Days 27-31: Auroville to Larkspur, via The Accident

My evacuation from India lasted about 26 hours and took me island hoping through four countries' airports, all of which I saw from the perspective of a wheelchair.
I'm sitting in my room at home in Larkspur California now, which is extremely weird since I had prepared myself for being away from home immersed in Asia for 5 months. I just went through all my pictures for the first time at full-size, and I can say that I miss India dearly now. While I was there I'm sure I appreciated the fact that I was there, but I was also dealing with the constant obstacles, dangers, and annoyances. Now that I'm not there, I miss it all, the good and the bad, because it was all wound up in the total experience. Here, life is just too easy. The toilets have seats, the tapwater is drinkable, I don't have to carry around toilet paper, the mossies (read: australian for mosquito) don't carry malaria, and cars stop when you're crossing the crosswalk.

I'm filled with an overwhelming desire to go straight back to India and relive everything I've been throgh, and more. And I will. One day. Soon.

But for now, I'll recount how this whole thing transpired.

The day I left Auroville I was prepared for a very busy day of many forms of
transportation. I just didn't know it would end with me in the hospital. I started out in a taxi from Auroville to Pondicherry. Although Pondi has a train station, the tracks are closed for maintenance so I had to catch a bus to the nearest rail station in Villupuram 30 km away. As always, the bus station was something of a mystery, and when I boarded a bus and it pulled away from the station I honestly had no idea if my bus would actually take me to this place called Villupuram, which to me was just a dot on my map. When I asked which bus went to Villupuram, the station agent seemed to gesture that "any of those buses over there" would do the trick...just take your pick! On the bus, I ask those Indians seated down "Villupuram?" motioning to the bus we are all in and raising the inflection of my voice in question form. They shake their heads. Or give other negative-looking responses. But the bus driver's response, though also intelligle, seems more upbeat. I decide to give it a shot. What's the worst thing that could happen?

The bus starts out going south. I know this because I purchased a compass before I left. I pictured myself using the compass to navigate through trails in the wilderness, but it has actually proved much more useful in the urban wilderness. I use it in taxis, rickshaws, and buses to ensure that I am being conveyed in the correct direction. Then the bus pulls a u-turn and heads in the opposite direction on the very same road. I never will understand who makes up these bus routes, or if the concept of fixed route even exists in the minds of Indian bus drivers. Anyway, miraculously enough, about an hour later the bus actually makes it to Villupuram. On the train platform I make a lunch out of samosas and other 5 rupee fried goodies.

Because it's only a 2:40 train ride to Chennai (Madras) I made my booking in the cheapest possible class. I thought this was where there are no assigned seats and you just sit wherever there is room. But there were assigned seats. And apparently I didn't have one. I was on some sort of 'waiting list", which made no sense to me as I had made my booking a full week in advance. Oh well, I thought, it was a short ride, I'd just find room in the vestibule. The vestibules were popular spots. Indian men stood in the open doorways, catching the best breezes in the train. Some sat in the doorways. I staked out one such doorway and as soon as it was relinquished I claimed it as my own. Sitting there, my feet dangling out of the train, I knew I was living somewhat dangerously, but I thought it was all in good fun. The view was great (the line runs parallel to the coast), the breezes cool. Who needs a "real seat" when you can sit here? I let mind drift for 10, 20, 30 minutes. Then THUD. "OW!" my mouth emits voluntarily before I realize what has happened. Sharp pain emanating from inside my shoe. Good God, what have I done? I look down and my show's still on so my foot must still be there. In slightly stunned slow motion I withdraw from the door, stand up, and remove my shoe and sock. Perhaps it's just my imagination, perhaps it's just a bruise? Or could my whole foot be smashed to smithereens inside that shoe? I peel back the sock to find no blood, no dislodged bones, but a bulbous purple swelling about 1.5 inches across just above my pink and ring toes. A picture says a thousand words, so here you go:



I don't really know what to make of this. Could it just be a giant bruise? Other people on the train by now have gathered around to stare at this crazy, idiotic white guy and his bulging, purple foot. I'm sorry it happened to my foot, because in India feet are the most unclean part of the body and you're definitely not supposed to flaunt them. Now my seatless situation has improved as a family of Indians gives up their seats to offer me an entire bench so that I can elevate my foot. Someone brings me ice. It's painful but not *that* painful, so I'm thinking I probably haven't broken anything after all. A million thoughts are rushing through my head. What have I done? What does this mean in terms of my trip? I'm supposed to be on a night train tonight to Calcutta, where I'm staying at my friend Ravi's house. Shoot, is this going to make me miss my train? Oh my god, am I going to be able to walk? What if I can't walk? Then I can't do anything? I've based my entire trip on walking. I need to walk. I'm nothing if I can't walk. Why did this have to happen to my foot of all places? Well...maybe it's just a bruise. But that train was going 60, 70 kmph! What on earth did I hit my foot on? How on earth did it happen? It was only protruding a few inches from the train. Doesn't the train have a minimum clearance of a few measly inches?! Someone later explained that it probably hit the platform. As we were an express train, we skipped by several stations without stopping. The platforms are at ground level. The floor of the train must be higher than the platform level, because if they were equal, then it would have been my entire leg that slammed into the platform. But (fortunately, I suppose), it was just my foot. I mean, it all could have been a hell of a lot worse. I happened to be wearing my heavy hiking boots at the time. Had I been wearing my sandals who knows what would have happened. I could have knocked my whole foot off and found myself starring at a severed limb or something ghastly like that. I was lucky.

Yet it still hurt, and it looked pretty damned nasty. At this point I've resigned myself to the assumption that I'll probably be hospitalized for at least a week, maybe two. Which would suck. But I can handle it. I'd still be able to make it to Delhi 3 weeks from now in time to make my flight back to Bangkok, and then on to Vietnam and China as planned. But what if it's more than 2 weeks? I start to imagine all the worst case scenarios. The biggest stretch I can come up with is: I might have to fly home tomorrow! Ha ha. Well, nothing to do but go to the hospital and wait and see.

I'm still cognizant enough to get out my Let's Go and find that there's a highly recommended hospital just a couple km from the train station in Madras. Apollo Hospital. A kind Indian who speaks excellent English, a trained software engineer out of a job, offers to help me to the hospital. He assists me off the train, gets me a porter and a wheelchair, and even accompanies me in the taxi all the way to the hospital.

Then I'm turned over to the care of Apollo Hospital, which I must say, was nothing short of impressive. I've since learned it is one of the best hospitals in all of India. It was just my luck to be injured so nearby. Now I can add to my travel experiences having been an inpatient in an Indian hospital. First of all, nearly everyone who works in the hospital spoke English, which is extremely helpful. (I had several people ask whether or not I speak English, I suppose, because I could have been French or something). India may be a busy place but I was very well looked after in the hospital. I don't know if they paid extra attention to me because I'm white, because I'm a foreigner, or because that's just the way they do things. Service was also very efficient, and waiting time was kept to a minimum.

At first I saw a number of nurses and then men who I assumed were doctors but who I later learned where just collecting information and then passing it on to the doctor, whom I met later. Soon after arriving, they shot me up with pain killers and brought me to the x-ray room. A little while later the x-rays are produced and I see for myself: there is indeed a break. And it's not in the toe; it's in the foot itself. The 5th metatarsal is fractured. That's the bone that connects to the pinky toe, the one that bore the brunt of the force when my foot hit whatever it was it hit.
The second I see this I know the trip is going to change drastically. I've never broken a bone in my body before (I know most kids do playing sports growing up, but I never played many sports) but I know it involves casts and that when you break something in your foot you can't walk. Sure enough, the doctor explains, I'll be on crutches for 6 weeks. In the next 6 weeks, I was supposed to go to North India, trekking in the Himalayas, then meet my parents in Bangkok and travel to Vietnam with them, then go to China. All within the next 6 weeks. I do a quick calculation and realize that there's really only one thing to do and that's to end the trip and go home.

If I can't walk then I can't travel, it's as simple as that. I've survived on crutches for 6 weeks before at school and it was fine because you can go to classes and write papers and keep mobility to a minimum. But travel is all about mobility. Mobility between cities, mobility within cities. Travel and mobility are one in the same. I'm in the process of reading a book called "Wanderlust: A History of Walking" and I've written in my blog about how much of my travel activity is just walking around, and walking for miles and miles each day. Clearly, without a working foot travel was impossible. I needed go home as soon as possible. I figured I'd probably have to wait here for a week or so, until my parents were able to arrange a flight home for me. I explain all this to them that afternoon at the hospital, at about 3am California time. It's Sunday.

Then the doctor springs some new news upon me which suddenly compresses the timeframe in which I must get home. I could just let the fracture heal on its own. But it would heel crooked, which could cause significant pain and problems later on down the road. He recommends surgery to correct the angle of the bone. Now this is one of the best hospitals in India, and I am perfectly confident that they could do this surgery without issue. But if I stay and have the surgery here, that means at least ten days in recuperation before I am able to travel, before I am able to go home. I'd really rather not spend ten days here. Being IN India yet not able to DO ANYTHING would be torture. And besides, if I'm going to be recuperating from surgery, I'd really like to be with my family. So, I can go home for the surgery. But...I have to have the surgery within one week of the accident, so I need to get home asap.

In the mean time, I check into the hospital. They give me a list of room options and prices. They recommend the private room, which runs 3200 Rupees, or $80, enough for a night in a 4 Star hotel. Doesn't seem quite worth it. I say I'll go with the main ward (the dormitory of the hospital) at $20/night. They say I can't stay there because I'm a foreigner, and besides, I wouldn't want to, surrounded by other sick people. I figure they're probably right, and this probably isn't the best time to be cheap and haggle over prices, so I go with the two-person room for $40/night. As it turns out, most of the time I'm there the other bed is empty so it was private room.

At this point I'm relying on my parents to get me home within a week and I'm just looking at the hospital as a place to stay until I can do so. I don't really need hospital care, just a place to sleep. But since I'm in a hospital the staff there treats me as a patient. They want to do everything for me. And they have a whole army of attendants to wait on me and respond to my every need. In the 24 hours I was in the Apollo Hospital, so many people came to see me I lost track of them all. Here's a partial list:
•The emergency room nurses and doctor
•The nurses who worked in my ward in the hospital
•The head nurse (Sister Shanthi)
•The woman in the sari whose job seems to be to assure that everyone is "being taken good care of"
•The dietician, who wanted to know if I wanted Continental, North Indian, or South Indian food, and was surprised and delighted when I chose South Indian
•The hospital's public relations rep, who explained that there was an American journalist in the hospital who might want to interview me and did I grant permission (sure I said, but I hardly thought my story was newsworthy, and she must have agreed because she never did show up)
•The hospital's "communications" rep who deals with foreign patients
•More doctors
•The billing department rep
•"Boys" who wheeled me to the bathroom because the nurses couldn't
•Men who brought me food
•Nurses who brought me pain killers and took my blood pressure and temperature
•An agent from the railway police in the podunk town 60 km south of Madras, where the incident supposedly took place. When I was injured on the train, no employee of the train seemed to be aware, so I was surprised when the railway agent showed up in my hospital room the next day. He had me write a sworn statement in which I absolved the railway of any fault and claimed responsibilty and fault for the accident, all of which he dictated to me in rather bizarre English.

The whole experience was not bad at all. The nurses (they are all called "sister") were all very attractive and friendly. I chatted with them and found out they are from Kerala, the state to the west which is known for having the highest education rates and best record of womens rights in all of India. I really felt quite capable of doing most things that needed to be done, but the nurses insisted on doing everything for me, so I let them. They wore those traditional nurse outfits, with white blouses, little blue aprons, and little white hats on the back of their heads.
The food was quite good, especially considering that it's hospital food. Breakfast was banana, yogurt, cornflakes, milk, toast, jelly, and of course, chai. (In fact chai was available throughout the day). Lunch was a stack of metal bowls containing rice, yogurt, and a variety of vegetables and curries.

I even had my own TV. I caught up on the news courtesy of the BBC and then watched Indian music videos and commercials. It seems like every single commercial on Indian TV has a musical song-and-dance routine regardless of how un-jingleable the product may be. I watched a 2-minute ad complete with a talk show host, Bollywood actress spokesperson, and singing and dancing all for....electrical tape!

The next morning, just 18 hours after the accident, I spoke to my parents again and learnt they had already managed to find me a flight home - leaving Madras that very evening! How lucky was I? How wonderful are my parents?!

I think the hospital was sad to see me go. They made it kind of difficult to let me go. I had to wait for all sorts of things to wrap themselves up, but finally, after getting the cast replaced, getting crutches, getting more meds, getting discharged, and paying the bill (everything cost a mere $144!), I was ready to leave. I hobbled out of there on my new crutches and, ready for one last "Indian experience" hailed a rickshaw. 200 rupees to the airport. He was overcharging me of course, but at this point I didn't care. We hurdled through rush hour traffic as I gained my first glimpses of a city I hadn't actually seen up until now. As always when I ride a rickshaw, I risked getting into a traffic accident and being sent back to the hospital. But, alas, I arrived at Chennai International Airport unscathed. It's a rather bleak airport for a city of 10 million people or whatever Chennai has. But I'm not complaining.

A group of young boys - all cricket players in their team uniforms - were on their way to Sri Lanka. I observed in the queue for my flight probably the ugliest man I have ever seen. He was wearing german shorts, a hawaiin shirt, a fanny pack and his skin was covered in pockmarks, his moustache was painted on, and worst of all, his balding, frizzy hair was dyed purple!

At the security inspection a turbaned gentleman (I'm guessing Pakistani but I can't tell for sure) was having a major argument with the Indian security inspectors and airport officials that went on for several minutes and escalated into a violent shouting match that gained the rapt attention of most of us in the gate waiting area. I don't think I've seen anything like that in an airport before. I don't know what happened. Maybe he felt he had been unfairly "targeted" because of his religion or nationality.

Sitting in the waiting area, something suddenly dawned on me. I was sitting across from an East Asian businessman and I realized that during all my time in India I don't think I ever saw one Indian in a business suit. That's not to say Indians don't wear business suits. But I must not have been in the right place at the right time.

Another man I met in the airport was a fellow Amerian who happens to be from Marin County just like me. He too was flying to SFO, but he was flying westward and I was flying eastward. In a sort of paradoxical way, we would both reach SFO at approximately the same time the next day. Although I would gain a whole day by crossing the Int'l Date Line, I would also lose time by moving east, whereas he would gain time by flying west. He told me how he had been to see some enlightened Indian philospher who had shown him how all the stars are lining up with the pyramids all over the world. Yes, he explained, there are pyramids all over the world. In Illinois there are pyramids made out of earth taller than the pyramids at Giza, according to this man. Yes, and Stonehenge and Easter Island, too. They're all lining up with the stars, all as predicted in the ancient Mayan Prophecy (he then read my fortune with his Mayan calendar). He was dead serious. I wished I would introduce this guy to Jay, the rainbow person.

I wonder if anyone has written a treatise on liminality in airports, because airports really are like a liminal state between very starkly different worlds. Well, some airports are. Others, like Chennai airport, are more reflective of the countries they are in.

The second I stepped into the plane it was like entering a different universe. I passed from the run-down airport operated and mostly populated entirely by Indians into a shiny new 777 filled with Singaporeans and it was as if I was already in Singapore. Now a lot of people already must know about Singapore Airlines because it is consistently rated as best airline in the world. It's it not hard to see why. The service I received in coach puts every US-based airline to absolute shame. The stewardesses all look like models. They are gorgeous young Singaporean, Chinese, and Malaysian women known collectively as the "Singapore Girls" and all wearing identical 60s-chic form-fitting patterned purple blouse and sarong. They all speak flawless English and carry themselves with poise and grace (the result of "deportment studies" at Singapore's Singapore Girl academy).

Little perks abound. Hot washcloths. Amenity kits even for economy class passengers. A complete drinks list. Singapore slings mixed on the spot. Terrific food, with menus printed for each flight offering a choice between Indian and Continental. More meals than we need. And snacks in between. And Magnum ice cream bars from England.

The in-flight entertainment system, which is unparalleled:
100s of movies, TV shows, video games, puzzles, live news updates, trivia games, language tutorials, and travel guides
All entirely interactive and on-demand
I should have used the time to sleep but I am so behind on my movie-watching, and they had so many movies I wanted to see.
I saw:
Goodnight and Good Luck
North Country
Walk The Line
Capote
Shopgirl
Harry Potter 3
as well as Fraiser, Simpsons, King of the Hill, and Family Guy, and several games of Solitaire.

There were three flights in all. India to Singapore. Singapore to Seoul. Seoul to San Francisco. In each city, an army of assistants was waiting at the jetway to escort me and all the old ladies in wheelchairs to the next gate. Just over 24 hours in total.

So I got home to a rainy, dreary San Francisco Bay Area. Apparently, it has been raining nearly nonstop here ever since I left. When I was in the sweltering Indian heat I often wished for California weather, but not like this.

Turn on the TV. Americans are worried about their typical American problems. America already seems such a small place. Oh look, there's an article in the paper about an Indian actress (Sheetel Sheth) complaining about looking for work in Hollywood. Casting agents can never seem to figure out what ehtnicity she is. If she says she's Indian, they ask "what tribe?". She's lost parts to African Americans and Latinas for "not being ethnic enough". Hollywood should get its act together. I saw her in Looking For Comedy In The Muslim World and she was great. Indian actresses are a gorgeous lot. And according to what I've seen in India, most of them would love to make it in Hollywood. Except for the fact that most refuse to cross certain boundaries on screen (nevermind sex scenes, the hot issue in Bollywood today is which actresses are willing to do "kissing scenes"; most are not).

Went to Kaiser San Rafael today for my belated surgery, 3 days after the accident. To my surprise the orthopedic surgeon took one glance at the x-ray and proclaimed that the thought of operating on my foot was absurd. It's only bent 5 degrees. He wouldn't dream of operating on anything less than a 40 degree bend. Surgery would only complicate things, make the healing process take longer, and post unnecessary risks (foot surgery is always an ordeal). So, the diagnosis: simply wear a special rigid shoe, and let it heal on its own. No surgery. Not even a cast. This is all great news. It's interesting how different the two doctors' opinions were. The American doc suggested maybe the Indian doc just saw more money in the surgery. But my mom and I aren't that pessimistic. She says it's just a different of philosophy and approach. The Indian doc didn't tell me I HAD to operate, he just said it was an option, and he'd recommend it. In any case, I prefer the non-op recommendation, and coming home was worth it just for that second opinion.

I'm lucky to have parents who care about me so much and were able to get me on a flight home a mere 33 hours after the accident (and one the world's best airline). That's, frankly, amazing.

So now I get to sit around the house for the next six weeks reading, surfing the net, watching dvds. And making a good, informed decision on grad school. I was leaning towards LSE when I left, but since then I've gotten into planning school at Berkeley, and been offered a terrific aide package from Penn State (full tuition + living expenses + RA or teaching post and stipend), so I've got some more serious thinking to do.

I still have a lot of decompresion of thoughts swirling around my head for the last month, so don't abandon my blog yet (if you haven't already). I'll be writing more. And then, if all goes well with the foot, I'll be back on the road in May, spending about two months in China. So you see, all is not lost. I'm fine. It sucks that I had to leave early, but everything's gonna be alright.

The Accident. Or...Why You Shouldn't Stick Your Foot Out Of Moving Trains In India

Well.....

I stuck my foot out of a moving train and I ended up breaking my foot and now I'm on my way home.

There was a mix up on my train reservation and there were no seats for me, so I did what many Indians do: I sat in the doorway with my feet hanging out. I swear I saw other Indians doing this. Yet somehow when I did it, something knocked the hell out of my foot, fracturing my fifth metatarsal.

I spent the next 24 hours in the hospital in Madras where they took good care of me. The nurses were all incredibly cute. And from Kerala, so they're highly educated.

And now I'm in Singapore on my way back home to have surgery and then lie around in bed for the next 6 weeks because I won't be able to walk.

Sometimes life throws you a curve ball!

Well, this obviously sucks. I was only 1 month into my 5 month trip, and I was just getting into the swing of things.

I'm going to try to pick up again and go to China after the foot heals.
And I still have a lot more to say about India, and a lot more pictures to post (which will now be easier) so please don't abandon my blog just yet.

Bottom line: I'm fine. My foot doesn't even hurt. This is just really dumb and sucks big time but I'll live.

Days 22-26: Auroville

2:17

I've been in Auroville almost a week now and although my experience

here has been full of thoughts, observations, and opinions, I find it

difficult to put them into words. Auroville is a strange place. It can

be wonderful, beautiful, fun, annoying, pretentious, silly,

idealistic, and unrealistic all at the same time.

They say that one week is nowhere near enough time to understand this

place. Some have been living here since its founding over 35 years ago

and they still do not fully understand it. There are only 1800

full-time residents, or "Aurovillians". But there are many more people

here at any given time: visitors, guests, researchers, and tourists.

I'm a "guest" because I'm staying in a guest house. Some guests, like

me, only stay for a number of days. Others stay for weeks, or months.

You could live here one or two years and still not be an Aurovillian.

In fact, unless you are born here, you must live here at least two

years before you can apply to become an Aurovillian.

So what exactly is this place? It is neither cult nor sect. Neither is

it a commnue. Nor is it simply a gathering of new age hippies.

It is an experimental community. It is shaped like a circle (a galaxy

actually) centered around a giant golden sphere called the

Matrimandir. Inside the Matrmimandir is a solid white meditation

chamber with the world's largest crystal at its focal point. I have

yet to be allowed inside the Matrimandir (the rules for getting inside

are quite convoluted) but supposedly I will be able to see it

tomorrow, my last full day in Auroville. I have been inside the

Matrimandir groudns, sat under the Banyan tree, and been inside one of

the "Petals". There are ten petals aroud the sphere, like petals

around a flower. Each petal represents a different state of human

consciousness and contains a meditation chamber. Inside the chamber is

a surreal space with mist and glowing lights. Banyan trees are really

neat, and they can be found all over Auroville, and this part of

India. One tree can have dozens of trunks. The tree begins with a

single trunk, but its branches are so large and far-reaching, that

they send out trunks of their own, which grow downward until they

reach the ground and take root, thus becoming legs of support as on a

table.

Auroville comprises several square kilometers of land, and it is still

growing. When Auroville began in 1968 the land was barren red earth,

but it has since been transformed, through intense reforestation

efforts, into a dense jungle of tropical plants. Scattered across

Auroville are nearly 100 different small communities, nestled in the

forests. These communities have named like "certitude", "verite",

"progress", "success", and "fraternity". They range in size from just

a few residents to about 100 residents.

These communities are connected by dirt roads, paths, and trails.

There are only a fwe paved roads and they mostly skirt Auroville

itself. Although I have a map of Auroville, it is very easy to get

lost, and that is intended because Aurovillians say the best way to

discover Auroville is to get lost. Aurovillians also are wary of

tourists, especially the type who show up in busloads and expect to

see everything in a day, and although there is a visitor center, there

is very little support or infrastructure for handling these types of

tourists.

Staying at my guest house I've come across a wide spectrum of

visitors. Some come out of pure curiosity. Some want to become

Aurovillians, and this is merely their first step. Some come to

participate in classes, yoga, and meditation. And some are former

Aurovillians who have gone back to their respective countries but

return to Auroville every now and then to visit and keep in touch with

friends.

My guest house is pretty awesome. Nestled under the jungle canopy, it

is a collection of wooden huts around a banyan tree and central patio.

My room is on the upper floor of one of these huts. It's a bit like a

tree house. For 385 Rupees ($8.75) I get the room, 3 meals a day,

laundry and a bike rental.The meals are all vegetarian, and by far the

healthiest food I have encountered in India so far (everywhere else,

even the vegetarian dishes are simply saturated in grease). In fact,

so healthy, that I've developed a real habit for the fabulous

croissants, pastries, and cakes which are so common in all the stores

and bakeries around here.

Before I get into my criticisms and skepticisms (of which I have many)

let me just say that I respect the overall concept of Auroville. I

think most of the people here are good people with good intentions and

they are trying to do something important. And there is a lot of good

work going on here. This is a laboratory not just of human unity,

consciousness, and spirituality, but for solar energy, alternative

wastewater systems, farming, green building techniques, industrial

design, art, music, and literature. Most people who came here in the

beginning were typical idealistic 60s hippies who were sick of the

mainstream materialisitc world. They sought in Auroville not a utopia

(they hate to call this place a utopia, because it is not) but an

alternative, a place where peace, cooperation, and brotherhood would

prevail. No one here seems to know what exactly human unity is, and

whenever I broach the subject they tend to shy away from it. No one

expects Auroville to be finished, and human unity to be achieved,

within a lifetime, a century, or ever... I think to Aurovillians, the

process is more important than the outcome.

Arriving here I had certain preconceptions about what human unity was

and what I would find here, and I quickly had many of them fall apart.

I was thinking in the mold of an urban planner, and I expected to see

centrally located facilities where people lived together, sharing

living quarters, communal spaces, entertainment and recreational

spaces, etc. What I just described is more befitting of a university

campus than Auroville.Auroville is incredibly decentralized (despite

the galaxy pattern centered around the Matrimandir. It seems that

everybody is off in their own little communities, living in single

family homes, going about their own business, interacting with others

just as people do anywhere else in the world, at the cafe, school,

beach, restaurant, etc. Aurovillians were quick to inform me that

human unity is not human interaction, nor human sociability, nor human

togetherness. Human unity is from within. It is finding the one thing

that all humans have in common. Okay, well that's all well and good.

But how? And why here? But there's much more to Auroville than this.

Auroville is supposed to be an experiment in humans coming from all

over the globe to live together in peace and harmony. But I don't

think they've done very well with the diversity angle. There are 35

coutnries represented so far. By far the largest number of

Aurovillians come from India itself. After that, French and Germans

form a huge chunk (several hundred each). After that there are between

20-60 people from all the other European countries, about 50 each from

America and Canada, fewer from Australia, and a handful from countries

including Korea, Brazil, Morocco, Japan, and Mexico.
But in pure numbers this place is a European outpost in the middle of

rural south India. By far most people you see are white, and their

accents European. The representation from South America, Africa, the

Middle East, and the rest of Asia is so small it's laughable.

Berkeley, New York, and London are far more diverse than Auroville.
I've asked people why this is. They explain that some cultures just

aern't interested in this type of experiment. And that most people in

the developing world simply couldn't afford to come here. (India may

be cheaper than the West, but it's more expensive than Africa)

Which brings me to....money! A very interesting, and bewildering

aspect of Auroville. Most Aurovillians don't really seem to have jobs.

A few have their own businesses here. But most don't. Some work on the

farms, or in construction. Or in research and development. Everyone

here is expected to work towards the common good of Auroville.

Would-be Aurovillians have to put in two years of hard labor on the

farms. And there are some limited funds to reimburse people for the

workd they do for Auroville. But not a lot. Auroville gets a little

money from the Indian government, and some from the UN. But most comes

in the form of private donations from Aurovillians, former

Aurovillians, and benefactors around the world. Also, some income

comes from the handicrafts that are made in Auroville, such as incense

and tshirts. It seems that most Aurovillians must have some other

source of income, such as a large inheritence, in order to withdraw

from the capitalistic world and live here.

Auroville claims to be a "cashless" society because Aurovillians all

manitain central accounts and simply use their "number" when making

purchases or buying juice at the juice stand. But essentially this is

no different than using a credit or debit card. And it can be annoying

for visitors because certain venues, such as the Auroville grocery

store, will not take cash, and I don't have an account.

There is nothing in the Aurovillian philosophy against disparity of

wealth. That is why it is not a commune. The uneven distribution of

wealth is quite apparent in the relationship between the Tamils and

the Aurovillians. The Tamils are the Indians who live in this state,

Tamil Nadu. They were here before Auroville, and they still live in

and around Auroville in little Tamil villages. I actually think its

funny that they call them "villages" and Auroville a "city" because

the Tamil settlements are actually more "urban" than Auroville is! The

villages are densely settled, with streets and back alleys, and

several residences, businesses, and services in close proximity, and

that's more than can be said about most of Auroville, which is more

like a big camp.

Anyway, there is a complex relationship between Auroville and these

Tamil Villages. They say something like 40,000 Tamils are employed in

some way by Auroville. That's 20 Tamils for each Aurovillian. And you

see them everywhere you go in Auroville. They are cooks, janitors,

gardeners, maids, carpenters, and clerks. All of the industrial

facilities and handicraft studios in Auroville employ Tamil men and

women. And Auroville provides education and health care for the

Tamils. Still, I can't shake this very uneasy feeling that it all

resembles India under the British Raj: dark-skinned Indians as

servants under the rich white people. On the plus side, none of these

jobs would be here were it not for Auroville. But it still makes me

very uneasy. Those Indians who are Aurovillians are usually from North

India, with light skin, and wealthy, like the Europeans.

Auroville also owns some beachfront property. The Auroville beach

resembles a tropical beach resort, with hamocks, a fruit juice stand,

and palm trees, all within a gated enclosure with a disclaimer:

"Aurovillians and their guests only". I found this rather at odds with

the founding principle of Auroville that "Auroville belongs to

everyone". Someone explained to me that this isn't what it seems; it

isn't to keep out the Tamils, but to keep out the middle class Indian

day tourists who otherwise would overrun the place. Nevertheless the

beach is a nice place to pass the time. The juices are fresh and

cheap. And the beach is nice and flat and extends for miles in each

direction. In fact, it's much nicer than the beach at Goa. And the

water is better too. I joined crowds of Europeans frolicking in the

waves. Aurovillians will wear bikinis, but at least they are polite

enough not to go topless as European package tourists do in Goa and

anywhere else there's a beach in the world.

I have more to say about Auroville, but the power went out, I am

running on battery now, and the heat is swealtering. So it will have

to wait!

Okay, I've got a few more minutes to write now and I want to write about transportation.

I see transportation as a big problem in Auroville. Because the place is so damned spread out! The villages are tucked away inside this forest. The roads are all dirt roads. Sometimes more like trails. Often very rutty. You get covered in red dust and dirt whenever you venture out on the roads. The roads are rarely signed. It can be a real challenge to find where you're going if you're not familar with the surroundings. Some people get around by bicycle. Lots of the Tamil villagers ride bicycles to their workplaces in Auroville. THe guesthouses give out or rent out bicycles, which I used for a few of my days here. But the bicycles are old, rickety, and have no gears, which can make riding them quite a challenge. So I have to admit I gave in and rented a moped for three of my days here. At $1.50 a day I couldn't complain. Riding a moped here is great fun, and it is, sadly, the only real way to get around here if you're going long distances. And because of the nature of the layout of this place, you're almost always going long distances. Whether you are going grocery shopping, or just to meet a friend at a cafe, restaurant, or house, chances are you'll have to go several kilometers. And so nearly all Aurovillians ride mopeds. Which clearly is not a sustainable form of transport because it uses petrol. All of which makes the reliance upon it here of all places all the more suspect and peculiar. To Aurovillians' credit, they appear to often "carpool" by moped (2 or 3 people on one moped) and they often pick up people on foot to give them rides. I've actually had a chance to do this a couple of times, both picking up and getting a ride.

The town planners at Aurofuture are calling for the population to increase from the present 1,800 to 50,000! The plans, sketches, and models show a much more urban Auroville. At least, the zone within a 1 km radius of the center would become much more urban, with a greenbelt preserved in the second km radius. I think this type of layout makes more sense. With density comes a pooling of intellectual and cultural capital, not to mention economic capital. It makes pedestrian life possible. It means a concentration of services, commercial retail, and facilities so that people don't have to traverse such long distances. The plans also call for banning private transport within this urban zone, and instituting public transport in the form of shuttle buses. This is what I would envision in MY ideal commuity. But Auroville today seemes such a different place. So much more rural, camplike. And I think most Aurovillians like it that way. I don't know how they would adapt to such dramatic changes. One of the guiding principles of Auroville seems to be to pursue ones own path, freedom, and individuality. With any sort of town or regional planning comes rules and guidelines passed down from some form of governing body. I don't know if Aurovillians are equipped to deal with that sort of authority.

Authority is an amorphous subject here in Auroville. On the one hand, as I said, everyone here seems to promote individuality and "doing ones own thing". "Human unity" does not mean that everyone joins together under the same set of morals and goals and holds hands and sings. Yet, many people here do ascribe to a higher sort of authority, and that is in the form of Sri Aurobindo and The Mother, upon whose teachings and principles Auroville was founded. I have to admit that I have not read much of their writings. To become an Aurovillian, it seems you have to somewhat buy into their whole philosophy. Yet people tell me that their philosophy is incredibly open-ended, free-form, and non-dogmatic. In fact, Sri Aurobindo renounced all religions and pronounced freedom from religion and freedom to pursue enlightenment through meditation from within. So Auroville is techincally devoid of religion. But it is rife with spirituality. And I have to admit that I have difficulty separating the two.

I more or less consider myself an atheist, or at least agnostic. I follow no organized religion. I think evidence shows that religion certainly has the power to do much good, and I agree with many teachings of many religions. But I think these are all things that can be achieved, or at least pursued, without the guise of religion. All too often, history shows, religion is an excuse for hatred, violence, oppression, and war. I don't understand how so many human beings can be so dead-set in their own particular religions, how they can be so close-minded as to believe that only their religion is correct, and every other religion is wrong. We are all human beings. Either there can be only one God/Sets of Gods or there can be none at all. So call me an atheist. Call me a secular humanist. I don't know.

But then, here in Auroville, you have people gathering inside a giant golden golf ball to sit in a solid white chamber and worship a crystal. Okay, they don't "worship" it, they say....they use it to "channel" energy and spirits and such. The religion that is practiced here in Auroville perhaps bares more in common with pagan religions, wiccans, and indigenous spirit-worshipping religions around the world. I met a "rainbow person" at a cafe here who wore religious symbols of Christianity, Judasim, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and native American shamans. He said Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, Shiva, etc are all the same, are all one. He said he believes in them all and at the same time in none of them at all. He's not an Aurovillian but a Rainbow person. I'd never heard of the Rainbows before, but he says they are the CIA's enemey #2 (after Al Quada, of course). They hold rainbow gatherings across the US and the world. THis rainbow's name is Jay and he's from Los Angeles. He personified every hippy-dippy stereotype possible. He literally spoke of all people gathering together in a circle to hold hands, sing, spread peace and love, and that this would somehow solve all of the world's patterns.

Who knows, maybe it would? But I doubt it. I hate to sound so critical, because I really would like to dig his vibe. I'm all for global peace and love. But I don't trust people enough. There is too much greed, ignorance, and malice out there in the human race, and I don't think simply holding hands and preaching love and tolerance, as nice as it sounds, is going to solve anything.

Back to religion, people here insist that the Matrimandir and The Mother's teachings are not the trappings of religion. I'm sure there is much wisdom in Her words. But merely the fact that I have to capitalize "Her" as Christians capitalize "God" bothers me. It bothers me to call her "The Mother". I don't think any human being, no matter how wise, is deserving of such a title.

I met a new Aurovillian (who shall remain nameless) who candidly pronounced that he thinks The Mother and Sri Aurobindo and all the spiritual side of things here is "bullshit" and he thinks that most Aurovillians feel the same way he does, but are afraid to speak out, and so they pretend to buy into it all.

Some people I think are here merely to experience a different style of life. They're here because it's different than their home counties, because it's cheaper, because the pace of life is slower, because they can go to the beach, because they have friends here. Some are here to work on important research projects. And others are here because of the spiritual side. It seems like there's room for everybody. Still, I wonder if it is really worth it to spend millions of dollars on the Matrimandir that could probably be more useful if spent on other areas of development here in Auroville.

Sidetrip:

With my moped I did some exploring outside of just Auroville itself. In fact, I braved Indian traffic and headed north along the beach road, through Tamil villages, to Pondicherry University. It was an interesting place. Much larger than the college I saw in Bangalore. Pondi Uni is quite spread out, occupying a large campus. I visited a dormitory (which they call "hostels") which was not that different than dormitories on the more austere end of the scale at American univerisities. Concrete slab architecture, boxy little rooms. But each one seemed personalized, with dorm decorations, computers, and blaring pop music. Common bathrooms, dining room, and "rec room" with a big TV.

Pondi University has a pretty substantial social sciences and humanities wing, with departments of history, sociology, anthropology. There is also a department of French Philosophy (obviously leftover from the days when the French probably ran this place), and a Centre for Womens Studies and Yoga Studies. Women and men live in separate dorms, but they appear to share classes together. There is a "Centre for Magnetic Studies" and an "Animal House" according to one directional sign. I dont think they mean Animal House in the vein of National Lampoon, but rather an actual building housing animals?

Anyway, still got more to say, but I gotta sign off now. Auronet is closing. This whole town dies at 9pm.

Picture Set 2: Goa to Auroville

Here are some pictures from the last couple weeks.
I have hundreds more, and I wanted to post at least a dozen more than this online, but the computer was giving me all sorts of trouble and so I'm afraid this is the best I can do for now. In addition, they are out of chronological order.



Modern billboards in Bangalore



Mall in Bangalore



Victims of Holi



View from Monkey Mountain, Hampi



Rice fields, Hampi



Monkey Family, Hampi



Hampi Scenery



Cow on the beach, Goa



View of temple and jungle from Matanga Hill, Hampi



Women carrying dirt on her head at an archaeological excavation, Hampi



Colored powders for Holi



Indian women in saris on the beach, Goa



Palms on the beach, Goa

Days 20-21: Pondicherry and Auroville

Day 20:

I have gone from traveling alone to traveling with a group of eight. It is quite a change! There is:
Juan, my friend from Harvard
Kristie, from Finland
Emilie, from France
Lena, from Washington State
Martin, from India
Bjorn, from Sweden
Anne, from England
Six of them had pre-booked tickets on an air conditioned bus to Pondicherry, but since Emelie and I were late comers we had to ride on the non-a/c bus. We left 45 minutes before them, and arrived 90 minutes later than them. But it wasn't as horrible of a experience as my pervious bus ride. And I had someone to pass the time with.

The first thing I noticed about Pondicherry is how bloody hot and humid it was. The temperature here (in the low 90s) is no higher than elsewhere in India I have been, but the humidity makes all the difference. At 12 degrees latitude, I think this is the furthest south I have been on the globe.

Pondicherry is an unusual place. It was French for 300 years, until 1954. The French controlled this city and some of the surrounding area in India, and used Pondi as the capital of all their South Asian possessions (which also included Mauritius and the Maldives). As a result, Pondicherie actually feels like France at times. The old town has a decidedly French atmosphere, with lavish (albeit worn) homes that could just as easily be in New Orleans. Bouganvelia and greenery adorn patios and gardens. There is a great central square, churches, and a cathedral. Pondi is also a coastal city, offering me my first glimpse of the Bay of Bengal. I have now seen both of India's coasts. At night, the promenade along the sea bursts with life and it seems the entire city flocks here to enjoy the cool breezes.

The city is mostly Indians. There aren't a lot of French still living here. But there are a lot of French tourists. In fact, every time Indians or richshaw drivers would address us on the street, it was usually in French, assuming we were French tourists. As Emelie doesn't speak much English, she probably felt right at home. French influence can also be found in the cuisine. We found a wonderful little bakery with warm fresh-baked croissants, pain au chocolate, baguettes, and cappucino, all for 15-20 rupees.

Unfortunately, our other attempts at eating did not go as well as breakfast. We had lunch in a fabulous location, on a terrace overlooking the seaside. But the food did not match the view. At least half the items on the menus were unavailable. Juan ordered spaghetti bolognese and received something more like sweet and sour noodles instead. Martin's bifstek was a slice of roast beef in a bland gravy. My prawn cocktail came swimming in mayonaise. Our beer arrived luke warm.

We decided to try a more upscale place for dinner. It was a self-proclaimed French restaurant so we figured we were in for a treat. We were wrong. Half the items on the menu were steak, and yet steak was unavailable. (I know what you're thinking: I thought they don't serve beef in India. Well, they do under certain circumstances, like when you were ruled by the French for 300 years. But, apparently, the beef comes and goes...) My french onion soup lacked both the bread and cheese on top, and seemed to lack onions as well. My father's french onion soup put it to shame. The service was overwhelmingly slow. We were there for over two hours and we had to rush at the end because our ashram gates closed at 10:30. They never actually brought me my food. They got my order wrong, brought me the wrong thing, and never got around to bringing anything else. Oh well, at least the Punch Cocos were good.

We stayed at a guest house operated by the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. We got a dormitory room with beds for all eight of us in one big room for only 220 rupees (less than $1 per person). The place was impeccably clean and well-landscaped with a sculpture garden and foutain in the courtyard. The only rules: no shoes, and gates close at 10:30.

Day 21:

We hired a van to take us the 14km journey to Auroville. The other seven only had a few hours to walk around because they are all heading back to Bangalore on the bus tonight. I parted ways with them because I will be spending the next seven days here.
Yes, one whole week. I've been moving around so quickly from place to place that this should be a real welcome change of pace.

I'm sure I will have much more to say about Auroville in the coming days, but I will offer a very brief summary here.
Auroville is an experimental, international community. Its residents come from all over the world. Some live here for many years, some for a lifetime.

I highly suggest you check out the wikipedia entry on Auroville:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auroville

and Auroville's own website:
http://www.auroville.org/

In my very short time here I have indeed seen some sights that are uncommon anywhere else. A group of about 6 youths were getting coconut-like objects from a tall palm tree. Some were clearly Indian. Some were white, with European accents. They all live here and grew up here, and the conversation among them flows between Tamil (the local Indian language), English, and American pop culture references. They offered me one of the coconut-like objects which has small compartments of jelly that you suck out.

Right now I am at the internet cafe. There is a crowd of "tweens" (10-14 year olds) playing games and listening to pop music and giggling and basically being a nuisance, but I find it fascinating. They are Indian, Black, Chinese, American, European, and Israeli. Well, they are Aurovillians. That's how they would refer to themselves, rather than the country of origin of their parents. These kids of all different races and family backgrounds have all grown up together in South India. What a concept. And here they are singing along to Tatu, Eminem, Bob Marley, and garnering the admonitions of the Indian proprietor of this establishment

My guest house is awesome. I pay 385 rupees ($8.75) a night and that includes my room, 3 meals a day, a bicycle, and laundry! My room is the second floor of a little wooden hut. I've got an electric fan and the windows don't shut so there is a mosquito net. Its charming and rustic. Outside is a giant banyan tree which hovers over the entire compound. There is both outdoor dining, and indoor dining protected from the mosquitos.

Auroville is something like 40 square kilometers, very spread out, with several villages with named like "Tranquility", "Purpose", and "Wisdom". It will take a long time to explore, so it's good that I have a bike.

Have to go now. Dinner is being served back at the guest house.

Days 16 to 19: Hampi to Bangalore

Day 16

Breakfast at one of Hampi's many rooftop cafes. I ordered the lemon pancake. The pancake came served in the pan in which it was cooked, with a whole lemon which I was to squeeze myself. Many of the buildings have solar water heaters on the roof. I checked out of the hotel then spent another full day exploring the spectacular surroundings of Hampi, this time by foot. I wandered along the river trail and veered inland through an ancient promenade with shaded columned arcades running along either side. The Indian Archaeological Survey was conducting a dig, and the laborers carting the excavated dirt away were women, in saris of course, and they were carrying the dirt in small bowls on their heads. I had thought the carrying of goods on ones head is only in Africa, but it is done all over Hampi. Women wear a small pad atop their heads which I suppose makes it more comfortable and helps to balance the load. Men never carry things on their heads.

At the end of the promenad is a grand 14th century temple, mostly still intact. I swear this entire place seems like it's straight out of Indiana Jones. I know how culturally depraved that sounds. It would probably be better to say that the settings in Indiana Jones were inspired by Hampi. The temples with exotic and forbidding images of gods and demons. The spectacular desert scenery and otherworldy rock formations. The jungle. And the risks and dangers around every turn (violent monkeys, snakes, bandits, and, unfortunately, rapists). Rising just to the south of the temple is a steep mountain with a temple on top. I knew I had to climb it even though my guidebook warns that rapings and muggings have occured in the recent past. So I began my ascent, armed (only half jokingly) with a whistle and swiss army knife. With all the hidden caves and hidden curves in the path, I could see how naredowells could hang out here, but when I passed a family of about 30 Indians on their way down the mountain I stopped worrying. At the top I met a British woman named Wendy and together we took in the breathtaking 360 degree views. We could see for miles in every direction, desert and mountain punctuated by jungle and river and ruins, and very few of India's 1,000,000,000 people. Wendy has been traveling in India for nearly a year, as a solo female traveler. We climbed back down together and shared a chai at the chai shop (yes, there are chai shops even along trails).

Another mile or so down the river trail I arrived at the Vittala Temple. This is one of the few temples in Hampi that actually charges an entrance fee, and even though the cost of admission is ridiculously overpriced for foreigners, I paid it because I figured I'd gotten enough enjoyment out of all the free sights. They charge Indians 5 rupees but foreigners $5 or 250 rupees. Since $5 is actually closer to 220 rupees, paying in dollars was a better detail. I handed them a $10 bill and they gave me a fiver in return. My first transcation with US dollars since leaving home.

Vittala Temple is famous for its "musical pillars". The pillars of the temple each produce a different tone when tapped, supposedly emulating 56 different Indian instruments. I don't know about the emulating the instruments part, but there definitely were several dozen different sounds. Since everyone there is busy tapping the pillars, it all adds up into a sort of spontaneous cacophony of sound. A great tree with twisted branches and white bark stands solitarily in the middle of the temple courtyard, reminding me of the white tree of Gondor from Lord of the Rings. There is a woman whose sole job it seems is to sweep the fallen petals from under the tree. There is also a sunken chamber surrounding an underground temple. Tiny holes in the ceiling allow sunlight to stream into the chamber in narrow, focussed rays. Again, it was like a scene straight out of Indiana Jones. What a great bunch of movies those were!

My next goal was to cross the river and see the famed monkey temple. But the boatman wanted 20 rupees which I thought was too much so I set out to find another crossing. This turned into a sort of wild goose chase as I thought the next crossing would be much closer than it turned out to be. I also thought I would be clever and simply walk along the river's edge instead of taking the road which detours inland. Taking the river route proved to be far more time consuming because I had to climb up and down and all over giant boulders and through bushes. At one point it looked like I could cross the river by jumping from stone to stone, so I did. Yet when I got to the crest of the next rise I realized that I had only crossed a small derivative of the river and that the real river still lay ahead, and was definitely not crossable. After scampering over rocks for a while I spotted a bridge in the distance. Upon arrival I realized the bridge was still being built. Nevertheless, I finally found the "boat" which is a big basket made from palm fronds. I was rather skeptical when three motorcylists joined me in the boat with their cycles, but the contraption proved surprisingly seaworthy.

I had been able to see the monkey temple from the first hill I climbed. It was rather close, but on the other side of the river. Now I was on the right side of the river finally, but I was several kilometers past the monkey temple. I set out on foot, a bit nervous about making my train connection that evening. But then two Indian guys offered me a lift on the back of their motorcycle. Not only that but they treated me to a cold drink at the roadside shop. They dropped me off about 1 km from the temple where their road split off. I walked through banana fields where farmers were busy harvesting bananas and where Indians were hovering in the treetops of coconut trees, tossing coconuts down. The monkey temple sits atop another mountain, and the ascent is up a very steep flight of 500 stairs. I had been forewarned about the monkeys, some of which can be quite threatening, so I loaded up on bananas at the base. Whenever a monkey accosted me, I tossed it a banana and that seemed to keep it preoccupied. Except for one monkey who didnt even wait until finishing the banana before he grabbed me and asked for more. The bananas got to be a bit of a problem because the higher I climbed, the more monkeys there were, and I clearly wasn't going to have enough to feed them all. But most of them seemed pretty peaceful, and I just walked right past them with no trouble. Monkeys are amazingly humanlike with their facial characterisitcs and the way they grasp things with their hands. Of course, they can also do amazing things that humans could never do, like scampering up near-vertical cliff faces. One baby monkey used the hand railing on the stairs as a silde, sliding down, head first,. arms outstretched, and clearly having a lot of fun. At the top is the temple to Haruman, the monkey God. This actual spot is the supposed birthplace of Haruman. Amazing that the monkeys today still know it.

I had a long way back to go, but a bus came rumbling along and that helped to shave a few kilometers off my return hike. I then walked through an entire village on the opposite side of the river from Hampi Bazaar that I hadn't even realized existed. This village is more remote than Hampi Bazaar but the tourist infrastructure is beginning to creep up, with several guest houses and restaurants. Most guest houses are clearly still working farmers' homesteads, that just happen to rent out rooms. One very rustic looking place had a big sign advertising itself as a "CHILL OUT ZONE". The boat ride back across was motorized this time. I had enough time back in the bazaar to shower, surf the (incredibly slow) internet, and chat with some Australian women. I really wished I had stayed longer than 2 days, 1 night in Hampi. It's a glorious place. Most people go there and stay at least a week, and I can see why.

Waited at the bus stop for about 45 minutes along with several other backpackers, most of them also trying to catch the same train back in town (12 km away) as me. The bus was supposed to come every 30 minutes, but there was no sign of it. Someone explained that the rickshaw mafia pays off the bus driver to not show up and cart the backpackers to the train station, so that they are forced to hire rickshaws instead. Real nice situation....
So I paired up with an American guy and a German girl and we bartered our way down to 100 rupees split 3 ways (less than $1 each) for the 40 minute ride to the train station. Turns out they were in the same compartment in the train as me.

I was surprised when this train didn't have the hawkers going up and down the train selling "chai chai chai chai", "nescafe nescafe nescafe" and everything else. On this route, you can only buy food and drink when the train makes station stops. That makes for a quiter train ride.

Day 17

Arrived by morning in Bangalore. My stay in Bangalore is a bit different from the rest of my trip because I'm staying not at a guest house but with Juan Castro, my friend from Currier House at Harvard. Juan (a fellow Californian) is one of a handful of Americans working for Infosys, a giant outsourcing company headquartered here in India. It seems like a pretty fascinating lifestyle these young Americans get to experience here in this ever-so-modern yet still very Indian city. Juan lives with the other American Infosys workers in a nice apartment building in the southern suburbs.

I didn't do much sightseeing today but instead caught up with Juan, watched some TV (Indian and American) and followed Juan around on his day off. Today was also Holi festival, which is a wonderful festival of color and joy celebrated throughout India. Except, it seems, in Bangalore. The festival is biggest in Northern India, where everyone loads up on fabulous colored powders and throws them at each other all day long. In Bangalore the participation is pretty weak. I saw only a few dozen people splattered in colors throughout the day, and they seemed mostly to keep it within their own group of friends. I would have liked to have gotten a better perspective on this exciting festival. However, maybe I'm better off. I read in the paper today that 8 people died and several were injured in Northern India as a result of the festival. Seems many teenagers and hooligans use it as an excuse to do all sorts of awful things and crime is at an all time high during Holi, with molestations, rapes, fondling, groping, drunk driving, and throwing acid in peoples' faces.

I met a group of Juan's friends, all foreigners living here in Bangalore. A guy from Sweden studing at University of Bangalore. A girl from Austria teaching English and geography to untouchables. A girl from France working with schizophrenics. And a guy named Matt from Oklahoma who has spent the last several years traveling, living, and working in Asia. We went to MG Road (Mohatma Gandhi Road) which is the commercial nexus of this oh-so-commercial of cities.

Bangalore is India's 5th largest city, and probably its fastest growing one. It is a huge center for high tech industries, internet industries, and call centers. Many US and global corporations have offices here. It is also one of the wealthiest, and therefore, most Westernized places in India. MG Road and perpindicular Brigade Road are capitalism on overdrive. Up until this point I had yet to see a single "mall" in India. And here there is a mall on every block. Some of them extremely nice and comparable to the fanciest malls in the US. Expensive deisgner clothing boutiques, Barista coffee shops on every block (Barista is basically the Starbucks of India. Surprisingly, Starbucks has yet to move into India. But Barista is essentially the same thing: overpriced novelty coffee drinks loaded with sugar and whipped cream and a hipper-than-thou attitude with a techno soundtrack.

Up until now I had not seen a single grocery store/shopping center in India. But I finally started seeing them today. They are still quite small for a supermarket. the produce sections are quite pitiful. And the entire refridgerator section consists of a handful of standalone coolers in the corner with cheese, cream, ice cream, and such.

There are surprisingly few foreign products available in Indian supermarkets, though you do see a few like Kellogs, Nestle, and of course Coca Cola. Kellogs makes a "Mango Corn Flakes" for the Indian market.

Days 18 and 19

I think I'm going to start abandoning the strict chronological nature of these blog posts and make it more of a stream-of-conciousness thing. Or rather, just a series of random observations and bullet points. Sorry if it's not the most coherent thing, but when internet time is at a premium I don't have time to craft these things into elegant, flowing prose.

On Thursday and Friday Juan had work so I wandered about the city on my own, through residential neighborhoods, parks, ugly drab commercial areas (where every other store sells tires and automotive parts), bazaars, and agagin to MG Road/Brigade Rd (where all the ritzy modern stores and malls are).

At the movie theater snack bar you can order a "Chicken Tandoor Quesadilla". Parentheses are added, explaining to Indian customers that this is a "Mexican sandwich". You don't see a lot of references to Mexico in this part of the world, so I thought this was amusing.

Bangalore is about 1000 feet up on the Deccan Plateau, so the weather is a bit more tolerable than elsewhere in Southern India. It is a little less humid, the air is a bit cleaner, and there are cool breezes. It's a very green city, with street trees lining many boulevards, and of course palm trees too.

I did a good deal of walking through some very nice suburban neighborhoods, with single family homes, townhouses, and apartment towers. Some of the streets actually have sidewalks. In general, sidewalks in Indian cities leave something to be desired. They are often in a constant state of construction, unpaved, with hunks of concrete lying about and rebar sticking out of the ground. They start and stop abruptly, forcing pedestrians into the lanes of traffic, which is where most of them walk anyway.

There are several parks in this city. One boulevard had at least a mile of parks in a row, each occupying one long, narrow block. I entered one of these parks, expecting that I could follow them all the way in a longitudinal direction, like Commonwealth Avenue in Boston's Back Bay. But when I got to the end I found the park gated and locked. I circled back along the entire perimeter and found that the whole park had but one access point. You couldn't pass through these parks. They are self-contained traps. I don't understand the reason for this. It is antithetical to connectivity. I am a great believer of connectivity in urban planning. I believe in connectivity for motor vehicles (a solid grid of streets rather than traffic-restricting cul-de-sacs) but I believe in more in connectivity for pedestrians. To me the ideal city is one rife with pedestrian paths, stairways, alleyways, shortcuts, and public easements...anything that encourages people to move about by foot. I hate it when I find myself blocked by a gate, wall, dead-end, or streets that don't connect.

Even in a modern, very Westernized city such as this, you still see hand-pulled or cow-driven wooden carts fighting for space in traffic. I've already said something about the traffic in India but it warrants more discussion.
I used to wonder if traffic rules were simply non-existent. It certainly would seem that way to the casual observer. But all over Bangalore I saw signs listing dozens of possible traffic offenses and their accompanying fines. Even "excessive horn honking" is a punishable offense. Its not the rules that are nonexisten but the enforcement of these rules. From what I understand, on the rare occassion that cops do pull people over, it almost always leads to a bribe, and not a citation.

The US is one of the most automobile-centric societies on earth. We have the most cars per capita, consume the most gasoline, etc. Yet we have instituted safeguards to protect non-motorists. If you're trying to cross a street, most of the time you can be confident that approaching cars will stop for you. India on the other hand is primarily a nation of pedestrians. The numbers are on the side of the pedestrians. But they are not the empowered classes. Those with any money have motor vehicles, and they hold absolute power in the hierarchy of urban traffic. Every driver belives the right of way is his and his alone. He (or she) will never yield to pedestrians. He will cut in front of other vehicles. He will ignore red lights. He will shove his way into and across unsignalled intersections. He will u-turns. He will drive the wrong way on one way or divided streets. He will create shortcuts where none exist. And if anything gets in his way (or even if it doesn't) he will blast his horn as if it's his God-given right. The din of horn honking is literally deafening. I have resorted to wearing ear plugs whenever I walk down a busy street. Anyone who spends much time on these streets must suffer from permanent hearing damage.
Big intersections are signalized, which means you can usually count on being able to cross the street on foot. But most are not, and crossing can be quite an adventure. Sometimes if you wait long enough there will be a lull in the traffic and you can make your away across. But traffic seems to move at an almost consistent and steady rate...never all that fast, but fast enough to be deadly. I've watched Indians crossing, and I usually try to cross with other groups of people (maybe its a power in numbers mentality). The most effective approach seems to be to work your way across the street lane by lane, stopping in the middle of the street to await the next empty spot. Of course, this can be dangerous as "lanes" are often wishful thinking.

In India vehicles aren't called "cars" and "motorcycles". They are "4 wheelers" and "2 wheelers", and 2 wheelers may even be more prevalent. They are especially popular with teenagers and 20-somethings. Young men driving with their girlfriends riding on back is a common sight. I've even seen young women driving with their boyfriends riding on back. In some of the popular destinations within the city, such as MG Road/Brigade Road, parking has become a problem. Entrepreneurs have opened parking lots where 2 wheelers are crammed in so tight I don't know how they ever get them out again. Bangalore is the first city in India to institute automated parking meters.

I saw Brokeback Mountain on Thursday at the multiplex in one of the malls. Seeing as homosexuality is techinically illegal in India, and most certainly a major taboo, I was actually surprised to find this movie playing at all. I guess that shows how far apart these few metropolitan cities are from the rest of India. But, still, I'm sure the film was censored. There were some abrubt cuts whenever things started to heat up between Jake Gyllenhal and Heath Ledger. We did see them kiss (which brought on a lot of giggles and snickers from the audience) and lying in bed together, but nothing else. Still, good movie. The Indian fellow sitting in front of me answered his mobile during the movie and proceeded to carry on his conversation for 5 minutes right there in the theater.

Cubbon Park is not a particularly happy place. It's full of single men, loafing about. I read that for every 100 men in India there are only 90 women, or something along those lines. Some Indian families kill their newborn infants when they learn they are female. This is not just a problem in rural India. With the rise of medical technology, urban families have performed abortions upon learning the gender of their unborn fetuses. In my opinion this gender imbalance cannot be good for Indian society. And not just for the obvious reason that sexism is wrong. Rather, it means that there are millions of Indian men who will never find a wife because there are simply not enough women to go around (and, as I explained earlier, seeking companionship with other men is not an option). Indian women on the whole are beautiful creatures. And every man wants a wife. I cannot understand why families don't want daughters. It seems to me they would be a very valuable asset. Not to mention that women can be found in nearly every profession these days. Women work in medicine, engineering, IT, and business. And of course, they work as receptionists, waitresses, salespeople, and models. You also find women in fields that, even in the West, are almost totally dominated by men. For instance: streetsweeping. Nearly all streetsweepers are women. This is a dirty job. Women patrol the streets, bending down to sweep debris and dust with handwoven brooms. And construction workers. Women are found at every construction site, usually hawling dirt away in baskets on their heads. The fact that there are so many lonely, disaffected single men loafing about is one of the reasons that the oggling, harrassment, and molesting of women can be such a problem.

I did some more clothes shopping, this time in a mall so that I wouldn't have to bargain. I wanted more Indian style ("kurta") shirts. Most of the clothes for sale in the department stores and clothing boutiques are Western style. To find Indian-style clothes I had to go to the "Ethnic Wear" section. I found this utterly ridiculous, since the adjective "ethnic" is usually used to desribe something OTHER than the dominant ethnic group in any given place. Yet, Indian clothes IN India have now been deemed "ethnic". Are Indians trying to "de-ethnicize" themselves in relation to the West? In the beauty products section of department stores and pharmacies you will find shelves dedicated to something called "fairness cream". I suppose its not that different from the concept of makeup in general, which makes you look different than your actual self. But the idea that the sole purpose of fairness cream is to change the color of your skin to make it whiter is enough to make my stomach churn. On the packages there are "before" and "after" pictures of a beautifully-complexioned Indian woman, and then the same woman looking decidedly whiter. Word is nearly every model and Bollywood actress uses this stuff. They make it for men too. Kind of ironic when most white people I know are constantly trying to look darker.

Pissing on the sidewalk doesn't seem to be taboo. Men will unzip and make use of the "facilities" most anywhere, regardless of whether or not women are nearby.

On one of my walks I came across a "Higher Secondary School". At first I thought it was a high school. It looked like one, a single two-storey building around a courtyard. I entered, figuring this would be a good way to see everyday Indian life up close. I asked a girl what type of school this was and she said it was a "college" but not a "university" and that the students were 18-21 years old. This is probably similar to a Junior College in the states, or maybe it's just a "college" in the sense that it doesn't offer advanced degrees. You can tell it's not a high school because the students dont' wear uniforms. They wear whatever they like. However, although there are a few girls in skirts, jeans, and tshirts, most still wear saris. The parking lot is entirely 2 wheelers...no 4 wheelers for college students. I wrote down the departments as I circulated around the school:
Chemistry
Electronics
Computer Science
Commerce
Physics
Zoology
Botany
Mathematics
Statistics
Sports
Hindi
Sanskript
Kannada (the language spoken in this state)
English

No room for humanities or social sciences, apparently. I went to the library, which did manage to make room for a single shelf dedicated each to History, Sociology, Psychology, Art, and Theater. In such a technology- and success-driven society, I suppose studying anything that doesn't lead directly to a high-paying job would be a lost cause. Within those social science shelves, it looked like most books were by Western authors, although there were a few Indian authors to be found.

I peeked into some classrooms and it looks like although the school itself is coed, boys and girls attend geneder-segregated classes. The classes here (with the exception of the language ones, I suppose) were all in English, and the teachers spoke flawless English as far as I could hear. Above the classroom doors, signs announced the professor's name AND degree.

A poster announced an upcoming sports meet. While the boys got to compete in athletic events like Running, Shot Put, Long Jump, etc the girls were relegated to childish games like Potato Race, 3-Legged Race, and the curiously-named "Lemon and Spoon".

I finally bought my first coconut from one of the many streetside coconut vendors. Indians harvest coconuts before they ripen and develop a rusky brown shell. These young coconuts have a smooth green skin. They chop off the top with a giant knife and stick a straw in. The coconut is full of delicious clear juice (which has not yet condensed into coconut milk). The meat of the young coconut is gelatinous and delicious and can be scraped out easily with a spoon. If only I had a lime to put in the coconut....*sigh*

Went out in the evening with Juan and his possee of international friends. Nightclubs and bars serve drinks that are extremely expensive by Indian standards ($2 for a mixed drink, up to $5 for premium liquors) but in a city like this there is plenty of people with disposable income. Bangalore has been referred to as "Bar galore" because of its raucous nightlife. However, discontent is brewing among the city's night owls. The official closing time for all drinking establishments is 11pm, and corrupt cops have been busting into bars as early as 9 and 10pm, knocking over tables and roughing up the crowds, calling patrons "prostitutes" and "sinners". Sounds kinda like Carrie Nation. Bars are required to obtain special licenses to continue serving drinks, but of course with the Indian bureacracy as it is, these licenses are notoriously difficult to obtain, and so the establishments usually have to dish out bribes instead (maybe that's why the drinks are so expensive).

Although Indians use the same number system as the rest of the world, they have different units for large sums of money. Indians do not have the concept of "1 million" or "1,000,000". Instead, they have "1 lakh" which is "100,000". But they add an extra comma, so the Western number "200,000" would be written in India as "2,00,000" or "2.00.000". I found this extremely confusing at first, and still do. When Indians talk about great sums of money, such as for a car or house, they talk about it in terms of lakhs. The next unit is the "croire" which is "100 lakhs" or "10,000,000". Confused yet?

Days 10-15: Bombay, Goa, and Hampi

Well, I've got quite a bit of catch up to do since my last entry in Bombay. Since then, I've been to three new destinations in two new states. But first, to finish up with Bombay.

Day 10, continued

I take back some of what I said about Bombay being so much more orderly and clean, etc. etc, than Delhi. Alas, Bombay can be just as loud and worked up in a horn-honking frenzy as Delhi. It just depends on the time and place. My meanderings took me north from downtown Bombay up past cricket grounds, a very British-looking railway station (where I waited 2 hours in line to get my next ticket - they make foreigners wait in a special foreigners line that takes forever, and then charge us 3-4 times what they charge Indians).
And I made my first attempt at bargaining with a street vendor. I'm afraid to say it ended miserably. I saw an Indian style shirt I liked and asked how much. He said 950 rupees ($21). I knew this was way too much, so I said 400. First mistake. I started my bidding way too high. In my mind I was thinking, ah, well, it's probably worth about 400, so I wouldn't mind spending that. Well from there the only way the price can go is up. I got it for 500 ($11), thinking I was so clever for talking him down to nearly half his original price. Well, my friends, I was duped. As soon as I got away from the shop I tried on the shirt, and one of the buttons broke in half. The shirt was scratchy and clearly the product of cheap, haphazard craftsmanship. It wasn't worth more than 50 rupees. I paid way too much. Well, it's a lesson earned. Always start the bidding ridiculously low because you know they will start ridiculously high.

In the late afternoon I took the local train about 15-20 km north. That was an inexperience in itself. Super cheap (6 rupees), the local trains are how most folks commute to work, and I was riding towards the suburbs at rush hour. Packed like sardines in a tin. THe train barely stops at each station so passengers jump on and off while it's still moving. Got off at Ville Parle Station (don't know why it's French) and walked 3 km west to Juhu Beach. Juhu is where many Bollywood stars live, like Malibu is to Hollywood. The beach itself is not that pristine, but it's a cheery gathering place, and as I strolled along at dusk, watching the sun set over the Arabian Sea, it was *the* place to be in Bombay. Romantic couples, teenagers, children, people from all over the metropolis savoring the sea breezes and breathing space. Carnivals, food stands, and of course hawkers were to found as well. As I sat down to eat my Subway sandwich (had to see if it tasted the same as home) I attracted a circle of beggar children. Actually, they weren't that persistent, or annoying. They didn't even ask for anything. But I felt guilty so I gave them my sandwich. The cutest little girl also followed me around. She was applying henna tattoos (just ink with an ink block pattern), which is for girls, but she wanted me to buy a henna block to take home to my sister. She was super cute and spoke absolutely perfect English. I took that as a sign that she has been educated and is not poor and thus did not need my patronage. Another boy gt the better of me. He had a monkey and for my 40 rupees the monkey danced for me. This was only after he followed me around chatting for 15 minutes, and I felt the conversation was worth the 40 rupees even if the monkey wasn't. An old man was selling bamboo pipes with reeds that, when played, sounded an awful lot like a clarinet. Since I'd left my clarinet at home and was missing my ability to play music, I bought one. It only had six holes and I could only figure out how to play seven notes, even with different combinations of fingers. It lacked a hole on the back, which would have given me the freedome of an extra octive. Nevertheless, I figured out a few tunes and played them as I strolled up and down the beach, most definitely attracting the attention of most of the Indians on the beach (though not their rupees). I was going to drill my own hole on the back to expand its range, but I dropped it, smashing the reed, and rendering it useless. On the train ride back I was surprised how crowded it still was even late at night in the opposite direction of the commute. But this time an Indian gentleman kindly offered me his seat. And I realized that there is an exception to every rule.

Back in Bombay I was feeling very tired. I sat on the veranda outside my hotel room with some of the other guests - a funny old English chap who seemed leftover from the days when the English still ruled Bombay, and a French cinematographer - and observed the view across the street. It was most definitely a brothel, and Indian women of varying ages, all dressed in traditional saris, were hanging out the windows trying to get the attention of passers-by. On the street, a little boy of ten or so offered me hash or "brown sugar". I didn't know what this was, but later found out it is a low form of heroin. Rather sad.

Day 11

Today was the first day of rain on my trip (I'd had one night of rain on the island in Thailand, but that was only at night. I met a couple from England who had been cast the previous day in a Bollywood film as extras. The vast majority of India's imports and exports go through Bombay, so I wanted to see the dockyards where all the action was. But I wasn't able to get through security. Stopped at the city library where I caught up on some news. Every Indian there was reading newspapers or magazines, not books. I saw a facility on my map called the "American Cultural Center" and I wanted to find out what it was. I thought it would be a center for American expats living in Bombay. In fact, it is indeed run by the US Consulate General in Bombay, but it's for Indians, not Americans. It's a place where Indians can go for information on America, ranging from tourism to universities, visas, work, etc. Interesting to know that such a place exists. I noticed on the magazine shelves full of American magazines a copy of "Ebony" and I wondered what sort of audience that would fetch in India. One thing there are not a lot of here are people of African descent. Or Latinos. Or East Asians. Come to think of it, it's pretty odd for me being in such a homogenous place as India. Aside from the handfull of western tourists, everyone here is Indian. You don't have people immigrating here from other countries, except other South Asian countries like Bangladesh, Nepal, and Pakistan, and they basically blend in with the Indians. Coming from America, even a mostly-white enclave, I'm still so used to seeing a great deal of ethnic diversity on a regular basis, that it feels unnerving for there to be so little diversity here.

I had lunch at a Chinese restaurant. In America Chinese restaurants are run by Chinese, Indian restaurants by Indians, Italian restaurants by Italians, and so on. In India EVERY restaurant is run by Indians (see above paragraph), despite the cuisine. I don't think the Indians have yet perfected Chinese cuisine. Also, it's curious to see a Chinese restaurant that serves neither beef nor pork, yet does serve "Hunan Mutton".

The rain started to pick up, and I bemoaned the fact that I left my umbrella at the hotel. I ducked into a few shops. But I wanted to go north, so I walked along Marine Drive, which hugs the coastline. Then the rain started coming in torrents. I was walking with some English blokes in search of the cricket stadium (India is swarming with English blokes right now because of the India vs. Britain cricket match going on right now)and we ducked under a big leafy tree. Big mistake. As the water permeated the tree, it washed all the dirt off the leaves and onto our clothes.

I kept walking despite the rain, up past Chowpatty Beach (a poor man's version of Juhu Beach) and up Malabar Hill. I ascended the hill through a sort of jungle park and discovered a delightful garden on a sort of mesa overlooking the city. There were dozens of hedges trimmed in the shape of animals with big signs labeling the animals in English. And the garbage cans were penguins. I would later find these penguin garbage cans elsewhere in India. Not sure what the symbolism there is.

Had dinner at a pizza place. I know know....why is he eating so much non-Indian food when he's in India? Well, when I'm at home I don't just eat "American" food. I like to eat all different styles of foods. I suppose the same applies while I'm traveling. Trust me, I'm getting my fair share of Indian food while I'm here. And besides, I did have the pseudo-Indian "Tandoor chicken pizza".

Day 12

Woke up awfully early in time to catch a 6:55am train. After my last train experience I didn't know quite what to expect. But I'm happy to say today's train ride would be thoroughly enjoyable, and one of the highlights of my trip so far. First, there was the scenery. Gorgeous the whole way. All 12 hours of it. All during daytime. The landscapes we passed through were decidely rural, beginning with fields of farmland, then giving way into red-earthed foothills, green forests, and rivers and streams punctuated by the occasional farm and village. We didn't pass through a single "city" between Bombay and Goa, but we passes through dozens of small towns and villages (some of which we stopped at, many of which we breezed on by).

Next there were the people. Two Australian girls, a Spaniard, and a New Zealander. We all shared a compartment for the entire trip and got to know each other pretty well. The Aussie girls have been traveling all over the world. The Kiwi works on an oilfield in the middle of the Libyan desert. He works 6 weeks at a time then gets 2 weeks vacation. This is his vacation. We al endulged in the catered lunch (why was I not aware of this on my previous train?). The vegetarian thali (a full meal) cost 35 rupees, about 85 cents. We walked the length of the train from end to end (nearly a kilometer) and saw the kitchen car where chefs slaved over beastly hot stoves to cook our meals. We realized how smart we were to have chosen second class sleeper class, which is 3-4 times cheaper than the air-conditioned cars, and probably more comfortable. In our compartment, the windows were open letting in fresh, cool breezes. In the a/c cars everyone was bundled up under blankets. The train wasn't very full so we were all able to stretch out and take naps when we felt like it. Across the aisle from us was a family of Indian Jews on their way to visit family in Goa. They explained that they live in Israel now, that there are many Indians in Israel, and that there are many Indian Jews in Goa. I'm reasoning this all dates back to the Portuguese influence. Many of the Portuguese sailors and merchants who did business and settled in Goa in the 16th and 17th centuries were probably Jews, as business transcations were often left to Jews during the middle ages. Of course, Goa also has plenty of Catholic Indians, but more on that later. This Israeli Indian is a computer quality controller and a fashion designer in her free time.

Most of the agricultural land we passed was used for rice. There were small square shaped plots about 20 by 20 feet, separated by earthen berms. A few of these were bright green with rice, probably fed with water from irrigation canals. But most were barren and dry, awaiting the monsoon rains this summer. Nevertheless, we saw Indian farmers scurrying about, doing their chores, always doing something. Many of the farms had vegetable gardens with corn, tomatoes, potatos, etc for personal use. I saw school children in their uniforms on their way home from school. So rural children DO go to school. To tell the truth, I saw hardly no signs of outward poverty in rural India. Of course, I only saw a small slice of rural life, and it was as I was whizzing by on a moving train. But still I can't help but feel that even though India's rural-dwellers (who still make up 75% of the population) don't have much money or material goods, their lives seem several steps above the fast-growing urban poor. Here they have fresh air, access to water, nourishing food, and space. And they have electricity, too. And judging by what I saw, television.

Rural peasant women dress extraordinariy. I saw saris of spectacular designs and colors - bright orange, pink, gold.

It's interesting how the costume of the peasantry in India is also the costume of the urban sophisticates. The sari is an all-purpose costume that Indian women of every caste and every background wear. Of course, there is a great range in the quality of saris, from cheap rural ones to chic, expensive designer saris. But the basic outfit is the same. On the other hand, you would never see urbanites in American donning the outfits of the American farmer or rural-dweller (unless they're trying to cultivate a certain aestehtic, such as urban "cowboys" in Texas).

Some observations I made about trains in India, based on this trip: Passenger trains always get the right-of-way. Freight trains get pushed off onto sidings to let passenger trains pass. (This is the opposite of Amtrak, which plays second-fiddle to American freights). Most freight trains here are manifest, made of mostly boxcars with some hopper and tanker cars thrown in. There are some container trains but they are infrequent, at least on this corridor. And one train I saw was loaded entirely with trucks. We do this in America, too; it's called RoRo (Roll on roll off) where the truck are driven straight onto flatbed train cars, chassis and all, shuttled from point A to point B, where they are driven off the train to their local destination. In America, these trucks would be entrusted to the rail carrier. But on the train I saw in India, all the truckdrivers sat in their trucks as they rode along the rails. This seems a horribly inefficient use of manpower to me.

At the end of the day the train reached Goa. The rail line is 12 km or so inland from the beaches, and I had to take two crowded buses to get to my final destination for the evening, the beach town of Vagator. Although it was only 12 km, it took over an hour because local buses stop every few seconds to let people on and off.

I arrived in Vagator after dark, unable to appreciate any of what was supposedly one of the most breathtaking beaches in India. For those who don't know, Goa is known for two things these days: beaches, and raves. A whole subgenre of trance, Goa Trance, originated here. Don't ask me why. I don't know why this place in India spawned such a phenomenon. But it did. Anyhow, I'd heard that the rave scene here is known worldwide and attracts thousands to all-night beach raves. I figured since I was arriving on a Friday night I'd get to see some of this. I found some bars which were hosting their own mini-"raves" with blacklights, glow in the dark, and trance. But I never caught word of the "famous" spontaneous raves. The peak season in Goa is over Christmas and New Years. By March, tourist season is starting to wind down.

Day 13

I awoke eager to see the beach I'd heard so much about. Goa itself is the smallest state in India, only about 60 miles from north to south, but it is lined with dozens of beach towns. According to my book, Vagator is one of the nicest.

Well folks, I hate to sound grumpy, but I was, how shall I put this....underwhelmed. Yeah, it was nice and all. Most beaches are. Something about the way the ocean meets the sand. But quite honestly this was not my image of the "tropical paradise" I'd expected. Now I'm not much of a beach person, never have been. But still I think it would be nice to see one of those beaches that you see in the movies and on postcards, with perfect white sand and crystal clear turquoise water. The sand here was nothing special. And the water ranged from dark blue to dark red and brown. The beach itself was littered with boulders. Not in itself a bad thing. But I just couldn't shake the feeling that this beach looked almost exactly like one of the beaches I've spent so much time on in Southern California. Not that there's anything wrong with that kind of beach. But for me, at least, it was nothing new, nothing special. Yes, the water's a bit warmer than the Pacific (though not too much warmer), and yes there are more palm trees, but there was also a lot of garbage lying around, and tacky shops, and well....you can see why the whole thing was underwhelming. I did do some beachcombing, and I hiked over the bluff a few km to the next beach to the south. Also, there's an old Portuguese fort on the hill above my beach, which is pretty neat.

In terms of the people who this place attracts, it's a hard place to put my finger on. I'd say the majority of visitors are Indians. This is their party destination. Their Florida (for the Indian Hawaii you'd have to go to the Andaman Islands, which are reputedly magnificent, but also isolated and expensive, just like Hawaii).

But there are also lots of backpackers, hippies, ravers, freaks, and Europeans (none of which are mututally exclusive). I can't really figure out why so many Westerners would come all the way here for this, when there are perfectly nice beaches in America and the Mediterranean. The beach towns themselves are pretty standard beach towns. Lots of bamboo huts and coldwater showers. The food is pretty good, though. I feasted on tandoori lamb, cheese garlic naan, soup, a pina colada, and cashew nut liquor all for $8. A pina colada here is absolutely to die for. Fresh coconut milk, fresh pineable juice, and rum. And the cashew nut liquor is unique to Goa, which is a huge producer of the nuts.

An interesting phenomenon is the self-segregation that seems to go on here. There are two beaches in Vagator and while one is about 25% Indians, 75% tourists, the other is probably 99% Indians. Even though there are so many young Indians who eschew traditional values and flaunt their newfound status as "modern" in the cities, you still rarely find an Indian in just a bikini. Often, they will wear a bikini underneath, with a sari over it. You can still see through the sari, which in a way draws more attention to the bikini than if she were wearing a bikini alone, but I suppose it lets them cling to some sort of liminal space between tradition and indecency. Indian men on the other hand seem to share a penchant with European men for tight speedos which leave nothing at all to the imagination.

I've noticed that there are a good number of couples consisting of a fat balding middle-aged Indian husband and a beautiful young wife. I'm guessing many of these are arranged marriages - situations in which the bride's family was poor and had little choice in the matter because the groom had all the money. And I wonder, is this so terribly different than the fat balding middle-aged white men I saw in Thailand with their young Thai "girlfriends". Not to equate arranged marriages (which the majority of the world still practices) with prostitution. But any time a dichotomy of economic power enters the equation, you enter a kind of grey area.

Basically, beach behavior here is the same as I'm used to at home. Kids build sand castles. Guys play sports. Guys oggle the girls in their wet saris. The girls giggle and play in the surf. And everyone sunbathes.

Day 14

I decided to cut my stay in Vagator a day short. Rather than stay a third night, I would catch an overnight bus to Hampi, a city of ancient ruins about 750 km inland. But first I had a day to kill. The bus left from the city of Panjim, also the capital of the state of Goa, so I headed there for the day. I'm glad I did. Panjim is a small city by Indian standards (100,000) and has a very nice, relaxed vibe to it. (probably partly due to the fact that it was Sunday). The city has a very European feel to it. And a very Iberian-Mediterranean feel at that. Makes sense, since this was part of Portugal until as recently as the 1960s! (Portugal was one of the last European powers to give up its colonies). The Consulate General of Portugal is still a domineering landmark. And although no one seems to speak Portuguese, you do see lots of signs and street names in Portuguese. And you see it in the way the city is laid out, on a simple grid, centered around squares and courtyards. And the buildings look European, with white stucco and red tiled roofs. And then there are the churches. Several glorious white churches. And there are actually still Indian Catholics. I think it's awfully interesting that religions can have such staying power. Even though Goa was technically Portuguese long after the height of Portuguese colonialism and influence, there's no reason all these Indian Christians had to remain Christian, and yet they did. (another funny sight from yesterday: Indian nuns at the beach!).

Today was also election day, and I saw several precincts set up all around town. The women vote separately from the men, but they seemed to be voting in droves. Panjim has a very pleasant promenade along the wide riverfront (the city is just a few km inland from the mouth of the river), and a riverfront park with several modern art and sculpture installations.

I still had some time to kill, and then I happened upon a multiplex cinema. All the American movies they are showing are ones that I want to see, all the Oscar nominated ones. I guess it says something about Indian taste that the only American movies that are shown in India are the good ones. This is a far cry from Europe and other countries around the world, which routinely screen, and reward with massive box office receipts, American crap. Brockenback Mountain and Syriana were not playing at the right time, so I saw Memoirs of a Geisha. Poor screenplay, but nice art direction and costumes. A couple things of note at Indian movie theaters:
Just as the previews have ended and you're ready for the movie to began, a grainy print of the Indian flag appears on screen and everyone is expected to rise for the playing of the Indian national anthem. This struck me as extremely bizarre. Why HERE in a movie theter of all places?
They stop the movie rather arbitrarily halfway through for "intermission".

Now for the bus ride. I didn't know quite what to expect. I would have rather taken a train to Hampi, but the schedule didn't work, so I got a ticket on an overnight sleeper bus with a private bus/tourguide company. They use only Volvo buses, they tell you emphatically in their brochures. And they make a big deal about the "air suspension", whatever that is. If it has to do with making a smooth ride, then it's definitely a misnomer. My god, that bus ride was the bumpiest experience of my life. I don't know whether to blame the bus (it was pretty old and beat up) or the roads (probably the real culprit) but there was no way I was getting any sleep on that bus, which is too bad because my sleeper compartment was actually pretty comfortable. But the bumpiness was insance. Sometimes we would bump so hard that I literally caught a foot of air. Add to that the fact that this "modern, luxury" bus doesn't come equipped with a toilet, and you've got one uncomfortable rideWith a train there is only one place the train can go: forward on the tracks. And if you know where the tracks are, then you always have some idea where you are. In a bus you have no idea. You could be anywhere. I've been on buses before where the busdriver got completely lost. I-95 was shut down in Connecticut due to a tanker explosion, and my Chinatown Bus on its way from Boston to New York got totally lost in the suburbs of New Haven. The bus was supposed to arrive in Hampi at 6:30am. It was running at least 2 hours behind. At least with a train you can track your progress. For all I knew this bus was on its way to Timbuctoo.

Day 15

Anyway, I got off the bus before 15 km before Hampi in Hospet because that's the closest railway station to Hampi, and I wanted to get my ticket to Bangalore for tomorrow all taken care of. Small town railway stations aren't so bad as the ones in the big city. No special tourist queue. Once that's squared away, I take a bicycle rickshaw to the bus station, and a local bus to Hampi. Hampi was once a great city full of fortresses, temples, and other signs of an advanced urban civilization, circa 15th century. The Mughals sacked it in the 17th century and now it is ruins. Oh, but what fabulous ruins they are. I'm pretty sure Hampi is a UNESCO world heritage site. 26 square kilomteres of ruins, all free to explore (only a couple charge entrance fees). I rented a bike and rode all around the ancient city, which is interspersed with banana trees and palm trees. The landscape here is spectacular. We are in the middle of the Indian subcontinent, halfway from either coast. Great landforms, boulders, mountains of red and orange. It actually bears a striking resemblance to the National Parks of the American southwest.
And in the middle of it all is the town, Hampi Bazaar, where the tourist infrastructure lies. It's really quite small, but it's got plenty of guest houses, restaurants, and shops selling everything you'd need. The nicest thing is that things really do feel relaxed here. There are no crazy drivers, motorcycles hoking their horns, and only a few rickshaws. I can walk around or ride a bike and feel safe. Cows mingle with humans, goats, chickens and monkeys. There are monkeys all over the place. You actually have to be careful because some monkeys are aggressive and dangerous. But some of them are really entertaining to watch. This afternoon, a whole family of monkeys invaded the patio of my guesthouse and did tricks for us until the proprietor had to shoo them away.
Just to the north of the village is a beautiful river valley. I can't really do it justice with words so I will post pictures on the next chance I get.
Hampi is the most beautiful place I've been in India yet.

I have a whole brain full of philosophical musings and observations and theories about culture and globalization and all that I've been meaning to voice in this blog, but I've already been writing for three hours so that will have to wait till next time.

Picture Set 1: Bangkok to Bombay

Cats in a Buddhist Wat



Skytrain in fashionable district of Bangkok



Buddha for sale in the "Buddha district"



Canal in Bangkok



Starbucks tucked away in Khao San Rd bazaar



Approaching the beach on Ko Samet island from my boat



The friendly Thais on the beach who insisted I join them for brandy



My bungalow on Ko Samet



The back alleys of Bangkok



Cats in the Roots and Tubers market in Bangkok



Back alley in Old Delhi



Crowds at the Delhi Railway Station



Bovine and human crowds in Paharganj Ghetto, Delhi



That's quite a variety of cuisines, you've got there mister!



Shopping, Upper Class Indian-style: Lingerie, Citibank...!



The waterfront/garbage dump in a Bombay slum



Aging, yet still dignified, architecture in Bombay



Arabian Sea sunset at Juhu Beach, north of Bombay (where the Bollywood stars live, like the Malibu of India)



A boy and his monkey on the beach

Days 9-10: Bombay

Well, I hardly made it 36 hours into my stay in India before coming down with a case of the infamous "Delhi Belly". First it crept up slowly and I thought it wouldn't be too bad. Then it hit me head-on.
I thought I had been pretty safe about what I'd been eating and drinking, but I guess I need to be even safer, even if that means avoiding the omnipresent and cheap street food. I certainly don't want to spend my entire time in India living at the mercy of when nature calls so I'd better be extra vigilent about my diet from now on.

Day 9
Today was a day pretty much lost: 22 hours spent on a train.
At first the train ride was fun, because I was able to converse with every person in my 6-person compartment. There was the Canadian girl from Winnipeg, just through working for an NGO in Uganda and on her way to a bird sanctuary. The Punjabi ship's deckhand who is studying to be a ship's engineer. The two young French ladies on their way to the desert. And a French-speaking Muslim gentleman from Madagascar with a wonderfully wispy white beard. We all had a friendly time for the first 6 hours or so. Then the ladies got off, and the heat started getting oppressive as the farmland turned to desert. Even if India is the 2nd most populated place on earth, there is still a great deal of empty land, although it's never entirely uninhabited: there are always a few peasants or farmers around, working what they can out of the land.

At this point I retired to the upper bunk. It was hot. I had opted for the non-A/C car because it was cheaper (the entire journey cost less than $10). I chose the top bunk because it's safer, but it's also hotter of course, and I couldn't see out the window. Since my stomach was starting to kill me, I lost all my appetite and basically ate nothing all day except for mango juice. The train housed an army of food-sellers and I swear every 60 seconds we were assailed by someone selling one thing or another, usually chai. The chant went something like this: "Chai chai chai chai chaivily chaivily chai chai chai chai chaivily chaivily chai chai chai chai chai" and it went on the entire train ride save a few hours between 1am and 4am.

Day 10

Finally arrived in Mumbai at 6am and I've never been so happy to get off a train. Hopefully I won't have too many more super-long journeys like that.

Fortunately was able to check into a hotel at 7am. It's not such a good deal as Delhi. Bombay on the whole is more expensive, probably the most expensive city in India. By the way, although the city was officially changed from Bombay to Mumbai around ten years ago for political reasons, most Indians and locals continue to call it Bombay. I'm paying $10 a night for a single room with shared bath. There's a TV and when I turned it on Seinfeld was on. The Veranda outside is pleasant, with views of the brothel across the street. The brothel is an old teeterig wooden structure, oddly juxtaposed next to a steel-and-glass skyscraper.

I've only been in Bombay a few hours but already it is noticeable different than Delhi. Bombay is more humid. That might sound like a bad thing, but I think it's actually good, because there's no dust in the air. Delhi was horribly dusty, my eyes hurt just to be outside.
Bombay is a seaside city, which may or may not be the cause of what seems to be a more relaxed ambiance.
The traffic is significantly better than Delhi. That's probably due to the law banning rickshaws in the streets. It's easier to cross the street. Vehicles aren't always on the verge of running people over.
It's a much greener city, the streets lined with trees.
I didn't see a single cat in Delhi, but here there are cats everywhere, especially at the seafood market (apparently, Bombay cats are smarter than Bangkok cats). Like Bangkok, the air is permeated with a sort of fishy smell. Perhaps that's why so many shops burn incense.

The whole city seems much more urbane than Delhi. The urban infrastructure, while probably older than that in Delhi, has also held up better. Admittedly, it's mostly British, but it gives the city an air of formality and grandeur that most of Delhi lacks. It also seems more compact and walkable, because it's compressed onto a peninsula (I'm sure the suburbs are a different story).

After hardly eating anything yesterday, I decided to treat myself to a splure this morning. I had the breakfast buffet at the Taj Mahal hotel, the finest hotel in Bombay, which happens to be right across the street from my hotel (on the other side from the brothel). While $13 is admittedly high for India (a week's wages for many) I think it was worth it.

Days 5-8: Bangkok to Delhi

I am in a new country now (India) and it's absolutely amazing, but first I have more to write about Thailand.


First of all, the food on the island was delicious. Lots of dishes with basil and chiles. And prawns. And green papaya salads. Women walk around with a pole on their back balancing two baskets full of all the ingredients for green papaya salad. Then they make it right there for you on the spot.

Day 5
Woke up early to catch the first boat off the island. The return trip to Bangkok was easier because I had done it all already in the opposite direction. This time it took about an hour longer though, because traffic into Bangkok is bad. On the way back I noticed on the outskirts of Rayong (the small city between Ko Samet and Bangkok) a housing subdivision that looked straight out of suburban Sacramento, or suburban anywhere USA. The houses themselves, their layout, the front lawns, and the streets themselves all looked exactly the same as our subdivisions.

Back in Bangkok I explored some areas I hadn't seen before.

I visited a shopping center called Siam Paragon. It's not just a shopping center. It's one of the most elegant department stores/malls I have ever seen in my life. I would say it ranks right up there against Harrods in London, or the Galleria in Paris, and far above anything in the United States. This places oozes luxury. And yet, of course, it wasn't that expensive, once the exchange rate is factored in. It was just extremely nice. Very modern, with fountains, lights, tinted glass, and other eye candy. The best part was the supermarket on the ground floor. I swear they had every possible brand of food from the US, Europe, Thailand, and Japan, all in one store. In other words, go to the toothpaste aile and you'll see the respective brands from all those countries. And there was the prepared food. All looking delicious and clean. Hundreds of food stations, each one manned by beautiful young women, distributing free samples. We're talking free samples of pastries, soup, smoked fish, sausage, fruit, tea, chocolate...everything.

On the electronics floor, I found that you could indeed buy iPods and iBooks in Thailand. I wasn't quite sure if Apple had penetrated the market yet, but apparently it had. I tried to ask the iPod vendor how many he sells, and who the customers are, but I think he just thought I was trying to buy one. An iPod Nano costs $250 buy the way, which I think is more than in the US.

The glass elevators in Siam Paragon have a recorded voice that says in impeccable English "Sorry to keep you waiting" at every floor.

In Thailand, "Ovaltine" means "hot chocolate".

Some billboards I spotted in Bangkok:
"CALIFORNIA WOW FITNESS CENTER" with a bodacious "California" blonde with cleavage
"STAMFORD UNIVERSITY" It's not Stanford, it's Stamford! (Is that Stamford, Connecticut?)

I visited a McDonalds for a snack. I know know....how could I with all the terrific Thai food to eat? Well, I have this goal to eat in at least one McDonalds in every country I visit. I think any student of globalization must do this. See what's the same, what's different. Well, my double cheeseburger, fries, and coke tasted exactly like they should. Not much was different, except they did offer a "Samurai Pork Burger". And the ketchup was free (unlike those stingy European McDonalds).
Also on the menu was this: "Smiles ...... Free!" Yippee
Of note was the fact that every customer in McDonalds was Thai. No Westerners. Except me. What a dope!

There are many American chain restaurants here, some expected (like McDonalds, KFC, etc) but some strike me as bizarre. Like Swensons ice cream. I literally can name one Swensons that I've seen in the US. Yet they're all over Bangkok.

There are businesses in Bangkok that specialize in Marriage Certificates and Translation Services. This is for all those white guys who go to Thailand to find brides. If communication is the basis of the successful marriage, and these guys are marrying people they can't even communicate with (hence the translators) something tells me these marriages are not being built on a solid foundation.

In Bangkok nearly every car on the street is a rather nice car. Mostly Japanese cars. Some German cars. Even Volvos. And they're almost all recent models. I suppose this means that those who can afford a car at all, can afford a nice car.

I went back towards the canal I had previously seen from the canal boat. This time I went exploring by foot. I found an entire community built up along the canals. There are walkways along the canals and little homes and shops which face the canals. These walkways are ped only, so they are nice and relaxed. Bangkok may be full of tourists but I don't think many ever make it here. It's not in any of the guidebooks. And the Thais here (unlike everywhere else in Bangkok) seemed genuinely surprsied to see me. And they were awfully hospitable. They invited me into their homes for tea, offered me some of the soup they were sipping, invited me to join their card games. The houses are made of wood, or makeshift squatters huts. There are numerous side alleys and walkways leading perpindicular and parallel to the river. Some of them lead to dead ends and I basically find myself in peoples' private courtyards, but they are always friendly about it. Of note is the fact that even these squatters, whom I assume are pretty poor, have TVs.
I make my way to the railroad tracks. I like to wander on railroad tracks. When I do this in the US its usually called trespassing, or playing with your life. Here its a way of life for many Thais. There are whole squatters communities set up right along, sometimes even BETWEEN the tracks. They dont seem to mind the endless procession of trains that go by. This is only a couple km from the train station so when the trains go by they are pretty slow. I followed one Thai man across the railroad bridge over the canal. Sorry, Mom.

I wander down the tracks to the station. I happen to be there at the stroke of 6:00pm, when the entire bustling station suddenly comes to a standstill and the national anthem plays. It was rather surreal.

Next I rode the Bangkok metro (the underground subway train, as opposed to the elevated skytrain). It's brand new and it's super-snazzy. Instead of cards or token you use magnetized plastic disk and just flash them in front of a sensor to enter the turnstiles. The platforms have glass doors that open when the train arrives, protecting anyone from falling onto the tracks.

Day 6
More exploring through the streets of Bangkok. This time on my stroll I found the riverside produce market. It receives lovely breezes from the river and smells absolutely divine from the aromatic vegetables and herbs for sale (especially the fresh basil). The colors are fantastic. I then realize that this entire district is full of markets, each one specializing in different types of foods. There's the produce market, the grains market, the roots and tuburs (sp?) market, and the dried fish market. Surprisingly, it was the roots and tuburs market that appeared also to be the Bangkok home for cats, as there were literally hundreds of cats everywhere I turned, and NOT the dried fish market. What silly cats!

I tried something called "Yogurt-flavored soda". Dont plan on repeating.

My train to the airport cost $.25
The train is pretty darn slow as it moves through greater Bangkok. It actually stops at intersections and waits for cars to cross the road, as if it were a car itself. In other words, trains in urban Thailand do not receive the right of way at at-grade intersections. But it got me to the airport in time. I had used up all my Baht, but had to buy more because Bangkok charges an exit fee payable only in Baht.

The Air India flight was something different than I'm used to. The service was actually quite good. The meal (mutton curry) was tasty. And there was plenty of Johnnie Walker to go around. People on Air India are very noisy. The plane is like a big party. Everyone is shouting, talking loudly, and moving about. The plane itself (a 747, but a pretty old one) is much noisier than ones I'm used to, especially when landing. But it landed. And I was in Delhi. Hawaiin-themed elevator music fills the arrivals hall. And, in what could quite possibly be the national motto, a large sign announces "INCONVENIENCE REGRETTED"
The Delhi Airport Customs has a hotmail email address. In other words, one of those free ones that cheap businesses sometimes use because they can't afford their own server.

Taxi to downtown cost $5. Taxis are old British Ambassadors from the 50s.
I was heading to Paharganj, the "backpackers ghetto". I was a little skeptical, since I was so turned off the the backpackers ghetto in Bangkok, which I'd found so homogenous (white) and commercial. Well this one was nothing like it at all. I arrived at about midnight and the first thing I thought was "this really IS a ghetto!". It was sleazy-looking, dirty, dusty. There were COWS walking down the street. Cow dung all over the street. And motorcycles and rickshaws darting here and there, always narrowly missing pedestrians, and and riding the (extremely loud) horn the entire time.

But I was lucky to find an excellent budget hotel, on a quiet side street, with a clean room, fan, and private bathroom for $6 a night.

Day 7
Next day I was pleased to find that Paharganj is much more pleasant by day when all the shops are open and the street is filled with people. In some ways it's similar to Khao San Road in Bangkok with similar stores selling handicrafts, clothes, hippie gear, bongs, books, tours, internet, and of course, cheap food. But the difference is that, in addition to being a hub of foreigners and backpackers, Paharganj is a REAL Indian neighborhood, where the majority of people are still Indians, who live here, or come here to shop.
There is the Main Bazzare. And then the side streets and alleyways, which are bazzares in their own right. Thousands of tiny little shops selling everything imagineable. These streets should really be pedestrian only, but they are full of rickshaws and (in the alleyways where it is too narrow for rickshaws) motorcycles. Cyclists and drivers will simply barrel down the road, blasting their horn, regardless of what stands in their way. In their minds, the right of way belongs to them alone, and they do not let anything stand in their path (except, of course, for cows). This is thus far the most annoying thing to me about India. The drivers. Especially the motorcycles. Coming from a culture where people generally do respect the rules of traffic (yes, even Boston), India is a total shock to me. The behavior of these drivers strikes me as inconceiveably rude. Yet it's just a way of life here and Indians dont see it as rude at all.

I want to say something about the cows. Of course I'd heard about the cows. But I never quite realized it would be like this. You never know when you're going to run into a cow. Mostly they are in the streets and alleys of the old city. But you also find them in the newer parts, in the suburbs, even at the Metro station! Most of the time they are just lazing about. Sometimes they are walking purposefully down the street, right through traffic. In India it is a federal offense to injure a cow so everybody avoids the cows. I dont quite understand where they came from, how they got here, and why they prefer to live in the city rather than the country. People must feed them, or they must feast on garbage. I wonder what life is like from the point of view of the cow. Does he know he is holy? Is the world his oyster?
Dogs are also prevalent in India, but they live in the shadow of the cows. I saw a dog get kicked by a cow.
I have yet to see a single cat in India, though I saw a store selling Whiskas cat food.

Walking through the touristy areas of Delhi I am constantly approached by touts trying to get me to go to stores or "tourist offices" so they can get a commission. I am well aware of them before I arrived thanks to my book. However, rather then simply tell them to get lost, sometimes I indulge in conversation with them as I walk along because they can still make for interesting conversation. They almost always have a "brother" or "sister" studying in America.

I go to the Railway station to book a train to Bombay (Mumbai). The station is an easy place to get confused. I tried to do it on my own, at the same ticket windows the Indians go to, but eventually I gave up and went to the special foreigners ticket office upstairs, where I endured a 90 minute queue in exchange for an English speaking ticket agent who got me exactly what I wanted. I also met a charming Australian/English gent who's in town to catch the England-India cricket match.

Next I go to Connaught Place, which is a giant circle full of once-elegant buildings constructed by the British in the 1920s. There hasn't been much work done to preserve the infrastructure since then, but Connaught Place is still one of the more upscale shopping districts in Delhi. Visited the underground bizarre as well, and had a vegetarian thali (full meal consisting of bread, lentils, vegetable curry, and yogurt) for under a dollar.
Next I ride Delhi's spanking new Metro system. Its kept very clean and runs smoothly. But every time I enter a Metro station I have to go through a metal detector and have my bag searched. The Metro first opened just a year ago, and one line just opened a month or so ago. Indians are cleary still getting used to it. I saw an old woman who was terrified to board the escalator. Some Indians have a habit of queue-jumping. The concept of waiting ones turn in line doesnt seem to exist. I was waiting patiently in line to buy my metro ticket and several men simply butted right in front of me as if I didnt exist. In Thailand when the metro train arrives, everyone is very good about letting the people exit first, then boarding. In India, the people on the platform form a solid wall, preventing anyone from disembarking, then shoving their way onto the train. It would seem much more efficient to me to let the people who want to leave, leave, thus making more room for the people boarding, but Indians dont seem to see it that way.

I go to the Red Fort, a 17th century Mughal fort built of red sandstone. The fort is nice, but I appreciate the place mostly because once inside the ramparts one is sealed off from the noisy, traffic of the outside world. There are no vehicles of any kind to be found, and one is free to stroll in peace on the landscaped grounds and not have to worry about being run over by a motorcycle.

I sit down on the grass to rest my feet, and this is when the Indians start to make my acquaintence. A group of three Indian men surround me. This, I will later find, is a common occurance. The conversation invariably follows the same routine:

What is your name?
What is your country?
Ah, America! That is a nice country!
What are your educational qualifications?
Where is your girlfriend?
You have no girlfriend? Surely you jest! Where is your girlfriend?
Why do you not travel with your girlfriend?
Tell me about American women!

This gentleman is convinced that I am lying about not having a girlfriend. He has two girlfriends!, he announces proudly, one here in Delhi, and one back home. Do they know about each other, I ask? He says yes. I wonder. The gentleman's English is not perfect, and he is clearly self concious about it, but hey, its better than my Hindi. And I think it's cool that he just decided to approach me and initiate a conversation.

The next fellow who approaches me speaks Engilsh quite well. He works at a call center. He works for Loews Supermarkets in the US (Having lived in Boston, I know them well). He works in the collections department, calling people who owe Loews money. Just as I'm thinking "boy that must be a thankless job" he confirms in his own words, "Frankly, the job sucks!" On top of that, he has to go to work from 11pm to 8am. But its money. And better money than he could make back home in Maharashtra. Delhi is full of men like him who come here from all over India. He does not have a girlfriend. He comes here on the weekends to unwind. I dont blame him.

I meet another man, an older gentleman, from Kashmire. He tells me I must go to Kashmir. I dont want to offend him by bringing up the political situation there. He says "you like apples? Kashmir has India's best apples! You must go!"

At this point I'm feeling really happy. I've just met a bunch of Indians who wanted to talk to me, practice their English, and who weren't trying to sell me anything.

Next, I walk through the maze that is Old Delhi. THis was a great experience. I got totally lost. The extremely narrow streets are hopelessly convoluted, full of twists and turns. Most people here live very old fashioned lives. I could look right into their (often) one-room houses. You can still find in this old city all the same things you'd find anywhere - barber shops, restaurants, launderers, metalworkers, carpenters, schools, temples, and of course, cows. Not many people spoke English, but they all smiled at me and shouted "Hallo". Groups of children shouted Hallo and little girls giggled when I smiled (And I'm reminded of the Grateful Dead song Mexicali Blues". Some naughty boys threw a water balloon at me from the third floor of one of the houses that towers above these shaded alleyways. Trees grow out of buildings. I saw an old hunchbacked woman carrying a heavy pail of water on her back. At one point several dogs started chasing at me and barking. Not particularly wanting to contract rabies, this was the most scared I have been thus far on my trip, but the locals helped to shoo the dogs away and we all laughed it off. Finally, I find my way out of the maze and back onto a regular street. Still, I am an attraction. Young boys walk with me. "Hallo sir, what is your good name?"

Whenever I explain that I am America, the Indians are quite excited, and tell me how Bush was just here a couple days ago. I missed Bush's visit to Delhi, but apparently it went quite well. Everyone's giving him kudos for a well-executed diplomatic trip and his approval ratings among Indians shot up as a result.

Day 8
Today I got shown around Delhi by a gentleman who was born and raised in Delhi. Billo, a colleague of my father's for many years in San Francisco, is here in Delhi visiting his sisters, and volunteered the services of his sister's personal driver to show me all the places that are difficult to get to by foot.
We went to some of the outlying suburbs. Dined in an elegant, yuppie restaurant. Visited a Jain temple (where one takes off not just ones shoes but ones socks as well). The Diplomatic enclave. The Golflinks neighborhood, one of Delhi's riziest residential districts, where nice houses that could be in Cambridge or Marin County or Beverly Hills surround attractive garden courtyards.
There's a huge disparity of wealth in India, and when you're rich, you're often very rich.

He dropped me off at Lodi Gardens, which are extremely pleasant, full of trees, lawns, lakes, and flowers. This seems to be where young Indian couples go to gaze into each others eyes. And make out. Hundreds of Indian couples, and they try to hide behind plants or trees for privacy but it is still blatantly obvious that they're smooching it up. PDA is not acceptible in India in general (or so says my guidebook) but I guess public parks are an exception.
When I sit down sure enough I attract more Indians. This time the gentleman is an architectural draftsman. He produces his business card and even his resume for my examination. He wants to exchange all contact info so he can write me in America.
Again, he wants to know why no girlfriend? He asks if I want Indian girlfriend? Well, that might be nice, but I dont know if their Indian mothers would approve, says I.
He explains that he wants to go to America and find American girlfriend, and perhaps I can help him to achieve this.
And always, they interrogate me for my "educational qualifications" and what I plan to do with them. I have to admit, this question has me pretty stumped. Its hard to explain to someone from a society where the only valuable courses of study are computers, medicine, business, and engineering, that I am a freewheeling liberal arts major who doesnt really know what I'm going to do...

Days 1-4: Bangkok, Ko Samet

First post. And from an unlikely place. I'm sitting in a beachside bungalow on the tropical island of Ko Samet off the coast of Thailand. And yes, they have high speed internet. They also serve double mocha-latte-cappucino-frappe-whatchamacallits. There's a cat starring at me.

Well, welcome to my blog. I plan to update this thing judiciously over the course of the next 5 months. Yes, 5 months, because that's how long I am traveling, approximately. Over this time I hope you will check back and read about my adventures, trials, and tribulations. My bloggings will be chock full of keen observations, adventure stories, horror stories, descriptions of people, places, animals, food, architecture, and the status of my bowels. Just kidding. Well, maybe. So far so good. But I haven't hit India yet.

As a little preview of what to expect, these are the countries I will be visiting and rougly how much time in each one:

Thailand - 7 days
India - 6 weeks
Vietnam - 1 week
China - 2 1/2 months

I'm actually already more than halfway done with my time in Thailand, which is why I wanted to get this blog up and running, even though the internet here is a wee bit expensive ($2.50/hour, but, hey, it IS an island).

So first let me back up to Day 1.

Day 1
United Flight 853
Parent drop me off at San Francisco International Airport.
I note that in the terminal there are vending machines selling iPods. Just pop your credit card in, charge $200, and voila, you've got yourself an iPod! And I'm wondering what's the point of an empty iPod with no songs on it for that long flight? (stay tuned for the answer later)
Sit next to a sullen Japanese fellow who doesn't say a single word the entire flight.
10.5 hours go by quicker than I thought. I was able to get some sleep. Didn't see the Aleutian Islands is I'd hoped, as we took a more southern route across the Pacific. The food was crappy. United makes a measly attempt at Japanese food. "Chicken teriyaki" was a hunk of grissly chicken in what I suppose could pass for teriyaki sauce. Accompanied by ever-so-Japanese sides of a dinner roll and iceberg lettuce, of course.
Flying in to Tokyo Narita airport I am surprised by how agrarian Japan looks. All I see are farms and greenhouses. Tokyo must have been on the other side of the plane.

I wish I had had more time in Narita airport. I was there just long enough to see lots of smiling cute Japanese women selling cute little Japanese toys, stuffed animals, and food. Then it's onto:

United Flight 881
This time my Japenese neighbor is a friendly student, on vacation with his girlfriend. I get some sleep and in no time, I'm in Bangkok.
Chat with a cooky Canadian in line at immigration. Bing bang boom, Bangkok airport is pretty efficient.

Somewhere in here we cross the International Date Line and Day 2 fades into Day 1 in a kind of interlateral blur.

You will find throughout this blog that I steadfastly avoid taxis and all private jitney transportation services at all costs. I take public transportation, or walk, whenever I can. And Bangkok Airport has a snappy little train straight to downtown. However, it doesn't run at 1am, so I am forced to take my first (and so far, only) taxi. The price: $7.50. Not too bad, I suppose. Arrive at the Manohra Hotel, which my dad booked for me so I wouldn't have to worry about scrounging for a room my first night. A pretty drap business hotel, but it had all the creature comforts I'm used to back home. $31/night. Now although it's 2am I'm not feeling particularly tired (after all, for my body it's morning) and how could I arrive in a new city in a new country in a new continent for God's sake without going for a walk? So I walk down the road for a few kilometers. So far, in my first glimpse of Thailand, there's really no way to tell that this isn't a street in any city in Europe or America (the two places I have been up until now) except for the signs in Thai. But most of the signs are also in Englsh. And there's a 7-Eleven every block. I reach the Patpong area, famous for its go go bars, prostitutes, sex shows, etc. But as it's after 2am they have all closed down and all the nightlife sin-seekers have spilled into the streets and are devouring pungent food from the hundreds of street food stalls and carts. Pungent is a good word for Bangkok and street food. It could suffice in any number of situations. I am accosted by a tiny 30-something woman with a 50-something face in a tight black dress who wants to offer her services to me. She sounds like she is missing her larynx. I turn to the 7-Eleven instead and buy-fittingly-a Thai Iced Tea. At home they are one of the new trends, and they cost $2.50-3.00. This one came in a carton and cost $.30. Back to hotel to sleep.

Kelly Clarkson is playing in the background right now.
Earlier it was The Beatles. Jack Johnsons is also a favorite here.

Day 2
I slept for about 4 hours, and woke up at 7, not needing any more sleep. The hotel was drab but it had a nice breakfast buffet with an interesting assortment of food:
bean sprouts, toast, eggs, curry, papaya juice, cornflakes, french toast. Most of the hotel guests were Japanese. The bellhop wanted to know where I was going. I was going to find a cheaper hotel but I didn't tell him that so instead I told me my next destination after that: Ko Samet. He told me how it is impossible to get a room on Ko Samet this time of year ("very busy") and how I must go to a specific TAT (tourist office, which I'm sure is conveniently run by his friend or brother) and make my bookings. No thanks, bub.

Then I checked out and set off to find a better, cheaper hotel. I walked down the streets where hundreds of street stalls were set up selling breakfast to thousands of Thais, on their way to work I suppose. I don't know how many Thais eat their food in the streets but it seemed like they all did. And they don't eat french toast or cornflakes, either.
I arrive at Skytrain.
Bangkok is famous for its traffic. It's not quite as bad as I'd heard, but it's pretty bad. But that doesn't matter because Skytrain is awesome. It's an ultra-clean, efficient, fast, and fun elevated rail line that glides through the city and the gnarly traffic below, offering a splendid birds-eye view. And it has a/c. And it's not even that crowded. I don't know why more people don't use Skytrain. 95% of the passengers are Thai. This is odd, because Bangkok is FULL of foreign toursits (farangs). Yet there are virtually none to be seen on Skytrain. Those farangs I do see are probably expats. Bangkok is also FULL of expats. Young women are seen to be listening to iPods and other assorted MP3 players.

My new hotel is the Hotel Atlanta. The oldest budget hotel in Bangkok (founded in the 1950s). Gorgeous art nouveau-meets-art deco lobby. Jungle garden. Swimming pool. And perfectly decent single bedrooms with a/c and bath for only $12.
While I wait to check in at noon, I walk down Th Sukwamwit a few kilometers. This is Bangkok's ritziest street. 5th Avenue, Wilshire Blvd, you get the picture. It's honestly just as fancy. Starbucks (with terribly overpriced coffee drinks at $2-3). The many Starbucks knockoffs have more or less the same menu at better prices. Malls galore. All air conditioned. So they make nice stopover points to catch relief from the heat and humidity. One mall has all the fanciest designer brands: Gucci, Armani, etc. Check the pricetag of a simply shirt at Armani: $130. Is that cheaper than the US? I have no idea. I've never bought an Armani. If this is aimed at Thai customers, there must be some very wealthy Thais indeed. Fouintains everywhere. And well-tended landscaping. Lush, green, clean, orderly. Policemen seem omnipresent.
Nearly every block there is a Buddhist shrine, and people leave flowers, candles, and other knickknocks. These shrines are kept clean and well-respected even when they fall amidst grimy city streets.

I love grocery stores. You can find out a lot about a country by browsing its grocery store. A visit to the produce section reveals that a whole pineapple costs $0.50, while a small basket crate of Strawberries costs (I'm not kidding) $8!!! These strawberries are direct from Watsonville, California. Pint of Ben & Jerry's? Also $8. Mmm whets the appetite doesn't it?

Everywhere you turn in Thailand there are dogs, dogs, and more dogs. Unlike the Chinese and Vietnamese, I guess the Thais don't eat dogs. Otherwise, there wouldn't be so many of them on the streets. Some of these dogs are pretty nasty. Mange, they call it. Yet surprisingly the dogs are complacent. They don't bark much. They don't attack or bite people (I wouldn't want to get close enough to test this however, even though I got a rabies vaccine before leaving). Mostly they just lie around sleeping.
Cats are common too. As are rats. And human beings. Lots of those.
There's a Thai version of every popular Western magazine, from Maxim and FHM to Cosmo and Glamour. Street food stalls are everywhere. Some of them make really elaborate food right in front of your eyes. None of it looks all that particularly appealing to me, but that's because it's been sitting out all day, attracting flies and whatnot.

I leave the fancy-pants district to get a better look at the "real" Bangkok. This Bangkok is not as clean as the ritzy district, but it's still pretty orderly. Everyone seems to have a job to do. Electric wires are strung up willy-nilly. But they work. Lots of ongoing construction. Lots of garbage piled up.

I decide to try a water-based form of transit, since Bangkok IS a city of canals. The canal boat costs $.30. This is a great way to travel. The boats pull up at the docks and in just a few seconds passengers jump on and off. I didn't realize how quickly this is done, so I missed the first boat and had to wait for another one. The boats zip down the canals, offering a terrific view at the water-oriented city life. Wooden houses. Shops. Walkways. Arbors and greenery. Since the boat is so low and close to the water, and since the boat splashes alot, the passengers put up shields to protect themselves from the canal water (not the sort of water you'd want to get on you).

At the canal's terminus I arrive, not knowing where in particular I'm going, and happy with that knowledge. I like to just wander...let the road take me where it takes me. I spot a gleaming golden dome in the near distance and decide to walk towards it. A tout interupts me, and tries to steer me in the opposite direction to see the "Big Buddha". He draws it on my map (my map which shows all the temples, and yet he draws it on a completely blank spot on the map) and tries to get me on his friend's tuk-tuk (like a taxi). But I'm going to the golden temple, says I. No, no, it's closed, says he. Rule of thumb: never trust anything anyone says when they are the one to approach you and volunteer information.
I walk towards the golden temple. I'm glad I did, for it proves to be a splendid sight. It's actually liked the Golden Mount and it's an entire Buddhist city within a city: a school, community, monastery, and temple. The temple is atop an artificial mountain of 100 feet or so. I ascend a spiral walkway through a dense jungle and mystical shrines. At the top is the temple, where the suggested donation is a pittance ($.25) and the views are far-reaching. This is Old Bangkok, which is decidedly different than new Bangkok. Temples like this one dot the entire district, their high-pitched roof frames rising above the roofline every few blocks.

I go wandering through the Buddhist community. Monks in bright orange robes make their rounds and I walk right by their homes, simple affairs, but cozy, anchored around courtyards, with plenty of dogs to go around. At one point some dogs started following me, but a monk shooed them away.
There are more temples down at ground level. Fantastic irredescent paneling. Golds and saphires and rubies and all sorts of wonderful shiny colors. And the Buddhas. There are 100s and 100s of golden Buddhas, all in a row. I don't know why they need so many, but they are quite a sight.

I wander more through old Bangkok, past more canals, shops, homes. I enter what I can only describe as the "Buddha district", where store after store sells Buddha statues, large, and small. Some are more than 10 feet tall. Buddhists certainly don't have any hangups about idolotry, like a certain other religion does. I should note that thought this area is very busy (and afternoon rush hour is coming on), it is almost entirely populated by Thais and only Thais.

I continue walking and find a great big street, like a Champs-Elysees only with more car exhaust, with a great big monument to Thailand's democratic fouding in 1932. In a region where most countries were, or still are, autocracies, Thais take their democracy very seriously and they are proud of it. Hundreds of vendors along this street sell little pieces of paper. I later learn these are lottery tickets. And with democracy comes the right to throw your money away.

What I come across next absolutely blows me away. And not in a good way. I come to Khao San Road, the famous backpackers ghetto of Bangkok. This is where most people like me (20-somethings, white, student-ish) stay when in Bangkok. I am glad I didn't. It's hard for me to describe this place because I found it so utterly disgusting. It is 95% white, and the 5% of non-whites are the Thais who sell things to the whites. It's like the white kids have come to Bangkok and created this whole separate little world for themselves where they can interact with only themselves. They walk around, the guys shirtless, the girls in skimpy tanktops, swilling beer and being obnoxious. They're dressed as if they are on Venice Beach. All the shops are total tourist traps. They sell American flags and American CDs and DVDs. And I'm feeling incredibly embaressed to be American. And then, it hits me: these people are NOT American. Well, the vast majority of them, anyway. They are English, Irish, Australian, Israeli, Russian, French, German.... European backpackers have been coming here since the 60s, and this is their hangout. Here, the most Thai food you can find is Pad Thai (although I do admit it's neat how they prepare it right in front of your eyes from scratch in a giant street-side wok). Oh, but what a weird place. The strangest thing is that I NEVER saw any of these people anywhere else in the city. They all come here and they apprently stay here, thinking "this" is Bangkok. You can also buy Student ID cards, press passes. Heck, even degrees and "diplomas" are for sale. I'm outta here.

I head for the river and hop on a river boat. $.25. Like the canal boat except bigger, and the river is much wider. The breezes on this boat are a natural form of air conditioning. There's a little Chinese man in a Mao Suit. I meet a friendly Danish couple and we talk about the cartoon scandal. They were going to go to Indonesia but changed their plans.

Day 3
I credit Lonely Planet with helping me on my multimodal trip to the island of Ko Samet, which I was able to pull off smoothly even though it sounded awfully complicated:

Skytrain to bus teriminal
2.5 hour Bus to Rayong
30 min hour Sawngthaeon (an open-air minibus) to Ban Phe
45 min Boat to WonDeung Beach on Ko Samet
Rowboat ashore

The bus was air conditioned and they even passed out little bottles of water and hot washcloths! It seemed to take forever to get out of Bangkok, which sprawls endlessly. But finaly we were traversing farmland. And I saw water buffalos. And yaks. Touts in Rayong give me misinformation, trying to get me to take their private transport to Ban Phe, which I'm sure would have cost much more than the $.50 sawngthaeon. The boats only leave for the island when 20 people showed up, and since I was the only one I was a bit worried, but then a huge crowd of Japanese tourists showed up so I was saved. And my Danish friends showed up too. Small world.

When the rowboat dropped us off ashore, it was a 10 minute hike to Lungdung Beach, where I stay in a handsome little bungalow with bath, electric, fan, mosquito net, private veranda, oceanview, and 30 seconds from the beach for $12.50 a night.

Ko Samet is the closest I come to the cliche of the tropical island paradise.
It's not nearly as spectacular as the islands of Southern Thailand, where they filmed James Bond in The Man With the Golden Gun, and Leo DiCaprio in The Beach. Those beaches have stunning limestone cliffs as their backdrops. But Ko Samet is nice enough, and better yet, it's the closest island to Bangkok.

The island is a national park, but all along the shore it has been developed by bungalow operations. There are probably 100 of them on the whole island, all along the Eastern shore where the beaches are. Each bungalow operation has its own restaurant, and many have stores. The bungalows vary a lot. Some (like mine) are fairly spartan and rustic. Others are themed with various "tropical" stuff. Some are downright expensive. But the neat thing is that since this is all national park land, you can just walk through all the different resorts and use their beaches. There is a dirt road down the spine of the island (about 10 km north to south, and varies 1-5 km wide) used by service vehicles, truck taxis, and the ubiquitious rented motorbikes. But the trail connecting all the bungalow operations is a footpath. There are about a dozen beaches, most of them with several resorts. Each beach is separated by a headland, where the trail climbs a ridge through a thick tropical jungle.

The beaches are covered with dogs. But a sign proclaims they are not rabid, and many seem to be semi-pets. Mostly they just lie around sleeping. There are some really cute puppies. It seems like a pretty good life. There are also wild chickens.And frogs. And crickets. My god, the crickets raise a ruccous. In some spots I swear the decibel level of those crickets exceeds that of a jet engine. Towards the northern end of the island the resorts are very densely packed and commercial and not so nice. I'm staying further south, where the resorts are more laid back, with more space separating them, and fewer people.

I enjoyed a delicious green curry with vegetables at my resort for $1.75. It was 7pm and for some reason I suddenly felt quite tired. Must be the jetlag catching up to me.

Day 4
Last night it rained cats and dogs. The whole storm occured while I lay in my bed in my little bungalow. It was difficult to sleep with the rain pounding on the roof. This was no ordinary storm. March is typically a dry month here. They are not used to rain until May or June. This morning the beach was washed out all over the place. Landslides, mudslides, mud all over the paths, foot bridges collapsed. Yet the Thais went right to work repairing, sweeping, and cleaning up. And the sun came up. It was a very convenient rainstorm for all of us beachcombers. It got all its water out while we slept, and let us go out during the day and enjoy the sunshine. But before I went swimming today I went for a good long hike, first to the northern tip of the island, then to the southern.
Numerous times Thais passed by me on their motorbikes, seemingly incredulous that I was walking such a "long distance", even though it wasn't that bad. Met a Dutch dude at the southern tip. Then I came across my Danish friends, for the third day in a row. On my hike I also ran into some Austrians. They, like me, were making the trek by foot. Good old Austrians, with their Alps, they're used to hiking. A young Swedish man stopped me for directions. Came across the most expensive resort on the island where one night costs $200. Each bungalow has its own private pool and waterfall. I guess $200 is actually a good value, considering that this place would go for $500 or more in Hawaii. But I didn't get to see much, because I was kindly escorted off the premises. "Private beach", they said. I didn't know the beach could be private, but I wasn't going to argue.

On the way back, a group of Thais invited me over to their table and gave me brandy and cola. They wanted to know all about me.

After my hike I enjoyed an hourlong Thai massage in an open air hut on the beach. One hour for $6.

I should say something about the tropical forests. I have this image in my mind of what a tropical forest should look like, and this is not really it. The forest, as it occurs naturally, on Ko Samet is green and lush, but not particularly attractive. In fact, it looks basically the same as your average forest on the US East Coast during summer. Where I saw the stereotypically tropical plants were at the bungalows, where they are designed and tended by landscape architects. I don't know if this is true of all tropical forests or just here. I've never been to the Amazon or the Congo, or for the rainforests of Bali or Malaysia, but I imagine they're probably closer to what I was expecting than this. Not complaining, though. For a short getaway from Bangkok, and given my limited schedule in Thailand, Ko Samet is a wonderful place.

And that pretty much brings me up to date. I will be uploading pictures in the near future and of courses filling these pages with more writing than you probably care to read.
I hope you can follow along on this blog with me. And please drop me a line.