Among the clouds

I'm in Namche Bazaar, the highest sherpa trading village in the world, and the largest settlement in the Kumubu region. Today, I saw Mount Everest with my own eyes. Mount Everest! It was worth all the pain to get up here.

Will write about India and Nepal when I get down in a week. Tomorrow we climb to around 4000 meters, the highest I'll go on this trek.

What Have You Done? You Made A Fool of Everyone.

April 14, 2010
Haridwar, India
Kumbh Mela

In the late '60s, the Beatles, at the recommendation of George Harrison, spent a few months in Rishikesh (about 20 km from Haridwar), hanging out with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in his ashram, palling around with Donovan and Mia Farrow, studying yoga and Hinduism, and writing the White Album. The story goes that Lennon wrote the song “Sexy Sadie” (said to have been originally called “Maharishi” until Harrison demanded it be changed) after the Maharishi exhibited some very unorthodox behavior towards the women in the group, as well as tried out his best extortion techniques. In India, then as now, spirituality has its price.

I awoke, a lot worse for wear, bitter and disgusted with myself for thinking this festival was something that I wanted to see. If we had been in a tolerable hotel, or if I'd at least been in a room with air conditioning, semi-clean towels and a TV, I would not have left. But at about 7AM, I found myself out in the worst chaos I've ever experienced. Our road was blocked off at both ends, and we had to pull the white man “my hotel is down there” card a few times just to escape (I was scared about being allowed back). I don't know what the barricades were for, maybe for crowd control, maybe for some other purpose. They didn't seem to hold very well and were only sporadically enforced. We were seemingly en route to the river, to try and at least catch a glimpse of it, when the police shoved (I was literally man handled by a whistle-blowing lady cop 4 times in as many minutes) us aside and I saw 3 passed out women, slung over the shoulders of police, being carried out (we later learned that we narrowly missed a stampede in which 7 people were killed). I was feeling frantic from being poked, pushed, shoved and deafened by the police whistles, when we saw an opening on the ghat and hurried down the steps to the river. I'm not sure why or how that break in the crowd happened, but Kurt, Mio and Stacy all found their chance, and on this auspicious bathing date, went into the Ganges. Maybe they thought I was being a bitch, but I wanted no part of it. Fast as that river was moving (and it was moving – there were chains hanging from the bridges for people being swept away to grab onto, as well as swimmers in life vests ready to dive after anyone unable to withstand the current), there were still millions of people bathing in it, and I'm sure millions of particles of their excrement bathing right along with them. I also am not Hindu, nor do I pretend to be. I don't take communion, I don't offer lotus flowers to the Buddha, and I certainly was not getting into the Ganges.

I am not on this trip for any kind of spiritual enlightenment. My views on organized (or in this case, disorganized) religion are pretty firm. I am happy to observe and respect peoples' customs and beliefs, but I don't expect to be converted to believing in anything but myself. After two days at the Kumbh Mela, my observations yielded little more than disgust.

In India, the Sadhus, or holy men, are revered. They take a vow to renounce all earthly possessions and physical desires (for the more extreme Naga Sadhus, this includes clothes), and on paper, only eat what people give them, taking alms. What money they receive that is not essential for food or shelter, they are supposed to give up. They ride free on buses and trains. Their lives are devoted to God, and they have been known to do things like hold their arms up above their heads for a year, or place a pinky ring around their penis to prove an existence devoid of sexual desire, or roll around in ash. They come to Kumbh Mela from beginning to end, and live in camps. It is in many parts their festival. And guess what? They are, for the most part, as far as I'm concerned, totally full of shit.

I've got a problem with all religious extremists, which is what I consider these guys. Their motives are supposed to be all for god. That means no possessions, only eating hand outs, etc. So, then, why did the first guy we tried to photograph hand the few rupee coins we offered back to us – stating that he only takes bills? What about the other one, who seemed fine enough, but after posing for photos and taking donations from not one but each of us, opened up his leather case to expose a handheld sony playstation that had video of HIMSELF? Why did he even have one? What about the guys riding around in cars? (We learned that the stampede was created by an SUV full of Sadhus. Godlike, don't you think?) What is possibly most infuriating is that many of these guys are from the Brahmin, or priest caste. It is the highest and most wealthy caste in India. These are educated dudes, calculating and conniving. They walk around like rock stars, because people treat them that way. Say you can lift 20 pounds of bricks with your balls for God? Good for you. That kind of “devotion” does not impress me. Its narcissistic, egomaniacal and stupid. I harbor far more respect for people such as Ghandi, who was also of a higher caste yet devoted his life to abolish that archaic system, or Mother Theresa who lived and died with lepers. The Naga Sadhus are opportunists, who sit around and get baked all day and talk about Shiva. They don't give back to the community, they take from it. And there we were, the white people paying them to take their photos and feeding their egos. I found the whole thing nauseating. If I could have found my way back to my hotel alone, I'd have gone.

Thanks to India's wide availability of prescription drugs, I was able to buy some Valium at the pharmacy, which I took and stayed in my room (they moved us to a smaller slightly cleaner room with a tv and a/c) for the rest of the day and night. I had seen enough humanity to last me a lifetime. It's a shame, since I had really been enjoying India up to this point. I just did not need to see all of India at the same time, crowded into a town half the size of Hoboken.

The next morning a miracle happened. I was awoken from a Valium induced sleep at 7am by the bell boy, who told me we had a phone call. It was Arun, our driver, who I thought we'd lost forever. We had been calling him since we left him in the parking lot and his phone was dead. I was in a state of panic over how we'd ever get out of town, and this news was most welcome. He said he'd get to us by 10 AM. I told him to try hard, though did not believe it would happen. Sure enough, at 11 AM, there was Arun, waiting to take us back to Delhi. He'd managed to borrow a bicycle after sleeping in his truck for two nights and going one day without food. I could have hugged him. We knew it would be hell to get back though, and we gave him the key to our room and insisted he nap for awhile. Knowing that I would not be trapped in Haridwar with all of India, I braved the streets again. The crowds were a bit thinner, but the Sadhu bullshit no less thick.

Part of the Naga Sadhu life is to smoke charas, or hash, from a chillum. The vessel, as well as the smoke and the weed are all part of the ritual. It must to take them to another level or whatever. My friends were all into meeting and hanging out and getting stoned with these dudes; for me, the idea held about as much appeal as sticking my hand into a pot of boiling oil. I don't really smoke pot anymore; don't like what it does to me. But hash, well that's an entirely different story. So it was, on my second morning in the worst place on earth, I found myself rolling a couple of hashish and tobacco joints and heading for the baba camp. I was in better spirits than the day before, knowing that I'd be leaving soon, though kind of just going through the motions to go with the flow of my friends. If I had my way, me and Arun would have been hitting the road, 12 hour traffic jam or not.

We wandered into what looked like a private ghat for Sadhus. Immediately a youngish guy, definitely not a baba – he was rocking a loincloth and some beads and long black hair like he was Cassanova- walked up to Mio and she and Kurt followed him into a corner. Stacy had been talking to an older, bona-fide ashen covered naga, who invited the two of us to smoke from his chillum, which we did. The slick son of a bitch also saw that I had transferred a piece of hash from my purse to my pocket and refused my offer of a pre-rolled joint (such arrogance) and kept pointing at my pocket and demanding it. So I broke off a piece and gave it to him, and in return he surprisingly gave me some of his (which has since been flushed). While this was going on, there was major commotion to my right. Kurt had their “friend” up against the wall and was screaming and cursing like mad in his face. Apparently, this young poseur in what is surely a rehearsed move, put his arm around Mio and KISSED HER. All I could think of was what a vain, opportunistic bastard: our very own Sexy Sadie. Kurt should have decked him and split his face all over his ashen friends. He didn't, which is probably for the best, but how still I wish he had. Because here was where I really drew the line – these “holy” men, devoted to god and of the highest religious order and above all sin and guaranteed moksha and bla bla bla, did not a goddam thing when a young impostor compromised their beliefs . He made them all look like fools by using their mystique to 1)get free drugs and 2) make a hugely unwanted pass at a woman and 3) largely offend her husband. This behavior supposedly goes against everything the Sadhus vow stands for, yet not one of them lifted a finger in Mio's defense, or raised a voice in their own to ask the guy to leave their sacred camp. Maybe they were too baked or maybe they didn't give a shit. Either way, it solidified my opinion. John Lennon was right. Their whole self important existence is a sham.

We parted ways with Kurt and Mio in Haridwar. Stacy and I were able to ride via cyclo rickshaw most of the way back to Arun's car, and took off for Delhi at sunset, 48 hours after we arrived. I was drained and sick and had a couple of serious India moments in one of the grottiest roadside squat toilets I've ever seen. I tried to sleep most of the ride home, despite traffic. It was uncomfortable at best. At 2:30 AM, Arun dropped us off at a clean, semi-well appointed hotel in Delhi. The air con was pumping and the towels were devoid of stains. A twin room was unavailable and although I was too tired to care, the bed was giant and round. After our ordeal, I'd have slept on the marble floor as long as it was clean. I never thought I'd be so happy to be back in New Delhi.

So much for the holy Ganges. Smell ya later (eh, probably sooner considering the way stenches linger in this country.)

Walking A Road Other Men (and women) Have Gone Down

April 13
Haridwar, India
Kumbh Mela

The Kumbh Mela is a massive Hindu festival that happens at auspicious places every twelve years. This year's festival started in January and is taking place in Haridwar, some 200 KM north of Delhi, the town where the foothills to the Indian Himalayan range begin, on the banks of the holy Ganges. Haridwar, a spiritual town even when there is not a mass pilgrimage taking place, is 20 KM from Rishikesh, India's premier center for yogis and ashrams. It's a pretty groovy part of the country. That is, probably just about any time except when the world's single largest gathering of humans hasn't descended upon it.

I'll be honest – I had dreaded this since before I left New York. It sounded like an interesting idea, but I was never really sure it would materialize. Train tickets from Delhi had been sold out months before hand and the local bus option was rather unsavory. Some friends who live and have traveled extensively in India told us not to go. As I've said before, I get claustrophobic in elevators, so this probably was not the best destination for me. I was hoping to find a nice spot in Delhi to stay while my friends took off for the Mela. Well, my first Delhi experience was not so good so my choices were to navigate its ugly, shady streets by myself or go along for the ride to Haridwar and hope for the best. Unwisely, I chose the latter.

Our journey to hell began at 6AM sharp on April 13th. Our driver Arun (who I nominate for Indian beatification. There are something like 30 thousand gods here, what's one more?) met us in his sweet, giant air conditioned Toyota SUV and we hit the road. We learned that Kurt had been sick all night with some kind of food poisoning, so I hoped that our ride was swift and we could get him to a hotel quickly. Arun, who had been to Haridwar countless times but never to the Kumbh Mela, estimated that our ride would take approximately 4-5 hours, 6 max with traffic. Sounded good to me. We were cruising in style, with the A/C blasting and Arun's favorite, R. Kelly bumpin' on the stereo. An hour in and things seemed to be going OK. Then we had to stop so Kurt could puke. He wasn't doing so well. Strike one.

We got to probably within 15 (maybe 20?) KM of Haridwar with relative ease. We knew that all auto traffic had been banned from the city and that we'd have to take an auto or bicycle rickshaw to our hotel from the parking area. What we did not know is that the main road to Haridwar was closed. Strike two. We were routed on a detour, and there's where the nightmare began. At around 10:30 in the morning, we hit some serious traffic. I'm talking 1010WINS red alert, “stay home, 12 tractor trailer pile up” style traffic. At first I assumed that it was just because of the detour, and that the multiple buses were causing problems, not being able to pass other vehicles. We took our detour and came to a solid stand still. Arun got out and talked to some other drivers. “8 hours traffic,” he said, laughing. I couldn't tell if he was serious or not. It was only about 12 KM to town. As the midday sun scorched us (had to be 110 degrees; India is experiencing the hottest April in 53 years), we realized this was no joke. This was the beginning of a horror movie.

I can only imagine that Woodstock was something like this, with people abandoning their vehicles on the Thruway and walking miles to the festival. Except it was nothing like Woodstock, save for the wild marijuana plants lining both sides of the road. I didn't really detect a “hell, yeah, I'm going to see Jimi Hendrix, want some acid, man,” vibe. It was a bit more serious. Lots of people were abandoning their rides and walking, Arun even suggested we do the same. Had this been America, people would have been beating the shit out of each other. A two lane highway was converted into 4, with drivers just deciding to create a second and third lane, thus blocking the oncoming traffic entirely. There were no rest stops. There was no water (and we were dangerously low on our supply, having expected to stay on the main road and hit a restaurant), no toilets and little relief from the sun. After awhile, we had to turn the car off to conserve fuel and prevent overheating. Kurt was pale and feverish and was worrying all of us. If there was a way to turn around, we would have. I was contemplating draining my bank account to charter a helicopter. But where would it land? There was no way out. We were completely stuck, trapped between two gigantic fields of palm sugar. People who had been crammed into buses were running into the fields and hacking down stalks of palm sugar, breaking them over their shins and handing them out. Hard to eat, but at least they provided a small amount of sugar and hydration. We had to pee on some farmer's property with little cover in broad daylight, and mid-stream he came running over chasing us away. I'm sure three thousand people saw my ass. I wanted to turn around immediately, and was hoping that Arun would throw caution to the wind, turn on his 4WD, and plow through the crops to get us out. That did not happen.

What did happen was sitting in the car for twelve hours. We left Delhi at 6AM. We finally pulled into the parking area at about 6:30 PM, just as the sun was setting. It was total and utter chaos. We had phoned the hotel, and they could not get to us. We didn't even know where we were. How could they know where we were and moreover, if they were able to send someone on foot, how would we know him/he know us? Strike three. It was getting dark and seemingly all of India was walking, a veritable tidal wave of humanity rushing the town. Entire villages of pilgrims, probably many of them traveling for days, having never before left their homelands, were arriving en masse. It's said that 5000 people are lost and never heard from again at each Kumbh Mela. I was starting to see why.

Trying very hard to contain my building panic, I strapped my mega heavy backpack onto my back, then strapped my other only slightly less heavy daypack onto my front side and we set off on foot with the crowd, no idea where we were going or how far it would be. We had heard rumors that it would be possible after crossing a bridge and walking 1 or 2 KM to get a bicycle rickshaw to at least transport our luggage. Maybe that was true on any normal day at the Kumbh Mela. But we were getting there for the specially auspicious April 14th bathing date, where a dip in the Ganga is even more purifying, and so was everybody else. I had not packed nor planned to carry my bags for more than a block or so, so pain and misery were setting in. I was close to toppling over, not having had any food and little water since about 8AM. Stacy had a bag on wheels, which does not fare so well over terrains of pebbles, sand, cow shit, toes and other detritus. Kurt (who somehow pulled it together enough to navigate the crowds) and Mio had smartly left some of their stuff in Delhi, so their packs were lighter, but I'm sure they were both very unhappy as well.

Picture an entire football stadium exiting through one entrance in the dark with no signs, few lights, no place to sleep (most pilgrims came and just set up camp on the street) and not a lot of ways to communicate (India has 22 official languages and over 300 dialects). It was chaos. There was not enough police presence, and the police that were there were useless. NOBODY, not one single person that we asked, could direct us to our hotel. We knew it was near the train station – a location one might think the cops directing the flow of millions would know about – but we could not get there. There were road blocks everywhere, so we took a total of 4 bicycle rickshaws, some rides only a few hundred meters, just to take a load off. One person would say that the train station was 5 or 6 km that way, another would tell us it was 3 km in a different direction. Nobody knew what the fuck was going on and I was starting to lose it. At 10:30, after approximately three and a half hours of wandering around on foot in a sea of madness, we got to our hotel.

As luck would not have it, our rooms that had been booked online a month earlier at a “new” hotel, were not quite ready. Translate: the goddam hotel was not even finished being constructed! There were piles of debris and construction material on the banister-less staircase, open patches of drywall exposing rebar, broken fans, scraps of tile lining the hallways. None of the door or window frames were sealed. Of course one of the reserved air con rooms would not be possible on this first night, because apparently there were problems connecting the power, or the actual A/C unit couldn't get there or some other such bullshit. The guys running the hotel were total creeps. One of us would have to suffer, and since Kurt was sick, and he and Mio had spent two sleepless nights in fan only rooms, Stacy and I took the room with the fan. When saw it, I recoiled in disbelief. It was an 8 X 8 windowless hole that looked like a cement mixer had thrown up all over it. There was one double bed, a fan, and that's about it. The filth, some of it real dirt, some of it construction mess, was unspeakable. The bathroom, which we later learned had no hot water, was missing a shower head. Just a pipe in the wall that did not spout water. The journey had left us all covered in a thin film of dust and god knows what else, and all I wanted was a hot shower and a clean place to sleep. My shower experience was a cold spout of water about knee high. It was possibly the worst night of my life and for the first time in longer than I can remember,I sobbed myself to sleep, hoping that somehow we would find a way out of this mess.

I would rather be anywhere else than here today

April 11
Delhi, India

I was not looking forward to Delhi. I tried to figure out a way to visit India without ever setting foot in the city, but it was a necessary connection point for our future destinations. We got to town late – around 11 PM, and headed straight for our hotel. We were staying in the Tibetan camp, which sounded like the best possible place to be. Kurt is heavily involved with Students For a Free Tibet, and one of the SFT folks in Dharamshala recommended a hotel and set up special rate rooms for us. Well, upon arrival, all of these advance plans fell apart. The hotel had somehow lost our reservations and was very confused. The guys running the lobby were asleep, having to unbolt the door to let us in.. It was too late and Delhi too much of a maze to go anywhere else. So, we got one fan room and one a/c room (all they had available even though we'd requested 2 a/c rooms). Up the dark creepy staircase we walked to our room, which was all the stuff travel nightmares are made of. The room had bare bulbs and live wires (concentration camp style) hanging from the ceilings and walls. The floors were abhorrently filthy with big black stains on them. The bathroom did have a toilet seat, though it was sitting on the floor next to the bowl. The lead paint peeling from the ceiling was surely toxic. There was also a surprise guest: a piece of watermelon sitting on the bathroom sink. Dimly lit and loud and filled with about 200 mosquitoes, we sprayed down with Deet, laid or travel sheets on the beds and stacy and resigned to get the hell out of there first thing in the morning. I still woke up with several mosquito bites on my face, the only uncovered part of my body. Unfortunately Kurt and Mio, who had taken the fan-olny room, fared far worse. They were kept up all night by hungry mosquitoes and bedbugs.

The next morning, we met the owner and had tea with him and resolved any problems from the night before.. He helped to arrange a ride to the Kumbh Mela for us, and ended up giving us a room discount in the end. He also recommended another hotel in the area, since his was (thankfully and questionably booked). Nice guy, not sure why his hotel is such a shithole. The problem was that by now it was 1 in the afternoon, and a trip to a nice hotel across town would kill the rest of the day. So we checked into a hotel a block away, which while a little bit cleaner, was no real step up quality-wise. I'm just too old to stay in places like this. I like to shower in the light, and not have to worry if rats are going to be crawling over my suitcase when I sleep. The whole area of the Tibetan camp was also very dimly lit, with narrow streets. Maybe this is what Tibet looks like, I don't know (though probably; I'm sure China keeps the electricity flow as low as possible). I suppose it was better than being outside in Delhi proper, which is a filthy maze of construction sites and constant hawkers, “come inside, you just looking, no buy” or men accidentally on purpose bumping into you to cop a feel. I'd much rather be surrounded by monks and photos of the Dalai Lama. But I did not get the greatest vibe from the place. When you're in a dirty, grimey, dark hotel, you feel dirty, dark and grimey, or at least I did. I had hoped to relax in a clean and well appointed hotel room for the night, because the next day, we were n heading to what I was sure would be the ultimate in dirt and grime...the largest gathering of people anywhere on earth, the Kumbh Mela. My anxiety was starting to rise.

P.S. I Love You

April 10, 2010
Agra, India

We arrived in Agra almost 24 hours after we left Khajuraho. It was a 4 hour drive from Khajuraho to the Satna train station, followed by an overnight train that was delayed for EIGHT HOURS. The manager at our hotel, when trying to convince us to hire a private driver to Agra, said “In India, train no wait for you. You wait for train.” And how. I was feeling pretty crappy, having woken up with a sore throat on my birthday and was steadily getting worse. An overnight train was not really the best place to spend a sick night, but one that was twice as long as it should have been, with 4 hours of that time sitting on a filthy platform...well, uncomfortable never knew a better definition.

This is the hot, dry pre-monsoon season, with temperatures soaring above 100 degrees every afternoon. The only sane option for viewing the Taj Mahal (or any other sites) was sunset or sunrise. I awoke at dawn feeling like I needed a nebulizer and a shot of penicillin. Had this been any other monument on earth, including the Eifel Tower or Coliseum or maybe even the Pyramids, I would have skipped it and slept in. I felt like shit. But thanks to our delayed train, this was our only day in Agra and I was not about to miss my once in a lifetime chance to see the Taj Mahal.

Apparently the rest of Agra knew about the midday sun too, because as we walked through the park that surrounded the Taj in the 6am light, it was like a July Saturday afternoon in Central Park. Cricket games were in full swing. Fruit vendors were sold out of half their goods. Hawkers were out in full swing. Laundry was being hung out to dry. Kids who “collected American money” were about, begging to add to their stash. As my head thumped and nose ran and chest heaved, I wished I had the power to vaporize all of them.

We hired a guide, got our shoe covers (to prevent you from dragging all the filth of India onto the white marble) and entered through the western gate. The first glimpse you get of the Taj is through the doorway of the gate, and it's a tiny peek of a white facade through the brown sandstone. From there, it's all anticipation until you walk through the corridor (which is grand enough on its own) and see the white marble building glowing in the morning sun. For a moment I forgot I was ill and stared in awe...no structure I have ever seen lives up to its reputation like the Taj Mahal. It almost looks fake, like it is painted on a sky blue canvas. Its perfect symmetry and equally perfect reflection in the long pools adorning the entrance are unearthly. It is simply the most magnificent building I have ever seen, and in a state of perfect preservation. Apparently the translucent marble glows and inlaid jewels become illuminated in the light of a full moon. I'll have to come back some time to see that.

The story behind the Taj goes something like this: in the early 1600s Shah Jahan had 2 wives, neither of them able to give him children. His third wife proved a wise choice: she produced several children, a few of them sons. The Shah was so taken with her that he decided to celebrate. He could have bought her diamonds or planted a rose garden or even thrown a gala ball in her honor (and who knows, maybe he did all these things).But instead he went one step further. He decided to build the biggest and brightest building in the world for her and her tomb, so she would be remembered the world over for all eternity. He had marble brought all the way from Rajasthan. The lapis lazuli was imported from Afghanistan, the cornelian and other semi precious stones from Burma. The entire building is simple, stunning, fine white marble inlaid with designs that look painted from afar, but are actually all stonework. Even the Arabic writing, passages from the Koran, that adorn the main doors are black onyx. What is most impressive to me is that such a massive structure was not built to commemorate a military victory, or as a religious monument. It is the world's biggest monument to love (although my guess is showing off wealth was an ulterior motive), which I think is kind of nice.

The Shah had planned to build a mirror Taj Mahal for himself in black onyx across the river, and the two buildings were set to be connected by a silver bridge. Unfortunately, his son overthrew him before construction began on the Taj II. Jahan was imprisoned for the rest of his life, which basically meant he was confined to his quarters in the fort, where he could only see his Taj and mourn his wife (who died before completion of the building) from his balcony. My guess is that he was still allowed conjugal visits from some of his 332 concubines, thus softening the blow of the loss of his beloved. His son had his father entombed next to his mother inside the Taj Majal, their resting spot having become one of the seven man made wonders of the world. Not too shabby.

You Say It's Yer Birthday

April 8
Khajuraho, India

I had hoped to spend my birthday at the Taj Mahal, which sounded pretty grand. Our travel schedule didn't exactly work out that way, but we ended up at a pretty grand location nonetheless. We were in Khajuraho, the location of some of India's best preserved Hindu temples, dating from the 1st century. It's off season here, with the next 2 months being the hottest and driest before the monsoon comes. Being out midday when temperatures soar above 100 degrees is uncomfortable ill advised. So it was that at 5:30 am on my 35th birthday, I woke up before the sun to go see some sexy temples.

The temples here are famous for one thing: Kama Sutra. The relief sculptures adorning them are impeccably preserved; it seems as though minimal work has been done restoration wise. They also give a glimpse into the minds of the kings who had them built. Birds do it, bees do it, and in India in 1000 AD, people and horses and elephants apparently did it all together. I won't go into detail but let's just say that if some of the sculptures were made in modern times, they would NOT be on display at the Met.

Khajuraho is small by Indian standards, with a rumored 19,000 population (which is small by any standard, but when you consider that India has 1.2 billion people, that's basically saying the town is invisible). It is a few blocks long and basically geared towards tourists, with lots of stores selling trinkets, fabric, clothes, etc. We were befriended by 2 local guys who wanted to make a party for me at the river, which I thought was a nice gesture. Had it been Stacy or Mio's birthdays, we may have spent the afternoon there. But it was my day and the thought of a dusty riverbed with no shade in the middle of nowhere India with 2 strangers yielded one response: thanks, but no thanks. We spent the afternoon at the Radisson's pool, swimming and sipping cocktails.

I had woken up with a cold and felt pretty lousy, so going out and living it up was not really an option because I was beat and, well, there was not really anyplace to go. The town was virtually shut down by 10 PM. We went to dinner at the same restaurant where we'd eaten lunch. My cold was kicking in and I was about to call it a night, when the waiter ran up to our table and asked who's birthday it was. Stacy had asked for a candle without my knowing, and apparently the “surprise” factor was lost on the Indians. I saw ice cream and waffles on the menu, so that's what I expected. Kurt and Mio thought we'd be seeing a giant wax candle in some rendition of bananas foster, which was also on the menu. What was brought upstairs by the entire staff of the restaurants was pretty remarkable – an entire chocolate ice cream cake adorned in not only chocolate chips, but with my name proudly written in chocolate sauce! Apparently this place had the cake sitting in the bottom of the freezer, fully wrapped and boxed. The staff told me that if they had known it was my birthday at lunch, they would have prepared a dance for the occasion. I was blown away, and pretty psyched to be eating chocolate ice cream. If you've never been sitting at the only table in a restaurant in the middle of India being serenaded “Happy Birthday” by a bunch of dudes in broken English, you should try it. It was a trip.

Is This Burning An Eternal Flame?

April 6
Varanasi

Varanasi is the oldest city in India, and is probably the oldest continually inhabited city in the world. It's older than Rome, Jerusalem and Athens. It is the city where Mark Twain wrote his famous quote, "Benares (old name of Varanasi)is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together." It is the most holy city for Hindus, and the place they to be cremated, or for some, to die.

The Ganges river is life here. Lonely Planet says this stretch of river's fecal content is 1.5 million bacteria in every liter. 500 is considered safe. There are parts that are completely septic, which means zero oxygen content. Sewage from the millions of people who live in and visit Varanasi, along with all the dogs, goats, cows and other creatures who inhabit the city, as well as waste from the surrounding towns is dumped directly into the river. The remains of the dead, along with whatever disease killed them, go into the water. It's not uncommon to see human remains from a body that was not 100% cremated (I think I saw a patch of hair, but looked away before I got too close). Yet people bathe in and drink from its holy waters every morning, hoping to wash away a lifetime of sins.

Up the steps and away from the ghats, the city is similar to other ancient cities, like parts of Rome or even Venice, its narrow, windy, cobblestone streets impossible to navigate and easy to get lost in. Where it differs is in just about every other way. The streets are too narrow for auto rickshaws so it's all foot traffic with the occasional motorbike cruising through the chaos, waiting to honk their horn until they are within inches of running you over. Many of the buildings are in states of disrepair. The stairs leading up to restaurants, guest houses, temples and yoga centers are hundreds of years old and would certainly be considered hazardous in any western country. There are hordes of people everywhere you go, trying to sell you stuff or make a buck by guiding you someplace. Children follow you asking for rupees. It's impossible to walk more than 4 minutes without somebody falling into step with you and asking where you're from and where you're going. You have to watch out for the cow plop everywhere, not to mention the cows themselves. It smells of shit and piss and food and garbage and incense. There are daily and nightly power outages that leave the ghats in total darkness. For many people, it could be an intolerable mess of filth and stench.

But once you move past that, Varanasi is a pretty special place. We woke before dawn and took a boat ride on the Ganga, as it's pronounced in Hindi, to watch the sun rise and the city come to life. As soon as first light broke, everything slowly started to move. First were the morning bathers, dipping three or four times with their eyes closed and noses held. Then were the laundry men, beating lungis, saris, sheets, and probably tourists' laundry on the ghats and rinsing them in the river. The ladies all bathe in their saris, so the digney grey steps were dotted with technicolor. There were kids jumping and splashing around. Hawkers set up their stalls on the main ghat, food was being prepared, and another day was in full swing. All this, of course, coinciding with the sacred activities at the burning ghats.

There are a few burning ghats, but the main one has performed cremations 24 hours a day for over 1000 years. Being cremated in Varanasi and having ones remains placed into the Ganga means you are free of samsara, the cycle of life and death. Dying here also yields the same result. Sadhus, babies, pregnant women and lepers are already pure and therefore do not get burned, they go into the river whole. We met a local guy who talked with us for awhile and explained what was going on as we watched cremations take place. I think there were 4 or 5 going on at once. The bodies are carried through town by the male relatives and placed on the wood, which is lit from a fire that has been burning in Varanasi for 1000 years, from the same flames that cremated Shiva's mother. That fire has been kept alive ever since, and every cremation is lit from it. There is only wood; no lighting fluid or matches are used. The cremation takes around 3 or 4 hours, and then the remains go into the river. The family of the dead stay until this task is complete. If a family cannot afford wood, friends and neighbors chip in to get as much as possible. Bodies are cremated according to how much wood a family can afford, hence unburned remains sometimes end up in the river. Women are kept away, so there is no weeping. Next to the funerals, Varanasi life goes on as usual. There are dogs running through the ashes, sadhus doing yoga, the sick waiting to die, hawkers selling post cards and blessings, street urchins begging for rupees, dudes flying kites, random piles of cow diarrhea, pujas being performed, boats of tourists taking photos (which is strictly prohibited, though not strictly enforced), goats wandering around and various other bits of daily life going on. There is no separation of life and death here; one is part of the other and if there is sadness and mourning, I didn't see it. I wouldn't exactly say it was a rejoicing vibe, but it was definitely one of believing that being put to rest here is the best possible end to an earthly life. I don't think being burned at the Ganges is the way I want to go, but it sure beats being put into a box in the ground.

Back In The High Life Again

April 1-3
Calcutta

Shahrukh Khan is omnipresent in Calcutta, and probably in all of India. He is Bollywood's answer to Brad Pitt and India's leading man. He is also the proud owner of the Kolkata Knight Riders, Calcutta's cricket team and everyone's obsession. He is on billboards advertising everything from cell phones to concrete, in the papers every day, and we were going to his party.

My friends and their friends were buzzing about this party since we arrived; it was definitely built up to be a night to remember. One thing I can say about Calcuttans: they know how to party. First order of business was what to wear. I got the vibe that this was a party to see and be seen, which would be tough based on my limited backpackers' wardrobe. Luckily, I managed to scrounge together an acceptable outfit involving a beach dress and some gold sandals that I had made in Vietnam. The party was a perfect excuse to go shopping, and my stylin' new Indian jewelry and scarf rounded out the look, though I still felt underdressed.

It was a full night out. At home, my friends and I might pop open a bottle of wine, or meet at a bar for a drink before heading out for the night. Here, it's a little bit different. We were invited to Sam & Laura's friends' home to pre-party. They had a designated party room, complete with a full finished bar, landscaped terrace, wrap around sectional and 72 inch plasma screen showing the cricket game. We could see the game on TV (crucial to watch till the end, so we could time our arrival at the gala to that of the players and cheerleaders) as well as the stadium (the world's largest) from the terrace. There were cabana boys who never let my Ciroc and cranberry get below three quarters full. Around midnight, the coffee tables were cleared and piping hot kati rolls stuffed with deliciously spiced chicken or shrimp were brought out. This was a party unto itself. At about half past 12, we all piled into our respective vehicles and headed to one of the city's luxury hotels for the main event of the night.

The KKR won, so spirits were high and celebratory. For a minute I felt like I was working, escorting some rock band, since there were paparazzi, VIP lists, security check point, red carpet, etc. except this was not work, this was my first night out in India and it was fabulous. The entire event was open bar (those are a thing of the past in the States, where you're lucky if Bud Lite Lime wants to throw you a couple of cases and demands a huge banner in the middle of your party in return). The next two hours were spent drinking, dancing, hobnobbing with Calcutta's jetset crowd of natives and expats, bumping into cricketeers, and eagerly awaiting the arrival of Shahrukh Khan. It was a definite steady build (“Is Shahrukh here yet?” “Do you think he'll speak?” “I heard his car just arrived.”) as if the entire room was waiting with bated breath. When the moment finally arrived, and he was introduced on the stage...his arrival culminated with. a.....full runway fashion show! I kid you not; this was like being at Bryant Park in February. Cutting edge actor, cutting edge cricket team, cutting edge Indian fashion. Where was I again?

At about 2:30, around the time when dudes would be getting rowdy and tossed from New York bars, the gigantic buffet opened and we all ate a full meal again. Whatever Indian delicacy you wanted (and some western too), it was there. It must have given us some new energy, because next thing I knew, we were climbing up onto the catwalk behind the dj and starting the night's dance party. I think we got home sometime close to 4. It was a night to remember, and I hoped we made the papers the next day.

No paparazzi shots of our crew (though some of the people I met made it) in the morning's papers, just a combo of a hangover and my weak stomach reacting to India. I felt pretty lousy and a massage sounded like a great idea. Off to the mall we headed, where I got a very painful Thai massage which did something bad to my back (thankfully Laura was later able to fix it). Massage unable to soothe my hangover, retail therapy was the only option I had left. I got a dress by a famous Indian designer (which would probably sell for $400 bucks in Calypso), and it was a good thing I found it, since there was yet another party to attend that night!

This party started at the respectable hour of 9 pm, and was for a friend who was leaving town. Though there was a different vibe, it was in many ways no less grand than the night before. It was held on the tiled marble rooftop of a building that was a city block square and looked to be at least 100 years old. From that roof, you could see all of Calcutta. The cricket stadium, the Victoria Memorial, the Maidan. It was a pretty stunning view, and offered a cool breeze to beat the heat rising off the pavement. I was low energy, exhausted from the night before, so drinks were not my thing that night. I did however, sample some of yet another amazing spread of food. Meter long kebabs grilled in a tandoori oven, biryanis, and the new best dessert around: palm sugar ice cream. I was going to miss this amazing Calcutta night life.

We spent our last day strolling around town. Went to the new market (which isn't really all that new; it's at least 100 years old), where the old Jewish bakery was selling pound cake and Easter baskets. We had egg and potato kati rolls for breakfast, a Calcutta specialty that puts breakfast burritos to shame. We walked around a part of town that makes sculptures for religious holidays to order. We chanced upon a procession of women doing a puja along the river. Some were in a trance, others were just committed. All were doing full prostrations on the hot asphalt for several kilometers. It was a random glimpse of daily life here, and one I was glad to have seen.

We had a royal send off, with twilight swimming and drinks at the club. Vishnu then drove us over the famed Hooghly Bridge to the station, where we would catch our overnight train to Varanasi. I was sure we would wake up to a very different India.

Soft Landing

April 1, 2010
Calcutta

I did not know what to expect upon landing in India. Some people I've met told me that everyone hates the first place they visit in the country. Others said to hold onto everything I own for dear life, so the street kids didn't lift it off of me. Or stay in the first city you visit for a week so you can get over being sick. Some said not to go at all. Everyone said it would be different from any place I'd ever been.

The Calcutta airport was small, old, and easy. There were no kids trying to pick pocket me (though i am prepared to do battle with them in Delhi), and I was through customs in a (relative) flash. I was greeted by my friend Stacy, who had flown in from New York the day before. She picked me up with Vishnu, our friends' driver. He would graciously cart us around town for the next couple of days. This is not at all what I was expecting, it was the exact opposite.

We got to Sam & Laura's place and an hour later the yoga teacher came to the house for a private lesson. Then it was off to the club for my new favorite drink, vodka and fresh coconut water. After that, we went to dinner at a Bengali restaurant,which is a cuisine that somehow has not made its way to New York (though I'm definitely investigating the corners of Jackson Heights when I get home). It was outstanding, some of the best food I've had during the whole trip. The meal consisted of banana flower, an ingredient that I don't think is used elsewhere, a savory jackfruit dish, fried fish, mustard sauced fish steamed in a banana leaf, homemade paneer, something resembling eggplant in a sesame sauce, fried bread, rice, and for dessert, custard-thick sweet yogurt. I'm still dreaming about it.

Getting introduced to Calcutta life with people who actually live here was wonderful, and I am extremely greatful to my friends for being such generous hosts. If I'd been dropped off on the backpacker lane in Calcutta alone, I would probably cry, then immetidately return to the airport. It is a congested, chaotic and in-your-face overwhelming place. The architecture is mostly old, sometimes gigantic buildings leftover from the British. Buildings that look like they could or should be condemned end up housing offices or art galleries or rooftop parties. Though technically illegal, is the only city in the world where foot-powered rickshaws still exist. Each street has an old name (like Calcutta), and a new name (like Kolkata), though only the new names are written on the maps and everybody knows the streets by their old names. The town is not overrun with tourists, so as far as touts and beggars are concerned, there is seemingly a mellow vibe that I had not expected. That is everyplace except the Kali Temple.

The Kalighat Kali Temple is a Hindu temple for the goddess Maa Kali. The city's name is said to have been derived from Kalighat (the temple is actually not on the ghat on the Hooghly but who's keeping tabs?). She's a pretty important goddess to Calcutta and the temple has a legend to match. It is located in a tiny maze of insanity; beggars, stalls selling flower garlands, spices, Kali tchkokes, ghee, goats for sacrifice, religious dudes offering to perform pujas for a very good price; "I take you to Kali," "Kali this way," "Madame, best way to Kali temple follow me," and so forth. All at the same time, all in a space of maybe 3 square feet, all trying to get your attention and money. If we did not have Vishnu with us, I would have turned around. He hooked it up -- found a guy who knew a guy who blessed us, watched our shoes, washed our hands, and led us barefoot across the burning midday ashphalt into the temple. Inside the temple was more insanity with pushing, shoving, screaming, blessing, money demanding, tikkas being placed on foreheads, flower garlands being handed to us then taken away. To see Kali (or rather to have her see you) one has to cross over an iron bar about shin height and through a doorway that's maybe a meter and a half wide. Inside the doorway is an open flame (didn't see that one until almost too late). Fill that space made for 3 with about 40 people all desperate for a glimpse, and you've got the picture. I hoisted myself up on a rope hanging from the ceiling to catch my breath since I had been literally lifted off the ground from the weight of the crowd. When some shirtless dude behind me decided to grab onto the same rope I lost my footing and came down (luckily feet on the ground and not in the fire) barefoot on the greasey, slimey, wet, filthy marble. I was pinned for a minute before we were able to leave, and I'm still not sure if the experience was exhiliriating or terrifying. Definitely a mixture of both, but I'm starting to side with the latter and questioning our decision to head to the Kumbh Mela in a couple of weeks (largest gathering of people anywhere).

After leaving the temple and following Vishnu to the sanctuary of the car, we were too overwhelmed to do anything else (such as visis Mother Theresa's place, which was in the neighborhood) but go back to the apartment and have another fantastic, home cooked bengali lunch with Sam. Besides, we had a party to prepare for.