Tea Time

One summer during law school, I went to Cambodia to work for an organization doing poverty reduction and women’s rights work. I fell in love with Phnom Penh, the French colonial architecture, the rubble strewn streets, and view from the F.C.C. looking out over the steamy Mekong River. Phnom Penh is an eclectic mix of the old and the new, with pockets of modernity catering to the expat community at phenomenally low prices, with exquisite attention to detail. Coffee and tea served in blue and white china, a flower petal decorating a lunch plate, the lazy hum of ceiling fans stirring the hot, humid air, and sunlight streaming through bamboo shades.

After spending 2 months in Cambodia, I traveled to other parts of South East Asia with my friend Wood for about a month. We went to Siem Riep and saw the ancient majesty of Angkor Wat – massive temple complexes rising up out of the jungle, covered with intricately carved dancing girls that make the Mayan ruins in Central America look like nothing more than melted sandcastles. From Angkor Wat, we went to Hanoi and shopped among its crooked, curving streets, and then went to see the tomb of Ho Chi Minh. Over Ho Chi Minh’s tomb gleamed the red symbols of communism, but out on the streets North Vietnam was humming with Capitalism. Hawkers selling trinkets on the street, shop’s bursting with goods for sale, gellato parlors, books, handmade silk dresses, leather goods, metal work, fine jewelry, and delicately beaded bags. Hanoi was completely different than anything I had ever heard about Vietnam. It’s a shopping Mecca.

From Hanoi, Wood and I traveled to Southern China, where we spent two weeks exploring the picturesque mountain towns of Dali and Lijang, and some larger cities in the Yunnan Province. I had no idea that China was so vast. At one point, I took a 12-hour bus from one point to the next and for hours saw only fields and grass; it was like Kansas, but in China. In Dali, a city smack in the middle of the backpacker’s route, we had chocolate banana pancake and peach lassies, almost every morning.

Lijang was my favorite. It was a fairyland set up in the mountains, ringed with fields of giant sunflowers, its buildings fashioned in the traditional Chinese style, its streets dotted with red lanterns in the evening. Wood and I stayed in a guest house run by a family who lived on the premises. Our room was simple and white – white walls, white sheets, and white frosty air in the mornings before the sun’s warmth penetrated the stones. Between our two beds was a small table upon which stood a large metal thermos painted with pale pink flowers. Each morning and evening, the guest house refilled the thermos with tea. It was wonderful. So soothing, relaxing, and comforting, and such a hospitable touch. To the Chinese, it was normal, but to me it was special.

Today, at the office, instead of filling up my french press with coffee, I filled it with hot water and dropped in two tea bags of green and black tea with an essence of peach. Sipping the tea and refilling my mug, in between working on my document this morning, I found myself smiling, remembering sipping tea up in the mountains of China with Wood.

Maya Tulum, Maybe Not

For anyone out there considering a “mind, body, spirit” vacation at Maya Tulum, down in Tulum, Mexico, I would advise you to reconsider. Having just come back from Maya Tulum, I can report that the beach and facilities were great, but the mind, body, spirit program left a lot to be desired – mainly because, with the exception of two mediocre yoga classes a day that left me more annoyed than relaxed, there was no “program” of which to speak. It was more like a regular old resort than a wellness program.

In addition, the place was managed very poorly. The general manager told us he had just fired a large group of his staff, so it’s possible Maya Tulum was just having a bad week. That might explain the waiters that could not understand our orders, the long delays in getting served at meals, and the general lack of organization. It does not, however, explain the lack of seamless-ness that characterized my experience there. For example – this is a small but telling detail – breakfast was not served until 8 am each morning, the same time as the morning yoga class began. That meant that each morning you had to think about when you were going to eat, because it hadn’t been organized sensibly beforehand.

When you go on vacation – particularly one you intend to be a wellness vacation – you don’t want to worry about anything. You want to lay back, do you your yoga, and revel in positive energy. When things run seamlessly, you don’t have to think about anything other than how beautiful the water is, and whether you want to attempt a head stand in yoga class.

Although I still had a wonderful time despite some of the sub par elements, I would not recommend Maya Tulum. It pales in comparison to last year’s Bikini Boot Camp at Amansala, a place I would unequivocally endorse which left me feeling mental, physically, and spiritually rejuvenated (and totally blissed out). I do have to give props to one thing at Maya Tulum, which rocked over Amansala: the spa services. Fabian, Leo, and Sergio rocked my world in terms of providing fantastic drool-worthy massages and body treatments. I’ve been missing them big time since returning to my hunched-over office quarters.

I would suggest staying at Amansala and then walking down the beach for a few body treatments at Maya Tulum during your vacation. Also, stick with the male masseuses. Sorry lovelies, but unless you know the woman you’re getting can channel some serious strength, and assuming you like a firm, hard rub-down (and who doesn’t), I would say the male masseuses are a safer bet than the women.

Near Miss

I almost made a colossal error. I’ve had in my mind this entire time that I’m leaving Mumbai (Bombay) on the 17th, so after staying tonight at the luxury hotel in Goa (which by the way is freakin’ ridiculous it’s so posh) I was planning to stay tomorrow night (the night of the 16th) in Mumbai. I had looked into hotels in Mumbai for tomorrow night, had planned out my last minute shopping route through the city, and had set up drinks with friends I had met a few days ago in the Delhi Airport.

Twenty minutes ago, something told me to double check my ticket to New York. It turns out that I am in fact flying out on the 17th, but importantly I’m flying out at 12:20 am on the 17th. It took several minutes of serious concentration and my most sophisticated mathematical abilities, along with a consultation with the nearest member of the hotel staff, to figure out that a flight at 12:20 am on the 17th meant that my flight really leaves on the night of the 16th! My flight’s leaving tomorrow night, not the night after.

I almost missed my flight! Who knows when I would have been able to get another flight to New York (probably the next day). It could have taken a week, possibly even a month… I could have delayed starting my job indefinitely (the job that I had an anxiety nightmare about last night). What am I thinking, that mistake would not have been colossal, it would have been Perfect!

Damn my responsible nature. Curses!

It’s like I’ve lost two days of my vacation and am going home early despite the fact that I’m still leaving on the 17th. Omg, I’m so depressed I just might have to go get an over-priced ayurvedic spa treatment from this ridiculously fancy hotel. Maybe the full body scrub and clay body wrap? Or a massage? Last night I had a pedicure and manicure. The beautician scrubbed my heels until they sparkled – all the rough skin and traveling gunk miraculously gone.

Yes, a massage is definitely in order. And a stiff cocktail. Maybe two. For some reason, no one in India has ever heard of a Rum Runner. Hello, People, what else are you supposed to drink while lounging about a super posh resort under the palm trees with a pool at your back and the ocean in front of you? Rum and fruit juice are the perfect thing to drink in the Islands… er, India.

* * *

Update: After I got over the initial shock of the close call – or close save depending upon how you look at it – I resolved to have a brilliant second to last day. This entailed living it up at the resort and trying to ignore how much money I was spending. Things are so outrageously expensive that I might as well be tossing money about like flower petals just walking round the grounds. For example, while everywhere else in India using the internet costs about 20 rupees for a half hour (50 cents), at the hotel it costs 245 rupees ($6). Granted, still not an exorbitant sum but once you add meals, drinks, luxury and entertainment tax, and spa treatments to the cost of the internet, you can imagine how things add up.

But as I was saying, for today I attempted to ignore all of that. If I do say so myself, I did an admirable job. I discovered, when I met an American (from New Jersey!) reclining at the pool who chivalrously bought me a drink, that though there were no Rum Runners to be found, the hotel makes a decent Pina Colada. I also had a fantastically delicious lunch that included the most delicious coconut gelato I think I’ve ever had in my life. I’m serious, it was that good. Most of the day I spent lounging around the pool. In the hazy heat of the afternoon I managed to rouse myself long enough to walk down to the beach and then proceeded to lounge around down there. There were no more spa treatments, but I’m still thinking about them. That option may have been foreclosed by the fact that I think I seriously burned my tushie. On my second to last day!

I also managed to rearrange my Mumbai plans. The guy I met in the Delhi Airport offered to let me leave my bags at his hotel while I shop around Mumbai for a few hours. Then we’re going to meet up for drinks. He’s from Toronto, rather dashing looking, and, apparently, quite the hospitable gentleman. Ooh la la.

Creature Comforts in Goa

In the spirit of my blog, I’ve decided (At Once!) to dramatically class it up for the last remaining days of my Indian vacation. It’s only money after all and you can’t take it with you. Plus, I’m going to need something decadent and beautiful to get me through the transition back into Law Firm Life. Egads! Is it possible that I have to start work in just 7 days? (A brief vision of myself in a strait jacket rocking back and forth in a padded cell mumbling to myself flashes before my eyes, but I fight it off by looking out the window at the palm trees – Sigh).

The reason I need to class things up, in addition to those listed above, is that I spent last night in a plywood shack. That’s right, a shack made of plywood with a woven palm frond roof. Apparently plywood shacks are the residence of choice for visitors to Palolem Beach in Goa – the most idyllic beach in Goa and the site of the opening scene in the Bourne Supremacy (totally cool). There are perks to living in plywood. It cost only 200 rupees (about $4), and it was right on the beach. The sound of the waves was so strong last night that it sounded as if my bed were floating just on top of the ocean.

Despite the perks, I decided one night of bumming around on the beach was plenty. If I were traveling for a year and I had all the time in the world, living for a time in a beach shack would be the perfect way to while away the time. However, I’m down to 4 days before I must fly home to New York. I’m on a tight schedule! I have only 96 hours left! I can’t spend them all hot and sweaty in a hut made of plywood! I’m 32 and I’m a lawyer for god’s sake! A big time New York lawyer! I searched the beach high and low and found the nicest bungalows at Ciarin’s Camp. The bungalows at Ciarin’s Camp are also made of plywood but they have attached bathrooms, surround a beautifully manicured courtyard, and have on site a terrific restaurant that specializes in fresh, healthy-ish, veggie fair.

After transporting my belongings – which get heavier and heavier with each spree of shopping I do in each city – down the beach to Ciarin’s Camp, I spent the rest of the day lounging around, had breakfast, and had a swim in the ocean. The water here is nice, though brownish in color from all the silt that’s been stirred up by the changing weather. Apparently the monsoon strikes these parts around June, and the water has started to get churned up in anticipation of the coming rains. After a few hours of enjoying Ciarin’s Camp I decided I needed to class things up a notch further. Apparently the luxury I experienced in Bombay rubbed off a little too much on me

So, after a bit of research and a few calls, I booked myself a room for tomorrow night and the next at the Park Hyatt Goa Resort and Spa. It’s a luxury hotel right on the beach that has a pool and a spa!! I actually feel like quite an adult making such a reservation. Other than the time I stayed with my brother in a super posh hotel in Bangkok, or two nights ago in Mumbai, I can’t recall another time I’ve stayed at a fancy hotel on vacation. Granted, on family trips when I was younger of course, but never as an adult paying for it by myself. Usually I’m partial to the cute guesthouse option (not just because they’re more affordable, but mainly because they’re charming). In India, however, the cute guesthouse option is hard to find.

I think this is just what I need. To finish this vacation off in style and in a setting that optimizes relaxation, rejuvenation, pampering, and some quiet introspection. I anticipate feeling deliriously happy the minute I check into my room. It has a kind sized bed too! It’s going to cost a pretty penny, but honestly I’m going to make it back in no time starting next week, and it’s worth it because it’s going to make me happy.

And that’s what I’m about these days, making myself happy now. At once.

Luxurious Bombay

I just had the most marvelous time staying at the Marriott at Juhu Beach in Bombay. It was awesome. I came in off the road – after traveling from Jodhpur to Udaipur, exploring Udaipur (a wonderful city), and then flying to Bombay – a bedraggled, hot, sweaty, and slightly smelly mess, and found refuge with Pirate who was staying at the Marriott on business. If there’s anything better than crashing with a friend staying at a luxury hotel on business, I don’t know what it is.

The bed was like a thick, wondrous cloud of acres and acres of soft, white linens. The white drapes covered floor to ceiling windows that looked out onto the beach, and were so thick that they blocked out almost all the sun in the morning. But the most fantastic part of Pirate’s room was the bathroom. Oh my god, the bliss of a gigantic tub filled with hot, steaming bubbles. I arrived at the Marriott while Pirate was out to dinner and after entering the room, waited about 30 seconds before running a bath and raiding all the complimentary toiletries. I scrubbed and scrubbed, delighted in submerging myself in glorious, sweetly scented water, and then wrapped myself up in a thick fluffy white towel. God, I love hotels. I kind of love Pirate to for making all of that happen.

After Pirate got back from dinner we went and had drinks at a club on the beach that did an excellent peach mojito, and then went clubbing at Enigma, the club in the Marriott. The music was a mixture of Euro, Indian techno-pop with flashes of Western pop. Justin’s sexy back made an appearance. It was so much fun.

Now I’m off for a 4 day beach holiday to Goa. Beach bungalows, here I come!

Hot, Hazy, Majestic and Blue

Compared to the 24 hours immediately preceding my arrival in Jodhpur, my time in the city has been very relaxing. I’m staying at Pal Haveli, a traditional Rajasthani home still owned by a family who has lived here for years. My room is spacious, breezy and gorgeously decorated. One wall is lined with french doors that look out onto a peaceful courtyard. The windows are covered by pale orange drapes from floor to ceiling, and when the sun filters through them the room is shrouded in a soft, hazy light. The ceilings are about 15 feet high and there are 6 ceiling fans in addition to an air conditioning system to keep the room cool.

I can now understand why Rajasthan has a reputation as a “romantic” destination. In addition to the beautiful, traditional rooms, it’s so hot here that for good portions of the day you want to retire to your room and laze away the late morning to late afternoon. With nothing to do but lay around under the fans in bed, I could see why it wouldn’t be a bad place to come with a lover.

I’ve been spending my days differently, though no less enjoyably. Yesterday, I toured the large fort set atop the hill that overlooks the city. Here, the buildings – one to three story box-like structures built on top of one another dotted by roof decks and courtyards – are painted in shades of blue, cream, and tan. The most popular and striking color is a bright indigo blue color, the color that was traditionally reserved for the high caste Brahmans. The color is believed to have a cooling affect and to repel insects. Looking down at the city from the ramparts of the fort, it looked like a labyrinth of blue boxes set off against the rust-red sands of the distant desert.

In addition to visiting the fort, I visited the residence of the current Maharajah of Jodhpur. It’s an impressive domed structure, similar in shape to the Taj Mahal though less elegant, that took over 3,000 people 15 years to build. The work was begun as a famine relief effort, and when it was completed it housed the reigning family of Jodhpur rulers. Now, most of the palace has been turned into a luxury hotel. There’s a small section that is a museum, and then there’s a separate section that continues to house the Maharajah. I made a brief stop at the museum and then headed directly to the restaurant of the luxury hotel. I had an absolutely delightful time in the air conditioned restaurant – so cold that I was blissfully chilly for my time there – having coffee, a slice of chocolate walnut cake, and a scoop of mango ice cream while the temperatures climbed to sweltering heights outside. It cost me almost as much as my room at Pal Haveli but it was totally worth it.

Today, I had breakfast on a roof top of a nearby guesthouse, the Haveli Guesthouse (also a good option with friendly staff and a bit cheaper than Pal Haveli). The coffee was good, but my chocolate-banana pancake came out looking shiny, waxy, and bright yellow. Perhaps it had been made with saffron? It tasted all right, though a bit oily. For the remainder of the morning I’m going to wander the streets, do a little shopping and try to take some pictures. My A.C. car picks me up at my guest house at around noon to take me to Udaipur, a city in Southern Rajasthan that is about six hours away from Jodhpur. I expect that it will be slightly cooler as it’s nearer to the coast and situated around a lake. I’m feeling very self-congratulatory for my excellent decision of arranging to be in an A.C. car during the hottest hours of the day.

I still haven’t made my tickets to Goa, but I’m hopeful it will all work out.

Near Calamitous Journey to Jodhpur

My journey from McLeod Ganj to Jodhpur, Rajasthan proved a bit harrowing. Almost an entire day has passed since I arrived here, in Jodhpur, and I’m still thanking my lucky stars that I actually arrived and did not wind up about six hours west of here in the middle of the desert. Instead of a lukewarm internet cafe, I could be lying passed out from the heat in a tent in Jaisalmer surrounded by nothing but sand and camels. I know what you’re thinking. It does sound kind of interesting. And, if I had more time I probably would have gone on a camel trip through the desert. However, I’m down to 8 days and my sites are now fixed firmly on Goa. I’m going to spend my last few days of freedom on the beach in a bungalow with nothing to do but drink rum punches and stare at the sea.

That’s the plan anyway. I still have to get from Jodhpur to Udaipur, to Mumbai, to Goa, and as I was reminded of this morning, traveling in India can be a bit dicey at times. Which brings me back to the somewhat harrowing tale of my journey from McLeod Ganj. It started off quite nicely with a relaxing 3 hour trip via air conditioned car from up in the mountains to the airport at Pathankot. The flight from Pathankot to Delhi also proved uneventful. I met a woman from Croatia and enjoyed a pleasant conversation during the flight.

The problems started in Delhi after I purchased a pre paid taxi ride for 250 rupees from the Delhi airport to the Old Delhi train station. Usually the pre paid taxis are the way to go. They are supposed to eliminate the hassle of bargaining and ensure that travelers pay a fair price for their rides. In my case, I had gotten into the taxi (which was an old beat up black mini van) after showing the driver my pre paid form and confirming with him – to the extent possible since he did not or feigned not to know English – that I wished to go to the Old Delhi train station. This is to be distinguished from the New Delhi train station which is across town.

As we were pulling away from the airport my driver, a short, skinny Indian boy, glanced back at me and said, “Train station 200 rupees.” (Which is almost 100% of the price I had already paid for the ride). At the same time another short, skinny boy jumped into the front passenger seat. This happens throughout India and in most cases the taxi driver tells you the other person is his brother. This is a lie and should not be trusted. Usually I demand that the other person gets out, but in this case we were already pulling away from the airport and I was distracted by the demand for more money.

I was immediately pissed because I knew as well as he did that I had already paid my fare in full and his attempt to get more money was pure extortion. I told him no and that I had already paid, and waved my receipt towards him. He again demanded 200 rupees. He did this several times while I continued to say no and to remind him that I had already paid, getting more heated each time. Finally, I slid the door of the mini van open, as we were driving on the highway, and said firmly and rather angrily, “Old Delhi train station. Already paid. Right?” I did not close the door until he nodded his head and said, “Right.” He seemed somewhat shocked that I had opened the door and for the next 20 minutes didn’t make any further demands for additional money. As we drove, I had my Lonely Planet opened to the map of Delhi and was tracing our progress through the city, making sure that he and his friend weren’t going to try another way of taking money from me.

When we were 2/3rds of the way there my taxi driver tried another tact. Pretending to not know where he was going he asked, “Address?” Now I was really getting pissed. I pointed at the words “Old Delhi train station” on my receipt and said “You know?” and he shook his head and feigned ignorance. He again asked for the address and then I started raising my voice, repeating “Old Delhi train station.” At one point we stopped at a traffic light and I got the attention of a man on a motorcycle and confirmed with him that we were headed in the right direction. Then I told motorcycle man that the taxi driver was trying to cheat me, that he was pretending to not know where I was going, and that he was demanding more money even though I had already paid the fare in full. The motorcycle man talked briefly with the taxi driver and confirmed that the driver knew where the train station was. Ah, to know Hindi… Then the motorcycle man told me to go to the tourist police if I had a problem. This might have been helpful except that I was having a problem, I was far away from the tourist police, and I was rushing to make my train – a 12-hour night train to Johdpur.

Luckily, after the traffic light I started seeing signs for the train station. At each sign I pointed them out to my driver and ordered him to go in the direction that they said. He then started to demand “50 rupee driver tip,” and threatening not to go to the train station. I just kept insisting, rather loudly, that he needed to take me to the train station, complete with sharp hand gestures and admonishments to cut it out. I think I convinced him that I meant business because after another 10 minutes or so, which seemed to go on for ever, we pulled into the train station. I opened the van door while it was still rolling and started taking out my belongings. When he came around to my side of the van he held out his hand and asked for the paper. I gave him the paper, glared at him, and then stalked off. He didn’t ask for money – I suspect because he realized how angry I was that he had tried to rip me off, and had threatened me. All of the other taxi and auto-rickshaw drivers just stared at us.

I was shaking because I was angry, but also because I had been scared. Almost everywhere in India it’s been a hassle dealing with the taxi drivers. This was the only ride during which I felt a little frightened – because the driver was clearly intent upon getting more money from me – and it was the only time (so far) that I had to yell at the driver to make him take me to my destination. I basically had to show him that I was going to put up a fight if he tried anything sketchy, and if I had not been so vigilant with the map, and if I had not been up in his face demanding that he cut out the b.s. and take me to the train station I think there’s a risk he would have taken me somewhere else and probably tried something stupid.

At the Old Delhi train station, I was greeted by the same masses of people lying about on the floor, begger children, unintelligible signs, and lack of any helpful official person that I had experienced in the Kolkata and New Delhi train stations. India, seriously, you have to do something about your train stations. They are nightmares. I picked my way over the bodies of people sprawled out on the pavement and tried to find my train number on the board. No luck. Then I wandered to the platforms looking for any signs or railway official. No luck. A man selling juice pointed me towards platform 17 and I crossed over the hanging walkway to that platform. There another man – this one dressed in army fatigues – told me the same thing, that the train to Johdpur was going to leave from platform 17.

It was 4:30 pm and I had over an hour before my train was to leave at 5:45 pm. Looking down the length of platform 17, most of it was deserted except for a small, beat-up, blue train way down at the other end. The train did not look like it would have any 2nd class A.C. sleeper compartments on it, which is what I had booked. Thinking there was no way that train was my train, I walked down and checked just to be on the safe side. Again, there were no officials to be found so I asked another man selling juice whether the train was going to Jodhpur. He shook his head and I walked off to sit on a bench to await my train. I waited for about 20 minutes. All around me the men on the platform stared at me, and I carefully refrained from making eye contact and pretended to ignore them. A few beggar children approached me and asked for money. As the minutes ticked by, I kept staring at the beat-up old blue train. Something told me to investigate a little further.

On the bench next to mine was a nicely dressed Indian man reading the paper whom I decided was a safe bet to ask for directions. I’ve become classist since arriving in India. The Indian man asked a few people nearby, and when they didn’t know, he told me to wait a minute and went off down the platform, leaving me to watch his belongings. I decided then that he definitely was a good bet to ask for directions – anyone that trusting was definitely trustworthy. A few minutes later he returned and told me that my train, the one I needed to take to get to Jodhpur, was in fact the beat-up old blue train, which was bound for Jailsamer, a town on the edge of the desert several hours west of Jodhpur. It would have been nice if there had been signs to that effect.

After identifying the train, I had to locate my car, and then my berth. All of that proved slightly nerve-wracking as well. Initially, I wasn’t allowed to get on the car because, I think, someone was straitening up the car. At one point, the train started rolling down the platform and I ran up to the car and started slamming on the door. A man poked out this head and told me to wait 5 more minutes as the train slowed to a stop. When I was finally allowed on I found to my great dismay that I had been given a top bunk in an area of the train that had basically no privacy whatsoever except for a small blue curtain. Worse yet, there was a fluorescent lamp on the ceiling of the train right next to my bunk, which was to stay on for the whole night.

I did the best I could to organize myself, piling my backpacks up on one end of my bunk and chaining them to the bed rail, and then using them as a rest to recline against. In that position, it was impossible to stretch out my legs unless I propped them up diagonally against the ceiling, which I did at various points of the night. I had my money belt clipped around my waist and my camera wedged between my body and the wall in a bag that I had looped over my shoulder. Needless to say, the journey was not the most comfortable train ride. I couldn’t get to sleep for several hours. When I finally slept, I dozed fitfully, waking up every hour or so, each time checking my travel clock to see what time it was. The conductor who had come by to get my ticket – the first official person I had seen since arriving at the train station – had told me that the train would arrive in Jodhpur at 6 am.

At around 4 am, I fell into a deep sleep. I remember dreaming about finding a hidden bar in New York, a place that you couldn’t see from the street. In the dream, you had to push a large red lever to make a bay window swing open and reveal a seat – a seat like you would find on a carnival ride, complete with a metal rod that snapped in place to keep you safely in your seat. I jumped into the seat and ended up talking to a couple who told me that they come to the bar all the time. The place had a speak easy feel to it and I was by turns impressed with myself for finding it and chagrined for not having discovered it earlier. Mostly I was happy to be there though.

Suddenly I woke up and looked around my bunk in confusion. My back hurt from where my bags had been digging in to it and my legs were stiff and cramping. There was no cool New York bar. Only the tiny little space, the itchy wool blanket, and the blue curtain lit up by the florescent light. It took me a minute to realize that the train wasn’t moving, and I rummaged through my bag to get out my travel clock. It was 8 o’clock!

I whipped open the curtain, my gaze fastening on an Indian girl passing below my bunk. Urgently I asked her where we where. My heart was in my throat, and I was already mentally preparing myself to hear the worst – that we had passed Jodhpur and were somewhere out in the desert. How could I have missed Jodhpur?? She said, “Jodhpur,” and I was so stunned that I had to ask her again just to make sure. She must have sensed the near panic I was in because she asked if I was getting off at Jodhpur and when I nodded affirmatively she said, “Only stop 15 minutes. Have already stopped 10 minutes.” Holy crap!

I moved like I was on fire. I unlocked the chain around my bags, threw my books into one of them, checked my money belt and my bag for my camera, swiftly felt through the blankets and sheets for any of my belongings that might have become misplaced during the night, and then tossed everything down to the bunk below. I grabbed my hiking shoes which I had taken off during the night, felt through my blankets one last time, and then ran down the length of the train in bare feet, my bags flung across my back. I leapt off the train, landing ungracefully on the train platform, breathing heavily at the near miss, and dumped everything onto the ground next to a metal post. People stared but I ignored them. I must have looked like a disaster. My clothes were a wrinkled mass, my feet were bare and dirty, and my hair was a mess. I sat down on the ground next to my things and tried to calm down. I had some crackers, and slowly put myself together piece by piece.

Ten minutes later, I had my shoes and socks on and the train was still there. I was feeling a little silly after leaping out of the train, and I was also thinking that I should probably double check my bunk area. I picked up my backpacks and boarded the train a second time to check my bunk. On the way to my bunk I saw the Indian girl who had helped me earlier and thanked her profusely for her help. I checked through the blankets again and couldn’t find anything, so I left the train. Somehow I had lost a wool sock, but it was nowhere to be found. To my knowledge, I got everything else. Then, for the second time this morning I stepped out onto the platform in Jodhpur. The second time I was far more graceful.

Exciting as last night’s journey was, I’ve decided not to take any more trains for the remainder of my time in India. I’ll be traveling to Udaipur via air conditioned car, and if all goes well, I will be travelling to and from Goa via plane.

I’ve been tagged by Artemis for a poetry meme, the rules of which are that the poem of your creation must start with “Roses are red.” So here goes (“Blue” refers to the houses in Jodhpur which are painted an indigo blue color believed to have a cooling effect and to repel insects):

Roses are Red,
Jodhpur is Blue,
Goa is Paradise,
I’ll be there soon.

By the way, according to two French tourists that I met while touring around the fort at Jodhpur, it was 45 degrees Celsius in the shade today in Jodhpur and over 50 degrees Celsius in the sun. For those of you Celsius-challenged like myself, that’s 113 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade and 122 in the sun. It is freakin’ HOT in Rajasthan.

Nothing To Fear Except Fear Itself

Pirate left this morning and I was sad to see him go. He left at 9 am in an air conditioned car bound for the airport in Pathankot, a small town about three hours away from McLeod Ganj, where he was going to catch a flight to Delhi. He was an excellent traveling companion and I had so much fun with him. It’s funny, when I imagined this trip I hadn’t pictured travelling around with boys but it just seems to be working out that way. First, I met P.J. on the train from Kolkata to Darjeeling and had a terrific time with him exploring Darjeeling. Then I met up with Pirate in Delhi and travelled with him up to Mcleod Ganj. I must say, although males are not essential as traveling companions, and although I really appreciate the time I’ve had alone as a solo female traveler in India, I do appreciate having a strong, tall boy around from time to time.

Pirate and I had a number of adventures in McLeod Ganj, including an accidental 8-hour hike to the top of a nearby mountain, to a place called “Triund” which is approximately 2,300 meters above sea level. We had intended to hike up to the Mountain View Cafe, which according to the scribbly map provided by the trekking company, was midway between the town of McLeod Ganj and Triund – about three hours away. The hike on the way up was wonderful. We walked on dirt paths strewn with rocks and pebbles that scissored back and forth across the steep mountainside. Surrounding us on all sides were forests of fir trees and magnificent views of the valleys below, the snow-capped mountains above, and the towns and little houses far off in the distance. It was beautiful, peaceful, and towards the end more than a little challenging (during the last half hour I kept envisioning how luxurious it would feel to lie down on the ground and not move for a good couple of hours).

So intent were we upon persevering onwards, and so tiny was the tarp-covered lean-to referred to as the Mountain View “cafe,” that we completely missed the cafe and ended up climbing all the way to Triund. You cannot imagine our surprise – and how impressed we were with ourselves – when we noticed the sign that said “Triund, 2,300 meters.” We arrived at the top of the mountain at 4 pm, after climbing for about 6 hours, just in time to catch a thunder storm that forced us to huddle together under the tarp of the Triund Cafe – a tiny hut with enough room for 4 people to sit side-by-side on the floor, outfitted with a small cooking stove and a fine selection of crackers and candies, including kit-kats. Pirate and I had cheese toast, an omelet, and chai and watched the wind whip sheets of rain across the mountain top. I was dressed in only a tank top and capri pants (not the best preparation ever, I must admit) and it was chilly up there! Thankfully, Pirate graciously shared some of his body heat with me.

After an hour, the storm calmed down enough for Pirate and I to begin our hike back down the mountain. We set off at about 5 pm, which was about 2 hours later than we had planned to head back. At first the hike down was lovely, but at about 6 pm the sun went down (it was a beautiful sunset) and we found ourselves hiking down the mountain, through the middle of the forest in the dark. Pirate had a head lamp and I had a mag light that we used to illuminate the trail in front of us, so we weren’t in any danger at any point.

However, I have a phobia of the dark that I had forgotten about until the sun went down and I found myself on a deserted path 2 hours away from civilization in the middle of the woods at night. Specifically, I have a phobia about dark spaces that stretch back into unknown depths – spaces that could shelter all manner of alien life form, bogeyman, or walking dead, psychotic mass-murderer ala Jason or Freddy. I haven’t felt that level of anxiety in a long time. It brought me back to all of those times in high school when I was dropped off after a night out in front of my parent’s house – a house that was surrounded on all sides by dark woods. As the car that had driven me home backed down the driveway, I would walk steadily up the path to the front door, using every ounce of control I had to stop myself from sprinting, feeling like at any moment some monstrous creature was going to lunge out of the darkness, pierce my back with its talons, and rip me to shreds.

In the end, other than my heart pounding rapidly in my throat for a good hour and a half, and more than a few startled jumps and strangled half-shrieks at random noises, everything turned out fine. No one resembling Jason or Freddy crossed our path, and it was a good opportunity for me to practice my deep breathing exercises as a way to cope with anxiety. (Good practice for when I start working again for Legal Corporate America on the 21st). One minute we were walking in the dark (me fearing for our lives, Pirate trying to distract me by making me tell him stories), and the next we tumbled out onto the main street of McLeod Ganj. Civilization! I had never been so happy to see a group of Indian tuk-tuk drivers in my life.

We headed straight for a bar and ordered ourselves some Thunderbolts (Indian beer) and pizza. It was the most delicious, perfect way to celebrate our great victory over the mountain, our bodies, and for me, my fear. Once we were safely out of the woods, and sipping our beers, the fear receded and all I could think about was how awesome it was that we had made it to the top. All in all, it was a fantastic day.

Tragic Tibet

I saw the Dalai Lama’s residence! I walked the halls he walks when he’s in McLeod Ganj, meditated in the temple where he and his monks meditate, looked out onto the mountain views that he sees each morning. It was so cool.

In a courtyard in the center of the monastery/temple complex groups of maroon and gold robed monks sat and stood gathered together. Some of them were debating in the traditional style which includes large hand slaps as emphasis for a particularly powerful point. The monks actually wind up their arms as if they were going to deliver a pitch and then smack their hands together in front of their adversary’s faces. For all my friend (I’m going to call him Pirate) and I know they could have been debating the latest cricket matches. However, we chose to believe that they were debating the finer points of Buddhist philosophy. We’ve been using the hand slaps ever since observing the monks in action to emphasis our own points. It’s pretty much never going to get old. We also created a new action hero, Buddhist Monk Lawyer (Ok, Pirate did but I helped with embellishment). She fights the good fight using her special hand slapping power. She’s pretty much invincible.

Yesterday we also visited a monastery that had originally been built in Lhasa. When the Chinese invaded Tibet they destroyed the monastery and killed and imprisoned all but 4 monks who escaped. Later, those monks fled to Dharamsala and created a replica of that monastery. Of course most of the ancient texts, statues, and other art was lost.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Chinese invasion of Tibet and that fact that the Western World, as far as I know, did absolutely NOTHING in response. I came across a book that tells the story of the CIA training Tibetans to fight against the Chinese, but that endeavor ultimately failed. The Chinese invasion of Tibet and the lack of response by the Western World is an immense tragedy. The Chinese destroyed over 6000 monasteries, bull dozing them into the ground, and killing and torturing thousands of monks and the world did nothing. The Chinese continue to persecute Tibetan monks in Tibet to this day. I know because I’ve represented several asylum seekers from Tibet, all of whom were imprisoned and tortured by the Chinese for such crimes as distributing pictures of the Dalai Lama, Panchen Lama, or the Tibetan national flag. And still the Western World does nothing.

Tibet should be free.

Little Tibet

I’ve reached a wonderful place high up in the Himalayas where Buddhist monks amble down the streets and ride on the backs of motorcycles and where healthy, vegetarian food – with real fresh vegetables and fruit juice – abounds! I love McLeod Ganj!

It was a long journey to get here, about 12 hours by car from Delhi, but it wasn’t too bad. I left my crappy hotel room in Delhi and met my friend from the U.S. (a guy who grew up in my town in Connecticut but now lives in London) at the Dehli Airport. He had arranged for a car with A.C. (!) to drive us all the way from Delhi to McLeod Ganj. We chatted, napped a little, and watched as Indian life in the countryside passed by. We saw a lot of enormous cows with single bumps on their back, herds of goats, and many people living in very poor conditions. Any idealized notion I may have had about the simple beauty of living in the countryside has been effectively smashed into smithereens.

In McLeod Ganj, my friend and I are staying in, of all places, the Best Western! It wouldn’t have been my first pick, however it’s actually the nicest and cheapest place I’ve stayed in so far during my travels in India. It has hot water, clean linens, and best of all it’s right next to an awesomely chill healthy, veggie restaurant that caters to travelers. This morning I had my first chocolate-banana pancake (a food that had been a staple when Wood and I traveled around Southern China) and a delicious cup of strong, slightly burned coffee. I think I’m a little high from the caffeine kick, that and the gorgeous views up here. McLeod Ganj is set against the backdrop of the Himalayan mountains rising up around the town. It’s breathtaking and magnificent.

On the agenda for today is exploring McLeod Gang and Dharamsala (4 km down the mountain from McLeod Ganj), visiting the Dalai Lama’s official residence, the Tibetan Refugee Center, shopping, shopping, and shopping, a monastery, and a Tibetan massage. After the 12 hour car trip my friend and I totally deserve a massage. In other news, I heard from Eduardo, the Chilean guy who came to my rescue at the train station in Delhi. He’s going to be in Dharamsala tomorrow and we’re all going to meet up. How fun is that? I’m so happy to be back up in the mountains!