Snow

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Apparently the lovely Neil Diamond is way popular with the modern older crowd here in India. I never would have guessed it. Oh, and he finally came out a new good album; you should check it out.

Otherwise, not much to report with this update but it’s likely that I’ll ramble on about stuff that gets more and more interesting the farther down you read.

The biggest difference between where I was the last time I updated this blog, and where I am now, is that those two place are, in fact, different places. They are about as different as the coastal city of Mumbai is to a small Himalayan mountain village. Exactly as different; Mumbai is where I was four months ago and Manali (a small Himalayan mountain village) is where I am now.

Big Mountains! Deep valleys! Snow! Rain! Sun! Indians! Festivals! Sweets! The Backstreet Boys? Cheese? Hippies? Heliskiing? ---This place is like absolutely like nowhere else in India.

In the far reaches of Northern India, Manali resides within the long, tall, and narrow Kullu Valley. A prominent Tibetan influence colours the culture and is the result of the valley’s close proximity to Tibet and only a 3-hour paragliding ride (or 9-hour bus ride as most Buddhist travel) from Dharamsala –the home-away-from-home for the exiled 14^th Dalai Lama. Both Tibetan and Indian cultures and traditions are ancient and well practiced here; such that a few steps away from the bustle of tourist activity leads the curios wanderer into the villages and homes of friendly people still churning butter by hand, building houses from roughly cut stone and wood, hand-weaving clothing for the family, and watching satellite television just as their ancestors have done for thousands of years.

Manali: (that word is hyperlinked, by-the-way, to the Wikipedia entry of the same title) Let’s read it…

…Hmm, well that’s was interesting (the link to charas has its merits as well. More on that later) (It should also be noted that the link to Yak Skiing is an entry about a friend of mine featured in various bicycling and hiking pictures below.)(That reminds me, I need add his contact info to Wiki…There now you can go Yak Skiing any time you’re here, just call up Peter). And a pretty good summary. Now, for an irresponsibly fearless act of possibly contradicting the information in the supplied Manali link, let’s continue with a run-down of the area…

One little absence from that summery is the mention of Hadimba’s temple and what it stands for. It stands for the purpose of enclosing a cave and trapping inside the devil. Cool! Well, a goddess who used to be a devil, until a Hindu god tired of her mucking about with his livelihood, married her, and turned her to the good side (watch out devils for all those shyster gods!). Ask anybody who’s not in the tourist industry and they’ll tell you that this devil-turned-goddess still watches over, and so influences, the valley in all sorts of peculiar ways. That may go a long way to explaining why people here are a little nutty and why the Himalayan Ski Village (I’m getting to that) is using the souls of foreigners as sacrificial offerings to the gods.

Manali (and the greater Kullu Valley) has three economical seasons:

1. Winter: the, like-all-the-other-Himalayan-villages, season. Not many extras are here, and the locals act like regular Indians.

The winters are blisteringly cold - the general lack of respectable heating systems see to that - but the snow piles up and those who love it come to build snow men (and ski). Helicopters access the higher peaks and provide 1000’s of vertical feet of powder skiing on massive mountains. Others prefer to hike/tour the mountains and forgo the $1000/day/person price tag of the helicopter expeditions. Nearly all of these people are wacky foreigners. The Indian crowd takes the more sane approach (though perceptively much more boring and exceedingly uncomfortable approach) of enrolling in a two-week government run ski course on a sad little slope with no functioning lift and withering enthusiasm.

Gosh, it was FEBRUARY when I first started the blog entry you’re reading now. I started this blog entry the day I arrived here in the valley; it began something like this…

Day One:

(Though I don’t intend to maintain any chronological tradition.)

Let me mention one of many peculiar elements of my situation considering the current circumstances: I am typing on my laptop computer. It is an unexpected place to be doing such things; up here at 9000ft, protected from the snow by thin wooden walls, and so far away from civilization and civilized insulation, but there you go…

While in Mumbai, I was invited here to the mountains by the Himalayan Ski Village for the purpose of my contributing, in some way, to the project. I didn’t know what to expect. Fortunately I packed my snow boots, a down sleeping bag, and my PADI scuba diving card because immediately it was suggested that I join the research team high up on the mountain. The route up was part thesaurus-entry-for-rough jeep ride, and part hike. We made our way to the small village of Sethan (yes, pronounced like that of the dark lord) where we settle:

Perched on a toeclinchingly steep mountainside, this village clusters from about fifteen wooden buildings/huts/shacks all connected by snow-gone-ice walkways sculpted in design to offset the balance of anyone wanting to use them. Though the village is deserted for the winter, I am surprised to be given my own spacious room about twice the size, and happily far less cluttered, then that which I have in the city. The differences between my city room and this one are subtle: the wooden floor and bed, a fireplace in the middle of the room (which I am too frightened to use for fear of the fire spreading or death by asphyxiation.), a ceiling to bonk the heads of short people like me on, and a general “it’s too cold to do anything” mentality that I’m settling in to. In the common-house a cook prepares all of our (unbelievably tasty) meals and keeps a fire burning wonderfully warm. After a long high-altitude day on the snow, both the food and the warmth are magical.

I didn’t have a camera then, but I do now, here’s a picture of the village a few weeks ago on a bewitching spring afternoon. Near here is also the site planned to build the mountain lodge of the ski village.

(Note #1: You may need to download Quicktime to see the Image above)
(Note #2: These quicktime images are scrolling pictures; mouse-click the images and scroll them from side to side)

2. Spring (Now): Honeymoon season. Manali transforms into a bustling getaway for uneasy newly-married couples EVERYWHERE.

The lonely 14-hour road snaking between Delhi and Manali transforms into a torrent of shrieking vehicles (that’s both a metaphor for the speed of the vehicles as well as an actual description of the verbal state of the passengers inside) traveling north and south. A typical seating chart on a long-distance bus to Manali may look something like this:

(on speed) Driver

Couple___Couple

Couple___Couple

Couple___Couple

Couple___Couple

Couple___Couple

Couple___Couple

Couple___Couple

Couple___Couple

Couple ME Couple

However, I’ve since learned to avoid the rear of the bus for the same reasons we seek the back seat on wild rollercoasters: it’s profoundly see-thesaurus-entry-for-turbulent.

For two months they roam the streets, these undersexed (er, an unnecessary qualifier, as that category includes about everybody in this country…though it may explain why new husbands drag their wives waaaaaaaaay up here to the mountains where there is nothing else to do but…)(hmmm, it may also explain why shopping has become such a popular…alternative…for the ladies) people wondering what they’re doing here and why they paid 4000 Rupees to be driven 30 km up the mountain for a photograph with a snowman with breasts. They’re starting to drive me crazy.

It should also be noted that springtime here is absolutely fantastic once one manages to get five minutes onto a trail or up a mountain. With the snow melted the rivers run wildly and the endless apple, cherry, and plum orchards are in bloom. Bike and motorcycle rides are fast & curvy and the Cannabis sativa is sprouting along the roadside, backyards, in town, anywhere dirt has fallen and a seed may sprout, and most appreciatedly in the higher reaches of the mountains.

3. Summer/Fall: It’s not only the proliferation and acclaimed tastiness of the Himalayan born marijuana (its assumed birthplace) that brings the foreign tourists in unbelievable droves, but it has a lot to do with it. Now in the spring, on a warm day about anywhere in the hills and along the roadside, wafting clouds of smelling like the personal goods of my good friend Frog, strike the passerby. In the Spring the cannabis grows better than any of the weeds it imitates and is merely another bit of chlorophyll. But in summer, whoo hoo! The rampant marijuana is harvestable and the whities goes nuts (lucky for me, it’s now mango season and I’m going nuts). But there’s more to this valley than the pot; the foreign tourist crowd comes in two types: dirty hippies and mountain adventure seekers. The former are not very well received though they keep the economy moving. The latter are catered to by a competing class of guides and the tallest mountains in the world.

Well, that’s enough economics!

Having said all that about Manali, I don’t actually live there. I live about 4km down-valley in a village called Shuru (that’s between Prini Village and Jagasukh, for those of you without geographically omniscient minds). No complaints about the place. I stay in a house operated by the Ski Village for its guests and non-permanent hired guns. Although, because the ski village is operating in its infancy, I am usually the only tenant here, and certainly the longest running. That’s not to say it’s small or unaccommodating. Rather the place is huge by Indian standards: seven bedrooms, sweeping marble staircase (a staircase built for the scene of a Bollywood movie, though, sadly for the staircase, never used), a garden, dog, angora rabbit, and two fellas to prepare all the meals, clean, and loudly watch Hindi movies at me late into the night.

In short, I’m spoiled. But nobody likes to hear about that so I’ll just continue on…

One particularly neat-o thing about the valley is the how narrow it is and how screamingly tall the mountains are that enclose it. A few weeks ago I walked out of the house (elv. 6000ft) at about 9:00a.m. to explore the ski village terrain for its benefits as a mountain bike park (I still haven’t explained all that, huh? We’ll get there shortly). I hiked up an old trail and as the morning grew late Shuru appeared as a tiny toy-train model-town as the world miniaturized and the thoughtlessly dumped garbage along the roadside disappeared. By bread & cheese time people disappeared and only the apple orchards retained shape. I was surprised to note that by 2:00 p.m. I was perched at nearly 14,000 feet and overlooking a spectacular valley and much taller mountains very near by. In short, a person can climb high, quickly.

Okay, here by popular demand is the “Ski Village” explanation and why I’m here. The Himalayan Ski Village is a $300+ (depending on your source) million project, thus making it, by a fat margin, the largest investment in the Indian tourism industry to date. The current/original plan has a gondola running out of the valley at 6000ft up to a height of 13,000+. All that isn’t pure official skiable vertical because the lower reaches of the mountain is ripe with villages (however, on a good snow-year, much of this can happily be poached) but it’s a bunch all the same.

In theory, and I hope in practice, the project is aimed at increasing the health of the villages by providing jobs, encouraging the production pf organic foods and hand-made textiles, encouraging traditionally-styled valley development (as opposed to the soulless concrete structures that are rising everywhere), operating in harmony with the many spiritual sights on the mountain, and earning a good return on investors money. At the time of this writing the project is marinating in a lot of controversy cooked up by opposing political opposition. Sadly most of it is grotesquely untrue, but some of it genuine (I applaud those organizations fighting for transparency within the company and culturally/environmentally sound development). Such passions for the rights of the natural world are seldom fought in this county, and even fewer national or multinational enterprises voluntarily operate sustainabley (in reference to the natural environment). I’d like to think the Himalayan Ski Village is trying to create a standard of a socially and environmentally responsible profit-seeking company. That is, anyway, their platform and part of what lured me into the organization. We’ll see how it develops with time.

Due to a number of things, including a great deal of vexing from the political opposition, the ski village is somewhat stalled. I’m pretty well convinced that the Himalayan Ski village is trying to construct this resort by way of aboyning (the first person to correctly define aboyne wins a free set of Tibetan prayer flags Hint: See Douglas Adams’s The Meaning of Liff) the Indian traditions of doing business. But history proves that companies with government approval and lots of money succeed in the end. It will happen; it’s only a matter of time.

Oh yeah, so me. I came to India last August saying, “I’m going to see what I can do about building a ski resort in the Himalayan mountains!” Shortly thereafter I discovered that someone had already stolen my idea and ran with it. You know, already invested millions of dollars into research and planning. So I jumped aboard that project to see what I could do.

After a few months of learning the organization and understanding what the Himalayan Ski Village project is about, and grasping about .001% of the raging internal politics between the valley-local Indians within the project, I finally figured out what I wanted to do: Build a mountain bike park…naturally. It took a little time to convince the head-dude that they wanted a summer-time mountain bike park and then a little else to suggest that I should be the one to develop it in-house. As it stands now, I am victorious in the convincinging. That’s good.

Very briefly the that silly “mountain bike park” idea I just threw at you is of two parts: 1) gondola accessed singletrack with thousands of feet of vertical descending on the very high and breathtakingly beautiful ski village mountain, and 2) guided rides on full & multi-day routes on pre-existing thousand-year-old trails out of the valley and into the Himalayas.

But that’s all a few years away. The earliest target for the gondola and chair lifts to be running is summer 2009 and that’s a big part of my plan. So, what now? First, let’s look at some pictures and then I’ll wrap this up…

---ADVENTURE RIDE---

A few days ago Peter and I started early on a ride to explore a trail he knew. It climbs high onto a ridge and then to its end at a temple (temples always secure the best real estate). We hired a few junky bikes from an acquaintance and started off. Look how happy we were and how sunny of a day it was:

Apparently ol’ Thor didn’t appreciate our sunny disposition and started to make a mess of things in the sky. A few hours into the ride things got very wet and all our things got very muddy. However, as I’ve almost learned to expect, an Indian Dabbha (a man who chooses the most out-of-the way locations to erect a tent for selling chai and noodles) (the old saying in business “location, location, location” doesn’t seem to apply to these guys as they’re always around and occasionally selling stuff) (I guess it makes sense really; any time I’m out in the middle of no-where and I stumble across a fella selling hot tea I’ll buy it. Wouldn’t you?)(one trick to success, of course, is to operate in a country with a pop. of 1.3billion. That seems to be the kicker for the location) came to the rescue. We sat for an hour inside that small yellow tent with all the other men who had escaped the rain (where did they come from and what were they doing out here) with tea and snacks until the rain slowed.

We rode on and soon the sun came out again.

The day was growing late such that we were racing the sunset (the sun sets early when it must duck behind 20,000ft peaks on a horizon only a few kilometers away) to get to the temple up high. Somehow the bikes did it despite nearly falling to pieces, loosing shifting capabilities, and my fear that the wheels would detach in pursuit of trails of their own.

As hoped for, the view was big and the temple nearly deserted (oddly though, not completely deserted, but haunted by a few old men sitting and waiting. For what? I don’t know. Money perhaps).

We had our chai and ramen noodles from the location-savvy fella at the top and took the alternate route back home.

The alternate route started with about 4 million steps down that were far too nasty to ride these sad little bikes down

And fortunately it had started to get dark just as we began descending. On rides like these I bring along a small headlamp in case of an emergency (i.e. on a bike ride when it gets dark) and I guess this was one of those emergencies. We ended the ride with about 3000 vertical feet and 14km to go in near darkness but for that little light. It was a nice warm night so we had fun.

Oh yeah, and there was a beer dude near the end too,

And what’s with this Super-Bubblegum Man having boobs?

Anyway, that was fun and we finally got on a bus that got us back home by midnight.

Let’s see what else we have for pictures:

(A heavenly cow)

(grub at a friends wedding)

(The groom. Decorated with bills. Wow! People were jamming bills into his folds like he was pole dancer in a g-string)

(The bride. Note, no bills)

(The result of a hike)

(Some funky-monkey deities on horizontal poles. It should be mentioned that each of these deities is known to poses the power of one of the local gods. Men carry the figures around on their shoulders and apparently are controlled by the gods. I think they run around like chickens as a result. It reminds me of a type of wasp that burrows into the head of a spider and controls its movements my stimulating different parts of the spider’s brain. The wasp drives the spider back to the wasp’s nest where its young devour it. Nothing quite as exciting happened to the guys hauling the deities though I think they were properly drunk).

(Gnarly sweets. They’re dough swirled into kettles of sizzling sugar syrup were it is cooked to a magical orange crisp. Possibly the equivalent of absolute gluttony and negative nutrition)

(Yum, we made momos. Momos are a Tibetan food similar to what people in the United States

call pot-stickers. The difference between the Tibetan food and American pot-stickers is that momos are damned good and pot-stickers are, well…) (My influence was the introduction of cherry momos into the Tibetan psyche)

So, that’s it really. The plan is to spend a few days in Delhi and fly out of India on the 29^th of May with no one knowing when I’ll be back. In the mean time I intend to forget all the Hindi and Sanskrit I’ve learned along the way.

But that’s not the end. I fly into to London where I’ll meet an English friend of mine I met in Thailand many years ago. I’ve bought a few scalped tickets off of eBay to see what should be a fantastic performance by David Gilmour (you know, the big guy from Pink Floyd) then it’s north to ride Bikes in the hills, visit a friend in Leeds (Sunil, he was a celebrity in my blog the last time I was here in England), and other stuff too. I hope to post some pictures from all. Afterwards I expect this blog to be silent for awhile.

And just because these are fun:

Zoom in and scroll around

Three Mexicans in India

India is not an easy place to get accustomed to; it comes with a culture shock that keeps on giving no matter how long a person is here and especially the more one travels the country. The more one travels the more one realizes that this unrelenting culture shock (often articulated as confusion) is the result of the country being absolutely wildly bereft of normalcy and predictability. It is because of this that the traveler is under constant (and occasionally…retrospectively, pleasant) bombardment of her senses such that the mind is engaged in an ongoing battle to try to Understand.

It is my opinion that, should India’s unfaltering stimulation persist unabated against the ill prepared mind, a person in this situation might very well decide the best course of action is to tie their sleeves behind their backs and head straight for the nuthouse. Because this is both unfashionable and awkward to blog about, people instead either flee the county or learn to adapt. This adaptation is a collaboration of the mind & body to raise its defenses and numb the experiences. This iss an invisible process of the unconscious to receive stimuli, store it, and ready for whatever comes next. Processing is only allowed when the world quiets down. It’s only when a new visitor visits and outwardly reacts to the visiting do I notice the “adapting” that my head has been working out.

Tiff (my sister) and Mike (her fella’/friend/my friend) arrived in Mumbai on the 29^th of December just in time for New Years.

(see, they brought be loads of chocolate)
(A shout-out to my Pa for that as well)

There are the little things for the traveler to notice: like being on an international flight out of Germany and having the kitchen run out of vegetarian meals (India is home to approx. 70% of the world’s vegetarians…I find it unlikely that the Germans where wrestling for the last green salad). Once in the cities one is struck by the trademark smells to relish or recoil from, tastes aimed to target and explode on those few elemental divisions of the tongue, customs and driving habits to gawk at or narrowly avoid, sights and sounds to desperately capture on digital media, and unimaginable/inexcusable living conditions played out side-by-side by the animal and human poor.

Without exception, it is this poor that are most striking: striking in their dirt stained everything and popular abundance, striking in their sundry ailments, ages, and state of decay, and it is the poor of urban India that the mind and body of the foreigner works so hard to ignore.

In Mikes written journal, the poverty is the first thing he writes about, “there isn’t a homeless person in the States to compare”. He also mentions my practiced indifference to the people greeting us at the arrival gate with hands outstretched in need. I think of the practiced indifference Americans have for the elderly greetings shoppers at a Wal-Mart (I go into a place like that and these people frighten me! Why are they there? Instead of hearing, “Welcome to Wal-Mart” I hear, “30 years and this could be you, kid!” Boy, how’s that for motivation to work hard in pursuit of the American Dream. Surprised to find such reminders at the threshold of every Wal-Mart Consum-elot in the world? Anyway…) I begin to wonder, as Tiff and Mike are gaining sympathy for the unimaginably poor at the airport, how it is that I, and nearly everyone in this country, can appear so indifferent to the poor, the lepers lying in the streets, parents presenting to passer-bys children with disfigurements or wounds exposed, legless adults rolling about on cart no bigger than a squared skateboard –all in order to collect a few rupees. How can we continue to say “no” to their needs? Or another question: “What benefit will come from handing out the rupees?” I don’t have an answer, but I do have a rotten excuse: my pessimism has lead me into labeling nearly all impoverished beggars as part of a very real larger circle of mafia men owning street corners. These cannibals own the beggars that patrol the sidewalks, and 90% of the money the beggars receive each day. How does one justify handing over money to support such an industry? When you can’t justify it, it suddenly becomes hard to hand anyone a ten rupee note knowing nine of those rupees will go to a wealthy pimp and fuel a system that enslaves men, woman, and an overwhelming number of very young children to work the dangerous and polluted streets for as long as they may survive. These people are in need but each step is led by denial and we can move along the sidewalks despite the bodies.

Oiy, am I sounding bleak? Have I started this entry by painting Indian cities as unpleasant? If I have, know this: India is one of the most beautiful and diverse places in the world; wealthy in both resources and history the people who live here are likely among the happiest and spiritually healthiest in the world; the sprawling urban slums are inhabited by content people who take care of one another despite the overwhelming obstacles they face as individuals each day. With the exceptions of the lone lepers or decrepitly overaged, the ones holding out their hands for a rupee are smiling and joking with themselves and their customers. The misery some wear on their faces is sometimes genuine but usually revealed as a ploy when they retreat to giggling hysteria back amongst friends.

Oiy again, that doesn’t sound so bad. But let’s not forget the 1 ½ - 2 million child prostitutes enslaved in the county. They’re not smiling. But we’re all well aware of such atrocities and they certainly aren’t specific to India (500,000 child prostitutes in Brazil, 200,000 in Nepal, and between 100,000-300,000 in the United States) and this conversation seems to be straying from the muddled subject of this blog. So, we’ll move on from such things just as our culture has taught us to do.

Gosh, where was I? Right! Telling of some of those quirky phenomena India offers the newcomer. An early-morning taxi from the airport back to our flat is another of Disney’s themed rollercoaster rides complete with a working cast, detailed set, and gut wrenching twists and turns that rightfully make the passengers of the cab fear for their safety. In the early hours of the morning ride home the “It’s a small world” characters are replaced by human figures tightly blanket-wrapped on every available sidewalk and maddeningly close to the road’s edge. Lying on the road, still warm from the previous day’s sun, cows, dogs, and donkeys tease the speeding automobiles as the ghosts do at the Haunted House. The cool and creepy “Pirates of the Caribbean” landscape is replaced by misty Raj-era homes buildings in every state of maintenance and decay gloating alongside cardboard shacks.

As the morning matures Tiff and Mike begin to notice the smells. The smells that India is famous for. It’s one of our 5+ senses we westerners have ceased to depend upon in life, but here the sense of smell is a guide as much as is sight and sound. You can smell them before you see or hear them: the shops and the supplies they sell, the rivers, sewers, slums, and restaurants. You might not recognize the smell at first: you approach the table of jelly sandals and then realize that you know exactly what a table full of those weird 80’s styled sandals smell like in the hot day’s sun. Next time, you don’t need your eyes to know where the next jelly sandal-stand is. Finding a fish market is easy and picking out a good restaurant is an olfactory exercise. Eyes are watering and throat is burning? Perhaps it’s best to change directions and avoid the chili pepper market. With each step comes a pocket of air with its own characteristics –some hasten your stride, others slow it…change your direction…seduce you into seeking out the source of those delightful spices.

(Ouch, chillies)

As I understand it, it’s Tiff’s policy to celebrate the start of each new year somewhere not United States. Perhaps derived from a mildly masochist personality, this little rule of hers tends to send her and Mike to places where firework celebrations mimic high-intensity urban warfare. Here in India firecrackers are referred to as “bombs” (not because the cracker merely goes “crack”, rather limb-amputatingly “kAbLooEE!”) And that is how we spent New Years 2006, not in the beach state of Goa like we planned, but on the rooftop and courtyard of my flat igniting quick-fused bombs simultaneously with 1.3 billion Indians around the country. It was, panoramically, quite a show that everything but my long-term hearing appreciated.

Where I lived we were riding the finest ride in the town: the this-is-what-it’s-like-to-make-up-the-entirety-of-a-minority-within-a-population-of-over-one-million ride and so we shopped in the New Year with silks, trinkets, and food. The feasting sprees are often things of legend around here and we pulled no punches in eating everything in sight.

Oh yeah, I forgot about this pre-2006 stuff: A three-hour local-train ride and a hired rickshaw for the afternoon took us to the village of Lonavala: famous for its chikki (sort-of an elaborate peanut brittle available in a stunning variety countless nuts and flavors). For the visitors that can break away from the sweets, a series of ancient Buddhists caves (some nearly 2000 years old and responsible for early growth of the religion) stand open to the elements (likely wondering where all the Buddhist have gone).

(Note #1: You may need to download Quicktime to see the Image above)
(Note #2: These quicktime images are scrolling pictures; mouse-click the images and scroll them from side to side)

The caves are quite a sight (and they had better be considering the effort to get to them) but as usual the most fun comes from the unexpected; in this case these bellyaches came from the frighteningly unmaintained Lonavala go-karts. Wow, they were the most amazing go-karts; sleek and low to the ground, designed with power to speed efficiency, all packaged with the comfort of the driver in mind –or so one would hope given the $2 price tag for four laps around the course. In reality the karts were threatening to disintegrate with each turn of the engine and the paved track was glazed with fresh gravel designed to knock teeth and eyes out of the driver if either is left open. Not being able to compete on performance, the shear pleasure the karts came from their unworldly decrepitness that induces their inability to drive straight and turn when asked. Lucky we had little plastic helmets.

As caves built hundreds of generations ago tend to get –somewhat less spectacular and more and more repetitive with each footstep into a cramped living quarter or attempt at new sounding echo from irregular hoots/hollers– we moved on from Lonavala back home for more Killer Bunnies and preparations for the train ride south to Goa.

Goa may be the smallest state in India though fashionably stretched skinnily along India’s south-western coast making it the most popular of states. If the city of Mumbai is burdened by tourist arriving, staying for one day, and leaving for the rest of India, then Goa is Mumbai’s opposite. The Portuguese who settled and ruled here were perhaps the first to recognize the tourist dollar potential that being so fashionable brings with it: in Goa tourists arrive, spend money, and stay awhile. Graced with its own international airport, tourists can now fly in to Goa and experience India in its entirety –provided of course that the tourist understands that India is rich in pubs, internet cafes, restaurants serving lasagna & falafel, beaches (lined by many of the afore mentioned restaurants, internet cafes, and pubs) where thongs (not the sandal version) worn by women are accepted and on aging men are…well, you know. Anything of the Indian culture not expressed in the easygoing servitude of the Goan people can be bought at any one of the endless shops eager to carry the burden of some of the tourists’ unimaginable riches in a show of valiant capitalism. Goa is a place to exploit and to be exploited. Where a person like yourself can sip a margarita on the beach under the nimble hands of an untrained masseuse while the shopkeepers raise a western-styled façade in order to justify charging their ­patrons 5x times what can be charged in the city and 5x more than rural India. Yeah, you know this type place.

I didn’t, however, bring Tiff and Mike down to Goa to enjoy the splendor of pretty Europeans running about nearly naked (that’s what everyone else was there for), but rather to rent motorcycles and set off on a tour of the southwest. The motorcycles didn’t know, nor did the poor fella that rented his three (two were only a few hundred kilometers old) motorcycles to us, what trials they would be put through. Had they known we’d be covering 2000 kilometers on twist-curvely unforgiving classical Indian roadways he (and the bikes) may have been less willing to rent them to us for such a low price. However, we kept quiet and once under our splendid little behinds, the bikes jiggled us out of Goa and into the interior.

(Monkeys)

We started with a few destinations in mind, no actual route and no idea how long Indian travel via motorcycle would take, but that is what the first few days of riding were for. The first day we figured out a lot. Well two things really 1) Indian mountain roads can be LOADS of fun with the nice paving, twisting, turning, rolling, and general lack of anyone around to enforce driving laws. Lesson #1 resulted in ear-to-ear grinning, a bright outlook on life, and red-lining the little 150cc motorcycle engines whenever possible. Lesson number two is that Indian mountain roads can be blastedly awful in terms of maintenance: potholes made of asphalt (the road being dirt and gravel), invisible speed-bumps and kickers, and twisting, turning and rolling of the road and spinal column. It should also be noted that Tiff turns into a real-life Mexican whenever we drive on red-dirt roads (as opposed to the traveling Mexicans we tell everyone who asks what we are).

(A small voice in my head suggests that I explain why Tiff turns into a Mexican whenever we drive on dirt roads, and so I will: it’s the front vents on her Helmet. I don’t know the genetics behind it but the vents have a magical way of putting a bit of salsa in her blood. I can’t explain it, that’s just the way it is.)

Now I’ll tell you about Hampi: our first destination.

Hampi:

To start with let us access Tiffs entry in Mike’s journal…

(oooh, error, revert back to blog) Now, Tiff’s a terrific writer when she does it; wonderfully witty and bound to a goal of making the reader laugh out load and remark on her genius…but she doesn’t think so. This is a shame. Shackled to a chair we forced her eyes open with paperclips and threatened to dress her in a traditional Muslim burqa until she wrote something. Anything! So she did, but in her spite she compresses three pleasant days in Hampi into grandmotherly worrying of big nasty rocks:

“The rocks are fun to scamper about on –even though I’m afraid of heights and repeatedly yelled at Ryan and Mike to not jump over/onto scary rocks that if they slipped/missed/over/under shot would lead to their untimely demise and my headache of trying to drive three motorcycles back to Goa simultaneously so I wouldn’t get stuck purchasing the 150cc-on-the-verge-of-blowing-apart bikes. Also, we saw lots of temples. Lots & lots & lots of temples.”

Admittedly, that’s a fantastic summery of our time in that rocky landscape but it’s not very descriptive and shorter than some of us would like. And for that I publicly chide her! “Bad sister, bad bad bad! You’d better make up for this in the “comments” section at the end of this blog…or else.” And might I also ask a favor of everyone reading this? Publicly chide her as well. The “comments” link at the bottom of this page is now for exclusive use (except for Tiff) of requesting Tiffany to write something extra-super-wonderful in the “comments” section. Now, if you don’t want to write something yourself, I’ll help. Just copy and past: “Tiff, you’re a fabulous writer. I can feel it. We don’t expect you to write anything fantastic here just a little nod and hello. After all, your brother’s probably just still real mad about all those nasty things you did to him during those Killer Bunnies games even though he was always so nice to your bunnies. So, nothing super, maybe just a nod and hello, and maybe some stuff about Hampi (Ryan didn’t do such a fantastic job) and maybe some of your thoughts and feelings about your trip to India…and gosh, while your at it you should post a picture of yourself in that magnificent dress you had made while you were over there. I bet it was real expensive. Easily two months Indian salary. Hey, and something else, what was your favorite thing over there? Was it all the Muslim women who looked so tranquil in their traditional dress, the burqa? I bet all that cloth covering them head-to-toe keeps the mosquitoes away, and I imagine the skin cancer rates in the muslin communities must be almost nil. And Mike, ditto to you too on all this stuff, I heard you were pretty nasty to Ryan’s bunnies as well. I bet he’d feel better if you gave a quick nod and hello…and your feelings about India…and maybe a mention of just a few of your favorite things while you were there like the gigantoid tourist buses out for your motorcycle-jiggled blood or the prospect of eating South-Indian dosas EVERY SINGLE MORNING…say, and while your at it how ‘bout a picture of you in that most amazing Happy-New-Years koi fish shirt. Yo, I bet you’re looking double-sexy in that. Oh yeah!”

Anyway, Hampi: I guess I’ll have to pick up the slack where others have left off (yeah, you know who you are) until further notice. I’ll let pictures do most of that work. But first, a little background: Settled only 700 measly years ago, the now-ruins of the once-bustling city of Hampi pepper the rocks and riverbanks of a landscape akin to Joshua Tree National Park in southern California, or maybe Mars fourth planet from the Sun (though I’ve never actually been there, I’m guessing Hampi to be a little less red). For those not familiar with Joshua Tree National Park, know that its part of a larger desert built of profound massive rock piles that evolved there to attract the fingers of the skilled rock climber. The place is named for the proliferation of the very original joshua trees made famous by the U2 album of the same name and, to a lesser degree, the botanist that named and discovered them for the western world. Anyway, take Joshua Tree, cut a river through the park and wind it around the rocks, then replace the Joshua trees with banana trees (it’s a wonder they didn’t call this place banana tree –maybe they did, I’ll have to look that up), and you’ve got yourself a pretty good idea of what the natural landscape of this place is all about –with the exception of one more thing– the ceased existence of a hefty population. Time seems to have stopped in Hampi since the city of about 500,000 people departed 500 years ago; and though this fallen empire has left the buildings standing emptily scattered about in the most unusual places, they are alarmingly beautiful and a delight to find when roaming about amongst the rocks.

(Sunset)

(Tiff & Mike)

(Ryan & Tiff underground)

(Up for sunrise)

(Above: roundish building, Below: inside roundish building)

(some of many adorned columns)

A note about motorcycle travel…

A 150cc Pulsar motorcycle is probably the most mind-witheringly, explosively, astoundingly, blisteringly, completely inexcusably the fastest thing the Indian highway sees. At least, that’s the way it feels at 100 km/hr when cows, people, camels, monkeys, elephants, unmarked speed bumps, cars motorcycles buses & bicycles blasting along in the right lane but wrong direction, massive piles of wheat maliciously laying in ambush for motorcyclist (or perhaps to be crushed by moving traffic, either one fits the description), stopped busses, turned-over buses, busses loaded well over their braking abilities, and potholes equal in size to the bike ALL barrage the streets. SO many things to be zoomed past or swerved around it’s a wonder we were able to pay any attention to the direction of the road at all, or for that matter, the astounding beauty of the farm and mountain county we warped through.

But we did, and as the days ran on we learned how to survive controlling a small vehicle in a world where size is king and traffic rules have little to do with the traffic laws.

Fact: Second only to climbing on stuff you shouldn't, there's nothing that sends Indians into a crazy frenzie more then driving a motorcycle in the daytime with the headlight on!

Hey, let's look at more pictures and be done with this:

(Lost.Very common)

(Chillies. Big Ouch)

(Roadside refreshment)

Banyon Tree: Tiff, Ryan, Mike)

(Late-night chai on a drive that lasted too long)

(Stinkey stuff)

(Little stuff)

(Taking Tiff's picture. In the background should be India's largest water fall)

(Carelessness)

(Sunrise on the ocean's evaopartion grounds for generating salt)

(Green)

(Colors)

One last thing, a Movie: A mishmash of videos we shot:

Download: ---Untitled_Small.mpg--- 128mb or,
Download: ---Untitled_Nero.mp4--- 100mb (is better quality than the first but may not be compatible with some media players without the proper co-dec)