Ben's Epic Adventures in India

Hiatus

2007-09-28T10:46:00.000-07:00

I've returned to the Holy Land to commence my studies.
Therefore, 'Epic Adventures in India' will have to wait until the next time I return to that enchanted and mystical land called 'India'.

namaste

Spider

2007-09-11T00:20:00.000-07:00

The other day I was sitting quietly with crossed legs . I wouldn't use the words 'meditating' as I have no idea what it means and I think the word has been abused horribly. I might say something like 'battling the onslaught of restlessness and throngs of thoughts' but that would make me appear feeble minded. Hence, I thereby coin the term - 'sitting quietly'.

But instead of this futile soliloquy on semantics I would like to write about what I set out to write about.

While sitting quietly, I had the pleasant feeling of my limbs going numb and losing body consciousness, when I felt something brushing against my right foot.
I decided the wisest course of action would be to remain absolutely still and slowly open my eyes to investigate.

Sure enough, there it was, a massive 10 inch bright green spider with acid trickling from it's ferocious fangs.
Oh come on... Don't exaggerate so wildly... If you're gonna exaggerate, do it subtly and tactfully!

Fair enough. It was a black spider with the circumference of a small apple. But it could have been extremely poisonous!!

I watched with growing horror as it made it's way under my pant to my shin. I shut my eyes and resolved to keep still and focus all my will and energy on the thought of him going away.

After what seemed like eons, he scuttled out.

If you tell me it's the power of 'meditation' that scared him off without biting me, I'd probably get upset and break into a silly soliloquy about Semantics and the abuse of spiritual terms in language.

Bumblebees

2007-09-08T00:06:00.001-07:00

Even though I have two big windows in my cabin, I like to leave the door open.
The windows are covered with screens, thereby preventing the rampant insect life outside from entering my small domain.

The door is a different story.

About twice daily, a massive bumblebee stumbles into my room and makes a racket with it's buzzing.
At first, I didn't mind it. But then I noticed that even though the door is wide open, they would never find their way out and thus end up perishing in my cabin.
Albeit a fine opportunity for an entomologist to examine the creature up close, I decided that I will make a heartfelt attempt to save every single bumblebee that makes it's way to my abode.

The result if I may say so, is quite comical.

It involves me carrying a pot and it's cover chasing the bee wildly across the room.
Jumping on the bed and the dressers and always almost catching the thing when it flutters it's wings and escapes me. A risky endeavor you might think, but there's nothing this humble animal lover won't go for to save a life!

In the end, I manage to catch it in the pot, and with satisfaction I listen to the muffled buzzing for a few moments before setting it free outside.

The Nepali Worker

2007-09-08T00:06:00.000-07:00

Aaaaaah .... Monsoon is finally coming to an end. The light rains signifying it's much anticipated death throes.
The estate owner being the avid horticulturist that he is, a myriad of flowers in various colors are starting to bloom.

They welcome me back every time I return from my Hindi lessons and I in turn pause to admire their exuberant colors and the perfect geometrical shapes adorning them.

The Professor who owns the estate has brought over a young Nepali to cut away all the weeds and unwanted vegetation. Quite a task if I might say so as these things grow ferociously - almost over night.

It was raining one day when I opened my cabin door and saw him (the Nepali) sitting on the path steps leading to my cabin. A laconic conversation in Hindi ensued:
Me: "Water?"
Him: "No."
Me: "Food?"
Him: "No."

The same thing happened the next day only this time he allowed me to serve him some water, cashews and two bananas.

He drank the water in one sip and then emitted a very deep animal like groan.
I don't know why he did it but I liked it.

This went on for a few days. No words exchanged, only consumable goods.

The other day he came over and timidly asked if I could give him some money.
I tried to inquire as to why he needs money but the only response I got was that a big bloke slapped him twice across the face the day before.
"I see..." I said. "How much do you need?" I asked. "5,000 rupees" he said.

I told him to forget it.

He stopped coming the next day.

The Old Leafy Lady

2007-09-06T21:13:00.000-07:00

Today, as I was walking on the street that leads to the estate where my cozy little 'Swiss-Indian' mountain cabin resides, I was taken aback by the sight of an old wrinkled behind in front of me, belonging to an equally old woman.
She had her blouse lifted up all the way, and she wasn't wearing any underwear.

Apparently, she didn't notice me walking behind her, or maybe she did but she didn't care.

When I found out what she was doing, I was surprised and appalled - while walking along the road she was wiping her buttocks with a meaty green leaf.

Overcoming my initial repulsion, I decided I was actually quite pleased with her actions - who am I, with my Western 'Social Etiquettes' and 'Codes of Conduct' to forbid people from wiping their behinds with big green meaty leaves in public while walking?

I paused as she discarded the tainted leaf to watch it blow in the wind.

I noticed a small snail with an intricate swirling pattern on it's shell slowly crawling next to my foot.
I took a few pictures of it before going on.

Busy

2007-07-22T02:16:00.000-07:00

Hey, I've been very busy lately and haven't managed to find a time for writing.
For all of you who have been checking my blog occasionally, I will write a mass email as soon as there's a new post.

Hassan The Painter

2007-06-06T21:12:00.000-07:00

Hassan ensconced himself snuggly in a comfortable chair on his porch, wrapping a light woolen blanket around him. For someone who has never been to Kodaikanal the vastness and awe of the view in front of Hassan would be hard to comprehend.
This was the chosen Hill Station in the South of India for young honey-mooning couples, and travelers.
The view comprised of lush green trees, the fairy-tale kind that can only exist in altitudes of over 1,800 meters.
The air was misty, which gave a dreamy quality to the panoramic scenery. The hills and valleys descended and ascended around each-other as if part of some heavenly play.

This was where he wanted to be. This was his chosen place; after all, he was an aspiring painter.

Another reason for the immense inspiration he was experiencing at the time, apart from the view of course, was the architectonic joint dangling between the index and middle fingers of his left hand.
Surely a painter in India would not refuse the exuberant boost Manali charas offers to one's creativity.

So thus, absorbed in his art making, pausing occasionally to reflect on what he's done so far and take sagely long puffs from his perfect cone-shaped joint, he did not hear the footsteps. Didn't notice the coming of another presence into his tiny universe.

This unwanted guest made his way up the stairs and placed himself between Hassan and the object of his painting.

This was a cop. A police officer. The kind that's robust and extremely muscular. The kind that doesn't mess around, doesn't stand the breaking of laws, and with a personal zeal and fervor, makes sure they are obeyed, and if not, that the perpetrators are punished.

It took hassan a few moments to notice this door of a man, with his sumptuous mustaches, curving almost as much as the hills and the valleys.

"Oh shit!" - He couldn't help from blurting it out.
"What are you doing?" Admonished the officer in a harsh voice.

There was an unpleasant pause there. A lull in which four eyes locked in on each other and wouldn't let go.

Hassan's gaze was one of compassion, of naiveness.
The officer's gaze was one of 'take no nonsense'.

"SMOKING DRUGS NOT ALLOWED!" The officer broke the silence.

Another lull. Another uncomfortable pause.

"I'm a painter!" Spoke hassan suddenly with new found fervor, while turning the canvas around for the officer to see.

The officer stood there with a perplexed expression on his face. His eyes moving between Hassan's eyes, and the canvas, turning around once to admire the view, as if the view could reaffirm Hassan's story.

Another uncomfortable silence. Hassan on the edge of of his seat, not so much ensconced now, the light woolen blanket half on his right knee and half on the ground - fell down after Hassan was startled by this unwanted guest.

Slowly it was coming. There it was, a light quiver in the right mustache, the left one joining in, and there, in it's full glory, a smile! A genuine smile!

"Oooooooooh!" Said the officer.
"Painter!" Pointing at Hassan.

"Yes yes!" Hassan replying gingerly, pointing at himself.
"Painter! Painter!" Continued Hassan, reassuring the officer.

The officer's smile waning a bit, his eyes moving to the joint, then to Hassan's face, and then the officer's face lighting again.
"Painter!" Said the officer with his eyes and big index finger moving between the joint and the canvas.

"Yes yes!" Hassan was on top of himself now. "Inspiration!!" Mustering all the seriousness he could muster.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!" The officer furiously nodding.
"Inspiration!" Still furiously nodding.

And then, with a wink that made his left moustache rise a bit, the officer left.

*Based on a true story

Me

2007-06-06T21:11:00.000-07:00

Bangalore

2007-05-24T05:44:00.000-07:00

I've made the mistake of not writing for too long, and now it seems that there is too much to write about.

When I last wrote, I left my my beloved Pandi Ji. Tear streaked, I headed to Bangalore via train.

I spent a week in Bangalore and had some strange and new experiences I would like to share with you.

I enjoyed my stay in Bangalore, but not as much as I did in some of the more remote and exotic places in India.

Bangalore is the most modern city in India, and about half of the foreigners that have made India their home live there.

A law that was passed almost two year ago, requires any person who wishes to use a public Internet cafe, to present a photo I.D. to the cafe worker, and have his personal details noted. This law was passed because of the amount of 'virtual' crimes that were being committed by young Internet pirates enjoying the anonymity that a public Internet cafe provides.

Although I am an ardent antagonist when it comes to the Lonely Planet, believing the information it provides is many a time biased and irrelevant, it did have one description of Bangalore I found dead on accurate - Traffic City.

The traffic in Bangalore is overwhelming. The traffic laws are obeyed, and in addition to the traffic lights there is also a timer, displaying the time left until the next light change, but the sheer mass of traffic creates an overwhelming pollution, and after spending just a few minutes in an Auto-Rickshaw, my throat starts to ache. A little while later, I sneeze and my eyes redden.

I was spending most of my time with Leigh, the same Canadian I met in Goa. We share a passion for literature and languages, and so we had plenty of interesting, nerdy conversations.

We were staying in separate rooms in the same hotel, until a peeping-tom went too far and actually opened a window looking to the inside of her room, hoping to get a better look.
After calming her (and myself), we decided to share a room and make it known wherever we go that we are a proper married couple, a plan (that worked) to spare her of the hassles and gawking that Indian men so excel at.

Since we were in a modern city, we decided to take advantage of the facilities at our disposal.
We would sit in plush posh coffee houses, sipping on real coffee (milk-shakes for me - coffee makes me twitchy) and read our books. We went to fancy restaurants and - sorry, I'm losing my concentration, the Indian guy behind me is asking some lady on the phone of she has a boyfriend, and now it seems like they're negotiating the answer.
Anyway, there was something very strange about the whole ordeal - errr, he's asking her if she believes in love - even though the places themselves made us feel like we could be in America or Europe, the waiters barely knew any English.
This strange phenomenon was later explained to us - the educated would never agree to to wait tables. Leaving the illiterate to fill in jobs where communicating with foreigners is a must.

Even really simple things were made onerous, for example:
Waiter: "May I take your plate"
Me: "No"
Waiter reaches forward and picks up the plate.
Me, gesturing heavily to the table: "Can you please leave my plate?"
Waiter, with a vacant stare: "O.K."

This stuff kept happening, everywhere.

It's as if the city is in transition. All these mega international brands have opened their branches here, and wisely so since the locals do possess money, but the workers still can't speak nor understand proper English.

On our last night we decided to bask in the decadence and went to an Indian club. We did our best not to look like mangy vagabonds, and I think we succeeded.

The club had a strict dress code, and I had to put on an embarrassingly synthetic pair of itching socks on, which I proceeded to take off as soon as I came in.

The place wasn't too full as it was a Sunday and everybody had to go back to work the next day, but it was still quite fun. We danced for a few hours, and Leigh had some colorful characters buy her a couple of beers. The placed closed early (11:30 PM). We fraternized with some Indians (very modern and western) and went with them to have some food at a very nice inexpensive restaurant.
I was extremely grateful for the opportunity, as I was meaning to get inside the Psyche of the modern Indian.
The conversation was very amiable, and it was nice to be able to ask questions openly with a mixed gender company about some Indian costumes and social trends.

And so, I left Bangalore with mixed feelings. On the one hand I got to explore modern Indian society (to an extent), but on the other, it wasn't very enjoyable and I realised it's rural India I'm after.

Hardcore Traveling - Continued

2007-05-15T05:29:00.000-07:00

Government Bus Efficiency

This took place while trying to get from Bangalore to Thiruvanamalai.

Booking the bus was surprisingly easy. My sweet-talking rickshaw driver dropped me off in a travel agency, I went in, and a pleasant man booked my government bus ticket online. He showed me the available buses, and even allowed me to choose my seat from a diagram on the screen before he printed out my ticket.

I arrived at the bus station, half an hour before the designated time of departure, to encounter the first difficulty.

While the ticket clearly stated platform no.18, there was no such thing there, I realized after asking 5 different conductors. Only a massive space with buses chaotically, sporadically leaving and coming in, and an obnoxious din.
The other Indian travelers were unfazed - sitting on the ground chatting amiably one moment, and scurrying up to their feet haphazardly the next, avoiding getting run over by a massive bus blithely careening along.

It felt like that part in the first Harry Potter novel where he's supposed to get to platform 2 and a half in the train station, seeing upon arrival, that there's no such thing, only a towering wall.
Finally, after running around frantically, and asking every conductor and passenger where the bus is, I managed to locate it.

Relieved, I went inside and took a seat.

It was almost 30 minutes, 50 minutes after the designated departure time, that the bus finally left, only to travel a meager 4 kilometers for 5 minutes and stop at a different lot, this one almost deserted.

I waited another 30 minutes in the bus, when finally something happened:
A young boy approached the front window of the bus, and started washing and scrubbing it meticulously until it was immaculately clean. This took about 15 minutes (the cleaning was almost pedantic, and stood in sharp contrast to the filth inside the bus). The driver started up the engine, and revved it up for another 10 minutes approximately, creating an extremely loud noise that even my Sennheisers couldn't block out.

Finally, for no apparent reason, the conductor signalled everybody to get out of the bus and board a different one. After boarding the second bus, and waiting for another 20 minutes, the young boy came again and spent ages until every speck of dust and dirt had been washed away from the front window.

After that, all the passengers suddenly got off the bus in tandem, and went to use the bathroom.
Following their boarding the bus again, the driver revved up the engine (once more) to an unbelievably high volume, and the conductor came and signalled everybody, yet again, to board a third bus.

After boarding the bus, our compulsive little cleaner made sure that the front window would be an epitome of sparkly cleanness. The conductor and bus driver took their places, and I heaved an audible sigh of relief - we were on our way.

Pandit Ji

2007-05-15T05:16:00.000-07:00

I'd like to write about my Hindi teacher - Pandit Ji aka The Hindi Master
I had to make quite a bit of phone calls before I reached him, with each person referring me to another, the first number originating in a high-school next to where I was staying, but eventually I got through to him, and when he told me how much he charges, I was perplexed and flabbergasted- 10 rupees per hour.

He's 75 year old. He speaks Tamil, Malayalam, Hindi, Urdu, Sanskrit and English, all of them in a very articulate and old fashioned way - "We shall have our tea now" sort of 1940's gentleman's English.

When I first met him, and during the lesson, I, regarded him in an entirely different light than I do now.
Here is this educated old man, adorned with an array of degrees, obviously learned and cultivated, but with a shorter attention span than mine. Every few minutes he would get up to fetch a book, or meander about some irrelevant subject. I became irritable and decided then and there that out of respect and good manners, I'll finish the lesson, pay him, and never see him again.

Little did I know that shortly thereafter I would fall in love with his persona and charm.

His story is a sad one. His wife died a year and a half ago. His son passed away a few months ago in a freak accident who's details I'm not privy to. He lives with a different son, the son's wife, and their daughter, in a house owned by him, but dominated by them.
He is like a prisoner in his own house. His son won't give him money for his Insulin shots, and his daughter-in-law denies him access to the kitchen, thus forcing him to eat at her whim, and remain hungry at times.
They constantly hector and scold him about how little he charges, and when he tries to explain, with a childish sheen in his eyes, that the poor (double meaning) children need to learn, and can't afford more then 25 rupees a month, he is met with harsh rebukes.

For some reason, I decided that I will return the next day, and see if I can make the best out of it. After all, it's only 10 rupees an hour...

The next day, he allowed me a glance into his bleeding heart, by reciting some of his poetry in English and Hindi. He is an excellent poet. Albeit not as good with words as some of the big names out there, but nonetheless, when he recites his poems, and his eyes moisten (and so do yours), it touches you deeply.

Eventually we reached a compromise - a third of the time for actual studying of Hindi, and two thirds for ruminating about life's woes and going out to visit his array of eccentric friends.
I began to look forward to the time when we would meet, eagerly passing the time until our lesson arrives, gingerly negotiating the 4 kilometer path to his house, a daily pilgrimage.

On a daily basis he would allow me another glance into his soul. He can't hire a helper to assist him in the daily tasks because it would offend his son and daughter-in-law (the neighbors will talk - his son doesn't take good care of him), but they on their part, do not make any effort in easing an old man's daily tasks. Thus he is stuck in a kind of purgatory.
Every other day, we go out from his house, very slowly, with him clutching at my hand, and encounter another interesting event or person.

Such as Mark, an American in his sixties, who's been living in Kodai Kanal for 8 years now, and spent 16 years living here as a Sadhu some 25 years ago. Mark rents a house with his mother, 102 years old. She can't hear anything, but has a banging sense of humor.
Mark has a farm which grows all the ingredients that are used in cooking there (I had an amazingly delicious and healthy meal served to me once). He is an avid collector of books, and has been a Hindu for quite some time now.

Walking down the street with Pandit Ji takes a lot of time. Not only does he walk slowly and he needs to halt and catch his breath every few minutes or so, we get stopped by a myriad of his ex students, who join their hands on their chest and then bow down low to touch his feet and then their own forehead -all done out of respect, deep respect, for this learned Pandit.
Later he confides in me. 'It is all hollow, and your are the only one whom I can unburden my weary heart on to.'

After our final lesson ends, I touch his feet and wish we'll meet each other again.

As I walk away, my eyes moisten. I reach for my bag and put on my big pair of sun glasses. After my veil is established, my shield from the outer world, I let the tears run freely.

P.S.
If any of you ever make it to Kodai Kanal, and want to learn a language or just meet an amazing person, let me know.

Hardcore Traveling - Continued

2007-05-05T01:56:00.002-07:00

The Little Vomiting Bastard

Two days ago, after spending the night in a town who's name I am unfamiliar with, in a decent hotel with an Indian man in his forties, I made my wa-
What?!
Oh, you're right, it really doesn't sound very good; let me explain first - the Indian is a business man I met on the bus from another town (once again, clueless as to what that town's name is), we befriended each-other on the bus (with Hindi as the ice breaker) and we both needed a room. So instead of having each of us pay an exorbitant fee for a single room, we shared the cost of the exorbitant fee, thus transforming it to an affordable fee, and took a double room together.

...He's got two kids and a wife...
Now can I get back to the story? ...
Thank you...

After saying goodbye to the Indian businessman, I made my way to Kodaikanal - a hill station ensconced about 2,000 meters above sea level, with a bus as my mode of transportation, in order to escape the offensive, atrocious, mind bogging, insanity insinuating heat of the Tamil Nadu flatlands.

In the bus, on the way, something happened. Something unpleasant. Something you've probably figured out if you've taken the time to read the title.

The bus was leisurely taking a bend, I was admiring the lush scenery opening up, enjoying some quality music through my exuberant Sennheiser headphones, when he did it.
The little shit opened his mouth and vomited not only on my leg and lower pant, but because he had his hand covering his mouth, he somehow managed to alter the trajectory of one small rivulet of puke, and hit the upper torso and right arm of the woman sitting in front of me (an impressive feat).
Which, and I know that this is an evil thing to say, I'm glad he did, because it diminished my discomfort by quite a bit.
I mean sure, getting bile and samosa leftovers on your sandal is unpleasant, and yes, producing a squishy sound every time you step is not what I'd call a great thing, but she got it all over her shirt! And on her bare arm!

Anyway, I did something I'm proud of then. Something that made me feel quite chuffed. In my water bottle, I had less than about a cup's worth of water left. So, instead of trying to get that ridiculously sticky piece of bile off of my foot, I gallantly offered the precious remainder of my water to the woman in front of me (in her fifties probably), who, with a chummy wag of her head, accepted it and removed the foul smelling chunks of half digested samosa from her forearm and upper torso.

I did not have any water left to wash away the vomit covering my sandal and leg, and had to wait till our next tea stop to wash it off, but I was content.

Being Israeli

2007-05-01T20:34:00.000-07:00

Being Israeli is interesting. Not interesting in the 'this article in today's paper is very interesting honey, you should read it!' sense, but in the 'how's the food? Oh... ...It's, umm... ... In-te-res-ting...' kind of way.

I personally (so I'm told) do not look Israeli, nor do I have the behavioral traits that characterize Israelis.
But none the less, if asked as to my country of origin, even though I could easily get away with U.S.A., or even Canada (to avoid the nefariousness and macabre image that is usually associated with U.S.A.), answer Israel.

It's interesting to see how people's behavior can instantaneously, and precariously change. They become apprehensive, they eye you suspiciously.

So I have decided that one of my goals for this trip is to be an ambassador of Israel, to reprimand some of the extensive damage caused by Israeli travelers to both Indians and other travelers.

I'm not naive enough to think that through my own merits I can change an opinion pertaining to a whole race, but at least I'll be able to make a few kooks remember me - 'the nice one', next time a horde of long haired bearded solipsistic Enfield riding Israelis come along and start producing their hubbub and smoking their drugs with utter, infuriating disregard to the local culture, treating the Indians like disposable Kleenexes, like ephemera.

I think it's working (in it's own minute scale).

When I arrived at the guest-house I'm staying in (Auroville, next to the beach), and divulged my nationality to the French Canadian woman running the place, she gave me a wintry look, as if I'm some kind of volatile diseased cretin, capable of spreading continent eradicating plagues in a second's time.
Over the course of the next few days, I had a chance to prove my exuberant (and modest) nature to her, and we actually had some amiable, jocular conversations.

In the end (before leaving) she hugged and kissed me chummily, and apologized for her conduct earlier on.

Soap

2007-05-01T05:22:00.002-07:00

Ever go to a restaurant (in India), ask to wash your hands, reach the wash basin, see that there's no soap, ask one of the staff if they have soup, get a funny look as if to say 'you capricous foreigner' and the answer 'no'?

That scares me...

Ramanashram

2007-05-01T05:22:00.001-07:00

Outside the gates, the world is bustling, and one encounters a harsh cacophony produced by the unyielding love of Indian truck and bus drivers to their magnificently loud horns.

But as soon as one goes through the gates, even though the dissonance is still loudly audible, something changes. The air becomes a bit more still, time slows down.

The first thing that is expected from one is the removal of footwear (as with any religious Hindu temple/complex). It feels good to take sandals off - moist and sticky from the day's excretion.

After walking past a space designated for parking, one finds himself facing a small building, which holds some monuments in remembrance of Sri Ramana, the revered ascetic who's legacy (among others) is this ashram.

There are plenty of seating places outside, facing the gate, and the cold marble offers much needed relief from the intense heat.
After sitting down, one can observe the animals residing in the ashram: peacocks and monkeys.

Watching the male peacock up close, opening it's colorfully beautiful feathers into a fan, creating the illusion of a half-circle filled with blue-green eyes, is a unique and awe-inspiring sight.

The monkeys are friendly creatures, unafraid of the humans that visit and dwell in the ashram, as if they too, are capable of perceiving the serenity of the ashram, they play with each other, somersaulting merrily, climbing trees and occasionally causing a good amount of mischief by snatching a valuable item from someone, such as a camera or a cellphone.

Further inside the ashram, there is a big airy meditation hall, where one can sit down and listen to the beautiful Hindu chants in Tamil, supposedly the most ancient language still spoken today, and watch a variety of Hindu pilgrims pay tribute to Sri Ramana.

This place is tranquil and quiet, and I would definitely recommend a visit.

My Guide to Girivalam

2007-04-25T21:33:00.000-07:00

Today I woke up at 5:30, so that I would be able to negotiate my way to the top of this magical mountain. The reason I woke up so early, is that at noon, the temperature hits about 37 degrees Celsius, making it impossible to do anything but take cold showers and lie under a fan (no air-conditioning here).

I shall not endeavor to divulge any information regarding this mountain, supposedly as old as creation itself, attracting millions of pilgrims every year, (sorry, slipped out) as there is a wealth of information available online, for those who are interested.

Instead, I would like to pay a tribute to my guide, who showed me the way to the top and shared his accumulated knowledge on the different caverns and places where Maharishi (a local ascetic legend) spent various amounts of years meditating.

We didn't feel it was necessary to exchange names, so he shall remain nameless.

He traversed the path like a mountain goat. With lithesome steps, negotiating the onerous rocks and fauna with ease. I had to ask him to stop every 15 minutes or so as the heat was unbearable, and I was perspiring heavily, heaving and sighing, struggling to catch my breath.

During the whole of the way up and down he did not consume a single drop of water, while I was constantly hydrating myself.

You might be asking yourself why I regarded him so highly, and why I decided to pay a homage to him.

The answer is: he's 56.

He drinks only 2 cups of water a day, morning time, and eats 2 chappatis (whole wheat thin pan fried bread) at the evening plus a glass of milk.

He climbs the mountain at least twice daily, the first time at the break of dawn, with over 10 kilos of food for the monkeys residing at the top, and he puts my young body to shame.

His secret? (quoting him)

"God's blessing"

2007-04-25T21:25:00.001-07:00

Champion Of The Morning or The Ascetic Baba

2007-04-25T21:25:00.000-07:00

This dates to 22.4.2007:

This morning, after arriving in Tiruvanmalai, I was walking around, looking for a guest house.
It was 4:30 in the morning, and everything was covered with a thick stale darkness.
Sleeping on the sides of the roads with only a flimsy sheet of canvas separating their cadaverously thin bodies and the ground, were babas - sadhus - Indians who have decided to devote their entire lives to their gods , roaming around India barefoot and living on bhakshish - donations.

I was enjoying the walk, as it was quite cool, and I had the chance to examine (albeit with poor lighting) the small ornaments and baubles adorning the babas' bodies, and the Hindu make up of red and white covering entire foreheads.
I was engrossed in these observations when I came upon a curious sight: one of the babas, lying flat against his back, had a small tent-like shape protruding from the dhoti (sarong) covering his waist.
It took me a moment before I realized the magnitude of my discovery: even babas, ascetic men of the spirit, get morning wood.
I was gleefully happy and giddy with excitement. I decided that this would probably make for one of the most entertaining pictures ever taken in India (or even the world!).
So, taking my camera out gingerly, I positioned myself for the shot, when a strange thought occurred to me: this ascetic baba, this 'Champion of the Morning', would probably like to remain incognito.
And so I spent another minute, with my eyes darting between his decorated face to his voluminous tent (which was quite impressive I must concede in hindsight - he would have made a great lover), and went my own way.

Hardcore Traveling

2007-04-25T21:24:00.001-07:00

After indulging myself for over two weeks in Arambol, Goa, I decided it's time I get out there before I get too soft, and make my way to Bangalore in Karnataka, and from there to Thiruvanamalai in Tamil Nadu.
Goa was great. I got enough sun to make me look quasi-Indian (past that skin threshold where you're perceived as a pouch of golden coins, and into a lower tier, perhaps silver coins.)
So after saying my goodbyes, exchanging emails, and making vague promises to the Nepali kitchen staff that I shall return next year, I made my way to the bus that would take me to the railway station.
And there it was, as if to tell me: 'if it's hardcore traveling you want, that's what you'll get'. At first the bus wasn't too full. There weren't any vacant seats, but at least you could stand without making physical contact with anybody.
But then they just kept coming. Copious amounts of people made their way into the bus with utter disregard to personal space, a concept that hasn't been discovered yet in India.

For the next hour or so, I found myself in a ludicrously uncomfortable position: a young Indian male, about my age but quite a bit shorter, had his head in my armpit, which is quite commendable, since I don't believe any of you would have survived the atrocity of the stench for more then about 7 seconds. A little child found himself with his head resting against my crotch, while his mother and I were exchanging salty humid breaths, and for my Coup de grâce: a young peddler, with an obnoxiously large package jabbing at my side.
Somehow I braved through it. I arrived at the train station, and found out that I don't have a seat. Under the column 'Seat' on my ticket, it read: 'RAC', which after consulting with someone, I found out denotes: 'Reservation against Cancellation'.
Now, facing a 14 hour train ride, you could probably understand my agitation.
I looked frantically at my ticket again and again, as if hoping that by some miraculous divination, the 'RAC' will change into something more plausible, such as '42'.
Luck was on my side. After catching a seat, I loathed and glared at each and every passerby, hoping from the bottom of my irritable heart that it isn't his or her seat. After about an hour the train took off.

Relieved and exhausted (loathing is an exasperating affair) I fell asleep.

The Big Chill

2007-04-25T21:19:00.001-07:00

A few days ago, we were told that a festival of epic proportions is about to take place in an adjacent beach, only 20 kilometers away from where we reside.
At first we were quite the skeptics, but then we had a chance to authenticate the existence of this fabled festival online.
But, a disturbing piece of information was also divulged to us - the entrance fee.
50 Euros.
No way will a group of poor travelers like us part with 50 Euros, the equivalent to a week of living in India with splendor beyond belief, just for 2 days of music.
And so it came to be that we devised a plan, to get inside at all costs (err, apart from the aforementioned 50 Euros).
So we waited until the last day of the festival and made our way there, thinking there must be some way for us to sweet talk our way in, or sneak inside.
Our attempts at cajoling our way in were futile, so we waited until it got dark and made our way under a part of the fence which was located next to an atrociously foul smelling lavatory.
When we got in, it turned out that a very famous group called Coldcut, whom I appreciate tremendously, was about to play. We were joyfuly giddy and needless to say it was one of the best night I've spent here.

Sarah

2007-04-25T21:18:00.001-07:00

I simply have to tell you about Sarah.

Sarah's in her thirties.
Sarah's astoundingly tall.
She's a chain smoker and she drinks copious amounts of coffee.
She used to be addicted to gambling but spent the last 6 months in Gamblers Anonymous before coming to India.
3 years ago, on account of her gambling habits, she burrowed money from the wrong people and get herself in a bit of trouble.
Through a mutual acquaintance, she was introduced to a creative solution to her problems.
An affluent Turk, secretly gay, desperately trying to hide his homo-erotic tendencies from his parents.
And thus, one of the most practical marriages was born.
Him, proving to his suspicious parents that he's as heterosexual as an affluent Turk, born to a distinguished family should be.
Her, acquiring the funds to pay off her debt and live well for the rest of her life without having to work a single day.

The people you meet in India...

The Wedding

2007-04-25T21:16:00.001-07:00

I met a very sweet Canadian girl called Leigh. She's been traveling in India for a few months now and is going to learn journalism in NYU as soon as she gets back.
I had the most pleasant time with her. We both share the same passion for English so we would constantly find ourselves engaged in linguistic tet a tets, which would usually end with one of us pointing out how extremely nerdy we both are.
Approaching the matter at hand, one day she offered me to go on a little trip to a town about 40 kilometers south from where we're staying. So, one fine Indian morning, we rented a scooter and made our way there. I shall spare you from the details of the journey, except for one amusing incident where a police officer attempted to pull me over, with thoughts of the abundant wealth he shall acquire after finding out the I have no driver's license (through bribery of course), when I signalled him with my hand that I'm about to pull over, and then swerved away from him in the last moment and turned around to bestow upon him a mischievous smile.

On our way back it was quite dark, and we came upon what looked like a grandiose Indian wedding in a large space on the side of the road. I turned around to Leigh and asked: "Shall we crash this wedding?", and she replied: "yes!".
So there we were, dressed like two dusty vagabonds, getting ready to cajole our way in to a massive crowd dressed in the finest silks India has to offer, enjoying the reception to what appears to be a sumptuous and congenial wedding.

We stood outside for a bit when the gravity of the situation (foolishness) dawned upon us, and decided that we should leave.

But, Mother India had different plans...

Just as we were walking out, a nice middle-aged Indian approached us from inside the wedding, and asked us where we're from. We obliged him, and then, he told us that he's the bride's brother and extended to us a cordial invitation to the wedding.

Naturally, we accepted, and enjoyed an excellent evening of classical Indian music, an abundance of great Indian food, and a great deal of staring and fussing around us.
India...

Mumbai - 5.4.2007

2007-04-25T20:38:00.000-07:00

Greetings from India!

O.K., where do I start...

First of all, it felt very natural to come back to India.
That is, I was not excited during any point of my coming here.

Second, it's hot here (here denoting Mumbai).
When I say 'hot', I am not referring to the heat that you are familiar with. I mean something else entirely. Something that makes people's skin go bad, their cars overheat constantly, their tempers rise, and even makes them melt occasionally (actually, it doesn't make people melt, although that would be a sight to behold, but I was in the spirit and felt like adding it for dramatic effect.)

Third, it's great!
Although I have forgotten a good bit of my Hindi, I am still quite capable of fending off the formidable onslaught of beggars, hobos, drug dealers, taxi drivers and other pesky creatures that cling to you if your skin color is brighter than a certain brownish shade.
Admittedly, it's quite annoying to be perceived as a pouch of golden coins, but after uttering an amusing line from some bollywood film (in Hindi of course) or anything of that sort they usually bugger off, with a smile on their face.

I cannot even begin to describe how much I've missed the food here. The intense mixture of flavors combined with the fact that it's acceptable (if not welcomed) to eat with your hand makes me a very happy boy. (once again, just for dramatic effect: eat with your hands!).

Until the next time,

Ben.