Heaven Isn't Too Far Away

April 28, 2010
Rest day, Namche Bazaar

The Everest Base Camp trek is relatively well mapped out. Most everyone flies to Lukla, spends a night in Phakding, then moves onto Namche Bazaar for two nights. Because of the extreme gain in elevation, it is essential to spend an extra day acclimitizing in Namche. People who are sensitive to the altitude usually start to exhibit signs of distress at around 3500 meters. Symptoms start with a headache, dizzy spells, nausea, unsound sleep and, if ignored, can progress rapidly to Acute Mountain Sickness. AMS is a life threatening disorder brought on by not giving the body enough time to adjust to the lack of oxygen in the air. HAPE (high altitude pulmonary edema) and the more serious HACE (high altitude cerebral edema), mostly affecting climbers at higher altitudes than I'd be going, can be fatal. The only cure is to go down, period. Hence, the treks are arranged with acclimitization days built in. It's often times the strongest and fittest people who don't allow time to acclimitize and ignore early signs of AMS (such as a headache) that run into trouble higher up. I was feeling okay, but was exhausted from the grueling day before. I was thrilled to have a “rest” day.

Of course, a Nepali rest day is not a rest day at all. Instead, we'd be doing some more trekking. The motto up here is “climb high, sleep low.” Climbing higher, even a few hundred feet, then descending to sleep at a lower altitude helps the body adjust. I knew the walk would be good for me, even though I was very sore. After breakfast at 7AM (no sleeping in here, even on a rest day) we embarked on another uphill climb to the Everest View Hotel. This hotel, supposedly the highest luxury hotel in the world, was built by the Japanese. Rooms are expensive at a couple hundred bucks a night, and it's rarely full. Trekkers certainly are not staying there. I assume the hotel makes its money by the tourists who chopper in for the day (there's a tiny airstrip about a 90 minute hike from the hotel and it might even have its own helipad on top), have lunch, and split before the altitude makes them sick. Phurba told me there was a sitting area where we could take tea and see the mountain. I was excited for this and hoped the weather held.

The day before, after spending an hour at the lodge resting in Namche, and once I was sure my legs would let me stand on them again, I asked Phurba to help me find some trekking poles. During the brutal climb, I had serious thoughts about knocking one incredibly rude German woman off the mountain and stealing her poles. Luckily, Namche is a trekker's outpost. The stuff is mostly overpriced knockoffs, but I did not care. Phurba talked the vendor down to a respectable(ish) price and I hoped my purchase would lend some extra support to my aching limbs. It did. Namche Bazaar is a crescent shaped settlement nestled into the steep curve of a mountainside. It looks a lot like terraced rice paddies, except the terracing holds stone buildings. The entire town is a system of stone steps. And so we left the guest house and immediately started ascending up through Namche. The trekking poles didn't make my agony disappear, but they definitely helped. We got through the town, climbed over a boulder/wall and the trail presented itself. It was a vertical zigzag to the top, and it hurt. When I looked down to see just how steep this climb was, I realized how steep the town of Namche itself is. I've no idea how those buildings were even built, let alone how they don't topple over.

After an hour of tough climbing (think 2 or 3 thousand giant stone steps) we reached a wide open plateau. The trail was visible for miles, a little brown path cutting through the mossy clearing that wound around the side of the mountain and disappeared, only to reappear far off in the distance, on the other side of a gorge. The weather was perfect for the time being with clear blue skies giving me my first glimpse of some really high peaks. To the west was the omnipresent Kongde Ri (6187m) and the holy and unclimbed Khumbila (5761m). They were absolutely giant, covered in snow and ice many thousands of meters up, towering over the shrub covered meadow we were walking through. It was as scenic a place as I'd ever seen. That is, until we turned a bend and the meadow ended. The path hugged the mountain and the first thing I noticed was the gorge you'd plunge to your death in if you took a wrong step. The second thing I noticed was an extremely rude group of French trekkers literally (and dangerously) running down the trail. Nobody runs at this altitude and I started to curse them under my breath, when I noticed the third thing. Behind them, about a 7 day walk away, towering up above the majestic and vast Solkhumbu range, was Mount Everest (8848 m), with its unmistakable plume of “smoke” (there's always a cloud formation blowing around up there) wafting off its angled peak. Right next to it was the mammoth Lhotse (8501m), and closer to us was the utterly recognizable Ama Dablam (6856m) sticking out like a sore thumb. Tawoche (6542m), Kang Taiga (6685m) and I think Chhukhung (5833m) and Thamserku (6808m) rounded out the view. Pink, white and red blossoms of the rhododendron forest peppered the deep valley separating me from the gigantic peaks, and the place where I was standing pretty much marked the end of the evergreens. Higher up was only shrub, then rock, then snow and ice. This was the single most scenic thing I have ever seen. Every agonizing step I'd taken to get there was worth it, and the pain and shortness of breath disappeared for awhile. We walked on further to the lodge, all the while feeling like I was in a dream (or the Sound of Music, or Lord of the Rings) in utter awe of the landscape. I was in disbelief that I was actually seeing the single biggest thing on the planet with my own eyes. The sheer magnitude of the place was heavy; few people ever get to look upon the Himalayas outside of a book and now I was one of them. We had tea (and paid New York City prices for a pot) and I took about a hundred photos. I made sure to linger for as long as possible, and only started the walk back to Namche when the afternoon weather began to cloud Everest and Lhotse from view. I hoped no climbers were up there, and turned to leave.

I discovered during the climb down the rocky and hazardous path that I'm not too good on the descent. Out of nowhere, my right knee started to hurt (and would continue to do so until I got back to Kathmandu), which made the going pretty slow. There was a lot of scree (loose small rocks and pebbles) on the trail which makes sliding and falling a real concern. I've already got one scar in the middle of my face; I'm not trying to get another one. I was obsessively cautious of my footing. On this stretch of the trek in particular, vertigo became an issue for me because we were in a clearing, so our destination far below was visible, as were the thousand places you could fall into and break your neck. I was also starving and Phurba, who, like all Sherpas, is like a spider on these hills, skipping along in flip flops, was far ahead with my bag - which had snacks. It was difficult and I had to let a lot of people pass me by.

We had to go to the Sherpa museums (yes, 2 of them) before going back to the lodge. I had agreed to do this before I knew how deflated I'd be by noon (which is when my body was used to eating lunch). To tell Phurba I didn't want to go would have been bad; I didn't want to insult his heritage. He really wanted to show me both of these museums. They were interesting enough, but my head was starting to pound and they were not exactly next to each other, which meant more walking. My interest was waning, as was the Mt. Everest afterglow. I was feeling weak and just as we were on the outskirts of Namche, I slipped on some scree and fell down a few steps. I used the pole to break my fall, which thankfully wasn't that hard. Phurba was getting on my nerves and his nonchalant, “careful, please” response didn't help matters. I snapped at him that it was 2pm and about time he got me fed. He produced some cookies and didn't talk to me until later.

I wanted to collapse into a giant white bed with lofty down covers and watch reruns of the Simpsons. No such luxuries existed at the Khumbu Lodge, where the main dining room was warm and cozy but the rooms were like sleeping in a barn. When we finally got back there, I was in no better shape than the day before. Phurba forced me to drink a liter of boiling water (his cure for everything), which actually worked to get rid of my headache (if only it did the same at sea level). I had some food and asked the owner where the shower was. He charged me about 5 dollars, then led me to a padlocked room. The clouds had moved in and the air temperature was probably around 30 degrees. After three days of trekking, I badly needed a shower, but could not put my body through the shock of plunging under ten degree water. I was relieved to see an actual heater, and though the pressure wasn't great, the water was steaming. It was the last hot shower I'd have until I got back to Kathmandu, and was certainly a luxury.

I spent the evening hoping my hair would dry and talking to a guy from Norway who had been stuck at the lodge for a week with pneumonia. He had some dried snot in his beard and a curious gurgle in his voice. I wasn't sure whether he was hitting on me or just making conversation, but I wasn't sticking around to find out. Getting sick up here would be crippling. I finished my dahl baat (lentils, rice, vegetables – a Nepali staple), highly recommended the shower to him and retired to my sleeping bag. I bundled up in my nighttime gear of hat, headlamp, fleece pants and slippers and quickly passed out into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I Want to Take You Higher

April 27, 2010
Phakding (8573 feet) to Namche Bazaar (12,303 feet)

On my first morning in the Himalayas, I once again awoke with the sun at 5AM. I didn't have to get up until 6:15 but still found it impossible to fall back to sleep. I've never been one for sleeping bags, and my cozy rental was of the cocoon fashion, which I found rather uncomfortable for morning lounging. I dawdled as long as possible, then unzipped myself into a cold room and stepped into an even colder hallway. The lodges up here (none of them heated) have thin walls and rarely offer private bathrooms, so you are humbly forced to share toilets, see fellow trekkers in their long underwear, listen to their ailments during the night, and wash your face with the coldest water you have ever felt in front of strangers. After hearing someone have diarrhea a mere 12 inches from where I was brushing my teeth, I was thinking this has got to be the rudest way to wake up in the morning, when Phurba Sherpa knocked on my door. I was still in pajamas and glasses and was packing up my stuff at the time, with a good 10 minutes to go before breakfast. (Up here, you order your breakfast and pick a time to eat it before you go to bed. This affords the kitchen staff, usually one woman cooking over an open fire, time to prepare breakfast for all the guests.) At dinner the night before, I ate with a tour group of Aussies and Kiwis. As I was the only person not part of their group, I was there when their guide described their morning wake up call. The porters were to knock on their doors around 6 am with bowls of hot water for washing up. I thought maybe Phurba was knocking on my door with such a luxury. I thought wrong. Instead, he came into my room empty handed and just kind of hung out. My cheeks were still burning from the icy water I'd splashed on them, I wasn't dressed, I was having trouble fitting my sleeping bag into its stuff sack, and my sherpa guide had just walked into my bedroom at 6:30 in the morning empty handed. This was the rudest way to wake up. I don't know why Phurba was uncomfortably hovering over me, but I wasted no time in telling him to get lost so I could finish getting ready. Ten minutes later, packed and suited up, I unlocked my door to find Phurba still standing there, as if he was ready to raise a fist and start knocking. He grabbed my big pack, followed me downstairs and sat next to me in silence as I ate my yak cheese omelette. (Said he'd already eaten.) It was weird.

Lukla to Phakding, while up and down, is actually all down since Phakding is at a slightly lower elevation than Lukla. My first day of trekking was a relatively pleasant 3-4 hour walk through lush valleys and scenic passes. I knew today would be different. We had a hard day of climbing ahead; we'd be ascending almost 3300 feet in altitude, and trekking mostly uphill for at least 5-6 hours. What I didn't know was just how hard it would be.

We were on the road, so to speak, by 7:30ish. Starting later is not an option this time of year, because the weather patterns dictate that at around 1pm every day, thick clouds roll in and carry with them rain or snow. It's best to be at your tea house by that time. Since there's absolutely nothing to do once the sun goes down, and your body is usually drained, going to bed at 8PM is not uncommon, nor is waking at 5 or 6. Hence, the morning walk was relatively pleasant. There were a few steep inclines, and lots of stairs, but in general the steps (which were giant rocks worn or formed into a crude staircase over time) would lead to a natural resting point, where you could stop for 5 minutes, have some water, take in the scenery. Often times stairs led to bridges or villages. We stopped for tea sometime around 9 and continued onward. The trail was broken up quite nicely, winding up and down the mountains. I was getting a workout, but it wasn't anything to complain about. Certainly beat sitting in a spinning class. I saw my first snow capped peak, which was awesome in the true sense of the word. I asked Phurba its name and he said it did not have one. In this part of the world, where the mountains are the tallest on earth, peaks under 6000 meters are not even named. Yet another of Phurba's intimidating facts, since I knew to view the really high peaks, we'd have to actually walk really high.

Just before lunch, we crossed into Sagarmatha (Everest) National Park. This was an exciting landmark for me. It is the gateway to the Khumbu region and meant that I really was in the presence of the largest things on earth. I've read countless books on the area, and it was startling to think that I'd actually figured out a way to get here and see it with my own eyes. While Phurba dealt with my trekking permit, I checked out a little tourist room with maps and a model of the entire region, which provided a mini overview of the path we were waking and gave a real scope of the vastness of the Khumbu. I was headed towards Everest Base Camp, but there were so many other routes – towards Gokyo Lake, Island Peak, Thame and Tibet, Ama Dablam. It's a giant park. I thought of all the people, from inexperienced trekkers like myself to famous mountaineers, who had passed this way en route to something bigger, many of them never to return. There were teams assembled right now at Everest Base Camp, having been there since March, waiting for the weather to give them a window to attempt a summit bid as it usually does every May. There were novice climbers taking a stab at Island Peak, hoping their newly learned ice axe skills would guide them to the top. There were high and scary winds atop Ama Dablam, making summit attempts dangerous that morning. It was an exciting time to be in this part of the world, even if the next few hours would prove to be utter misery for me. As I walked through the park entrance, I felt very privileged to be there.

Around 11, after being slightly delayed by yet another passing yak caravan, we walked into a small village called Monjo and sat down for lunch. The temperature had more than doubled since morning and I was happy to shed some layers and sit down for a bit. I gulitlessly ordered a giant platter of fried potatoes and vegetables. It's a rare occasion that I could feel good about eating such a meal, but it's rarer that I burn as many calories as I was. I knew the afternoon would be tough and I needed the energy. There is some meat on the menus here, but I've seen the porters carrying leg of yak around for days in the blazing sun, which can get to over 90 degrees. Better to get your protein from eggs, and otherwise stick with what's local, which are potatoes, spinach, carrots, cabbage, all grown in the restaurants' back yards and all delicious.

When was the last time you had a six hour workout? Can't pinpoint it? That's because only people who are training for marathons, or the Olympics, or to summit an 8,000 meter peak do that regularly. I was doing it daily for the next week by choice, just to spend time in this fabled land and to get a view of the mammoth peaks. So it began after lunch, where we once again crossed the Dudkhosi River (or “milk water,” because it moves so fast it's always milky white) and were on its rocky banks, where we walked on nice, flat ground for the better part of a half hour. It was good to be on the ground, looking up at the mountains and level eyed at the river, rather than glancing down from above. It was possible to momentarily forget how high you were, except for the slightly labored breathing. I say momentarily because after only about 20 minutes, an extremely long and high prayer flag-covered hanging bridge came into view, and with it, some steps disappearing into the hill. On the other side of that bridge was a dark mountain that I couldn't see past, though I knew we'd be climbing up and over it. And then, just as quickly as I was sizing up my surroundings with anticipation, I was at the foot of a staircase that did not stop for the next three hours.

We climbed up a good 30 minutes before crossing the bridge, which I did with trepidation. It was almost littered with prayer flags and khatas (scarves) there were so many, and was long and crowded. We swung over the river at a rate that was a little too fast and when I saw the row of heavily burdened yaks coming from the other side, I hoped the bridge would hold. Following in Phurba's stead, I threw myself face first against the chain link fence and tried to will my body to be as skinny as possible to let the beasts pass without incident. They stop for no one, as I would come to learn in future close encounters. I felt uneasy as I stared into the river, noting to myself that it really did look like gallons of rapidly flowing milk.

From there onto Namche, it was agony. The path zigzagged at steep (sometimes very steep) angles across and up that massive hill. Some places were a sand-like dirt, making a hard climb harder to gain footing on. Some places were thigh-high stone steps that ascended into oblivion. It was endless, and here that I realized I might have bitten off more than I could chew. I'd spent the last three weeks sitting on my ass eating paneer and chapati in India, and the week before that sitting on the beach in Malaysia. I wasn't exactly in great shape, and endurance has never been my thing regardless. I am also 5 foot 2 inches tall at best, which means that for every one step a 6 foot tall German takes, I'm taking two. It basically takes twice the effort for my legs to carry me. After awhile, I was in so much pain, and also so dizzy from the altitude that I had to rest and breathe every 4 or 5 steps. I felt like I might topple over. I kept telling myself one foot in front of the other, mind over matter, all the while my heart nearly beating out of my chest to compensate for the loss of oxygen. This hike would have been a bitch anywhere. Add the near 1000 meter gain in altitude to the equation, and it could have been a recipe for disaster. Each step made it harder and harder to catch my breath. My lungs hurt and my chest heaved. I was getting a headache and was light headed. If I'd still been a smoker I would not have made it. I felt every ounce I was carrying in my stuffed pack, and realized just how heavy my cheap boots were (thanks again, volcano). It was very slow going.

Phurba kept asking me what was wrong, and I kept telling him that I was dizzy and tired. He didn't offer too much by means of moral support. What he did offer, just when I literally was not sure I could take another step and was on the verge of a mental and physical collapse, was a glimmer of hope. Far in the distance, was a little speck of blue. He pointed out the corner of a building that was barely visible. It was still 30 minutes away for a strong walker, but Namche Bazaar was within eyeshot. Within earshot was some low talking and congregating. We had come upon a tiny tea post. I was too weak to even walk inside, and dropped my bag on the side of the trail and leaned against the stone wall with the other weary trekkers, all too tired to talk to one another. I breathed heavily and wondered if I would have to spend the night out there. Phurba got me black tea with extra sugar, which helped to bring me back to life a little. I remembered the chocolate I'd bought in Kathmandu for such an occasion, and broke off a few pieces. It gave me the energy, however low, that I needed to push on through to Namche Bazaar, the highest trading post in the world. We got to our lodge at around 3:30 in the afternoon, just as heavy clouds were rolling in. Two liters of boiling water and one cup of ginger tea later, and I was feeling human again. We sat in the heated dining room and watched through the picture windows as a violent thunderstorm covered the town in blackness.

Movin' on Up

April 26, 2010
Kathmandu (4,593) feet to Lukla (9,380) feet

I awoke at 4 AM, well before my alarm went off, after a night of very restless sleep. It was in large part due to anticipation, but also in no small part due to the fact that my room faced a courtyard, which I initially thought would be nice. The courtyard turned out to be an amphitheater of screaming children and hollering men well into the night. It also turned out to be a halal butcher center. Sometime before daybreak the families were up saying their prayers, then they went straight to work. Waking to the deranged symphony of Arabic being screamed over bleating goats and squawking chickens doesn't exactly make for a glorious morning. I looked out of my window at an inopportune moment and, following the initial revulsion of seeing a goat get his throat sliced as my first sight of the day, I decided to just get up. The sun was barely starting to rise, and it shed some light into my room, but the power was out. I set my headlamp on the bedside stand, angled it at the bathroom, and took what would be my last shower for three days in the dark. At least the water was hot.

In an entirely uncharacteristic moment, I was downstairs early, at 6AM, a full half hour before Phurba was to arrive. Our flight was at 7:30, so I was a bit concerned, but I knew the airport was close and having seen the handwritten tickets, I figured we'd be okay. The only flights that were departing out of the domestic airport were carrying tourists, off to Lukla, in the Everest region where I was headed, or to Jomsom in the Annapurna range. The planes were all tiny, 10-20 seat propeller planes, and looked to be a bit old for my taste. I wasn't crazy about the idea of boarding one of these flights; they do crash. My only other choice would be to hike to Lukla, a five day trek from a place called Jiri near the Kathmandu valley. It is rumored to be a hard walk, a constant of peaks and valleys. During the civil war here ('96-'06) and for some years following, the Maoists were known to extort cash from tourists trekking this route, so it has decreased in popularity and is somewhat of a ghost town. Did not sound too appealing, and I didn't have the time anyway. So after a rather unsettling security check, [“You have matches?” “No, no matches.” (I did have waterproof strike anywhere matches, but figured I could take my chances with a lie here.) “You smoke?” “No, I don't smoke. No cigarettes, no lighters.” (I don't smoke anymore, so this was not a lie.)] I walked through an unplugged metal detector and boarded the bus that would take us over to the runway. As I noticed the giant UN and army rescue helicopters that I was sure got good use this time of year, Phurba chipperly pointed out the wreckage of one. “Crash in Everest base camp 3 years ago. No rescue, all die. Part helicopter brought back to airport.” That news was less than settling. I also wondered about Phurba's credibility – there is no way that wreckage was hauled down from 18,000 feet.

A few minutes later we boarded our Sita Air flight and were taking off for Tenzing-Hillary Airport in Lukla, reported to be one of the scariest airports on earth, due to the fact that the runway ends with a sheer drop off the side of a mountain. I was surprised to see an actual flight attendant and wondered what purpose she would serve. I knew that tray she was fiddling with would not be used for a beverage service. In lieu of peanuts, we were handed a hard candy and cotton wads. The cabin is not pressurized, so the hard candy would help your ears. The cotton would help with the noise, as it was deafening. Unfortunately they had no remedy for the feeling you got in your gut when the plane hit an air pocket and dropped or shook uncontrollably. I kept my eyes closed until the giant snow capped peaks came into view, then was again filled with dread, realizing what I'd signed up for – which was a long and hard walk in their direction. I hoped my body would be able to cope with what I was about to put it through. Just when I was about to turn around and ask Phurba if we were supposed to be flying so close to the mountains, I felt the wheels come down and we were on the ground, landing on an airstrip that materialized out of nowhere. It's a tiny little bit of pavement and it is on an incline for take off, a decline for landing. Made me feel like we were going to crash right into the stone terminal. Luckily, the breaks worked. As I stared in awe at the pilot, who jumped out of the plane and lit up a cigarette on the runway, inches from where the plane's fuel tank was being opened for a refill, Phurba surfaced with our bags and we were on our way.

We walked out of the airport, grabbed a quick breakfast in Lukla, and hit the trail. The weather was perfect; skies were clear and blue and the air was clean and smelled of pine. And the scenery, well it was spectacular. The high peaks are out of view here, but it matters little. As soon as you leave Lukla the trail heads downhill, bringing into view a village on the edge of a hillside that disappears into a deep gorge. The homes and lodges are all made of stone, with roofs and window panes painted blue or green. The villages are lined with prayer flags tied to impossibly tall evergreen trees, the mountainsides peppered with terraced potato and spinach gardens. A swarm of schoolgirls in their white and navy uniforms ran past us as we reached the first turn and another valley came into view. 20 minutes on the trail and I was instantly walking through the pages of every photo book I've ever seen of Nepal. This is why people flock here time and time again. I think I walked all the way to Phakding with a smile on my face.

These Boots Are Made For Walking

April 24
Kathmandu, Nepal

I was scheduled to start volunteer work at an orphanage in Kathmandu on May 3rd. This left me with precious little time to do what I really wanted, which was attempt to trek to Mount Everest Base Camp. It is an arduous but extremely popular trek. However, including both distance and acclimitization time, it takes about 15 days, which I did not have. I could have done other, easier treks in different areas of the Himalayas, such as the Langtang or Annapurna ranges. Several people had actually recommended I fly to altitude and do some easy day treks. But I've read too much about the Khumbu region, and wanted to have a Sagarmatha (Everest) National Park trekking permit as a souvenir. So I spent part of the day before I left Delhi doing some research on reputable trekking companies, and settled on one that is popular with women traveling solo. It is entirely possible (not to mention a fraction of the price) to do the trek without hiring a tour company or even a guide. Some folks grab a map, hire a porter to carry their stuff and just hit the trail. Had I been with people who knew what they were doing, I might have opted for that choice. But since I was on my own, and definitely out of shape and practice, I arranged for a custom built trek that would fit both my schedule and ability, along with a guide/porter who was trained in high altitude medicine. Puru, the man who runs the company, picked me up at the airport and took me straight to his office to arrange things.

It's a good thing I booked the trek, because Kathmandu immediately presented itself as low on the list of favorite places I've visited. In fact, it might be at the bottom. I had gotten a window seat on the left side of the plane so that I could have a view of the mountains when flying into town. I kept looking and anticipating, along with everyone else on the flight, for that first glimpse of the snow capped Himalayas. We waited and looked at first out the windows, then around at each other. The mountains never came into view. That's how smoggy and polluted Kathmandu is - it sits in a bowl of dust and smoke and exhaust that totally clouds any view of the surrounding mountains. It made the view you get flying into LA seem crystal clear. As we made our way through town, I was less impressed. What I saw was dirtier and dustier than India, if you can imagine that. I got an instant headache and what's worse, felt like I was back in Laos. My lungs hurt and I developed an immediate cough. I don't know what scientific instruments measure air quality, but that of Kathmandu has to tip the scales. We got to Thamel, the main tourist district and area where I was staying, to learn that the electricity was out until 9pm. The government somewhat regulates their power cuts in that at least citizens generally know in advance how many hours they will be without power (in India the power would just go off without warning), but that also means 4-6 hour blocks, sometimes two per day, without electricity. Thamel was tight and crowded with lots of dirty burnout hippie types, as well as backpackers. I was not impressed, and was glad to be getting out.

I had planned on having my gear (boots, long underwear, good socks, down jacket, etc.) meet me in Nepal rather than lug it around for 3 months. Thanks to the volcanic ash cloud over Europe, I could not count on any of it to arrive in Kathmandu before I started my trek, so I canceled the shipment. This meant that I would be buying or renting everything from gloves to a sleeping bag, and it unfortunately included boots. You can get pretty much any kind of trekking (and to some extent mountaineering) gear you need in Thamel; tourism is Nepal's biggest industry and they come in droves in the spring and fall to trek in the mountains. The one thing that all books, message boards and people will tell you is the exception: you can't get good boots in Nepal. Of course they are the one thing you rely on most when doing a trek. Of course you would not want to break in a brand spanking new pair of boots during the trek of a lifetime. And of course, that's exactly what I would be doing. All of the gear is knock off stuff, and so long as a down parka keeps me warm at 14000 feet, I don't care if it says "Mountain Hardware" or in my rental case, "Everest Hardware." Most of the gear I got was just fine, but the boots left something to be desired. They were actual leather, but they were heavy and clunky and they made me nervous. I suspected they would give me trouble down (or rather, up) the road, but my only other choice was to not trek. My tropical weather footwear consisted of a pair of slip on pumas and a Nepali-made (read: short shelf life) pair of flip flops. (My good flip flops were stolen by the security woman at the Delhi airport; she and her partner gave me an extremely hard time and a brutal frisk, and only when I was boarding the plane did I realize that my stylin' Reefs had gone missing. I hope she steps in a lot of cow shit with them). Neither of those would be a good choice to walk in for the next 9 days, so my only option was to buy the clunkers and deal with any problems later. How I'd be cursing the volcano somewhere around 13,000 feet.

After we got my gear, I met my guide/porter, Phurba Sherpa. I was glad he was a Sherpa, as where we were headed was his home terrain, and he seemed like a nice enough guy. He showed me my plane ticket from Kathmandu to Lukla (one of the scariest airports on the planet), walked me to my guest house, and told me to pack light. He would be there at 6 AM in two days to pick me up. I requested a room on the 5th floor and walked up and down the stairs as often as possible for the next 36 hours, not entirely sure what I'd signed up for.

Lap of Luxury

April 23, 2010
New Delhi, India

On the night of April 22nd, Stacy and I set off from Udaipur on our last overnight train ride in India. She would be going to London the next day (if the Icelandic ash cloud allowed it, and if our train was not horrendously late), then home to the States. I would be spending the night in Delhi alone, and then continuing on to Kathmandu the following morning.

We traveled second class sleeper A/C on overnight trains. In this class, there are four berths on one side of the corridor, separated by a curtain, and two berths on top of one another against the other side of the train, running lengthwise. Upon showing your ticket, you were handed a sealed brown paper package containing two sheets, a blanket, towel and pillow. (I always got excited when receiving this package, as if I expected something different to be inside the brown paper. Maybe I just liked the clean linen scent I got after tearing open the wrapping – it was one of the few things in India I could count on to be properly laundered.) On every prior trip, we had shared the four bunk compartment with strangers, but it never mattered much. I liked the fact that we were separated by curtains instead of trapped in a locked room, as it was in first class. Curtains lent a bit of privacy, but allowed for a quick escape if you woke up with some creep putting his hand down your shirt (which never happened, but I had read that it was not unheard of). Earplugs or iPod and an ambien drowned out the noise most of the time, and people actually sleep on these trains.

For this trip, we were stuck one of top of another in the lengthwise side sleeper for the first time. From the outside, they look just fine, identical in price and size to the larger 4-berth compartments we had grown accustomed to. These side bunks are like mini-coffins. They are narrower and have fewer amenities (such as a power outlet or fan) than the ones across the aisle. They are claustrophobic and kind of a bummer. I crawled up to my top bunk, giving Stacy the bottom one since she'd be traveling for 30 or so hours, and tried to get some sleep. There was a massive altercation one curtain over, which of course 12 people got involved in. After the noise became so loud it was drowning out my music, I even screamed for them to shut the hell up through my curtain. I think they actually listened, though I half expected someone to swing back my curtain and move the fight to my bunk. I was cranky and uncomfortable, and had my diatribe prepared for them. Thankfully, I didn't have to use it. During the night, some woman got on with her extremely loud toddler who she refrained from telling to shut up. This kid whined and talked and sang at the top of his lungs all night long. It took all my willpower to not get up and give the mother a good tongue lashing on her shit parenting skills as the child was well within the age of being able to understand “shut your mouth, people are sleeping. ” That directive never came so the whole car had to suffer. I felt bad for the two business men sharing the compartment with the kid; they would obviously be unrested for their morning meetings in Delhi. But as this is India, nobody says a word about such things. Just an aggravating head waggle. It was not the best train journey we had.

One of the major flaws with train travel in India, in addition to the delays (and trains are almost always delayed) is that station stops are not announced,ever. You simply have to know what and when and where your stop is. For regulars who know the route, this is obviously no problem. For foreigners and natives alike who don't take these trains often, it can present a huge problem. Sleep is never sound since you are always worried about missing your stop. This trip was a prime example. We were set to to arrive in Delhi at 6:15 AM, and know our train left on time. So we set our alarms and woke up groggy and early, hearing the requisite deep voice chanting, “Chaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee” over and over, so we knew it was morning (the chai-wallahs always materialized on the train at dawn, no matter if we'd stopped at a station or not. I think they jump on and off from their villages, like in the movies.) Then you get up to use the toilet and lug your bottle of water and toothbrush along, brush your teeth as some dude clad only in a lunghi and flip flops is hanging out the side of the train catching some air (err, dust) and take in the morning spectacle of every villager in India having their morning crap on the train tracks. In this case, I asked one of the train workers (conductor I could not find, but this was a car overseer guy) when we would be arriving in Delhi. His English was not happening, so I carefully examined his head waggle and could only gather that we'd be late. I went back to my bunk and fell asleep again.

I awoke from a dream to some guy pulling my curtain open. Stacy was up and frantically gathering her belongings. We were the last two people in our car, along with Stacy's new friends, the luggage porters who had jumped on the train as soon as it pulled into the station, and aggressively made their way to the white girls. Stacy decided to hire them, which was fine with me. I didn't want to carry my heavy bag any more than she did. We were escorted to one of their pals, a taxi driver, who wanted to way overcharge us for his cab. In my half awake and annoyed early morning state, I started arguing with him. When he learned our destination, the Oberoi New Delhi (a birthday present from my parents), this guy had the gall to tell me that I was going to a five star hotel and should not be arguing with him over 100 rupees. My response was short and the only time I've lost my temper in India (not a cool move), “What I pay for my hotel room is none of your business, asshole. I know how much it costs to get there so stop trying to rip me off.” He walked away, and I wasn't sure whether I'd won or lost that one. We had the option of about three hundred rickshaw drivers to choose from, but I could not fathom rolling up to the Oberoi in a rickshaw. I doubt they even allow them on the property. My giant backpack was enough to turn heads. We luckily found another black Ambassador cab, and got to our destination within an acceptable rupee level.

By sheer luck, Stacy's plane was scheduled to leave for London that day. After several days of zero flights from India to anywhere in Europe, coupled with virtually zero news coverage due to the developing cricket scandal, this was great news. We had some tea and caught the end of a terrible Sharukh Kahn film on TV before she headed off to the airport. And just like that, I was on my own again. I settled in for the day and night with a survey of my surroundings. I was in New Delhi, which I had not seen a lot of. I had only gone to one Ghandi Museum (there are two), and had not gone with my friends when they went to the India Gate. There was an interesting art exhibit at one of the modern galleries, and I did not spend nearly enough time or money at the Ghandi Khati cloth store. But all of that held little appeal. Despite the fact that I'd been on a train for about 14 hours, I had not really been slumming in the past week. I did, however, decide to take full advantage of my luxury hotel room and not leave the grounds until I had to, which was not until check out the following day.

As far as luxury hotels go, the Oberoi was nice, but the room and the amenities could have been better. I think I got spoiled having stayed in one of the best hotels on earth in Hong Kong, but if I'm at a hotel that claims to be five star, I do not expect to see anything (like wallpaper) older than 10 years. I expect combs, razors, shaving cream, loofahs, mouthwash and any other toiletry I desire to be there already. About this, I've already informed the management. Everything else, especially the service, was excellent. I discovered a wasp in my room (I am deathly afraid of wasps, bees, hornets) and called downstairs to have it removed. At first the man hesitated, but then he killed it. Poor guy, it was probably totally against his religion. I tipped him well, I think. Then it was off to the pool, which was so cleverly landscaped you might think it was part of the lawn if the sun was shining the wrong way. My room had a view of the pool, which I initially noticed was dirty and looked old (as the day went on there was an army of people out vacuuming it). Turns out my view was only of the show pool; the real one was hidden far from view. I had an assigned cabana boy, who brought me cold water every 30 minutes, a refrigerated rose water spritzer for my face, cool washcloths for my neck, and a wide array of complimentary sunscreen. As I've said before, India does luxury well.

Part of the reason I chose the Oberoi Delhi was for their award winning Italian restaurant. I had eaten pizza once since February, and was slowly dying from macaroni withdrawal. The menu looked good, and so I made a reservation for one, put on a dress and headed downstairs. I was greeted by the matrie'd who was a real live Italian from Calabria. He had a poor man's Valentino look, though minus the orange tan. He liked me instantly, and sold me on an appetizer of San Danielle prosciutto and Indian melon with mint (you'd think it wouldn't work, but it did. And well.) followed by linguine with fresh blue crab and white wine sauce, the blue crab having been flown in that morning from Kerala (a province in the south). I liked the mix of local ingredients with traditional Italian preparations, and the food was great. So were the two glasses of wine, the white table cloth, the leavened bread, the silverware... I savored it all. It was nice to be able to throw in an upscale meal amidst the 2 dollar thalis every now and then. I was full and happy and only wanted an after dinner drink. Unfortunately, Amaretto nor Grand Manier were available in Delhi due to import export problems. Valentino told me that Amaretto was not allowed in the country. I corrected him; I'd had a glass after dinner at the Oberoi restaurant in Udaipur, so he should recheck the laws as well as with his employer. Clearly offended, he insisted “it would be his honor” to get me a glass of limoncello, which in my book translates to “on the house.” I don't drink limoncello often because it makes me instantly drunk and has none of the digistive properties of its less toxic cousins. But what the hell, it's not like I had anywhere to go except upstairs. I was also reluctantly sold on dessert, which I didn't need or want but ate anyway (I have got to make cinnamon ice cream when I get home, it was tasty). A large group of Indian business men walked in sometime between my ordering the dessert and limoncello, and I waited a bit too long for both. I ate and drank them quickly, paid my bill (which included the ridiculously priced drink), said goodnight to the staff who were all my friends by dinner's end (guess they don't see too many white women with elephant tattoos dining alone) and promptly ran up to my room and threw up violently. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the crab, maybe my body had become more accustomed to daal than I thought, but my nice Italian dinner did not want to stay down.

And that's how I spent my last night in India – alone and puking. It was the first time I had thrown up during my entire trip. At least it was into a sparkling clean and private porcelian bowl, and only a few times. It was not on a train, or on the street, or in some dingy guest house toilet. I'd managed to escape India without catching food poisoning or dysentery, or worse. Not a bad run.

I Never Promised You A Rose Garden

April 22, 2010
Udaipur, India

Udaipur is, like much of Rajasthan, a land of riches. The home to the famed Mewar empire, it has no fewer than four visible palaces, with the gigantic City Palace complex serving as part museum, part fort, part luxury hotel and part home to the living Maharaja (a cool looking cat who I really wanted to meet, but to no such avail. We got busted when we sneaked onto the grounds as non-guests and were asked to leave). The city's most romantic and notable landmark is the famed Lake Palace, once also a home to royalty, now a Taj hotel likely housing visiting royalty and other people who can afford its starting price of 800 bucks a night. It sits in the center of the man made (king made, actually) Lake Pichola and even though the lake is low in this pre-monsoon season, it is still scenic. Parts of Octopussy were filmed there, and I was disappointed to learn that following the Mumbai bombings in 2008, non-guests are no longer allowed to visit. I had big plans to go to dinner there impersonating a Bond girl. There's another palace, Jag Mandir (that I think still functions) to the south of the Lake Palace where Shah Jahan once hid out from his father before he built the Taj Mahal. High on a hill of the western shore sits the Monsoon Palace, the best place in town to catch the sun dip behind the mountains for the night. Down below is the recently built Oberoi hotel (though not a real palace, but with the same floor plan and some palatial name), more expensive than the Lake Palace and with each suite boasting its own swimming pool. We had dinner there one night and it was pretty special. Having to make reservations in advance to be allowed on the premises, we were announced and escorted basically everywhere we went, including the bathroom. There was a man hiding in the servant's closet in the ladies' room, who was there cleaning up after me before I was finished (in yet another fine example of India's extreme sexism, they don't even hire women to clean the women's rooms. But more on that later.) Dinner was excellent as expected, and while I felt a bit weird sipping 15 dollar cocktails while there were people on the street who did not earn 15 dollars in a month, it was nice to experience India's famed hotel hospitality. Hyatt should take a cue from these folks. When it comes to real luxury, Indians know best, despite my unwanted bathroom attendant.

And that's basically how we passed our time in Udaipur, palace hopping as it were. After we were palaced and shopped and massaged out, we had one last day to kill before the overnight train back to Delhi. What better way to spend it than to learn how to cook some of the wonderful food we'd been eating for the past three weeks? Stacy found a woman named Shashi who ran a cooking school from her home, and we booked a class with her. What we would take away would be more than recepies.

Shashi's cooking school turned out to be only a few paces from our hotel, but it was worlds away from the opulence and riches we'd been touring in Rajasthan. As soon as we climbed the steep stone steps, I knew this was going to be unlike any cooking class I'd ever taken. Most classes I've attended have had 5 or 6 students and a fully equipped kitchen where each student had his own burner, all ingredients prepped for you by a line cook, etc. Most were actually restaurants that offered classes during off hours. This was something entirely different. There were no prep cooks. There were no prep tables. There were no burners for us. There was only Shashi's modest two room home in which we'd be cooking for the next five hours.

The stairs led straight into the small, windowless living room, which housed a double bed, two chairs, a TV and a coffee table. Next to the living room was the kitchen which consisted of two burners attached to a gas tank, a stone counter top and shelves which held spices and dishes. There was a small outdoor “terrace” adjacent to the kitchen, where Shashi's illegal turtle pets lived and where some water (in a bucket) and extra grain was kept. The supplies for the class, including mostly vegetables, were sitting on the bed, still in their plastic bags from the market that morning. I noted that in addition to there not being a bathroom (Shashi and her two sons used the toilet one level up, which also belonged to the rooftop restaurant. Where they bathed, I don't know.), there was no running water and no refrigerator.

She invited us to sit down and immediately began to tell us her story. Her face was honest and sweet, and there was a sparkle in her eyes that said “nothing gets past me,” yet those eyes were also tired and worn, with premature wrinkles around them. She was once, (and still was as far as I was concerned, though no longer by Indian standards) a very beautiful woman. She wanted us to guess her age, and we tried to avoid that because I knew she looked older than she was and did not want to offend. Turns out she was 41, and I might have guessed closer to 50.

Shashi comes from the Brahmin, or priest caste. It is the highest caste in India, and a wealthy one. Their rules for food, family and faith are extremely strict. The Brahmins do not eat meat, fish or even eggs, only vegetables, legumes and paneer (cheese) or curd (yogurt). She was married young (we guessed 15) to an older man by way of arranged marriage. Her husband was allowed to see her photograph prior to their wedding date, but she did not see her groom until the day they were married. She moved into the house of her husband's family, as is custom in India, and bore two sons. She preformed her duties, in joining her sister in laws in preparing the daily meals for the entire family. (She jokingly called them beasts when recalling how sometimes she would have to hand make over 100 chapatis per meal. We rolled out and cooked 10 or so and I thought that was excessive.) When her sons were still young (I think she said 6 or 8?) her husband was murdered by his friend over a financial grapple. Neighbors and friends who she might have counted on to right the wrong kept their mouths shut. The murderer bribed the police and spent only one year in prison.

As Brahmin customs are strong in life, they are equally harsh in death. Shashi fasted for over 40 days following her husband's death. She was only allowed some chai (tea brewed in milk) and a bit of bread in the morning, then she would sit in the corner of a room and weep for the rest of the day. Following that initial mourning period, she was not allowed to leave the house for an entire year. According to the rules of her caste, she will never be allowed to remarry. To attempt to do so would leave her outcast by society. Even in 2010, tradition of this sort just is not broken. It would be a disgrace.

Now, one would think that being of a high caste, she would be looked after following her husband's murder. One would think she would be given money, or taken in, along with her sons, by a relative. One would be wrong. Her parents were both dead, so she could not go back to them. Her one brother was not to be called on either, because if he helped her, it would not only cause tension with his wife, but would also cause jealousy amongst her five sisters (who, incidentally, were all married and had men to provide for them). They would expect something from the brother as well. Her husband's family, with whom she lived, stopped talking to Shashi and her sons following his death. They still shared a house, but all communication and finances were cut off, down to the most minute detail. If she cooked bread, used a bucket of water, fed her sons a glass of milk, she was charged by her in-laws for not only the food, but the gas to light the fire, the oil to cook the food, the usage of their pots and pans until she could buy her own. She was crippled with grief, without a means to provide for her children and well on the road to becoming destitute. May I point out again that she is a Brahmin.

One of her sons, who dropped out of school for the time being to try and earn some money, got a lowly job at a hotel. He helped his mother by convincing a few of the guests at the hotel to let her wash their laundry, and this is how Shashi started to get her life on track. One of the tourists whose laundry she did stopped by to pick it up while Shashi was cooking. He smelled the food, must have tasted some (her cooking is superb), heard her story, and suggested she start a cooking school.

This was less than three years ago. Up to that point, Shashi spoke not a word of English. She was in her late '30s. Her boys were approaching university age. She had to find the money to get them an education. Shashi's Cooking Classes were born. With the help of tourists and her sons, Shashi has learned English, translated her menu from Hindi to English, German, French and Italian, has gotten herself mentioned in the 2009 Lonely Planet India book, and is now making (from what I can figure) a pretty decent living. A woman once dependent on her husband is now an entrepreneur, not from desire for something of her own (women's lib ain't exactly a big movement in India), but from an urgent need to feed her children. A lesser woman would have ended up a beggar on the street. A man in her position would have received all the help of his family and friends, been pitied and praised as a widower and quickly found another wife to cook and care for his sons. Abandoned by everyone she knew and left to her own devices, it was sink or swim. Thankfully for Shashi (and for us, that food we cooked was outstanding!), she is a quick study in high seas.

During our five hour class (note: our class was 500 rupees and lasted 5 hours. Most cooking school classes cost double that and lasted half the time.) we learned how to make everything from chai to paneer to pakhoras to naan to the masala base for any kind of curry to the single best thing I tasted in India: sweet coconut pharatha (a fried bread in which the dough, sugar and coconut are folded with layers of ghee, same concept as a croissant). We made chutneys with well water, about which I was nervous eating, but the mango chutney was one of the best things I've ever tasted and Shashi assured me I would not get sick. I did not get sick; I just craved more. We washed the vegetables in basins of water brought in by her sons. We cooked as the boys came home from their jobs/school and watched TV with the neighbors who dropped by to say hello and also watch TV – at one point there were 5 people sitting on the bed around the television as we fried bread in the kitchen. Stacy mentioned that it was like a sitcom, and it was. The random cast of characters that revolve around the building – the cooking school, Shashi's family, the restaurant upstairs, and the jewelry cart dude from across the street, along with 2 foreigners, always with Shashi's wit, humor and cunning at the forefront, would make a great storyline. (Maybe that's my new job; I certainly have the time to write a pilot).

The hours we spent at Shashi's made for a remarkable, enlightening and memorable experience. Not only was this one of the top three meals I've had in India (the other two being leftovers cooked by Sam and Laura's housekeeper in Calcutta, and the Bengali restaurant they took us to), it was one of the only experiences I had involving real family life. Shashi's story, while tragic, has a somewhat happy ending. She should be featured in Bust Magazine (and if any of my editor friends want to help me turn this blog into a submittable article, I'll take you up on it). What struck me most, though, was that Shashi stands out from the millions of women who do not have a happy ending. If your husband dies in India and you are of a lower caste, you are thrown out and will live your remaining days on the street as a beggar. You might sell your children to slavery or prostitution. You might, if you're in a small and remote village, commit sati (the act of a woman throwing herself on top of her husband's funeral pyre, to die with him. It's illegal in India, but still does happen in some rural villages). You will always be thought of as a lesser being than a man, regardless of caste or status. Interesting that practices from the middle ages are still commonplace in a country that in other ways, is far beyond my own. India elected its first and only female prime minister, Indira Ghandi, for four terms. She served as the leader of a billion people for fifteen years before her murder. Keran Bedhi was India's top cop before her retirement and is now a social activist for prison reformation and child welfare. This woman single handedly turned around India's largest and toughest prison full of murderers, rapists, child molesters by forcing the incarcerated to do yoga every morning and treating them with a slight bit of dignity. The prison currently has very few incidents of internal violence. Ruchira Gupta, the founder of Apne Aap Women Worldwide, was just honored by the Bill Clinton foundation in 2009 for her work to end sex trafficking of women and children in India and beyond. Here's a woman who was sold into prostitution at a young age, chained and raped every day for a month before she was forced to work as a prostitute for many years, and has gone on to buy her freedom from her brothel madame, found an award winning NGO, make several documentary films on the subject, and continue outreach arcoss the globe.

It is no secret that India is a giant paradox, full of unfathomable injustices. This particular situation struck a chord, considering all I really have to complain about is that my paychecks are (well, were) less than a man would receive for the same job. And I live in a country where if I scream about it loud enough, someone might even listen. Hopefully Shashi's business continues to thrive and lends some inspiration to other Indian women who desperately need it.

at the monkey temple

 

snake charmer

 

sunset over Jaipur

 

Our driver Ali and his auto rickshaw

 

the sari, it's a good look

 

pink city playboy mansion

 

Jaipur Hotel

 

Too Much Magic Bus

Jaipur to Udaipur
April 19, 2010

Our arrival in Udaipur was not as smooth as that to Jaipur. We had booked a wait listed train ticket, thinking we'd get 2 overnight bunks. When the morning of our departure date came around and the train station could not confirm tickets, we got our money back and weighed our options. I hated the thought of missing Udaipur; it's rumored to be magical and we had left it for our last stop in India for that very reason. We could have detoured to Pushkar for a couple of nights, but Pushkar just didn't hold the same appeal to either of us. After a bit of deliberation and consultation with our driver Ali, we decided to take the plunge and buy overnight bus tickets. I'd done sleeper buses in Vietnam and they were not exactly fun but so long as you did not have to pee, they were tolerable. I was not expecting the overnight buses in India to be any better.

Our “super deluxe first class a/c sleeper cabin” bus ticket, as Ali described it to us, cost almost as much as a train ride (surely the agent doubled the price and added on Ali's commission to us), which was annoying. I hate getting ripped off in India, even if it is only for 5 dollars. We visited two travel agents who would not even deal with bus tickets. But for our man Ali, it was all he had to do but snap his fingers and “poof,” magic bus tickets were ours a mere 4 hours before departure time. We boarded the bus and were directed to our “cabin,” which was in an upper row of bunks above the bottom floor of seats (in which we were not allowed to sit, even though they were printed on our ticket). It was like a coffin for two, about the width of a twin bed. The sleeper floor was lined with a carpet which I quickly disinfected (thank you, Lysol, for making travel size cans) though still feared germs and bedbugs and lice. The ceiling was barely high enough to sit up, and we quickly spread our travel sheets down before motion sickness set in. I popped a couple of dramamine and laid down to sleep, which came quickly.

It was a restless drug-induced sleep, especially since the fan died shortly after we left Jaipur, and with the stop and start of the bus, the honk of the horn, and the general feeling that we might topple over at any given turn. Sometime in the middle of the night, I was startled from a dream when I thought we'd had an accident. Either that or aliens were audibly attaching tractor beam holds to the very window I was sleeping next to. Something large and heavy was banging on the outside of the bus, the wall of which my face was pressed against. We were too high up to be colliding with another car, and there was no lane next to us, so I did not know what was happening. Stacy sat up and reached over me to open the curtain. What we saw was beyond comprehension: a giant piece of the bus's roof was literally hanging over the side and banging hard against the window that lined our compartment. I figured my luck had run out, and the piece of steel was going to crash through the window and impale my leg, or cut it off completely. The roofing was hitting hard against the glass, and for some time. No sooner did it fall off, when a second piece came crashing down, this one harder, faster, and larger. We both were terrified and knew this was dangerous situation. I kept having visions of the movie Alive, where a piece of steel crashes through the plane's window and gets stuck in one of the soccer players' calves (he later dies due to gangrene poisoning). My fate was going to be the same, I'd be going home from India an invalid. I held my breath and waited for impact.

Just as Stacy, who was closer to the aisle and a bit more coherent than me, raced up to tell the driver to pull over, the second piece of roofing fell off and that seemed to be the end of it. Relieved and dumbfounded, I fell back to sleep to bad dreams. I don't think Stacy slept much after that. When we arrived in the morning and tried to tell the driver, he could care less. Did not want to hear a word. As we drove off to our hotel, we saw the damage done to the side of the bus. It looked like a giant cheese grater had been raked across the whole right side of the vehicle, and an entire panel of roofing was missing. We were lucky that the luggage rack didn't come crashing down. I hoped no passengers in cars or pedestrians or cows on the road behind us were injured, and was very thankful that we had our limbs intact. New rule: no more bus travel in India.

Airing My Dirty Laundry

Jaipur, India
April 18th, 2010

The state of Rajasthan is the stuff of fantasy. Besides the Taj Mahal, it's what comes to mind when most non-Indians think of India. It is the home of the Mughal Empire, the land of camels and palaces and jewels and color and legend. The men wear all white punjabi suits, don thick mustaches, and wrap 6 feet long turbans in reds and pinks around their heads. The women wear saris of unimaginable colors and special prints, some tribeswomen sport tattoos, large gold nose rings, ankle shackles and other such ornaments. After the mess of Haridwar and a day in Delhi, I was extremely excited to get to Jaipur, the gateway to Rajasthan.

Jaipur is about 4 hours from Delhi and is part of the “Golden Triangle” (Delhi, Agra, Jaipur). Most tourists who only have a short time to visit India tour that circuit. Jaipur is also called the Pink City, because one of its Maharajas painted all the buildings in the old city pink several hundred years ago. (Actually, the color is more terracotta, but who's keeping score?) We booked train tickets in A/C chair class, since we didn't need a sleeper car for such a short ride. New Jersey Transit, take note: we arrived in Jaipur in style. The 6am train was early, but we wanted to get there with as much time to explore as possible. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, service began. First, we were brought pots of tea (that's a hot thermos of water, 2 tea bags, a cup, biscuits, milk, sugar for EACH passenger). Then the morning newspaper, your choice of the Hindi or English version. Following that, a full breakfast was presented. After breakfast, more pots of tea. For all the things India gets wrong, there are some things they just get right. Train travel is one of them.

Our hotel was an old haveli (kind of like a mini palace for a royal family), and we were greeted by giant gold doors surrounded by an entire facade of the building inlaid with colored stones (my guess is glass, but still). The room was marble and stained glass and solid wood bed frames adorned with tiles. The shower was the best I've had since Hong Kong. We had a terrace. There was a pool. The rooftop restaurant provided us with private dancers. We were living like queens, probably in the former residence of one, all for the equivalent of about $40 usd. I was in heaven.

Jaipur immediately struck me as a different India than where I'd been. It somehow seemed cleaner than other cities, and was definitely more regal. It was also a bit more expensive, probably due to the massive amounts of tourists who flood the city. Our driver, Ali, who we happened upon, would be with us for the next three days. He was also part time tour guide, showing us the best place for sunset (Monkey Palace), the best tea vendor (he was unhappy with us for buying from the stall we did), and the best place to buy textiles and jewelry (i.e. the places that gave him commission). He was full of useful information like what palace to hire a tour guide and which one included an unadvertised audio tour with the price of admission. When our wait listed train to Udaipur did not come through with bunks, Ali saved the day with overnight bus tickets. He was great.

Our haveli, while generally inexpensive, wanted to charge us Ritz Carlton prices to do laundry. No way was I paying the same price as my room to wash clothes in India, where it should only cost a couple of bucks. Stacy and I both really needed the service though, so we consulted Ali. “No problem,” he said with a head waggle, and we smuggled our bundles of dirty laundry past the hotel desk and into his rickshaw. Naturally, he knew a spot.

Everywhere else I've been on this trip, I've been charged by the kilo to do laundry. I've had clothes washed in 5 countries and never had an experience quite like this. It was straight out of a movie. We pulled up at the laundry joint, (the open front of somebody's home) and were greeted by what I perceived to be an entire family. Woman, man, naked kids, 12 year old boy, grandma in the back, etc. But this being India, of course the next door neighbors, ice cream cart guy from across the street and random dudes hanging at the cell phone joint a few houses down were thrown in for good measure. They all crowded around. Ali did the negotiating, and I was not quite sure what was going on until my bag was emptied and its entire contents inventoried and inspected, piece by piece, onto the sidewalk. They charge by garment, not weight. Had I known, I'd have written it all down ahead of time. Instead, my driver and an entire block of strangers knows that I have orange underwear. Want to keep that stuff a secret? Don't do laundry in India. Not including the Kumbh Mela, it was the worst invasion of personal space I've experienced thus far. Pick up was just the same, as they overcharged us and had to go through each piece of our clean laundry all over again, but in the dark, it was not half as bad. I know that stuff is par for the course here, everyone being all up in everyone else's business, but I still feel weird that my driver knows the lace content of my bras.