India Bound

2004-01-10T15:00:00.000-08:00

Looking for the latest on Dan's India adventures? Check out his new weblog, India Rebound, at www.danoko2.blogspot.com. That's where I'll be posting through the spring of 2004. We arrive in India on January 14. Cheers.

2003-09-24T09:48:00.000-07:00

We've been back in the states for two months on the nose, pretty much, and I'm thinking that the time might come for more blogging. We'll be going back to India for several months this winter, and in the meantime I'm hard at work here in Austin, Texas, trying to keep the cart rolling along.

Work has been going pretty well, with assignments for Texas Parks and Wildlife and AAA's Texas Journey magazine rounding out the paycheck. Waiting to hear back on pitches concerning dam-building and other India topics. Gotta come up with a name for this new blog -- and an angle.

Texas Life 101, perhaps. Keep checking back.

2003-07-20T02:04:00.000-07:00

Delhi doesn't usually rate much in the way of wildlife, but if the zookeeper is a pal, then maybe it does. We've been here the past week, hiding out from the monsoon and dreadful humidity in the Sunder Nagar neighborhood of South Delhi. We've shopped a lot more than I like, and been to the National Gallery to see the Buddhist art and ancient sculpture; it's quite a swell place, even if the roof leaks. India rivals Greece and Egypt with regard to its ancient civilization, and the museum remains a great place to glimpse the past. The new miniature painting displays also come recommended for those passing through Delhi anytime soon.

Ah, but the critters at the zoo... Those who have been loyal (or even occasional) readers know by now that I've had something of a tiger fetish since landing on the Subcontinent. When C and I stopped by to Mr. Bonal, a member of the Darma tribe she has been study in the Himalaya, he suggested a tour of the zoo (pronounced "jew" to my amusement) where he is director.

"This is probably the only place in India where you can request to see a tiger," I joked. Bonal checked his watch at that crack, and paled slightly. It was 4:30, and the cats were being moved inside for the night. Well, that's tough luck, I thought.

Then after visiting the elephants in their pen, and checking out the flocks of ibis and cormorant in the bird sanctuary, we made a detour. Around to the back of the tiger enclosure, where we entered a room with the sour, ammonia smell of cat piss, and found ourselves face-to-face with four massive, panting tigers. The largest fellow snarled while laying on his side, and his queen licked a leg of lamb and eyed us warily.

That would have been a satisfactory end to things, but Bonal had one more trick up his sleeve. After seeing the big orange Bengals, we took a gander at the white tigers that the Delhi Zoo is perhaps most famous for. Ordinarily, I find zoos a bit depressing, but these cats looked healthy and fit, and not too much more miserable than the tiger I had spotted being chased by jeeps in Corbett. The white phase is a mutation, and like their orange brothers, this was essentially a family of cats -- with Mom and four daughters, an uncle and Papa Tiger enjoying the shade of their feeding pens.

The biggest tabby went to work on his dinner right in front of us, tearing at the lamb leg in just such a way to remind us anywhere else in the world, he'd be boss.

Tonite, with this image ingrained amongst all my memories of this India swing, we'll board a plane for the West. Sorry am I to leave these tigers behind; while I wonder what transformations I'll find when we get back to Texas.

2003-07-16T23:31:00.000-07:00

The slippery retreat from the glacier left us with a hankering to get off the high ground. In fact, after 8 months of Indian travel, having bounced literally from coast-to-coast on the Subcontinent, the inclination to run back to Dharchula, back to Delhi and eventually all the way home to Texas took hold; it didn't hurt that my plane ticket was stamped with a July 21 departure date.

So, we hot-footed it back down the Darma Valley, retracing our path along the Dhauli Ganga, crossing glaciers and bridges every couple of miles, skipping across whitewater streams, and keeping our fingers crossed that the monsoon would stay away and the mountain deities would let us pass. There was no problem on either account, and as we crossed the third or fourth bridge and dropped the second tongue of snow behind us, we entered into a wild verdant nest of wallnut and oak, leaving behind the deodar pines at higher altitudes. Bodies on the path increased the lower we found ourselves, meeting with more goatherds, more workers, more housewives carrying wood for their cooking fires in the valley.

It took two days from Duntu/Duktu to reach Sela; a full 12 days after our first encounter with the rural Darma and my hypothermic fit. The little hotel was void of visitors, and the night looked to be quiet. A lone yellow dog sat on the steps of the dormitory, and scared the bejeezus out of me in the middle of the night when it appeared out of the darkness. From time to time, she would let out a howl or bark for a few minutes. Even with no sun, the weather proved to be warmer, and we slept soundly otherwise with the Dhauli rushing by outside our window.

The final day was a hard series of high, cliffside paths moving up and down above the valley floor, some thousand feet below. It was harrowing, hard walking, and the wind was blowing great clouds up and over our tracks, spraying us with the rains that had finally come to Darma. After four hours of hiking, we stopped for snacking alongside a small shrine, and then descended finally to the village of Dur, at the foot of Darma Valley, where a rocky jeep track provides a supply line to the outside world.

It was a typical re-entry scenario: We managed to obtain lunch from the general store (more Maggie noodles) and answered questions from the gathering of men with seemingly nothing better to do. A few showed the sort of wonderful generosity that seems to be departing the region bit by bit, while others were full drunk at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. When asked whether we should continue to the next village, some 3 miles downhill distant, the response was correspondingly contradictory.

On the one hand, we were assured a car would arrive. On the other, we were told that the best bet would be to keep on keeping on. After waiting some time, we decided on the latter course of action, which surprised our new fan club -- with good reason, since the big blue truck that had been resting idle since we'd sauntered up hours earlier was now ready to rumble in just the direction we were going. Along with about a dozen school boys headed back to civilization for the new semester, two dogs, a drunkard and our heavy loads, we climbed aboard.

And, here's the kicker: Waiting at our next stop was the daily bus from Sobla to Dharchula, scheduled to leave at 4. So inconceivable was it that the crew at Dur didn't know about this ride that I nearly ran back up the hill to give those guys a piece of my mind. I mean, it was one thing to misunderstand that we were feeling under the gun to get back to Dharchula, and therefore somehow neglect to explain that the GIANT blue truck would be leaving shortly if a shared jeep didn't arrive (we passed several likely headed all the way to Dur after the bus got underway) but to fail to note that the bus would be waiting if we wanted to hoof it, well... that's just the sort of thing that makes India so freaking aggravating. Had we known, we would have hiked out to the bus on our own steam, instead of waiting for the truck that nobody seemed inclined to advertise as a possibility when the jeeps were obviously in short supply and would have never made Sobla in time for the bus. Heavy sigh...

Less than a week later, we said our sad goodbyes to our friends in Dharchula, and rolled onward to Delhi. That's where I'm sitting now, sweltering in the monsoon humidity, with a couple of days to kill before my return to the West. I don't have high hopes for a smooth ride, but with Texas on the horizon, I've got my fingers crossed for a smooth landing.

2003-07-12T01:56:00.000-07:00

After five days in Baun village, we were rested and ready to hit the trail. Christina had amassed a pile of recordings, from housewives’ conversations to folk songs accompanied by harmonium and empty-gas-can rhythm section. We’d been more or less adopted as Darma citizens, “enjoyed” meals of goat parts I’ll never eat again (Raw bladder, anyone? Lung?), and each received our own honorary turban. Under sunny skies with full bellies, we continued up the valley.

It took two days to reach the last Darma settlement, Sipu, approaching 13,000 feet. The evergreens were replaced by Himalayan birch, a few shrubs clinging to the trailside, while our fellow Darma celebrants dropped out of view. We’d shifted from staying with locals to sleeping in our tent, and began cooking instant soup, noodles and tea on our handy MSR Internationale Stove rather than consume the meager supplies of upper valley residents. This probably wasn’t necessary. But C had assented to carrying my ancient North Face, and to keep the peace I agreed to use it; meanwhile, I was packing about 5 pounds of food. Short of chucking C’s files and electronic recording equipment off a cliff, the only way to lighten my load was to devour these provisions.

Sipu was a veritable ghost town compared to Baun, but a few families were tending fields. In the northern distance, we could see the peaks of Tibetan China. A cool wind blew through the afternoon. Only a dozen or so clans were making use of dwellings, so we had our choice of campsites. We pitched the tent in the decrepit, abandoned schoolyard, C made her research rounds, and I settled into reading the fat novel, “The Corrections,” I had unwisely decided to pack for the downtime I was once again facing.

Sipu was also the literal turning point for our Darma Valley exploration, but it was not the proverbial or even literal high point of our trip. The hard hiking had left me otherwise drained, and short of a snort of whiskey (dream on, sailor) I was content to huddle out of the breeze and get lost in literature for an afternoon.

Strange to be reading this thoroughly contemporary American novel –the author rejected overtures from Oprah’s book club – while trekking through Stone Age villages in the Himalaya, but by no means the oddest thing I have experienced during my travels. Like any gear, if you’re going to include a paperback in your kit, better try to use it to justify the extra weight. With nightfall the wind died down, and you could find us snug in our tent.

Two days later, found us in much less comfortable circumstances – skittering across an enormous glacier.

We’d begun our retreat back to Dharchula, stopping in the twinned towns of Dantu/Dagtu, which are just opposite Baun on the west side of the Dhauli River. These villages are the most visited in the whole Darma Valley because of their strategic location at the mouth of the gorge that leads to the East Face of the five peaks of Panchachuli, where a monstrous glacier hunches surrounded by 1,000-foot waterfalls. For commercial trekking adventures, in fact, Panchachuli Glacier is the object, while mountaineers must overcome this beast and its attendant avalanches if they are to summit the Panchachuli chain from Darma Valley.

(The other side of the range leads to Milam Glacier, where I was turned back by a much smaller glacier back in April – check out my article at "Tea Time in the Himalayas" at
www.statesman.com/travel/content/travel/051803/0518himalayas.html.)

Our simple objective was to take a gander at this natural wonder, and then double- back to the little hotel we’d located for a relaxed afternoon before hoofing it out of Darma. Instead, thanks to a little SNAFU involving an inaccurate description of the “easy-to-find” return trail and my own headstrong curiosity concerning the nature of this massive snowfield, our return trip was more arduous than we planned. Having climbed quickly to our lunching spot in sunshiny morning, with perfect views of the pearly peaks above, I convinced C that having made it to India and traveled this far, there was no reason to feel intimidated by this monster.

Boy, was I mistaken: With avalanches thundering in the upper reaches of these mountains, we made our way tentatively onto the glacier. I felt comfortable. After all, the boulders balanced on the ice had to be ten times our size, so there was no way we would fall through. And with perfect visibility and a gentle slope, the chances of accidentally disappearing into a crevasse appeared negligible. But I hadn’t gauged C’s reluctance, and as soon as we hit the glacier, she began to balk, just this side of petrified, thanks in part to reading too many articles about climbers’ deaths in publications such as my beloved Outside magazine.

So, there we were, with me trudging ahead, showing how “safe” things were, while my companion seized my hand tightly, all the while cursing me under her breath.

Not helping things was the fact that I had dreadfully misjudged the distance between where we had been securely eaten lunch and the opposite rim of the snow-filled bowl we were now discovering had much more width than a “football field or two,” as I had guessed. Things went from bad to worse as we finally closed on the far side of the glacier, and discovered that the apparent trail was simply a crest where soil had piled up from the avalanches that had left all those big boulders out there on the ice. We continued to chase game trails and red herring in an effort to land on solid ground – the alternative, crossing back across the glacier now made me shudder as well. But after two hours walking downhill, we were still in a jam. C had pretty much stopped talking to me altogether.

That we ever got off that glacier was a matter of sheer will power. We eventually were able to follow cow paths and goat tracks along the Yang Ti River draining from Panchachuli and her massive glacier. I was elated at having survived the trip, and felt good about the adventure overall, in truth, because by surviving I had shown that my judgment was at least somewhat sound. The old man who owned the inn where we had stowed our gear just shook his head when we turned up. Then he went and made us tea.

Two hours up and 6 hours down did not quite add up to taking it easy, but now we not only felt that we’d had enough of Darma Valley, we recognized that maybe the Darma had had enough of us.

2003-07-10T01:13:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in the plains, the monsoon was turning dust to mud and throwing clouds in the path of the big red Indian sun. But so far our trek had seen little in the way of rain, only a few cool breezes circulating down from the glaciers and sweeping up the Darma Valley in the evening.

Thanks to the altitude gain, though, the temperature was dropping; at Baun we had reached the edge of the alpine zone. The rhododendrons and chestnut and walnut trees had given way to evergreens in the depths of the gorge and up on the ridgeline, while wildflowers, juniper and other low-lying shrub along the broad valley floor. So we were happy to find lodging and a warm welcome after our three-day journey.

Many of the people we met in Baun had not returned to the valley and their ancestral family plots in as much as two decades. The Delhi zookeeper was there to greet us, a major force amongst the civil-service types who were making this year a special reunion in the valley; ironically, he was also once-upon-a-time the director of Kaziranga National Park where we just been. The traditional stone houses chinked with mud and manure were generally much worse for wear – slate roofs trashed, foundations sagging into the hillside, wooden doors and window frames cracking. Still, it was remarkable to learn that some of these structures, annually buried under yards of snow, were 80, 90 or 100 years old. On the other hand, it was not uncommon to hear that their rightful owners had been gone from this place for 15, 18 or 20 years.

After a couple of days of village life, though, it was easy enough to see the reason for this hiatus, and in turn the threat modern India – indeed, the developed world writ large – poses to Darma traditions and language. For the vacationing government servants, the days and nights were filled with ceremonial offerings to local gods, home maintenance, the re-drawing of property lines, tending of fields and the catching-up of longtime friends and neighbors who had relocated outside this picturesque settlement. But those who continue to plant crops and herd sheep in Darma Valley work their buns off daily. Meanwhile, outside of a slightly faulty diesel generator donated by the better-to-do citizens, there was no electricity. No amount of money or success saved any one of us the daily hopscotch trip to the fecal splattered riverside, where C and I also routinely made our own shitty deposits.

All this made for a pretty interesting backcountry vacation, but who would want to contend with such a reality full time when shiny Western clothes, plastic toys, pizza and television were to be had just over the next hill? The more successful Darma, who have found middle-class success in Delhi, Lucknow and other cities, believe that a road up the valley and attendant power lines would offset the struggle of reaching and living in high mountain villages such as Baun. They argue such development might even help preserve local culture. They seem to have forgotten that what’s unique about Darma society likely is the result of this isolation, and might better be preserved by keeping development at an arm’s length.

My own leave-no-trace ethos and conservation impulses were sorely tested every time I had to take a dump or was engaged in the endless debate over whether the valley had tourism potential from a Western standpoint.

Certainly, the scenery rated high marks; across from Baun loomed the Panchachuli Range, five white-flanked peaks towering at heights of 21,000 feet or more. And while wildlife might have been spare, the wildflowers were just getting started. As C tried to learn the Darma names for all sorts of local flora, I set out with a pair of young helpers and collected more than a dozen bright plant species. Flowers sprouted at the edge of cultivated fields, between sheep pastures, and in the shade of massive stone boulders left behind by glaciers since the last Ice Age. Species included indigo forget-me-nots, pearly Queen Anne’s lace, lovely purple irises, orange whatever-they’re-called and a host of beauties I didn’t recognize whatsoever. Wait until August, we were told, then the hills really light up with color.

And despite the multitude of cultural crevasses – between East and West, Darma and mainstream Indian, rural and urban – Christina and I were treated in Baun and beyond to a rare level of hospitality.

Folks proffered food, drink, shelter and the like at every turn whether they knew who we were (the zookeeper had spread the word, and people knowing us from Dharchula wondered, indeed, where our local guide was) or not. The songs and dances, the community religious ceremonies and personal offerings to various mountain gods, likewise, were impressive in their range of celebration – from Scottish-type strongmen competition to the slaughtering of goat and sheep, which were then the source of food for the whole community; even though the women weren’t allowed inside the local temples. Needless to say, vegetarianism is not one of the Hindu values most Darma abide.

Still, after five days in Baun, I had privately concluded that any road this far up the valley would probably do more harm than good.

It may be my altogether green American mind, but I cannot help but think that the best bet for tourism development lays in the preservation of the greenery and wildlife, the relative remoteness of yet another proverbial Last Best Place. Sure, people would come if you were to construct a road, build a top-flight resort and install a gondola that will carry you no sweat to the foot of the glacier, but my conviction remains that this would also act as a drainage pipe for the few youth who might stand to benefit from the growing global interest in getting away from it all. In my final analysis, Baun felt special because the vibrant culture and lovely landscape that persists result from its relative seclusion and not despite it.

And with monsoon-like clouds competing with sunshine not just in my consciousness but also at the foot of the valley, we made ready for the second half or our Darma Valley trek.

2003-07-07T06:14:00.000-07:00

The illness passed. Whether it was a state of mild hypothermia or simply the worst bonk I’ve faced in a decade of outdoor adventure, I’m still not sure. But after cowering on the floor for half the night, I finally had taken enough fluids to use the bathroom, and after an open-air piss, I lay down for a peaceful sleep until the sound of goats crying and mule trains woke me just after sunrise.

The weather looked good in the morning light – monsoon, it seemed, which had since pushed half-a-million Assamese out of their homes and started to cool searing Delhi, had yet to reach Darma Valley. A collection of Darma and other visitors to the valley crowded the rough cobbled rocky street outside our rustic “hotel,” where they fixed us a breakfast of instant noodles before packing us on our way.

We spent the day in the town of Sela on the hill overlooking the inn and the market. The village was exceedingly peaceful, and the day off much needed before gearing up for the main bulk of our trek. We visited with families, enjoying “chai” (sweet milk tea) around the open hearth of more than one kitchen. The mud-and-dung interior plastering was surprisingly clean and neat. At one house, we were treated to a lunch of rice, lentils AND dried goat. With a fire in a square in the middle of the kitchen floor and a small opening in the roof between the slate tiles to let the smoke out, it was hard to resist the gravity pulling me deeper into this exotic culture I had enjoyed from the fringes for so many months.

The following morning, again after a noodle breakfast (the very Ramen-like flavor of Maggie leaving a tangy aftertaste) in the Sela market, C and I made our move up the valley, tackling some half-dozen miles of up and down through deciduous forest of Himalayan walnut, oak and spent rhododendron trees alongside the fast-moving-yet-murky Dhauli River. White-capped redstarts flitted here and there, and whistling thrushes sang their peculiar three-note songs from rocky outcroppings. The trail was dotted with sign from pack trains and goat herds, leaving behind a fragrant mixture that led to an overabundance of flies. We saw nary a soul, while outside of the birds and lizards, wildlife remained surprisingly scarce.

We reached the central valley settlement of Baling as the sun was beginning to set over the snowy Himalayan ridgeline to the west, and were invited to attend the first of what would prove to be many Hindu-Darma ceremonies in the valley. A baby boy was swaddled in white sheets, ready for his introduction to the local gods, while incense burned, and drinks and sweets were passed around the circle. Small girls totted miniature temples made of flour that were to be broken apart and devoured at the hillside shrine on the edge of the village.

Initially happy to see us, the locals passed a good deal of local hootch around, and soon seemed to forget our presence. A fight broke out on the way to the temple; which we took as a warning sign that maybe things were getting a little intense, inflamed by alcohol. In a rare moment of true caution (encouraged by the fact that the anti-biotic I’d been taking might result in severe vomiting when mixed with booze) I passed on multiple offers to sample the ceremonial “beer” and “wine” that appeared to be in endless supply.

This turned out to be wiser than I knew, as the town tea stall stopped serving before we finished pitching our tent, and we climbed into our sleeping bags with a slight dinner of crackers, nuts and other trail food. Better to sleep on an empty stomach than to drink on one, my momma always said.

The drunkenness, and the lecherous interest it appeared to engender in some of erstwhile hosts was too much for C, so in the morning we left without saying proper goodbyes. We made our way – slowly, panting and sweating like dogs – to the village of Baun, about four miles away, where we looked forward to meeting up with some of our acquired contacts in the Darma community, including a cousin of our landlady and the director of the Delhi Zoo, who we’d met some months earlier. The trail carried us down a steep slope to the bridge over the Dhauli, and then it was a nearly thousand-foot climb over the course of the final mile before we actually reached the village.

But before I get too far, allow me to explain a little more about the Darma and the region we were visiting.

As you reach Baun, the Darma Valley enters a sub-alpine zone of about 10,000 feet (3,000-plus meters). The valley runs northwest along the southeasterly flowing Dhauli Ganga; due north is Tibet, although the valley veers before you come to the Chinese border, while the southbound Dhauli eventually plummets into the Kali River, which in turn runs through Dharchula and forms a second international boundary between India and Nepal.

The valley itself has been the core of Darma civic life for hundreds of years. These people have an uncertain history but are more closely related to Tibetans and Mongolians than to most Indians, who in the northern part of the country retain a connection to Middle Eastern and European tribes. This ethnic distinction is reflected in the fact that the Hindi language (Hinduism is the religion) has been classified as Indo-Aryan; meanwhile, the Darma speak an unwritten dialect that linguists believe is part of the Tibeto-Burman family of languages – for C’s research, this is important stuff.

Through the end of the 1950s when China invaded Tibet, the Darma were left to pursue their quasi-migratory life in peace. They farmed the valley, and acted as traders, moving wool, silk, salt and other materials between the plains of India and the mountains of Tibet. The English never really successfully colonized this neck of the woods, which was less valued strategically that the heart of the high Tibetan Plateau (as well as Afghanistan), which offered a buffer from the encroaching Chinese (and Russian) forces. As late as Independence in the mid-40s, the Indian government apparently remained unaware of this indigenous constituency within its borders.

Then in 1962, China pushed into the northeastern states of India, on the other side of Nepal from where we’ve been stationed these long months, and the Darma way of life more or less came to an end. India decided to close the border and augment its military presence in the northern Kumaon hills. In turn, the Darma became full Indian citizens, recognized as a distinct tribal group, and were granted partial control of the land in the Darma Valley. With their trade routes closed, however, they’ve become more and more assimilated into mainstream Indian society, losing not just some of their traditions but their language as well.

So, for those who have been waiting to get a handle on what exactly prompted this shift from Texas to quite literally the other side of the world, C’s Ph.D. project to help document this so-called “dying” language is the reason. I think that’s enough of a history lesson for today.

Feeling better (thank you very much) we were definitely ready for some more action from both a research and recreation standpoint.

2003-07-05T03:15:00.000-07:00

We’re just back from two weeks trekking and researching in the Darma Valley… looking at about two weeks until we pack up and head stateside for the rest of the year. And while we appear to be closing this chapter up in fine style, it’s true that the week before we undertook this backcountry adventure, up to the remote Himalayas beyond Dharchula, a trip of some 50 miles or so roundtrip, the signs were not so promising. It took a few days after we embarked to acclimatize to the high country, and the rigors of travel on the edges of the habitable world.

Before we even hit the trail, though, there was the recurrent bowel trouble that struck first me, and then C upon our return from Assam via Delhi. I’ve managed to keep most of the details of our intestinal distress out of this journal to date, but let’s just say that the old joke about “vegetarian salad shooters” doesn’t quite cover the indignities we’ve suffered of late. Fortunately, we haven’t had any puking, but I’ll never look at squat toilets or tissue paper the same after our time in India; it took three days apiece to recover from the mysterious malady, with me going through a course of antibiotics intended to treat the self-diagnosed giardia bug that I seem to have carried for the past few months.

Finally, finally then, we snuck out of the house with our backpacks loaded to find a ride to the mouth of the Darma Valley. This trip had been in the planning stages pretty much since we arrived on the Subcontinent – the Darma people, an indigenous Himalayan people, and their language in particular, were the main reason that we located to this far corner of the map in the first place. We’d been promised that their migration season, which spans the summer, would be a productive time to make recordings of songs and stories, and to observe the rituals of the Darma in their native surroundings.

For my part, I was also looking forward to making a last foray – for the time being – into the vast Himalayan wilderness. But before we could set boot to trail, we faced the problem of finding a jeep headed the right way. Soon we were loaded aboard one of the nefarious shared taxis headed to the bottom-most town of the Darma Valley, however, we still didn’t appear headed anywhere too quick. First one boy and then another would join our party of passengers, only to dash off at the last minute. The driver assured us the whole time that we’d be headed to the mountains in 10 minutes or so – this went on for two hours!

Next, the driver disappeared. He returned thereafter with a box containing two live chickens; grains and rice were loaded along with our packs onto the roof; a local butcher passed along a bloody package of goat meat to be delivered along the way. Then, with the afternoon waning, and clouds gathering over Dharchula, the engine finally turned over, belching a cloud of diesel, and we were on our way. “No worries,” we were reassured, once again. “You reach Sela today no problem.”

No problem, I smiled, of course, this will be a snatch. The last town in what’s considered the “lower part” of Darma Valley, Sela was to provide our first night’s accommodation. An outpost at a height of some 8,000 feet, the village was less than a third of the way to our final destination, Sipu, a speck of a town at nearly twice that altitude. But first we had to tackle this 5 mile hike, which we guessed would take at least three hours; no worries. Hadn’t we been repeatedly assured us that the trekking would be easy and we’d be safe in the valley by nightfall?

Well, we were starting to get deep into the valley by nightfall, but our safety was a bit dubious. Christina lugged her 30-pound pack like a trooper over hill and yon, skirting the raging Dhauli Ganga – a river soon to be dammed for hydroelectric needs in the plains states – while keeping her eyes averted from the thousand-foot cliffs that dropped off to our right. Small temples dotted the trail at strategic overlooks. Springs were marked by small shrines, decorated by ribbons that reminded me of Native American trail markings I’d seen in Montana.

After a couple of hours of hard walking, we descended towards the river at long last. With the temperature dropping and light fading as the darkness swallowed the alpenglow we found ourselves battered and exhausted in a clearing. From the hearth of a small, recently abandoned inn, a wisp of smoke tailed skyward. By all measures, it was time to call it quits.

With no response to my cries, I rearranged the wood in the small stove, and within a couple of breaths had sparked a fire. I was eyeing the nearby fields for a place to pitch our tent, while C busied herself unearthing dinner from the debris in my 50-pound pack – add notebooks and recording equipment to your standard camping fare and the weight piles up quick – when around the bend came a chipper young Darma fellow. He looked upon our project dubiously, and then offered to lead us onto Sela; a half-hour away along straight trails, we were reassured.

Given my previous Himalayan adventures – even that afternoon’s reassurances – I should have known better than to believe our newfound guide.

But C wanted to make time. So we snuffed the fire, repacked and shouldered our bags, and followed this optimist into the twilight. Two dim stream crossings, a second glacier pouring down the hill, a black forest, and an hour later, we spotted the light of the Indo-Tibetan Border Patrol check post through the trees. The ITBP has had jurisdiction over much of this area – official ordained a tribal area, protected on behalf of the Darma – since the Sino-Indian conflict of 1962… more on this history later. For this last part of the journey, I had simply wanted to close my eyes. Our guide held Christina’s hand to stable her, while I stumbled, miserable and ready to quit.

As we reached the small Sela market, my t-shirt was drenched, and the only thing driving my legs was willpower. We'd been walking for nearly five hours! My lungs wondered where the oxygen might have gone. In the lamplight, I could see our fellow passengers from the jeep, smirking. (Those bastards, who had reassured me that we’d make it “no problem,” I thought.) I began to quake with cold and dehydration, my system shutting down as I bonked bigtime. Somebody pressed a much-needed cup of hot tea into my hand. Thank goodness there were rooms at the inn; Christina shifted our belongings to a small alcove above the kitchen, and I retired without dinner, crashing on the floor, wrapped in my sleeping bag, praying that this fever was just mild hypothermia and that the morning would bring better tidings.

So much for the penultimate chapter of this great adventure.

2003-06-16T02:20:00.000-07:00

Where was I? Or rather, where have I been? Had a short week in Dharchula at the outset of June before taking off on short notice for Assam in the Northeast. That region may be the only place in India more remote than Kumaon. But because of its far remove on the opposite side of Nepal from where we are and distance from the mainland as well, the Northeast – which includes not just Assam but famed Darjeeling and little known Sikkim – remains a little more pristine than Uttaranchal.

Assam is home to many of the tea plantations in India, as well as the majority of the petroleum operations here. Like the spice region of Kerala we visited last winter, it’s lush and green and river filled, especially now when pre-monsoon storms push through once or twice a day, drenching the rolling landscape. As India goes, Assam is culturally unique however, with competing Buddhist and Muslim influences giving rise to a blended Hinduism that uniquely values the community-at-large and natural values, providing a verdant welcoming mat for visitors such as myself.

The reason for this latest trip was actually work related, as a major American magazine was interested in wildlife viewing opportunities in India. Because the parks in the plains are generally closed, thanks to steamy weather and the coming summer rains, the Northeast proved to be the ideal destination for a little research. So we pounded down to Delhi, caught a flight, and booked a room at the splendid Wild Grass Resort just outside of Kaziranga National Park.

Found on the banks of the massive Brahmaputra River, KNP is home to the majority of the world’s white one-horned rhinos, a species that like the Asian elephant is distinct from its African cousins (in this case, the black two-horned rhino). The population is booming after a 100 years of habitat protection, a move prompted by the Brits after the viceroy’s wife Lady Curzon visited the region in 1904 only to find that most of the rhinos had been wiped out. Since the 1960’s, the population has been up and down, and it’s topping out today at a remarkable 1,600 animals. The Lonely Planet guidebook claims that Marco Polo visited and thought the rhino was actually a unicorn, but either the famous explorer was a fraud or he was blind as a bat.

Generally speaking, I didn’t know much about the park when I set out for Kaziranga (much less when I pitched the story) and even before arrival I wondered if the reassurances that I would have “no problem” spotting wildlife were just another instance of Indian promises-yet-to-be broken. Given that it took a couple of days to get to the park that would have been a major, major pain in the arse. Fortunately, it turned out that animals were easy to spot, including not just rhino, wild elephant, dozens of bird species and YET ANOTHER Bengal tiger – my second of our time in India.

The tiger came out on the day after C’s 34th birthday, when we were taking our fourth and final ride through the park. We’d had a spectacular night before, being the only guests at the lodge, enjoying wine and music in the cool evening (as opposed to the 110-F degree heat that met us in Delhi), and even dining on a rare birthday cake the Wild Grass staff had procured from an unknown bakery somewhere up the road. The tiger was unexpected; in fact, though wildlife sightings had been assured, the big cats are virtually impossible to see this time of year with the grass and brush in the park ranging up to six feet almost everywhere you look.

Content with a few more rhinos and a couple of rare birds, our attention was focused on the immediate roadside, the jeep idling, when I noticed some movement at a distance of about 50 yards. Having seen boucoups deer in the near distance, as well as having paused already to let two rhino take the right of way during our visit to Kaziranga, my first thought was “Hmmm… I wonder which ungulate is breaking from the brush?” But the colors and the movement were all wrong. Then came my second thought, “Oh… My… God… Tiger!”

As the 8-plus-foot orange beast then proceeded to cut the distance between its lair and the jeep to about 25 yards, a third thought dawned on me: “I hope it’s not hungry.”

Christina was near tears with excitement, and our guide was fairly beaming at our good luck. I didn’t know whether we’d done something to somehow “deserve” this sighting, but it made for a dynamite conclusion to our already way memorable trip to Assam.

2003-05-28T23:32:00.000-07:00

Lest anybody think that I have become inured to the rigors of travel in India, let me just say that I don’t care what your “mind-state” might be, three days straight is too long to be on the road in this country.

I left Manali last week, and headed down the picturesque Kullu Valley framed by white-capped mountains in search of trout. I found my way to the Tertian River, a tributary of the main river the Beas, which had yielded no fish in the days before; the Tertian unfortunately would also prove stubborn with my quarry. Along the way to these fabled honey holes past the main valley, I also took a side detour to the small, strange town of Malana, where the children leap out of your way to avoid being touched. If you get the impression that I covered a lot of ground during the course of my return, you win a prize.

So, Malana: this is a place that I wanted to see vis-à-vis rumors of a strange language being spoken and a rather primitive culture still in place. The town is way up a hillside past Jari, a small outpost on the banks of the Parbati River, a stone’s throw from the hippy hangout of Kasol, where the Israelis and English ravers gather for their full-moon parties. I might have guessed from these reports that I was headed to the heart of Hash Country, but the fact is that I anticipated visiting a ritualistic little community in Malana, and not the cultivation capital that I found high in the hills.

Rather, the whole of the Parbati Valley, especially around Kasol, is geared to provide the party people with plenty of smoke, supplying hashish to most regions of India. It didn’t take long being in Malana to be offered a chillum, and then another, and yet one more. (I didn’t inhale, er, honest… cough-cough.)

Turns out that the folks in Malana really don’t like visitors much, and they only tolerate foreigners because of the income they represent. In fact, their mistrust, disdain or whatever it is remains so entrenched that the Malana hire people from the surrounding towns to work the few guesthouses they have in their small valley. There were about 200-300 wooden homes with slate roofs nestled in the little sub-alpine alcove, where the Malana live year round amidst thick-growing pines and small plots cleared to make way for potatoes and other crops. The language was tough to pick up, but sure didn’t sound like any of the Hindi or mountain dialects I have tripped across in the last 6 months. Somebody said that the Malanans might have been descended from Greeks who came alongside Alexander the Great way back when, but this seemed to be a conflation of facts from other parts of India.

After a day in Malana, snapping photos and visiting with a slightly nutty South African woman and her young daughter traveling along similar paths to my own, I felt the urge to keep on keeping on, The Malana River, I was told, didn’t have any fish, and despite the kind bud, my interest in Indian baking wasn’t strong enough to anchor me there.

So it was on down to the Tertian River to try for brown trout. When that didn’t work out, I hit the road again for my return trip to Dharchula. I did see some pictures of the lunkers available in the Himalaya, however, including wily browns imported by the locals and occasional escaped rainbows first introduced by the British and now farmed to supply some of the Manali restaurants. Needless to say, I will make a point of trying my luck fishing in India again, but even in the mountains now the summertime temps are melting the glaciers. Plenty of cold rushing water is pouring into the rivers, shoving the fish out of their regular hide-y holes; I lost about 10 flies – mostly nymphs and streamers – proving this point.

Coming back to Dharchula took an all-day bus ride, an overnight train adventure – I couldn’t seem to find the sleeper car, and ended up sharing benches with various Indian families through the night – a second all-day bus (during which I caught up on some much needed shut-eye) and finally a day of shared jeeps winding up and over the mad hills of Kumaon.

In a word, it was a brutal trip; I swear if and when we return to this part of the world, you’ll find me on a motorbike. The other option is just to torturous to contemplate.

2003-05-15T07:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had high hopes of reporting back that I had succesfully caught a Himalayan trout or two on my trusty flyrod. But, as has been observed by many older and wiser than me, there's a reason they call it "fishing and not catching." Regardless, exploring the Beas River and it's tributaries downstream from the fine mountain town of Manali, was a real pleasure today; I had an additional brief, rod-in-hand saunter yesterday. But today it was my goal to hook one of the more favorable leftovers of the English colonial period.

Manali is quite different from Dharmasala from the standpoint of overall vibe. It's in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh (as is D-sala) but Manali hasn't the Tibetan influence so much as its long history as a stepping off point for the Tibetan Plateau, making it recognized as the final frontier of habitable land before the Himalayas turn nasty and forbodding to all but the hardiest explorers. Suffice it to say, I have resigned myself to fishing and not trekking for the time being.

I did make one pretty good hike to the snowline in Dharmasala before taking off. Starting out pretty early, crossing paths with a Belgian Buddhist, marching him into the ground while the sounds of a Techno Rave echoed off the mountain like some crazy mantra to the party people, I was a walking machine. It was great after so much mental exercise -- when so many people are meditating, you're bound to have some deep thoughts of your own -- to work up a sweat and breathe hard for a few hours. And breathe hard I did, for the snowline meant that I walked way past the picturesque camps at Triund above Mcloed Ganj, leaving behind the dance music and the middle class Indians in the process. There was a cafe on the hillside near the tongues of snow snaking down from Lahesh Cave just below the pass, and the chai-walla there allowed as if I kept to the West I'd find my way to caves used for generations by the local Gaddi shepherds, who are just starting to make their way to the high country. Topping out at over 10,000 feet, dangling my legs over the edge of a cave that would have made a cold camp, the air was crystaline and the clouds were threatening but didn't crack until I was safe and sound back in town a little after 11 hours of hard walking.

Manali has a fair number of Israelis, and apparently one has gone missing in the woods. These sorts of reports have become increasingly common over the past couple of years, thanks to an increased number of foreigners coming to Manali, and the fact that a good many of them are chasing the major grass crops that grow along the roadsides and up in the hillls. Apparently, there is a serious hash mafia, which makes trouble for suspecting and unsuspecting dopers, as well as trekkers like me. This is another reason that I have not decided to head for the high country, although the town itself is high and Old Manali where I'm staying is perched on a small hilloc in a manner reminiscent of some of the ski towns in America I have known.

So, I've been chasing trout without much success. Two fish knocking my beaded nymph, and one chasing a royal wulff into the air was all the action I saw. The Beas is running high with snowmelt, and the tribs are all running pools and falls down steep hillsides, so it was tricky water to manage. I couldn't tell exactly where the trout were holding, and the main channel was stained the color of light milk chai by the time I called it quits.

There's one more spot to try for, likely the day after tomorrow, when I will begin to wend my way home to C. She has picked up another grant, so it looks like we've got a few more months to mop up here within the next year. This is great news in many ways, and my mind is spinning with the adventures I'll have in the future. But life in India, where so much happens in one day, even a day of chilling at the inn, forces me to keep in the Now.

Given that the present options include stepping into a river, smelling the pine breeze, and staring at the nearby glaciers, I'm not complaining. Not until I get back on the road at least. And if I happen to catch a fish, you'll read it here first.

2003-05-10T00:33:00.000-07:00

"Never commit any evil deeds.... Accumulate a wealth of merits.... Completely tame one's own mind...." These are the teachings of the Buddha hung on the temple wall in Dharmasala, in the village of Mcloed Gang, where the Dalai Lama resides when he's not off making speaches and collecting Nobel Peace Prizes. I arrived myself yesterday at this so-called "power center" in the Himalayas and the capital of the Tibetan Government in Exile. It's a town that shares much with Indian hill stations in its scale, and the lovely woods and scenery that surrounds it; the major difference is the large number of bona fide refugees from Tibet concentrated here.

What I'm getting at, I suppose, is that like a good many of the Indian towns that have been adopted by Westerners, the Buddhist influence competes amicably with the region's predominant Hinduism. But here, where the Buddhists are not just wannabes searching for spiritual fulfillment, the contrast in lifestyles and desires is striking. Because the Tibetan community values not just the idea that the world must be transcended, but does so while wearing Levis and Nikes. By and large, even in this land of profound and ancient religious practice, most Indians who desire these consumer objects appear to have misplaced a large part of their Hindu faith. My own conclusion is that Hinduism is not so far from Catholicism in terms of its adherence to ritual in the face of massive hypocracy.

I'm probably over-thinking and over-simplifying this, which may result from the fact that I slept nearly 12 hours last night. The primary reason for this was the long day's night it took to reach Dharmasala following my brief sojourn in Rishikesh, which I visited with my mom. The secondary reason that I seem to be on some sort of mental vacation may have been my mom's visit, in fact, which was nearly as delightful and as taxing as all the time we've spent in India to date.

In short, seeing family after being footloose and fancy free for months on end means adjusting expectations and priorities, and just because India prompts all comers to a new level of acceptance, doesn't mean that all visitors have to like it. Fortunately, there's plenty of shopping and lots of interesting cultural sites and beautiful places to visit, so even though it hit 110 degrees (F) in Delhi while we were there and there were a couple of rough personal moments, all turned out pretty swell in the end.

I even got to clear up a little of my autobiography. Indulge me: My parents divorced when I was 8, not 6. I'd always believed that I was younger, which reflects the fact that my mother miscaculated our age, although at 62, she now seems to have tracked down the right year. 1976, for those keeping score at home. This was quite a piece of news to get my head around. For most of my life, I had thought that my parents split when I was 5 years old, and finalized the divorce when I was six; in turn, I couldn't figure out why had so many distinct memories of my dad around the house, and not a few impressions of impending doom. Used to be these feelings got filed under "Buried Early Emotional Impressions," with little other explanation. But if I was actually 7-8 when the fireworks finally came, then there's some validity to my memory beyond just my early ability to discern my parents' emotional states .

That said, it's the sort of childhood-based waking that I think a lot of people expect to get in India; albeit, in heading to South Asia, more likely than not, they think that they'll tune in such details being away from their family -- not when Mom crashes the party. So be it! I was happy to get the information, and it was nice to make a mini-tour with Mom, checking out the Taj again (sans C, who had to work that day) and then head to Rishikesh, where the freaks were in heavy abundance, listening to trance music and smoking their hookahs to all hours.

Dharmasala certainly has some of that element, but being hard to get to and not having any white-sand Gangetic beaches, the local tourist scene appears to be a lot mellower. I woke this morning after my hard sleep, and after stretching in my room found that the terrace was occupied by a couple doing some yoga in the sun. My visit to the temple this AM included glimpses of many monks meditating. And, although the sun is still shining bright, the mountain breezes mean that the heat is not a great killer.

At any rate, I hope that brings everybody up to date.... All's well on this end. I'll try taming my mind before the next entry....

2003-04-23T05:19:00.000-07:00

Just as some men are breast men, some love legs, and others admire T&A, so too do outdoorsmen gravitate towards a favored landscape. Some are fans of high peaks and snowy passes, others like the rolling hills and dales of the plains, and yet others fall for the rushing rivers and moist gorges of remote valleys. As I traversed the opening section of the trail to Milam Glacier last week, following a rocky and rough trade route alongside the turbulent Gori River (or "ganga" in Hindi) I concluded that I belong myself to this last group.

Determined to make it to opening day at Milam Glacier, I had headed out with my trusted guide Jithu, who earlier had come with great confidence to let me know the path to the snow fields preceding the Tibetan Plateau was clear and ready for hikers. The first step was to hail one of Kumaon’s infamous shared jeeps, crammed in with a family of five, various old timers, and a middle-aged woman with a twinkle in her eye who I suspect was flirting with me. From Dharchula we rode down to a busted bridge on the lower Gori Ganga, some 30-40 kilometers from our starting point, then en masse, we hopped, skipped and jumped, following a stony footpath and hand-tooled trestles across the river. After some time, Jithu and I climbed aboard yet another jeep, loaded like a clown car with 17 bodies. That evening we spent in Munsyari, a hill station far from civilization primarily known as being the stepping off point for Milam, now feeling a little disheartened by the rumors that the glacier trail was in fact still closed.

Early the next morning, we set off on our hike, followed by the calls of local children looking for sweets. Our pockets were in fact filled with toffee -- brand name Shakti, or "power" -- and after the first encounters, whereas I had been feeling a mite miserly, I began to freely dispense our energy food to every little Dick and Jane (or Ganesh and Pavarti, if you like) who crossed our path. The day was sunny, but the immense Panchachuli Peaks, a range of mountains averaging some 21,000 feet, remained hidden behind their own wall of clouds.

It didn’t take long for the thunder to start, however. As we took the first tea break of many, we were told that a couple days earlier a troop of Americans and Indians had passed through with the same goal in mind -- Milam Glacier. Since they had yet to return, I assumed with unlikely optimism that the trail, as Jithu had first indicated, was open; in fact, I thought if we could catch them, it might be fun to have some company. And catch them we did! Unfortunately, that’s because glaciers and the threat of landslide had turned them back, and the "foreigners," as the locals insisted on calling the mixed group, were on the retreat. My hopes of a clean getaway dashed, I wasn't surprised that the rain soon started spitting down. the clouds frothing as though Lord Shiva was intent on brewing a perfect cappuccino from his hiding place in the Himalayas.

Before noon, we took shelter in the first major stopping point on the trail, Lilam, a speck of a town that made Munsyari look like a thriving metropolis. The trail-clearing team from the state Department of Public Works was hunkered down, huffing local tobacco from a hookah. Cheshire cat was nowhere to be found. Rain and more rain appeared to be the order of the day; the chances of making it to Milam Glacier dwindled with every drop and every crash of thunder sounded like the hillsides crumbling.

After a midday nap, we decided once again to charge up the trail. The team we’d passed on their way out said that the first snow bridge could be crossed with ease (despite the fact that they’d apparently turned back at that point). Jithu, who I later gathered was suffering from some congestion and a touch of flu, struck me as uncharacteristically reluctant to tackle the next couple miles, but I was eager to see what would be available up the road. Not much, it would turn out.

That night, exhausted from nearly a dozen miles hiking with sizeable packs, we found ourselves a little trailside respite, and fell asleep to the rhythms of the Gori Ganga, which had accompanied us along the wet chasms leading away from Lilam and the DPW lay-a-bouts. The night was calm, and the black-faced monkeys we’d seen above the path, chattering in the trees kept their distance. Water falls dove to the river in the distance, carrying the glacial melt along gravity’s path while the moon eventually emerged over our notch in the mountains, casting bright light everywhere. The following night it would be full.

But here’s the thing of it: I met with perfect bliss as I lay listening to the running river hammering stones and singing a chant whose language I could barely decipher. I didn’t care the following day when we turned back below Sumi Glacier, a small tongue of snow that dropped from unseen heights -- the American team had allowed that it was crossable, but Jithu remained planted on the solid ground and refused to advance onto the ice even as I tried to cut steps across to the trail visible on the other side. Just being in that valley, alongside the booming Gori Ganga, enjoying the echo of occasional thunder passing overhead made me quite content, and the fact that we wouldn’t reach any great altitudes (and were even being deprived of some world-class views) didn’t matter a whit.

Ultimately, we double-timed it back to Lilam, and slept in a chai stall beneath a grass hut that muffled the late-night rain. In the meantime, the full moon eased over the horizon, an emissary of ancient times, which would have guided us with its gentle light as far as we cared to go. The few local workers came to check out the additional "foreigner" -- that would be me -- and the following morning, after three nights out, we returned to the town of Munsyari.

Addendum: If the mountains thought they were rid of me after throwing down hail and thunder, and blocking my path with the tail of some glacier, they were sadly mistaken. Jithu and I recouped (and he finally confessed that he was feeling, quite literally, under the weather) and made a final assault to mount Kulia-Top, a 10,000-foot peak that can be reached by hiking a mere 6-plus-miles from the main road in Munsyari. Beware those who with to try such a feat that a local guide will be in order, as there is no true path, just a scattering of goat trails up the hillside. We reached the ridge after four-and-a-half hours of steady climbing, and then topped the final knob of Kulia by scrambling along a rocky spine and finally skirting the snow-laden southern face of the hill.

From on high, we enjoyed a 360-degree panorama of Kumaon, looking across to the great peaks of Panchachuli, the Nanda Devi range (as I may have mentioned in previous entries Nanda Devi itself is a height of some 24,000 feet or so, and allegedly harder to climb than Everest) as well as the hill stations of Almora and Pithoragarh. In the distance, I could see into Nepal and the peak of great Annapurna. I even felt the urge for the first time ever to try my hand at climbing a mountain over 20,000 feet. What can I say? I may love the river gorges, but I daresay it’s a man with no heart who wouldn’t find such mountains gorgeous.

Next up… back in Delhi.

2003-04-11T02:55:00.000-07:00

In the couple weeks since my return to Dharchula, the days have been hot, the trees have all broken into leaf, and I’ve gotten the good word that the trekking pass up to snowy Milam Glacier in remote Kumaon (even more remote than our town) has opened up. I’ll be headed over as soon as I can organize my guide Jithu, late of the aborted skiing trip. His dedication to getting me where I want to go has been admirable, and as opposed to our run to the snow-less slopes of Auli back in January, this is a trip he’s made dozens of times – although I remain his first “foreign,” as in non-Indian, client. Let’s just say that his English is improving….

Nonetheless, I am psyched to finally take advantage of what the region has to offer. For the time being, I am over the conflict of “playing” in a place that has no concept of leisure outside of the few kids playing cricket in the street and the few adults whose pastime is knocking back fortified beer every other night. India is rough this way with only the wealthiest members of the middleclass emulating Western tourism activities such as hiking and bird watching. The rest are intent to let the splendor of this place dwindle away in the face of rampant population growth and the rush to modernization. There are those hearty souls from all walks of life who make pilgrimages to the high Himalayas and Tibetan plateau where Shiva is said to reside, but the relationship between such religious activities and sport was sundered long ago.

You can see this divorce in the relationship people have to the land here, with the incessant litter and the burning of fields and forests that has been taking place all winter and continues now into the spring. A full nation has forsaken god’s country as it were; this so-called agricultural practice – still practiced in the West, as well, I realize – clears fields, but also threatens to destroy what little wildlife habitat remains. I’m guessing already 80-90 percent of the forest has been cleared, mostly long ago by the British in order to construct railway ties. The subsequent terracing of hillsides for small farms, picturesque though it may be, combined with an overabundance of grazing animals such as goats and the ubiquitous holy cow means that the forest cover has only grown back in places where trees have been intentionally planted as a crop.

Yes, it can be a real bummer to learn these things. But there remain pockets of beauty everywhere; last weekend we tackled about 10 miles just outside of town, following a creek to near the base of nearby Cobra Mountain. We bathed in a lush, hidden waterfall and spotted many birds. By continuing to head beyond the edges of the towns and villages and taking a peek at what remains, I guess that I might hope to discern something of how it once was hereabouts and whether there’s any chance to sustain what’s left. As has been observed by brighter minds than mine: Don’t knock such rationalizations, where would be without them?

With a little luck I’ll be trekking next week, and in the meantime C continues her research at a rapid and ready pace. Our housing in the “tribal” neighborhood has helped her to break the code, and she now has a short list of informants more than willing to help her piece together the grammar of the Darma (as opposed to dharma, a religious concept) language. It remains to be seen when this work will be completed, but having survived the winter in Dharchula, we’re sensing that another few months beyond our current stint, either this fall or next spring, could be in order. I’ll try to fill in some of the gaps before I head out, but “Happy Trails” otherwise.

2003-04-04T04:18:00.000-08:00

We were up early, taking the jeep track out of camp, in search of the elusive tiger. I was still recovering from the near-sleepless journey from Rishikesh, and didn’t feel to optimistic about my chances, despite a beautiful morning. Somehow – to my dismay, and apparently theirs – I landed on the back of a large elephant with a family of four middle-class Indians. The father, a TV journalist, wanted to discuss the situation in Iraq; on the other hand, I wanted to forget George and Saddam and disappear into the woods.

But before we could get into any sort of detailed analysis of the Middle East, a commotion broke out on the road. Jeeps and Gypsies were scrambling along the shoulder, and our mahout gestured excitedly. There, just below a small temple in a gully running perpendicular to the road, a flash of orange broke through the deodar forest – tiger!

It was a good sized cat of about 200 pounds and indeterminate sex, pacing along the roadside, impatient but surprisingly calm given the traffic jam that closed off its exit from the streambed. No fewer than six cars crept along, angling for position, while our elephant made her slow way towards the tiger. Immediately the young girl riding my side of the elephant began whining that she didn’t want to move any closer, and the mother took up her cries and began berating the mahout in Hindi that he better not lead us into the underbrush as the tiger turned tail and disappeared into the woods. Fortunately, this fellow knew his job. For my part, I offered that there was “no way” the tiger posed a threat, though I was likewise cursing what seemed a conspiracy to keep me from taking a long view of the cat. Just as I was preparing to jump down from the elephant’s back in pursuit of the tiger, another group of safari-goers atop an elephant also arrived and blazed their way along the tiger’s trail. That seemed to assuage the concerns of both mother and daughter as we joined in tracking the beautiful animal into the jungle.

We never got close enough really to disturb her – I decided somewhere along the way that the tiger was female, though that may just be a projection due to her feline wiles. But we did get some excellent views, and through the binoculars I felt as though I might reach across the 25-30 yards distant and touch the tawny fur. To be lucky enough to see such a creature in the wild, even with the somewhat objectionable company felt like a blessing indeed, especially when I returned to camp to discover that not everyone had shared my good fortune to spot the cat, much less observe her for some time. Rather than push our luck, though, the elephant driver pulled an off-road u-turn and carried us safely back to camp.

Remarkably, after a few minutes rest, my driver Mr. Aqueel burst into the dormitory. “Come quickly,” he said. “What another tiger?” I exclaimed. “No, tiger attack,” he answered. Huh? Then, out in the open it came clear to me: The nearly tame sambar deer, about the size of a yearling elk or Rocky Mountain mulie, that had been haunting camp bore the remarkable wounds from its encounter with the cat. A deep gouge ran down her left shoulder, and her left forehoof had been stripped to tendon and bone. Clearly, the deer was not long for this world. The tourists gathered around, apparently astonished that such wild violence had intruded on camp, despite the fact that part of the thrill of seeing tiger is to encounter a major carnivore on its own terms. The consensus amongst Mr. Aqueel and the camp guides was that the tiger would return to finish the job before the day’s end, and that indeed the hunter was the same creature that we had seen just minutes before basking in the undergrowth, looking to escape human notice.

I spent another 24 hours in the park, but that was the only tiger I saw. Hopes to see a leopard remained in vain, and soon I was on my way back to the homestead in Dharchula.

2003-04-04T04:17:00.000-08:00

I spent another 24 hours in the park, but that was the only tiger I saw. Hopes to see a leopard remained in vain, and soon I was on my way back to the homestead in Dharchula.

2003-04-02T02:26:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if it’s some sort of karmic justice, the result of a billion lives, 4000 years of Hindu doctrine or what, but inertia may be the strongest force in India. I left Rishikesh on the back of a chugging Enfield motorcycle, a stylish way to depart the Yoga Capital of the World; but it was a short ride to the bus depot. Still having broken free of Rishikesh, I had no choice but to keep on rolling. I was standing still and yet running hard to see the tiger park before looping back home to Dharchula and my constant companion Christina.

But soon I found myself at the mercy of the local cops at the main square in Kashipur, a town a half-hour away from Corbett Park headquarters at Ramnagar with little to recommend it other than a bus stop and a statue of some national hero or another whose name escapes me. Fortunately, the cops around these parts are the same sorts of earnest young men I have met throughout my travel (as opposed to the not-so-earnest touts and cheats that have also been present). They treated me to a late-night omelet and chai while assuring me that the bus would be along presently. Three hours later, finally, I nabbed a ride to Ramnagar, banged on the door of the Everest Hotel, grabbed a few winks and made my way to India’s answer to Yellowstone, Corbett Park, a nature preserve in the heart of Uttaranchal.

It strikes some as strange that a place of conservation should be named for Jim Corbett, a hunter in the first degree, whose fame stems from his destruction of a good many tigers and other big cats. In some ways, Corbett is India’s answer to Hemingway, in his African mode, in that his stories of travel in this place inspired a thousand fevered dreams of safari; but having written the classic “Man-eaters of Kumaon,” Corbett had a change of heart, ultimately trading his guns for cameras and becoming an outspoken defender of India’s wild places. The park that bears his name today holds the vast majority of India’s mega-fauna, including most famously the Bengal tiger.

If you have chased grizzlies in Montana, seen lions and cheetah in Africa, tracked wolves in Idaho and watched whales off Cape Cod and Long Island, then perhaps you know there is a rule to all these endeavors: Never utter the name of the critter you are looking for, for if these animals know you are looking for them, they will remain forever hidden from your gaze. So it was with me in Corbett… only ever whispering the name of the great cat, emphasizing to my driver Mr. Aqueel that birds and lizards, snakes and deer would be sufficient animals to identify during my visit. “We’ll not say the name of the tiger,” I quietly intoned, “and hope for the best.” Aqueel nodded his ascent, solemn and apparently only a little happy to have a customer for a couple of days of wildland exploration.

First stop was the dry area of the park, the southern section of Bijrani, which has been set aside for day visitors in particular. I had booked a dorm bed, stopped at the local wine shop for a couple of Tiger Hill Lagers (a reasonable beer available throughout our neck of the woods, and an excuse to make lame jokes about ensuring that at least one “tiger” would not get away). Aqueel it turned out was a master of local birds, commanding his Gypsy through the park at low speeds, picking out bright green bee-eaters, blue-black sunbirds and the occasional raptor from behind the wheel of his open-sided jeep. The best avian species of the afternoon included the crested serpent eagle, not too mention dozens of spotted deer, small ungulates browsing the roadside like so many Texas whitetails in the afternoon sunlight. The day was hot enough that I didn’t expect the big cats to be out in the open, and I contended myself looking at the new landscape.

But there were promises that a tiger might yet emerge, including pugmarks in a sandy stream crossing and a tree trunk scarred by the deep gouges of a tiger’s claws. That evening, at Bijrani campus, a few cabins, wildlife blinds and screened dining hall, I decided that my last, best chance to take an elephant ride might also hold the opportunity to see a tiger, and made a reservation for the following morning’s pachyderm safari.

2003-03-23T00:09:00.000-08:00

Here in India, the only thing that matches the near blanket news coverage of Iraq is the coverage of the Indian cricket team, which has advanced to the finals in the Cricket World Cup in South Africa. It was only when the war actually started that the newspapers replaced cricket headlines with new of Iraq; even in the alleyways where the sadhus (holymen) of Rishikesh gather, transistor radios blare match updates and play-by-play. I wrote the following last week, but the timing was wrong for placing it in a US pub, but I still think it's worth a read:

With all apologies to Robin Williams, cricket is not merely baseball on Valium, as he not so famously observed.

As an itinerant New Yorker – for the time being relocated to the Indian Himalayas – prone to annoying my neighbors back home in Texas by trotting out my Yankees cap each October, I feel pretty secure contradicting the San Francisco funnyman. I consider his crack approximately the same as judging a great novel, such as War and Peace, against a magazine feature. Would you say Tolstoy is merely Seymour Hersh on Quaaludes? I didn’t think so. Similarly, although baseball can be a little slow to unfold at times, cricket strikes me as a game with all the subtleties and nuances that come from Art. Moreover, my sincerest apologies to the MLB, but even with the proliferation of foreign-born players and the potential inclusion of an occasional team from Canada, how can the so-called World Series hope to compete on a global scale with the World Cup of Cricket, which concludes on March 23, 2003?

Like that other oft-ignored World Cup, soccer, cricket’s international championship takes place every four years and has done so without attracting much interest stateside since 1975. As with soccer or professional cycling, it’s time for a change; although the development of a world-beating US team may be sometime in the offing, there’s never been a better time to take stock of what cricket has to offer. Thanks to major corporate sponsorship and its broad multicultural appeal, the sport currently has all the trappings of international athletics, right down to drug scandals and nationalistic boycotts. To wit, on the eve of World Cup 2003, being co-hosted by Zimbabwe and South Africa, Australian great Shane Warne was accused of doping and eliminated from his club’s roster thanks to trace diuretics in his urine. Warne claimed that he took the diuretics on advice of his mother, who was concerned about his looking “bloated” during various television appearances. Um… yeah, right. Whatever.

Then, in a SNAFU that didn’t quite capture the press’ imagination the same way, England, progenitor of the sport, claiming it was worried about player security but sending an unequivocal political message to the anti-White rulers of Zimbabwe, refused to face the co-host on its native soil. In turn, England didn’t make it to the second round of match play, while Zimbabwe went through – only to be eliminated last week from the coming quarterfinals. That may not strike you as poetic justice, but it’s a prosaic enough outcome to such political grandstanding for my taste.

Truth be told, the World Cup 2003 has involved enough socio-political intrigue lately to attract the attention of the sports enthusiasts running Wall Street Journal, which dedicated plenty of ink to the Pakistan-India match played two Saturday’s ago. Consider if you will: Two neighbors both formerly colonized by Britain so irreparably damaged socially and psychologically by the tragedy of Partition half a century ago that they will not even deign to visit each other’s stadiums – its as unthinkable as a Israel-Pakistan soccer match. Finally, after years apart, they chance to meet on the bloodstained soil of South Africa, the same nation where India’s national hero, the most famous pacifist of all time, a young attorney named Mohandas Gandhi got his start.

To the shame of its homeland, Pakistan lost to India in a tense match that ran to over 500 points combined, then lost its next match and was banished from the cup. In turn, while the team prostrated itself to its citizen supporters, Pakistani authorities announced they would investigate the reason for this failure. (“Hey, while you’re at it, we’re looking for this guy named Osama bin Laden….”) What drama! You could write a book on the meaning of this one match, and op-ed writers in India and abroad almost have. Given this late-breaking history – and the fact that the baseball season really won’t heat up until the All-Star break sometime in July – can you afford to ignore the coming drama?

When India finally piled on enough runs to beat the Pakistan squad, New Delhi, where I was visiting at the time, erupted in a burst of fireworks that puts all our national holidays combined to shame. The Indian team, which had entered the World Cup on an extended slide, in turn was hailed as national heroes and today looks to be headed for a definite appearance in the final. The Boys in Blue – as they are known – enjoying hefty support from PepsiCo, and featuring the greatest player of his generation, the Michael Jordan of cricket, Sachin Tendulkar, are ready to take their place on center stage later this month. So, I have but one further question for Mr. Williams: Can a billion-plus cricket fans be wrong?

If you think so, I dare you to tell ‘em. Me? You’ll find me tuning in to the local broadcast on the Sony Max channel, Kingfisher beer close at hand. And if you consider yourself a global citizen or aspire to be one, I suggest that you find out where you can check out the game – it’s bound to be on somewhere in Brooklyn, not to mention Dallas, Los Angeles, or any number of other cities with significant Indo-American populations.

Sure, cricket pitchers are called “bowlers” and the bat looks like a paddle leftover from the set of “Animal House.” But it’s no more exotic than Lebanese food, really. On the upside, the one-day matches that make up World Cup games (as opposed to the five-day matches that include tea breaks, nap time lunch and crumpets) leave enough time to puzzle out the rules. But some basics to get you started, regardless: Each team fields a team of eleven players, usually seven batting specialists, and four bowlers, or spinners, upon whom the team relies for most of its pitching; each batter must protect the wicket, which are those funny sticks standing behind the batter; the teams bat in order, first one, then the other, for a duration of at least a couple of hours, until each player on a side has had a chance to bat or is gotten out; after an indeterminate time, the game comes to an end.

As noted, the literate pace of the game provides plenty of time to learn the rules – and to contemplate the rise and fall of various colonial powers, something worth considering the next time you debate White House policy on the Middle East. Ask anybody who saw the 4-hour, Oscar-nominated Indian film “Lagaan” if you doubt this assessment.

Don’t make the mistake of thinking that cricket is a white man’s game anymore. Notwithstanding racial overtones in the current World Cup, since the tournament got its start back in 1975, it has been as much a game for players of color as it has anybody else’s. (Sorry for the PC-speak, but I don't know how else to say it.) In fact, the West Indies won the first two cups, and while Australia and New Zealand have both come on strong in recent years, England itself is currently captained – albeit unsuccessfully, having been knocked out in part thanks to their boycott of the Zimbabwe match – by the Indian-born Nasser Hussein, who was raised in London.

If the favorites go through, which seems more than likely from where I’m sitting, then India, will take on reigning tournament favorites Australia, who even without the tainted Warne have looked unstoppable to this point. But India has played the spoiler before, toppling England on its way to beating the West Indies in World Cup 1983, some 20 years ago. Given the span of the sport, it’s also worth pointing out that Australia was no mere colony but actually a penal colony, which adds to the already kaleidoscopic historical ramifications of the coming championship. There’s the smallest possible window through which either upstart Kenya or over-the-hill Sri Lanka might squeeze through to the championship match, but having watched India clobber New Zealand just last night – and with all do respect for the old “on-any-given-day” adage (“on any given day any given team can beat any other given team”) – I can’t see how there’s any other option than an India-Australia final, which should be a high-scoring, electricity-charged affair. (NOTE: This predicted match-up is the real deal.)

Of course, there will always be those whose eyes glaze over at the specter of bats, balls and base runners. But if you can pipe in even just an “over” or two – an “over” being cricket’s answer to an inning – of the Sony Max broadcasts, there will be some elements of the telecast worth checking out.

Wisely the International Cricket Council has not allowed team sponsors to promote their products inside the various venues in Zimbabwe and South Africa, so you won’t spot Pepsi insignias on any uniforms or corporate banners dangling from the bleachers. But a few of the advertising campaigns, including Pepsi’s near saturation of the airwaves, provide some insight to the outrage of those wacky WTO-protestors who crop up every so often. Then there’s that snazzy little animated cheetah that appears in the lower left-hand corner of the screen anytime something crucial happens in the game – a score or out, generally speaking. In a bit of inspired silliness, this mascot does a Kung Fu dance for the masses, which is a great alternative to the exploding helmets and muscular robotic animation witnessed during so many American sports broadcasts.

The Times of India and Hindustan Times websites, as well as those papers from Australia, South Africa and elsewhere doubtless can help you get up to speed much faster than I can here. But the best thing to do is find a cricket fan in the city you are in, locate a likely place to watch the game, settle down with an ample supply of Kingfisher, Fosters or the brew of your choice, and get ready to waste the day away. Beyond being a sport that matches baseball for pastoral finesse, tops basketball in terms of high scores, and carries
the weight of 500 years of colonial history, like any fat novel, cricket can also be an excellent cure for insomnia.

TONIGHT'S THE MATCH, SO TUNE IN Y'ALL

2003-03-20T05:46:00.000-08:00

You might say I'm stuck in Rishikesh. Not really, but the beautiful weather and excellent scenery along the banks of the Ganges makes it easy to forget that there are other places to see, other ways to be.

Then I hear news of Bombs over Bagdad, and my simple bliss passes. Though I have not found a satisfying alternative to the question of what to do about Saddam, my sense is that continued surveillance and indepth inspections could have kept his regime off-balance enough to find a more creative way to handle the situation. My friend Odelia here, who despite high school and college in the States remains Israeli through and through, points out that making war on terrorists hasn't done any good in her home country. Chay Baker back in Austin writes that a pre-emptive war is criminal, and I'm inclined to agree with him.

Who knows? Eleven years ago, I joined with activists against the war in Seattle, protested down in San Francisco, and ultimately got myself arrested (but not charged) by helping take over an Army recruitment station. I've voted and voted and voted since then, but it seems the tide is reluctant to turn. In this most religious of places -- on the banks of the Ganges, surrounded by temples and pilgrims -- one cannot help but wonder why God isn't listening to the many people praying for peace. As I say: Who knows?

2003-03-18T23:11:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was the Hindu equivelent of Easter, the first day of Spring, when people "play" Holi, which is to say splatter each other with colorful dyes and like so many human Easter Eggs. I had come to Rishikesh on the banks of the holy Ganges River to witness this spectacle and take a break from the doldrums of Dharchula. It's a town that was made famous first by the Beatles, back in the '60s, and now enjoys a profusion of hippies and searchers looking to learn the keys to the human heart through yoga and meditation. (Actually, the other reason I'm here is because a good friend from college teaches yoga these days in India -- Odelia Weinberg, for those in the "know.") So call it a pilgrimage if you will, although I've been avoiding the sadhus, holymen, who treat so many foreigners to chillums filled with cheap hash, and searching for more earthly pleasures, namely local trekking and rafting routes.

But before I got my search underway in earnest, I thought Holi would be a cool curiousity. My neighbor in the hotel, a searcher from Boulder of about 60 years, warned me off my Holi holiday plans. "They fill tubs with manure, and surround foreigners and dunk them," he told me, adding another horror story to the growing list I had been collecting. Back in Dharchula, I was warned to stay in doors or run the risk of battery acid being cast in my direction. It seems that like many traditions, this Holi one has taken a turn for the worse. So I snuck out of my hotel, and caught a lift with a rafting company and spent the day on the water instead. It was cool and calm, and pretty much what my body needed: A little sun, a little adrenaline, a little exercise.

You see it took some days to get here, which led me to skimp on sleep and has left me with a small cold. I arrived in Haridwar the other morning after an all-night bus ride (make that a half-night, as I arrived at 4 AM) and watched the families making their way to the ghats on the Ganges. More than Rishikesh, in fact, a charming but thoroughly touristed town in the foothills of the Himalayas, Indians consider Haridwar the most holy of places, because it is there where the river leaves the mountains and joins the plains on its way to Calcutta and the Bay of Bengal, many miles away.

I was pretty confused coming off the bus as to what day it was, and actually thought, "Oh, good, locals celebrating Holi," as I joined them in their parade to the river. But it was not yet to be, so instead I found myself in the company of some Indian men intent on showing me all the various Hindu temples lining the banks of the river in Haridwar. As the sun rose -- beautifully, coming up through the clouds like a Rennaissance painting -- watching the Indian lovelies and businessmen bathe themselves in the fast-running water at the ghat, I was struck that for all the jokers, scheisters and touts in this country, a good number still take their spiritual practice seriously.

Not that I was going to risk a bath in cow shit! So instead I tackled a short stretch of the Ganges in the company of a new outfitting business, Red Chillies, run by a couple of guys who really know the river and how to run it. We bashed through a series of Class 3 rapids, Roller-Coaster, Golf Course and Club House with no problem, then grabbed lunch on the beach. By the time we got back to town, I had missed the major chaos of Holi, which had prompted my sleepless bus ride in the first place. Such is the traveler's lament, especially in India where there is so much to do it's easy to get overwhelmed. Last night, untouched by dye, corrosive acid or poop, I slept like a baby.

Tonite, finally, I will get to have a meal with Odelia. It's been 15 years since we were freshmen at the University of Michigan. But the accident of time and place looks pre-determined as we have kept in contact and after a decade finally can hang out again!

2003-03-13T02:51:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the only way to get over homesickness is to embrace it in all it's glory. I realized this the other day, when I decided that the Great Adventure angle I had been pursuing for this trip just wasn't working out. I mean, really, it's one thing to head off for the Himalayas with a raft of sponsorship cash and set about a 180-degree survey of the Nanda Devi sanctuary, and it's quite another to scrape together plane fare and a few hundred bucks in savings and plunk yourself down in some backwater and wait for enlightenment to strike. It won't -- and sometimes that can be a come down, especially if you have even just a few expectations about what the world owes you.

Fortunately, if you drop the "Great" from your adventure, and remember that even a storytelling fella like me is really bound to live on a simple, basic human scale, it's easy enough to get grounded again. So that's what I'm aiming for. Which is not to say that I am not going to keep chasing adventure. I am single-handedly inspiring a generation of Indian mountain bikers up and down the Kali River Gorge simply by taking my afternoon exercise. And I am planning on heading out to look for tigers and more wild elephants in the next few days. Hopefully, I will also have a chance to tackle some holy whitewater -- rafting the Ganges, anyone -- and am thinking that at the least I'll make tracks up 2-3 of the major Kumaon trekking routes before the spring is out.

Despite these promising plans, being back in Dharchula has not really been all that easy. The town really is pretty shifty, with plenty of short-term interests, including the local dam contractors, road-builders and a host of military installations heightening the all but overwhelming sense that the flux of this particular place -- at the meeting point between the Tibetan plateau and the great Nepali ranges -- poses so many threats to the natural world, and a whole way of life, that it's almost beyond articulation. Ultimately, it's tough to think as the mountains where we currently find ourselves as much of a backdrop to the adrenaline sports that have been my lifeline for so long.

It's a perspective I'm sure I'll continue to wrestle with....

These are just some thoughts I've been having as I get ready to mount my next set of conquests, of course; it is tough to see such desperation so up close and personal for so many weeks and days without being touched by it. It makes fodder for other stories, but not the ones I had planned on telling. As I writer, I've been trying to develop my sensitivity to these differences -- and I hope that you, my readers, will abide some of this meandering of the mind while I sort this out.

2003-03-06T02:53:00.000-08:00

Back in Dharchula -- safely, by the way, armed with a new Hero Swing mountain bike and a couple of packs of spaghetti for the inevitable carbo-loading that such a machine ought to inspire. But before bringing everyone fully up to date, let's linger in the warm South a while longer. Shall we?

First, let's pause to celebrate the fine time I had in Kerala, with my Old Man, stepmother Helen and C, of course. Thanks to our stay at Chilika Lake, C and I were a day late meeting my father in the old city of Cochin, a port town on the Arabian Sea. I found it a goodd omen, though, when crossing the bay from the train station in Ernakulum to the peninsula where our hotel was located, a few dolphin broke the surface of the water just ahead of the boat. A great sight! Still, we were dog tired from the overnight train ride, and evidently (judging from Dad's reaction) smelling quite rank to boot. Our short time in Chennai (Madras) must have contributed to this funk, so while we still carried the scent of jasmine in our minds, our clothes went directly to the local dhobi. Whereas most of the Indian landscape has been primarily hues of brown, Kerala was a blast of green. We found dozens of types of verdant palms and other foliage fed by the extensive system of backwaters and canals that the state uses to flush its rice fields, spice and gardens.

Interestingly, in addition to claiming India's highest per capita income, Kerala is also the one place in the country where Christians outnumber Hindus. Certainly, it's just a coincidence, but it was interesting to be able to visit churches and temples and even an old 14th Century synagogue all in the same afternoon.

Meanwhile, whether it was the tropics or something in the water, the pace in Cochin and across Kerala was quite relaxed. (This may have also had something to do with staying in high-end tourist resorts rather than the backpackers' delights we've grown accustomed to while traveling sans 'rental units.) The South Indian food was likewise a marvel, and a great change from the rice and lentils which we've grown used to -- and are back to -- eating almost all the time.

The highpoint of our Kerala stay was certainly Periyar National Park. The nature preserve located in the Western Ghats is rumored home to some 40-50 tigers, although we saw none; it's also a very popular place for watching wild elephants. We took a one-day trek/boat ride through the park, setting out on foot before the midday sun raised the mercury too much, and returning as the sun set. We saw monkeys in the trees and heard wild jungle chickens (seriously!) rustling and booming in the underbrush. There were about 8 people on our trip, and it was rewarding to be walking for a change; a nice shift as well from a couple of years ago when on an African safari we were never allowed outside the jeeps. Despite missing the tigers, being on foot led to some trouble when the elephants we had been watching during our morning walk decided that they prefered to occupy the trail between us and the park entrance while we were on our way out. The guides made a quick detour over hill and dale, and our troop obediently followed through the jungle.

Soon, we had put the dozen or so pachyderms in our proverbial rearview mirror and were safely ensconced back at the Taj Garden Retreat in Thekkady, where we did as visitors to India have done for the past couple hundred years and enjoyed a gin and tonic.

Somewhere in there, C and I also managed to kill about five days in Delhi before arriving back in Dharchula this week. Gotta run now, but I'll try to tease out the details as possible over the next couple of weeks. Stay tuned....

2003-03-02T04:56:00.000-08:00

Beyond Puri, we found some other swell Oriyan attractions. Just a little ways to the north, in the old town of Konrak, there was the legendary Sun Temple. Shaped like a giant chariot, the carvings along the 4-story high stone walls are tantric, which is to say highly erotic. Men and women, men and men, women and women and even small children can be found posed in all 69 positions and then some.(Ironically, stupidly, I left my camera back at the hotel.) The building, which is dedicated to the Hindu sun gods, would appear to be as concerned with nocturnal activities as it is with "daytime" behaviors. But for all the purient interest that such a work might and, let's face it, does inspire, the building was really handsomely constructed. Likewise, the relief sculpture was much more meaningful than simply a chance to examine naked people in action. Nonetheless, it was a gas to listen to the Fulbrighters debate whether the building might have actually been a grand whorehouse in its earlier incarnation rather than a great temple, though I think that dichotomy probably got left behind in south India several centuries ago.

Next stop, C and I took a day out to visit India's newest Eco Lodge, a place called the Chilika Lake Eco Camp on the largest coastal lagoon in all Asia. Yes, that would be Chilika Lake, home to dozens of bird species -- and a migratory destination for Siberian cranes and a variety of European waterfowl -- as well as rare dolphins, reportedly more than 200 species of fish, and more than 100,000 traditional fishermen. Watching the fishing boats in the early dawn light after a night in one of the resort's Swiss wall tents, along with the appearance of a small pod of playful porpoises, was certainly the highlight of our trip to the small island. We were able to throroughly unwind, as well, thanks to the fact that we were the only guests at the camp. We ate delicious curried crab and mustard-coated local fish, sipped icy Kingfishers and enjoyed what certainly must be one of the loneliest places on the Subcontinent.

Twenty-four hours of riding the rails later, we found ourselves south, in Chennai -- India's fourth largest city (you may know it as Madras) -- a breif stop before moving along to Kerala, where we met my Dad. Nearly two full days on the train in total provided us with an extensive glimpse of the Indian countryside along the Bay of Bengal. Chennai was a quick visit, however -- disembarking from the train at sunrise, taking in a quick chai, wandering the streets while the fruit vendors and flower stalls organized their offerings. As the sun rose, the air took on the unmistakeable air of sewage, broken occasionally by the sweet smell of jasmine, which South Indian women all seem to wear in their hair. Even so, the remnants of British influence can still be felt through much of old Madras, though as one of India's megacities -- like Mumbai and Delhi -- this dizzying metropolis would appear on the verge of losing its singular identity to the sweeping modernization that's coming to most of India's large cities.

Just the same, we were charmed to drink sugar cane juice and snack on fried salty bananas (plantains?) at the beach front, and take in a festival or sorts, which involved dipping goddess statues into the Indian Ocean. After a quick time out at one of the local shopping malls, and a swell thali lunch at one of Chennai's more famous eateries, we made our way back to the train station, heading out for the West Coast of India, Kerala, and my father.

With no time for details today, suffice it to say that Kerala was lovely and verdant. We gorged on seafood, saw spice gardens and got up close and personal with a herd of wild Asian elephants in Periyar National Park, located in the southwestern Ghat mountain range. Seeing my father under such circumstances was distinctly low stress, both with regard to traveling in India and with regard to lingering Oedipal anxieties -- and as I write this, we're preparing to make our way back to Uttaranchal. Hopefully, when we get there, I'll have more time to share my impressions.

2003-03-02T04:10:00.000-08:00

Summer is starting in the South. We deplaned in Orissa, alongside a few dozen of Fulbright's finest, and were blasted on the tarmac by warm winds. This was nearly two weeks ago now, but at the time the sense that we might thaw out after our last stay in the Himalaya was a welcome change. The conference we were attending, a mid-year review for Fulbright scholars -- including C -- took place at a seaside resort outside the pilgrimage town of Puri, a small city with a huge Hindu-only Jagnath Temple and government-sanctioned bhang (ganja) shops. To paraphrase Lonely Planet: I cannot vouch for the quality.

I skipped more than one of the sessions, camping in the fine penthouse suite we had been installed in, and heading to the beach, taking time out for a solo trip to Puri myself. My trip to Puri was memorable from the getgo, thanks to a SNAFU on the public bus. I was jammed in amongst the locals, trying to make my "massive" American frame as small as possible, when the fare collector started gesturing that I should move to the front, and situate myself on the bus' giant gearbox. I had to step over a shriveled old Indian lady to reach that point, and off-balance and still trying to judge my space, I reached for what I thought was merely a visor to keep the sunlight from the drivers eyes. Boy, was grabbing that plank a mistake; it turned out to also be suspending the driver's "pooja," a triumverate of images from the Hindu tradition to which he makes offerings. I discovered this after steadying myself, because the fellow behind the wheel started yelling at me. Mortified, I turned to see a dozen brown faces frowning at me, including the fare collector.

"My bad," I told them. "Sorry." Which didn't seem to mollify anyone. "My bad," I repeated, but the driver continued to threaten me (I presume) in Oriyan, the language of Orissa, which I understand even less than Hindi. As I continued to prostrate myself on the gearbox, the fare collector started to crack a smile. "Bad," he echoed, pointing. Bad, I shrugged. Another smile. Another shrug. And, finally, the driver relented, and even cracked a smile, too. Before I reached Puri proper, we were all grinning like idiots, and when I got off the bus, men came to me and shook my hand and clapped me on the back.

I did better on my solo sojourn to the beach. Nearly empty, minus a fellow selling coral necklaces, the local fishermen were setting their nets offshore in the morning sun. The white sand and rolling waves put me in a trance, but soon I discovered the salesman had a few friends waiting for some tourist -- any tourist -- to arrive. That would have been me, and when the masseur, a stout bald man, approached with his bottle of oil and promises of a rejuvenating Aryuvedic treatment, I found it difficult to resist. He started on my legs and feet, and I soon gave myself over to this pleasure. The sun beat down, and the kinks slowly relaxed; I suddenly recognized how people lost all their possesions on visits to the beach. But I vowed to stay vigilant even as I grew more relaxed; it wasn't hard, actually, because the sort of massage I was enjoying is pretty darn vigorous, so sleeping would have been difficult.

About 40-minutes later I was a mere puddle of grease sizzling in the sun. So I did what any reasonable person would do and dove into the rolling Bay-of-Bengal surf, swimming out beyond the sandbars to catch the breakers. The water was cool, but not cold, and the waves were steep but perfect for a little body-surfing action. I kept one eye on the beach and my things, and one on the tall waves which threatened to occasionally pile-drive me into the sandy depths, and managed a couple of 60-meter rides before calling it quits.

Back at the conference, the sand in my shorts and my sunny highlights were a dead giveaway that I no longer counted amongst the scholars.

2003-02-07T06:33:00.000-08:00

There are few small pleasures we are finding that are making Dharchula more liveable. We just took off this week for a three-week tour of Orissa and points South. C has a conference, and after a month straight in the hinterlands, I'm guessing this break will do us both some good. But first things first:

We moved! Shifting from the shitty -- truth be told -- Tourist Rest Center run by the government tourism bureau to a small flat adjoining that of an older woman and her 18-year-old son. The place is brand, spanking new, with marble floors and high ceiling, built in shelves, a garden out back, and a great roof where we catch morning sun and check out the stars at night. The woman is a widow of indeterminate age, and is speaking no more English than I am Hindi -- which is to say not much. Just the same, she is super sweet and has a pixie-like glint in her eye. She is of the Byansh tribe, a group related to the Darma, who C is studying. Her son is shy, and we are under strict instructions to teach him English. In the meantime, she has been feeding us and making us feel very welcome in her home. "Family," she says, simply, "family...."

And so we are, sitting crosslegged on the floor puzzling through conversations about life and traditions both in her home village and our own.

Not that everything is always so peachy. I had one of my rudest awakenings to the reality of life in the hills, when a friend invited me fishing with him last Sunday. The day was bright blue skies all the way, and after a couple of days of rain, we were happy to see some snow lingering on the nearby hills. Having spent much of the week moving -- and avoiding the rain -- it felt good to be headed to a small stream some 4 kilometers from the town of Dharchula, flyrod in hand, to see what we might scare up. (Everybody in India who we've met, pretty much, has seen at least a picture or two of me showing off some tasty Montana trout.) So off we set up this beautiful valley to see who might be found in this stream.

Pointing to a small pool, my friend indicates that this spot is holding some fish, and as I angle my way to a good vantage point, I see the telltale flashes of a few small fish dashing between the rocks below. Stringing my rod rapidly, my companion and his friend, who is carrying a suspicious-looking backpack, tolerate a few casts as I switch tiny nymphs trying desperately to find something the quarry will take in the bottom of the hole. It's not fast-moving water or anything, so presentation turns out to be pretty much a jigging motion, standing far enough back to not cast a shadow. First one fish and then another nose the flies, but basically nothing's doing. So I shrug my shoulders, and let the experts get to work.

They start by reaching into their rucksack to reveal a bag of bleach. I am crushed. They mix the white powder with sand and load the concoction into a burlap sack, which they then beat along the rocks upstream of the hole where I had just been fishing. The water clouds with the bleach, which spreads its toxic effect like smoke racing ahead of an underwater fire. After some time, a few small fish come to the surface, spinning, their nervous systems wrecked, the water that sustains them roasting their gills in a toxic stew. These partners in ecological crime then strip to their skivvies and sprint downstream collecting some 5-pounds of fish. I feel sick, so sick, like crying.

Rivers are said to be goddesses in this part of India, and we're killing this one, I think. When I ask when the fish will return to this stream, I'm told six months. When I examine the fish, I see that they could not take the hook because their mouths are too small: Silver sucker fish and scaly carp-looking species are all they've got, maxing out at 8-9 inches in size, a whole bag full. Despite my feelings about the matter, I eat them when they are cooked. Better to not let this go to waste, I rationalize -- and then find myself chastised when I fail to consume the heads, fins and full skeletons of these small fry as my host and his family do.

Live and learn, I suppose. But I cannot help but think that a conservation lesson must come soon to these people or there will be nothing left worth preserving when India finally reaches its goal of "development."

But I hate to end this on a sad note. So instead, let me tell you about how nice it feels to have a sun-warmed towel applied when your local barber finishes shaving your face. My guy has given me three haircuts since we arrived in India; this last came as we prepared to undertake our current journey to Orissa on the East Coast and Kerala/Tamil Nadu in the South. By the end of the weekend, we should be soaking in the hot sun by the Bay of Bengal. But first, it was necessary to groom myself: A 75-cent haircut buys me a scalp massage, a beard trim and neck shave, tea and the fine feeling of knowing that I'm benefitting the local economy in my own way.

I walk away feeling like a few thousand rupees, and am ready now to face whatever comes next.

2003-01-26T22:13:00.000-08:00

Ah, yes, the mountains of India -- and the promise of skiing the Himalayas. We are full into winter here, but the longitude means snow is spare even at 7,000 meters. (Dharchula is not that high, but the surrounding hills are.) Following reports of storms in the Himalayas, we had thought returning from Delhi we might catch some of the white stuff with our Xmas memories intact. A few patches lingered in the shade along the mountain passes, but Kumaon more or less is bare of snow. Instead, despite the coldness of the nights and the barren deciduous trees that have dropped their leaves in the past couple of weeks, bright red rhododendrons in the upper valley forests are coming into bloom.

Nonetheless, my interest in snow has been more than academic. This past week, I departed the far reaches of Dharchula for Josimath and the Auli ski area. Nibbles from stateside magazines provided impetus for a preplanned trip out of Kumaon and into neighboring Garhwal, known far and wide as "Paradise for Trekkers." Its relative distance from the border region where we live has allowed a greater tourism industry to crop up in this nearby region, but all the same you wouldn't know it from the backroads and byways that we covered, avoiding the edge of the Indian plains in exchange for a dubious "shortcut" over a variety of mountain passes well within view of the Nanda Devi range. Nanda Devi itself is the second highest peak in the country (and apparently a climb more challenging than Everest in neighboring Nepal despite being not quite as tall).

So leaving dearheart C to her linguistics, I packed up my sleeping bag, journal, ski gloves, gaitors and camera and headed out.... I should have guessed something was amiss when my guide, Jithu, a local fellow with limited English who has led us on our hikes out of Dharchula, started puking out the bus window. An inauspicious beginning to our somewhat suspect challenge of finding snow; keep in mind that Indians don't really know from winter, and they're given to exageration and face-saving ruses. So, despite consistent reports that there might be snow in Auli, I had my doubts before hitting the road. As we approached, tracing beautiful river valleys and hopscotching through small towns well off the beaten path, it became even more apparent that this might be a fool's errand. And Jithu losing his breakfast just a couple of hours into our two-day trip wasn't inspiring much confidence either.

Lo and behold, at our halfway stop in Gualdam, a small village at the crossroads to famed Rishikesh, a famous "energy center" and yoga resort, we met a van driver who insisted that the snow had gone missing since New Years. This was echoed by the manager of the government-sponsored inn, where we found bargain beds for approx. $1/night. But there were kilometers to go, and we would from then-out be headed due north, where any precipitation that had wafted across the Subcontinent might still be intact. A gruelling haul began the following morning at 6, featuring a bus breakdown and rickety jeep rides over some of the longest mountain roads I have EVER traveled (and I've made the run from Seattle to Missoula more times than I can count) soon dropped us at the "resort" town of Josimath.

A few patches of ice were to be found at 2,000 meters. Meanwhile, Auli itself remained a few KM in the future, at near 4,000 meters in elevation. I could have trusted my intuitions (or by this time my eyes) but the following morning we resolutely caught the tramway up the hill. Clearly, I was having my doubts, but we were seeing bowls with snow in the 6,000-m mountains surrounding Josimath. I made a small offering at the local temple, even, seeing as how mountains and gods are considered one in Hindu practice. And with the icy wind coming off the slopes, I still felt ridiculous optmistic. Resisting my prayers, the top of the ropeway and chairlift were dry as dirt. In fact, minus a patchwork of lingering snow, all that was evident was dirt -- not that I was going to be dissuaded from my now questlike efforts to ski the Himalaya.

We rented a single pair of slightly warn skis; they were in relatively good shape, given the realm of possibility. Shouldering this new burden with somewhat heavy hearts, Jithu and I trekked to Gorson Point, a hill about a mile above the last chair, where local guides indicated any snow that might be left from the December storm could be found. (Suffice it to say that snowmaking equipment has not been installed at Auli....) Our lungs bursting in the thin air, our faces barren to the alpine sun, we huffed and puffed past the school groups practicing their snowplow turns in the shade, finally emerging from the forest in a boulder garden high above Josimath and the inns of Auli itself. The snow was still patchy, but a few football fields worth of well crusted snow was intact between the rocky outcroppings.

Nanda Devi peak and Trishul gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. This is it, I thought, gobbling a few cashews and raisens packed for the occasion. I took a swig of water, repositioned my sunglasses and stepped into my bindings. I nodded at my guide, who back on solid ground had made a full recovery, and took off: I made my first three or four consecutive turns with relative grace, though I was out of practice and struggled with trusting my repaired knee. I suffered my first wipeout only when the soft crust turned to a windswept shield of ice, bouncing me back on my skis. I surveyed the damage, feeling optimistic now, and skittered across a patch of grass with my skis still on -- an advantage of rental gear! I hit the second patch of snow, visualizing my turns and making each one with aplomb.

But as I came to edge of this small snowfield in seconds flat, disaster struck.

My size-too-large rental boots were more clapped out than I suspected, and as I pushed to avoid a group of jutting rocks and keep aimed at the spit of snow that would carry me to the next patch of ice, the bindings stretched and the cables loosened under the strain. Now my body was twisted in one direction, but my gear continued to follow the fall line of the slope towards the dastardly rocks! Their points emerging just below me, I couldn't take a baseball slide to counter my momentum and saw that my only chance was to straighten out and fly right. Not that I could clear the 10-meter gap in a million years, but it was better than the horror of slicing myself to shreds on the outcropping. Then I was airborne -- extreme skiing in the Himalayas -- as Jithu looked on in amused terror as I came down hard on my left ski and stopped violently bouncing off the frozen ground in a full yard sale.

Bruised but in one piece, I had mastered what snow there was in Auli. For good measure, we also trudged to the Indian Army training slope, and another 200 yards of snow, where I made my final turns. Then, with the sun setting, we headed back to the GMVN (government-run) lodge where I lucked into a recovery whisky with an optistic Indian yuppie up from Delhi, who thought he might try his hand at Gorson too, followed by a good night's sleep in the cheap dorm bed.

It's been a couple of hard days of travel since then, stopping in the excellent holy Shiva city of Bageshwar, and my foot is still a little achy. Now, again, we return to Dharchula, with Jithu in tow, with stories to tell and Auli under my belt. The author-monologuist Spalding Grey has written in "Swimming to Cambodia" about those perfect traveler moments, when the world seems to be balanced at the point of perception. After nearly three months, these are stacking up. Hopefully, I'll get around to recording more in the near future.

2003-01-05T22:06:00.000-08:00

Leaving Jaipur three days before Xmas, we made a quick swing through the small town of Bharatpur, home of the Kaledeo National Park, a famed bird sanctuary and the place where it was first noted that the white-backed vulture was declining. Nesting sites in the park, even before the drought had kicked in full effect, had diminished to near about zero in Y2K -- and while we saw an Egyptian vulture while wandering the dusty backroads on heavy, steel single-speed Hero touring bikes, the white-backs were nowhere to be found. Even so, with the help of a local naturalist, we managed to make good work of Kaledeo, spotting dozens of Indian resident birds (the migrants have dispersed due to lack of water) and enjoying the countryside, spotting mongoose, nilgai (Indian antelope), spotted deer and other furred and feathered fauna in the company of our fine professional guide. The Acacia trees and dusk chorus of jackal reminded me a bit of Africa, where I visited Tanzania and Kenya with family many years ago.

The next day, we split Bharatpur for Agra and the Taj Majal. We arrived Xmas eve, and headed to take in the great building in the late afternoon. But we ran into a snag: All through our travels, C and I have been able to use our India residence permits to visit monuments at the cost to Indians. This has saved us many rupees, translating into a few dollars, but it's not until you get to the Taj that you really feel the need for a deep discount. As the Taj is the premiere tourism site for both foreign and domestic visitors in India, the government is very strict about the somewhat inflated prices hereabouts, which top out with US-type entry fees totalling a whopping $15/person. This would not be a big deal for most, but we were running a little short of cashish, and had anticipated as elsewhere that our money-saving residency documents would put us on par with the Indians, who pay about 50 cents for the privelege of visiting this famed monument.

We wheedled, and whined, and wheedled some more. We paid a few rupees bribe to enter a side alley, near the Taj Majal gardens, and to walk by the Yamuna River, where we saw a few storks and other wading birds plying the polluted waters. Then we went back to the ticket office and tried again to find some sympathy -- it was not forthcoming! Dumbfounded that we were being treated like the foreigners we are, we noticed a group of Kenyan youth standing at the gates arguing with the guards, and learned that they were in similar straits. Guests of the gov't, students at a local business college, this equally obvious team of non-Indians were also being denied their rightful discount. So we stood together, and waited for the "Big Boss" as he was dubbed by the guards, and finally I was led along with one of the Africans to the inner sanctum of the Taj Majal administrative offices.

I stood back to watch my fellow wheedler ply the chief bureaucrat behind the massive desk, but my play for obsequeince didn't last long. "What do you want?" the paunchy Indian demanded. I thrust forward our Indian "passports" and stammered something about being "guests of the government.... my wife, she's doing research... these work everywhere else...." Not at the Taj, it turned out. "You are not Indian," the bureaucrat observed. "You must pay the full booking!" Case closed.

Not so bright and early the following day -- Xmas, for those keeping score -- we knuckled under and paid the foreigner's entry fee, Rs 750, and when that bright white mausoleum with its gardens and reflective pools appeared out of the foggy December mist, we were happy we did. Elvis Costello has sometimes been credited with saying that "Writing about music is like dancing to architecture." Well, suffice it to say, the charms of the old Taj Majal made us want to dance.

That evening we caught a train back to our home away from home away from home -- Prem Singh's flat in New Delhi -- where we spent the past week. I'll save tales of train travel for another day. But stocked up with real English cheddar cheese, peanut butter, pasta and a few other essentials, including a nice wool shawl for me that complements C's Rajasthan purchase, we have returned to the mountains. It's nice to know that the two-day journey from Delhi is getting easier, and the roads seem a little less trecherous as we are familiar now with the hairpin turns they hold. We'll see how Dharchula welcomes us back now, won't we?

2002-12-30T00:01:00.000-08:00

Following that last trek, we made a mad dash for Jaipur, capital of Rajasthan, one of the Indian states that borders Pakistan. We stayed quite far from any conflict zones (and in recent weeks the Indian Army has been withdrawn from these areas). Rajasthan itself is home to some of India's great deserts and awesome palaces, forming the gateway to the Subcontinent from the Middle East and so forth. As such, Jaipur is surrounded by awesome forts going back to the Mughal empire, and the hills surrounding the city are dotted with massive walls and lookout towers that add a certain medieval flare to the whole surroundings. A four-year drought meanwhile has dried out much of the region around Jaipur, including some spectacular reservoirs and moats that evidently sparkled in the countryside, providing not just drinking water for the locals but habitat for tens of thousands of migratory bird species not apparent this year, alas.

Nonetheless, it was birds that brought us to Jaipur. Vultures, specifically, of the white-backed variety. This species once formed about 80 percent of the South Asian vulture population all across the Himalayan Arc, but now has diminished rapidly throughout most of its range. A conference had been called to discuss this crisis, and while I had missed the chance to transect India in search of nesting sites with a duo of international researchers, we found ourselves outdone in luck when one of India's leading conservation voices -- Harsh Vardhan -- invited us to stay in his home as guests. Harsh had called together the meeting attendees, who came from all parts of the state to testify what they knew about the vulture decline. His hospitality and that of his family not only saved us many, many rupees, but also gave us an inside view of life in India, as lived by the true middle class. (For the most part, "middle class" is a euphemism for the rich in India, but in this case, the income level seemed to place the family truly in the middle.) Home-cooked meals, sweet tea and one round of late-night Scotch ensued. The Old City of Jaipur was painted pink as a gesture of welcoming many years ago -- and that should have been the color of the Vardhan home, where from the roof we could admire the old fortifications all the way across town.

The upshot is that the white-backed vultures appear to be dying in great numbers, though nobody is exactly sure why. After discussing this fact ad nauseum with many scientists, then, C and I snuck off to see the old forts and so forth. The best sites include the City Palace, and the markets really shaped up to be something special. Having seen much of India, and having delt with hawkers in Delhi and just the downright hassle of locals and beggers in many other towns, Jaipur struck us as manageable, low-key and quite pleasant. We had wonderful yogurt drinks (lassis) at one place, and even enjoyed bartering for a lovely, tie-dyed Rajasthani shawl that Christina will use to keep her warm when we get back to Dharchula at the end of this week.

2002-12-27T00:02:00.000-08:00

Going back a couple weeks, we spent a long Saturday hiking to Narayam Ashram high in the hills beyond Dharchula. It was our second "low-altitude adventure" in the Pithorogarh region, which means that we had to cover several thousand meters of climbing in just a few miles. Let me say that going up these hills is not mean feat, and reminds me of why I had utterly discounted the suggestion that Texas had any mountains way back when. C has shown her self to be a trooper on these treks, too! You cut through all sorts of different landscapes as you ascend, tracing terraced agricultural slopes maintained by small, multi-family villages along stoney paths built with government help who knows when. It's always a little disheartening when some tot in flipflops and his barefoot grandmother blaze by you, hauling 25-30 pounds of firewood or tending a few skinny cows and goats. As I've observed more than once: "While we're doing this for fun, the Indians are doing it for survival."

Which is not to say that such travel doesn't have its own rewards. We are learning the landscape for one thing: Charting the various valleys and rivers of the Kumaon Himalayas, spotting the tributaries of the Kali Ganga, the river which sets India apart from Nepal, and its tributaries; spotting huge vultures and the ocassional eagle coasting on thermals; seeing where the roads intersect traditional trails (and where potential mountain-bike routes might be explored). Plus, when you leave behind the city-like squalor of Dharchula, you also leave behind the corruption of new development, and are measured by a different set of locals who have long seen pilgrims pass through to these temples and ashrams in search of enlightment. So if ours comes in the form of a little hard sweat and great views, who are we to complain?

This machine is quitting, so so am I, but we'll be back online within the next couple days for fuller updates.

2002-12-24T00:09:00.000-08:00

Apologies to any loyal readers: We have been on the road for the past week, stopping only briefly at spots where the Web was handy and useful.

It's Christmas eve, and we are in Agra, home of the Taj Majal for the night. So HAPPY HOLIDAYS to all! C and I left Dharchula just over a week ago, catching a ride with a Frenchman who's working on the dam project in a valley upstream from our temporary Kumaon home. We made Delhi in record time with Frenchie Frederic and his drivers, taking in the rough scenes of the high plains but not really seeing much in the way of sights. Given the overall travel time -- a two-day journey by jeep and train reduced to one 12-hour car ride -- that's quite alright. Before leaving Dharchula we did have time for a second trek high into the Middle Himalayan hills, where we spent the night at the Narayan Ashram (closed for winter) and were fed a wonderful, much-needed stew of potatoes and squash before making a mini-epic descent back into town. The views during this hike, including the tiny villages we passed through, made for a wonderful couple of days. Sparkling mountain streams and snowcapped peaks in the near distance remain one of my favorite climates of all time.

Since then, we have skimmed through the Eastern boundary of Rajasthan's desert clime, taking in the sights and sounds of Jaipur's old pink-painted city -- a welcoming color indeed. During this visit, we spent two days visiting with vulture researchers, including a should-be legendary Indian conservationist Harsh Vardhan. A prince among men, Harsh extended his hospitality to C and I, letting us crash on his floor, feeding us loaves of toast, and generally taking care of two weary travelers. There will be more details on this leg of the trip forthcoming... Finally, as we will bolt shortly for the Taj and a hot meal, we spent the past day at a stopping point between Jaipur and Agra at the internationally renowned Kaledeo Wildlife Sanctuary. Saw many birds, including the beautiful Black-necked stork, as well as jackals, spotted deer, a couple of species of small owls roosting and a nice sample of flora as well. Used to be substantial vulture populations in this neck of the woods, but they've been crashing (quite literally, in some cases falling out of the sky) and so can no longer be found in Kaledeo. Again, more details on all this later.

But I wanted to be sure that folks curious about our whereabouts and thoughts from the subcontinent would not be disappointed to find this blog in a fallow state. Those interested in writing feedback or asking questions might try montana_danoko@yahoo, which I've set up for the pupose of this trip. Otherwise, be in touch when we reach Delhi later this week -- with plenty more news before the New Year.

2002-12-06T21:19:00.000-08:00

I have departed Almora, a fine small town high in the hills, an excellent destination for those planning your own trip. I think it's safe to say that I'm happy not to be living there this winter, nontheless, for while it has some nice qualities -- including enclosed sewer systems and an internet cafe -- and a great bazaar featuring plenty of chai stalls and copper smiths, it's elevation made for a couple of butt-freezing nights. On the way back, I took a side trip to the ancient temples of Jageshwar, a small town on a spur road off the main highway between Almora and Pithorogarh (where I am once again). The temple complex, dating back to the 13th century (I think) includes more than 100 temples of many sizes. Most of these are smaller structures containing symbolic linghams, which are worshipped by an application of water and a fair amount of rubbing -- lucky Shiva, methinks. The larger temples are handsome affairs, with room for a few people to gather and make offerings. The stonework includes remarkable carvings of Hindu gods, and though I'm sure it's my American ignorance, I couldn't help but think of the Mayan and Aztec temples of Mexico: Such were the fierce faces and intricate designs on these stone walls. On the backside of the temple complex, there's also a few buildings dedicated to various goddesses -- the Hindu religion has some 300,000 deities -- and overall the site is very serene, alongside a small burbling brook.

I don't know what it looks like at the height of tourist season, sometime in the spring, but judging from the very few urchins who came out of the woodwork to beg coins and try to wend their way into my photos, I would say this was a good time to visit. I sat for a while at an overlooking temple away from the main complex, and there an old man and I enjoyed the sun and had a broken conversation about the monkeys who were coming down from the mountains. They are allowed at the temples, much to the distress of local curs, but folks otherwise don't appear to tolerate monkeys anywhere near their homes. A few birds flitted through the tall pines, and then back up to the main highway I made my way, enjoying the quietude, gently berating myself for making offerings that obviously went straight into the pocket of the fellows "maintaining" the temples as opposed to keeping my money tight in my pocket. Just the same, we're only talking about 75 cents!

Back at the main road, in the tiny hamlet of Artola, I was surprised at the paucity of jeeps, then assured a bus would be along soon. Then told I had missed the last bus. Then told I had only a 10 percent chance of catching a jeep. Meanwhile, a full Indian Army regiment roared through this small burg, really a blink of a crossroads, including several troop busses, supply trucks and military jeeps, not to mention "public carriers" (Indian trucks) bearing big "Army business" signs in their windshields and kicking up major dust on their way through. "So," I think, "that's the hold up." Then it dawned on me, I had counted about 40 vehicles; 10 percent was beginning to look optimistic. The troops, it turns out, were on their way back to Dharchula -- my HOME too -- from the Pakistan border, where tensions are now easing. This gave me small hope, but of course the Indian Army is no different than any other when it comes to allowing civilians, especially shaggy foreigners, to join them on military business.

Lo and behold, after a couple of hours hitching, a shared jeep finally appeared and I jumped aboard. Soon we had the misfortune to catch the Army caravan, and spent near three hours swallowing deisel fumes and road dust as we snaked around any number of trucks in our race to Pithorogarh by dark -- a target we didn't make, finishing the ride in blackness. Now, I'm headed back to catch up with C in Dharchula, where we'll be for a couple more weeks before coming back for the holidays in Delhi/Rajasthan.

2002-12-03T21:44:00.000-08:00

Until 1814 or so, Kumaon -- the area where we have been living, note the corrected spelling -- was considered Nepal. But as the English crown sought to impress its might on the subcontinent, the Europeans fought the fierce Nepali Gurkha forces to a standstill in the Middle Himalayas, which form a gateway to the highest mountains in the world. I know only a little about the Gurkhas, but my brother brought me a deadly Gurkha knife some years ago after his travels to this part of the world. Judging from the steely blade and the region's topography, it's safe to say they must have been damn tough warriors. The boundary line of the Kali River, which rushes by the lodge in the town of Dharchula, where more specifically we have been staying, was established after the Brits had already marched on Kathmandu. In other words, the UK was winning the war, but dared not continue the battle in the mountains.

For close to two centuries, still, Kumaon continued to enjoy a sort of local autonomy as the traders of southern India came north to mix with the Nepali people to the East and the Sino-Tibetan traders to the North. The fact is that Dharchula sits in a valley that is one of the shortest tracks to Tibet from central India. From nearby mountains, we have seen the mountain passes leading to China, and also well into Nepal and the famed Anna Purna range, which features the third-highest mountain in the world. This strategic location brought additional complications: About 20 years after India won its Independence, the brief 1962 war with China prompted the government to close our corner of Kumaon to all travel.

For close to 30 years, Dharchula was off limits to all foreign travelers, and even today there is a strong military presence both in this small town and in Pithologarh, some 60-plus km down the road. This geo-political isolation, of course, is one of the reasons that Christina has been able to find a language that is so little documented most Indians have never heard of it. That would be the Darma tongue (not Dharma, which has spiritual implications) spoken by local traders who many thousands of years ago claim to have relocated from Tibet to India. (You can see this heritage in many of their faces.) Our location also means that we are living in a pretty primitive place, where each night we lose power for about 45 minutes as the local authorities switch from one power source to another. For the time being, we have been staying at the local tourist lodge, a government cooperative program that during the summer serves as a stopover for pilgrims making their annual journey to the holy mountains along the Sino-Indian border: This is a region not only rich in political intrigue, but also a spiritual center for the people of all three countries China/Tibet, Nepal and India. In short, Kumaon is said to be the birthplace (and playground) of the Hindu god Shiva.

Our day-to-day existence touches on all this narrowly. The isolation is most obvious in that English appears to still be a novelty around these parts. Christina's Hindi is coming along much better than mine (but she's had some schooling), but as those who know me might well guess, I am beginning to make small jokes, which is better than nothing. Mostly, I am content to order my food and puzzle through the number system. "What's this? What's that?" I am constantly nagging C, who says insists that I am becoming a ''polyglot'' (speaker of many tongues) though I suspect mostly I am picking up Hindi so that I can continue ordering dinner when I have to depart Dharchula, as I did yesterday for a look around and some better communication options. Meanwhile, C is up in Dharchula, visiting with folks who for all intents and purposes were cut off from the Western world for some 30 years.

More sights and sounds to follow when the system comes back to work....

2002-11-20T03:40:00.000-08:00

"Life is like a journey -- make it complete." This was just one of the signs along the trecherous, nasty roads that carried us into the mountains of Kumoan, away from the broad Indian plains and towards to Himalayas. But it was another post that really got me laughing as we edged along in our Tata Sumo, an moderately-sized SUV bearing two Americans, a family of four Indians, the driver, a pair of Pithorogarh locals, and a pair of silent male passengers in the back: "Safety first -- speed second."

Why even mention speed at all, right? That's what I thought, happy to know that my impression of speed was being augmented by the 2-3,000 foot drop off to my right and the busses and "public transport" (private trucks, though not 18-wheelers) careening around the hills in the opposite direction. Festooned though most vehicles are with ribbons and small godheads, making them look festive and jovial, this getting into the mountains was pretty serious business -- and I was convinced, now that we were on our third driver, that Darwin's laws of fitness notwithstanding, our man was not really up to the challenge.

Fortunately, as these word's obviously testify, I was wrong. But just barely, as we blew out our bushings some 30 KM from our destination, and had to crawl the final hour up to the valley where Pithorogarh, our current location, is found. Of course, the smell of burning brakes hadn't done much for my confidence either. Then on the outskirts of town, despite a near constant checking of luggage on the roof -- including three of our bags, containing all our clothes, most of supplies, camping gear and medical items, and no small portion of the electronic gear we're toting -- a small bucket lost its top. This necessitated a full evacuation of the Tata, which was already light 3-4 original passengers due to the suspension problems. After a little more dithering, a small boy of about 12 hopped down into the ravine where our driver feared to tread and returned the plastic lid to its rightful owner.

Having made it to Pithorogarh in one piece, though, I'm pretty pleased. Not nearly as crowded as Delhi, featuring only about 50,000 souls, this is the seat of the Kumoan district, hard by Nepal, and from the Hindu temples and the town square alike, you can look out to jagged snow-capped peaks that are the beginnnings of the great Himalayan arc. Don't be fooled, though, this is no adventure destination, and children and adults hereabouts all look upon our pasty (or quasi-pasty) American skin, our exotic dress and funky sunglasses with a mixture of awe and derision. Thankfully, a well-placed bow and utterance of "Namaste" goes pretty dang far, and the tea houses are in fine proliferation, meaning hot beverages in quiet stalls provide a place to reflect on how glad we are to have arrived in one piece.

Today, we make the final leg of this trip to Christina's research village, some 90 KM to the town of Dharchula. Not much there if you ask C, but ask me and a little peace and quiet in a mountain sounds divine. To start, we'll be up for at least a week I'm guessing before returning to Pithorogarh for resupply of all manner. We've been told to get used to eating plenty of potatoes this winter, which should be no problem, since they are well-spiced with cumin, corriander, ginger and red pepper. There's still much to report on all we have seen, but at this rate it will have to wait for another day.

Namaste, friends, for the time being.

2002-11-17T23:57:00.000-08:00

Every good Delhi-walla has an auto riskshaw tale to tell, here's mine: Last week, as we grew oriented with New Delhi, I was required to travel solo to the Foreigner's Registration office. Christina and I had made the trip once, but I needed an additional stamp, and so prepared to set out on my own -- a task easier said than done. For those who don't know, the auto riskshaws in New Delhi are three-wheeled contraptions that look like stubby phone booths welded to Vespa scooters. They are painted green or brown, depending on what kind of fuel they burn, but most notably, when you ride in one of these open-sided autos, you get good blasts of diesel from passing trucks and busses.

Needless to say, it can be quite harrowing to ride the crowded streets in a rickshaw, but there are times -- like when you're heading far south to a special bureaucratic meeting that they come in handy. Otherwise, when you walk, you'll be approached about every 25 yards as the auto drivers offer to provide a good ride for you -- at a good price. Of course, being an obvious foreigner, this price is substantially more than locals pay, although generally you can negotiate the total cost; something you should always do before embarking on your journey. Ironically, despite the fact that you are dealing with mere dimes and quarters rather than dollars (hey, this ain't New York), everybody acts as their life depends upon 5 rupees. Being a good Jew, and a penny-pinching freelancer, I'm right at home arguing these ridiculous prices. A dollar will generally get you a half-mile ride or so; for 25-30 rupees (around 75 cents) we can get almost anywhere we need from where we are staying!

Hence, I grab a quick stand-up lunch at Connaught Place near the center of town, which costs Rs 20 (less than 50 cents for a filling late of lentils, rice, hot bread, sweet yoghurt, etc), and then approach the first group of autos I see. "To the Registration Office!" I charge, "How much?" Sixty, I am told. "Thirty," I bargain. Sixty. Thirty. Sixty. Forty (I'm cracking -- again, we're talking about a little more than a quarter). Fifty. "Forty, final," I demand; my driver complies with the universal shrug these guys use as a sign of assent, as well as gratitude. We're off

Only it turns out the driver knows not where we're going. First, around the corner to the old New Delhi train station, where apparently the registration office used to be. I KNOW this is wrong, and explain that I need the Hyatt-Regency, which is around the corner from where we need to be. (Adding insult to injury the ride from Connaught Place should only cost Rs 15.) So then we stop to talk to another driver-walla, who insists that I should be at the ITO Building. Wrong again, but nobody believes the foreigner could know more than the cab driver. We renogotiate a new price. The same 40 will stand to the ITO office, but it will cost me another 60 for being right if they have to take me to the Registration Office by the Hyatt. Lo and behold, I am right.

Down Rs 100, but undaunted, I finally get to the right place, after about 40 minutes of driving around, and discover that it will be 10 more minutes until the faithful Indian bureaucrats return from lunch and provide me with the single stamp I need for my passport/registration card. My driver is now waiting for me, and we've established something of a rapport, so when I get this stamp, I hop back in his auto rickshaw. "I owe you 100," I say, "I will pay 20 more for the return." This brings a small smile, a shrug of comprehension, and then as we roll I think I am being too stingy. "As you like," he says, surprising me.

So we get back to our digs, and I decide that I'll tip an extra dime, bringing my total to something like Rs 140. I place the money in his hand. "That's low, sir," he says. I add a small pile of change, and shrug. "That's what I got," I say, "It's fair." Low. Fair -- after all, I didn't get us lost, and so I walk away.

It's a totally typical circumstance that happens every day. But, of course, it just goes to show how flexible and negotiable every last transaction is here in Delhi. Now, we're off to the Himalayas, and I can only hope my loose change gets me a little further in my negotiations. Wish me luck!

2002-11-14T01:59:00.000-08:00

Still in Delhi for a few more days. We spent the morning at yet another precursor to the Taj Mahal, Humayun's Tomb, one of the best sights so far. It's a Mughal (which is the same as Mongol) tomb built about 500 years ago for the many wives and children of King Humayun. It's currently being restored for millions of dollars, and the walkways and gardens are almost there! Flowers dot the green grasses, interspersed with jasmin and hibiscus saplings, divided into geometric plots by red sandstone paths spreading out from this massive tomb, with minaret-like towers and domes visible from across the grounds. There's evidently some juicy gossip behind which wife was in charge of designing the tomb, and who got buried where, but like most things the story has gotten lost somewhere between history and our translation.

Meanwhile, we've lately become big fans of the rather upscale Khan Market, a shopping center about 15 minutes from our lodging. We stick to the backside, where the locals all seem to congregate; the frontside is decidedly more "touristy" catering to both Middle Class Indians and Westerners. But we've found a great dive, which serves in the evening as a speakeasy for local businessmen and workers, who enjoy clandestine bottles of booze passed back and forth beneath the table over plates of steaming tandoori chicken and various stews. We had dinner there a couple of nights ago, and Christina bore a good many stares as she was the only woman, and clearly this place is a boy's club. We returned today for lunch, after our visit to the tomb, and still found the place filled with mustachioed types -- long live Omar Sharif! Not nipping at midday but still totally blown away by Christina's presence. Still, the food per usual was way tasty and very cheap. We had our fill of mutton stew and seasoned rice for about $2. I figure we'll be back again -- and again. Maybe even with our own bottle next time.

Coming up after the weekend will be our first adventure to the Himalayas. I am looking very forward to the change of place, as we will literally be off the map in Dharchula(although I've provided one that gets pretty close in my 10/23 entry). Tomorrow we check in with the US Embassy regional safety officer to get any last minute advice we might need, although my impression is that with our visas and research already okayed, there should be no problem. Evidently, the Maoists who frequent the area are all laying pretty low these days, which is an added relief. While in the meantime, the real concern is how we are going to lug our FIVE -- count 'em 5 -- big bags to the mountains. I mean, I'm pretty comfortable in my roll as Christina's sherpa, but we're gonna need some help.

Now this machines beeping that it's time to go, so we're off, but I'll try for one more update ahead of our journey....

2002-11-10T02:41:00.000-08:00

Well, first things first: The red goo on the streets is not blood but betel-nut juice, casually spit by chewers of this addictive little treat (and, no, I have not tried it... yet). We've been touring up a little storm during the past few days. To the Lodi Gardens with their ancient Mughal tombs yesterday, walking the broad, quiet paths, enjoying the beautiful weather, gazing on the Fifthteenth Century ruins, pre-curors to the Taj Majal, spotting a handful of as-yet unidentified birds. Basically taking advantage of the weekend to see some sights. Unfortunately, for us tourists at least (as well as the Moghuls, who ruled India prior to the Hindus, the Brits and the current democratic scenario, fractured though it may be) many of the tombs -- as well as the Red Fort, another Moghul historic site visited today -- have been pillaged and plundered through the years, meaning that colorful inlays of semi-precious stone and remarkably intricate carvings are mere ghosts of their former splendor. I guess that's why they call 'em ruins.

In the meanwhile, for those of you wondering about the food: Yes, it is plentiful and plenty cheap. We've been eating in the evenings at a little joint on Connaught Place, near the center of New Delhi, where a plate of chicken and a plate of veggies, plus bread and rice, costs some $2.50 for the both of us. The first night we were at this establishment, I was peturbed to be seated quite near the kitchen, and the oven (although most of the food is actually prepared in the front window in big pots set upon burners apparently heated by coals) until I noticed the slapping going on as a young man pounded out roti dough, and then used a mitt to slap these flattened breads onto stones set in coals. There they cook, to be retrieved with a long spear, while another fellow strips chicken tikka from a skewer and pulls apart whole Tandoori chicken, which are both heated in the oven alongside the roti. Simply a marvel -- and a tasty one at that! So, of course, last night we made our way back a second time, stopping afterward for our first Indian beer, a Kingfisher Lager at a British-style pub across the way.

Today's major adventure was a visit to Old Delhi and the Chandri Chowk markets, a swell of literally thousands of people out doing their Sunday shopping. It's Ramadan now, which means many Muslims are fasting, but the Hindu folks don't seem to mind. We stopped in a Sikh Temple for a little while, and listened to some prayer songs and watched as a fellow in a long grey beard wrapped and unwrapped the holy books. Unlike the US, children in the temple were allowed to play and fidget, smiling and even running around a bit. It was really very pleasant, and reminded me that in a hot environs, perhaps the best place to worship is inside a cool, calming church. Likewise, with so much incense burning and so forth, I have been reminded that the best way to battle the stench of diesel and the horrendous smell of human waste (much of Delhi is like an open sewer if not intentionally so) is to burn something nice for a little while, taking away the nasty scents for the time being.

Overall, we are having a splendid time, and I think that this bodes well for the rest of our adventure. After all, Delhi is a mere stopover on the way to the Himalayas. When we get there, things will really start to shift. But in the meantime, we're enjoying the hospitality of the Fulbright program, staying on the grounds in a run-down old Colonial mansion, which Christina and I have pretty much to ourselves. It's true there are about a dozen workers in and out of the main rooms each day, evidently hurrying to finish what looks to be a massive rennovation project. But beyond the incessant daytime hammering, sanding and sawing, the nights and mornings have been pure bliss. We've essentially got an apartment, including a small kitchen area and a huge bedroom, complete with marble floors, a small balcony and even cable television; although last night, as we experienced our first Indian power failure, I decided the latter was an overrated luxury.

Starting up again tomorrow, Christina will be undertaking a little more orientation, including meetings with the national safety officer to learn about visiting the Nepal border where her Darma people are concentrated. Likewise, we must finish registering with the FRRO, so that they can keep track of us as we move from place to place. 9/11 seems to have more profound effects in India for Americans that it did at home. But the sentiment here overall seems to be one of respect and understanding of the US position, rather than the mistrust we are told so many in the world view us with. Of course, my experience to this point doubtless reflects the fact that because of the Fulbright we are still ensconced in the womb of Uncle Sam.

2002-11-06T21:41:00.000-08:00

Can you say "jet lag?" So, we finally arrived in Delhi last night. Found our way to the YWCA (and, hey, I was totally welcome) where we have clean sheets and a private bath. So far today, not much, other than eggs and toast for breakfast, a quick walk to the Internet cafe, warnings in the paper about "monkey bombs" (suicide monkeys used as terrorism weapons and the efforts to either sterilize or simply move monkeys from sensitive areas, including much of Delhi, the capital), a couple of elephant taxis on the street corner and the incessant smell of diesel. Infernal combustion is just about right. So, we got a decent night sleep, and now will be in town for several days. I will update when there's a little more to report; all I can say for now is that we're in a different world. But between the sleep deprivation and the tall tales of how brutal Delhi is, I'm surprised at how much I apparently like this place. Best to all four or five of my loyal readers -- please spread the word to your friends and family, this is going to get more interesting by the day. I can feel it!

2002-10-23T14:51:00.000-07:00

A midnight phone call last night yielded results bright and early this morning. We have tickets! We depart on 6 November, a Wednesday, a mere week-and-a-half beyond Christina's target departure date. So much for touchdown by the fourth. I've been pitching and packing like mad, rehabbing the old knee bone (damaged meniscus from playing soccer), and trying to get a decent sense of what to expect. I mean, I'm a tough guy, right? A native New Yorker, gone Montana, gone deep to the heart of Texas. Who's worried?

At any rate, here's a map to locate Uttahranchal in India -- http://www.mapsofindia.com/maps/uttaranchal/uttaranchallocation.htm -- and here's one to see our state in detail: http://www.mapsofindia.com/maps/uttaranchal/uttaranchal-travel-map.htm. Darchula, where we are headed is in Pitholargarh, in the NE corner between Nepal and China (Tibet).

2002-10-22T16:23:00.000-07:00

Things are rolling now. We have visa approval and will drive to Houston within the week to complete the paperwork at the Indian Consulate there. My final stories -- features on birdwatching and geocaching -- have been filed and should be wrapped up tight and ready for publication this spring before we go. I have been looking over more maps, and trying to determine how much hiking/trekking will be available for the duration of the winter. I have at long last decided to pack a tent, and my flyrod will go in the kit, too. That means fewer T-shirts, but I can live with that. Ideally, we'll touch down by November 4.

An additional hot topic I've heard about is the demise of India's famed Gyps vultures. Nobody knows what's killing these birds, but raptor experts will be looking into that issue while we are abroad. It's my hope that I can explore this mystery. (I've already contacted Smithsonian... fingers crossed.) The catch is that without vultures all those holy cows, not to mention the Parsi people near Mumbai/Bombay (who allow the vultures to consume their dead), will be left along to roadsides to rot. In Africa, evidently, vultures consume more carrion than all mammalian scavengers combined. So if it wasn't enough that travelers tummy may very well be in my future, my main plan right now is to go and see what's going on with these vultures.

Otherwise, all is well. We had a party this weekend to prep our friends for our eventual departure. We will be missed! And we will miss Texas... words I never really expected to utter. Ganesh willing, the next of these notes will come on the eve of our departure, if not from India.

2002-10-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

Still waiting. Word has it from Christina's fellow Fulbrighters we will not know anything until the very last minute, which is just a tad stressful. I have been doing research this week into Tiger Reserves, controversial Hydro-Electric projects (which are drowning various temples and require the relocation of some tens of thousands of villagers and other tribal people) and just read in the CSM (http://www.csmonitor.com/2002/1011/p07s01-wosc.html) about the problem of leaky Nuke Plants. Just great -- and here I was worried about Pakistan.

I've also tracked down a way cool, sophisticated Indian website Tehelka (http://www.tehelka.com) boasting author VS Naipaul and activist/journalist Krushwant Singh as board members. Hoping to track the masterminds behind this project down when we get to Delhi… whenever that is. Fingers still crossed for Halloween.

2002-10-09T09:50:00.000-07:00

We're still on the threshold. Our plan is to head out by Halloween, but who knows? Remember life before the Internet? Add a billion people. Mix. Now you've got the bureaucracy otherwise known as the Government of India. In other words, we are still waiting on visas.... Yeah, priceless. Updates to follow, obviously.