.  First I would need to catch an early a.m. bus from Mcleod Ganj (where a few days earlier had bruised a bone, or pinched a nerve or something while on a hike and was limping.  My foot was fine if I was resting, but the more I walked the worse and worse it would hurt.  The more it hurt, the more pathetic my limp would get.) to Amritsar the day before my train's departure.

     I would go through a number of smaller towns, head through and stop for 30 minutes or so in Old Delhi to load and unload the largest amount of passengers of the the journey, then continue onward to my destination.  I would end up in Gorakhpur early in the morning, catch a bus to the Nepali border, then another bus to Pokhara, Nepal where I would rest up, gather some warmer clothes and begin a 3 week trek through the Himalayas within a day or so of my arrival.

     Easy peasy..... 

     This was four days ago, and I am now in New Delhi; the hole of a place I never wanted to see again until my departure (even then I didn't wanna see it, but simply knew I'd have to pass through it again).  Well I'll keep this sidetrack to a minimum, but I have had a different experience here this time around.  I am primarily certain that it is because I've been here for some weeks, I want nothing to do with being the Fresh Westerner and despite that I still am of course a foreign presence, I have been offered next to nothing and hit up for nearly nothing as well.  I don't know if I have a "hey I've been here for a bit, not going to fall for it" look in my eye or if it is more of a "don't play with me, I am in no mood for your shit" kind of look, but it is working.  I see the rip off artists make eye contact with me and then offer their service to the folks next to me instead; it makes life a teeny tiny bit easier here, though still not easy.

    In Amritsar there is a Holy Sikh site known as the Golden Temple.  It is called this because there is a temple covered with gold which is set inside a man made pool of water, its circumference being a high, white wall with a few major entry points.  It is believed that if you have any sickness at all, you can dip yourself in its waters and be healed.  

     They still have hospitals, and doctors and pharmacies.

     You can stay the night here with only a donation and it is about an hour from the Pakistani/Indian border at Wagah, where a display of fervent nationalism can be witnessed.  (Wagah Border Ceremony Video)  I was exhausted after having missed a 4am bus, waiting around for a 7am bus, then being stared at, yelled at, and sat on for the following 9 hours to travel from the lovely but absurdly westerner-heavy, quasi-resort-town of Mcleod Ganj up in the cool mountains to Hot Amritsar; I fell asleep early in the evening, around 7pm, halfway through drinking a delicious bottle of Coca Cola. 

     And my god is it delicious here.  Glass bottles and triple digit weather are a fine combination.

     Due to the limited options of travel, I found it easier to go East to Amritsar on an all-day bus, see the temple, then get up the next morning to catch a sleeper class train all the way to Gorakhpur, than it would have been to attempt just heading West in the first place.

     This meant heading East in order to backtrack again back West.  If I tried heading West from where I was in Mcleod, I would have had to take a 14 hour "overnight" bus.  The whole bus-during-the-night-thing is a bad bad bad idea.  If you read or have already read the story below, just imagine Mountain Bus Racing in the black of night at 4am when your body is desperate for sleep, but too scared to relax.  

     It is unnerving and whether you arrive at your planned destination or at the gates of heaven, you arrive very grumpy nonetheless.

     I arrived in Amritsar, saw the temple, got prescribed my lodgings for the evening, ate some food (the temple offers free meals to thousands of people throughout the day.  The wash the dining rooms in shifts with buckets of water and giant cloth, just in time for it to dry and be refilled by the hungry masses.  It really is amazing.)

     I fell asleep next to an Englishmen who hadn't been to his home country in 15 years and was traveling by Royal Enfield Motorcycle, the bike that other than the Honda Hero, is choice here in India.  He would be heading back to Mcleod Ganj the day after my departure to Gorakhpur.

     I fell asleep, woke up no problem at 4am, layed there for an hour or so thinking about what I was doing in a Sikh temple near the Pakistan border as the sun came up, and finally at 5 am got up and going toward the train station.  My train left at 7.15am but I wanted to be early so I could confirm my WAITLISTED ticket and get my seat assignment.  

     This is where the fun begins.

     I took my place about 10 back in line and within 10 minutes there were 20 more behind me.  Now, this is not the standard Western Edition standing in a line, of course not.  It is outside, dusty, hot as hell, and near the front of the line is a group of men and women whose aim is to physically cut you off in the space that is allotted them in the briefest of moments when the person in front of you moves and you go to step up to the window.  In this moment that you wouldn't readily identify as being one to defend, that is when they would strike.  

     So each time one person finished their ticket and began to step away, the man behind them would muscle into the space at the window while simultaneously fending off a group of men to the right and women to the left who refused to just join the goddamn line.  Things are in reality no different if you are a foreigner.  In fact, you may be the weak one in the herd, easiest to prey upon; for this, one must beware.

     Just before it got to be my turn to fight off these line-jackals to confirm my ticket, two men got in a slap fight behind be over this process by which one of the men was attempting to cut in line and get a ticket.  The slapped back and forth a minute then simply exchanged loud, rushed, Hindi exclamations.  I completely ignored what was happening behind me, though I'm not totally immune to noticing an event like this taking place 4 inches behind me.  

     The men were arguing and it was my turn to go to the ticket counter.  I braced my arms on each side of the window, to the dismay of the tugging and shoving men and women who again, refused to just join the line.  (In the 30 minutes you've fought for nothing, you could have spent 15 minutes in the line.  I couldn't make sense of it).

     I put my head in the tiny window, handed the woman my computer printout and asked if I could confirm my seat.

     "Seven Fifteen!" was her response and she handed me my paper back.

     "Yes, seven fifteen.  Confirm seat please?"

     She took the paper back, looked it over, handed it back to me again "Seven Fifteen!"

     "Yes.  My seat, confirm please.  I need to confirm seat" I explained pointing at the blank area where a seat designation should be.

     She looked at it again, deciphering information it appeared, and then handed it back to me "Seven Fifteen!"

     I figured that it was I, the silly foreigner who was wasting her time.  That the answer to my inquiry was on the paper and I was being foolish for insisting.  

     "Shukriya," I said to hear as I walked away.  Shukriya is Hindi for Thank You.

     I asked two attendants which terminal my train was at, but they did not know. All of the office windows were still closed.  No Help Desk, no Ticket Confirmation desk (wait, didn't I confirm already? What happened back there with that woman? Shit!), no Enquiry Office; but I did find someone in the Superintendent's Office.  I asked them "Where at? and was told "Number 3."

     Ahhhhh, number 3.  I went to number 3 with my backpack, my guitar, and my man purse which was know stuffed and was a noticeable bit of extra weight on my shoulder.  I sat down to wait.  Looked at the clock and saw that my watch read 6.40am, but the big digital clock said 5.40am.

     I was fairly certain there was no time change from in India based on what people had told me, I also found that I could never be very certain in India about what people would tell me; I began to ask around.

     I asked three  gentlemen what time it was and they all gave me a time one hour earlier than what my watch read. 

     I now have over an hour to wait.  Oh well, perhaps now I have time investigate my ticket scenario.

     Some boys at a concession stand wanted to talk with the white westerner so the called me over and despite my being incredibly tired and uninterested, I went over to speak with them.  In our 5 minute exchange I asked them about my ticket.  They told me to go to the Reservation Office, on the other side of the rails as the Enquiry Office and the Ticket Office where I'd spoken with the woman earlier.

     For geographic layout, all the offices are on one side of the rails with the exception of the Reservation Office which was on the other side.  There is not just one set of tracks here ladies and gentlemen.  There are many, many, many tracks and each "side" of the tracks are about 150 yards apart.  To cross this distance you have to climb a few flight of stairs, walk the length of the bridge, and then back down a few flight of stairs to ground level.

     I gather my belongings and make the elevated walk over to the Reservation Office, fought in the cloud of shoving people, got to the window, asked my question, was told to go to the other office.  

     I leave the crowd, walk only 40 meters or so away to the other office.  No one was fighting over here.  There was only 2 people here, maybe it was the foreigner's office!  They have one in Delhi, it is just for foreigners and they save a limited number of seats on each train for foreigner. 

     It would all work out just fine!  Ha!

     I walked up to the window, showed my ticket and saw the look in her eyes before she even spoke.  She informed me that indeed, my ticket could not be confirmed.  All the seats were filled for this trip and I could not board.  She told me to visit the Enquiry Office, they would be open I was assured by her..

     I turned, sad, and walked up the stairs, across the rails, and down to the Enquiry Office.  They were still closed.  

     My foot began to ache. Dammit.

     I went to the Ticket Office to buy a ticket to somewhere else, maybe I could wait things out in Rishikesh, I loved it there and could easily hang for a week while waiting for a train.  I fought and clawed through the Pigpen cluster but found that there were not any tickets.  I was asked again for my printout.  She reviewed it again, and informed me "Seven Fifteen!"

     Yeah I get it I get it 7.15, I understand.  

      I should've learned more Hindi.

      I went back to the Superintendent Office and was told to go to the Enquiry Office.  I let him know that it was not open yet, so he advised me to visit the Reservation Office.

     I climbed the stairs, went back across the bridge, down the stairs, and paid a re-visit to the Reservation Office.

     Surprisingly, no good came of this visit and I was actually worse off than when I had started because now I knew I wasn't supposed to get on the train.

     I went back and sat at my terminal.  My foot was not unbearable, but it hurt and I was beginning to notice that I needed a nap.  It was around 6.30am train time.  The bus arrived and sat for a bit.  During this time I walked up and down and up and down the length of the train attempting to find a rail employee to ask what I could do about my situation, if anything.  

     There was nobody.  In fact even all the train cars were empty.  One of two of them had people, but three or four or five of them were indeed empty.  No open windows, no people, no luggage; but also no locked doors.......

     As the train began its engine and I still saw no train personnel, I got on.

     There were four or five others folks on board and I thought that perhaps this would help me out.  This way I wasn't the lone wolf of the train car.  I crawled up to what is called the Upper Berth, locked up my bag and went to sleep.  My thinking was: if there are so many empty cars here in Amritsar and we are only passing through smaller towns until Delhi, that perhaps my ticket was no good because the trip from Amritsar to Gorakhpur was impossible after Delhi.  In Delhi we would pickup thousands of people and I wouldn't have a seat anymore.  But up until Delhi, perhaps I could make it.  So long as nobody had my exact seat number and I didn't get asked to provide my ticket to the conductor, I would be fine.  As I lie there and began to fall asleep I knew that to make it all that way without a conductor asking for my ticket was near impossible.

     I did not know how long it had been once I awoke, but there were now plenty of people in the train car.  "Ha! Wonderful!" I thought.  Perhaps the conductors who check train tickets every hour or so would recognize me as the westerner on  board from prior stops, and not bother to check my ticket.  The only reason they check tickets is to ensure legitimacy. 

     I got up and walked toward the doors at the end of each car which are kept open, and which make wonderful posts to sit and watch the world go by with fresh air blowing through your hair.  

     I climbed down, turned to my left and as I took my first step I saw the conductor at the end of the aisle.  He was checking tickets.  I had already made my move and of course as I began with that first step, he looked right at me.

     Do not panic.  Do not worry.  Remain calm inside because we are now making eye contact and if he senses ANY apprehension he will seize the opportunity to ask for my ticket.  Be cool, calm, collected.  India is a beautiful country indeed. Boy it's hot out.  I wonder what Nepal is like? 

     Think about anything except the fact that you know you are not supposed to be here.

     I walked calmly down the aisle, getting nearer and nearer until finally I had to ask "excuse me?" to slide by my possible arrestor.  He smile at me, asked "How are you?" and let me pass as I responded "Good. Hot, but good.  How are you?"

     As has happened to me often, there was no response to my asking how he was doing.  I went into the bathroom and decided it was time to pee, despite not needing to really have to pee.

     I took my time, came out a few minutes later, and sat at the open door while he went down the length of the train car.

     Had I not have woken and passed him in the aisle, he probably would've busted me. 

     I sat there awhile, maybe 30 minutes, then felt like hiding away in my little nest of a stolen seat.  As I picked myself up from the floor I read I sign that explained: 

NEVER RIDE WITHOUT A TICKET! IF FOUND WITHOUT A TICKET, 

1000RS FINE OR THREE MONTHS IMPRISONMENT!

     I wondered if this was about as serious as the 5 year imprisonment warning at the beginning of movies.  Or was it legitimate?  Could I really end up spending 3 months in jail?  I really did think very simply about the matter: "So what.  Too late now. It'll be a story one day...." as I sat in my little space, smiling.

     A few hours later I woke up to a different conductor checking the tickets of the people directly underneath me.  I opened my eyes full and made eye contact with a military man standing with his obligatory semi-automatic.  

     Do not look away.  Do not back down.  But do not engage this man either, simply do not be afraid.

     We stared at one another for a brief moment, I smiled and nodded.  I rolled over and as I did so made eye contact with the conductor. 

     Do not look away.  Do not back down.  But do not engage this man either, simply do not be afraid.

     I shut my eyes, and lied motionless in the heat.  I could quite literally feel the sweat as it would bead up from my pores.  I just lied there, sweating in slow motion, hot and nervous.  Three months imprisonment, really?  How bout I just pay the $20USD equivalent fine eh boys?

     At any moment my foot would be tapped on and this man would calmly ask for my ticket.  I will act naive, hand him my printout which clearly states that I am not to board the train, and say that I did not know any better.  Dammit that isn't gonna work.  That's really stupid actually.  But, what else have I got.  I don't have anything better and I can surely play that one off.  As soon as he taps on my toes, that would be my move.

     Sweating in slow motion is tough.  You want to rip off your clothes, itch yourself, drink water, jump into glacial water; you do not want to sit waiting to get busted.  Each moment was extended from mere milliseconds into hours.  I was breathing slow and heavy, I couldn't see anything, and I could hear below me the man speaking in Hindi.

     Shit, what bad idea.

     Time crawled by like a thick molasses; sweetened in this case by my anxiety.

     Buh Boom, Buh Boom, Buh Boom!  My heart was noticeably pumping in my chest. I was sweating, and waiting.

     I psuedo-pretended to roll over out of discomfort and in this movement stole a quick glance below.  The conductor was gone.  He hadn't asked for my ticket.  The odds of this are insane.  Like shooting by a bored police officer with a beer in your hand, driving down the wrong lane going 55mph in a 35mph and not getting pulled over.  Ha!  I smiled again.  I was elated.  I got up to go sit back by my doorway.  

     Boom.  The conductor was coming down the aisle, and he looked like he knew where he was going. We made eye contact.

     Do not look away.  Do not back down.  But do not engage this man either, simply do not be afraid.

     As we drew near I knew the jig was up.  Of course this was going to end badly.

     But he went right by me and I again, went to the bathroom even though I didn't need to go to the bathroom.

     Upon returning to my little stoop of what I then checked to be Seat 67, I lied down, drank some water, and smiled.

     There was something about how I was on the train that changed the nature of the ride itself.  I really did not know where I would get off at, be thrown off at, jailed, fined, beaten, or any combination of these things.  I knew only that for the moment, I was on the train and moving Eastward, and I was smiling from a content success I have never known.

     I rode all the way to Delhi, got off there deciding not to push my luck, and am now here waiting a few days for my legitimate train.  I will end up in Gorakhpur early on the morning of th 16th, catch a bus to the Nepali/Indian border, then another bus to Pokhara, Nepal where I will rest up, gather some warmer clothes and begin a 3 week trek through the Himalayas within a day or so of my arrival.

     Easy peasy..... 

    And all the while, with a big fat smile.......

Picture Book Time........

Okay, so I've finally been able to upload some images.  I will leave writing to a minimum, giving you captions for the images instead of some horrible ass breaking mind crushing bus journey tale; enjoy :-)

Just relaxing at the Little Buddha Cafe in Rishikesh after a big fat breakfast. This whole "sit down on pillows while you eat thing" is awesome.

  

 The sun setting in Rishikesh, from the view of the roof of my hotel, Sonu Guesthouse.

Free Education School?

I went down to play with the kids and take a couple pictures. So far this is one of the best things I've done. The school was founded in 2004 and has been invaluable to the community ever since.

 

 Took this just as the boy crashed into me with the excitement of having a picture taken.

 

 Every one of these kids has a different look on their face.

The fresh start of a recycling pile at the Aarohan School. Every 15 days or so the kids collect enough recyclable goods that a bus comes from Haridwar to Rishikesh (about 20km) to pick up and recycle these goods.

ps- there is trash EVERYWHERE, so this is a really big deal; a very progressive and necessary service.

Mukesh Vashistha, Principal of Aarohan School, shows me the grading board of the students' finals. He points out that those with stars by their names have gotten higher than 70 percen on their end of the year testing.

 

Waaaaay too close to this hungry, aggro monkey. I shit myself as I slammed the door before he went "Congo" on my western ass. It really was much to close; my adrenaline was pumping after I slammed that door. 

They may look small but when they show their fangs, hiss at you, and move so quickly, trust me you are ready to run.  They are vicious bastards.

Some sort of Beetle buzzing around some sort of plant. Too bad I don't know more about either of these things.

 

 

The "Best Ear Cleaner!"
Apparently part of the secret is to stuff the cleaning swabs under your beanie-cap in 100+ degree weather; perhaps the sweat activates some alkaline cleaning substance emitted from the pores?

 

I'll let this one speak for itself.......

Frying my Paneer (cheese) for Kadhai Paneer, a fried cheese topped with tomato sauce with Capsicum (bell pepper), onions, and an array of seasonings.

Reducing a home-made garlic/curry paste to then toss the already sauteed veggies into before then topping off the fried cheese with said vegetable saute and yogurt.

The seasonings of an Indian cook.  Among them we have Coriander powder, Chilli powder, Salt, Pepper, Masala spice, Cumin, and some sugar; though I was informed that they don't ever actually use the sugar for any of the menu items. 

Also for the saute, there is white wine vinegar, olive oil, and red wine.

Plating the sauce over the fried cheese.......

......and garnish with Indian Yogurt, plate the rice beside it, let it cool a bit, and enjoy.

My new traveling girlfriend: Lucille

The bus stops, bags are being removed. What the F? Oh, no big deal just loading a motorcycle full of gas into the trunk under my seat.
"Heeeaaave! Hoooooeeeee! Heeeeaaave! Hooooeeeee!"

Success! Good work boys. Now let's hope it doesn't blow up underneath me.....

Paparazzi'd the Dalai Lama! That's right, look closely.....

Okay, and now we'll end things on a lighter note.  Now, look at them and think really hard about what they say.......

The Long, Out of Control, Bumpy, Insane, "Road" to Dharamsala.......

    

 (Pictures will be up in a few days!)

     Drink two glass bottles of Coca Cola.
     Shatter the empty containers into a fading, rusty, and 3 wheeled Radio Flyer.
     Remove your pants.
     Attach one end of chain to either one of your ankles or wrists (your choice!).
     Sit down in the wagon.
     Attach other end of chain to the barely hanging on bumper of a 1994 Geo Metro that has flat tires, bad struts, an exhaust problem, and questionable brakes.
     Now drive West to East from the extreme borders of Montana at 65 Miles Per Hour.
     Or, if you want the after effect of a 17 Indian bus ride without the actual experience-time:  shove your face into a belt sander for 25 minutes :-)

     Mcleod Ganj (Upper Dharamsala), capital in exile of Tibet.  After being forced out of his homeland with many of his fellow Tibetans, the Dalai Lama moved himself into a monastery here in this small Northern Indian mountain town.  I got to see him today, but only briefly as he drove by in one of about 4 or 5 cars filled with his "entourage," though it was incredibly minimal to be honest.  That's right, now perhaps some of you can tell people that you know somebody who once maybe got to see the Dalai Llama whiz by on the streets of India!  I'll try remaining humble, but it could be difficult.....
     There is a bus that goes from Wonderful Rishikesh to Beautiful Mcleod Ganj.  It supposedly takes 14 hours, this time it took 17.  Arrived at 9am, rented a room, slept. 
     Woke up at 5pm, it was cloudy outside so none of the presumable beautiful mountains could be seen.  I met a girl named Eleanor, joined her group for dinner at the first "nice" restaurant I'd even seen in India (what a mistake).  By the time we left my hotel had locked its front doors.  Eleanor had a large bed and extra blankets that she said'd be no problem for me to use. 
     Went to bed.
     I woke up in a shivering spell that was actually my muscles vibrating and twitching out of synchronization.
     Oh God!
     Ran to the balcony, there was only a communal bathroom two floors up.
     I threw up violently, letting out a very pathetic grunt as each explosive regurgitation reached its climax, bile exiting my esophogus against its will and with zero bodily cooperation.
     I put my head in my hands, "my god, I am really in bad shape here....."
     Deep breaths, centered my Chi, back to bed.  Perhaps in a few hours I'll  be straight.
     No Thorazine in this bag.
     As I made my 20ft journey back to the bed, I thought if an irresponsible assumption I'd made.  It is this: that because of all my years eating Totino's with Tapatio and Sriracha, a solid decade or more of gas-station cheddardogs (on a regular basis), and multiple sittings of eating entire bags of Gorton's, Reser's bean and cheese, and innumerable trips to burrito trucks whenever possible; that my gullet had be trained for kicking the ass of anything I could put into it.......
     I bow to you India, cheddar dogs ain't got shit on you.
     I crawled back to my side of the bed, covered up and fell asleep.
     I woke up 15 minutes later, delirious and sweating.
     I hear the mountains are lovely here.
     I would lie in a pool of sweat, fall asleep, wake up a short time later freezing cold and in need of a blanket, cover up, fall asleep, then wake up sweating absurdly.
     So about every 15-40 minutes for the next 14 hours I would switch from one extreme to the other.
     I've been with a 103/104 degree temperature twice in my life and it causes some strange mental operations.  Things seem dreamy, hazy, painfully you view the world as an infant and are equally pretty helpless.  You drift into and out of lucid dreams and foggy reality and have a hard time discerning between the two.  The only sign you have that you are not dreaming is the convulsive purge of your belly seizing in on itself angrily; food long gone now, bile the only emittance.
     It hurts.
     Water.
     Some pills.
     Sleep.
     Wake.
     Burning up.
     Hunger?
     Puke.
     Sleep.
     Wake.
     Freezing.
     Drink.
     Cover up.
     Puke.
     Lie down.
     Hot.
     Sweaty.
     Sleep.
     Wake.
     Freezing.
     Puke.
     Hot.
     Sleep.
     Sweat.
     Cold.
     Puke.
     Like some Ergot Clockwork, my life clicked by.  Seconds of sleep.  Minutes of Hot/Cold.  Hours of stomach violence.
     So, Eleanor.  Eleanor went into Mom-Mode.  She brought me fresh water, sat to be sure I was okay for periods of time, asked what I needed, grabbed juice in case I felt any batter, left, returned, repeated.
     I thought "poor girl just did something nice for a near stranger and now she has some pathetic  boy running into and out of her room to puke and pass out"
     She never had the slightest air of inconvenience.  In fact, she was simply nice.
     Because she is a nice person, honest and good deep down.  Something that seemed so pure, that it was unique to experience.   In my duration of weakness and in the heart of an odd delirium, I found a moment comprised of absolute optimism:  perhaps Nice does still exist in the world.
     Don't forget it.
     That is the moral.
     I spent around 72 hours sick as I've ever been, bed ridden and for 35 of those hours I was alone and miserable, but I experienced a valuable lesson.  In the former half of my illness I was cared for, looked after, and beneficiary of a simple human condition that shouldn't seem as rare as it sometimes seems:

Basic Kindness.

A Weeks' Worth of Thought, Frusteration, and Triumph: India is Batshit Crazy.....

Okay, so I have decided to put in 3 different entries that constitute about a week of travel.  In this week I've gone from breaking point to inner peace.  Enjoy and I shall write again when I return from the first of two extensive movements to and through the Himalayas.

I know there are typos, but I gotta get out of this internet cafe.  Please excuse my situation....

DATE WRITTEN:  Thursday, 20 May 2010

     Today I finally left New Delhi: Thank The Gods.

     That place was getting tom me. Paharganj is dinge-slum concentrate.  It is chaos, madness, and disparity (even by Indian standards) manifest as a neighborhood.  I was doing just fine with it all, a patient sense of humor and whatnot, until yesterday evening when I reached my breaking point.  I was a nanometer from going Michael Douglas in Falling Down on the entire scene.  Seriously I had pushed it too far into the darkness.  I fought to keep it together, luckily succeeded in this brawl of sanity, and have since moved onward.

      Earlier in that day I'd purchased a train ticket with a departure time of 10.20pm that evening.  I'd ran into an American couple  (Brock and Maris) from Tennessee who'd been living in Thailand for one year, at the train station while purchasing this ticket and afterward we three went for lunch and what would be my first and will be my last while here, bottle of beer.  We had struck up a conversation consisting of standard backpacker fare: Origin of nationality? Where you coming from? Where you going? How long you here? Etc, etc, etc.....

     While having this meal we discovered that Brock and myself had both been Music Directors at college radio stations (KBGA! 89.9fm! Listen for The American Trucker!) back in the states.  We spoke of Terrorbird, TeamClermont, Chouette - promotions labels that we had each seperately exchanged emails with in the past, and that we had now met in a train station in New Delhi on the other side of the world.  

     What a small place the world becomes.

     We decided to meet that evening at Restaurant Madron, just across from the hotel I was staying in, Karlo Kastle.  (Do not EVER give your money to this place, Karlo is a rat bastard).

     Okay, so I got my train ticket, met and had a beer with the Americans, made plans for a 7pm dinner rendezvous, went back to my hotel room, made the same dinner plans with Delfina and Santiago (an Argentian couple I hooked up and had been loosely rolling around Delhi with since we met at the airport.  Santiago had been in India one month, Delfina was meeting him.  It is a godsend to have a guide for your integration to the Mad Hatter Manner of Indian Culture, I assure you), and now I needed to grab some money and gather my things for departure.

     I decided I would pack my bag, clean my room a bit, and alert either Karlo or one of his child-minions that I'd be checking out as I passed the front counter on my way out to smoke a biri and snag myself some Rupees.

     It was 6.15pm.

     I could go by the money store and be back no problem I thought.

     How foolish of me.  How naive I was in my young days......

     At the hotel counter I was informed that Karlo would wake from whatever strange evening time nap I was told that he was taking, in about one hour.

     Okay then, good enough timing for me.

     I walked out the hotel doors, lit my biri, and walked to Main Bazaar Road where I would then take a right and go straight down the road the cash exchange, turn around and come back, check out of Karlo Kastle, have dinner, then catch my train to Haridwar to then hop a bus to Rishikesh.

     Hitting the main road involves all kinds of bullshit.  No joke. No exaggeration: mothers carrying babies who may or may not actually be hungry asking you for only 25rps for milk, children with lame or altogether missing limbs asking "10 rupees. Chapati. Chapati. 10 rupees" and using sticks to compensate for their bodily losses, 9 year old children following you down the road tugging at you for money; and always the cacophony of crazy crazy crazy horns, insane traffic [for lack of a better word let us call them] patterns/maneuvers, and the always bellowed: "Hellow Friend!  You want _______?  I have ________ for you.  Good quality.  Best ________ for cheap. Come, come my friend."

     The moment that I took that right hand turn, I had already dutifully dressed my psyche in the chainmail armor of "Ignore Everybody."

     Asshole you say?  I dare you to try it.

     Matter of fact, I triple dog dare you.....

     The trip was horrible. Every person I'd ever had an exchange with during my 5 days or so in Delhi had decided that I needed to be hit harder and more persistantly than in the past.  That perhaps, more aggression was what I needed to make my informed decision to let myself get cheated.  From the boy who asked me 10 times per day if I wanted my canvas shoes polished despite my telling him "Nayee, Nayee" which is "NO" in Hindi each time, the milk-for-my-baby woman was especially in need of dairy, to the group of men who I sat and spent 40 minutes talking with the day before about people trying to rip me off and how quite literally EVERY person I'd met besides a 9yr old boy selling cigarettes had lied straight to my face over and Over and OVER again.  These men had sympathized with my troubles, shared a chai with me, taught me some Hindi words, then of course as is the Indian custom (at least in the major cities) attempted to sell me a "package" to Kashmir.

     Again, no exagerration, I said "really guys?  After our conversation?  I don't want a package and even if I did, I don't have the money anyhow"  The response from them was "why not?"  Well, because "I don'te want it, and I DON'T HAVE THE MONEY."

     The response?  "You go now, go on credit, you pay me when you get back."

     ?What?

     "How does that work?  I won't be making money while there, so if I don't have enough now, I won't have enough later.  That doesn't make sense." was my rebuttal.  I walked away saying "Have a nice day. Shukriya [thank you in Hindi]"

     Now, two of the original four men from this conversation saw me walking down the street (on my way to get my money) and began in with "You never came by today!  We wait all day for you!  I have other place to be, but I wait for you to come get package!"

     Oh really?  I'm sure you had plans not to open your cloth store and attempt to sell anything all day today, but had decided to keep your business open for the day simply to sell me your credit package to Kashmir.  Yeah, makes perfect sense buddy......

     Also, does anyone at this point go "Oh yeah the package?  Yeah yeah yeah, let's do it.  Send me to Kashmir on credit!" 

     I mean really.

     I just want to take 15 minutes to get some money, meet my friends, and eat.  It is maybe maybe maybe a 1 km roundtrip walk.

     I keep walking away from them as the continue on about my package, ignoring their words and shouts;

                  (Yeah, the hidden message is: Fuck you! Leave me the fuck alone!  And no, I won't be at 

                    bowling practice!)

     I shake them with negation and not 30 meters later I run into another member of these "package" men from the previous day.  I repeat my lack of interest and financial means as well as curtly pointing out that I had not in fact, changed my mind nor won the lottery in the last 24 hours and quickly attempted to scoot along down the road.

     Got to the cash exchange where earlier in the day I'd spoken with the owner about the commision/fee that would accompany my withdrawal and upon now receiving my money, my card had been run with a fee that was double what I was told.

     You Bastards!  Why do you lie all the time?  Why not just say yeah I'm gonna charge you more and if you don't like it fuck yourself?  Instead they look you in the eyes, they smile, they act with the most Malice laden of intent to take advantage of you.  Just let me know you're gonna rip me off man, I really would be just fine with that.  Don't lie to me anymore.

     I argued for a moment, sweat dripping from every pore and my body yearning for water that isn't as warm as what I have in the bottle accompanying me on this lovely little walk, then sign the paper and walk out heading back to Karlo Kastle.

     I made sure I was the opposite side of the road as the "package men" (albeit still only perhaps 20 feet away), ignored every attempt of beggery with a ice-cold body of lifeless blood which is difficult to realize that you are capable of, and got back to the hotel around 6.50pm.

     Went to my room, did a once over, then grabbed my 29liter bag and went to check out.

     Karlo was at the desk and says abruptly to me with the screen of a calculator to match his words "1,950 rupees."

     At 350 rps per night, 4 nights of lodging, and a 10rps late fee, my math added up to 1,410rps.

     The slimeball wouldn't even look at me.  Instead he kept a pseudo-hypnosis gaze at a TV set that was mounted just behind me, over my right shoulder and says "5 nights, plus tax."

     There is no such thing as tax.

     I shot back, way way way passed fed up with this whole I-will-lie-and-cheat-the-dumb-westerner-into-giving-me-his-riches scene, that in fact "NO! Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday,"  I showed him my fingers, "FOUR NIGHTS."

     He did not even look at me.  "Five nights, plus tax."

     I rubbernecked my eyes into his line of sight.  He still looked just to the side of me and beyond me.

     Fucker.

     I only had a series of 500rps bills, so I did not have the exact change of 1,410rps that was my legitimate bill.  I threw down three of them, reached into my pocket and tossed two 5rps coins across the counter haphazardly as I turned and walked away.  (Read this action as being my adaptation of Uncle Buck telling the school principle to pay a rat downtown, 25 cents to gnaw the mole off her face).

     I thought for sure I was about to be jumped from behind, beaten, maybe sent to the police or something horrible.  Nothing happened though.  The extra 100rps I'd tossed at him must have sufficed his greedy and contemptuous will.

     In this time I'd found no real congregation of examples to inform that Indians are indeed a friendly people.  They were friendly, until you don't give them money.  It was a disheartening and cynical loss of naivety.

     But alas, there are of course antidotes to this poison of Con.  

     Rishikesh for example.
     The family at the train station whose children I entertained with a magic trick for 15 minutes while waiting for the train.  The children laughed and smiled as did I.  At the end, the father wrote his phone number down offering me a sofa to sleep on if I passed through Delhi again (But is it a trick?  I'm rotted with paranoia....).  The same man helped me by leaving his family to aid my search for the unlabeled train car that was to be my trusty iron steed out of that place.  He got me on board, shook my hand, and waved me off.

     Perhaps things will change for the better on a more permanent daily basis; I suppose I shall see......

DATE WRITTEN: Saturday, 22 May 2010

      Buying water in a foreign country for the first time is exhilarating and as scary as anything you've ever done.  You get up the courage to ask a local, maybe you eat at his restaurant a number of times and develop a nice little rapport, maybe you've just met a man and decide to risk it all.  No matter the means.  What makes the task at hand such a daunting thrill is the ends.

     The potential consequence.  How terribly wrong things could go if you've invested your faith incorrectly.  You imagine, in this case, Midnight Express.  You get told "just you," and walked to a little shop that sells a little bit of everything and is the size of a standard American gas station bathroom.  You pay the man, he gives you your bottle, and now you must just walk away acting natural and whatnot.  It is a moment of adrenaline overload in which you must show zero signs of the "fight or flight" chemical imbalance coursing through your mind and muscles.  This is a moment that if you ever experience, will never stray too far from the faculty of memory.  Its intensity will always linger, and it will make you smile.  Rather than decomposing in The Box, you are on the roof of your hotel at night, lying down looking at the stars that are both completely different and completely identical to the sky back home, listening to music, waiting for a lone monkey to go Dahmer and attach you while you are vulnurable, drinking your water; a grin on your face whose extremities extend beyond the ears.  

     Rishikesh can be magic.

     Or maybe its just the water.

     Regardless, life is magic.  Or at minimum: Good.

     Always it is a fine endeavor, and a fine endeavor it must always remain......

--Rishikesh, Uttaranchal, India

DATE WRITTEN:  Wednesday 26 May 2010

     Slept in til 11am today.  This is  wholly amazing as it is hot here.  I mean Hot.  It is over 100F by either 10am or noon.  Even on climate friendly days it gets hot early.  "Gets" hot is misleading really because it is quite simply always hot, it's just that during the daytime it gets hotter.  

     I've been in Rishikesh for one week as of today.  My bus ticket is for tomorrow at 4pm.  I shelled out 900rps for an air conditioned bus, through a "Government Authorised" tourism agent.  

     Why oh why, after coming to the firm realization that "Governemnt Authorised" really means "prepare for a tourist rape," would I do this?

     Because it is a 14 hour bus trip to travel a few hundred Kilometers.  This means winding and narrow passage by the way.  So what right?

     Well, if there were a train then I would say no problemo.  You get a 'sleeper-class' ticket with open windows, mingle with your day-to-day working Indians and just roll.  But think for one moment about an school bus from 1977, 100-110F temperatures, open windows on a dusty dirt earth pathway that more closely resembles an accident heavy motorcycle trail hugging the jungle cliffs than anything you may want to refer to as a "road," bench seats packed to the brim in a culture with no such concept as Personal Space, for 14 jangled and grotesque hours.....

     In my decision I feel spoiled on one hand, and justified on the other.  I think of hearing someone argue that renting a room with ceiling fans is "too posh for experiencing India man. You have to embrace the heat," and how silly this would be in practice.  While it may be true to an extent, let us not get carried away.  

     (remember  the Crusades?)

     You ever try sleeping in 105F night in bug infested, stagnant blow dryer air?

     It's fucking rough.

     And so, I've justified my extravagance of an A/C bus with padded seating; knowing that this is the Exception and most certainly not the Rule.  I simply cannot, and do not want to, hide myself away in calm cool padded environments; India is not any of these things at its core.  In fact it most often is the antithesis of these luxuries.

     It is completely crazy, hot as balls, and sterile-hard in most every direction.

     It is not how the majority of Indians live.

     It is not how a backpacker can live on 10-20 USD per day.

     It is not the way in which you immerse yourself in the culture: the smells, sounds and staring Indians have all been removed.

     It is how you join the lame and life retardant foreign mass.

     It is how you visit a country without ever visiting the country.

     It is how you spend excess money, however cheap it may still be.

     It is how you hide away from and learn to loathe.......the ever-present and detoxifying sweat that is Indian in May.

     But.

     But, but, but.

     It also is how you can get some form of sleep on a 14 hour, 4x4 bus journey.

     It is how you can rest (Phhhhp!  maybe....) and cover some ground simultaneously - making the investment equalize is potential deficit by acting both as lodging and as travel; dodgy though they both may be.

     Ultimately, it is how I will go from Rishikesh to Dharamsala (by the way, the Street Fighter character you're thinking of is named Dhalsim, not Dharamsala).

     Imagine if Andy Dufresne had never gotten those bottles of ice-cold suds for Red and the boys, allowing them to feel like free men if only for a short while.  

     Red illustrates: May is one damn fine month to be working outdoors.

     And so I'm off in exactly 24 hours from this moment.  Though it may not be the bottom-of-the-barrel style travel that I've promised my adherence to, I assure you the nerves will still be dancing unhappy upon my skin and my mind.  Big bus, one driver for 14 hours, slim roads, and Jungle cliffs with in a tears' distance at all times for over half of a day with the Fates deciding my duration of existence.

     I meditate and that these Fates have not yet drawn their string and shear: I don't want to leave this world breathing conditioned air.

 Written in the Little Buddha Restaurant, Rishikesh, Uttaranchal, India

  

-- Oh yeah one more thing.  Red, I must adopt and edit your wisdom to suit my needs:  

     May is one damn fine month to be riding indoors.

Dhalsim

A Yoga expert, Dhalsim was born in Kerala, India. He is known for his bald head painted with three red stripes, the string of skulls around his neck, and his shorts held up by rope. Generally a pacifist, the slim Gandhi-like Dhalsim retired from fighting after the second world warrior tournament. He now spends his time at home with wife Sally and son Datta.

In addition to his extending limbs, Dhalsim has three other signature moves:

• Yoga Fire – shoots a projectile of fire from his mouth
• Yoga Flame – creates a short-range ball of flame
• Yoga Teleport - teleporting through the astral plane to a new location