added some new pictures

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ebtracy/collections/72157625498265671/

india is chai

The day starts and ends with chai in India. Sometimes it is strong, sometimes too milky, usually very sweet and always boiling hot. It is served in teeny tiny tea cups, big coffee mugs, shot glasses, or take-away plastic dixie cups. A cup costs about 10 or 15 rupees, about 40 cents. There are tea stalls anywhere and everywhere and chai wallahs are the tea peddlers who wander around with a huge kettle, ready to pour.
 It all starts with a strong loose leaf black tea like Assam...simmer with milk, sugar and spices.

Cardamom
Cinnamon
Ginger
Fennel Seeds
Peppercorn
Cloves

empties

ginger lemon honey

some more pictures

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ebtracy/sets/72157625604737620/

down the hill

guppy in my lappy

I am officially on “travel time” now, and have been for several weeks. I have no clue what day it is, no clue what time it is, but I do know that it is mid-December. And 2010 is almost done-zo. It still gives me a good chuckle anytime a fellow backpack-totin' traveler asks me what day of the week it is, like the Australian at the tout-infested Delhi railway reservation office. He was only trying to fill out the train ticket paperwork but you would have thought he was stuck on question #472 of his final rocket scientist PhD exam. He just needed to know if it was Monday, maybe Thursday, possibly Wednesday? We asked around and came to the conclusion that it was Saturday. We think.

November was bliss in the mountains. Quiet, peaceful, blue skies, a sun that seemed to quickly leap from the ridge of one Himalayan peak, across the narrow valley, to another. Which led to chilly afternoons and a short day. Obviously, the mountain regions of India aren't in their high tourist season in the winter, so most of the shops are closed, which just adds to the solitude, although, it is still India and there is always construction going on somewhere, even in Manali. Incessant pounding of hammers and a steady stream of tractors polluting their way up the potholed roads. A lazy few weeks with hill climbing, some beer drinking, picture taking, puppy saving, space expeditions, tea drinking, dragon slaying, blanket huddling. So many puppies in the mountains now, like I mentioned in my last post. The most special one is Guppy. Rhymes with puppy. He's not a brown fluff ball like the others, blondes gotta look out for each other as we are a dying breed. This little guy was a feeble mess with too many ribs showing when I met him. He just needed a little love and a lap and some baths and some medicine and food and milk and now he is king of the mountain. Was sad to leave him, but he is in very good hands now. In fact, a little old Japanese lady is knitting him a sweater right now.

pahar ganj, delhi

From the mountains back to the belly o' Delhi. So many touts in this city, what with it being so close to Agra (Taj Mahal) and Rajasthan (desert and camels), top tourist destinations. It is hard to walk anywhere without being offered something...madame you need scarf? You need lunch? You need rickshaw? You need hash? You need bag? Come look my shop. Looking for free. Mostly the touts just try to get tourists to buy train/bus/taxi tickets from the overpriced private shops instead of the legitimate agencies. They will say anything to convince gullible travelers to go someplace in particular so that they reap the rewards of commission. Like that the Tourist Reservation office at the train station burned down yesterday, so I MUST go to such-and-such office. But there are honest people still. Like the Indian who did point out that the train ticket office was located upstairs and to the left of the toilets. And lo and behold, I was not surprised to see that the office was fully intact and functional, not a gutted pile of ashy rubble. 

Most budget guesthouses are located in Pahar Ganj, the Delhi backpacker ghetto just across the road from the train station, full of narrow alleys and photo opportunities galore. I was nursing my 4^th chai of the day in a tea stall and chatting with a young boy who had just returned from school and was eager to practice his English with me. His vocabulary and questions were well thought-out and carefully chosen and after talking about where I was from and the size of my country, he decided that “America is like jacket, and India like button.”And he is the first child I have come across in a long time who did not ask me for chocolate or a pen or money. No, none of these things are ok to hand out as it encourages begging. Whatever hippies starting giving kids chocolate and pens back in the day should see what they have done to this country. I could be in the middle-of-nowhere village and the kids will just pour into the street and yell at me for chocolate and school pens. And even when I have chocolate, seriously, I don't just give that out. I NEED it. Almost daily.silly kids.

delhi

Three hour train to Agra. Delayed, took five. The city is pretty rough around the edges, dirty, run down, skeleton dogs running from trash heap to trash heap. But, I have to say, the Taj Mahal is as stunning and luminous in real life as it is in glossy photos and coffee-table books. I queued up before sunrise and was able to explore the mausoleum before the hordes (or herds) of package tourists showed up mid-morning. For those not in the know, the Taj is a memorial built by Emperor Shah Jahan for his wife Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their 14^th child in 1631. I probably took a couple gigabytes worth of photos, but also put the camera away and just sat on a bench off to the side and observed for awhile. The grounds are walled with brick red mosques to each side of the Taj and landscaped gardens flank the long reflection pool that bisects the whole enclosure. There isn't much to the inside of the monument, it is just a small, round room with two marble cenotaphs in the center. Shah Jahan and his wife are actually buried in the basement directly below, but this isn't for viewing. I got my turn on the “princess Diana posing bench” for a couple pictures. Actually I probably got more time on that bench than anyone else that whole day once the Indian men started asking to pose with me. When I allow one picture, the flood gates open and then everyone asks. It's still weird to me. Nothing flattering, just bizarre. Sometimes I say “no” and sometimes when I am walking I will just hear the little click of some dude's camera phone. At least some of them try to be inconspicuous. Anyway, I spent several hours on the grounds, but also spent several hours just walking a huge ½ mile radius around the Taj Mahal for different vantage points. I still can't believe how short of a distance I have to venture anywhere near a tourist spot to completely lose anyone with white skin and a fanny pack. Adventures are made when the crowd is lost. Plus, I was really trying to avoid the guesthouse area at all costs. Frenchmen are persistent. And no, the romantic accent didn't eclipse their friendly, but stalkerish perseverance. Come to think of it, the Indians and their cameras are much more manageable.

Four hour train to Jhansi. Delayed, took six. Or something like that. I must have had a 24 hour bug of sorts because I slept on that train like nobody's business. Mouth was probably gaping open, drool, head bouncing off the window. Slept nearly three hours upright, destination reached, found a guesthouse in Jhansi, took a long nap, no appetite, in bed by 9pm. The next day was much the same, couldn't get enough sleep. Just fatigue, thankfully not the flu. The train from Jhansi to Khajuraho (4 hours) must not be the typical mode of transportation between the two towns, as I was the only tourist. Which means lots of staring for me. I shared the open berth with a family of six- the newspaper reading dad, bossy older sister, cute brother, two toothless grannies, and the disciplinarian mother. It took a couple hours, but finally the ten-year-old girl mustered up enough confidence to talk to me and act as the translator for everyone in a three bench-seat radius. Her English was pretty limited and at first she just asked the questions that everyone else wanted to know. “What is your husband's name?” No husband. That always gets me some quizzical looks and interpretive nods. This is India, where a woman's identity seems only to exist through her closest male counterparts, usually the husband, or in the case of a mate-less girl, her father. So, after I told everyone that I had no husband, they needed to know my father's name. And because of the limited English on board this train, they kept on asking my dad's name. Again and then again a couple minutes later. Then they would giggle and repeat my answer. For awhile it was just a chorus of Hindi-accented “Bills” echoing through the train car. I should have said "William", that could have sounded even more entertaining. There were some more questions like how many siblings, where am I going, where am I from. Sharing of some snacks and then everyone let me know where to get off the train, which would have been impossible without help because I had to exit the train, walk down to a different section, re-board and then we headed back the same way. I am assuming the cars separated at the stop and my “new” train, while it seemed to be going the direction from which we just came, actually went off on different tracks toward Khajuraho. Land of erotic temples. I'll save it for the next post, maybe just pictures will suffice for this place.

Old Manali, India

view from the guesthouse

From Delhi, a 14 hour overnight bus ride north into the Himalayas with the whole back row to myself. I was in the Manali area last spring and the mountains haven't moved. Or maybe they have, it is just that they are so humbling I would never be able to tell. They are still neck breaking steep and a little more snow-dusted than our last meeting. The sun offers plenty or warmth during the day, but with mountains so steep, it starts to fall away at about 330 pm and really doesn't clip the ridge until about 9am or so. There are few tourists this time of year, and most of the shops are closed but the Dragon restaurant is open every day with good food, hot soup, steaming chai, and a fireplace to keep the evenings warm. The village is full of puppies right now- black and chocolate colored fluff balls are running around everywhere. Most of them won't make it through the winter with the nights getting colder, but they are fun to watch, play with and take way too many pictures of.

view from the balcony

diwali 2010

clay diyas

"Diwali is probably the most well-known of all the Indian festivals; it is celebrated throughout India, as well as in Hindu, Sikh and Jain communities around the world in October or November. It is also considered the Hindu New Year and is either a 3-day or 5-day holiday depending on religious background.  The name of the festival comes from the Sanskrit word dipavali, meaning row of lights, thus Diwali is known as the 'festival of lights' because houses, shops and public places are decorated with small earthenware oil lamps called diyas. These lamps, which look like tiny clay saucers, are traditionally fueled by mustard oil and are placed in rows in windows, doors, courtyards, gardens, as well as on roof-tops and outer walls. The lamps are lit to help the goddess Lakshmi (the goddess of wealth) find her way into people's homes.

no, i did not get shot in the head

Diwali is celebrated with traditional sweets, lots of fireworks and the exchanging of gifts.  In north India, Diwali celebrates Rama's homecoming; in Gujarat, the festival honors Lakshmi, and in Bengal, it is associated with the goddess Kali, the Hindu goddess known for her fierceness, destruction and eternal energy. Regardless of the mythological explanation one prefers, what the festival of lights really stands for today is a reaffirmation of hope, a renewed commitment to friendship and goodwill, and a religiously sanctioned celebration of the simple - and not so simple - joys of life."

busy Diwali night in Alwar

I arrived in Delhi November 3rd, with less cultural shock and overwhelming stimulation of the mind and senses than last December's introduction to the Indian subcontinent. My Irish friend, Justin, whom I met last year in Udaipur, is now living and working here in Delhi for his London-based company and I cannot think of anything more welcoming or accommodating than having him, along with his car and driver, pick me up at the airport in the wee hours of the morning last Tuesday after 24 tiring hours of travel. He has a lovely apartment in south Delhi with hardwood floors, huge windows, a guestroom and private bathroom just for me and cold beer in the fridge. He's Irish. There is always beer in the fridge and whiskey on the counter. But what makes him TRULY Irish isn't his insatiable thirst, boisterous accent or Celtic surname, it is his storytelling ability.  I have heard more stories in the past week than I know what to do with and there will probably be a thousand more before I leave sometime this weekend. Most of the stories are interesting, thankfully, even riveting, but I just don't understand how he has the mental capacity to store all of these long-winded anecdotes and hour-long tales.  Good company though, and that is what traveling is all about. He works long hours, but with the Diwali holiday, I tagged along on his brief escape from the city. Manoj, the driver, was heading a few hours south of Delhi to see his family for the holiday, so Justin and I just caught a ride with him and got dropped in dusty Alwar. We found a decent hotel with huge rooms and a lush courtyard and just sat outside and talked, read books, ate paranthas, drank sweet lassis and relaxed. The weather is perfect now, short sleeve shirts by day, cardigan at night.  We walked through town on the evening of the 5th to check out the Diwali celebrations and were met by groups of children all wanting to shake our hands, "Happy Diwali!", over and over, ate traditional sweets, dodged firecrackers exploding on the sides of the road, received a priest's blessing, got lost, walked in a huge circle, eventually found the hotel. Diwali is such an energetic festival with strings of lights decorating the buildings and fireworks going off for hours and hours.

Humayun's tomb, Delhi India

The next day was much more quiet and we hired a taxi to visit a couple of the sights in this very non-touristy area. An old temple, a run-down fort, the grounds of an old palace where a family of ten still lives- the opium smoking grandfather, conservative newlyweds, a couple kids and various other relatives.  Manoj picked us up in the evening and we fought holiday traffic all the way back to Delhi. I've been a little run down the last few days, maybe a bit of a cold and haven't really done much but "hang out". Delhi isn't the most interesting city, but I visited the Lodhi gardens and Humayun's  tomb, just a day after Mr. Obama got his own private tour.  This life of luxury (and free place to stay) must come to an end soon though...I will just have to pick a direction and go.

little friend on the patio

abroad

I love everything about traveling. I love airports, bustling united nations with people everywhere, some running, some sitting, some sleeping, the coming and going. I love airplanes. When I stare at the night sky and see that blinking light making its way through the stars I just want to know where is that plane going? I always want to be on it. People flying to a vacation, business meeting, wedding, reunion, funeral. Who knows. I love flipping through my passport- each stamp a story. Those Cambodian officials, so serious and militant, professional stampers- smiles and welcomes, um, not here. That Laos stamp. Four hours at the Vietnamese border, papers, signatures, currency exchanges, finally walking across some invisible line that means a new country, new people, new language, new money, new customs. To the next bus with my hungover Irish comrades and posse of pasty white Swedes. That Thailand stamp- started with a rickety van in Laos, jump in the back of a truck, quick drive to the river, exit stamp, sprint to the canoe, two minute float across the Mekong, one minute 'til the Thai border shack closes, money flying across the counter, new stamp, just in time for the last van to Chiang Mai. The Singapore stamp. Why do you have wine in your bag? There is no alcohol allowed across the border. It's come all the way from Burma- I didn't know, Thailand and Malaysia didn't seem to care. Ok, just this one time. Hindsight. Tasted like vinegar and should have left it for those Burmese cockroaches at the Golden Guesthouse. India stamp. You are now outside of your comfort zone and there is no better feeling. Overland entry: hello Nepal, I didn't know you were a dust bowl. Airway exit: Holy Buddha, I hope we clear those 8000 meter peaks. Some stamps are fading, the first layer in a building collage of ink and color, dates and ballpoint scribbles, initials, official authorizations. Peru, Ireland, Costa Rica, Amsterdam layovers. Always back to the US. Welcome Home, Miss Tracy... I never left. The world is my home and I have 12 fresh pages newly sewn into my passport-sized, personal story book.

Pokhara, Nepal

Spent the last couple weeks in Pokhara, about 7 hours from Kathmandu by bus. The town is pretty spread out, but the tourist area is like a cute village right on Phewa Lake. There are a million guesthouses and cafes along the main street and the lake is pretty big, surrounded by lush green hills. It took almost a week for the low clouds and haze to clear but when it finally did I was standing on the sidewalk with my mouth open, just gaping at the mountains. Pokhara is the starting point for most treks into the Annapurna range- a range full of 8,000+ meter peaks, some of the tallest mountains in the world. The peaks were gorgeous, snowy and just simply HUGE. They seemed to be more a part of the sky than the earth.

This past week in Pokhara was kind of interesting due to the political unrest that has been plaguing Nepal for a very long time. The Maoists, who are not pleased with the current government, initiated a nation wide strike that basically shut down EVERYTHING. No stores were open, no banks, no ATMs, locals couldn't sell their vegetables, no buses were running anywhere in the whole country, and no one was "allowed" to drive their cars or scooters. Pokhara was a ghost town, it was so peaceful and quiet- for the first time since I have been on this trip I didn't have to worry about traffic, could just walk freely in the streets. Kids were out riding their bikes and playing soccer in the streets since the schools were closed. Locals would just sit in front of their shops, some were gathered around playing guitars and singing. The shops were allowed to open from 6-8pm each night and the tourists would come out in full force for two hours of shopping, eating and organizing their postponed treks. During the day a few shops and restaurants would secretly open, finding food wasn't hard, but it was funny to have to go in and out of the back door. Rented bikes, rode around, lots of reading...Thankfully I had enough cash because the ATMs were closed or running out of money by the end of the week and from 6-8pm each night there would be a long line of tourists trying to get money. There wasn't any violence in Pokhara that I was aware of, the Maoists just wandered around like they were in a parade, wearing tshirts with a red star on the front and they like to carry sticks. There were massive gatherings and demonstrations in Kathmandu and I read in the papers that there was some violence between angry shopkeepers who had opened their businesses and the Maoists- they would vandalize the shops that had defied the strike and some citizens were beat for riding their scooters around. The strike was supposed to be indefinite, but it ended after a week. I don't think there was any agreement reached, which means there will probably be more strikes in the future. Not great for tourism at all. But it is very interesting to see how other governments operate and to see how a political body that is not even in power can have such a major influence on how the country is run. It is sad though because this is a very poor country and when there is no medicine available because there are no buses running to villages, then people die. Children still die of diarrhea in countries like Nepal and there was an outbreak of TB during the strike and no one was able to receive treatment. Anyway, I am back in Kathmandu and all is safe and busy and back to business as usual. Heading to Delhi in a few days and then that is the end of this chapter....

pictures

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=174778&id=652841026&l=49210a8f81

Kathmandu, Nepal

quickie update...retreated from the Indian mountains and headed to Nepal. Had to go through Delhi first and I am beginning to loooooathe that city. Flies during the day, mosquitoes at night and it was already a blistering 105F, can't imagine how hot it will be in the middle of the summer. Overnight train towards the border- I never sleep well on the train, it is just like being in a dorm with no privacy and lots of old man snores and grunts and such. Private taxi to Sonauli, India which is the Nepal border town. Border formalities at this crossing are super lax and quite unorganized. There is just a big arch and a dusty narrow road with a long line of traffic and locals and tourists milling around...exchanged some money, filled out the India exit form at a table under a tarp, walked past a couple of armed military dudes who weren't paying much attention to anything, filled out the Nepal visa and that was about it. It was crowded and hot and a little chaotic, but made it to Nepal and caught a bus to Kathmandu, about 8 hours overnight. Crazy little cramped bus. Kathmandu is like India, but a little less rough around the edges. The smog is amazing though- there are no emissions regulations here, so even though the city is not even close to the size of Bombay or Delhi, the haze is so much worse and I can feel it in my lungs. I read that by the time most of the fuel makes it to the cars it is almost 50% kerosene. yuck. Kathmandu is in a valley, so if you are thinking that I am surrounded by amazing Himalaya peaks, I am not. There are some hills in the area, but they are hardly visible through the smog. Thamel is the tourist district and it is just shops, shops, shops...lots of trekking shops and tour companies, bookstores cramped with more books on mountains and peaks and Everest and K2 than I have ever seen, a million guesthouses, a million handicrafts shops selling yak hair purses, bars, restaurants, street children begging for money, bike rickshaws hogging the narrow streets, and foreigners from every corner of the planet. And I found a sandwich shop. A for real sandwich with ham and yak cheese and vegetables and mayo and MUSTARD on a fresh hoagie roll. and I have happily visited the shop almost everyday since I got here. Went to an amazing outdoor festival in the woods just a couple hours outside of the city and I will never forget the road that we took to get there- one lane, loose, bumpy gravel, a bus that rocked back and forth like a rowboat in a hurricane- I thought we would go over the edge so many times. I mean, seriously- how are two vehicles supposed to pass each other on ONE lane with a sheer drop off into oblivion on one side????? lived to tell the story though. Anyway, Kathmandu is hot and busy and smoggy and a bit of a concrete jungle, so off to Pokhara, about 6 hours by bus to the west and the starting point for all treks in the Annapurna range. No trekking this time around, but I will be back for that soon. Sadly, time is running out...will be back in Denver on May 16th. I am still having an amazing time, I couldn't have asked for a better trip- have been healthy the whole time except for some lower back pain that I am attributing to the hard matresses, crazy bus rides, etc. I gotta get off of the Internet before I lose this entry. Kathmandu has a power problem and the power is cut deliberately for 2 blocks of 6 hours every single day. They even have a weekly schedule posted around that lists the times when the cuts will happen. Thankfully the guesthouse provides candles...

pictures

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=168923&id=652841026&l=55416c8493

Kullu, Manali, Vashisht, India

The blog has fallen to the wayside, but I am back to write a quick update even though it seems a futile effort to really put into words all of the things, people, places, food, language, etc. that I am experiencing every single day. I left the palm trees, Tuborg and hot pink sunsets of Goa a few weeks ago and headed north to Bombay on an overnight bus. Curvy, bumpy, no-real-sleep-allowed overnight bus. Got dumped off in the middle of Mumbai-metropolis, quite delirious, but here in India any crankiness is always subdued with my favorite masala dosa and some proper coffee. Off to Meena's house for a few days...was so excited to see her again because back in December she made me feel as welcome in her flat as she would a long lost family member. I took a 3 hour nap once I got to her place and then naturally the beer drinking commenced. It is so easy to never leave her apartment- if you remember a past entry I wrote about Bombay, EVERYTHING in that city can be delivered right to your door. But I did step out a few times to visit the fancy schmancy mall near Meena's place where there is a small, but adequate supermarket where I was able to replenish my toiletries supply. We sat around, drank beers, ordered delicious food and chit chatted for about 3 days straight, then another goodbye and time to head north a bit further via overnight train. The Rajthani Express- comfy sleeper with AC, snacks, meals, and bathrooms all the way to Delhi, about 15 hours. Obviously on an overnight train there isn't much to see, but heading out was mostly cityscape and 'burbs and then in the morning, following a jaw dropping sunrise, it looked like scrubby prairie with sparse trees, dry land and some dusty hills. I liked Delhi the first time around, kind of. But this time it just looked dirty and sad and too busy for no reason and HOT. Only March and it was literally 100 degrees. I actually had sweat dripping off of my face. Found a fleabag hotel just to use for a few hours to hold bags until a 6pm bus, walked around the center of town, mmmmasala dosa for lunch, an almost nap and then time to heave the massive purple pack again. Off to catch the lovely tourist bus with air conditioning, fresh magazines in hand, and headed toward some real hills- the kind that require my head and neck to stretch all the way to my back in order to take in. I can't remember how many hours it took to get to Kullu, maybe like 12 or something, but I slept rather well and woke up to pink clouds floating above steep walls of Himalayan rock, a deep canyon falling below the road and a gushing river cutting away at the bottom. Stayed in Kullu for a few days with a nice room and balcony over looking the river that runs through town. It is pretty, but it is still India as I have described several times before....there is always trash, there is always litter, there are people defecating out in the open on the banks of the river, there are mangy dogs, there are trash fires burning on the hillsides, there are cows eating the trash, there are ancient trucks and tractors sputtering up the mountain roads in clouds of black smoke and dust. But the people are always smiling and happy and quite chatty considering I was pretty much the only foreigner in town. Lots of staring. I had fun for a few hours one day in an ice cream shop where I was kind of hidden, but right on the busy main street and with my 55-200mm lens, was able to get lots of shots without bringing too much attention to myself. Yeah, and I mean I can't help it if the best spot just happened to be an ice cream shop. Not my fault. From Kullu it was just about a 90 minute local bus ride to Manali, up the valley, quite picturesque and lo and behold there is actually a Holiday Inn in this town. That is in NEW Manali though, where there are tucked-away resorts and lots of touristy shops, and lots of Indian tourists and lots of soft-serve ice cream carts, which I never visited. Old Manali is over the bridge and up a road that is made of karate chopped pavement and watery potholes. Old Manali has more character though, a little quieter and super cheap guesthouses. The view is 360 degrees of pine trees, terraced foothills and sharp mountains still blanketed in snow- I am living in a Bob Ross painting. wish you were here. And what's more to make me and my camera happy? Apple orchards dotting the hillsides- all the cute little apple trees are flowering right now with snow white blossoms and above them hundreds of matching butterflies flitting all around the valley. It is still early in the season for tourists, so many shops are closed and the locals are busy renovating and sprucing up the restaurants, cafes, shawl shops, tea shops, and general stores. One afternoon I met a local woman who is starting a massage business and we spent a few hours drinking tea and revising her choppy-English brochure ideas into some print ready, fancy English. She said I had fancy English and I am very proud. The sun is bright and hot during the day, but it is still a little chilly at night. In fact yesterday it was downright cold. Moved directly across the valley the other day to a small village called Vashisht, just a 20 minute rickshaw ride from Old Manali. This place has even more character than Old Manali- it is a tiny, compact village, but quite busy with a small teak-styled wooden temple right where the road dead ends, some hot springs in the temple that are too hot to soak in and I didn't think it was possible, but the views are even more astounding from this side of the valley. The Himalayas are breathtaking, just pure granite jutting right into the clouds. The view from the balcony is priceless. There have been thunderstorms and rain in the late afternoons and evenings, there are lots of young Israeli tourists here in the mountains, along with herds of sheep in the orchards and a few yaks trudging up the roads. AND today I found a bottle of red wine at just the price I was willing to pay and the longer I keep typing, the longer I am not enjoying this rare luxury. Will post some pictures to facebook tomorrow and will post the link here on the blog so everyone can check them out. ciao.

Goa collage (mardi gras+random shots)

Arambol, Goa, India

Back to the beach in the state of Goa, southern India, where I wouldn't call it "Real" India, but it is a nice getaway from the chaos up north. It is nice to put down roots for a bit of time, no lugging around the big purple bag, deflecting constant stares or having to catch buses, taxis, or rickshaws to some fleabag guesthouse. Just as I reported in December, the pace here is slow, the weather is hot and all of the westerners who flock here are interesting and very accepting. My days start late in the morning with breakfast at one of the local favorites, Double Dutch, if I am craving some eggs and toast, The Bees Knees has the best iced coffee or there is the no-name place in a garden setting that serves up a tasty masala dosa. Napping in the afternoon, reading, listening to music, drinking beer at the beach, and there is always the ritual of watching the sun set every single night, which has been a stunning pink as of late and the new moon rising has been glowing reddish-orange. My birthday was quite memorable this year as it was used as the perfect excuse for a house party with my friend K and a whole lot of lovely people-Faisal and his brother Nas from India, Hazel and Andrew from England, Joy from France, Alex from Germany and her husband Jay, and others...I have met so many amazing people from all over the world, people with so many fascinating stories. The birthday dinner was a TREAT as Andrew is undoubtedly the best cook in town. We ate rice and vegetable curry, fresh sauteed prawns, feta cheese and tomatoes wrapped in sliced plantains, a crab cake without the crab- it was made of beetroot and some other vegetables and it was the best little appetizer I have ever had. We all sat on the floor of the large balcony with a dim light and cushions and feasted...great food, great company but dessert was, of course, the best part. What I love most is hearing other people talking about the places they have been and being able to chime in because I have been there too, like when someone was telling an I-almost-died story from Pisco, Peru, and the story is so much more real because I have been there and had experiences in the same place. But even if it is somewhere I haven't visited yet, it is so fun to listen in when say, John talks about how sick he got from food poisoning in Morocco and then Nas starts laughing and tells a tale from his time spent there as well.
There are markets here each week, the famous Wednesday market and the Saturday night market with shopping and local music and food. There are concerts at venues along the beach and mini jam sessions in the sand every night at sunset. Cheap bamboo huts line the beach along with far more bars and restaurants than are necessary. Cows and dogs stroll along the shoreline (it is still India after all), fishermen rest against their boats after the day's catch of kingfish or shrimp and freshly tanned travelers sit in yoga poses in the sand. It isn't a resort or paradise if that is what you are picturing, though. It is touristy, but not westernized, YET, at least not quite like some of the Thailand beach communities are. The paths leading up to the road from the beach are piled with litter and polluted streams flow into the sea. It is quiet and welcoming, though, and a perfect place to just enjoy "living" abroad, being able to get to know new people and have friends to make memories with. It is satisfying to have nothing to do, nowhere to be, no tv to watch, no newspaper to read- so simple. And of course, I only visit the computer room every once in awhile, which is why the blog entries have been few and far between...i will be back soon...

Delhi, India

My week in Dharamsala was very relaxing. The mountains are absolutely breathtaking, but to be honest, there weren't that many amazing views because there are so many huge mountains blocking the others. I did hike about 9km up to Triund Village one day, which put me on a ridge well above McLeod Ganj, and I was able to see more of the Himalayas. For those of you in Colorado, imagine sitting at the base of Breckenridge or Vail and looking at all the mountains- those would just be the foot hills here, and beyond that are just huge granite walls that form jagged peaks, dusted with a little snow. Very impressive- my few pictures won't even do justice, and unfortunately the peaks were shrouded in some clouds during my hike. The hike just followed a rocky trail covered with dead leaves from last Fall, no wildlife other than a few birds and some monkeys at the lower elevation. I met a young California couple at the top of the pass and had fun chatting all the way back down to McLeod Ganj. They have been traveling since October and it was fun to hear all of their crazy stories and experiences, and of course they told me the one thing that EVERYONE I meet tells me..."Wow, you are the first person we've met who is traveling solo in India." hahahaha, that makes me laugh, it's really no big deal. But then yesterday at dinner I shared a table with an old Indian man who said I was courageous traveling by myself here. So, even the locals think I'm crazy. Anyway, back in McLeod Ganj, I mostly passed the days walking around, taking pictures, little bit of jewlery shopping, visited the Dalai Lama's temple/residence, took a cooking course where I learned how to make Tibetan momos (dumplings), and that's about it. Even though I was at a higher elevation, Dharamsala wasn't nearly as cold as Amritsar, so staying warm wasn't too hard....the days were warm and the nights chilly. The locals said that it has been a mild winter, and that there would normally be snow on the ground in January.
I arrived in Delhi a couple days ago after a 12 hour twisty-turny, overnight bus ride out of the mountains. Delhi is in-your-face. It is a big city, but different from the others I have been to. I didn't get any sleep on the bus ride from Dharamsala, so I was tired and cranky when I finally stepped out of my hotel to explore. I headed to the tourist area and just kept getting pestered over and over and over by Indian guys. It all starts out exactly the same- "How do you like India" and then "Where are you from?" and eventually "let's get coffee and chat." I was so aggravated by it and I just had some things I needed to do and a couple things to buy and some stores to find. I feel bad sometimes, but I am getting to the point where I just have be mean and ignore everyone. Two months of traveling, just as it was last year, is kind of a point where I become increasingly less patient with cultural differences and I try very hard to just go to my happy place when I need to. Like last night at the movie theater my bag got searched more thoroughly than it has at any airport or other major security checkpoint in the world, which is fine because it is for safety reasons, but then the lady dropped my extra camera lens and spilled a bottle of water all over my guidebook. And then as I am waiting in line to get a ticket these guys just step right in front of me. How come I am invisible NOW and not out on the street being bothered all day. The waiting in line thing is hard because back in America it is sooooo not ok to cut in line and no one would ever get away with it, so when it happens here I am kind of dumbfounded. But then I just try to remember that I am in a different country and I politely step back where I was in line. Besides, Vietnam was way worse about queueing and waiting turns, so I shouldn't even complain about India. Delhi is warm enough to just wear a t-shirt during the day and it is busy, busy, busy. There is so much going on, so many shops and stalls and traffic. Hotels here in India are funny because they are such a nice little haven- my friend Lucas posted a picture on his blog last year when he was in India that makes so much sense to me now. It was of the threshold between the hotel front door and the street outside and the huge contrast between the two. When I walk out the door here in Delhi, I feel like a soldier stepping up to the front line. I go from a quiet little tiled lobby to chaos and mayhem and obstacles...first step over the filthy man sleeping on the ground with plastic bags wrapped around his feet for shoes, then dodge the ox pulling a wooden cart stacked a story high with bags of grain, blow off the tout who wants to sell me a package trip to the Taj Mahal, which is 2 hours away, jump over a puddle of urine/water/mud/trash, wait 10 minutes to cross the street that is clogged with a million scooters, rickshaws, bikes and cars, wave to a bus of schoolchildren, wince as a work truck blasts its horn as it pulls up to a rare stoplight, where traffic has actually stopped....Last night on my walk back to the hotel I was waiting on the median to cross a road when a beggar approached me, one arm slung over a crutch and the other stretched out toward me, hand cupped, asking for money. I didn't think much of him as I have seen many beggars in the bigger cities over the last 2 months, but then I looked down at his one leg and noticed that much of his lower calf was gone on the backside. I don't mean like an old, healed-over wound, he had the biggest, open, gaping wound I have ever seen and he was just hobbling around without a care in the world. I couldn't stop looking at it even though it was bad enough to make my stomach churn, I honestly think I saw bone, but I have no idea if that is possible? So far in India I have seen burn victims and many disfigured people with elbows and knees where elbows and knees should not be, but this guy with a bloody chunk of leg missing was hard to take. And he was the first beggar that I decided to give money to.
Anyway, it is time to head back out to the crazy streets and see what I can see. Tomorrow I am taking a vacation--flying down to Goa where the beach is. I was there for about a week in early December, and I wouldn't call it REAL India, but it will be a nice respite from the staring and traffic and cold nights...

new pictures

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=153799&id=652841026&l=bc7f6936e9

McLeod Ganj/Dharamsala, India

Dharamsala sounds like trucks climbing the hills in first gear and a rhythmic, scratchy sweeping as local women tidy the steep alleys with straw-bundled brooms. It sounds like school children singing in the morning just down the stone steps below my guesthouse and packs of dogs barking at night until I fall asleep. It sounds like "namaste" and Indian men asking me to look in their jewelry shop. Hindi, Tibetan and English conversations.
Sometimes it sounds quiet, or of peaceful noises like the constant mantra recording coming from the temple, "Om Mani Padme Om...Om Mani Padme Om.."
It smells like woodsmoke from a hundred cook fires burning in villages across the valley, incense and spices, and of fresh mountain air.
Dharamsala looks like maroon-robed monks, down-clad Westerners, old Tibetan refugees with toothless grins and their hipster grandchildren. It looks like Himalayan mountains, layers of massive, terraced foothills and then sharp, craggy peaks that look like knives rising into the low clouds behind them. It looks like a million prayer flags strung between trees, "Free Tibet" insignia, posters announcing peace, freedom, yoga classes, reiki workshops and cooking courses. It looks like a few beggars, bright sunshine, litter in the gulches, dilapidated buildings and rosy cheeks after the sun sets.
It is welcoming, always an offering of tea. I think it is a place where people come and stay for a long time.

McLeodganj, India (near Dharamsala)

I'm home. It was nice knowing all of you. If you need me, you can find me in the Himalayas.
Love, Emily

Amritsar, India

Two blog days in a row- don't get too use to this, I just wanted to get caught up before I head to the land o' Dalai Lama. I've had a few questions from people asking if communicating has been difficult here, and I just wanted to say that most everyone speaks at least a little bit of English, especially in the touristy towns, so no, there hasn't been much of a language barrier. Sometimes the Indian accent is hard to understand, but with a little body language and the use of hand gestures, I can usually figure out what is being said. Back in Jaisalmer there was an older guy standing outside of his shop and he motioned me over to show me something. His English wasn't great and my Hindi is non-existent, so there was a little trouble understanding what he wanted to show me. He was holding an x-ray up to the sun and kept pointing at it, so I was like, "ohh, did you break a bone?" And I keep looking and trying to get him to tell me what happened, and he starts pointing to the x-ray again laughing. I'm still not getting it, so I look a little more closely, make some comments like "wow, look at those ribs, you really should eat some more sandwiches, hahaha," but not sure if he got any of that. Finally, some of his buddies come over with their mini mugs of chai and point PAST the x-ray, right at the sun, and so I finally figured it out- he handed me the x-ray and I got to see a gorgeous partial eclipse. I think the whole episode of figuring that out took 10 minutes, but it was worth it. And it was so funny because once they realized that I knew they were showing me the eclipse they got all excited and starting clapping. That has happened before and I have to say, I love being applauded for such simples achievements. feels great. Not as great as my new nickname up here in the northern states, though. When anyone up here asks me where I am from and I say "America" they say, "ohhhh Miss America." Obviously, this is not a reference to the pageant for them, but whatever, I'm still Miss America. And I really felt like Miss America the other day in Jodhpur because there was some sort of holiday on Sunday, I have no idea which one, but everyone was dressed up and babies and kids had thick black eyeliner on their lower eyelids and there was a huge parade. The parade looked like any parade back home with horses and decorated floats and people walking down the road playing drums and other instruments, and I was just in a rickshaw trying to get to the bus station when we ended up in the parade for a couple minutes. I wasn't sure if I should start waving or not, but before it got too awkward we made a turn and headed away from the party. So, anyway, now I am in Amritsar, which was a 12 hour overnight bus ride from Bikaner. Got dumped into a strange town at 530am, still dark out and COLD and misty. This is where a little trust has to happen because I have no idea where I am and I have to rely on whoever happens to be offering a ride to take me to some random hotel. There were only a couple old guys with their bicycle rickshaws where the bus stopped, so I just picked one and he safely delivered me to a great hotel called, "Tourist Guest House." Very creative. And, no it really isn't great. I love showing up in a new town in the dark, it is kind of mysterious that way and then after I take a couple hours nap, I get to go explore in some daylight. There are really only 2 things to see in Amritsar. The main sight is the Golden Temple. This temple is considered to be the holiest shrine and most significant place of worship for Sikhs. Go here if you want to learn more about Sikhism, cause I really don't want to write about it... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sikhs
I kind of wish I had a book or guide at the temple because I had NO idea what was going on, I just kind of wandered around and did what I was told. First of all, no shoes. There are kiosks all over where you can leave your shoes safely and claim them later. So, I'm barefoot and start to enter the first open, marble archway leading to the temple area and I have to walk through a pool of warm, shallow water to cleanse the feet. Then I am turned around by a guard because I have to cover my hair. So, I go back to the main entrance and grab one of the orange "loaner" scarves to wrap around my head. The actual golden temple is absolutely beautiful, but so is the whole marble structure around it, with several clock towers. I could tell right away this was a very holy place and Sikhs were very serious about being there. I have run into lots of tourists who visited the temple, but yesterday I was the only foreigner I saw- which got me lots of stares and some people even kind of laughed at me. I just observed for awhile, watched everyone kneel at the entrance, say prayers. Then I walked around the man-made lake toward the walkway that leads to the temple, which is in the middle of the water. I had to wait in a long line to get in, and this is where some people were laughing at me, probably because it is obvious I am not a Sikh and I happened to be the only white person in line. But I tell you what, there is no way I am just going to LOOK at the side of a golden temple, I have to go in and check it all out. Inside was small, there was a roped off area where people tossed some money and it looked like everyone was paying respect to a really fancy carpet, but I later found out there was a small casket under the blanket-carpet thing that holds the Sikh guru Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji. Everyone had these little dried leaves in their hands as some kind of offering, but I never saw what they did with them. Worst part of the temple- NO photography inside. It almost killed me. There were some holy men sitting in the corners with their turbans, there were boys shining the silver doors at the staircases and there were 2 more levels that looked down on the first level with the casket. Some worshipers were crying and on the first floor there were 4 men playing instruments and saying sing-song type prayers and chants, which is heard over loud speakers throughout the whole area outside. I hung around for a bit and then exited down the long walkway across the water where a guy with a big bowl stood at the end. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but as I walked past he motioned me to come back and then scooped a brown ball of mush into my hands. Back to the whole language barrier thing- sometimes when I don't know what to do and can't ask, I just wait to see what everyone else is doing. And everyone else was eating the brown mush ball. I figured it couldn't kill me, so I ate it and it tasted like sweet cream of wheat. Actually, it was so tasty I wondered if he would give me a whole bowl for lunch, but decided that might not be appropriate behavior. I did a little more walking around, posed with some people who wanted my picture and then that was about it. Gorgeous temple, though. I really had fun just people-watching. The other thing to do in Amritsar is go watch the closing ceremony/changing of guards at the India-Pakistan border. It is basically a face off between soldiers on each side who strut their stuff in their funny uniforms and red mohawk hats with lots of cheering from the India side. There are stands on each side of the border gate where people sit and cheer, one section was just for foreigners, although there weren't too many of us. The soldiers march toward the gate, the flags are lowered, there are more things yelled in Hindi and the Indian crowd was chanting "Hindustan" and cheering. Pakistan, on the other hand, needs a new cheer leading coach. There were only a handful of people on their side, only one flag being waved, and no one was really cheering. Anyway, it ends when a huge bus travels from the India side, through the gate and over to Pakistan. This is the Delhi-Lahore bus and kind of signifies unity between the countries even though there has always been some tension. It all lasted about 40 minutes and was actually very interesting to attend. I don't know why, but for some reason after the event I couldn't get through the crowd without every other group of young guys asking me to be in a group picture. Maybe it was because most participants here are Indian tourists and came from a place where there aren't many tourists or blondes? I wasn't in the mood and sometimes it just feels weird to be in strangers' photos, so Miss America declined all photo requests today. Ok, I think that is about all from Amritsar. Headed to Dharamsala tomorrow....