Bandipur

There is no way to describe Bandipur without using a plethora of cliched travel writer descriptions. Of course timeless, nestled, quaint, and picturesque would accuratly lay a out a nice visual. Sitting above the Prtivi Highway, I thought, now this is the best view in Nepal, but Ive thought this more than once, in fact everytime Im at a nice viewpoint. Bandipur has the stuff of national geography caliber dreams. There is lots of baby-kissing, and kite-flying and every few minutes or less you can see butterfles the size of your open hand and crumbling temples carved with wooden dragons. Though it lies on the road between Pokhara and Kathmandu, Nepals two most popular tourist destination, Bandipur sees few travellers, andit shows. There are o touts, guesthouses are families homes with a spare bedroom, and the children beg to have their picture taken, without asking for a rupee-- seeing their own faces on the LED screen in reward enough. Im off to Kathmandu today. Wish me luck on the hellish bus ride.

Tough old broads

I love old biddies. They've put up with more crap in their lives than men, generally speaking, and they make great bodyguards. Don't judge an old woman because she may be small, frail and have maybe, maybe, three remaining teeth. I decided to hike up to the brilliantly white world peace pagoda hidden in the mountains above Pokhara. This was, as I discovered walking into the jungle, a stupid idea. I had ead that walking alone, especially as a white woman, was dangerous. The gusthouse owner assured me taht it was fine, but I saw by the looks of the Nepalese men (who tend to be very innocent and sweet) that maybe I should put y trust in Lonely Planet (aka the Bible) and four Nepalese women. They took my under their wrinkled saggy wings off the main trail away from men offering to serve as "guides" and towards angry buffalo and leeches. No matter. We collected firewood and laughed at our inability to communicate. When they saw me reach down to pull off a small black worm nestled between my toes, which I later discovered, seeing blood, was a leech, we sopped and the youngest removed a small colorful handkerchief from the bundle tied to hger abdomen with cloth. Inside were small, thick-skinned tomatoey looking fruit, which she crushed between her fingers and rubbed on my exposed feet and legs, a natural insect repellent, which surprised me, seeing as the Nepalese, like the Indians, find feet repulsive. In exchange, I pulled out pieces of papaya that I had brought along or sustinance. We all enjoyed the fruit, especially the eldest, who was practically moaning with satisfaction. Her dental history limited her to certain foods, one of which I managed to produce. From that moment on,she watched over me like I was her favorite great granddaughter. We trudged on, poassing incredible views. I left them at a clearing loaded with quality dry branches, just twenty minutes from the pagoda. I'd be back, I indicated to them, but didnt get a hundred feet before a disgruntled buffalo blocked the path in front of me. He was above me, and he stood legs apart, head up and to the side, glaring at me with one eye as if challenging me to a duel. Again, the women came to my rescue, armed with wticks, rocks, and loud tsk-tsking voices. With the path buffalo free and my seedy, sticky feet protected, I made it up to the pagoda. I met a loe traveller who offered to share a boat ride back across to central lakeside. I headed back to inform my team, but they were gone, probably spead out looking for sticks. I wrote a note in pidgin English, and included a happy face, remembering that they not only could not speak English, they were also illiterate. I hope they got the note I tied to a nice big stick I picked up for them as a present on my way down to catch up with them.

Nepal

Travelling in Nepal after India is like exhaling. Well, maybe not the actual travelling, as in moving from A to B, per se. The bus ride was hell. Midway through an eight hour bus ride on a seat made of the hardest wood found on earth, we stopped for lunch at a roadside cafe. I was the only non-Asian (this happens to me often, don't you think?), and was a bit confused on proper Nepali restaurant etiquette. I followed suit of the other passengers and took a seat at a corner table facing the action so I could copy the others. I didn't see a single menu, so I was thinking of possible food items available. I'm sure they had some popular Indian dishes, which after four weeks in India I am comfortable with, of the much-raved Nepali momos, a kind of dumpling. I waiter rushing past plopped a large sectioned metal tray in front of me filled with food. Thali, I think to myself. Thali is a large Indian dish made up of a mis of pulses that you mix with rice in the middle portion, then use chappati to scoop the food to your mouth. I was pleased, and waited only a few moments for the chappati to arrive until I realized everyone in the restaurant had already begun eating, sans chappati. While waiters moved around replenishing the pulses and rice until you are filled to the brim, people use their freshly washed hands (right hand only, of course. This is still South Asia) to scoop the scalding food into the rice, spin the rice into a somewhat manageable ball, and suck/slurp/scrape/dump the portion into their mouth, which hovers wisely over the palte. The whole hand is unavoidably covered in rice and sauce by the end of the meal. It was delicious, and I still have no idea what its called, of the animal who sacrificed himself for my eating pleasure. Im thinking yak, but Id rather not ponder it too long. Talk to you soon.

More photos

You better appreciate this. It took DAYS. Go and see em. Leaving for Nepal tonight, as previously mentioned, and heading to Pokhara. See you then!

Hear ye! Hear ye!

Pictures have officially been posted- well, the good ones anyways. Including hair pictures!! Go see em. Flickr. If you didnt get my email with the link, type in world_traveler_84 at the Flickr website, and Ill come up.
peace

The infamous Taj and burning ghats on the banks of the Ganges at Varanasi

So, I can leave India a happy woman. Have you seen French Kiss, with Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline? You know how she is in Paris, trying to get a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, and she keeps missing it but semi-seconds? Well, that was me. Buzzing around on rickshaws, I'd see a white building out of the corner of my eye, and by the time I'd turn, it would be gobbled up by a horrifically ugly building. The thing is as gorgeous as you'd imagine a building built in the name of love would be, if not more. Everyone says from close up its not really white, but I do not speak from experience. Admission for tourists is 750 rupees ( ten for locals), which is a total atrocity. The local joke is that ten rupees goes to the restoration of the monument, and the remaining 740 goes to new mercedes for the prime minister. The admission just gets you into the gates for that famous view up the water, and into a tomb, where you can't take any pictures. I couldn't rationalize this. So, me being a poor bastard, I went to the park on the other side of the river and took some equally beautiful and much cheaper pictures. That is basically all to report about Agra, which is kind of a dump. I was only there for one day, took a night bus in and a night train out to Varanasi, where people go to die. This is actually a good thing. This morning, I was ushered to the burning ghats. If a hindu dies in Varanasi, they are guaranteed into heaven. This means the city is filled with hospices that overlook the burning ghats (kind of depressing, if you ask me), and crawling with old people, like Florida. So, the Ganges, or Ganga as its called in Hindu, is a holy river, and numerous bodies are burned on its banks each day. Upwards of fifty, I gather. The deceased is indicated by the location of the burning, the color of the cloth, and what ends up in the river after the ceremony. Pregnant women, children, and holy men are not burned at all, if I understand this correctly. Men's chests and women's hips ( the fattiest part of us), are dumped into the Ganga after the rest of the body is burned. There were about ten burnings happening while I was there, and the mood was, not jovial, but not sombre. There was a chai stand very close by ( a little too, close for my liking) and people were moving constantly, unlike funerals in the states, where there is a lot of standing. Someone brought me up to a hospice that overlooks the procession, making me promise not to take any pictures. I saw the remains of a man who had been burning for hours. A woman was being brought down from above to be placed on her pile of wood, and a group of men were piling wood on top of another body still. The smoke from all of the fire burned my eyes, and I was kinda creeped out at the fact that the smoke were the bodies remains. My Irish friend who has been to Varanasi before tells me that last time he saw a hand floating in the river. Im going for a sunrise boat ride on the Ganga tommorow morning, looking out for its famous dolphins ( how anything lives in that cesspool is beyond me). The ghats are the center of life in Varanasi. Buffalo swim in it, boys splash in it, men bathe in it, women wash clothes in it, it is where the sewers run, and everyone seems to drink from it. Ill let you know if I see any body parts floating. Im off to Nepal in the next few days, but I dont really feel like Im leaving India. Strange.

Gushy India Stuff

Things that are liked easily are rarely appreciated with the same magnitude as those that take time and patience to understand, and, in time, respect. hI speak of, of course, India, this is not to say that India takes its time to seep into you and establish its definitive position. India, who cannot be bothered with trivial pleasantries, slaps you in the face with a sweaty, stinking, dirty palm, leaving you disoriented, dignity and intelligence wounded, and you kinda like it. Your brain is overexposed to the rich scale of elements, and I fear my senses will fail to register duller, less exciting cultures in the future. Everyone warns that India is a shock to all five senses. Unpleasant poverty is accompanied and balanced by glorious richness. There is no room for blandness, silence or passivity. All is vibrant, loud and rapid. There is the incessant presence of local open public toilets that carry foul smells throught othe streets, but there are also large burlap sacks whose edges are rolled down to expose fragrant mounds of coriander powder and tumeric. "One rupee? One rupee? One pen? Hullo?" wailed by forlorn children with flashing eyes are drowned out by the wails of forlorn lovers and twangs of flashing sitars pushing out of every radio. A spike of sweetness from a pistachio dessert can easily give way to a slow flood of heat over teh tongue from a particularly potent batch of mali kofta. While cities are brimming with zooming rickshaws and honking motornikes, villages impassable streets are congested with ambling worshippers whose murmurs roar together with the sounds of drums and chanting. The heat that debilitates all movement save for the continuous flow of sweat from your pores in the dusty deserts can be washed away in an instant by a sudden downpour of one of India's famous monsoons. But, of course, I fail to do India justice. See it, taste it, smell it, touch it and hear it for yourself. Travelling to be humbled takes a lot of hard work. Leave those cushy european playgrounds! Abandon those predictable hamburgers and cappucinos! Throw aside those asanine assumptions and dive in with your eyes closed like a trustworthy child would. Embrace your stupidities, because from bad decisions comes experience.

Pushkar part deux

I walked up to one of Brahama's wives temples in Pushkar, and inevitably collected a group of five young boys. After the prerequisit of outstretched hopeful hands, they accepted their curious fate of finding a poor, American no less, tourist ("America, very rich country, no?" with the innocent head tilt). They accompany me up the hill bounding up the rock steps, chattering the whole way. They scamper towards me but stop a few inches away, just out of reach, then a few become brave and touch my hand and run awau, laughing. They show me the temples on each mountain top surrounding Pushkar in incomprehensible Hindi- I smile politely- and bid me goodbye as I head back to my guesthouse. Halfway down the mountain, I hear rocks tumbling behind me. Expecting to find my young friends, I turn, and then I begin to smile. Five small brown goats look at me silently. They hop towards me nimbly and stop two steps away. I reach out to them, and they leap past me, chirping-like barks squeaking out each time they land. I continue on, the goats stopping and staring expecftantly as I pause, all the while I wait for them to ask me for a rupee.

Pushkar

Johnny the Israeli and I were walking into Pushkar from our hotel when an uncharacteristically large Indian man pressed an orange flower ressembling a flourescent carnation into my swinging hand. "Take to lake for puja. Chalo," He instructed. Pushkar is a holy place, where you can't find eggs, meat, or alcohol, and where Hindus are required to make a pilgrimage journey once in their lifetime. The lake round which the town resides is said to be sacred, I believe the birthplace of Brahma, the surprisingy lesser-favored god who created the universe. I am transferred swiftly off to a lithe, old-as-rocks man wearing a red turban and a once white cloth wrapped strategically around his lower half, who takes my hand after I deposit my sandles with a huge pile of dirty plastic thongs intermingled with polished Gucci knockoffs, and I am led down the white marble steps (ghats) which disappear into the green water of Pushkar lake like a slowly sinking monument. His knees pop forward and he quickly squats way down on his haunches, knees framing his face, in a way that only Indians over the age, of, say 70, can accomplish. We lean forward over the water, and as he mixes rose petals and grains of rice in with fire-engine red- and saffron-colored powder into my outstretched hands I can see the murkey, broccoli soup of a lake wash over the large fish striped like tabby cats who flicker to the surface briefly. I keep a wary eye on the nearest cow, who has a yellow splash of color between its round dewy eyes and a thin red string tied around his large curved horns. As it rumbles from step to step, eating discrded banana peels and depositing huge landmines of banana peels in its most organic form every ten feet or so, its trademark foot-tall hump wobbles. Though generally mild-tempered (and, hey, who wouldnt be when you're considered sacred? These are the happiest damn cows Ive ever seen. They practically preen and coo to themselves their so pampered. Indian cows are the only child of the cow-world), I have been briefly chased once or twice, which isnt much considering the frequency in which they lumber into squealing traffic and steal the occasional sweet lemon from a fruit wallah. Anywho, my puja guy has scooped the lake water into my hands, which i am instructed to splash on my forehead, eyes, and ears while I repeat strange incantations. He stops with his hand in the air and looks at me concerningly, almost worriedly. "Are you married?" I laugh outloud, earning glares from fellow puja participators. If Indians shushed, they would have, but they dont. THey tut. So they tutted. "Why?" I ask suspiciously. " I must know if married, to pray for husband." "Ah. OK. No. He places a small hairy cocount in my cupped hand along with my electric carnation, and then drops a red and yellow string on top; this, you see, is my Pushkar passport. As long as you wear one for the length of your stay in Pushkar, you wont be hassled by priests and "priests", asking to perform the puja ceremony, which is very difficult to weasel your way out of, if so inclined. He mixes some more red powder in with a few drops of lake water, and rubs the paste between my eyes. He bats a few grains of rice out from under the coconut and presses them delicately into the paste. "Put in water," he says, lifting the string and nodding to my hands. "All?" "All." THe coconut bobs in the spreading powder and floating rose petals,which splash gently up over the hungry fish who congregate quickly, testing for something edible. My puja provider touches my head in completion. I rise to make my donation, step gingerly over a creative number of obstacles including but not limited to children, betel spittle, clothes being washed and cow crap, and return back to hunt for my shoes that have been, of course, buried instantaneously.

Random Observations- part 2. The India series.

My favorite thing about the Indians are the way they nod their head to say ok. It reminds me of a bobblehead doll. The sides of their head bounce off of their shoulders, rather than nodding forward and backwards like us. Basically, the first time I saw someone do this, I thought they were shaking their head no. Apparently this confusion carries over to indicating no, which is a slight tilt of the head forward. Im sure you have all heard that the left hand in India is considered very dirty because they, well, you know, and so you must never point, gesture, hand over something, take something, eat or touch someone with the left hand. To further complicate things, there are practically no silverware to speak of, so you rip off a piece of chappati (bread like dry thin naan) with your right hand, using every finger despite its dexterity, and scoop up the wonderful sauces that dominate the food here. Its a seriously messy ordeal. They also never touch their lips to the cup they are drinking from if the liquid is cold, if i understand this correctly. Vicky could drink water from my Nalgene while riding a camel, for gods sake. these people are seriously talented. The red dot that we associate with Indians indicates that they prayed this morning in a temple, and a yellow dot helps to, as Vicky explains, "cool your brain". This is interpreted by me in many ways. THere are water pumps for local use all over the place, which is where people cool off in the bloody hot summer, which is exactly where i am now, still carrying around that damn coat for my Kili climb. Dumb. I was complaining about the mud splashed up on my legs after a baby-monsoon storm in Udaipur, and Vicky told me to go rinse off at a highly populated water pump. I got some looks when i walked up, but then they helped me pump the water, and when I bent down to wash my legs, they even poured some on my head to cool off my head and neck. Cows wander the streets here like revered pigeons- they are absolutely everywhere, people ignore them for the most part, drive around them without any irritation whatsoever. They have nice little necklaces and painted forheads to indicate if they are owned by someone, but for the most part, they are unowned, and are fed like stray dogs by anyone and everyone. Oh, and the driving. These people looove horns. THey just love em. ON the back of all trucks, there is a sign that says "horn ok please". How can they incourage this madness? Honking here is a different philosophy from in the states. Its absentminded, just a passing thought, rather than a indication of rage. People who are honked at dont really react either. I asked VIcky if his feet ever get run over while walking in narrow streets with the zooming motorbikes. He laughed at me. "Come on. Of course not". SIlly foreigner. The time difference between here and california is 13 and one half hours. Huh? I have become a chai junkie utterly and completely. Go ahead and laugh Mariah. It tastes different here. Im not sure how, but i inhale this stuff. Last tuesday I was cutting my nails, and Vicky said that he would cut his nails the next day. I asked why not today, and he said that you dont cut your nails or hair on tuesday. ill have to look into the rational for that one. When you order a samosa or any kind of fried street food here, they serve it in a bowl molded out of a dried leaf. cool.

Negligent P catches up with loads of info...

A quick recap for those of you who cannot be bothered with such silliness- I was in a Bollywood television series as an Australian Hindi-speaking business woman. My indispensable friend Vikram (Vicky) the Indian helped me purchase a cell phone in Udaipir, so I am now connected to the rest of the world, which is both ubiquitous and a little sad. I rather liked being elusive. My number is 00919785635715, but as of yet it is an expensive paperweight on which I can play Sudoku. While Im still in the state of Rajasthan, I can get free calls and texts, when the damn thing works of course. Its only five rupees ( under 10 cents) for texts and per minute talk time. Oh, and the buttons are in Hindi. Cool. I went on a camel safari with Vicky, and he is totally spoiling me, seeing as he knows everyone in Udaipur and Jaisalmer, where I am currently. He's heading back to Udaipur where he works, and um, Im not quite sure where Im going. In Udaipur I saw the lake palace where Octopussy was filmed. I still havent seen it, which is amazing because every rooftop restaurant ( and in Udaipur, every restaurant is rooftop) plays the film at seven EVERY NIGHT OF THE YEAR. How would you like to be a waiter at this restaurant? Vicky took me to a dinner party for one of his friends in a village outside of Udaipur. I was the only woman there, let alone foreigner. They were pleased and dare I say impressed that I handled the spicy food like I did. I told them that I like spicy food, and I really do, but damn. This was a sweat dripping in the food, nose running mess of a meal. I wanted to appear all tough, so I casually wiped my brow and sniffed quietly, but then I heard Vicky sniffle, and I saw the men take out bandanas to wipe their foreheads. It appears that its not as though they dont think its hot they just enjoy the heat- it makes the meal good. I laughed outloud, and we suffered/enjoyed the rest of the meal together.
Next were taking a bus to Jodhpur together, then onto Pushkar? Bundi? Jaipur? No clue. Camel safari was an ass-blistery good time. Moria, my camel, is a doll. I already miss his horrendous gas and furry lips. We camped under the stars in the desert just outside of Pakistan with a Spanish couple, who spoke to us in Spanish and us to them in English. Gotta bolt take some last pictures of Jaisalmer. Ill write more later. Peace.