The Burning Ghats of Varanasi

First a glow, then the ash falls. To my surprise, the product of these fuming pyres stings my eyes. Drifting past this medieval scene in our leaky wooden vessel, I feel as if I transcended back through time at least a few centuries. I swear I hear voices whisper through the black night, the final dreams of passing spirits or perhaps last requests. In this feeble light it seems the shores themselves were hewn of rib and joint. Each ghat is crowned with roaring flames. Corpses wrapped in gold linen are carried down the stone steps for their Gangal dip then brought to the burn – back to the earth. The clang of bells dances upon the river; carrying with it weeping and sorrow. Costumed disciples twirl candles upon a stone tower with silent rhythm for those they know not. Another is lit. A dark, human profile turns to ash as the sandalwood smolders to infinity. If Hades were on earth, this river would truly be the fabled Styx.

Our boatman slowly paddles on. The air is so thick with spirits we nearly choke. I turn my head back to the night just to clean the slate before taking one last look at this haunting scene. The feeling is more than I expected of these public cremations. Blank. Solemn. Smoke. I feel quite voyeuristic, almost guilty for witnessing this scene. But the spectacle is so encompassing and the feelings so physically powerful – you are not merely watching, you are truly part of it all.

India Journal

Journal Entries - India Edition

4/18/09
One more day in Delhi. It seems that Uncle Sal (my Dad’s pet name for salmonella) decided to leave me a birthday present in my spinach cannelloni. It was a gift delivered on my birthday, but not opened until the following morning. At least I can say that I have now vomited in a public urinal in Delhi. Yes, it was as bad as it sounds. Let’s not relive the details though, ok? We hurried back to the hotel, bogged down by the triple digit heat every step of the way.

We actually sprung for a really posh place for my birthday. So if I’m going to be sick, this is the room to let loose in. But at thirty bucks a night, we can’t afford to stay long. One more day, one more bout with food poisoning.
In India, it seems every dining experience is a spin of the roulette wheel. Every spoonful lands on either red or black. We have been fed rotten food five times collectively now over the period of six weeks. Week after week, the odds have been in our favor. But, sooner or later the house always wins.



4/20/09
Two days have passed since my little ordeal. Now that we’re finally here in the mountain town of Vashisht, Lisa found that she should have placed her bet on black instead of red. Her last meal in Delhi, caught up with her here in the foothills of the Himalaya. Food poisoning is annoyingly persistent that way. But at least the symptoms were well mannered enough to wait until we checked into our new room. Poor thing, she’ll feel better in the morning.

I sit with my Tom Robbins book, nearly asleep in ‘frog pajamas’ myself. Then a billowy storm system rolls into the valley. For a mere 200 rupees per night - approx four U.S. dollars - our room boasts a wall of windows that allow sweeping views of the Himalayan range, prefaced with a river carved gorge below. With this view, I can spy every craggy ridge and every slot coulier. And this gift of rain dances upon the landscape; it may be the most refreshing act of nature I have seen in India so far.

I wake from my lethargic fog, and dust the 14 hour bus ride to the floor. A greater sense of awareness falls gently upon my shoulders and I realize that I feel as if I’m home. The mountains always steer me towards that direction. And with the trials we have been pitted up against in this country, I have to say that it’s about damn time! A quote by Ruskin Bond pops into my mind: “Once you have lived with mountains for any length of time, you belong to them and must return again and again.” Right on, so very, very right on.
I haven’t been inspired to write a poem for quite a while, but suddenly here I am pressing the pen to the paper for the first time in well over a year.

Vashisht Drops

And to my chagrin, it happens again
New place, new face(s)
Only this time, rain the wet blanket
It’s familiar touch, soothes souls and such
The Vashisht drops, she never stops
Only a rainbow can save us now


If that rainbow comes out tomorrow, we hope to head to the hills and get some climbing in!

And That's How I Got Rabies

After being in the small Indian town of Hampi for nearly three weeks, Lisa and I had peeled through and exhausted all forms of literature in our possession. Apparently, it was time to hit the bookstore. We remembered seeing one not too far from our hotel, so we set out to grab some piles of pages to pacify us on our upcoming (twenty-six hour) train ride to Delhi. Our mission began with a left turn onto a chossy Hyderabadi sidewalk. We dove into the churning sea of what we have come to accept as a typical Indian street scene – wave after wave of sweaty humans threatening to topple us over – the undertow of shouting rickshaw drivers, careening motorbikes, and blasting horns grab at our bodies and drown our senses. The only way to survive is to surrender to the flow.

Not two minutes had passed when I felt a sharp and piercing pain in my left leg, followed by about twenty pounds of dead weight trying to stretch my skin. It was as if I walked into a piercing shop and asked for a heavy gauged needle to be threaded through my kneecap and accessorized with a bowling ball. I sharply blurted out a “What the hell!” then looked down and discovered the bag of mange that was clamped onto my leg.

I immediately began to shake my leg violently, but the scrappy monster had a solid grip and hung on for the ride. Locked away somewhere in the instinctual part of my brain, I had a plan for just such an occasion and I was able to access and process this plan in the span of about two seconds. Honestly, I had no idea my brain operated that fast anymore. Locking out my left leg and swiftly spinning clockwise on the ball of my right foot (speed aided by the greasy pavement no doubt), I flung the little bastard from his crushing grip. Landing on all fours, he stood about four feet before me. This was the first time I actually got a good look at him. Patches of bare black skin shown through the brown muted fur of what just might have been one of the ugliest stray dogs in all of India. He was a little guy – about nine months old, but as mindlessly ferocious as an undersexed, juiced-up frat boy. His foamy jowls were pulled tight, bearing his toothy weapons as he stared up at me. He has already tasted my blood, and I can see he is about to come back for more. Waiting for him to turn broadside, I chambered my kick, then let my sandled foot fly into his boney ribcage. He was airborne for about five feet before skidding down on the sidewalk’s opposite side. Defeated, he let out a whimper and disappeared back into the sea of Indian legs.

Marveling at the fact that I had never actually punted a dog before, I felt a small sense of Cro-Magnon pride for defending my mate and scaring off the wild beast. I hadn’t noticed the circle of people that stood watching the flying dog act. I wondered if they had seen the dog attack, or if they had just seen some white guy kick a poor defenseless animal into the street. I pray for the former, because I am greatly outnumbered here. Instantly, they lose interest. No concern is shown for the dog – or me for that matter.

Lisa inspected the leg of my now shredded (and only) pair of pants to check out the damage. They were covered in some sort of black frothy goo. “My God, what the hell has this little bastard been eating?” I asked, praying not to hear a reply. Rolling up the pant leg, we took a look at the rest of the collateral damage. I was bleeding, but not much. Just four small punctures encircled with red, soon to be bruises, showed around my left kneecap. “God damn hell hound – I should go finish him before he bites some kid’s face off. Where the hell did he come from anyway?” Lisa explained that he was just trotting along, happily walking towards us when he turned and pounced on me. “Must not like whiteys., the damned racist mutt,” I shakingly joked. “Off to the pharmacist for you,” laughed Lisa. Lucky for us, we knew the drill. Our friend Alonzo was bitten by a stray dog in Hampi and had to undergo the same rabies vaccination process that I would now have to endure – five shots over the period of a month. It’s not so much painful as it is a hassle. We all had a great time laughing at poor Alonzo’s expense. Unfortunately, rabies jokes are so much fun, but Karma is such a bitch.

Now, I’ve been an animal lover ever since I was a kid. I remember one time when I was about seven years old, my folks brought me to the Jersey Shore. There were these children about twice my size who were using sticks to stab and chop the jellyfish that washed up on the beach. So, I ran up to the group of savages, placing myself between the pointed sticks and directionally challenged invertebrates and demanded that they stop this madness at once. I was promptly pushed into the water and stung by several jellyfish. It seems that animals just don’t care.

My leg - post chomp.

Me, taking shot number 1.

Kudle, not so cuddly...

Kudle Beach, India

After an eight hour pucker-fest of a bus ride and just over 10 hours of train travel, we found ourselves on sandy swampland with angry shores. We arrived expecting to find the typical lot of greased up tourists wearing cheap sunglasses and expensive suntans. But somehow we drifted right through that mess and found ourselves in quite another. All it takes is a quick glance up the shoreline to gain a full understanding of this place. It’s as if a freighter en route to Eugene, Oregon wrecked In the Arabian Sea and the survivors managed to save only the most valuable of their possessions: patchouli oil and hacky sacks. I’ve experienced the scene countless times during Phish tour and Festival season, but this was different. Something was amiss in these people’s Kool-Aid.

Our enormous packs, swollen with climbing and photo gear draw guffaws and disapproving nods from these seemingly half-starved creatures who apparently have only been living on yoga practice and bean curd. We continue down the beach for more of the same. I was sure of our immediate doom. A Frisbee goes sailing to my feet. I lean over to grasp it hoping to return it to a friendly face. Then my weight combined with the 40 + lbs transfer to my sprained ankle and I nearly topple into the surf. I recover and toss the little red ‘bee back to the owner, without even thanks in return.

I remember receiving a welcoming of this sort at a Wal-Mart set in some backwoods Adirondack town this past winter. Carhart and flanneless, I entered the building only out of necessity – we were out of beer. I remember strolling past the gun department after selecting a twelver of microbrew, and walking down the aisle just fast enough not to appear nervous. A few of the local boys, donning their mossy-oak camo, were standing at the glass counter. Talk about a recent 4-inch lift that one had done to their Chevy pick-up was keeping the pack pleasantly entertained. Out of habit of forever being a casual observer, I glanced over and accidentally made the mistake of making eye contact with one of the brutes. This “eyeballin’” was not taken well by the big fella who felt that it was his duty to puff up his chest and screw his face to the appearance of someone that wanted to carve his initials into my forehead. I decided it was best not to look up again until I made it to the checkout line. While smiling at the customer before me, the kindly old cashier began to greet me with pleasant “Hi there.” And when laying eyes upon my out of towner appearance, she finished with “Oh, hand me your I.D.” Word to the wise, leave the puffy Mountain Hardware jacket in the car when venturing into this sort of backcountry.

The crispy noon sun turns our naked heads crisp and the searing sand is doing the same on our bubbly toes, but we continue to hump our packs down to the very end of the beach. Surely we will be handsomely rewarded for having to endure such a gauntlet. We continue on, thinking of the Shangri-La that awaits us at the end. Turning our heads to the right, we notice that we are walking parallel to some sort of liquid nastiness. Earlier, we observed a small channel opposite the surf when we first stepped foot on the beach. We dismissed it as a stream. But here, it opened into a large festering pool of sewerage and jungle rot. We stop and watch as people wade through the dank sludge on their way to restaurants. We make an oath to avoid the mystery liquid no matter how good we hear the food is on the other side.

Reaching the end, we trudge up the concrete steps where we are informed by the smiling Thai ex-pat that all the rooms are full, but we should try next store. Ducking under a paisley tapestry, we make our inquiry at the Ganja Café (eyeroll). It was a cursed little shack that resembled more of a tomb than a shelter. Four concrete walls, a sporadically operational fan, and a soggier than usual cotton mattress. Looking at Lisa, I feel she is about to cry. I don’t blame her. But after I tell her that the mosquito netting will keep the nasties at bay and the waves will sing us to sleep, all is well and we head to the surf.

Due to the raw sewerage that streamed from the faucets in Ooty, it’s been four very humid days since we last bathed. Our plan is to first swim, then shower. Stripping down to our bathing suits, pasty skin blinding all those around, we run into the sea where we are instantly taken out at the knees. “Jesus, this place will kill us yet!” I yell. We stand up and give it another go. The sea grabs us, and sucks us into the party. Pummeled by breakers and pulled at by the rip tide we give up the fight and head back to shower.

After a few minutes of searching around the hybrid tree house/fortified compound for the bathroom, we decide to ask a guest for directions. He was a tall, stringy, dreadlocked German with crazed grey eyes. There seemed to be a little too much pupil showing for this time of the day. I would have just kept walking but it was already too late, Lisa had already intiated the conversation. At first he looked at us like we spat on his mother. Then his thin lips pursed to a smile when Lisa repeated the question “Where can we shower?” “Oh no showaz?! Therz no showaz since zee storm came through yesterday.” Well that explains the beachfront sewer, I think to myself. Then thwarting a plastic water bottle in our faces he shouts, “You must take cat shower! Like zees!!” He splashes the water over himself, hooks his veiny wrists like paws and uses them to spastically wipe down his torso. “See, like cat!! You try!!” From the corner of my mouth I lean to Lisa and ask, “Holy shit, do you think Shultz needs to chill on the acid a bit?” Without words we agree that we have to leave this scene at once, so we slowly back away while the tall German finishes his feline grooming.

We decide to try our luck at some lunch. I’m hoping for a piece of Tuna and a cold beer. Instead, I get a doughy pizza and a mineral water. Should have known, “there ain’t no liquor in this town.” These people are ritualistic tokers, not casual drinkers. We decide to leave immediately the following morning.

We arise early the next morning, visit the squat toilets, pack up our gear and grab some breakfast. We take the walk up the beach, back to our point of origin. Happy to put this beach in our rearview, smile brim our faces. From beach, there is a short jungle approach to the drop off point atop a bluff. We ask the rickshaw drivers how much to the train station. Unsurprisingly, transportation inflation has set in over night. It has a funny way of doing this when you are stranded 20km from nowhere in blinding heat. Lisa’s usually quiet demeanor instantly takes a back seat as she berates the drivers for doubling what we paid to arrive - cursing them all as thieves. One driver calmly replies, “Madame, your taxi takes cheaper gas than our two-stroke auto rickshaws.” And another “Madame, followed by more mouthfuls of lies.” These people are so polite, even when they are screwing you.

We decide to find some shade beneath swaying palm until a cheaper driver comes along. But with every vehicle that rolls up, the drivers inform the newcomer not to go charge anything other than 300 ruppees for a ride. “Goddamned pimps!” I shout. “They’re all in it together!!” I want to slap one just to teach the others a lesson. But I figure the rest of them would be on us like jackals. I could probably only take a few out before being dragged into the jungle, kicking and screaming as they politely say “OK sir, we kill you now. OK mister?”

We decide to take an offer of 240 rupe’s, only because of our desire to put this place behind this. We climb into the 3-wheeler, and we’re off – cursing the tout at every mile that passes.
Next stop Panjeep - Wish us luck.

Eight Things

Morning. Ooty,India . 2240 meters above sea level. A spider web of shadows cling to a folded window curtain. A Spattering of flattened mosquito corpses adorn the cool adobe wall. There’s an off center photo hung a bit too high for anyone to easily view without a step ladder. Standing on the balls of my feet, I see the man in the image is meditating upon a granite slab amongst a sea of coffee fields. Not a bad place to be. Accented English slips beneath the hallway door – breakfast time. Talk of tea and destinations, past and future. I slump back in bed for a few moments more – I saw my first wild elephant yesterday and it was more than I could have asked for.

There are 8 good, bad and ugly things that I have learned since I touching down on the tarmac just one week ago:

1 – Similar to the European way of nodding one’s head up and down to signify the answer ‘yes’ or side to side for ‘no,’ in India the wobble of one’s head while conversing can mean one of three things: yes, no, maybe. I still don’t really get it, so maybe I really didn’t learn anything here.

2 – Never, ever smile at a monkey. In monkey speak this means ‘bring it on!’ That for me is going to be a tough one for sure. I mean, how do you not smile at a monkey?!

3 – No matter where one finds themselves in the world, the crows will be waiting. Ghastly creatures, these oil slicked nuisances’ favorite game is to shrilly caw their Nevermore prose just outside my morning window. And it seems that they are larger here than their stateside cousins. Their call carries with such strong contrast compared to lilting twitters of the morning keets. They sound like an overweight Armenian man with a mouthful of sandwich who just stubbed his big toe on the way back to therefrigerator. I am convinced that these feathered demons have been sent from the blackest realm of Hell just to poke at the resting soles of all mankind. Crows are truly the douche bags of the bird world.

4 – Natural Oils are an absolute miracle. For example: water lily extract is a natural mosquito repellent. Goodbye Deet! And sandalwood is a fantastic cure for aching muscles, treating mosquito bites (if you forgot to use the water lily), healing the inevitable cuts & scrapes, and apparently damaged tendons. It was recommended to me our ‘oil salesman’ that I apply this sandalwood to my sprained ankle to accelerate the healing. I applied the miracle oil to the sprain and within minutes I had full mobility. My foot has never smelled better!

5 – Common barnyard animals will eat just about anything. Just yesterday morning we watched with disgusted intrigue as a chicken pecked at a dead rat. And every day we are truly amazed as bovine graze happily on piles of street trash.

6 – There are a lot of goddamned people here. I’m pretty sure that every square inch of this country is currently occupied.

7 – I’m convinced that all cars, trucks and busses cannot operate without a working horn. If it’s on the road, it needs a horn. Preferably, the blaring kind. Horns like the wobble of the head can signify many things. Such as: I’m passing you, get the hell out of the way! Or, I’m going around a blind corner at an alarming rate, get the hell out of my way! Or, what there’s a cow in the road, get the hell out of the way! Or, I’m running this traffic light, get the hell out of my way! Or, Hi friend how have you been, get the hell out of my way! I approached two men that were repairing an auto rickshaw in the street that apparently wouldn’t start, I asked them if the horn was broken. They didn’t find it nearly as amusing as I did.

8 – India has the best coffee in the world. Yes that’s right Seattle, I’ll say it again – India has the best freaking coffee in the world. I don’t know how they do it without fancy cappa-frappa-soy mocha-steamer machines or by selling thirty-five different varieties of travel mugs or those special Starbucks artist cd samplers – but somehow they manage. Maybe it’s because they focus on the experience of sharing the beverage as opposed to swilling it down by the pint like recluse junkies. And I suppose the fact that it’s grown, roasted and ground about a kilometer away has a bit to do with it too.

Well, my internet cafe bill is racking up, time to cut this thing loose. I leave you with some photos of the day...enjoy!

I call it, "Freerange Chicken pecks at rat before a dung wall." Catchy? Yeah, probably.

Rickshaw Down!

A craftsman hammers out chain links in Mysore.

Roadside tattoo anyone?