Pete's Travelogue 2000
Myanmar, India and Nepal

Guess I'll start here. "Here" being on board a 747 bound for Yangon, Myanmar (Burma), via Bangkok. The first leg of our journey was relatively uneventful - a 14 hour flight to Narita Airport with a layover at the ANA Hotel. While eating a bowl of noodles in the hotel restaurant, a guy at the next table, who was real drunk, threw up on the table. His friends helped him wobble out without making too much of a scene. On the way out we asked the maitre'd about the guys condition and with classic Japanese politeness he told us the man was fine, "He was just a little tired", while the guys friend wiped the vomit off the table.........yeah, pretty uneventful.

I feel a little more like a veteran traveler this trip. Last years excursion broke the ice and removed the fear of the unknown that goes with traveling to strange, exotic places. I'm still a neophyte traveler on a lot of levels but at least now I'm not under the paranoid delusion that all the people in each of these ethnic groups know each other and are conspiring to make me buy stuff. Laurie is the trips mastermind and coordinator. She has attended to countless details from medication issues to flight itineraries to provisions etc. etc. I am the happy recipient of her hard work. I have been learning some basic Burmese, which may or may not prove to be useful beyond basic civilities, but just trying to fumble with a few words really makes the whole experience more enriching for me.

We sat next to a Burmese woman on the plane who lives in Falls Church, and goes back to visit her family a couple of times a year. She graciously offered some tips on pronunciation - most of my phrasebook interpretations were whacked. Laurie got a little bit of a workout with her Japanese while in Narita. Being in Asia again makes me painfully aware how mono-linguistic Americans are, and I am resolved to develop some second language skills when we return home - probably Spanish since it's become such a relevant language in America.

While on the plane, we encountered an entourage from Virginia, that was en route to Nepal and India for some meditation workshops. They seemed nice enough until they cornered Laurie while she was waiting for a restroom, and peppered her with questions, some too personal, and mostly none of their business, about her travel motivation, education etc. They were basically laying the groundwork for a sales pitch to recruit another "pupil" for their mobile ashram. While this was going on I was reading "Are You Experienced", a fictitious account of a 19 year olds blundering attempt at being a traveler. Some of the images in the book dealing with the affected spirituality that possesses many westerners sounded a lot like Laurie's encounter. I was amused. It's interesting how much interest westerners have in the spirituality that comes from Hinduism, a religion that accepts no converts.

We are now sitting in the Bangkok airport waiting for our flight to Yangon. I'm beginning to feel energized, like the journey is really about to start. So far our brief touchdown in Japan and Thailand seemed familiar enough and populated by enough westerners, that they don't feel quite as exotic as they did last year. I don't claim to have any real depth of understanding of these cultures; they just physically feel a lot more accessible and familiar now.
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MYANMAR
Mangalaba! Good morning! First night in Myanmar. Got into Yangon airport after a one-hour flight from Bangkok. Customs was easy enough - friendly clerks, with tight-lipped soldier dudes standing by. We were supposed to cash out $300.00 each into FEC's, (Foreign Exchange Certificates) the official government script. If you spend an FEC note, some of it goes right into the government coffers. The Kyat (Chat) is the general population's currency which gets absorbed into the local economy, without the government getting a taste. Anyway, Laurie tried to get us in as a unit, and only cash out $300.00 for both of us. The agent made some noise about making a little "gift" to expedite Laurie's request. The gift is apparently a matter of course. When the woman suggested a gift, Laurie asked how much and was told "Whatever you like." Seeing as how we just got out of cashing out $300.00, Laurie slid her a 20 FEC note. The woman shook her head and indicated that the 20 FEC was equivalent to $20 US. She pointed to a 5 FEC note and indicated that it would be sufficient. It was as if she was saying, "Sorry ma'am, but 20 FEC is a bit large for a bribe of this type. Do you have anything smaller?" This incident proved to be consistent with what we were to find as to the honest and warm nature of the Burmese people.

So, we are sipping tea and coffee in the Green Hill Inn, planning our day. We are going to go downtown and have look around and see about booking a train to Mandalay. That was two days ago. We headed downtown and on the recommendation of John Asher, a fine human being who we met at the hotel (more on him later), and changed a bunch of FEC's into Kyat. On the books it's illegal, and although it can be a bit of a cloak and dagger affair, everybody does it, and nobody seems to be too uptight about it. But it's kind of cool. You go down and mill about this particular market and some young Burmese guy might say, "Hello", and you might say "Change money?", and he might say "Wait here." And moments later you're ushered down a maze of alleys and over a makeshift counter, change your FEC's or US currency into Kyat.

We had lunch at a bryani restaurant, on John's suggestion (more on him sooner) which was quite good and ridiculously cheap. In my attempt to ingratiate myself to the local customs, and fit in without looking like a stammering gringo, I zeroed in on the two guys at the next table, and observed their method of bryani ingestion. They were Indian's and were eating in typical Indian fashion - scooping the rice and chicken with their bare right hands. Wow! That looks easy enough - a lot easier than chopsticks. I happily proceeded to scoop away until Laurie casually observed that I was pretty much the only person in the restaurant who was eating with his hands. The two guys at the next table made three. D'Oh! Hey! Look.... A spoon!

Yangon is a typical Southeast Asian city. Hot, loud, frenetic. Buses crammed beyond capacity with bodies. Smell of diesel fuel thick in the air. Actually a bit choking. But full of energy, and just so different from home. We stopped by a travel agency to confirm some flights and get info on rail tickets, and discovered that one of our flights in India had been cancelled due to the recent hijacking. More on that later. I hope. Outside the travel agency we were accosted by the first annoying "tout" of our trip. We foolishly let him "assist" us in basically walking across the street to locate another travel office, and ended up several blocks away at an office he was affiliated with that, wouldn't you know it, couldn't help us. I was becoming less than enamored with our tenacious host, and was beginning to exhibit signs of heat exhaustion. But once one of these guys latches on to you, they just don't let up, even when you get rude.

We ended up getting our rail ticket and our erstwhile guide left without actually conning us out of anything except a little wasted time. I was feeling poorly, and as the night wore on my intestines joined the party, and my emotions went haywire, apparently due the Mefloquin I was taking to fend off malaria. No sleep, depression, enervation, fever, diarrhea. Woo Woo! And it's only our first week in Asia!

And what about this John Asher guy? He is an Englishman, about 60 years old, a solo traveler and practicing Buddhist, who was staying at the Green Tree Inn. He was one of the those rare individuals who seem to be accomplished in several areas and conversant on virtually any topic, but totally unpretentious, and keenly interested in what you have to say. He gave us some excellent insights on Myanmar, having traveled there already quite a bit. Really nice person. We also met Ursula and James, a couple that was also staying at the Green Tree. Laurie chatted with them a bunch while I was enjoying my delirium. They were interesting, well traveled folks who had a home in Spain (He was Canadian and she was Swiss) and they spent a large portion of the year traveling. They claimed to be collectors of ancient art, but it sounded like they were nothing more than western carpetbaggers who take priceless artifacts from unsuspecting developing countries until they can't get away with it any more. They never really elaborated on how their gig worked, but it sounded like there were some serious moral issues that they did not divulge.

Next day, I wasn't good for much, but we did get out to see Yangon's most visible attraction, the Shwedagon Paya. It's a huge Buddhist temple that is topped by a goldleaf cone that rises some 500 feet over a dizzying array of ornate shrines and Buddha's of every description. After a light supper at the Green Tree Inn, we checked out and headed for the train station for an overnight trip to Mandalay. The 14-hour trip turned into 17 and it was a pretty wild ride. The train rose and dipped like a roller coaster, and swayed from side to side like a boat in a storm. It even seemed like we hit an occasional pothole, but I guess that's not really possible in a train. The seats were actually pretty comfortable, but the wobbling train made for a long sleepless night. I can only imagine how unpleasant it must have been in the coach class, which only offered hard, wooden seats.

Mandalay is OK. Not as interesting as Yangon, but it does have some points of interest.. There is a huge fort in the center of town that is surrounded by a moat. This is the same moat that was cleaned up a few years ago using forced labor. Supposedly they don't do the forced labor thing anymore. They now use army guys when they need free labor. We didn't go into the fort but we strolled around the perimeter - it's about a mile square - and it's big highlight is the billboard the proclaims "The Peoples Desire". It list a bunch of tenets of the regime about crushing opposition and free thinkers etc. etc. and it's in English, so I guess it's pretty much there for Westerners to read. Apparently these proclamations are displayed throughout the country, and no one accepts their truth but the government.

We had good Chinese food and great lassies at Maria's, a little restaurant run by a Burmese/Indian guy named Richard. He was mentioned in the Lonely Planet as a nice guy who is very forthcoming with good information for travelers. "The Book" was right. He set us straight on local accommodations and we went off to get a rickshaw to the hotel district. We hailed two pedal rickshaws and during the ride I had an animated conversation with the driver with my incipient Burmese. He had a good sense of humor and gave me some pronunciation tips. When we stopped Laurie suggested that I give him a tip, so I pulled out a 20 Kyat bill and gave it to him. It wasn't till a few moments later that I realized I had given him a 20 FEC not a 20 Kyat; the difference being one was twenty cents and the other was twenty bucks - probably about a months earnings for this guy! Though I felt pretty dumb, I really didn't mind seeing this poor guy hit the ackpot. I realize why now, as we walked away, he said something like "I will never forget you."

We checked into the Nylon hotel, which was right across the street from the Nylon ice cream shop. I don't know who this nylon person was, and I'm sorry to say that we never actually got to sample the nylon ice cream. Took a stroll around the moat then had dinner at a Chinese restaurant in the nylon district.

We hired a car for the next day to take us on a day trip to Pwee Lin, a two-hour drive through suburban and rural Myanmar. Our driver was a former student who went to work in the tourism industry with his father after the government closed the university. Like many of his generation, his plans for a career have been dashed by the government's paranoia of intellectuals. There are thousands of young people who will probably never finish their education because of the government's short sightedness. Our driver spoke English well and proved to be an interesting, articulate guide for our side trip. He became a lot more conversant about the situation in Myanmar once we were on the road, safely ensconced in his car. It seems like people are generally not harassed by the government thugs and for the most part their human rights are not heinously violated as much as they have been in the past. But, they can't leave the country, and they have no voice in the way the country is being run, or mismanaged as the case may be. He was one of the many young men who found themselves thrust into the work-a-day world after the university was shut down. He had been an economics student and doesn't plan on returning to school even if the schools reopen. At 27 he considers himself to old to return. He is an avid kickboxer and apparently quite accomplished. It is the thing that seems to define his identity, and he proudly displayed the kick boxers tattoo that ran up the whole side of his leg.

We stopped at Anishaken Falls, a very picturesque waterfall that can be viewed from the bottom of a steep gorge. It's about a 30-minute hike to the bottom and as we walked we realized that we were being accompanied by two Burmese women who just sort of appeared, and started walking with us. No words were spoken, but they just seemed to have this maternal attitude, guiding us and fanning us with their bamboo fans while we walked. They were utterly charming and as it turns out, their whole gig is to accompany hikers, and sell them soft drinks from the metal coolers that they carry with them. We didn't realize this until later, and were glad that we tipped them, since we never bought any soft drinks from them. These women do this fairly arduous hike at least twice a day on spec, wearing flip-flops and never even breaking a sweat. One of them has seven kids and she still bounds up and down the hills with ease.

After our hike we stopped by a botanical garden that specialized in English plants. It was a bucolic spot surrounding a lake and dotted with cages containing exotic birds. The whole Pwee Lin area used to be a summer retreat during the sweltering summer monthsfor the Brits when they were in charge. It's significantly cooler than Mandalay, and Burmese tourism still thrives there. Had a huge lunch in an Indian restaurant - a "tallie" which is something of a sampler that can range in size from a couple of items to a veritable smorgasbord of rice, dahl, curries, vegetables etc. This one conformed to the latter and even though my appetite was still not voracious after my sick days in Yangon, I sampled most of the items. All were quite good. Poked around town a bit. The town was a mix of indigenous Burmese and Tibetans left over from the Gerkas who had been conscripted by the English because of their reputation as ferocious fighters. The main transport in town was provided by colorful horse drawn carriages that were like miniature stagecoaches.

The big buzz seemed to be at the local Movie Theater, which was showing your favorite and mine, The Titanic. I never could figure out how that movie made it into Myanmar. The government is pretty adamant about keeping the country free of western influence, and The Titanic is about the biggest bit of pop culture that has been exported from the US this year. But there it was. There is a lot of pop music here and it all sounds like rehashed versions of classic rock tunes sung in Burmese. Unlike other countries in Southeast Asia, you don't ever hear original versions or covers of familiar tunes. It's like the Rutles - everything sounds vaguely like some tune you heard before, but not exactly like the original. We blew off another viewing of the international hit and headed back to Mandalay. Had another memorable meal; this time a Shan style feast featuring green beans, potato pancake, chicken broccoli and pork/mustard greens. Yum.

Our next stop will be Bagan, which will require a 4AM wake up call and an all day ferry ride up the Irawaddy River. We took a cab in the pre dawn darkness to the dock where a big boat was tied up at the riverbank with a gangplank laid out for boarding. It was another great image of Asia. A buzz of activity as the boat gets loaded with provisions and passengers. Dark and misty. A knot of young Burmese guys trying to carry our stuff to the boat. Slightly surreal, with the nervous anticipation of another little jaunt into the unknown. Invigorating!

We are now slowly chugging north towards Bagan. The boat is pretty comfortable and the scenery is great. The shoreline is dotted with many temples and pagodas and little thatched villages. There is a TV in the main cabin that has been showing a schizophrenic mix of chanting Buddhists, Bad Karaoke, an English travelogue, about 20 minutes of Young Guns and some Myanmar news broadcasts delivered by the wooden, expressionless anchor who seems to be the Burmese favorite. Well, the 8 -10 hour trip has turned into 12, due to the low water level in the river. The pilot has to be careful; boats have been stranded on sandbars for days during the dry season. The extra time on the river has given the touts who are on board ample opportunity to pitch their favorite hotels. Of the 30 or so westerners on board, we are just about the only independent travelers - most of our shipmates are with a German tour group. Apparently the majority of western travelers in Myanmar are German. Anyway, since the package tour groups already have their accommodations, we were prime targets for the touts who approached us repeatedly pitching guest houses. We demurred opting for our usual method of checking out the town once we got there (with advice from our Lonely Planet guide).

The boat docked, meaning it pulled up to the shore, dropped the gangplank, and we stepped off the boat into Bagan, home of 2400 temple, stupas and mounds of brick left over from the Burmese renaissance that occurred about 500 years ago. All of the wooden structures that existed there have long since deteriorated leaving a surreal landscape of temples. We opted (not really by choice, but it would have been a good choice) to get into town on a horse and buggy. We headed to the village of Nyuang U that turned out to be a really charming little town. Very laid back, extremely friendly people and lots of good places to eat.

The Bagan region is also the source of Burmese laquerware, a beautiful, delicate art form that includes a wide range of cups, dishes and containers of all types. The process incorporates a woven bamboo frame, reinforced with horsehair and coated with several layers of resin. It makes for a very strong but flexible material. The finished pieces are then etched and painted with scenes and patterns. We bought a bunch for embarrassingly low prices.

We stayed at the Eden Hotel, a nice place that had the typical Myanmar amenity of intermittent electricity. Next morning we did some detail work - post office, travel agency, etc. then rented a couple of bikes and headed out to visit the ruins and generally soak up the atmosphere of this really delightful place. You see a lot of kids here playing a game that is basically hackysack - I assume that this is where it originated. The ruins are amazing, and are justifiably considered to be one of the highlights of Southeast Asia. Hundreds of huge temples in rise every direction, many gilded with gold leaf and reflecting the bright sun.

After a few hours riding through the acres of temples we found ourselves by a huge market. It was one of those Asian markets that is a maze of stalls where you can just wander for hours. We stopped at a small textile stall and were instantly set upon by the staff who, without any English, proceeded to fit us with indigenous apparel. I found myself being fitted for a longee, the traditional men's "skirt", that is worn instead of pants. Laurie was surrounded by three or four enthusiastic women who overwhelmed her with blouse after blouse. This exercise of dressing the gringos immediately drew a crowd that clearly enjoyed the show. I got my longee, and a quick visual instruction session on how to tie the very specific knot that held it up, and was done. Laurie, by this time, was a prisoner of the staff, and the growing audience was treating the whole process as high entertainment. She never actually found anything that really fit, but the show we gave to the locals was definitely worth the stop.

We found a really cool little makeshift cafe that served chai and samosas, and was equipped with dollhouse size chairs that we squeezed into for a snack. It's great being in local markets that are not just tourist traps. You can be a bit anonymous, but you also can be the object of fascination. It's pretty neat and you get a better sense of the people you meet because they're not driven by the tourism dynamic. We left the market, and spent the rest of the day shopping for lacquer, and viewing the ruins.

The highlight was the view from one of the highest stupas at sunset. This temple overlooks the whole plain of Bagan and gives you a stunning view of the area. One day in Bagan was all we could afford, with our comprehensive agenda, so we hired a car the next morning and set off to Inle Lake with the hopes that we would return one day to Bagan.

The trip to Inle Lake was outrageous. We cut a west to east swath through the countryside, and got a great look at rural Myanmar. We stopped at a small family operation that had created a cottage industry from the palm trees, which are everywhere. Apparently they rent a plot, build a hut and work the trees till they have to move on to a new location. They scurry up the palm trees and send down a rain of coconuts, which are turned into several products, and set taps in the tree for the sap. They make sugar candy from the sap (its like maple sugar) wine from the milk (terrible wine) and palm oil. They have a single water buffalo that is prodded into walking an endless, dazed circle around a press set up in front of their spartan thatched hut. This effort yields palm oil drop by drop. A cheroot smoking old woman sits inside the hut making tiny baskets from palm leaves in which she puts the palm sugar candy. Very efficient and amazingly low tech. No plumbing, electricity, car books etc. etc. just a basic operation that allows them to eke out a living year after year, generation after generation.

We stopped at Mt. Popa, a Buddhist monastery that sits on top of the core of an ancient volcano, and is considered to be the home of the nats (spirits). The rest of the volcano has long since deteriorated leaving a cylinder of volcanic rock jutting straight up about 800 feet. You ascend about 500 asymmetrical steps to reach the top and are entertained en route by the scores of monkeys who live on the mountain. The view from the top was outstanding, and you couldn't help but reflect on the amazing amount of manual labor required to get building materials to the top. Another example of the amazing strength and tenacity of the Asian people. We met two Americans from California and had lunch together. They were two of only three Americans we met in Myanmar.

We got back on the road and proceeded to have a 12-hour adventure on asphalt. One narrow strip of blacktop, wide enough for about a car and a half is shared by virtually every form of locomotion. Chickens, goats, cows, kids, ox carts, cars, small trucks, big trucks, busses, trucks that have loads so big that they are as tall as they are long, and busses that are packed with women inside and men (like 20 or 30) hanging on the top seemingly unconcerned with the relative danger of their perch. It's no secret that Asian drivers all seem to be equipped with a gyroscope that keeps them from bumping into each other on the road, but this trip was the rest of the story. As we got into the rugged mountains of central Myanmar the road got narrower, and a true road dance developed. The road became and endless series of switchbacks, and the truck traffic seemed to increase. The little horn jab that Asian drivers continually use to warn other drivers and pedestrians of their presence became a vital tool. Our driver would get behind one of these big rice transport trucks and honk. The truck would hit his left turn signal if it was safe to pass, and the right signals if there was oncoming traffic. A simple maneuver but the something you would never see in the US. Trucks and cars sharing the road, without rancor? Unlikely. And when the car actually passed the truck - it always seemed like there simply was not enough room, but it always squeaked by. This went on for hours and it's truly like a dance - the horn, the turn signals, and the actual passing procedure. It's incredibly fluid and no one ever gets pissed off or visibly frustrated.

The trip took us through several tiny villages that have probably been there for generations, and have watched progress from afar as the road has become more traveled. These villages are just a collection of thatched huts, and apparently have very limited amenities. No electricity, plumbing, motor vehicles. Right out of National Geographic. Laurie capitalized on the several stops we made, and followed her photographic instincts, getting shots of the villages their inhabitants. I hope her photos capture the charm and beauty of these exotic places - she seems to know what subjects will make a compelling composition. Riding through the remote highland villages with a new moon overhead was yet another of the heady, sensory rushes that are defining our journey.

After many hours of switchbacks and mountain roads that always seemed to go up, never reciprocating and heading back down into a valley, we arrived at Nwange She, a small town on the edge of Inle Lake. We checked into the Four Sisters Inn, which was recommended by the couple we met at Mt Popa. We got the only vacant room out of eight and were lucky to get it; it had just been vacated by some folks who had been lodging there for several weeks.

The Inn turned out to be a real find. It is run by three sisters and a brother (sister number four is married now in Germany) and they were the warmest most accommodating people you would ever want to meet. Yi Yi, the oldest sister and her brother performed in their restaurant each evening. Yi Yi sang and played the finger cymbals while her brother played the Burmese mandolin, a six-string lute shaped instrument that is played like a lute. The ensemble was completed with a bamboo xylophone, played by the hotels designated taxi driver. There is a lot off music in Myanmar daily life. Particularly singing. It's not uncommon to see a lone Burmese walking down the street unselfconsciously singing and it's about as common to see an overloaded trishaw or truck full of young Burmese singing at the top of their lungs.

Inle Lake is a beautiful mountain lake ringed by mountains that rise about 1000 feet over the lake. There are several communities that are constructed on stilts, and sit over the lake quite a ways from the shoreline. We hired a longboat with an outboard motor and took a tour of the lake. The boats are about 24ft long and have extremely arched bows. We visited a floating market in one of the waterbound villages and were met by a small flotilla of souvenir vendors - the legit vendors had already packed it in for the day. The village is home to a fairly elaborate cottage industry that produces a variety of silver jewelry and the Shan shoulder bags, which are famous throughout Myanmar. We bought some stuff - mostly Shan bags, and realized later that we had paid fairly inflated prices. It seems that their hierarchy of pricing is out of whack. You can actually buy stuff in the airport for less than you would pay in the village where it's produced. Maybe it's because when you're in the village you are a half-mile out in a lake with no real opportunity to shop around. It's still really cheap no matter where you buy it though.

One of the highlights of Inle Lake is a huge floating garden where acres of crops are grown hydroponically. We also stopped a waterbound monastery that sits on stilts way out in the middle of the lake. Its big claim to fame is this one monk who teaches a bunch of cats to jump through four-foot hoops. So? Back in Nwange Shwe we walked for a while, and ended up at a nice little Chinese restaurant. Pretty clean, and great food.

We went back to the Four Sisters in time for their evening concert. The music has a tinkly almost random feel until you realize that the two melody instruments (mandolin and xylophone) were playing these long, non-repetitive melodies in unison, while Yi Yi sings in a chirpy soprano in Burmese about life in the village. We didn't get to jam but we hung around for a while after they played and I got a quick lesson on the Burmese mandolin.

One really endearing quality of the Four Sisters was their egalitarian approach to setting prices. Beyond the price of the room, nothing was fixed. Their rule was "pay what you like". This includes laundry service and even meals! Sit down for a full meal and when you're ready to pay get told "Whatever you like." It's a bit awkward but completely charming. Next morning, xylophone dude put on his cabbie hat and took us to the airport for our flight back to Yangon. Imagine that - a musician who drives a cab.........

Back in Yangon, things seemed pretty familiar by now. It's funny how quickly you get acclimated to a new place. What was alien turf last week smacks of the familiar now! We opted for a room downtown and took a long walk around the city for a last look. The city has received a whitewash in the last few years and you can see where the brush stopped. One block is bright and shiny and the next block is grimy and drab. Like many other Asian cities, Yangon feels entirely non-threatening, even late at night. It's so different from US cities, even though it is a military dictatorship. It's funny, there is very little evidence of the military presence. They say there are lots of informers and secret service agents out there, keeping the edge of fear in people, especially if they interact with westerners. However, you don't see a lot of machine gun toting block captains like you might expect. In private, people are eager to talk about the government - they all hate it. Everybody. And most people are convinced that Auk Auk Sue Lee will return to power to restore democracy in Myanmar. She still lives in Yangon and bides her time while languishing under house arrest. Myanmar has been a wonderful experience. There is enough of a tourism industry to make it relatively easy to get around but it still is not jaded like Thailand or Indonesia. Now on to India.
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INDIA
First impressions? Well, the flight from Bangkok to Calcutta made it pretty clear that the Indian folks were cut from a different cloth than their gentle Burmese neighbors. The plane was loaded with a very animated, vociferous group who had no compunction about letting the flight attendants know how upset they were by the 45 minute delay in taking off. The flight attendants were just as assertive in reminding their charges to shut up. That foreign guy paranoia started to set in again when it became apparent that all these guys on the plane seemed to know each other - all 350 of them. It's really interesting. In a similar situation in the US, a common issue, like a plane being delayed, might give a group of strangers a base of commonality, but you're more likely to see small knots of people achieve some sort of solidarity, than the whole group. Maybe it has to do with a culture being thousands of years old; there is more of a cultural base of commonality or community than a country that's only a couple of hundred years old. Anyway, all these guys (almost all guys) hollered back and forth like they were a football team on tour. We sat on the sidelines and waited for takeoff.

There are some subtle things that reminded you that India has a billion people. The airplane had a slightly seedy quality - the meal trays were all loose, the fabric on many of the seats was threadbare - all pointing to the fact that everything in India is used up to the max. Things just wear out faster than they can be fixed or replaced. Hope that doesn't apply to the planes motors.

We landed in Calcutta and suffered through an interminable customs queue then went outside to find a cab. There were several westerners all heading to the same part of town - Sutter St. - and we attempted to get a carpool going. We ended up just getting our own ride and got our first wild cab ride in India. These guys are nuts! Take a New York cabbie, pump him full of steroids, and you will approximate the intensity that these guys bring to the road. It's amazing because, like their counterparts in Southeast Asia, they're really good drivers. They remain pretty emotionless while they are careening around busses, pedestrians, cows, (COWS? Oh Yeah . we're in India now.) but they drive like lunatics, constantly blasting their horns to alert their fellow motorists that they are about to squeeze their vehicle into a space that might accommodate a bicycle, and then pop out in front of the fray to head towards the next confrontation.

We had agreed on 50 rupee when we negotiated with the driver, but as soon as we started our trip we were stopped by a couple of cops who apparently got some baksheesh from our driver, possibly because he picked us up from the street, not from the queue of cabs waiting in turn at the curb. It was never really clear since the driver didn't speak much English, but he kept insisting that the fare was 70 RP. Whatever. We zipped through a blur of Calcutta's cityscape that gave us a Picasso like view of the incredibly crowded, dilapidated city, and pulled into our destination, Sutter Street, the tourist ghetto. We went ahead and paid him the 70 RP rupee. It's such a silly exercise. We negotiate and bargain and make a big deal out of getting a fair price for things and not getting taken advantage of, and we end up saving thirty cents. In retrospect, it seems insignificant, but when you're trying to cut a deal whether it's cab fare or a pair of pants, it becomes a matter of principle and it's also relative to what things are valued at here. We have to relinquish the standard that we use back home because it just doesn't apply here. We also have to remember that as far as people here are concerned, we are very rich.

Sutter Street. We landed with our 40lb packs, plus the two boxes of "stuff" that we didn't get to mail from Myanmar. Plopped down at night in the middle of an alien city. Pretty cool actually. We slogged up and down the guesthouse strip, which is Sutter St., and finally settled on the Tourist Inn. We looked at a couple of dumps and ended up at the Tourist Inn thanks to the salesmanship of a little guy who approached us on the street without the typical bullshit that most touts offer. Not much of a room, but Mahoub, our erstwhile innkeeper, did put fresh sheets on the bed (stained but fresh) and he did seem nice enough and the place seemed secure enough.......

Sutter St is Calcutta's version of Bangkok's, Kao San Rd, only not as annoying. It's a jarring mix of open-air shops, guesthouses, a wide range of street residents, westerners and opportunists. It's quite loud and quite dirty. The billion people thing. You see shopkeepers dusting off the sidewalks in front of their shops, and people in general are clean and groomed, but there seems to be this patina of grime and dust over everything that creates the illusion that everything is dirty. It's not like Indians are dirty or have no pride. Actually, Hindus are almost obsessive in their cleanliness- it's just so many people (and cows) milling about that everything gets overused, worn out and dirty.

The Calcutta rickshaw wallahs are a sight to behold. It's a little disturbing to watch these skinny, barefoot men hoist up their rickshaw and run through the chaotic streets with a couple of passengers in tow. The say that these guys are generally unhealthy and don't live that long, but if people don't ride in their cabs, they starve. That's a tough one. We opted to eschew the rickshaws, however. So did Ghandi, who called the occupation inhuman.

We got settled in and went out to find some food. Lots of little eateries on Sutter St - some not much more than a bench and a lassie stand - some with booths and waiters - and lots of sidewalk culinary surprises. And yes, no shortage of beggars. More on that later. We ate at the Blue Sky Cafe, which lived up to the Lonely Planet's endorsement for decent quality, went back to The Tourist Inn and got our first of many incomplete nights of sleep in India.

Our first full day on the Indian sub continent also resonated with the Lonely Planet's assessment: India frustrates, challenges and stimulates. Yup, all of the above. The endless flow of people and vehicles, the cacophony they create and the constant barrage of street vendors and beggars is pretty overwhelming. It's not dangerous, just nuts. We had two objectives on this fine day: resolve some flight issues with Indian Air, and mail the two parcels from Myanmar that had become millstones to our streamlined travel sensibilities. We had to reconfirm a bunch of flights and find an alternative for the Varnassi - Kathmandu flight that had been cancelled due to the recent hijacking. We were told that Nepal Air would honor the tickets and so after a brisk walk downtown to the Nepal Air office, we were informed that Nepal Air doesn't have any flights from Varanassi to Kathmandu. OK. We'll just go back to Indian Air tomorrow, get a refund and buy a bus ticket. Whatever.

Chore number two still loomed large and we followed our cryptic map to Park Street, where the "efficient" Post Office was located. The deal in India for sending parcels is, well, interesting. You don't just put your stuff in a box; you have to get it sewn up. That's right. You have to take your parcel to a tailor who will fit it with muslin and sew it up then you can send it...... The Park St Post office was reputed to have a muslin wrapping station in the facility. Well, not exactly in the facility. As we approached the post office we were set upon by one of the street merchants who lined the sidewalk. He, apparently, was the muslin wrapping service dude. and he instructed us to go and get the parcel forms from the counter. The problem was that we were early. It was 1:50 and the place didn't open until two. Long queues at every window with tired, uninterested clerks behind the glass waiting for two o'clock, when postal commerce would begin. Well, our little wrapping pal squoze up to the head of the line (no one seemed to mind) and began hollering at the brain dead clerk who actually responded and handed over the forms.

Back on the sidewalk, we filled out the forms while our wrapping dude (now a consummate professional) got busy. An hour later as he was finishing our second parcel he did look a bit concerned, and he informed us that the Post Office closed at 3:00 PM! What!? One hour a day? And not only that. It seems that any package going overseas must also have a sealer administered to all the seams at intervals of about four inches. Our wrapping guy was decidedly low-tech and was trying to hold a candle in the wind to melt his wad of sealing wax, toasting his fingers in the process. When he finally did manage to get a puddle of melted sealing wax on a seam, he would squash it with a coin, toasting his fingers in the process. (Uh, have you ever, like, done this before?) We were getting a bit testy by this time. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THE POST OFFICE IS CLOSING? AND WHY ARE YOU TAKING SO LONG!!?? He ran inside and convinced the clerk to stay open while he finished fusing his fingers to our parcel. Oh yes!, and by the way, the sealing wax process costs another 50 rupee! OK, OK, OK, just get it sent! We did get it sent despite the Neanderthal technique of our wrapping dude and the narrow window of opportunity that the Post Office offers and were getting a sense of how this strange country operates. Frustrates, challenges and stimulates.

The low tech versus high tech dynamic is evident throughout the developing world. Like the travel agent in Yangon who could check flight schedules with her computer but relies on a car battery to keep it on. Like the modern skyscrapers in Calcutta that are wrapped with a flimsy bamboo scaffolding which workers scurry around on with no platforms, elevators or safety harnesses. Like the modern subway that runs through Calcutta that was dug by hand, with shovels. It was the same with the Post Office. A modern, efficient postal network that can zip packages all over the world yet it requires a primitive, painstakingly slow preparation for each parcel. It can really confound, you but it's also part of the joy of the whole experience.

We had planned on hooking up with some other travelers we met for a little jam session, but opted just to have dinner with a few of them. Mike, a Canadian hippie who was packing a guitar, Kim, a woman of Korean/Dutch descent and an Israeli guy whom was in Calcutta to work at one of the Mother Teresa hostels. They, like many people we meet, are on extended itineraries, ranging from months to years. Kim was also planning to spend some time as a volunteer in a hostel. There is huge population of miserably poor in Calcutta and Mother Teresa's seems to be the most active agency in providing relief. The problem is that it is staffed entirely by volunteers who seem to come and go on a daily basis. There is little training and with the revolving door of workers, very little organization. The hostels also only accommodate those who are terminally ill, and thousands of people who need medical attention are turned away until their malady becomes terminal. The irony is that the largest medical college in India is in Calcutta and there is no set program for students to spend time in the ghetto clinics. It is good, however, to see people like these making a commitment to stay long enough to do some good.

Next morning we went back to the Indian Air office to get a refund for our cancelled flight. ButNooo.......
.we were told that we could get a refund from our travel agent in the US where we got the ticket. Whatever. Frustrates, challenges and stimulates We need to figure out the telephone thing here. Might save us some time here and there. We decided to ignore the "frustrates" and focus on the "stimulates".

We went on a long walk through the city and it was amazing. The endless crush of man and machine is , well, endless..... We had dinner on a rooftop restaurant that must have assumed that just because you were high up in altitude, you could charge higher prices........

Went back to the Tourist Inn - we had to leave at 4:45AM and talked to Mahoub for a while before turning in. Turns out that he was born in Myanmar and came to India as a child. He went to college in Varnasi where he studied English and had raised a family. His wife was deceased, and his family lived far south. He sent them money regularly and was also custodian of his brother, who was mentally disabled. His brother was an odd one. He slept most of the time in the stairwell of the hotel. Sometimes he would be lying on the landing but sometimes he'd by stretched out on the stairs. Just lying at a weird angle, saying nothing, just glaring at people who walked up and down the stairs. Mahoub shared the late night sleeping spot with him by the front door of the hotel behind the metal grate that was shut each night. A strange pair indeed, but more going on with that you might assume you first meet him on the street soliciting his guesthouse.

Asians in general seem to be able to sleep anywhere. Last year a Thai guy laughingly told me that Thai people could sleep anywhere, at any time. It's true. And it seems to hold true all over Asia. Catnaps in rickshaws, a worker curled up under a tree with no groundcover, snoring on a mat by the door of the Tourist Inn. The box spring/mattress combination is just not that much of a requirement for a good nights sleep. Mahoub promised he would roust us at 4:45 but I guess he was so comfortable on the cold lobby floor that he didn't hear his alarm and we had to rely on our own abrasive alarm clock. We ended up waking him so he could unlock the security grate and let us out. Our cab arrived and we honored Mahoub with the baksheesh that he had been hinting at for the last day or so, plus some rupee for his partner, who slept upstairs. We said goodbye to the scoundrel, and headed off to catch our flight.

Sitting in the Mumbai (Bombay) airport waiting for a connecting flight and hoping that things go a little smoother than our flight from Calcutta to Mumbai. We had arrived at the Calcutta airport with plenty of time to deal with the lines. We sent our luggage through the x-ray machine and got in the ever-growing queue to the ticket counter. Thirty minutes later we got to the counter and discovered that we had sent our stuff through the wrong x-ray machine and had to go back and send our packs through the Indian Air machine. We got back to the counter, got our boarding passes and headed to the security check. We pulled our film out to get it hand checked so as not to have it ruined going through a x-ray machine. I made myself understood and handed it around to be hand checked. Laurie on the other hand was on the verge of causing an international incident.

The big deal seemed to be the battery in her camera. For some reason my customs guy didn't seem to care. I even had to snap a picture, I guess to show that it wasn't a detonator. But the agent checking Laurie's stuff was adamant about bringing a battery onto the plane. Whatever. We had to go out onto the tarmac and deposit the battery into her checked luggage. All this time I still had mine in my camera, in my fanny pack. Pretty weird.

Our last obstacle overcome, we boarded the bus to the plane. We prepared to board and discovered that the ticket counter clerk had inadvertently stamped the boarding passes from Mumbai to Goa and our relevant documents were not validated. Shit! A truck comes rumbling out and we are taken back to the terminal where at least a dozen uniforms jabbered and pointed and furrowed their brows and otherwise expressed their consternation at this heinous breach of security. All the while we are observing the fact that "Oh, the plane is supposed to leave, like, right now." We later discovered that all Indian flight get delayed for one reason or another, but at that time we were a bit concerned. After about fifteen minutes we got our boarding passes fixed and were ferried back to the plane, which was waiting for us. We took off and now we are one step closer to Goa.

Goa. No problems on the second leg of the flight and we landed without incident. We met a young Australian couple at the airport who were willing to share a cab to the beach, a 30 minute ride. We chose Anjuna Beach from the many beaches in Goa because it was more remote and less Bali like than most of the others. It also has a huge flea market every Wednesday, which was the day we arrived. Our cab mates opted for a rooftop dorm style accommodation, which cost about fifty cents a night and looked pretty gross. We moved on. We found a nice bright, airy room right off the beach called Mary's Holiday Home and settled in for a couple of days of relaxation at the beach.

We walked down the beach to the flea market past pushy vendors, drug touts, moto touts, hippies with dreads and beachfront bars blaring reggae and techno. The flea market was basically a couple of acres of hippie junk. The beach, by the way, was beautiful. Palm fringed, ringed by volcanic hills, and no shells. It appeared to be something of a tropical paradise until you were surrounded by a bunch of sorry assed, sari dressed beach vendors. "Hey, hello, what you want, blah, blah, blah...." The beach has an unsavory rep for theft and assault at night so it's pretty much off limits after dark, except of course for the full moon rave parties that bring legions of ecstasy drunk freaks out to twirl on the beach.

We found a place called the Why Knot and had a fairly disappointing meal. Disappointing? Well, later that night we both were hammered with a violent bout of "Delhi belly". I became a Roman candle lit from both ends and Laurie didn't fare much better. Next morning I was as sick as I can ever remember being. Raging fever, chills, cramps. Basically I just stayed in bed for the next two days and that was that. Laurie, sick as she was, took over as my private nurse, bringing me food and getting me to walk in the sun for a bit. I can't say that I missed a whole lot - they say that Goa is not the real India -just like Bali is not representative of the real Indonesia. So, we left Goa anxious to get back on track to the real India in Rajistan. After another series of lines, searches and explaining our film issues, we landed in the small 1500-foot high airport that serviced Udaiper.

We took a cab (fixed rate - no haggling) and headed to the old city. Udiaper, like any city, has miles of uninteresting suburbs - uninteresting if you take the ubiquitous cows and occasional camel for granted - leading to the real heart of the city. It's the Indian equivalent of Rt 1. The old city, however, is a jewel. It's very old with tight, erratic streets filled with the eye-popping normalcy of an Indian town. All varieties of vehicles, animals and animal powered vehicles competing for the one lanes worth of road. Udaiper matched my mental picture of what I expected India to look like, and the whole scene looked like a Gary Larson cartoon.

We hit a bit of gridlock as we wound our way through the ancient streets. We found ourselves at a standstill that was more like a stalemate. No discernable lane orientation. Dozens of vehicles, both diesel powered and protoplasm powered, all bunched together with absolutely no where to go. Not an inch separated the cluster of vehicles. Our driver kept remarking how stupid the people were and he didn't even speak English, so I guess he felt pretty strongly about it. Slowly the jigsaw puzzle started to give and one by one the participants puled back, inched forward until one by one everyone got through. Aside from observing some laws of physics being broken, it was another example of the give and take that exists in Asian driving. No one seemed upset except for our driver and I think his comments were just for our benefit.

Udaiper is an exotic, romantic city with legions of hawkers and vendors adding to the din and general sensory overload. They're pretty aggressive but not nearly as annoying as in Goa. Maybe we're just getting acclimated to this constant of Indian culture. We got a room at the Gangour Hotel, an imposing Gothic structure that has the appearance of a medieval, Arabian compound. It was a bit drafty and pretty noisy, but had a lot of charm and at 100rp ($2.30) a night, seemed like a pretty good deal. Up a couple of flights of narrow, stone steps was a rooftop restaurant (a very popular theme in India) that commanded a great view of the city and the lake which was home to a restored palace - now a 5 star hotel. Quite beautiful, though. There are many rooftop restaurants in Udaiper and every one of them shows James Bond's Octopussy, every night. Part of the film was shot here and the good merchants of Udaiper have been capitalizing on that bit of celebrity for some 20 years now. We ate there the first night and had some...soup....OK....potato thingies.......OK.....palek paneer.....Nah.......an egg roll.......nah.....too weird. Their idea of an egg roll was a huge burrito like pastry filled without three pounds of some kind of vegetable goo.......nah.

Udaiper turned out to be quite a score for Laurie. She managed to acquire a whole pile of dresses, skirts, blouses and pants either made from scratch or altered from the rack in one day. We also found a little jewelry shop that had some really nice stuff, which we loaded up with. The merchants who we dealt with were extremely nice and, contrary to the Lonely Planets assessment of the city, were not hard core bargainers. While there were many merchants who would rise to the occasion and bargain like crazy, many shops actually posted signs that said "fixed prices". As much as I enjoy the animated bargaining process, it was nice to be able to browse quietly without being continually hammered by a salesperson. We left our jeweler friend a CD and continued touring the old city.

While wandering through the old city, I discovered a tiny music shop called "Hare Krishan Musical Instruments." "Tiny," meaning about 10 x 10 feet. The shop's walls were lined with an array of Indian instruments, plus a couple of guitars. There were a couple of men inside and I recognized one from a nearby shop where I had bought some shirts earlier. He remembered me and introduced me to his brother, Gopal Krishan, the shop's owner. Gopal asked me if I played and told him I was a guitarist. He handed me a guitar, a knockoff of a Gibson called a "Givson," and I played a couple of choruses of "Ain't Misbehavin'." When I finished, the two brothers nodded and murmured their approval. I asked Gopal what he played and he reached for an ornate sitar that was leaning in a corner. After tuning the multi-stringed beast for about ten minutes, he broke into a spirited raga. I wondered if the length of a tune should be proportional to the time it takes to tune the instrument, and if that's why ragas are so long...

Gopal proved to be quite accomplished, and as his improvisation developed, I began inserting occasional chord figures on my trusty, old Givson. As I got more comfortable with the feel of the piece, I added more dense accompaniment patterns, even varying the chord structure here and there to underpin his single-note excursions. We seemed to reach a common mind and continued playing uninterrupted for quite some time, shifting dynamics and feel, one leading the other to the point where it became neither a Western nor an Eastern piece of music. We were simply playing together. We finally stopped, grinned, and shook hands, agreeing that we had played well together.

Afterwards, Gopal gave me a quick tour of his shop, demonstrating several of his more arcane items. The squawking "been" (pronounced "bean"), the droning harmonium, and the clacking "cartal," or bones. I asked him about an odd looking conical instrument that was on display. He blushed and said, "Pipe... chillum...." Ohh-kaay.... He played me several excerpts from his CD collection, including cuts by VT Bhatt, the Grammy-winning instrumentalist best known for his collaboration with Ry Cooder. Apparently Gopal is one of Bhatt's students, and is now considered to be one of Udaipur's premiere sitarists.

I left Gopal with a copy of Laurie's and my album and went off to relay the experience to her. A couple of hours later we happened to be on the same street and Laurie stopped and said, "Listen. It's me." Sure enough, over the cacophony of the busy Udaipur street, from a set of speakers in front of the Hare Krishna music shop, for all the world (and cows) to hear, was our music. So now if we ever find ourselves in the office of a major record company and the cigar-chomping record mogul leans across his desk and asks, "So, do you have a following, or what?" we can say, "Well, we're big in Udaiper ....."

While Laurie was ensconced in a little tailor shop, I wandered back toward the Gangaur. When we had first checked in the desk clerk had commented on my guitar and asked if I knew, of all things, "We're Off to See the Wizard". I assured him that I did and promised to play it for him later. He even had some of the lyrics on a piece of paper in his pocket which he immediately displayed. I am continually amzed at the universality of the Wizard of Oz. Everyone has heard it and everyone likes it! So, I went back and played him the tune - very cool - and sang a couple of songs. The crew was amused and told me I was a good singer. Thanks guys!

That night we gave the rooftop restaurant one more try because the were debuting "The World Is Not Enough", in addition to the nightly Octopussy encore. I laughed. I cried. It was everything a James Bond movie should be and the food was much better than the first night. We had soup, potato thingies and chicken tika. No eggroll. Beer is a bit hard to come by in Udaiper (Boo!) so I dug into Laurie's backpack which also serves as a mobile wine cellar for airline wine that she has stockpiled during our trip. I unscrewed the cap and enjoyed a fine vintage, shaken, not stirred, and watched James Bond save the world.

We left Udaiper with good memories, and a bunch of new clothes. It's amazing how quickly they can fabricate an outfit. Laurie got some really nice items. On the bus to Jodphur - a six or seven hour ride that included one flat tire and an industrial strength air horn that sounded like something between an angry car alarm and a Vegas slot machine hitting the jackpot. Like every other mode of transport we have tried - it ran later than scheduled.

We pulled into Jodphur after dark and were instantly surrounded by a mob of hungry, aggressive touts and rickshaw wallahs who were absolutely relentless. We would walk a bit and they would walk right with us. It's impossible to get any straight information in this kind of environment - you're obviously a tourist, new in town and just about anyone you encounter near a bus depot has an agenda. So, you can either find your own way or put yourself in their hands and be prepared to pay more for the hotel they bring you to allow for their commission. Even if you find your own way, one of these guys can follow you and try and take credit for getting you there. It's just an annoyance, but it does make you nuts.

We did actually extricate ourselves from the tenacious touts. We saw a hotel right across the street that was on the Lonely Planet's list. We walked across the street and slipped into the Gobind Hotel. The only room available was a deluxe room that had TV, so we settled in for a night of relative comfort. Well except for the bucket hot water....and no juice from 8-10AM. Laurie has not been feeling well today but nothing like the Goa bug. I've been being a little cautious on the curry intake to maintain my good health. Jopdphur does have a big old fort and a palace and whole section of town painted blue - that's why they call it the blue city, but we were just passing through so we just got a quick glimpse at the imposing structure from our hotels rooftop restaurant. We may come back if we don't stay too long in Jailsamer, but for now we're headed to the golden city of Jailsamer and a camel trek in the Thar Desert.

The flight to Jailsamer was the standard one hour late, and while we waited to board I made another low-tech observation. The cart that was stacked high with passengers luggage was being pulled out to our modern jet airliner - by hand. Crazy. The military presence is much greater here and security gets tighter and tighter as we get closer to Pakistan. The hijacking plus the usual gunrunning and infiltrating that plagues this part of the country seem to have everyone a bit on edge. It's quite a sight to see your plane ringed by soldiers with automatic weapons on guard against hijackers.

We landed in a pretty remote looking airstrip with lots of military everywhere, camouflaged hangers and fighter jets standing by. We got our stuff and went out to do battle with the touts. We actually got a cheap cab into town - 20 RP, but needless to say, once we were underway, the sales pitches started for the Henna Hotel, the place that these guys "represented". We made it abundantly clear that we were going to make our own choice, and that we just wanted to get out at the main gate of the old fort. They seemed ok with that and relented.

The old fort became more visible as we drove towards town and it's just like the Book described it - an ancient, monolithic sandstone colored fort, jutting out of the desert like something out of Arabian Nights. It was quite impressive. We got out right at the main gate and were transported back about 900 years. The fort is huge and there is basically a whole city inside its walls. Laurie was feeling worse and really needed to get some rest. We took a cursory look around and even though there seemed to be an abundance of guesthouses around the fort, decided to give our cab guys a shot. The tout for the Henna Hotel was actually pretty respectful and not too pushy. We followed the directions on the business card they had left us through the winding crowded streets of Jalsamer, and found the luxurious Henna Hotel.

The Henna turned out to be fine. Laurie went right off to bed and I went up to the rooftop restaurant to take in the stellar view of the fort. I hung out with some of the staff and they seemed like a pretty cool group. The hotel was fine except like most places here, was earplug loud -from about 5AM on. Seems they would go to the train station each morning at 5AM to drum up business from the early arrivals.

The big business in Jailsamer is camel trekking. They say that everyone who comes here goes on a trek and they're probably right. So most hotels offer treks as part of their list of services and they all compete for the business. We will probably take a trek with the Henna crew. Laurie rebounded after some rest, and we did Jailsamer. Had a bite at the Henna - eh. We walked the streets and ended up inside the fort. It's pretty amazing - 900 years old - no mortar - and still very much standing. You can get loose yourself in the maze of alleys and lanes inside the fort and always end up back at the gate. It's very exotic except that it's pretty touristed. And it's pretty dirty. And there is cow and dog poop everywhere. But it's 900 years old and it's in India and we're in it! Pretty amazing.

We decided to spam our friends but none of the many cyber cafe's seemed to be able to log on. We finally found a guy who brought us to his house where we did get on line and spammed our list with an update. Fool that I am, I left my daypack in this guy's house and before I even realized that I was without it, he came running down the alley to let me know that I had left it. Well, how about that. Conventional traveler's cynicism says that if you lose sight of your stuff for an instant in India, you lose it. This is true in many instances I'm sure, but the message that gets drilled into your head is that every Indian will take your stuff, given the opportunity. I am happy to say that that is just not true. Most of the people we met (excluding the psyco-touts were basically nice, depsite the macho rather pushy nature of the place, and I am sure that most of them would do the honorable thing if confronted with a choice like this. There are so many Indians who live on or over the edge of poverty that I guess their radar for revenue is always on. Beyond that they're just folks.

Tried a mutton dish for dinner - unchewable. The food here has not been great, but at least it's not making us sick. I sat on the roof and wrote postcards for a while until Mathar, the Henna's manager, joined me. He plopped down a couple of beers and produced a bottle of whiskey and we drank and chatted for a while. Interesting guy. Uneducated, but fairly urbane - speaks half a dozen languages. Seems to have a propensity for luring women travelers into the sack and one such tryst yielded a daughter who is now four and living in Japan. He apparently does visit her occasionally and makes noises about moving there. Stumbled off to bed with an 8AM rendezvous with a camel safari......

8AM. off to the Thar desert. On the way to the camel depot we visited some ruins, a temple and little village that's constructed entirely out of cow shit. OK.......next.........Camels! We converged on the staging area with our trek-mates - a British woman named Kate who was traveling alone, two Indian newlywed and five Koreans led by a disarming, well-spoken guy named Chin. Our guides and pre-historic mounts awaited nearby.

Up close, camels are bizarre creatures - big lower teeth, no upper teeth, webbed feet (for sand travel), and three joints in their rear legs. The way their snout is shaped, it looks like there is a little face on the front of their head, like this little demonic face on a face. Really weird. Someone said that they can yak their esophagus up their throat. I don't know about that, but they do make this loud gurgling sound a lot, that is truly revolting. And they are pretty aloof. But other than that, they're pretty cool. And it's way cool to ride one. You sit way up on top and your legs are spread just a little too far apart and there you go. Trotting through the desert.

We rode through the scrub for a few hours then broke for lunch. Our guides built a fire and prepared a meal of vegetables, potatoes and chapaties. While the chefs worked we hung out and got acquainted with our trekking companions. Shin was a real friendly guy. He was traveling with two sullen young boys, and it seemed that he was doing a friend a favor by taking them along. He had his own kids at home. There were also two young Korean women who Shin had met on route who didn't speak much English. He was very gracious and seemed anxious to engage everyone on the trek in conversation.

Kate, the British woman, was a psychiatric nurse who was traveling for about three months and planned to end up in Australia to work. She was one of several western women we have met who choose to travel alone.

The Indian couple was on their honeymoon. They had married a week earlier and, coincidentally, met on the same day. She (Sandy) had been living a fairly liberated life in London until she turned 27 and was summoned home to meet the husband that was chosen for her. She risked being disowned if she declined the invite. She grudgingly conceded and she came home and now she's married! Wow. They were both real nice and seemed to be trying real hard to get along, so who knows. It's how it's done here except that she had a taste of western freedom. In fact her hubby was overheard admonishing her to stop trying to westernize their marriage. They planned to move to London where I expect she will kick his ass. I wish them luck.

After lunch our hosts washed the dishes - no water, just sand and hand, and we sat around for a while. Got back underway and watched the desert shift from scrub to sand to actual rolling, Sahara like dunes. It's not like this vast expanse of dunes like the Sahara, but once you're in it for a while and you can see dunes in all directions, it's pretty exciting. We dismounted and made camp for the night, walked around the dunes and just soaked up the fact that we were out in the desert riding camels barely ten miles from the Pakistan border.

Our "staff" started preparing our dinner feast (same as lunch) and some of the camel jockeys got the camels to joust and chase each other. This was the high point of their day - spooking the dromedaries. Darkness fell - beautiful clear night, big bonfire, passing the guitar around, couple of beers. Nice time. Shin suggested that Laurie and I play a song for the newlyweds and while I was thinking of an appropriate tune, Laurie suggested "The First Time Ever I Saw Your face." ooooh yeah!

Mathar showed up via jeep and proceeded to hit on Kate, who demurred. He left and we all retired to our respective flat spots. Well, fairly flat on sand is like steep anywhere else, and several times I woke up about 3 feet from where I started. It got a bit chilly, but it was wonderful sleeping under the stars without the typical late night India din.

Breakfast in the dunes consisted of hard-boiled eggs, oats, toast and fruit. We saddled up and started the slow journey back. The group split leaving Laurie, me and Kate to complete the trip together. We plodded through the scrub into some wide-open spaces, saw herds of wild gazelles zipping across the landscape. Took another extended lunch break, but this one was really something.

We stopped in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere at little goatherder's hut. The hut was a straw dome about 15ft in diameter and housed a family of three in the single room. It was a truly spartan existence that was broken by the regular stops by camel trekkers. The young boy who lived there was prepared - he had cokes and beer for sale to the western travelers. We declined and waited for lunch to be served - you guessed it -veggies, potatoes and chapaties. We hung out and played with the goats - some of the younger ones were only a day or two old. Laurie got into some serious bonding with the critters, and one of them became emotionally attached to her daypack. I took a short nap only to awake with one of them standing on my stomach and several others leaning into my face. They would run up the back of one of the reclining camels and one of seemed to have carnal designs on it.

We headed off on our final leg and when we got to the pickup point, I discovered that my camera had disappeared. After a frantic retracing of steps I found it, still in working order with the roll of film still inside. Apparently it had popped out of my pocket when my camel was in a medium gallop, which is a somewhat clunky affair.

Back in the city, we went to a highly recommended restaurant. It was marginal, but we did get to hear a little local music. Four guys sitting on the floor with a kamach (fiddle), drum, cartel (bones) and vocalist. It was good to hear some Indian music that was not in the "classical" domain. I figured that these guys were the Indian equivalent to a local bluegrass band. Same energy and sense of fun.

Next morning we did a final sweep of the shopping district and picked up a few doo-dads before saying goodbye to our pals at the Henna and heading for the airport. Since we were so close to Pakistan, security was ridiculous. We were almost three hours late departing.. After numerous checks and searches etc. etc. we boarded and headed to Jaipur. We had planned to visit Pushkar, but time just didn't allow it.

After arriving in Jaipur, we did the typical tap dance to get from the airport to the city and find a place without the help of the ever helpful and ever present touts. We found the Evergreen Hotel, a huge compound of a hotel that is something of a traveler's mecca. It even has a pool (empty though) and an adjacent restaurant.

Jaipur has lots of people living on the streets whose makeshift homesteads line the sidewalks at night. The city is not horrendously filthy, but the poor are still abundant. Laurie observed that India is not necessarily poorer than other developing countries, it's just the only one with 500 million poor. The sheer numbers make it overwhelming even though the poor in other third world countries are no better off.

There were a bunch of overbearing touts and rickshaw wallahs that hung around outside the Evergreen and it was a challenge to walk out of the hotel to go anywhere. One of them foolishly cornered Laurie and his persistence almost got his butt kicked. She jumped in his face and he wisely backed off. You go girl!

We walked to the walled city - seems that every city in Rajistan has a fort, a palace or a walled in old city. The walled in city of Jaipur is huge and it's basically a city unto itself. We walked past countless shops "Where are you from" "Come here" "Hello, what you want" and ended up in a residential area out of the tourist district. It was a lot different. People said hello. Kids came up too you and shook your hand and didn't ask for rupee's. More proof that once you leave the tourist ghettos, people are just people. We had gotten in on a Sunday and wouldn't you know it - most everything was closed. We seem to do that a lot. We needed to get to a tourist agency to book a train to Agra from Dehli. Later for that.

We decided to check out a Hindi movie. The book advised us to get advance tickets and we found out why. We got to the theater and found a long line that appeared to leed to the ticket window. No one seemed to speak English and so we were never quite sure - there seemed to be a general state of confusion with people trading places in line and cutting in. The line kept getting longer and we still seemed to be at the end. I was getting, how you say?- Frustrated? Challenged? Stimulated? Hah, just kind of pissed off. Then something happened that that is not terribly uncommon in this kind of situation. Some stranger will step up and offer clarity when things get confusing. This guy came over to us and gestured for us to follow. No English, but he saw that we were confused, and well, we did kind of stand out. He brought us around the corner and pointed to a line of women. It was the women's line and it was a bit shorter than the first one. Laurie got into line and I waited to the side. They finally opened the ticket windows and the crowd went wild. Pushing, shoving trying to get to the window. It was getting pretty unruly till a security guard came charging in. This skinny little guy with a broomstick of a billy club actually managed to quell the mob until one of the patrons grabbed his stick and started threatening him with it. The guard got it back and ran the dude off and continued to brandish his weapon at the still unruly crowd. Laurie incredulously asked the woman next to her if it was always like this, and the woman smiled and said yes. The tickets got sold out and we didn't get to see the film, but I'm sure that the altercation that we witnessed was at least as exciting as the movie we missed. We had some great food in Jaipur, did a little shopping and a whole lot of walking. We went to a Pizza Hut just for grins. Pizza Hut is the same anywhere on the planet, except you could get paneer or tikka on the standard pie. And that wraps up our Rajistan experience.

Now on to Dehli, where the pollution is so bad that breathing there is the equivalent to smoking two packs of cigarettes a day. Mmmmm….welcome to flavor country. The Book is full of warnings about coming into Dehli, and the myriad of scams and hassles that greet the first time visitor. We followed the books advice and bypassed the tourism counters that appeared to be legit (hell, they were inside the airport!) and went to a very specific booth that guarantees a fixed rate for a cab ride into town. Apparently people get scammed royally by the tourist counter which must be in collusion with the cabbies.

Anyway, we got into town with no hassle until we got out at the New Dehli train station, which was near the area we were headed for. The tout attack was instantaneous, and even the guy who was riding shotgun in our cab was clamoring for baksheesh. What? You didn't even drive! Get outta here! We shook off the gnat like touts, got our bearings and headed into the Parharganj District - a long narrow street that is bursting with shops, markets and guest houses. It's a never-ending buzz of activity due to its proximity to the train station.

Travelers from all over, many Indian, end up in Parharganj during their journey. It's the closest thing we've seen to Kao San Road so far on this trip. The touts and beggars swarm through this area as the pickings are pretty thick. We did our best to say no (Afraid we're getting good at that), and found the Hotel Star Palace, which met the Book's approval. We checked in and jumped into the street scene of another bizarre Indian city.

Dodged vehicles on the bazaar and headed up town a bit to Connaught Circle, the center of Dehli. It's a shopping and cultural center that is made up of several concentric circles of streets, and offers an abundance of shops and restaurants. Walking to the circle was easy enough but crossing the street to get into the circle was a death-defying proposition. The drivers share the same kind of share the road mentality as other Asian countries but not regarding pedestrians. It's no wonder that at least six people are killed daily in the Dehli traffic!

In our search for fine indigenous cuisine, we discovered another Pizza Hut! Had to try it! It was well worth the generic fare. Half way through our meal, the house sound system was cranked up a couple of notches and the whole staff repaired to the front of the restaurant and performed the Macarena, just badly enough to be surreal. The tune ended and they all jumped back to their stations. Crazy.

Delhi is definitely the most western like place we've seen in India. It has a pretty cosmopolitan feel - like New York and there is much less traditional dress than in Rajistan, especially with women. In fact, there are a lot more women out on the street than in the more traditional areas where the men rule the streets, and the women stay home, barefoot and pregnant cooking up the daily curry.

Walked back to the tourist ghetto, and passed the growing crowds of street people who populate the sidewalks at night. It's pretty grim. The beggar issue is really tough. To give or not to give. They say that giving money perpetuates the trade yet they don't appear to have an abundance of alternatives. There is also hard evidence that many of the beggars who populate the touristed areas work in groups and are an organized industry usually commandeered by a Fagan type of character who ends up with the lions share of the proceeds. You give a bit here and there and it's just about all you can do. Laurie has procured food on several occasions to give to the street people and this is a good, noble way to deal with the issue.

Next day we planned to take a train to Agra and visit the Taj Mahal, but we got a late start and only had one day to do Dehli or Agra, so we blew off the Taj. Just another big ass old building. This gives is another reason to come back......... So, we spent the day in Dehli. Shopped, walked, ate, walked ate, shopped, walked. At one point I had headache, so I went back to the hotel.

Laurie went off on her own and was followed by this one tout who we kept running into and kept declining his services. He became particularly annoying to Laurie and she threatened to call the place. Wonder of wonders. He vanished and we didn't see him again. Although there is not much physical danger (there is always some) it can be pretty disconcerting for a woman to be out solo. Not that it's any different back home - it's actually worse back home - but I guess the familiar lulls us into a false sense of safety.

After dinner Laurie got a take out bag for the street people. She gave it to three kids who seemed to make there home on the bazaar. They were grimy and barefoot and seemed to appreciate Laurie's gesture. We went back to Connaught Circle and walked through endless stalls of street vendors. We took an auto rickshaw back - Laurie had to get back to pick up a blouse that she had made. The rickshaw guy had a sheik friend on board, and it soon became apparent that he was taking an alternate route back to Parharganj. I asked him where he was going, and the sheik told me they had to stop for some whiskey. OK. Apparently his particular brand was hard to find and we zipped from liquor store to liquor store trying to find his brand. We were actually in something of a rush and even though he told me that he would buy me some beer we jumped ship at an intersection and left them to their search.

We jumped into a bicycle rickshaw that got us back in time. Those things take an immense amount of effort and we tipped the guy twice what he asked for. What a gig.

When we got back to the bazaar, the nightly blackout was on and the whole street was buzzing with generators to keep the lights on. Laurie got her blouses, which were extremely well tailored by a very elegant man who exuded confidence and professionalism.

Next morning we headed to Varnasi, our last stop in India. Our trishaw driver must have misunderstood and brought us to the wrong terminal which was 15 minutes from where we were supposed to be, and we were already late. We frantically grabbed another cab and ran into the terminal and...Oh....Oh yeah, we're in India. Everything runs a couple of hours late. Well, good thing for that. The electricity went off one time in the terminal for a few minutes. Hmmm. The Dehli airport - big international depot. Oops, no juice, sorry. Real confidence builder there.

We have gotten decidedly more assertive in getting our film hand checked. Early on it was like , "Excuse me, could I hand this around......please...." Now it's like "this needs to be hand checked" That works much better.

Varnasi. Saving the best for last? Sure, why not.....Typical rickshaw welcome wagon brigade. Did our little "no thank you, we'll just walk" dance for a while and then found a ride into the old city. The driver did his part and dropped us off no where near our destination. Asshole. It was a bit tricky to negotiate the streets there. The signs were in Hindi and the English was weak. We walked the last mile into the old city, and that was worth the price of admission.

As we got into the vicinity on the Ganges and the Ghats we found ourselves locked in a crush of humanity and vehicles like I've never seen. In Dehli it takes twenty minutes to cross the street because you'll get run over. In Varnasi it takes twenty minutes to cross the street because the space is solid, wall to wall, people, cars, cows. This place was packed. And as we moved, inexorably, inch by inch towards the river and hotels, we adopted a single-minded theme. "Must get to river." And pity the stupid little touts who made their advances while we were in this space and got zapped with our tout repelling evil eye and a snarl. "No! Beat it!"

This place is amazing in an overwhelming kind of way. It's the most sacred city in India and thousands and thousands of Hindus come for a ritual bath in the Ganges. Many also come here to die, or to dispose of their dead. If a Hindu dies in Varanassi, it breaks the cycle of reincarnation, and they rise directly into nirvana. Wheeee…..If they die elsewhere and are cremated or otherwise disposed of here, they can be assured of an easy transition to their next incarnation. Simple.

We found a place that commanded a great view of the Ganges and the Dasaswamedh Ghat. The ghats are basically concrete steps that lead down to the river for easy access. We could observe life on the river from our balcony, and it was quite a scene. People draw life from rivers. And it's no different here, except that this river doesn't support life. Its aqua fecal count makes it basically - poison. Yet, Indians bathe, wash their clothes, brush their teeth and generally frolic in the toxic stream. They take their ritualistic bathing very seriously, and there is an endless stream of people immersing themselves in the black water. Men strip down to their underwear, but women must bathe fully clothed. What? It looks really unpleasant, but that's how it's done.

Cows (totally in charge), cow shit (lots), Snake charmers ("You take picture, you pay rupee!") , Bathers (clean? I don't think so). Yeah, maybe we did save the best for last. It's definitely the weirdest.

Varnasi is the silk capital of India, so Laurie was on a mission to have a Punjabi suit made. We found ourselves being led from a little shop down a confusing maze of alleys ("Yup, we're lost now".) to the "warehouse" where they have lots of fabric and a couple of guys to hook you up.

While Laurie was perusing, I hung out with the 15 year old kid who led us to the silk Mecca. He spoke seven languages, including Japanese and learned all but English from tourists! He was probably a member of Future Touts in school. His goal was to be versed enough in astrology to sell the service to tourists. Bright kid. He wound us through the maze back to our hotel and nice as he was, I declined his offer for a guided tour the next morning.

Next morning we hiked over to Manikarnika Ghat, which is the main burning, or cremation ghat. Sixty to ninety bodies are cremated there each day. As we approached the ghat, a wizened old man greeted us and proceeded to explain the process that we were witnessing. He was an untouchable (Yes, I did want to touch him to see what would happen. But, I didn't.) and he told us that all the people handling the dead were untouchables. They do this work to rack up karma points that will insure they will come back as a better bug in their next incarnation.

We went up in this tower that afforded a view of the whole scene - bodies being prepared, pyres burning. It's OK to observe the scene, but cameras are prohibited. We complied. The place that we were standing was actually a hospice for old women who had no family and were preparing to die. They apparently had made the determination that death was imminent, and so they came to Varnasi to die and break the cycle of reincarnation.

Our Elliot Ness guy told us that sometimes women end up staying there for quite a long time. I guess predicting your own death without hard medical data can be pretty speculative. There were several other similar hospices nearby for people of varying social standing - all filled with people who were waiting to die. So when does the sales pitch start? Well, Elliot assured us when he latched on to us that this whole place was sacred, and did not have any commercial association. Whatever. But, he did go off on a little spiel about how weddings and funerals are the two big expenses in an Indian's life and that the wood for a funeral pyre costs 6000 rupee and that the people in the hostel where we were relied entirely on the generosity of, how you say, tourists, to accumulate enough timber for a decent send off. OK, Sure, OK, we'll probably make an offering on the way out..........But of course it's not required...........And by the way, if someone can't afford a pyre, they tie a heavy rock around them and toss them into the beautiful Ganges, about 100 yards from the bathers.........

We observed this bizarre scene for a while, watching pyres burn, and bodies being prepared for cremation. They don't allow women near the area (live ones, that is) since their emotional outbursts of grief can disrupt the spirits transition to wherever they are going. I wouldn't expect anything less from a culture that holds an elephant headed boy as the god of wisdom and prosperity. When we got ready to go, Elliot held out his hand and said, "Well?.... baksheesh?" Well, sure. Laurie gave him 50rp. He looked pretty distressed and made some comment that seemed to indicate that it wasn't enough. He turned to me and cocked his head. "And you?" Sorry pal, we're a unit. No separate checks. In writing this, it sounds like we've gotten pretty callous, but it's just the way it's pitched. Charge admission, or have a donation box with an explanation. Don't get real solemn and say that there is no commercial motivation behind their presentation, then get pissed off when we don't make an offering. Call a spade a spade and we'll play. If I was the Karma Czar, I'd give him a few points for hitting us up for rupee but he'd lose a few for his methods.

We got our packs and wound our way through the maze of alleys to the silk shop, to pick up Laurie's custom made outfit, before heading out of town. We got the deal done, and got one of the silk wallah's henchmen to lead us back to the main bazaar to find a cab to the bus station. A very elegant woman was standing nearby and confided to Laurie that our guide would mislead us, and suggested that we follow her. She was also going to the main bazaar. We followed her, to the chagrin of our guide, and wound our way through the maze back to the street. She led us to a couple of trishaws and talked briefly in Hindi to the drivers before settling on one. She indicated that this one would charge a fair price. By this time our guide was back and immediately started asking for remuneration. For what? Who knows. Who cares. As we were tying our stuff to the back of the rickshaw our samaritan elaborated, and told us that it makes her very angry to see her fellow countrymen take advantage of tourists, and she intervened on their behalf whenever possible. What a treat to meet someone like that. She demurred when I tried to take her picture, but she still left an indelible memory.

Our trishaw guy still tried to inflate the price on route to the bus station, but we said No, No, No! We still tipped him well - it really is hard work.

Last deal in India. Finding a bus to Sunauli and then another bus to Pokhara, Nepal. Not too much trouble. Minimal English, but the word Sunauli, and a bit of pointing and gesturing got us aboard a commuter bus bound for the India/Nepal border. I must say that as interesting and exciting as India was, I (we) were not too sad about leaving. It was been wonderful, but exhausting.

There was a guy on the bus who spoke English, which was a good thing, because the ticket taker felt inclined to converse with me in Hindi. Our English speaker translated occasionally. The ticket dude kept getting in my face and gesticulating wildly which would incite the rest of the passengers to uproarious laughter. He apparently wanted me to take a picture, but it was never clear of what. He finally got the driver to stop the bus and he signaled me to come up front and shoot a picture. I thought he meant the driver so I took a picture. The driver's expression told me that he was not the intended subject. What the ticket guy wanted was for me to take a picture of him with whole gang in the back of the bus. OK. Snap. No one budged or smiled and I went back to my seat. And now I have a picture of our bus mates and crazy ticket due. Crazy.

The bus lurched along pretty good except that every time the engine was shut off it had to be push started. Really. A half a dozen guys would jump out and push the bus about two feet and it would fire right up. The ride was interminable with an occasional stop at a bleak little village for a rest stop and an occasional roadblock that didn't ever seem to have any relevance to anything. Just road blocks. Stop for a while then go. Whatever.

Over the course of our journey, ticket guy got drunk and passed out. One of the passengers felt it was his duty to smack him, I mean smack him, till he woke up. I don't know if he was supposed to stay on the bus for the whole trip, but he ended getting off somewhere in the middle of the night, and we never saw him again.

We made one pit stop and Laurie, while looking for a toilet, inadvertently stepped ankle deep into an open sewer. Fortunately the smell of raw sewage is not that unusual in Asia, so the rest of the ride wasn't too awful bad. Laurie was pretty embarrassed though.

Way later in the night, about 4AM the bus stopped. We figured we were somewhere near Sunauli but had no clue as to getting lodging that late, and besides, we were going to leave again in just a few hours. No one spoke English, so we couldn't get any real advice, so we did what the remaining 15 or so passengers did. We rolled out our sleeping bags and took a nap. Two hours later, early morning, and we were up and out of the bus. We were approached by a guy who offered a bus ride to Pokhara. Too tired to shop around, we said, "Sure, where's the border?" We walked about a hundred yards or so, stopped to fill out some immigration forms and stepped across the border into Nepal.

NEPAL
After about an hour wait, we threw our packs on the roof and boarded a bus for Pokhara, Nepal, which was only one more ten-hour bus ride away. The bus was supposed to be a tourist express bus - no stops along the way. Not. Stopped a bunch and packed 'em in. We just weren't in the mood to seriously shop for the right bus after our two hours of sleep and I guess the bus touts at the border are well aware of this. Not a big deal though - the bus was pretty comfortable and the scenery was pretty righteous. We did make one tactical blunder and forgot the Book's advice to sit on the left side of the bus. The view from the left was outrageous and the view from the right was a little sawed off.

We drove through what I figured were the foothills of the Himalayas and they were quite stupendous in their own right. We stopped for lunch at a roadside café that served the Nepalese staple - dahl, vegetables and rice. It was all they served and it was pretty good.

Got into Pokhara and discovered that the Nepalese cabbies were just as aggressive as their Indian counterparts, and after fending off a small mob of them, got one of them to take us to several hotels to compare prices. We actually scored large. Being off-season, rates were slashed and we got a $30 room for $10. It was a pretty nice room. It looked like most of the places in town were pretty OK. No heat, but apparently that's standard here. It was raining when we pulled into town, something of an anomaly for this time of year, so everything had a gray pall over it. But when it began to clear up it became apparent that Pokhara was quite a charming little town.

The tourist area is set on the shore of a beautiful lake that is ringed by mountains that rise about 3000ft from the shore. And peeking from behind those hills is the Annapurna range of the Himalayas. With their stark snow and rock profile reflecting the sun, they look illuminated, like a ridge of light hovering just beyond the town

We hung around in town all day and observed that it was a bit like Taos, New Mexico. Not as artsy, but that hip, young mountain vibe is real prevalent. Most people who come here are here to trek and you see scores of westerners all duded up in hiking attire en route to the giant Annapurnas. We're not here long enough to go on a long trek, but we'll probably take some kind of overnight hike and get a bit closer to the mountains.

Pokhara is pretty relaxed at this time of year, but it probably turns into a zoo in the prime trekking season. The people here are definitely set up to do business with westerners but they do so with a bit more dignity than their southern neighbors. We did a little shopping and soaked up the friendly, relaxed ambiance that the town projects. It really is a lovely place and the food's pretty good.

We've been going for some of the western dishes that are available everywhere and even though you often don't get what you thought you ordered, it's usually pretty good. A lot of bars and restaurants show bootleg US first run movies, and there is quite a variety to choose from. We saw Man in the Moon. Good movie. It really has solidified Jim Carey's reputation as a serious actor.

Our plan was to check out of our hotel and hike up a nearby mountain to Sarankot, a little hilltop village, where you can get a great panoramic view of the Annapurnas. The hike is fairly easy - most of it is on a road and the view keeps unfolding as you get higher. The valley spreading out below and the snow capped mountains always above you. This is a well-traveled tourist path and many touts and kids lay in wait. "Gimme, Gimme, Gimme....rupee, school pen, where you from.....hello..." It's a shame because these are not real impoverished kids scrapping for a few rupee or some food. It's almost a game for some of them. It's just an ugly byproduct of tourism, and situations like this make a case for limiting tourism. I'm really beginning to see how tourism can be socially as well as ecologically damaging in countries like Nepal. The irony is that tourism does infuse a lot of money into the economy It also creates a simple equation for a lot of opportunists: westerners = money. "Gimme, gimme,gimme........" It's really disheartening because it basically makes you more guarded and less friendly to anyone who approaches you. If someone makes some social overture, you retreat into a tourist cocoon because if you as much as say hello, you have opened a dialog, which is great if some one really wants to interact. But it's really hard to extinguish a dialog with a tenacious tout. "Hello, where you from"etc. etc. Then comes a pitch to sell something or get you into a guesthouse and then this nice like cultural exchange goes south. I'm not complaining - as a matter of fact, I'm having a great time - it's just an observation on a reality of this type of travel.

The road gave way to steps that wound up the hill through Sarankot, a tiny little village that really felt like the top of the world. These people are incredibly hardy. Kids run up and down the hill that has us wheezing and sweating. Much of this country is mountainous, yet it's an agrarian culture, so all of the farms are on the steep hillsides. They are all terraced and stepped to facilitate growing crops. The terraces are constructed of rocks and mud and represent a huge amount of work just getting them in place, to say nothing of the work involved in managing a farm under those conditions.

We got a room in one of the several guesthouses on the mountain. The actual cost of the room was something like 76 cents a night. No heat or bath, but really cool. Heavy blankets and our sleeping bags. We were set. The guy who waited on us told us that his family has had the hotel for 20 years and it was the first one on the hill, even before the road came all the way up. Several other little hotels have been added over the years but now that the road is in, most tourists just take a bus up in the morning, take their pictures and leave. And most of the hotels are hurting. Price of progress I guess.

The hotel commanded a spectacular view of the lake and Pokhara which especially nice at sunset. Now it's morning! Got up at 6AM and trudged in the dark up to the summit where a crowd had already gathered (including a bunch of souvenir vendors). Dawn was just beginning to break and the sun slowly began to rise over the mountains facing the Annapurna range. It was one of those amazing moments. The angle of rising suns rays kept changing on the sheer rock face of the mountains like a slowly spinning disco light. You could look in either direction. The vast Pokhara valley and the lake turning a misty blue and purple becoming more distinct by the minute on one side and the towering Himalayan peaks shimmering in the golden sunlight on the other. It was magic. There was a good size crowd, mostly Japanese armed with a scary arsenal of digital cameras and cam-corders. They were jabbering like mad, and Laurie told me later that the basic import of their frenzied chatter was. "Good mountain!" "Yes!" "Very good mountain!" "Oh yes!" Well, yes. It was a pretty good mountain.

We headed back for breakfast and then began our descent. We opted to take an alternate route down, which allowed us to avoid the road and hike through a more countrified area. Most of the walk was on heavy flagstone steps that were another reminder of how strong these people were. The walk down was really beautiful. Got lost a couple of times, but it was a beautiful day, and it was like, where ever we were was pretty much OK.. The walk was long enough to chew up our legs, but it was probably the last rigorous exercise of the trip.

We got back to Pokhara, got our stuff, and took the scenic, 30-minute flight to Kathmandu. We flew right along the frontal range of the Himalayas and got a good look at the miles and miles of terraced farmland that the Nepalese have carved out of the steep hills.

Flying into Kathmandu revealed a much bigger city than I had expected. No skyline as such, but the city seemed to sprawl out over several miles. No problem getting into the city. We got a room in Thamel, the tourist district, which at first glance looks like a subdued version of Old Town Alexandria, only about 1/100th of the price. The touts here are ubiquitous, but are nowhere near as pushy as ones we've encountered elsewhere.

We had been told that Kathmandu is the filthiest place on the planet, and whoever told us that has obviously never been to India. Thamel is kept spotless, for the tourists I'm sure, but the rest of the city is not a pit. It's actually quite charming. There are legions of roving street merchants in Kathmandu, but oddly, they only sell a few items. Tiger balm, Bic lighters and Sarongs (small bowed instruments). There are also many more discreet street hawkers looking to sell drugs. I did buy a couple of sarongs.

We left our room for a much better bargain down the street. Got a real deal and the room is a great way to decompress from the last six weeks before our trip home. Carpet, lots of hot water (as opposed to none in our previous room), quiet, no need for earplugs! Satellite TV (whoo, whoo). This coupled with the abundance inexpensive, good food and dozens of local bars showing US films, suggested that our last couple of days in Asia would be downright hedonistic.

The Titanic had just gotten to Nepal TV and the whole town stopped to watch. We went to a bar and saw Eyes Wide Shut. Stupid and pretentious. We shopped around Thamel a bit, and took a couple of long walks through the city. Visited Dubar Square, which houses a cluster of wooden pagodas and temples that are over a thousand years old. As with any city, a walk out of the tourist district gives you a better sense of the city and its people. People are not as concerned with you, because you don't represent their source of income as you do in the tourist district.

Old Kathmandu is fascinating. You can walk down these narrow streets that are essentially just neighborhoods except that the buildings that people are living in are hundreds and hundreds of years old. Many of them are trimmed with detailed woodcarvings that have somehow survived the ages. Statues and small shrines are everywhere and it's hard to believe that they are all so old.

One last excursion before leaving was a short side trip to view Mt Everest. You take a small 19 seat airplane that flies right up the range and you get a full view of Mt Everest. 28000 feet! Highest mountain in the world! There it is. Awesome.

We encountered a guy from Charlottesville on the flight who so anxious to get his 300 shots of the mountain, that on the return trip, he leaned over Laurie and totally monopolized her view. I suggested that he back off and he retreated to his sea