We arrived in Margao, Goa around 9PM and took a prepaid taxi the 6km to the small coastal town called Colva. We deliberated about the best beach to stay at, and Colva seemed a good combination of convenience and location. We pulled up to Lucky Star Hotel around 9:30 or ten and I said to the cabbie “yo holmes smell you later.” After checking in to a cheap, 300Rs a night room, we walked to the nearly empty restaurant and ordered dinner. Mistake. I ordered the Goan-style egg curry. Mistake. We ate and went to sleep.

Early in the morning I woke up with bad gas and couldn’t fall asleep again. Then I got up from bed and surprised myself by vomiting in the shower. I hadn’t been sick this way since childhood; much like Jerry I had a great streak ruined by one bad meal. J. did not get sick.

To make matters worse, I had also started getting congestion and a sore throat on the train. The stomach sickness seemed to aggravate it. Before noon, we moved down the road to a more upscale (though mildewed) hotel and I rested for the day.

The next day I felt good enough to go for a walk along the beach and to get coffee. I had a pounding headache from caffeine withdrawal thanks to the plentiful cups we sipped in Mumbai. The beach was pretty nice, with clean sand and coconut palms. Most of the shore was developed with fishing village huts. The main town was only a street, but it had everything a traveler needed, including an excess of Kashmir and Tibetan handicrafts. The tourists were mostly Indian.

Fishering huts on the beach.

More huts.

Kids walking to school.

Pigs humping.

Small fish drying in netted enclosures.

Fish delivery truck.

Colva Beach, Goa.

Fishermen bringing in the catch.

More fishermen bringing in the catch. This massive net was full of fish.

Fish.

Fish getting sorted. There was another basket for squid.

Cows lounging on the beach.

Dylan McCow is so cool.

Woman and water.

Defunct businesses.

After the walk it was back to the room for hours of rest. I went with J. to dinner but was feeling sick just looking at the food. I got a lime soda and a few bites of bread. A small bottle of Benadryl was purchased for less than a dollar to help my congestion and coughing. That evening I went to bed at 7:30.

Saturday I was still feeling crappy so I rested most of the day. By lunch my appetite had come back a little so we hung out a hygienic-looking “British-owned” pub called Tates. I got fish and chips and J. got jumbo prawns. We sat for three hours eating and playing cards. I went back to rest. In the evening, we headed to the beach to watch the sun go down. Storm clouds rolled, we ran for shelter, it poured, and the sky cleared just in time.

Crosses.

Crowds gathering for sunset.

Clouds gathering for sunset.

Our storm shelter.

Sunset.

We left Goa on Sunday. We didn’t get to do much of what I’d hoped: rent a motorbike and explore, try out the local cuisine, relax on the beach. I had slept for most of the stay, and by the time we boarded our flight I was starving. I realized then that in three days I had only eaten two meals, one of which I lost. Fortunately, despite all the local news of layoffs and cost cutting, Kingfisher Airlines served a great vegetarian meal on the one hour flight to Bengaluru (Bengalore).

Did you know that the name Bengaluru literally means “the town of baked beans”? It’s a weird historical juxtaposition to its current claim of technology outsourcing mecca.

Did you know that in our first day in Bengaluru we got food poisoning again? This time the culprit was a friendly, dosa-serving place we went to dinner. Just when my gut was calming down, it got tweaked again. J. wasn’t so lucky and for most of Monday has been in the bathroom or bed. Our one full day of exploration has been turned into one full day of burping, pooping, vomiting, and bed rest.

I think India has planned this all along. As soon as a visitor starts getting comfortable here, it needs to throw a little reality check. Reading the papers here reveals the constant potential for craziness at any moment. In a country where bombs blow, people riot, rape, stone, and crash, at little sickness from ill-prepared food seems pretty minor.

I’m looking forward to Thai food.

Our trip to Mumbai, India began with a terrifying and exhausting 16 hour overnight bus ride from Udairpur. The bus was an older Volvo air conditioned semi-sleeper, meaning the seats reclined but would never be considered beds. During the daylight hours the ride was pleasant enough, but as sun fell things got scarier. The winding roads to lower elevation were taken with speedy abandon. At many points, the bus leaned so much I feared it would tip over. The driver passed sleepy cargo trucks with honks and inches to spare. I drifted off to sleep a few times only to be awoken by dreams of bus crashes or the rumble and violent bumps of a bad stretch of road. The bus stopped a few times for potty and snack breaks. Never before have I smelled such a strong concentration of pee. The men’s stalls were like standing at the precipice to hell.

Day One

I must have slept a little, because I awoke as we entered the outskirts of Mumbai. Like Los Angeles, the edge of the city was sprawling and undefined. But as my eyes fluttered open I saw we were there: slums, pollution, modern buildings, density, wealth. The highway was in shambles and the bus bounded and rumbled over the road dramatically to our stop. We hopped in an old taxi and headed to find a guesthouse.

It was early morning. We had the driver drop us off at a landmark in the Colaba area called Gateway of India. This arch was built by the British, and it stands under renovation at the water’s edge of Mumbai Harbor. The first places we looked were dumps. We eventually found the cheapest room in a recommended guest house called Bentley’s. We are on the ground floor on the backside of the building, separate from all other rooms and next to the kitchen. The room is a pricey 1095Rs($23) a night, but considering the musky 500Rs rooms we looked at had shared bathrooms and looked to be in a converted 1940s cubicle office, our new find was worth it. Plus, it had complimentary tea/coffee and toast.

First, we took showers and a nap. Then we went in search of food and a Bollywood movie.

Gateway of India.

Mumbai taxis are everywhere. There are 50,000 of them in the city, all based on a 1950s Fiat.

Unlike the rest of India, the taxis here are metered. The device is mounted on the exterior and functions as a for hire indicator as well. The meter can be read through the window. As they are so old, the fare is calculated by multiplying the reading by about 30. Inflation at work.

Two delicious, plate sized dosas from a wonderful restaurant in Colaba called Laxmi Villas.

What a load of business.

We sat and watched impromptu games of cricket in Oval Maidan Park until shoe shine and drum selling kids started annoying us.

Detail of the High Court building. Castle-like. We checked our cameras and walked around the halls, peeking into trials and brushing robes with judges.

Sidewalk used book seller displays his wares under a shade tarp. There were used books for sale all over town, as well as all other kinds of merchandise.

Dhaba-Wallas at work. The city has 5,000 such people that deliver lunches using a color and pattern coded system of containers. Lunch boxes are picked up from homes and restaurants, sent to a sorting facility, and delivered by hand around town. Each day, 200,000 meals make it to their intended stomachs. Amazing.

Mumbai was the first cosmopolitan feeling city we’ve been in India. It’s a cross between London, Los Angeles, and India. All over was rushing traffic, pedestrians, and sidewalk hubbub. Numerous coffee shops and a wide variety of good restaurants are supplemented by high turnover street foods. There are a lot of cars in the town, mostly taxis, and barely any auto rickshaws or motorbikes. Fancy cars are not an uncommon sight. If it weren’t for the garbage, noise, and masses of Indians it could be any other country’s metropolis.

We bought two, 100Rs($2) balcony tickets to a popular Bollywood release called Hello. Spoiler alert: the movie sucks. It’s based on the popular book One Night @ The Call Center, but it took many maddening liberties. My brain has a hard time processing how weird and bad this movie was, but I’ll try.

Hello is a story within a story. It starts with a poppy shirtless rock-styled song and dance number by Bollywood star Salman Khan. Afterwards, as he’s waiting for his chopper. A woman (who turns out to be an angel) tells him the story of what happened to a group of sophomoric idiots one night at a call center. Basically: they dilly dally, flirt, have personal problems, and get a call from God on a Nokia phone.

The priorities and purpose of the film was all over the map. The mood went from joking to serious and back again without any reason. A man would crack a joke and then some lady would find out her husband was having an affair, or a man would get an email from his son saying he never wanted to see him, etc. All of these seemingly profound problems were treated as tear jerkers but had no bearing on the plot. There was a sitting on the shoulder type devil version of the protagonist (with imperfect compositing). There were a few song and dance numbers that didn’t integrate. Love story. The call center was run by a sycophantic manager who bowed to his Boston-based boss (who had an British accent). All references to America painted us as idiots. Occasionally there were vignettes showing Americans calling with various problems. The people cast were so obviously non-American as to be laughable. They were all white, but their English was so bad it sounded like a bunch of retarded Estonian hookers. The movie was mostly in Hindi, but lots of lines were in English also. The dialogue flowed between both languages and greatly helped comprehension. It felt like I had a babbelfish in my ear. Not that there was anything worth understanding. The characters didn’t grow and their goals remained selfish. The call from God was in Hindi, so I don’t know what he said. But it was tacked on too late to matter anyway. It was a harsh movie, and poorly done. It ended with the protagonist marrying the woman you thought he was going to lose to a rich man (who worked for Microsoft). The boyish, now successful, protagonist presents her with a new, gleaming white Honda SUV. They embrace. Dreams come true after all.

I hope not all Bollywood films are this bad.

Day Two

Our second day in Mumbai was mostly a hot, 7 hour death march across town. I had wanted to see the Parsi Tower of Silence, a temple where people of the Parsi faith leave their dead to get eaten by vultures. Rather than take a taxi or train, we walked. And walked. For some reason, I always find myself leading J. on these epic, uncomfortable walks.

We started in Colaba and ended up as far north as Haji Ali’s Mosque. The streets were busy, the beach was hot, the walk was long. By lunch time, I was soaked with sweat. By evening, I had visible salt deposits over my shirt. We had seen and sweated over a lot of town. It was a good day. The guard wouldn’t let us in the Parsi grounds. I should have brought my vulture costume with me.

Mumbai stock exchange building. People were outside watching the marque.

All over town are fresh sugar cane juice stands. They have cane all around them and extract the juice on the spot. A half glass is 4Rs and surprisingly green and refreshing.

Food delivery scooters.

Many of the food stalls and some of the restaurants get clean water delivered via truck or these hand carts.

Scooter and sidecar.

Street.

Man cracking nuts on the street.

Man delivering sugar cane with an ox driven cart.

Smart cards available from inside this black void near the train station.

The beautiful and massive Victoria Terminus building. Inside were swarms of people coming to work during the morning rush hour.

Across the street was another old building.

Men with typewriters on the street. There were six of them, all filling out forms. WTF?

Mosque in the middle of the road.

We cut west to walk along the water. The Back Bay sea wall and much of that part of town is built on reclaimed land. There was a little breeze, but the sun was blinding.

The wall was lined with massive concrete jacks.

All over town are police barricades.

Beach side buildings.

Chowpatty Seaface Beach. Chowpatty sounds like something Spongebob would eat.

Unclaimed coconuts on the sidewalk.

Many of the old apartments have great signs. This isn’t an example.

Two men planing wood on an overpass.

Man living under a tarp attached to a building.

Two men fixing a phone junction.

Amazing abandoned mansion in the shadows of a new highrise being built.

Old building.

Towers.

We took a lunch break at an AC beach side restaurant called Creme Centre. It had the atmosphere of L.A. The food was pricier than normal, but great. I got a chickpea curry and masala paratha. J. got a vegetable sandwich. The bathrooms were sparkling clean.

Old building with an elevator shaft slapped onto the front.

Windows of a massive apartment building overlooking the ocean.

The walkway leading to Haji Ali’s Mosque. It’s only passable during low tide. Vendors, beggars, birds and goats line the walkway.

Boats at low tide.

Crows.

The gates to the mosque.

Inside.

Garbage accumulated on the edge of the walkway.

As the sun was fading, we hoofed it back to Chowpatty Seaface just in time to watch it set. Those not stuck in horrendous rush hour traffic came out to watch as well.

Family.

The poultry of Chowpatty: chickens and turkey.

Man and buildings at sunset.

Another family.

We tried eating dinner at the stalls on the beach, but the proprietors were too intense for our business. Nearby, a boring song and dance performance was going on. We were tired, so we got a cab home.

Day Three

Day three was mellow. We ate two breakfasts: one at the hotel, and another at a good cafe patisserie nearby. Good coffee, cinnamon roll and croissant. Then we got a cab to Churchgate Station and bought two round trip tickets(16Rs for both, cheap.) for the slow local train. Our stop was Mahalaxmi Station to look at the Dhobi Ghats. Luckily, the morning rush was going in the opposite direction so the train was mostly empty.

Workers getting off the train at Churchgate Station.

The ceiling of the train car. It felt a little like a slaughterhouse.

There was a great view of the Dhobi Ghat from the overpass near Mahalaxmi Station. For 136 years, much of Mumbai’s clothing has been beaten clean by hundreds of people using a thousand washing troughs. All over the neighborhood clothes are hanging to dry. It’s an amazing sight.

Dhobi Ghat.

Clothes and people.

The washing troughs.

Clothes drying on a roof. How they organize all the clothes is a mystery to me.

Tracks at Mahalaxmi Station.

Mail getting loaded and unloaded at Mumbai Central Station.

All of the trucks in India have some version of this written on the back. Horn Okay Please. In America if you honk your horn, you’re an jerk. In India, you’re just using it for it’s intended purpose.

Grilled vegetable sandwiches on the street. 12Rs each. Pretty good, especially with green chili sauce.

Pan maker’s stand.

The train home was crowded like a cattle car. Everyone was staring at J. I drew my gun and fired 30 warning shots into the air. They stopped looking at her.

For dinner, we ate a Lonely Planet recommended place in Colaba called Churchhill’s Cafe. I have no idea what those editors were smoking; the place sucked hardcore. We went in hopes of some filling Western food, but our burgers had patties so weird they must have been vegetarian. The fries were lackluster and the atmosphere dreary. Afterward, we cleaned our palates at the breakfast place. Excellent brownies.

One the walk home, I was offered hash for the 6th time in three days. I think the same guy has offered it twice. He mentions it almost at conversational level. I ignore him. I’ve never done drugs, but I’d have to be a bigger fool to try it in India. There’s a 10 year penalty if you’re caught with anything. I wanted to tell the police there were drug dealers on Colaba Causeway, but though better of it.

As sun set over the water, I felt mostly satisfied with my short time in Mumbai. I knew I missed a lot of the city, but I’ve missed a lot of India too. In the morning, we were to begin a 12 hour train to the costal area of Goa.

Sunset over Mumbai Harbor.

Instead, we woke early and walked north across town to another large, man made lake called Fateh Sagar. It was only a kilometer or two away and free from tourists and tourists hassles. Well, the tourists were there, but they were all Indian. Lots seemed to lining up to take boats to the Nehru Park Island. Along the lakeside roadway, people were going on leisure drives and strolls. There were numerous food vendors selling samosas, drinks, and other snacks. At one bend in the road were a battery of small stalls that sold iced cream.

Lady loading bricks onto a donkey backpack.

Fateh Sagar’s water level was low, and there was a large perimeter of exposed grass along the edge of the lake. Amongst the grasses were water buffalo, herons, and other water fowl. We climbed down and wandered around the shore, avoiding cows, and staying in the shadows of stone walls. At one point, we had to do a series of pipe balancing to get across a stream and some muddy ground. It felt like a videogame. Between the paddle boats the day before and the pipe balancing, it felt like I’d teleported back to my childhood years. Unfortunately, my balls were still dropped and mood was more nostalgic than innocent.

Water buffalo in the water.

A cow that stopped and stared at J. because she was in its way. The cow, like us, was sticking to the shadows.

Cattails.

We climbed back up and walked along the road capped masonry dam in search of a large park. It ended up being a foreboding nature preserve, so we turned around and got some iced cream.

Old boats.

Neat building on a small island.

Ticket counter for boat rides.

One of many religious sculptures that had been dumped in the lake.

View of the lake from the dam.

Observatory island.

Before heading home, we hailed an auto rickshaw and bargained a fare (200Rs) to drive us to Sajjan Garh (Monsoon Palace) atop a nearby mountain. It was a pricey, but worthwhile trip. Entrance fees were 80Rs a person, plus 20Rs for the vehicle. The 200Rs for the driver was round trip plus waiting time.

His Baja rickshaw was not meant for hills. The road leading to the palace was steep, and he had to gun the engine in low gear for us to ascend at all. A few times we pulled over to let the engine cool. The road led through a wildlife sanctuary. The scenery was natural and undisturbed, and the view got progressively more impressive as we climbed. Along the way, we saw the wreckage of an identical rickshaw. It had smashed into a stone rail. According to guest house gossip, three people had died the day before when the rickshaw’s brakes failed. This story remains unverified.

The road.

The wreck.

The Monsoon Palace itself was nothing special. Most of it was is disrepair. The highlight was definitely the view of surprisingly sprawling Udaipur. Additionally, we found a stairwell that led to what looked like an old bathroom. There was a chute from the squatter straight outside and over the hill. The view on that side must have been sh-tty. Hidden under the bottom rungs of the spiral stairs were a family of squeaking bats.

The Monsoon Palace.

The view of Udaipur from the palace.

Lake Pichola, Jagniwas, and City Palace.

Fateh Sagar Lake and Nehru Park Island.

J. in a balcony.

A bench with a view.

Lovers on the grass and man without lover.

The drive down was scary but controlled. We were pooped, so we went to the guest house to rest. It was a good thing, because late into the night was a combination of festivals, concerts, fireworks, and parties. It was a loud night.

Our bus to Mumbai left at 4:30 the next day, so we didn’t do much. We had to check out of the hotel at 10AM and head to the bus station by 3:30. In the meantime, we sat around and ate a slow breakfast and an even slower lunch, interrupted by card games and a walk.

Lunch: a delicious thali platter(60-70Rs/$1.50) from Dream Heaven Guest House.

When went back to pick up our bags, the fiery haired Muslim guest house manager got us with a practical joke. He said that the buses weren’t running that day because there had been an explosion. We were confused and worried about what to do. He said they might be leaving the next day and apologized that all the rooms had been booked. While J. went off to talk to the travel agent next store, he pulled me aside and let me in on the joke. His eyes were wild with delight. I laughed and called him quite the trickster.

We hailed another rickshaw and left for the station, chuckling in relief. At least the bus would be there. The ride, however, is something left for another post.

I was lucky enough to be sitting behind a woman who needed to vomit out the window for most of the ride. When her young kids first saw her do this, they wailed and shrieked in terror and confusion. I put on my headphones and closed my eyes. No looking out the window for me. The woman’s stomach seemed to calm in the final stretch. I enjoyed the scenery for a bit until I saw bits of food and gastric juices sliding down the window. Another person had gotten sick in the bunk above us. Of all the odds…

The scenery I saw between the vomit was beautiful: rocky hills, dry river beds, small towns, granite and marble quarries and factories, black-faced grey monkeys, forest, vistas.

We pulled into Udaipur in the early afternoon. After some searching via auto rickshaw, we found a decent place to stay for 300Rs($6.50) a night in Hanuman Ghat.

Udaipur is a beautiful, old town built around largely man-made lakes. Green hills surround it, and the people are friendly and casual. Outside of India, it is most known for the Lake Palace on Jagniwas Island in the middle of Lake Pichola. This former royal residence built in 1754 was used in the James Bond movie Octopussy. It’s now a very expensive hotel.

When we first arrived, we headed to lunch in the rooftop restaurant of our guest house. Good aloo palak curry and views of Lake Pichola.

The pedestrian footbridge connecting Hanuman and Gangaur Ghats. It always seemed to be blocked by cows.

The lake was low, exposing a lot of bank in the narrow area on the northern edge. It was being used by old men as a card playing area.

Steps leading to the algae filled water.

Looking south from Gangaur Ghat.

A boy watches the birds as Lake Palace looms behind him.

In the early evening, we were caught in the middle of colorful and loud parades leading to the water. The already crowded streets were now swarming with people, music, floats, booming firework bazookas, lights, fire twirlers, dancing, bands, and traffic. It was madness. We followed the flow of the first group.

The first batch of ladies weren’t looking too happy.

The Hindu god on the float was brought to the water to be submerged. Along the way, much colored powder was thrown into the air.

Powdering the ladies pink.

The first group danced before carrying the idol into the water. The steps of the ghats were lined with both Indian and foreign spectators. The energy was wild.

The police kept the peace.

This old lady was pounding closes with a bat for the entire ceremony. She could have cared less; she had clothes to wash.

A man swimming in a particularly dirt part of the lake.

Offering a lamp for blessing.

More bored ladies.

Fire breather.

The streets were lined with silver garlands and lights.

Ladies watching the parades from the safety of an altar.

Sun sets on a magical day.

The next day, J. and I woke early and searched for a recommended coffee shop: Cafe Edelweiss. It served decent coffee and pastries, though not enough to justify it’s popularity and Lonely Planet mention.

Atrium with corn, cows, and paintings.

Stairs leading to the Hindu Jagdish Temple.

Detail.

Large woks on the sidewalk.

After breakfast, we did what I’ve been wanting to do for years: GO PADDLE BOATING! We rented a two seater for two hours for 400Rs. We had a delayed start, as the vendors had to dry dock the boat to untangle a large amount of water plants from the paddle. The lake was full of weed and gunk along its edge, making it an obstacle course to get through without tangling.

Yay! Paddle boat!

The City Palace along the banks.

Jag Mandir Island.

Yay!

On the western side of the lake was marsh with plenty of birds and water buffalo. Here’s a sharp little green bird perched on a twig.

This entire family was bathing in the lake. The kids waved and yelled hello long after we passed.

Lotus in bloom. Looks fake even in real life.

We docked the boat on what I call “Cow Island” so I could pee. This cow paid no mind.

After boating, we tried out another rooftop restaurant for lunch: Dream Heaven Guesthouse. Silly name, but awesome ambience, view, and scrummy food.

We ate lunch in a shaded lounge area overlooking the lake.

My meal was a cheese and pea curry with chapatis. 60Rs($1.30)

After lunch, we walked to the City Palace and paid the rather useless admission of 25Rs each to wander the grounds. We scoped out the fancy hotel. It was fancy.

This section of the City Palace was now a museum.

This sign isn’t working very well.

In the park of the Palace by the river were about 10 large monkeys. They were running around and leaping over bushes, into trees, play fighting, and crashing around. Not only were they big, but they also popped out of nowhere to freak effect. We’d be walking on a path when three would come tearing around the corning and sliding to a halt when seeing us. These monkeys could move too. They were like a team of acrobats run amok.

Running monkeys.

View across Lake Pichola. From foreground to background: Lake Palace, a fancy hotel, and the hilltop Monsoon Palace.

It was a good first two days in Udairpur. We booked sleeper bus tickets to Mumbai for Sunday, leaving just two more days of lakeside adventure.

Sunset over Udaipur.

As much as J. and I wanted to head that way and spend some time in the desert, we also wanted to avoid the hassles. We heard mixed reviews of the camel safaris and had no idea how to pick a good one. A recommended area of beautiful desert called Sam was another 42km outside of town. Plus, our long train ride had been booked in a lousy class. Instead, we decided to go in search of camels in an ancient Thar Desert town called Osiyan. It’s only 65km north of Jodhpur, so it would save a lot of transit time. Our trustworthy host at the guesthouse booked us a two day tour for 750Rs($17) each, per day. A little steep, but the cost included all meals, water, accommodation, plus farting camels and desert ambiance. It did not include transportation.

On Tuesday morning, we woke up bright and early and got a rickshaw(40Rs) to the bus station. The driver helped us book tickets(33Rs each) as all the signs were in Hindi. We got on the bus, a blunt and rickety contraption with soot smeared windows and some of the most damaged seats I’ve seen on a functioning vehicle. The seat backs were torn off or cracked, the vinyl was chipping, the arm rests flopped around like flaccid dicks. My seat back wouldn’t return to its full upright and locked position.

The ride took an hour and a half and was pleasant enough. The driver followed the typical Indian style of honking and merging nearly into oncoming trucks, swerving to avoid cows and potholes, and stopping nearly every kilometer to let people on and off. At one bump in the road, everyone flew off their seats.

We arrived at the “bus stop” in Osiyan at 9:30AM. We were supposed to meet a man from the tour. A man approached us who, under grilling, turned out not to be the man for us. Another man approached. He looked liked John Stamos playing Uncle Jessie’s greasy cousin Stavros. All slick and smiling. We weren’t sure we trusted him, but we followed him through town, across a field, and to two camels waiting under a tree. I guess he was legit. A man don’t lie about no two camels, no sir.

Our guide: Mr. NanSuk, son of Gangaram.

I hopped on one camel; J. hopped on the other. Our guides hopped in back. When the camels got up, I was surprised how high we were. It could have been the doobies, or it could have been the height of the humped beasts. We began our camel safari through the dry and sparsely populated land. Our destination was NanSuk’s family home 8km from town.

Nothing but camel.

Along the way we saw golden hills of millet, scrub, and farms. All over, sorry looking watermelons and cucumbers were being grown. Lone ladies herded grazing goats and cows. Kids would run down hills to greet us. People were carrying buckets of milk and water on their heads. It felt like a place time forgot.

As luck would have it, we passed through a village that was at the tail end of a ten day annual camel fair. I have never seen so many camels in one place before. It was magical.

A man and his camel. The white turban is traditional head wear for this region.

More camels for sale.

Lady herding cows.

After a long, bumpy ride we approached the homestead.

One of many goats.

Huts.

The doorway into the open air courtyard of the house.

Clockwise: watermelon, hut door, camel, spiked plant.

Tombstone on a hill.

After the long ride, we pulled some chairs into the shade and rested with waters until the mother had finished preparing lunch. The little brothers climbed around and stared at us. There were about 8 family members that lived in the house, and other extended family over the hills. Despite 16 years of being visited by tourists, only the two eldest brothers and one younger brother knew much English.

The air smelled of grass, dust, and dung. It was bright and sunny, but cool in the shade. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves and millet. Birds were everywhere. We were given cups of chai. Relaxed, I closed my eyes and waited until called inside for lunch.

Shrine wall inside the house with pictures Hindu gods.

Our first meal. it was cooked by the mother using the crudest of methods. The bread was cooked on wood fire.

After lunch, we rested for a bit before taking a two hour camel ride to a sand dune for sunset.

Passing through by the neighbors.

J. and her guide climbing a hill.

Me and my guide.

Posing for the camera.

We and he.

Sunset.

We headed back. Along the way, the camels stopped at a watering hole and drank from the habitat of hundreds of small frogs. Back at camp, we set up beds outside for sleeping. At 8PM, I was already tired, so I pulled the covers up and looked at the stars with J. before falling asleep. It would have been a wonderful sleep had not a pack of dogs come by and howled for hours. I awoke at the cacophony and gazed at the stars a while longer while trying to calm my desire to snap dog necks. I fell asleep again, only to be awoken by peacocks calling to each other in the early morning. Oh well, it was time to get up.

Our beds.

The mother going out to milk a cow.

We ate a breakfast of warm grains served with milk and sugar alongside sweat bread with onion. It was very good. Afterward, it was back onto the humps for a bumpy ride into a nearby village.

Kids harvesting something.

Deer crossing the road.

Man making pots.

When we got back from the village, our butts were very sore. It’s surprising how exhausting it is to ride a camel. Beyond camel butt syndrome, the rider’s legs and core get sore from balancing. Plus, the sun and heat are fatiguing. We decided to take the jeep back to town and catch an earlier bus.

Kids saying goodbye.

The rally style jeep ride back.

The seats on the bus go “crack, crack, crack.”

It was a satisfying and memorable trip. It felt like forever for only two days. The family was friendly and the camel rides were novel. I would do it again, certainly. But for me, I had as much fun being in the middle of nowhere as I did riding the humps.

Onwards to Udaipur!

We arrived in Jodphur on Saturday around lunchtime, and were taken to our guest house by a honest and friendly auto rickshaw driver. It’s called Shivam Paying Guesthouse, and is run by a friendly man with dark circles around his eyes and paan stained teeth. Our room is 400Rs a night and has a loud air conditioner that consists of a screen of reeds that water drips over as a fan pushes air through. It works surprisingly well, but the fan blade sounds wobbly and dangerous. Like most of the town, we are in the shadows of the imposing 125m hill capped by the sprawling Meherangarh Fort. We ate our lunch from the rooftop deck. The fort was in front of us, on our sides and rear were the irregular rooftops of the town. Birds were swarming in the air. It was hot. On the street below, cows bellowed, motorbikes honked, bicycle bells dinged, and people chatted.

Our delicious Indian lunch. Not pictured: two huge mugs of lemon tea and iced coffee, naan.

It was time for us to wander a bit. The town is so continually captivating in its old buildings that it’s impossible to capture them all. Basically all have some amazing feature. Add the commotion on the street and all the interesting small shops, and photographing the place becomes a daunting ordeal. Needless to say, these photos capture only a hair off the full, lustrous head of this town.

The main market near us is called Sardar. It’s walled off, with two gates, and contains the only clock tower in town.

Stacks of toast for sale on a push cart. No one seemed to be buying it, and it’s easy to see why. This bread is exposed to all sorts of bugs, soot, and dust.

One of the main roads.

Raisin seller sitting in the shadows.

I didn’t know Vishnu was German.

Cart with bullhorns and statue by door.

The auto rickshaws are sillier looking here. THe driver sits higher, looking through a small window that leans forward. His seat is on a ventilated case over the engine. There is more legroom in the back. Man of them are decorated inside and out and have a drawer for cash and smokes above the dash.

Cows and motorbikes parked inside the gate to an old home.

One cow eats garbage as another eyes a food cart.

My hair had gotten long and was causing needless heat-retention. I found a friendly barber who clipped it short with scissors and comb only using frantic Edward Scissorhands energy. He was skillful. Around my ears and at my nape, he edged with a straight razor. I turned down the straight razor shave, as it freaked me out. To complete the haircut, he massage my head and shoulders. Total cost: 30Rs(70¢), plus tip. Amazing.

My Indian barber.

Everywhere in this town are old scooters parked by even older doors.

In the evening, we came back and had dinner on the roof as the sun set. A few large bats came out. Even though it was the first day, I knew I liked the place. It had a far better energy than Varanasi and Agra. It felt “nice.”

The clock tower at sunset. To the distant left is the palace of the maharaja’s family.

Sun setting over the hill.

After a hot night’s sleep, we got up early and ate breakfast while watching a huge flock of swifts getting hunted by hawks. We got some waters and headed up the hill to Meherangarh Fort. It was a short walk through the neighborhood, but hot. Hot. I was dripping in sweat when we got to the gates at 9AM. They were just opening. We paid our foreigner 250Rs($5.60) each and went inside.

Meherangarh Fort seen from the hike.

Meherangarh Fort is massive, old, and amazing. There’s so much stone in it’s foundations that it would be imposing even without the natural hill. This was a functional fort, used for royal and war purposes. Canon ball dents are marked around the walls, much of the building has been well preserved or restored. But it’s also ornate and decorative. The inner structures are dripping with decorate stonework. It feels a bit like walking inside a wasp’s nest. The property is still in the care of the Maharaja’s family, though through a trust.

Inner ramp and towers, hand prints of the widows of the Maharaja.

Two men discussing the news from their cannon.

New wall old wall.

The ramp leading into the inner area of the fort.

Birds swarming outside.

Decorative stone walls with man looking out a window.

Decorate doors.

Window and shoes. The guard was picking his nose deeply. He seemed bored.

More decorate stone.

Guard.

Sealed off room seen through a hole in the wall. Much of the fort was blocked off.

One of the ornate royal rooms. This one was dripping with gold and stones.

Arch ladies.

Dumb looking lion on a royal conveyance, iron stairs.

Jaswant Thada seen from the fort.

Blue Jodhpur seen from the ramparts of Meherangarh. Beautiful.

Detail.

Jodphur had a tragedy at Meherangarh a few days before our arrival. Thousands had come early to visit Chamunda Devi Temple at the south end of the fort. When the gates opened, hundreds of people were trampled. 400 died. The town was in mourning, and the fort was much quieter than it would have been at this time of year.

The walkway leading to Chamunda Devi Temple.

Man dishing out water, the temple.

people leaving prayers with pigment at the base of the wall.

We descended the hill and explored the town some more.

Fort seen from Sardar Market.

Clothes district.

Street garbage.

Blue wall, brown wood.

Man blocking traffic.

Wind blown mannequin and gate detail.

Cows blocking traffic and broom dealer.

Old wall blue windows above the street.

Symmetrical goats.

Yellow stuff.

Omelette Shop near Sardar Market makes some great food. There may be poop on the egg shells, but the masala omelette I ordered was great. Two small sandwiches made with bread, vegetable and spice egg, mayo and ketchup. All for less than a dollar.

Blue building on a hill.

Narrow alley getting pipe repairs.

Two sets of stairs coming out of walls.

Cloth vendor.

Posters of the man with jam on his head were all over town. Door.

Old man walking.

Bird on bike.

Another awesome old door. The next day, I was to find out what was inside this gate through a lucky encounter.

Altar, goat in doorway.

Beans, lentils, and legumes for sale.

Hair trimmings, large boiling cauldron of milk.

Street bananas.

Rice.

Drink vendor. His shop had seats outside and a wide menu of delicious drinks made to order from specials sodas to lassis, shakes, and juices. J. and I have tried a variety of things from his store: saffron lassi, pineapple shake, fresh lemon soda, and masala soda.

Pooped on scooter. Public urinals. The red band in the middle is from people spitting out paan juice.

Jodhpur pay phone sitting outside a store.

In the evening, J. and I arranged for an Indian cooking class taught by a mother and owner of a spice shop near our guest house. The class was very informal and conducted in the cramped kitchen she uses for her family. It was just J. and I, so it was very easy to ask her questions about food and everything India. After teaching about the various kinds of spices, we took a trip to the nearby market to get produce. Then, she taught us how to make a wet curry paneer, a rice dish with a Jodhpur speciality called gutta (a dumpling made from chickpea flour and spices), saffron lassies, and pan fried paratha breads. The class lasted from 2 to 6PM, and cost 600Rs($13) each, plus an extra 100Rs for some perishable ingredients. It could have been a more comprehensive course, or more professional, but that would have been at the sacrifice of casualness. We were paying friends, and we got be inside a old home, cooking with old utensils, and asking questions about Jodhpur. That’s worth it to me. Plus, we got to eat the food. If you’re interested in taking the class, just talk to the people at Shubham Provision Store/Indian Spices. It’s across the intersection from the street Shivam Paying Guesthouse is on.

Talking spices.

At the market.

The staple Indian spices.

Our host in her kitchen.

One of the paneer curries and paratha.

After another sweaty night of sleep, we got off to a later start. Breakfast, then exploration. J.’s feet started hurting around lunch, so she took the key and walked home. I found a group of men sitting around a tree drinking chai. The vendor gave me a dainty ceramic cup and I sat down. They weren’t inclined to include me in their Hindi conversation, but we nodded hello. I watched from the edge and enjoyed the delicious spicy brew from the filthiest looking contraption. When I got up to pay, the owner gestured that it was free. I thanked him and walked away.

Walking around town alone felt much different. Fewer people said hello. I almost felt invisible. Before heading back, I stopped for a pineapple shake and a lemon soda. The soda was spiced up and salty. Weird but good. It was time to freshen my breath with a pack of Tojo Brand tangy mouth freshener.

The contents of a pack of breath freshening things: dates, fennel, coriander seeds, silver coated cardamom seeds, saffron, coconut, sweetener, herbs. Each pack cost 1Rs(2¢).

That evening, we were to meet a friend of a friend from work. He was arriving from Dehli; we planned to meet around 8 for a drink. Our meeting point was the clocktower. When we walked up, a confidant man stepped out of a shiny black car and came up to me. We shook hands. Once again, I was meeting a different echelon of India society. He asked if we would like to walk to get a drink, and we said sure. He signaled to his driver and the man got in the car and drove away. We walked past our guesthouse and down another street and stopped at an old gate. It was the very same gate I had photographed earlier.

He explained that they were building a luxury hotel on a large parcel of land behind the gate. The gate opened, and we went in. The property was vast and under construction. A few new buildings had been built and three other multiple hundred year old buildings were getting restored. Scaffolding and commotion were everywhere. As he led around, I felt like Indian Jones getting led around some exotic archaeologic site. Towering over everything was the massive hill and fort, dimly flowing from the lights of the city. After the tour, he led us to the rooftop of one of the older buildings. Set out were table and chairs, cold beer, and snacks. They were waiting for us. We chatted for a while and party ways. The evening left the lingering tastes of power, history, and beer on my mind.

We are leaving Jodhpur tomorrow morning to ride some camels and stay the night in a nearby town called Osiyan. We decided to skip Jaisalmer for somewhere closer. Until then.

Agra was just as much of a hassle as Varanasi. The touts weren’t as bad, but still annoying. The driver who took us to the hotel was insistent we take his card and call him if we needed anything. Our hotel was in the Taj Ganj area, in spitting distance of the Taj Mahal. Shanti Lodge was a shanty alright. Our first night was spent in a room with paint falling from the ceiling, a sink that wouldn’t shut off, and a large red butt monkey on our porch that was throwing things at the door. We made a fuss and switched to a bigger and slightly better room in the back building for our second night. Each room was 400Rs($10). The night manager was like a movie character: old with thick glasses that magnified his eyes and a generally hilarious appearance.

On our first day, we walked to the Taj Mahal. Due to a muslim holiday, we got in for free. Otherwise, we would have been gouged 750Rs($17) each. The place was swarming with people, though luckily most weren’t tourists.

The view of the Taj from the rooftop restaurant of the guesthouse.

Walking along the gardens.

The Taj Mahal. If the fountains had been off, the water would have been reflective.

Scalloped fountain edge.

One of many groups of annoying boys who wanted their picture taken.

Detail.

Marble inlays and Sanskrit writing.

Carved marble.

Muslims washing in the fountain at the Taj Mahal mosque.

The mosque was packed. I’ve never seen so many people of the same religion together.

Zoomed in.

Bowing.

People looking over the Yamuna River.

The air pollution and morning fog was gross. The sky directly above was blue though.

Minaret.

Boy and his brothers.

Another view of the Taj Mahal from the shade.

For lunch, J. and I took a pedicab ride from two humorous and toothless drivers. Their fare was reasonable, and they helped us to the post office and suggested a restaurant that was okay. They obviously got some kind of kickback. Unfortunately, by accepting their food offer, they seemed emboldened to show us other commission driven destinations. At least they were honest about it. My driver would turn to me and through his toothless smile say: “Tourist shop? Ten minutes, ten minutes. They pay us 40 Rupees.”

We were as adamant about not going as they were about taking us there. Despite us being firm, we still ended up heading in the direction of the store. Then we became very firm, basically about to get out of the pedicabs. Okay, okay. They gave up and took us back to the guesthouse. No tip for them. I wanted to explain that they would have made more had they just gone where we wanted to go, but I was too annoyed and tired to bother. As we walked away, they asked if we would need a ride to dinner. They had no concept of how annoying they were. It was funny, and annoying.

For dinner, we went back to the rooftop restaurant. The colorful sun set over the bustle of the neighborhood below. Around us, a hundred monkeys climbed around the rooftops. There were a few at our restaurant that had to keep getting chased away with a stick and a slingshot. When the sun was gone, hundreds of large bats took to the sky. Most headed in clumps towards the river, others lingered in the trees. Around us, kids launched small fireworks into the air. A carnival with man-powered rides was in full motion down the street. The Taj Mahal looked beautiful. Very wonder of the worldly.

Taj Ganj at sunset.

Taj Mahal at sunset.

One of the monkeys watching us eat dinner.

That night something went haywire in my stomach. I was inflated and my appendix area felt sore. Additionally, I had a stuffy nose and cough. It was not the best of states to go wandering through the hassles and filth of India, but we met a nice couple at breakfast the next day and planned on going to see Agra Fort.

We piled into an auto rickshaw, me sitting in front with the driver. Fare: 60Rs.

Agra Fort was built sometime ago by some guy for a certain purpose. Its design and architecture is typical of the “Agra Fort Style”, due to numerous features that make it that way. It’s also vast, beautiful and scorching. Almost immediately, I was dripping with sweat. The place was swarming with people, particularly teenage Indian boys. All of which wanted to take a picture with the ladies in our group. There was something both innocent and perverted about it. I figured they didn’t get to be close to women in normal life, and tourist women photo taking was a perfect excuse to do so. There wasn’t really anything inappropriate in their behavior, but there were just too many of them. I doubted some of their cameras even had film. It made Agra Fort less relaxing than it could have been. It seems like India is in a constant balance between beauty and annoyance.

The stupid Indian power outlet, a hybrid between two different sizes of 2 and three prong outlets. The two prong adapter won’t stay in, and even the three prong wants to fall out. It’s a stupid and needless space-wasting design.

The ramp leading from the south gate.

Ladies.

Decorative sandstone.

A lot of the decorative patterns formed the Star of David.

One of the few areas that wasn’t full of teenage boys.

View of the Taj Mahal from Agra Fort.

Texture and portrait. Unlike peacocks, the women are more decorative in India.

Stone carvings.

Chipping plaster in one of the corner towers.

The newer section of the fort built by the marble-loving maker of the Taj Mahal, Shah Jahan.

Man and doorway.

Tree and ramparts.

View looking north along the river.

Colorful family portrait.

Green moat.

Decorate marble inlays.

Us and the friendly them.

We and the traveling buddies split ways after the fort. I went back to the room to rest before the evening train. On our way back we learned a lesson we should have already known, don’t go on a ride if you don’t agree to the price in advice. This time, our moronic pedicab driver took us to an area where he wanted to go and asked for a laughable amount of money when money was finally discussed. We argued and gave him 30Rs(70¢). Annoyed, we walked the 5 minutes from the drop-off to the guesthouse. My stomach was still acting up, so I rested and tried to eat a bit of Indian dinner.

Around 6PM, we left for the train station. The driver charged a fair price and didn’t bother us. It was a pleasant surprise. At the station, we found the crowded upper class waiting room off the even more crowded platform. We sat amongst two large families and a few men who took great care in charging their cell phones. People seemed to be enjoying chips. Unfortunately, our train was three hours late. Instead of departing at 7:50, it left at 10:50. It was a long, hungry wait. Our final minutes were spent watching a monkey fighting with a dog next to a bum sleeping on an abandoned platform. Business as usual.

Train. I lied down on the top bunk, laid out the crisp clean sheets, and drew the curtain. I slept pretty well with laptop and camera by my side. The train was smooth and the air conditioned. We were bound for the blue city of Jodhpur and hopefully more wonderful and less frazzling times.

Me thinking about our time in Agra.

In front of the gates to the train platform, a man in professional clothes came up to us and asked to look at our tickets. He claimed we needed to get a boarding pass. We were skeptical. He explained that he was from the train company, showed us his credentials, and asked us to follow him to the reservation window. Except the reservation window was across the street in a small upstairs tourist office. We knew it was a scam mostly, but we walked with him just to see. Plus, who knew? The office was thick with cigarette smoke from a slick looking man behind a desk. All around were posters of India. The man gave a decent enough explanation of why our seats were not confirmed. I could tell that eventually it would lead to him suggesting we book different tickets. But we never bit the hook, and his story began to unravel. I motioned to J. that it was time to leave. As we walked out, the man told the truth.

“Your seats are confirmed. Your seats are confirmed.” Well duh. Pleasure not doing business with you.

As tourists in India, we have been bombarded with all sorts of offers: massage, ganja, give money/candy, peddle cab, auto rickshaw, where you go, sari, silk, hungry, tour? The taxi drivers, even the better ones, have some hotel that pays them money if they get you to go there. It’s sad because while I’m sure the average Indian is a nice non-schemer, the constant hassling puts the foreigner on guard for everyone.

J. and I booked a room for a day at a decent hotel near the station, rather than wander around Delhi sweating under the weight of our bags. We got to the station early and watched the swarms of people and trains; the people watched us. Out of hundreds of people, we seemed to be the only tourists. I guess the bomb blasts scared everyone away. It was good people watching. We weren’t really sure what platform or cabin our seats were in. The station was massive and filthy. The train tracks were full of litter, human waste, spit, and hundreds of rats. Occasionally, the dirtiest looking person in the world would walk by on the tracks collecting plastic bottles and kicking rats away. Next to us was a water fountain that was bustling with people refilling plastic bottles, washing their faces, and drinking from the spigots.

We ate some amazingly flavored Indian packaged snacks of the peanut and pulses variety. The train’s squat toilet drained through a hole directly onto the track rushing underneath. Luckily, we had a sleeper cabin to ourselves. It was Thai quality. We slept well through the night. In the morning, we arrived in Varanasi.

The Varanasi train station was small and it had a large cow that was wandering around the covered platform knocking over trash cans. It was unclear where to book a taxi, but another huckster was “kind” enough to show us. We bought a prepaid ticket and went to our cab. He got in too, a sure sign that he was touting something. The man was pleasant enough, but his conversation was eventually leading to showing us a hotel. I said no. We talked some more. He suggested again to just take a look at so and so hotel. I told him, NO we already had a reservation. That seemed to shut him up. He got out of the cab in the middle of the street and told the driver to take us where we had told them to go in the first place. Stupid idiot. The driver himself was actually quiet and nice and showed us where our guesthouse was. We would have had a hard time finding it otherwise. I did not tip him however. I should have explained why.

Our guesthouse is an oasis here. It’s called Sahi River View, and has open air balconies with view of the less busy section of Assi Ghat. Our fan room has hot water and runs for 350Rs($8) a night. Looking out over the Ganges while drinking from a small pot of chai is very relaxing. On the street and by the water is not so relaxing.

Our breakfast: the banana pancake.

Cow alley leading to our guesthouse.

People on the Assi Ghat.

Varansi is one of the holiest places in India and claims to be one of the oldest living cities. Its history dates back to 1400 BC. The place is filthy, decrepit but also full of humanity with its focal point being the numerous ghats that line the wide, brown Ganges river. The intimate rituals of public life are in full view on the water’s edge: prayer, pooping, eating, bathing, selling, sleeping, dying. It’s beautiful and annoying all at once. Cattle are everywhere, pooping in the streets, blocking traffic. Goats too. There are some sick, sick looking dogs. The streets are in shambles, the buildings are amazing and falling down, the power goes out, the sacred Ganges River is filthy, everything smells of pee. People drink the same brown water they wash clothes, bathe, and dispose of corpses. But none of that matters. What makes it exhausting to be outside is that everyone has some kind of offer. Walking down the street makes you feel like a walking ATM. You have to ignore people, even though they’ll tag along and try to get you to buy something or go somewhere or give them candy or whatever. It really makes you question manners and personal space. By the time one goes away, there is another to take his place. Beggar children are relentless. Sometimes I just want to scream or beat them with a cricket bat. But when you can find a quiet place and be around real people, the place is magical.

Many photos:

Assi Ghat goats.

People learning how to make incense balls.

Two boys washing a sheet in the Ganges.

Boy overlooking the river.

Old building.

Boys bathing.

Decorative doorway.

One of many great murals around the old city.

Weird looking tree murals.

Despite all it’s hope it’s still just a goat on a slope.

Milk box in wall.

Enormous old well with supposedly holy water.

Men fixing auto rickshaw.

Shivala Road.

Shivala Road was a mess.

Kids and a bashful cow.

Hortence the noble goat.

Old temple grounds with kids battling with kites and practicing cricket.

Teen bats a tennis ball as a cow sniffs some clothes drying in the sun. I got to bat once.

Kite kids.

Rickshaw burial ground.

Puppies.

The remains of a tree that used to be growing on a building.

Road repairs.

Delivery trike.

Collapsed building.

Old school police car, the same model as the taxi cabs.

Lady, potatoes, and man at water pump.

Outdoor barber stand.

Bed or dead?

Two cows. Nearby where two more cows that had sat down in the middle of the road and created a traffic jam.

Shanty building.

Apple cart.

CALTEX India headquarters.

Vows blocking truck.

Colorful insanity along the Dasaswamedh Ghat Road.

Lodge.

People and animals on the steps of Dasaswamedh.

Bathers.

Woman selling flower pedals.

Boatman.

Boats.

View NEW along the Ganges.

More bathers.

Our first evening we had some decent India food at a rooftop restaurant near the guesthouse. A talkative student joined us and we discussed all things India and America. All sorts of weird bugs were drawn to the bare bulb lighting the table. For about 20 minutes, the power went out in the city. Apparently that happens all the time and any big business has a generator to keep the lights on. We parted company early and went home to sleep as we had arranged for an early morning boat ride.

We slept well and woke at 4:45AM. The boatman’s brother was waiting for us. He led us to the boatmen. As sun broke through the drizzle, we drifted down the quiet water of the Ganges.

One of the boatmen.

The Ghats at early morning.

Same as above.

Our boat stopped at the main cremation ghat, Manikarnika. In this photo you can see the open fires of bodies getting cremated. We were given a tour by an intense, red toothed man who claimed to be in charge of the operation. I’m skeptical. His tour was informative, though high pressure for donations. He and an old lady seemed pissed by our donation amount, but we didn’t want to give them more. We did learn about the types of wood used (banyan on the cheap, sandalwood on the bling), different practices for bodies and burial. And we saw bodies burning. One particularly memorable sight was a pair of feet and a covered head sticking out of a burning pile of wood. It was sobering and visceral image of mortality.

Manikarnika Cremation Ghat.

On the way back we saw the smaller Harischandra Cremation Ghat. There was a large, smokestack structure and piles of wood.

Ganges water levels are high, covering a lot of the ghats and their various sign-age.

Bathers.

Two dogs in a tricky situation. You’re a man now, dog.

Another ghat.

This space invader seems to be an unofficial logo for Varanasi.

The boat trip cost us 300Rs($7) for two hours. We probably could have gotten it for less. There were three men taking turns rowing two-up to fight the current. We tipped them an extra 100Rs to share. It was worth it.

As the morning had been so eventful, the rest of the day was a relaxed wash. We got some cash and replaced our Lonely Planet India guidebook that I lost on the plane. We drank some tea and coffee and wandered around town a bit.

Decorative embossed and painted metal seat of a rickshaw.

Manure palace. One of many walls coated with drying cow manure. Kind of sums up Varanasi I think.

Tomorrow morning we leave for Agra by day train. I’m ready.

Jigmet Guest House, our new digs.

The flower garden in back.

Big flower.

Jigmet has many apple trees full of fruit for the guests.

Our room. 600Rs($14) a night. It overlooks the garden and hills.

This morning we relaxed at the guesthouse while the sickness worked its way through. I chatted with some guests, went out to get water and crackers, and let J. rest. Around 9:30, we began our journey by walking half an hour to the main road to the Leh airport.

School children lined up outside near the bus stop.

Our goal was to catch a bus to a small town called Basgo about 40km west of Leh. The bus showed up in about ten minutes, we flagged in down, and climbed inside. The fare to Basgo was around 35Rs each. Next to us sat a friendly looking old man in a boat shaped blue velvet hat and Ladakhi clothes. He appeared to be forgotten by the modern world. When he smiled, his deep wrinkles stretched dramatically.

The bus barreled down the bumpy valley road, passing endless military bases. About 10km in, it started to climb along the curving edge of a cliff. There were minimal guard rails, and it took the turns wide. On coming trucks and buses could barely squeeze by. It was an exhilarating ride.

Inside the bus. Hat man on left.

An amazing window view of the Indus River.

A scary view of the river over the edge of the rail-less road.

The bus stopped for a snack break at some roadside restaurants in a “town” called Nimmu. We chatted with the ticket-master and a tall Polish guy while snacking on cheap samosas and chai tea. Four samosas and four chais cost us 40Rs($1). The driver ate a snack too, then got back in the bus and blared the horn about 16 times. Everyone re-boarded.

Our bus named “Farma Coach”.

Chais and samosas with chili dipping sauce.

Two kilometers later, J. and I were dropped off at the base of a hill in Basgo. Most of the settlements seemed empty but not abandoned. There was a steep rocky pathway behind the homes that led up to the weathered Chamba Gompa.

The hillside path.

Woman stacking hay.

The two main structures rest on massive mud brick bases.

Massive.

The view of the valley from the gompa. The ruins of a citadel cap the hill to the left.

Small room containing a golden sculpture of Maitreya.

Weathered stairs.

Restored stairs.

Inside the second building is a room with beautiful restored murals and a two story golden sculpture of Maitreya.

Murals.

Motifs painted between the ceiling beams.

J. and the valley.

Looking down on more citadel ruins.

We descended the hill and waited by the side of the road for the bus back. After half an hour it came. The ride was crowded. Many people were bringing eggs and clanking gas canisters into town. No one bothered to open any windows, and the whole bus smelled sick of diesel exhaust and gas. On sharp turns, I’d reach out to keep a nearby canister from falling over onto the metal floor. The bus stopped and let most of the people off on the outskirts of town. It took a while for all kinds of things to get unloaded from the roof. An old lady selling produce on the street was looking at me. When the bus started up again, a man ran along side and opened the rear door to jump in.

I had, once again, failed to get close to the Indus. For most of the trip it was well beyond reach in a deep valley.

Yesterday wasn’t as majestic. We spent most of the day in the sun playing cards and eating. My legs were still sore from all the walking the day before, so it was welcome laziness.

Footpath to lunch.

Sugar getting eaten by a yellow jacket.

Some bland pizza that may have been the food poisoning culprit. We shared, but I didn’t get sick. Another culprit could have been cheap Indian food for dinner, but we shared that as well and I felt no ill effects.

All over India are signs for STDs. STD is an acronym for some kind of telecommunications service, but it’s still funny. It makes it seem like there’s a skanky epidemic going on here.

J. wanted to go on a hike across town to see Leh valley at sunset. By the time she convinced me, the sun was close to setting. We hightailed it 2km to the base of the hill containing Shanti Stupa. This stupa was built in the 70s by Japanese monks to promote world peace. Seems like it worked. Good job, monks.

Street cows that were being fed. A rare sight.

Construction crew rebuilding a bridge over a rocky stream. The route was only open to pedestrians via a rickety metal bridge.

Shanti Stupa is an exhausting climb up a hillside of steps. Trying to beat the night, we practically passed out from the climb.

View of the steps.

Shanti Stupa.

A hillside message bathed in light.

Beautiful Leh Valley.

We leave Leh early Sunday morning. I will miss this place. Over dinner last night, we had a long conversation about life and travel with an old German man of the world. He’s an avid adventurer, having seen it all in the past 30 years. The discussion brought up a lot of pressing questions about what to value in life, how time is precious, and that traveling can be a lifetime pursuit. And not just for the two weeks a year that the American workplace wants you to accept. When I think of how little time two weeks is, I want to wretch. How anyone gets duped into thinking that’s a fair amount of holiday time is beyond me.

Shey is 15km southeast of Leh. It was once the summer capital of the region, but that was nearly 5 hundred years ago. There are two reliable methods to get there: by public bus and by chartered taxi van. As we were low on time, we got a van to take us there for 200Rs($4.5). The bus only costs 18Rs(40¢) each.

The ride passed by dry, crumbly hills and sprawling military bases. It was barren, moody landscape, though on the right side was greenery fed by the Indus river and its tributaries.

The road to Shey.

The driver dropped us off at the base of Shey Royal Palace, a partially restored and still functional complex built on a rocky hill. Next to the road was a large, fenced off marsh and lake that used to be a royal fish pond.

Shey Royal Palace, Gompa, and Fort.

View SE of the valley and fish pond.

Me.

An open courtyard at the top of the gompa that housed the main, gilded chorten (stupa).

Whitewashed stones at the base of a whitewashed chorten.

Another weathered chorten seen from above.

Some ruins of lower Shey Fort.

Soot darkened room used for burning trash.

One of many prayer wheels. The road leading up the hill was lined with them.

Various oils used as candle fuel.

By scrambling across a precarious ridge we found the path leading up to the sprawling ruins of Shey Fort. Here’s J. at the base of the stairs.

What was once a large structure is now mostly gone, but there are still a few walls and some of the tower on the highest point of the hill. The view was amazing.

A monk climbing the tower.

The Shey area is littered with aging, white chortens.

Novice monks playing a ball game in the dirt outside the Shey Gompa.

The Indus river.

Our next destination for the day: the majestic Thiksey Gompa.

We descended and began our long walk to Thiksey Gompa. The guidebook said it was just 2km further down the road, but our convoluted route was at least 4km. Before heading towards it, I suggested we find the Indus river. We bought some snacks, but no water, and walked a bit before turning down a small dirt road. One one side was an irrigation canal full of slightly milky, but clear blueish water.

This sign would be a good motto for the ladies. The curves here are deathtraps, and they require a lot of honking for safety.

Large, shallow relief carved on the base of the hill.

A wooden bridge carrying water across another waterway. All over the valley are examples of inventive irrigation.

We couldn’t get to the main body of the Indus, so we made due sitting and eating snacks next to this. Donkeys were grazing all around us.

Also growing in abundance were bushes covered in edible tsestalulu (sea buckthorn) berries. They taste like strawberry/cranberry/persimmon.

Donkey.

Rather than walk along the main road, we took the smaller road near the fish pond. It passed through beautiful farmland and was one of the most picturesque strolls I’ve been on. The road was surrounded by trees, animals, crops, water, and rocky Buddhist ruins.

Grass, trees, mountains.

A long, rocky structure about 5 blocks long. It’s called a mani, and is capped with engraved stones that mark gratitude for wishes fulfilled or an important occasion. Mani walls are 1-2m high, 3m across and a few meters to almost a kilometer in length.

Ram’s skull.

All along the road, were mud brick making enterprises. In this picture, the maker dug the mud from the ground and set the blocks out to dry in the depression. On each property, there was a temporary home made of of mud bricks. The permanent homes are made of mud brick too, but these were more modest and sloppy. Other sources of brick mud came from dredging a water channel along the road.

House with a large stack of dried dung to be used as fuel during the winter.

Stacks of hay.

Farmer looking a wall, Blair Witch style.

All of the livestock from donkeys to chickens, cows and horses were wandering free. Some were in fenced areas. These bulls weren’t. We passed this section of road quickly, keeping an eye on the bulls who were keeping an eye on us.

Mud brick house insulated with hay.

By about 4PM, we made it to the small town of Thiksey. J. was very hungry as we hadn’t eaten lunch. I was very thirsty. The restaurant I had promised her was closed, but a shop owner told us that there was another in the monastery. The road up the hill was at a gradual slope because it curved so far out of the way to hug the hillside.

J. in the middle of nowhere.

Holy crap, Thiksey Gompa is a beautiful sight. I’ve never seen anything like it. Numerous buildings cling to the hillside: the monks residences and kitchens at the bottom, schools, prayer halls, and other religious rooms at the top.

The gate to Thiksey Gompa.

I stopped to use the bathroom and was greeted with this view out of the open wall behind the urinals.

Flowers and chorten.

Elaborately decorated woodwork.

Dark, upstairs room of unknown purpose. There are many empty rooms of unknown purpose in the complex.

Doors to a prayer hall.

The gilded chorten cap looks over the valley.

Wonky doors and windows of the library.

Flowers.

Mural of the wheel of life. The gompa was decorated with many colorful murals.

Another mural.

Tunnel.

Window and mountains.

Inside on of the prayer rooms were walls lined with wood and cloth boxes. The boxes contained pandora.

Between the buildings.

Buildings on the hill. Wandering around made me feel like I was in Greece. I’ve never been to Greece, but it felt like some combination of what I think Greece is like combined with Tibet. I’ve never been to Tibet, but it’s said that Ladakh is greatly influenced by it. Buddhism started here and spread to Tibet, but Tibet refined it and passed it back. Much of the architecture is shared.

Enormous Buddha statue over two floors tall. He’s seated on a lotus.

Large prayer wheel.

The gompa closed at six, but we were done looking around by 5. Starved, we ordered some India food from the abandoned restaurant in the monastery. The cooks were laughing and singing and having a ball in the kitchen. Our food was delicious. We had planned on taking the local bus back, but the waiter said the last bus came by the main road at 6PM. We ate quickly, paid our bill, and hitchhiked down the hill to the main road just in time to catch the bus.

This bull was waiting at the bus stop too.

The local bus was a fun ride. We flagged it down. The driver had a wingman that took fares, handed him his cell phone, and changed the cassette tape playing above the driver. The driver had capricious musical taste, and the tape kept getting swapped. I could tell no difference in the music, other than some tapes were degraded with warping sound. The cabin of the bus was decorated with charms and a picture of the Dalhi Lama surrounded by Christmas lights. During the trip, other people would flag the bus and climb inside. It got so full that people had to start sitting on the roof. The driver honked and merged as best as he could in an overloaded, soot spewing bus. We were dropped off on the south side of town. It was a 30 minute walk back in the dark to our new, posh garden guesthouse. But before retiring, we stopped to refill our water bottles and get some juice at a place called Dzomsa. There is no recycling in this valley, so reusing bottles is the only way to reduce trash. The juice is excellent too. J. and I split a glass of organic apricot and sea buckthorn berry. Both grown in abundance here.

The juices of Ladakh. Buckthorn is the orange one.

Today is a day of rest. We have two more days before heading back into the warm, dirty madness of greater India.