Agra

What a cheerful pair of lads! But behind the smiles...

... Luke has forgotten to pack a memory card for his camera!

... Rob is sicker than a dog, puking up even water! (Luke is later to join him.)

... Luke has lost his wallet of 10.5 years, 'Old Brown', which was a gift from his sister Emily on his 13th birthday... and...

... Both are carrying tickets for the evening's trip to Delhi, only they have been mistakenly printed for travel on the previous day and are no longer valid!

Hey! Read Rob's blog! http://readaboutrobert.blogspot.com

Dharamsala

Set among Himalayan foothills, Dharamsala proved an excellent place to take a load off and catch up on sleep and creature comforts. Also, it was there I was able to delve into an exotic culture scarcely appreciated in the West, apart from the odd bumper sticker.

Dharamsala is home to the Government of Tibet in Exile, and, when he's not spreading his message of enlightened peace around the world, to His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. (No, I didn't! He was in Israel during my six days in town!)

Days were spent exploring neighborhood shops and temples, evenings at the cinema, taking in a documentary on Tibet. Then on to Chuky's, a candlelit reggae dive, serving wonderful spiced chai and even tastier conversation. Some are ex-Western hippies pontificating on the pantheistic iconography of their rainmaker sticks. Others are Tibetans born and raised in India, weaned on Bollywood. Others still were born in Tibet, but have made the fateful trek through the mountains to this place, where they are suddenly free to post a photo of the Dalai Lama in their home and utter the phrase, "Yes, I am Tibetan."

One of the later type I spoke with, named Wangkyo, was a monk when he left Tibet. The cropped head, the maroon, the benevolence. Something in the Indian water made him change his course, however, so in Chuky's Wangkyo can be found with a great mane of black hair and armfuls of bangles, "experiencing life," as he puts it. Do examples like this denote the Tibetan monastic order's demise in the glitz, glamour and stink of India? Don't think so; there are swarms of maroon to be seen, many boarding buses to one of the many pockets around the country in which Tibetans are free to celebrate and perpetuate their culture.

Another highlight came when my three wonderful hotel neighbours, Katerina, Andera, and Julia of Germany, suggested we spend a day hiking up to a famous Himalayan viewing plateau, known as Triune. The thinning air took a bit out of us in the four hour trek to the top, but when we got there and saw the snow-capped panorama, our energy surged as we decided to stay for sunset and stars. The 'only-gig-in-town' guesthouse charged a bundle, but we fit an impressive five people into the room after we met Thomas, a Czech with a tent who didn't want to sleep outside for an adorable fear of tigers!

Time sure flew in Dharamsala. I was sad to leave, but hey! It's not every day you get to descend from the Himalaya to meet one of your best friends in a sweaty world capital! More on Rob's and my 'experiences' to come!

Filler: A Bulleted List of Certain Truths Regarding My Life Revealed Me by N. Srinivasan, Astro-Numerologist

During my (current) life, I will...

• live to the age of 84.
• find stability in my life, beginning at age 28.
• marry an Australian from a family of no fewer than three daughters and two sons.
• enjoy a life rife with material wealth.
• accrue said wealth largely via the efforts of my wife.
• find my calling through a career that requires skills which combine technical prowess with artistic sensibility.
• be revealed as the true reincarnation of either John Lennon, Bob Marley, or Jimi Hendrix (inferred from above).
• suffer a curse stemming from a past life (!) whereby I shall forever fail during the first two attempts at any given endeavor, succeeding only on the third. To lift the curse, I am to take a talisman, which is a bronze disk emblazoned with cobras, place it on a clean dinner plate, pour raw milk on it, drink the milk, then set the lot down on a bookcase where it won't be disturbed. I am to repeat this process for eleven consecutive days, then every week (Mondays) until the curse is lifted. If performed correctly, the chance I will produce a son is 100%. Rock and roll.

Rob made it in! Off to Agra tomorrow A.M. Silly amounts of photos to follow.

Attari Border Ceremony

Just a few clicks west of Amritsar, via one helluva crowded public bus, sits Attari, a small village situated right at the India - Pakistan border!

No, it's not as dangerous as you're thinking; I've been to the DMZ between North and South Korea, and this is nothing like it. Actually, Attari is a functioning border during the day, hundreds of visa holders passing to either side. The expected India - Pakistan heat turns on only at border closing time, when both sides participate in a bombastic bout of choreographed goosestepping known as the Attar Border Ceremony.

It's a spectator sport, don't you know. Plopped in the concrete grandstands, I even had an India visor and mini-flag, plus a bag of popcorn! As the crowds assembled on the respective sides, Hindi/Urdu language pop hits blared with visible delight to the dancing (see: bouncing, sweaty) throngs. Would have joined in, but was land-locked by elderly French tourists in the bogus "VIP" foreign tourist seating. Intermittently, music gave way to a rousing voice at the microphone, prompting the crowd for an impassioned, rallying cry of "Hindu-stan! Hindu-stan!", a curious term in how it emphasizes the religious divide between the two nations.

It was all in good fun, though. The goosestepping routine, which seemed Monty Pyton-inspired, drew as many laughs as cheers. The prancing finished, representatives slowly lowered the two flags at the same intense rate, culminating in the Clang! of the shutting gate. Border closed, show over!

Amritsar: The Golden Temple

Ugh. Getting out of Jaisalmer really took it out of me. Out that far in the desert, getting to Amritsar, my next destination, could only be accomplished by enduring two consecutive night trains, with a stopover in Delhi. Seeing as how the first one was four -- count 'em! -- four hours late in departing, then took twenty hours to reach Delhi, my bunk near the door causing my overhanging feet to be banged into all hours of the night, and then to do it all over again on the way to Amritsar... there's little wonder as to how I spent my first hours in town: out like an Indian power outage.

My wits back about me, I packed my shoulder bag with the usual sightseeing gear -- Lonely Planet, Nalgene bottle, TP, etc. -- and rickshawed it down to the Golden Temple. The focal point of the Sikh religion, which has its home base in the state of Punjab, it was not to be missed. Left my shoes with the people in front and covered my head with one of the bandanas from the communal bin, as per the rules. The marble covering the complex felt cool on my bare feet, and I had a nice stroll around the periphery, people watching. Punjabi men, while devout and rather metrosexual in their turban-shirt color coordination, are some robust customers, let me tell you.

The temple complex is in the shape of an expansive square. On site are dormitories offered to pilgrims at no charge, as well as a massive dining hall serving free chapathis from a machine. The Golden Temple itself -- named Harmandir Sahib -- sits in the center of the square pool comprising the center of the whole complex. It's really made of gold... 750 kg of it! A longish queue of wrapped heads leads to the entrance. Inside, two or three priests hammer out an unending prayer, using harmonium, tabla, and voice, the melodic mixture resonating throughout the temple grounds.

Felt a tad strange to be loitering in a place so holy to a religion I know quite little about. (That it's a monotheistic offshoot of Hinduism, counting Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh as one of its members, is about all I know.) Still, it's fascinating to see such fervent devotion in action. By Western standards, India is a poor, third world country. But there is such a spiritual wealth here we have yet to understand!

Photos: Jaisalmer

And here are the promised camel photos, plus others from Jaisalmer.



"Wassup. I'm a camel."

I signed up for a two day, one night camel safari. We boarded our beasts after a brief jeep ride and began a long day through the scrubby desert to the glorious Sam Sand Dunes. The camel drivers were also remarkable cooks, making us fresh chapatis and veg curry. I was all set to spend the night under the stars, but I could feel a cold coming on, and took the chance to jeep it home same night. A shame, I know, but why take chances with your health in India?





The entire year I spent in Korea, I NEVER thought I would encounter globetrotting Korean students, least of all in India! I figured they didn't go anywhere without an air-conditioned bus and a high-octane tour guide. But no! The young ones are actually branching out into the world, using their English! The very thing I was trying to teach! You'll notice this pair of girls isn't entirely free of their Far East conservatisms: dig the tightly-wound -- if brilliantly colorful -- scarves to protect against the dusty air!






At the Jaisalmer Desert Festival, local colors are worn proudly.








Camel racing. Not exactly the Melbourne Cup, but good for a laugh.











Back in town: Jaisalmer Fort, which dates back to 1156!











Inside, a maze of temples, restaurants, and wonderful handicrafts. The colors on these blankets blew me away.

A peak inside the Jain Temples, in Jaisalmer Fort.

Photos: Jaipur

Now that's what I'm talkin' bout! A nice high speed connection, and no one giving me dirty looks when I plug in my memory card reader. On with the photos!

Entrance to Jaipur's Old City, in which all the buildings are painted pink. Overflowing with handicrafts, its streets lay claim to the origins of the phrase "Yes? Hello friend! You which country? Inside is more. Just looking no problem!"

Thankfully, much of the "just looking" was pleasurable, particularly in these quieter, sari-filled side streets. Kind of a shame, if you think about it. I'd have looked lovely in those fabrics.






Outside the Old City, a man makes a tasty drink from sugarcane and lime.










Never, not in fourteen lifetimes, will I understand cricket.

A 'Bra' for All Seasons

Luke Is in India is proud to announce that one Robert Luke Kinner, a good bra* from my Australia days, will be joining me in my travels beginning 23 February!

(file photo)

A consequence of Mr. Kinner's arrival, of which he informed me approximately 48 hours before boarding the plane in London, is that my itinerary is more or less shot. No worries, though! I'm more than happy to rearrange certain portions of the trip (incl. visiting the Taj Mahal) to include one of me best mates. As he proved during the Great Japan Railway Adventure of 2002, Rob is a delightful traveling partner, sturdy holding the camera and good with maps.

Also, I have decided to make changes to the route map, which have already begun to unfold, for other reasons. So let's get 'heaps psyched' for Rob's arrival!
________
* bra: 'bro' in Point Breakspeak.

Jaisalmer

Howdy! Coming to you from Jaisalmer, a quaint little town on the fringes of the Great Thar Desert, comprised almost entirely of an exquisite sandstone fort dating back to 1156. We're less than 50 miles from the Pakistan border out here, sadly bereft of all those under-sea fiber optic Internet connections promised me so eloquently by Tom Friedman in The World Is Flat. So for now no photos!

You'll notice Jaisalmer was not included on my posted Route Map (to be hereafter referred to as Draft One). I did in fact visit Jaipur, as planned. But what I soon found out upon arrival to the city, which is basically one giant handicrafts shop, population 2.32 million, is that Jaipur is little more than a gateway to the exotic state of Rajasthan. There's tons to see and do here; many people I've met are spending a month or more just in Rajasthan, visiting the lake-filled holy sights of Udaipur and Pushkar. Sadly -- and I never thought I'd say this about a two month trip -- I don't have the time to see Rajasthan properly! But at least I made it to Jaisalmer.

Purely by coincidence, I've visited Jaisalmer during their annual Desert Festival. I rode out to see it yesterday in spectacular style: atop a camel! Through the Hotel Henna, an eerily dodgy establishment that is said to change it's name every couple years, I cautiously or an overnight camel safari. Along with three Aussies, one Brit, and one Greco - French dude, we left the hotel around eight in the morning, jeeping it out to a spot along the road where six moody, positively gigantic, humped beasts lay waiting.

What followed was six hours of sore bum and sun sun sun. "Sonia", my camel, was fine ride, as far as even-toed ungulates of the genus Camelus go. I liked thinking myself a rogue spice trader, traveling along an ancient route to Arabia, though sporting neither turban nor handlebar moustache, I was far short of fitting the bill. Still, it was a pleasure to meander through the dunes with an animal so mysterious as to call the arid landscape home.

The festival served as one helluva oasis: Must have been 25,000 people, all dressed to the hilt in Rajasthani garb (turbans / stashes for men, colorful saris with added head wraps -- plus tons of nose jewelry -- for the women). The content of the festival was a tad hit or miss; camel racing in particular I don't count among my favorite spectator sports. But the fireworks, backlit by a brilliant full moon, gave the day an inspiring end.

Next stop is Amritsar, and the exciting India - Pakistan border closing ceremony. But not before two consecutive night trains, beginning tomorrow! Better go rest up. Will post camel photos once I find a decent connection.

L.

Varanasi: Down by the River

Greetings from Varanasi, City of Shiva, the holiest of Hindu holy sights, the oldest consistently inhabited city in the world, and the only place I've ever seen a cow walk down stairs, stop to take a dump, then walk down more stairs.

The scene here is all about the Ganges River (or, the "Ganga"). Hindus believe that a bath in its holy waters will cleanse one completely of one's sins, and that cremation along its banks guarantees passage to nirvana. Meanwhile, scientists believe the water to be so polluted from factory runoff, assorted garbage, and, well, corpses, that they've classified it as being "septic", meaning it contains no dissolved oxygen (Science majors welcome to chime in on why that's bad).

So I've been happy to watch from the wings: the bathers, the fishermen, people doing their laundry, people brushing their teeth, etc. The riverfront is divided into a series of "ghats", or entry points, each overlooked by a decaying, fortress-like building with stairs leading down to the Ganga. Spending most of my time just strolling through the ghats, observing, dodging the offers of boat men and little girls selling flowers. Also, the place is crawling with animals: the aforementioned cows, which are holy to Hindus, as wells as goats, dogs, and monkeys.

One ghat that has held my attention extensively was called Harishchandra. It is one of the two main cremation ghats. Pyre after pyre goes up for public viewing. "Sixty or seventy per day, maximum one fifty," said Raj, a seventeen year old son of the ghat's owner, who was kind enough to explain nearly every part of the cremation ceremony. It starts with the bringing of the deceased to Varanasi no more than three days after death. A pyre is then arranged with wood of varying qualities. Sandal wood can fetch a price of 150 Rupees per kilo, which, for a 300kg cremation like the one I saw, would cost a hefty $1200. Poorer families must use cheaper wood and less of it, resulting in a slower and sometimes incomplete burning, with feet and fingers turning up in the river later on. Most everyone is welcome to cremation at Harishchandra Ghat, Raj explained, excluding (1) pregnant women, (2) women with young children, (3) victims of snake bite, (4) victims of leprosy, and (5) Sadhus (holy men who are given to the ganga unburned). The photo here of the wood is the only one I have of the cremation ghats, as it is not allowed to photograph the ceremonies.

Would love to stay longer, grow dreadlocks and wear flowing, white robes, like the many westerners who practically live here. But it's time to ramble on!

Safely Arrived!

Rest easy, my darlings. Luke is in India!

Landed in Delhi and immediately shuttled over to the seedy neighborhood of Paharganj. Packed with cheap accommodation and shady characters (all of them men), with cowshit, beetlenut juice, and mangy, napping puppies covered in flies lining the street, I wasn't for Paharganj long.

Actually, I've already hit the road! I hopped a train at 1.30 p.m. This being the scheduled departure time, it actually left New Delhi station at 2.50. Onboard the "3 A/C" sleeper car (which means three-tier beds and air conditioning... cheaper than 1st Class and "2 A/C") conditions were fine. I made friends with a couple guys my age: Ali, who works in a call center for Citibank and spends his break time browsing Angelina Jolie's account profile ("No photo, man."). He had a guitar I could fiddle around with for a couple hours. Also Guarav, a university student who proved an excellent conversationalist.

We arrived in Varanasi at 8.00 a.m. Surprisingly, I slept most of the night. Never thought I could come away from a 17 hour train ride feeling so refreshed!

Varanasi is absolutely fascinating. Will be sharing more as soon as I can!

Brussels: Les Oeufs Impérioux

I was going to check out the Brussels Museum on Tuesday to hopefully learn more about the city (remember, no Lonely Planet!), when I became distracted by -- and later absorbed in -- something distinctly un-Belgian: a traveling exhibition of the Romanov family jewels, featuring the world famous Faberge eggs!

The story goes that Faberge and his workshop churned out at least one of these things every year in time for Easter, each more encrusted with finery and outright splendor than the last. Basically bourgeoisie from the word "Go."

A sampling from my English language audioguide, reproduced from memory (Picture a haughtier-than-though British female's voice.) :

Set against a translucent porcelain background, exquisitely cross-stitched with a fine emerald-and-gold lattice, each intersection painstakingly decorated by a cluster of five diamonds, meant not indiscreetly to represent Nicholas' five beloved children, the 1911 egg boasts an ornate patchwork of enameled portraits, that of the czar located at the crest, set beneath a fine moonstone emblazoned with the royal insignia...

Good thing I've got so much time on my hands at the airport.

OK, enough of this Europe business; it's off to the frying pan! Next transmission from Delhi.

Brussels: Now That's One Hell of a Good Waffle

Having had such a nice day bouncing around Amsterdam with my new Aregentinean friends, Alejandro and Denise, we all three decided to ride to Brussels on Monday.

We immediately found Brussels to be easily walkable, kind of like Amsterdam without the canals. Our day of sightseeing had as its home base the fabulous Grand-Place, an ornate 16th C. palace (I'm not sure exactly... Didn't have a Lonely Planet for Brussels, which for me is equivalent to having my thumbs taped to my palms!) with a sprawling spire, linked with other old buildings to create a lovely cobblestone square.


Then it was time for something really interesting. Down a maze of narrow streets from the Grand-Place stands the Manekin Pis, a pint-sized bronze fountain of a boy, standing proudly and cherub-like, gaxing off into the distance and, well, pissing. Aparently this little guy is a major cultural icon to Belgians, a fact that, on its own does, little but to create in one a moment's meditation, standing there against the background trickle, on why exactly it is more present-day North Americans don't speak Flemish.

After this breakthrough I convinced Alejandro and Denise, who are impressively even more frugal than I am, to sit down with me for a waffle. We got three -- avec chocolat, confiture, et creme (you should've heard my high school French!) -- and washed it down with a fine Belgian ale.

L.