Biker Chicks

I survived the bike ride. I completed the bike ride. I enjoyed 15% of the bike ride. Details? The ride was classified as "easy". I can enjoy an easy ride. No problem, right? I learned after we began that my definition of easy is not the same as the one used by the bike company. Uh-oh.

The first omen was the nature of the group. There was a 40-ish American couple, young, fit Dutch, German, Australian, and Spanish couples, and us. I had really hoped we'd have a pair of 70-year-old little ladies with us, but we were as close as it got. We had a good 15 years on the rest of the group.

We started out riding on old blacktop. Not perfect, but ok. It got a little gravely and a bit broken-up in areas, but I hung in there. Then Darma, our leader, told us we would be riding for a while on a path in the rice fields, and that we should be careful not to lose our balance. He said the entrance to the path was steep, and we needed to be sure to use both brakes. The van couldn't follow us there. I asked if we would come back the same way, plotting to sit out that part of the ride. "Oh, no, we will not return here," said Darma. "Oh, shit," I thought. I walked my bike down the steep part of the path and joined the group at the bottom as Darma explained the rice irrigation system. I didn't hear a word he said, as I began to silently panic. Do you remember the scene in The Godfather, right before Michael shoots Sollozzo and McCluskey in the Italian restaurant? I'm pretty sure that I was feeling the same way Michael felt at that moment.

I know that this would not be a moment for panic for most of you. But I had just spent several hours walking these type of paths on the bird walk yesterday, and the paths are bumpy, narrow, and have deeply sloping sides with a 2-foot deep water trench on at least one side. I was a little edgy WALKING some of these paths yesterday, and I was scared. I an NOT a great bike-rider. I like to peddle around town or a campground. Nothing hard. When I ride a bike I can easily imagine doing the absolutely wrong thing. At this point, I was certain that things would soon go badly.

Time to ride. I politely let everyone go before me except the poor kid working for the tour company who had the woeful task of following the last biker (me). What a sport. I gamely rode where there was a little width and flatness, but ended up walking the bike through much of the rice paddy. I think my follower was secretly please that I walked, reducing the likelihood that he'd have to haul my sorry ass out of an irrigation ditch.

I caught up with the group and was relieved to get back on a road again. Fortunately, the ride was downhill. I kept up with the pack through the smooth areas, but lagged when the terrain got too rough for me. The last part was smooth and clear of traffic, and I actually enjoyed myself (a little), but panic and tension were the overall emotions of the day. Gail enjoyed the ride, being competent and all. She was very sweet, though, complaining about the riding conditions even though they were really no problem for her at all. Now that's a friend!

The non-riding part of the tour was great. Darma explained Balinese culture, and took us to two different family compounds to see how villagers live. He shared his own life story with us. He grew up in a village only 7 kilometers from Ubud, but didn't visit it until he wad 14 because his family had no transportation. The village had no electricity until 1984. Unbelievable. At the age of 14 he moved to Java to get a high school education. He worked as a servant for 5 years until he graduated. The man who employed him wouldn't let him visit his family at all during those years. It's hard to imagine a child valuing education enough to go through such hardship. He worked in hotels to put himself through college. As the youngest son in his family, it is his responsibility to take care of his parents in their old age. This led to conflicts between his wife and his mother, so he sent his wife to college to become a teacher to give her more independence. What a nice guy. And a good tour guide too.

Sacred Kingfishers and White-breasted Waterhens

Birding was terrific! Gail is an old pro, but I'm clueless. My only other bird-watching experience consisted of roasting in a Costa Rica parking lot without binoculars while people around me exclaimed at the beautiful birds they saw. Not much fun. Today was LOTS of fun!

We met Sumadi, our guide, at 9 am outside a small warang (cafe). She gave us binoculars, water and a list of birds we might see here in Ubud. Then she lit a stick of incense and laid out several little offerings before we set out. She has an amazing eye and immediately began pointing out birds and butterflies to us. She also seemed to know every plant we passed and gave us a basic lesson in traditional medicines.

She led us across the main street in town, up a hill, and into the rice paddies. We walked on narrow, hard-packed dirt and concrete trails that followed the irrigation canals. This is a world we never saw from a bus window. There were farmers, teenagers on scooters, small shops and restaurants, women selling fruit, and temples along the narrow footpath. We were surprised to even see rental homes and small tourist hotels back there. How on earth do people find their way to these places?

Su explained that a public board controls the water supply, and that one of its main missions was to make sure that farmers at the lowest elevations received all the water they required for their crops. Strange scarecrows and tiny shrines were scattered throughout the fields. One of the other people in our group asked if one of the structures was spiritual, and Su chuckled and said, "In Bali, everything is spiritual and practical at the same time."

Of course we saw birds, 23 different species, and about 15 kinds of butterflies, too. Su is a great tour leader and made sure even those of us who were incompetent (me) saw everything. About 2 hours into our walk, she took us to a tiny lean-to/shop to rest a bit. We had fresh coconut water, tapioca chips, rice chips, and special Bali Jimmy Carter peanuts. Afterward, we made our way back to town, with lessons all along the way. We shared a Balinese lunch and discussed what we had seen on our walk. Su also shared some of the experiences she had traveling in the US. Nice lady. Beautiful birds. Great morning.

Who Buys this Crap?

I want to know WHO buys hand-carved penis-shaped accessories. Really. Who? I'm pretty sure it isn't women tourists. And I can't picture any guys I know picking up a penis bottle-opener and saying, "This is nice. I can use one of these." Gay tourists? Are there that many of them? The wood-carvers and souvenir stands have a LOT of these things. Today I saw a display of 5-packs of penis key rings. You'd need bus-loads of people buying these to make a dent in the local supply. I guess this isn't an important question, but I can't help wondering. If you know the answer, please leave a comment to let the rest of us know.

The non-penis carving part of the trip is going very well. Yesterday, we visited the Hoffman batik factory that produces a lot of the stuff sold in the US. I will never complain about the high price of fabric again. This stuff is all hand made. Men hand-dyed the fabric, then laid it out in open, grassy fields, scrunched it and added soda powder to impact the dye, and let it dry. This process is repeated several times to achieve the right combination of colors. Then another worker takes a large, stencil-like object called a chop, dips it in melted wax, and presses it on the 15-yard piece of fabric repeatedly, never making a mistake. The cloth is dyed again, waxed again, dyed again until the desired product is obtained. It's boiled, checked for flaws, and only then is is shipped to California for packaging. These workers are independent contractors, and don't get paid until the company checks and approves of the quality of the work. This is truly amazing to me. Ask me sometime to see these fabrics when you're over. They are way cool.

Today we visited one of the most famous temples in Bali, the Tanah Lot Temple. It was build about 400 years ago on tall rocks on the west coast of the island by a Hindu priest. Holy black and white poisonous water snakes swim around the base at high tide, protecting the temple. For a few rupiah we could have taken a close-up photo of one of these holy snakes, but didn't bother. Instead, we walked for free on the holy sand, took pictures of the holy rocks, then shopped at the holy shops for holy crap. Quite successfully, I might add.

Tomorrow is our bird-watching day. We meet the group in the morning and will finish up early in the afternoon. That night, we will see a Balinese dance program. A full report will follow.

Power Shopping

We spent only one night on Bali's North coast. The area was beautiful, with black sand beaches and a fantastic sunset over the Java Sea. We left in the morning and drove across the mountains with a brief stop at a spice market. The merchants were especially ready to bargain since those tour buses don't hang around too long. They were a hoot, giving us those lines that made us want to spend our cash, like, "Special morning price", "this one special for you", "you want this one". Supy warned us not to pay more that a third of the asking price, and we took his advice to heart. Roger, your new shirt's asking price was 250,000 rupiah, and I paid 50,000. That's about five bucks. worth every penny, I'm sure. Aren't you proud of me?

Now we are in Ubud, and we have a lot going on. This afternoon, we took a short walk from the hotel to get the lay of the land. Bargains grabbed our attention and a new line, "This one perfect for you" worked on Gail. Hey, so she bought two sarongs today. She lives at the beach. She NEEDS sarongs. The cute little lady then tried to short-change me 10,000 rupiah, but I caught her. We shared a friendly laugh afterward. These people are adorably sweet. Even when they try to cheat you.

We are in an incredible hotel perched over rice fields- the setting is breathtaking. The room is beyond plush. It makes other places I've stayed look like the Yorba (not that there's anything wrong with that). If ONLY I could share my photos with you! Curses! In addition to being lovely and cushy, this place offers interesting activities. One that caught our eye was Balinese dance and dress class. That will be a real photo op! Tomorrow we head to a traditional village to learn about their method of weaving. The day after that, we visit a big batik manufacturer that exports to the US. Busy, busy. I hope we have time to lay around this hotel!

We have spent a lot of time in a bus on this trip and have made every effort to do outdoorsy activities whenever we have the chance. A couple opportunities are located right here in Ubud. The first is a birding hike, led by a well-known bird guy. Gail is an avid birder, so she knows this stuff. The second activity is a bike ride down the side of a volcano. Now this trip sounds like a lot of fun, BUT, I am quite a cowardly biker. Gail, on the other hand, bikes long distances on a regular basis. So, I do have a few concerns before we begin. Can I do this? The flyer says it's good for all ages, but is it REALLY? It's downhill, but what if it's too steep? What if I fall? If I fall and start crying like a four-year-old with a skinned knee, I'll be REALLY embarrassed. Ahhhh, what to do? There's only one way to proceed, I know. Say "Why not?" and go for it. I still have a few days to chicken out. Let's hope I don't!

Massaging the Rooster

Bali

Now that we've joined our tour group, we are spending more time than we like on a bus. As we drive around the island, our guide, Supy, gives a running commentary about all things Bali. Some of the things he's told us sound a little strange. We've checked a few of his facts using Lonely Planet, our only available resource, and what he says pretty much checks out.

Supy told us quite a bit about local ceremonies and customs, including the tooth-filing ceremony. This is a coming-of-age rite where the local priest files off the points of a kid's canine teeth. This happens when girls are about 11 or 12, and for boys about the time their voices change. Why? Those pointy teeth look evil, like a wild animal or demon.

Men here have great interest in gambling on cock fights. Supy said that men have real affection for their roosters, and that they "massage their rooster" three times a day. Hmmmmmm... Massage the rooster= choke the chicken? I didn't feel that I knew him well enough to ask, so I can't say for sure, but it sounds pretty suspicious, you have to admit.

On our ride today to the north of Bali, Supy bought a durian fruit for us to try. The durian is supposedly a metaphor for Asia, stinky on the outside, but still sweet inside. I can vouch for the stink. Unfortunately, it tastes exactly like it smells.

That said, we've done some interesting things. We had an opportunity to make our own batik fabric. It was a humbling experience. Our best efforts put us in the "slow" group. The women who do this for a living are incredible, but, alas, we are not. We also visited a fine art batik place where the fabrics should be framed, they are simply amazing. We chose not to spend our money there since the fabrics were way out of our league. We did go on a batik-buying frenzy at the Denpasar discount fabric shops. Stuff there is about $2.25 a meter. At home, comparable fabric is close to $10.00 a yard. Exhausting!!! Exciting!!!!!

The tour has made a few stops that bored us silly. High-end silver jewelry and pearls are beautiful, but we weren't interested. We're hoping that there aren't too many more stops like those. We've been with the group for a few days. So far, we haven't gotten into trouble because Gail's friend John gave her a fine bit of advice, "Be a sheep" when on a tour. Baaaaaaa. It works. We're not the troublemakers.

We are staying at beautiful, high-end resorts. Because of that, we have not been around the "real" Bali quite so much. Tomorrow we head to Ubud, the cultural center of the country. Although we'll still be staying on plush ground, there will be a lot of opportunities to spend time walking around town and doing things on our own. I'll fill you in on what we find. Can't wait!

We're here!!! We arrived Monday at midnight. Our entry to the country was ,the easiest EVER, and that includes entering Detroit via the Ambassador Bridge from Windsor. In less than an hour, we obtained our visas, hit the ATM, got our bags, went through immigration and customs, took a taxi to our hotel, and were lounging on our clean, comfortable beds with 2 pillows each( a luxury we rarely had in India).
Breakfast buffet is included in the price of our room, and it was dandy. There was an egg station, fruit, grilled tomatoes, meats, and pasta(?). Like India, they also serve baked beans. Hmmmmmm.... We skipped that, but I did see another tourist eating them, spread on toast. I guess we all need our complex carbs, one way or another.

We picked up a handful of tourist brochures at the airport. Prices look pretty amazing. One tour offers a two-hour spa treatment, transportation, fire dance at a temple, and seaside grilled fish meal for about $35.00 US. You can rent a private AC car and English-speaking driver for about $40.00 US per day. There's plenty to think about and I'm pretty sure whatever we want to do will fit out budget. But today, we have one thing to do: walk on the beach. Something tells me that we'll accomplish that with NO problem.

Mission accomplished yesterday...beach walking was a success. Today was more ambitious and quite amazing. We took a Balinese cooking class, and it was fantastic. We began at 6:20 am at the market in Jimbaran. Our teacher, Heinz, shared a wealth of information with us, including an easy technique for hypnotizing a chicken. Did you know that you can predict what color egg a chicken will lay by looking at the color of her ears? We didn't know for sure that a chicken even HAD ears. And that was just the beginning.

We tasted exotic vegetables and fruits, and had some fresh spices that we had only had a dried powders before. Heinz is Swiss and studied French cooking as a young man. He has worked as a chef in Europe, Australia, and Singapore before coming to Bali over 20 years ago. He said he fell for Balinese food and women, and stuck around, learning local culture as well as the local food. We learned about everyday life in a typical home, then cooked and ate all day. Wait until you see what we can do with a little corn, coconut, sugar, and salt. It is beyond delicious. Sadly, we both now have a real taste for coconut cream. There are worse addictions.

Hinduism is the religion of 90% of the people here, and their temples are everywhere. Curiously enough, many of the statues at these temples are draped in black and white checked fabric. Heinz explained that the cloth represents karma. The white is perfection, the black stands for evil, and the gray is the every-day world where we live our lives.

People leave offerings everywhere. They are at the shrines and temples, but are also on the streets, in doorways, in front of gas stations, and perched on fences. They typically consist of small folded palm leaf baskets holding flowers, food, leaves, and even the occasional cigarette. They are finished off with a stick of burning incense so the smoke can carry the prayers up to the gods.

The trip so far has been terrific. We'll let you know how things continue after we meet up with the tour group. Gail and I both have plenty of experience traveling independently. Not so much with a group. I like to think that we can adapt. We'll see!

Linda goes to Bali

Tomorrow morning I head off to Bali without my trusted travel and life partner, Roger. I'm going on a batik fabric tour with a group of quilters, including my former roommate and good friend Gail. We told Roger that he could come with us, but he opted out, planning instead to stay home to eat pizza, throw peanut shells on our carpeting, and stay up REALLY late. So, we'll BOTH have a good time

I anticipate that this trip will be very different from our Indian travels. First of all, we're going on a planned, packaged tour. We're staying in very nice hotels, and the travel, meals, and much of our sight-seeing is all arranged for us. That reduces the likelihood of difficulties (adventures). I'll be stunned if we stay in any hotels that involve goats, questionable sanitary practices, or cold-water showers. Our travel group consists of American quilters, so I don't expect much confusion with language or our cultural differences.

That being said, I still hope to have adventures and experiences that are worth writing about. We have lots of free time built into the tour, and we've looked into trekking, biking, snorkeling, absorbing local culture and, of course, interacting with the local monkeys. Rumor has it that some American women of a certain age travel to Bali for the express purpose of hooking up with young Australian men. Not us. We didn't even KNOW about the Australian guy thing when we booked this trip. We're going for the batik fabric. Now, THAT'S sexy.

So we start tomorrow. A 14 hour flight to Seoul, 3 hour layover, the a 7 hour flight to Denpasar, Bali. Let the adventure begin!

End of the Road

See our endgame album at
https://picasaweb.google.com/rmahanic/LastLooksAtIndia?authkey=Gv1sRgCNSJ4Oad2PruTA&feat=email#

We’ve got a day to chill out in Varanasi before our flight home tomorrow—another 32 hour plane ride, door-to door.  Or from hovel to home, if you will.

It would be redundant to exalt the amazing things we have seen, the people we have met and the adventures we have had.  If you’ve been following the BLOG, you know all that. 

We finish, then with a tale of yesterday’s sleazy night train from Katni to Varansi. It points out the more sober side of East vs. West, and why, after two months of Indian immersion, it is time to come homeWe boarded our last night train enroute to Varanasi. It was mid-trip and had already traveled 18 hours from Mumbai. The seats in our com partment were covered in rumpled sheets and blankets and two middle-aged men. They briefly looked up, grunted, and ignored us as we gingerly shoved aside their bedding and tried to find room for our badckpacks under the seats and room on the seats for ourselves.

Now so far, we've had great companions on these overnight trains, both Indians and traveling westerners. People have been friendly and charming, or at least quiet. Not these guys. The man on Roger's seat made a series of loud cell phone calls as he lounges on a pillow with his feet on the seat. Roger and another man squeezed into the remaining room on the seat. Linda's seat mate sat there playing with his dirty feet while listening to his radio, swithching between Indian music and something that appeared to be a Hindi soap opera. He talked on his cell, ate potato chips, and burped repeatedly and loudly, alal Homer Simpson. We gave each other those "What the hell!" looks and tries not to grumble or giggle.

This compartment is AC3, which has bench seats that fold into 3 bunks on each side of a very small aisle. Linda's  buddy decided to go to sleep at 8:00, and folded down the seat, making it impossible for anyone to sit on that side of the compartment. Linda crowded in with Roger, then the jackass turned off the lights in the compartment. Our new mantra became "Last train trip, last train trip..." Meanwhile, the guy from Roger's bench avoided our crowded conditions by going across the aisle and waking up a woman sleeping there so he could squat on the end of her bed and slurp greasy rice thali through his fingers. Charming.

We all gave up about 9:00, and took sleeping pills, hoping for a decent night's sleep before our 6:00 am arrival in Varanasi. We dozed off. So far, so good. 1:30 am, our pal makes a loud phone call, eats a bag of exceptionally crunchy chips, and lets loose with a couple of belches that nearly derail the train. We don't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of it all, or cry in frustration, so we rolled over and tried hard to go to our special place, where an obnoxious stranger can never bother us again. Yep, we're still in India.

Hindu Porn at Khajuraho

See our Kharjuraho Porn album at
Khajjurahu Hindu Porn Album#

Our latest journey after the madness of Varanasi was a 12-hour night train to the famous pornographic temple complex at Khajuraho.  We shared a tuk-tuk from our hotel to the railway station with Paul from Holland, one of our color posse from the Holi celebration.  We found ourselves on the same train, the same car, and the same sleeper compartment.  This would have been impossible to arrange, but like so much of Indian travel things just work out that way.  We soon found ourselves in the company of two young Swedish girls and four or five young Indian guys returning home to Khajuraho.  We have been lucky to attract interesting company wherever we go.  It might have been young Lina and Marriella, though.

The temple complex at Khajuraho was built in the mid tenth century and it contains some of the most bizarre erotic sculpture you can imagine.  Hinduism encompasses the totality of the human condition, and it intertwines the spiritual and the sensual in a way that is hard for our western minds to grasp.  Imagine, if you will, that St. Peters Cathedral in Rome was designed by Larry Flynt and Jerry Falwell.  There.  You got it.

Besides goofing around the porno temples in a most irreverent way, the real fun of Khajaraho was hanging with our new buds and being adopted by one of the Indian guys from the night train —our new best Indian friend Sheshi.  He called to us on the outskirts of town in the late afternoon from his rooftop and invited us in for chai.  As it turned out, the house was full of neighborhood women and kids who were there celebrating a ritual performed on young girls 1 ½ years, where they shave the child’s head and celebrate with singing and dancing.   Sheshi’s family was incredibly gracious, and they invited each of the three women in turn to dance in the courtyard among the colorful saris to the rhythm of the drum and singing and laughing of the neighborhood women.  Linda threw down a few Motown moves.  The crowd loved it.

They invited us to dinner last night (Paul having moved on to Agra by night train), and we had a terrific Indian home experience.  The girls moved on by bus this morning to Agra, and we are chilling out all day with nothing to do but putz around with the BLOG, catch up on our email, and at least ponder some of the contortions depicted on the temple sculptures.

We’ve hired a car tomorrow for the six-hour trip to our last destination—Bandhavgarh National Park, where our chances of seeing a tiger on safari are GUARANTEED, sir!

Home in less than a week!

For Quilters Only...

See Quilting album at

Quilting

For my quilting friends

Throughout this trip, I have been on the lookout for quilts, fabrics, ideas, and inspiration. The colors combinations have been astounding. Complementary color combinations are really common; red/green, blue/orange. Another really common color trend that I see is using a very bright, vibrant color and pairing it with a duller shade, for example, a bright chartreuse green with a dull rust. Some of these combinations are really stunning. I can absolutely see where Jinny Beyer got the inspiration for her color palette. The colors are very dense, deep, and saturated. You see very few pastels.

Fabrics have been a little disappointing, actually, mainly because I want quality cottons. The sari fabrics are fantastic colors, but are chiffons, silk, and blends. As beautiful as the color combinations are, I wouldn't use these fabrics. The cottons don't have the color vibrancy of the saris, and high-quality cottons are rare. Maybe the good stuff has been exported, hard to say. I have found very nice fabrics that have been block- printed by hand, so I do have a small Indian stash now. We're at the end of our trip, now, so I'm not too hopeful about finding anything else that calls to me.

 The stone carving, and to a lesser extent, floor mosaics, have amazing designs that can be used as blocks, borders, appliqué, and quilting designs. Check out the photo album. I'll probably try playing with some of these ideas to see if I can translate a few to fabric. Some are beautiful and very complicated, but a lot of these are doable. Let's think about a quilting retreat after I get home....I'm ready!

Varanasi...Holi Shit!!

See our pictures of Holi at
Holi
See our other pictures of Varanasi 
Varanasi#

A bit of a low point with the crowds and heat and filth of Agra...then BANG! Varanasi and we are back on track.

Varanasi was everything everyone claimed, and more. We saw and did a lot there in just a few days, but a couple of experiences were exceptional. The main event was Holi, a Hindu festival celebrating rebirth in spring. The big activity is spraying colored water on one another, sort of a country-wide squirt gun fight that can ruin your clothes.

Our preparation for Holi began the day before. Jemma, Linda, Roger, LLoyd, and Laurent ( yes, more new bffs ) hit the shops. The boys wanted to wear white shirts, better to show the colors. We found ourselves in a tiny shop in a twisted back alley of the old town. Shrewd bargains were made, and cheap white shirts were in our possession. In a brilliant, never-used-before shopping strategy, Roger, tried on a white dhoti (blousy, trouser- type garment). As he slipped the pants on over his clothes, he said, "Did someone shit in these pants!? Look at this!!" Indeed, the dhoti was less than pristine, with something resembling crap inside. A puzzled Roger then added, "Oh, it's cow shit, and it's from my shoes." Indeed, his sandals were coated with a fresh layer. "I'm sorry, but I still can't buy these, they don't fit." said Rog apologetically. The shop owner replied, "I can't sell them now, you take them for free. Happy Holi." A Holi miracle, if you wish. Next time you go shopping, remember the cow-shit trick. I don't know if Khol's will fall for it, but it's worth a shot.

We met at the rooftop restaurant on Holi morning to prepare for the big event. The hotel warned us not to go out at all, it's not safe for foreigners, no women should go, the people are drunk, we are worried for your safety, blah, blah, blah. Linda and Jemma were still on the fence about going, since they are girls and have common sense. A National Geographic crew was at our hotel  and was going out to document Holi.  Ursula, their Slovenian tour director, reassured the girls, who decided to venture out. Kevin and Paul joined our posse. We mixed our colored powders with water, filled our bottles and totally crappy, useless new squirt guns, took our "before" pictures, and set off.

We went to the ghats (open, river-side stepped terraces) rather that the streets, knowing that we could at least find our way back to the hotel when necessary. Water balloons started splatting, and we thought, "Fun!" We walked toward the main ghat, where there was more action. There was also "police protection" (ha!) there, too. At that time, naive as we were, we didn't know the police were drinking and/or sleeping on duty. The color throwing began in earnest, and we were doused. The pre-pubescent boys were the worst (aren't they always?), grabbing our guns, arms, and breasts, and rubbing color on our faces. Linda and Jemma decide 5 minutes is PLENTY of fun-time, and the gallant men walked the girls back home, assuring their safety. Thanks, fellas!

The guys' adventures continued. When they returned to the hotel, other groups were returning as well, and there was great camaraderie among the Holi participants. Grins all around. Since a picture speaks 1000 words, we'll let the photos tell that part of the story. Roger ran into several people the next day who remembered him as the man wearing a kota with no pants. Oh that Roger....

That same evening our group took a sunset boat ride on the Ganges to the burning ghat. This is the place where bodies are cremated on the riverbank. People travel from all parts of India to die in Varanasi because they believe that dying here frees them from the karma cycle of rebirth, and so they attain Nirvana. Only a few categories of people are NOT cremated; children, pregnant women, and saddhus (holy men) because they are pure, lepers, because they have suffered, and cobra-bite victims because they might awaken from a coma-like state.

Families raise the money for the wood for the fire, and some shave their heads as a sign of mourning. The family carries the body to the river for a ceremonial washing, then places it on the wood pyre and douses it with ghee, clarified butter. A man lights a handful of long grasses from the eternal fire. This fire has been continually burning since before written records were kept here, over 5000 years. The man with the burning grasses walks around the body five times to release the soul from the five earthly elements; water, air, earth, fire, and ether (soul). Then he lights the fire, which burns about three hours. The family watches and drinks chai. We saw five fires burning at a time, and this is done 24/7, every single day.

 Watching this at night was a soul-gripping experience. Our boatman was ready to return us to our ghat, so we reluctantly left. We decided, though, that we needed to return, so we walked back. On the way, we crossed a "river of shit" (our pet name), where the open sewer runs across the ghat and over the steps to the river. Following Paul, Linda cleverly stepped right into a deep spot. Bottled water helped to temporarily remedy the situation, Linda stopped gagging, and we continued on. We then passed a puja (worship ceremony) to Shiva, with drums, bells, incense, fire, and costumed dancers. Of course, we had to stop to watch. Those drums and bells are hypnotic, and we stayed a while. Arriving back on the burning ghat, we just stood, observed, and tried to take it all in. Its not an easy thing to do, with our Western minds and habits. A woman we met at our hotel had said, after three months of Indian travel, you have to open your heart to begin to understand India, it can't be comprehended just with the mind. Amen.

So, a brief summary of this amazing day: colored water fight, minor assault on the women, laughing until our faces hurt, boat ride, death, music, worship, stepping in crap.Yes, we're in India alright!

R and L Share Hotel with Goat

Jaipur Album

Jaipur

Ranthambore Album

Ranthambore

Agra Album

Agra

Shanti Lodge, Agra

Hard traveling.  We may have hit a paradigm shift in our travel standards.  We checked into a hotel in Agra last night (recommended by a fellow-traveler) and decided to improve our position by moving to a better hotel across the street this morning at 6:00 am.  We had to step over a goat up tied up at our hotel’s alley entrance, and we barely noticed.    And as Roger observed, “There may be goat tethered at the doorway, but we can still see the Taj Mahal out the window from our bed.”  Words to live by.

Since our last BLOG update we visited Jaipur. The morning we arrived, Roger was out scouting the neighborhood while Linda slept off an overnight train hangover. He heard an unexpected, “ROGER!”, and spun around to see a couple we had met back in Cochin, last month. At this point, they were our oldest friends in India, so we had a great time hanging out with them. We had a few adventures (monkey temple, parade dancing, and palaces), then had our big splurge to the Tiger Den Resort at Ranthambore National Park.  It may have ruined us for the rest of India.  Clean sheets, functioning electricity, beautifully manicured grounds, swimming pool. Not only did they provide towels, BUT THEY BROUGHT US FRESH ONES TWICE A DAY! Cleanliness was never so exciting.

We did a couple of wildlife safaris and were lucky to see a leopard on one and a tiger on another.  While it was thrilling to see a tiger in the wild (a rather indistinct view of the cat taking a stroll some distance away), the real thrill was the convergence of jeeps jockeying for position to show their guests the best view—a wild ride with shouting and cursing and fender benders.  More exciting than the tiger sighting, to be honest.

Now we’re in Agra-- visited the Taj Mahal this morning, Agra Fort tomorrow, and then a night train to Varanasi for the holi celebration. We are excited, but are getting weary. India has been at this for a lot longer than we have, and it is winning the battle. People crowding into our personal space is less charming that it was a month ago. For crying out loud, stop touching me!! Sheesh!!

Still an incredible adventure, but the grit is getting to us.  And the noise.  And the fights with the tuk-tuk drivers.  We have seen so many incredible things, but consider:  is there a limit to how many women you can see carrying loads of cow shit from the fields balanced on their heads before it loses its charm?  There is!

On to Varanasi!

R and L Badder Than Shaft!

See our album link  for Jaisalmer at

Jaisalmer

In the very early seventies Roger and Delaney emerged from the local first-run theatre in downtown Ypsilanti—the latest James Bond thriller-- and overheard the following conversation:

Brother One: “Whoa.  That James Bond.  He Bad!”

Brother Two: “He badder than Shaft!”

To be badder than Shaft has since been the ultimate travel standard.  Flash forward forty years.  “So John, how did you and Nancy enjoy your North Sea cruise?”  “We were badder than Shaft!” Delaney says, and we know that it was over the top. For all the experiences we have had in India, we crossed that threshold with our overnight camel safari in the Thar Desert.  We badder than Shaft.

Jaisalmer is the camel safari capital of India, and nearly all the western tourists who come here take a camel safari—some out alone with their camel driver for 21 days in the Thar Desert. The town is otherwise typically Rajasthani with a definite desert culture and the nearly constant scream of Indian jet fighters during the day remind us that we are only 40 miles from the Pakistani border.  But it has the enormous Rajput fort and palace and museum, much like Udaipur and Jodhpur and, we assume, Jaipur.  Most of the camel tourists opt for the overnighter.  We arranged to leave a little later in the day (“less camel time,” our tour guy told us), and that sounded ok by us.

We drove into the desert, where we met Bidiya, our camel driver, and our two stalwart steeds, Alex and Jaisal. We climbed aboard, which is no small feat for those us blessed with short legs. Bidiya led us into the desert. We looked much like 5-year-olds who are led in a circle as they sit upon their ponies. We felt a little trepidation as Bidiya chatted on his cell phone as he walked, wondering if this would be ridiculously lame. It wasn’t.

As we rode, the dunes grew larger, the footprints became a little scarcer, and the eerie quiet of the desert wind grabbed our attention. Our ride was comfortable and the stories we’d heard about motion-sickness were blessedly not part of our experience. Shortly before sunset, we stopped at the edge of a dune for the night. Bidiya set to work removing camel saddles and tying the camels’ front legs loosely together so they could graze without getting too far afield. He then set up his kitchen. He found 3 fist-sized rocks and placed them a few inches apart to support a cooking pot, found twigs and small, kindling-sized branches, lit a fire, and proceeded to make us a pot of chai. He brushed the sand out of metal cups and served us the best tea we’ve had in India. More impressive was the dinner he and 3 camel-driver friends (the guys just happened by) cooked for us; a spicy vegetable stew, jasmine rice, and fresh chapattis made on the spot. He insisted on the two of us eating first since we are guests, then the four of them dug in.

 Eating with our fingers as we knelt in the sand at sunset with these gracious men was quite an experience. As we chatted with Bidiya, we found that he didn’t know what year he was born (he looked about 35), didn’t know how to write his name, and had never attended school. He doesn’t own these camels, he is just their handler. Yet he spoke good English as well as Hindi, was bright and had a great sense of humor. It was very strange to meet someone with such an enormously different background from our own, and we still can’t quite wrap our minds around it. Illiteracy is much easier to understand when it is distant and abstract, and very hard when it has an amiable face, like Bidiya’s.

As we sat and talked, a man walked through the desert into our camp carrying a burlap sack. He asked, “Anybody want cold beer?”, and pulled out a few. We had to buy one, I mean, the man walked through the desert!! It should have been a commercial.

Later, Bidiya set out thin mattresses and heavy blankets for us. The stars were the best we’ve ever seen, but we fell asleep before we had much of a chance to look. Fantastic. This is as good as it gets.

“Roger and Linda…they baaad Mother F…”

“Hush your mouth!”

“But I’m talkin’ bout Roger and Linda!”—Isaac Hayes

Udaipur and Jodhpur

Rajasthan! (see album at 

Udaipur

Udaipur..once again, we're afraid to cross the street. Hold hands, look both ways, look down (cow poop, dead rats), look up (low-hanging awnings), listen (horns honking, cows mooing), hold your breath (smells, dust), say your prayers, and go. Drivers here drive faster than in the south and are more aggressive. Gods help us.

Once you are across the street, there are AMAZING sights here. The City Palace, Lake Palace, Jain temples, and begging holy men are incredible to see. Most remarkable are the COLORS. I swear that they have more colors here than we have at home (ditto with smells, but that's not always a good thing). Women in their saris put us westerners to shame. I'm wearing khaki and MAYBE a yellow shirt if I'm feeling frisky. They are covered in magenta, fuscia, orange, reds, saffron, and teal, brilliant combinations. I hope some of our photos capture a bit of this, because it is truly outstanding. They dress like this every day. The saris are covered in gold embroidery, sequins, glitter, and beading. The road crews (see photos) are dressed fancier than Oscar attendees, no exaggeration. Little girls wear beaded satin dresses and they play barefooted in the dusty streets.

Ditto with jewelry. I wear a small pair of gold hoop earrings and a wedding ring (sorry, fellas, I'm spoken for). A 2-year old boy I saw yesterday wore 5-6 bangle bracelets, ankle bracelets on both feet, necklace, and had painted nails. Women often seem to wear more jewelry at one time than I own. 

Rajasthani Road Crew

The Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur is truly amazing. We had an entertaining, informative audio tour that was so much better than the "live" guides we've had at other sites. (Actual quote: "This is the up part; that is the down part. This is the new part;. that is the old part. This is the men part; that is.. " you get the idea). The current Maharaja has made a career of restoring the fort and making it accessible to tourists and has done an outstanding job of it. Not a single employee there asked us for money for doing their job.  How western!

Today's excitement- Roger sees a doctor about back pain..sore muscle, Malarone side-effect, cracked rib, deadly disease, who can say? The doctor-sahib, that's who! He says pulled muscle, and prescribed a few pills of undetermined origin, composition and expiration date. Cross your fingers. He can't do a camel ride with a sore back, and Jaisalmer and a camel safari are next on the agenda. Camels are kinda huge and look a little scary, so a bad back MIGHT be a good excuse if we get cold feet. We'll see. We have already decided that a 2-day ride is way too much time on any kind of animal (especially a camel). We're shooting for something shorter and less painful. 

On to Jaisalmer!

Fort Cochin to Goa

Album for Cochi and Goa
KochinAndGoa

After the cool mountains of Munnar we took yet another bone-crunching local bus back to the coast to the old Dutch colonial city of Fort Cochin.  We are meeting some very interesting people on this trip—and surprisingly few Americans.  In Cochin we hooked up with three terrific Brits in their late twenties—Jamie, Peter and Man-yee (a pretty Chinese-Brit) who have been wandering around south India for about a month.  They are on a pretty leisurely pace and enjoying themselves thoroughly.  It assuaged some of the guilt we occasionally feel about not spending every waking moment running from temple to temple. Sometimes it’s nice to just sit in a café and watch India flow by.

We took our first overnight train north to Goa, about halfway up the coast between the southern tip of India and Mumbai.  It is the only first-class coach we were able to book in advance and it was pretty sweet.  We shared the compartment with a medical doctor from Cochin on his way back to his job in Jaipur.  We disembarked at Margaon station in Goa at 10:30 am; his journey continued for another 28 hours.  We hope he found as charming companions as us on the remainder of his journey.  As if.

Goa was originally high on our priority list as we planned our itinerary months ago.  When Roger traveled through Asia by bus in the seventies (east with Linnea, Brent and Barry; west with Delaney) everybody was going to Goa.  You could take the Magic Bus from Amsterdam to Delhi for less than $80 and it was known as the Junkie Trail—dope addicts and hippies of various stripes heading for the cheap beaches and drugs of Goa.  Everything you read and hear about it now is tinged with that nostalgia—“Goa is ruined.  It used to be paradise” but that is the same thing you hear about everywhere.   Apparently it has been pretty well polluted by Euro-Trash; probably some of the same people on the Magic Bus are still here.  The newest wave is Russian, and we hear stories of all-night beach bacchanals and dope-crazed techno parties, particularly in the beaches in the north of Goa.  The best travel advice we got was from Natasha in Alleppy, who recommended Agonda Beach in the south of Goa.  Still unspoiled, she said, and she was right.  We’re staying in a hut on a quiet stretch of isolated beach that has few tourists and just enough beach-side cafes and restaurants to make it comfortable.

Our newest best friend is Jes from Denmark, a charming and intelligent PhD student in physics.  His general knowledge and insights into American culture are astounding.  Maybe it just seems that way because we know so little about Denmark (we did score some points by acknowledging Nils Bohr’s contribution to quantum physics.  We’re still not sure how we pulled that bon mot out of our arses.)

We leave south India in a couple of days on our only domestic flight, from Goa to Udaipur to begin ten days or so in Rajasthan.  Like a different country, we’ve heard, and the travel will be more challenging from here on in. But until then, the beach beckons…

A few random thoughts we feel compelled to share…

In Agonda Beach, here in Goa, nearly all accommodations are beach huts. At the end of the tourist season every building constructed since 1991 must be completely disassembled. This leaves the beach open for Ridley sea turtles to lay their eggs. Next season, structures are rebuilt and the tourists return. Sounds like a lot of work since top rates are about $20 a day.

During the day, cows roam the beach. At night, pigs. Watch your step.

Indian trains carry 18-20 million passengers daily. At any given time, 6 million people are riding on an Indian train. How many rats? We don’t have those statistics.

Actual conversation:

Linda: “What day is it?”

Roger: “Wednesday. No, Monday.”

Our cheapest day so far- $13.53 at the ashram. Our most expensive- $105.00 on the all-inclusive houseboat.

On one tuk-tuk ride, our vehicle made contact with other vehicles TWICE. Yikes!

Indian traffic flow: I think of all the rickshaws, bicycles, pedestrians, trucks, busses, taxis, dogs, cows, and pushcarts as molecules of water flowing in a stream; they merge, they separate, they get where they’re going and somehow aren’t damaged in the process. I am ALMOST not afraid in traffic anymore. Almost.

For all the crazy driving we’ve seen here, there has not been a single incident of road rage, or even road irritation. The drivers are very mellow about their insane, no-rules driving.

We’ve been on the beach for 2 days now. I find that there are considerable stretches of time when my mind is totally blank. Meditation or stupidity? Who can really say?

We had planned to bring home charming souvenirs for each and every one of you, but so far we’ve seen mostly crap. Sorry. Are you interested in a Ganesha (elephant-god) T-shirt?

So far, this hastily-constructed beach hut has more reliable electric service that any other place we’ve stayed. Go figure…

Laundry: We have been washing our clothes in the bathroom sink with tiny packages of Tide. We considered splurging and having our wash done, but were advised against it. The locals don’t have washing machines and normally slap the soapy clothes against a rock (really). Friends who were in Mumbai (population 20 million) said the polluted shoreline is lined with hundreds of women washing clothes, including sheets from the HOSPITAL! If one of us gets sick, I’ll provide our own linens.

Did not realize how pervasive our American culture is. Over dinner last night, our Danish friend Jes discussed The Simpsons and Mad Men with us. Hearing that we are from Detroit, he knew immediately that the city was contracting due to population loss and that neighborhood farming was being discussed. The British folks know American music, TV, movies and politics as well as we do, and think Tina Fey is brilliant. At a restaurant the other day, we listened to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sing as we ate. And we have seen way too many young Indian men wearing playboy logo shirts with their tight jeans. We didn’t have the heart to tell them they’re living in the 80’s. And many, many travelers from other countries look at Sarah Palin with amusement, horror, or confusion, just like us. So nice to meet kindred spirits!

Alleppy to Munnnar

album links:

Alleppey-- 

AlleppyBackwaters

Munnar--  

Munnar

 We arrived in Alleppey on the boat from Kollaam (via the Ashram) just at dark and we were whisked on a terrifying tuk-tuk ride to our pre-booked accommodation—our first homestay. It was a dump, even by Roger’s standards.  We didn’t bother unpacking and decided to search for better accommodations immediately. We got on another, more terrifying tuk-tuk and careened through crowded, loud streets until we reached an even dumpier dump. In a state of exhausted frustration, we just had the guy drop us at a restaurant mentioned in Lonely Planet.  It was nearly empty but we found a table next to two western girls; we were thoroughly spent.  Roger, using his travel-savvy experience, plunked himself at their table and begged pitifully, “You must help us.”

They turned out to be two lovely young Brits—Jane and Abbie—and they saved us.  They took us to their Homestay, The Bella City, gave us a much-needed orientation to how the town was laid out, and pointed us back to our dump. A homestay is supposed to be like a B&B where you get to experience Indian family life, but as close as we got was when Salim let us watch him and his family eat rice and curry with their fingers.  The next morning we got out FAST and went to Bella City, where we met Biju and his Polish wife Natasha, and everything clicked once again.  They set us up with an Alleppy Backwater Tour—the main reason we were there—and Natasha thrilled us with amazing tales of adapting to Indian life.  She had worked for a Polish tour company for several years and she knows India like the back of Roger’s hand (he actually uses the back of his hand to describe locations in India, much the same way that a Michigan native uses his “mitten”).

We were able to get on a boat that morning.  Biju escorted our tuk-tuk to the docks on his motorcycle, schlepped our bags, and introduced us to the captain and three-man crew of our small houseboat, The Eco Boat. Grant Jepson is a fifty-something yacht builder from the UK who spends six months a year in Alleppy, where he has built his own small houseboat in the Keralan style but he has also designed an eco-friendly water filtration and sewerage system that uses the local coir, or coconut fiber. 

He has been unable to get it certified by one of the Keralan state bureaucracies responsible for such things, though.  This is a big deal for the Alleppy backwater ecology, as there are hundreds of tourist boats plying these waters that dump raw sewerage into the canals daily.  But Grant couldn’t negotiate the required bribe successfully, and he’s waiting for state elections next month and a change of administration (Grant claims that Kerala’s own lab tests show his effluent discharge is cleaner than the water he draws in).  How Tragic!  Here you’ve got a woefully under-developed and primitive infrastructure in a brutally poor society, and you’ve got pay bribes to get the needed work done!  This reminds us…is Kwame Kilpatrick still in the state prison system, or have the feds got him now?

The overnight boat trip was spectacular, lazing through the backwaters on The Eco Boat, with meals cooked by the local crew served on board that was some of the best food we’ve had in India.  Just before dark we put into a small village where Grant and his crew had begun building the boat four years ago, and we spent an hour wandering through the village and the rice paddies.  The people were incredibly friendly—especially the children, who all wanted to practice their English and show off their knowledge of America (Obama is a huge hit here.  We even had an enlightened political conversation with a tuk-tuk driver the other day.  “Where you come from?  America?  Obama a great man!  Bush no good!”  It was one of those rare political discussions that had no arguments.)  We hope the Alleppy photo album, which may or may not be attached near the front of this post, does the amazing experience some justice.

Then on to the misty mountains of Munnar—high in the Keralan tea country known as the High Ranges.  We set out by local water bus—a 2 ½ hour journey on a dingy commuter boat.  Kerala state government is currently ruled by the Communist Party, and public transportation here is almost free, though certainly decrepit.  The boat ride cost us 10 rupees each—that’s about 22 cents, boys and girls.  Check out the photo album (also attached, we think) for Munnar and the incredible experience we had at Pavritham Homestay.  This was the real deal, with steps leading up from the back garden onto a for-real tea plantation, where we were free to roam the miles of manicured tea landscape, totally alone.  It was cool, it was quiet, and it was pristine.  And this is India!

The only misadventure happened when we were accosted by small dark man with a machete named Ghee who claimed to be Tata Watcher.  We don’t think he meant it in the American sense.  He was actually a watchman for Tata, Ltd., the privately held conglomerate that owns the auto industry, the cable company, the tea plantation, and apparently the rest of India.  You can see his fearsome visage on the Munnar album.

Next stop—Fort Cochin, back on the coast, then to Goa, which we hear is infested with thousands of stoned Russians.  We are heading to the extreme south—Agonda Beach-- which is supposed to be outside their main feeding area.

R & L Join Ashram; Promptly Resign

One of the best values in India (and there are many) is the public ferry that plies the backwaters between Kollam and Alleppy, an 8-hour trip through the jungle canals that costs about $8.00 each.   You can break the trip about half way at the Amritapuri Ashram, a high-rise compound that jumps out of the jungle like the scene from Apocalypse Now as they ride the river into the Heart of Darkness.  But the Amritapuri Ashram is a happier place.

Its guru is Amma, a fat black woman who presides over a colony of about 2000 permanent residents (as permanent as one can be on this transient plane, Amma might tell you) and a slew of devotees of lesser duration.  We disembark at the boat jetty with about a half dozen other tourists.  Among them is Vince, a 24-year-old kid from the UK who has been traveling around India on his own for three months.  The Ashram has made it into the Lonely Planet guidebook, so this particular road to enlightenment has been well mapped.

We proceed into the compound and are taken to the administration building, where they have a registration office.  It is not unlike a large hotel process, except none of the staff is surly and they have a space on the form for Spiritual Name.  “T-Bone”, Roger writes on impulse.

Linda has booked in advance so we are given a room in their equivalent of Married Housing.  Vince and the other new arrivals are shown to huge dormitory blocks.  All the newcomers are encouraged to attend a 5:00 pm orientation, and we are given a list of The Rules and then were free to wander around the grounds.  We run into Vince again, and we become good friends.  Vince had visited another Ashram earlier in his journey and had a disappointing experience.  “It was a bit of a cult,” Vince said (ya think?), operated by a couple of Italian swamis who ran it like a prison.  The worst was the Karma Yoga, where you were assigned menial, degrading and often filthy tasks that were supposed to build spiritual character or something.

Our Ashram was much looser, but we still had The Rules.  Respect the spiritual journey of the residents, so no small talk, eye contact, if you wish to greet another member use the prescribed Mantra “om namah shavaya” and absolutely NO PUBLIC DISPLAYS of affection.  We were also reminded that there should be no PRIVATE displays of affection either, have a little respect for the monks, people! And no hanky-panky in married housing, either.

Instead of Karma Yoga the ashram had “Seva” or communal chores, and we were instructed to report to the Seva Office for our assignments.  We decided instead to make it our special chore to avoid Seva altogether. 

Lining up to get a hug was the main activity and the big draw for this place. Amma’s darshan (the way she spreads her beliefs) is to hug people. So we lined up when it was our turn, as indicated by the numbered ticket we received when we arrived. Amma started hugging at 11:00 am, and it was our turn about 7:30 that evening. It didn’t turn out to be a big spiritual experience, buried as we were in her ample yet surprisingly fragrant bosom.  The old girl still smelled pretty good after 8 ½ straight hours of physical contact with several thousand people.

We met a couple of people who had lived at the ashram for several years, and a few that were there for a couple of weeks or a month or two.  Some were slavishly devoted to Amma and some were there for a spiritual vacation.  But mostly we hung out with the other ashram tourists.  We stood out like dogs’ balls, as they used to say in Australia.  We were the only ones not swathed in white gauze and you could detect a nicotine withdrawal twitch in more than a few of us.  Roger noticed a guy in the communal chow line wearing a yellow heart around his neck the size of a Frisbee that said “In Silence”.  But the guy kept having an animated and apparently hilarious conversation via pen and paper.  If you’re taking a vow of silence shut the hell up for Gods’ sakes.  And we all had a great laugh.  Belly laughs from the ashram tourists are frowned upon at Amritapuri Ashram.

Anyway, we decided NOT to move there and join the monkhood. We checked out early.  We resisted the impulse to buy Amma souvenirs, including Amma dolls, key chains, and postcards showing her feet (although Roger stole a couple of stainless steel communal tea mugs from the cafeteria.  Is there bad karma in that, we wonder?)  It was a pretty cool place, though, and we weren’t nearly as weirded out as we had expected. We boarded the boat the next day for our onward trip to Alleppey, and the backwaters of Kerala. Details, of course, will follow. Namaste.

Kovalam and Varkala Beach

 These might be picture links--

Kovalam

Kovalam

Varkala-
Varkala

Our first two destinations in India have been a very gentle introduction to this chaotic country. We’ll leave here tomorrow, but for the moment, we’re rested, relaxed, and mellow. Let’s see how long that’ll last when we really hit the road.

 Kovalam, our first stop, is a simple, somewhat funky  tourist town on a beautiful stretch of beach. A paved promenade lined with shops, restaurants, and hotels follows the curve of the bay from the lighthouse at the south end, to rocky hills on the north. Beach hustlers rent lounge chairs and umbrella for the two of us for 200 rupees a day- almost

$4.00. Fishing boats, covered with thatched palm leaves and with their nets drying in the sun, are strewn at the north end when they aren’t out working. These boats look very primitive – they’re made without nails and are held together with twine laced through holes in the wood. They must be sea-worthy since they come back every night.

Our hotel, Shirley’s Beach Hotel, is a simple one but has the necessities - ceiling fan, clean comfortable bed, bath, and balcony, all for about $17.00 a night. The view from the balcony is questionable; you need to position yourself carefully to avoid seeing the trash strewn about the public shared property. Getting there from our taxi was quite spectacular, though. Shirley met us at the road and led us through the lush jungle on pathways built up about 6 feet above the forest floor. The walkway was a warren of connecting pathways meant to confuse the timid traveler, with shops and restaurants hidden among the palms and orchids. Roger said it reminded him of Bali except the women weren’t bare-breasted.  It was different than anything I’d ever seen before. We really enjoyed our time in Kovalam and were in no hurry to leave. But when we did split town, we found our next stop, Varkala, even more to our liking.

Varkala beach is spread about a mile (or 1. 6 kilowatts or something in India-speak) along a cliff facing the ocean. Hotels, restaurants, bangle shops, yoga studios, thatched open-front stalls with brightly colored fabric and garments blowing in the sea breeze line the cliff-side path. The shore is mainly eroded and rocky, spectacular to see. The beaches, several of them, are reached via stone stairways along the cliff.  Our hotel, Woodhouse Beach Hotel, is at the north end of the beach, just beyond the line of shops. Beyond us, the walkway continues to the fishing beach where Roger helped fishermen pull in their nets one morning. The hotel itself is charming. We have a cottage of our own with a porch facing the ocean, which is where I happen to be sitting right now as I write. With me is Toast, the hotel’s dog, who has a pretty good dog life, as far as I can tell.

Tomorrow we head for an ashram for two days. How could we visit India and NOT visit one? It is the Amrithanandamayl Mission (yes, a real mouthful), the home of Amma, who shares her beliefs by giving hugs. Really. Seriously, I’m not kidding! We can use a hug as much as anyone. We’ll let you know how it goes.