Day 169 - French Ganesh

Pondicherry was a French colony. The Dutch managed to dig their claws into it for a few years in the 18th century, but the French were emphatic in their non, non, non, and reclaimed it within a few years. Though Goa has a reputation for being the most European of Indian states, I believe Pondi takes that gateau.

The streets here - pardon moi Les Rues - are generally wide, clean and leafy. Even more exciting, they are on a logical grid and most of them have their names actually posted. As in on visible street signs! These are the first street signs we have seen in all of India (and Nepal too for that matter). Until you have spent three months sans labeled streets, you have no idea the joy of being able to navigate with ease.

Pondi is a tiny city right on the Bay of Bengal. Once we got over the excitement of labeled streets, we spent a good amount of time meandering up and down the beach. In our meanderings, we stumbled across multiple war memorials living right alongside a monument to Ghandi.

As a French colony, Pondi is a foodie's delight. The cuisine is a mix of Indian and French with loads of fresh seafood directly from the Bay. We ate lunch at Madame ___. One wall was decorated with a Rajasthani Poster, the other with Tissot print. The lamps were Indian Mirrorwork, but set between tables with decidedly French gingham tablecloths and roses in white china vases. Being so close to the water, seafood is also incredibly cheap. We plan to eat our weight in fish and prawns.

Perhaps because of the European influence, religion is less visible in Pondi than in other cities in India. That said, where it occurs, it is done in fabulous style. One small temple that lies down a quiet street is dedicated to Ganesh. Ganesh, for those of you who don't know, is the elephant-headed god. And what better to have outside a Ganesh temple than a friendly elephant? For a few rupees, one can buy him bundles of grass and guavas, and in return for the treats, he taps one's forehead in blessing. Even if you don't buy him treats, he is likely to snuffle over you with his trunk - much to the squealing delight of the school groups who come to see the paintings in the temple itself.

Pondi, like Goa, houses a mix of Hindus, Muslims, and Christians. As in Goa, the Catholic churches are confections of colour and even neon. BY day, The Church of the Immaculate Conception looks like a pretty standard gold and white baroque church. By night though, the square is floodlit, a red neon cross graces the roof, and Mary floats on a neon moon surrounded by twinkling stars. The front of the building is also festooned with Christmas lights, though today they were not turned on.

Overall, Pondi is a lovely, clean, surprisingly European respite from the hurly-burly that is much of the rest of India. My guidebook says that most people stay longer than they intend to in Pondi. We are no exception. Because it is a small city, we had considered spending only one day here, but have decided to stay for tomorrow too.

Day 168 - Scrabble

We spent the morning playing one last game of Scrabble. I won. Again. Not that I'm gloating or anything. Not much anyway.

After a lovely lunch at V's house and a final ice cream from Baskin Robbins with M (they use a different recipe for the ice cream here - Indian Baskin Robbins is far superior to US Baskin Robbins), we made our way to the bus stand.

The bus stand is not nearly so organised as the ticketing office.

The first official-looking (as in wearing a KSRTC uniform) person I asked said no Pondicherry buses until evening. The next one sent us to one side of the station. The person on that side sent us back again. Repeat in various directions for almost half an hour. I finally went to to a street vendor and asked him. He knew. He pointed us in the right direction. We made it onto our bus by the skin of our teeth.

I should have asked a vendor to start with. Heaven forbid employees of the BUS STATION should have any information on the BUSES! Actually, I have found that street vendors, particularly food vendors, consistently have the most, and the most accurate information for any given situation. India is a country where information is currency, and is therefore hoarded. The best person to ask advice from is the person who stands to gain the least from it.

The bus was 'super deluxe', and in fact was as nice as any European bus. The seats reclined, the windows were large and clean - there was even a movie system. One seven hour bus ride equals two Bollywood films and a Hindi sitcom. I alternated between watching the song and dance numbers (the best part of any Bollywood film), and the scenery.

At one rest stop, I bought a few bags of popcorn. The vendor was an exuberant little man thoroughly enamored of Hollywood. Here's an excerpt.

He: Where are you from?

Me: America

He: OOOOOH. AMERICA! VERY GREAT COUNTRY AMERICA. OOOOOOH. HOLLYWOOD.

Me: I dunno. Bollywood films are pretty great.

He: NO-NO-NO. AMERICA. HOLLYWOOD. JAMES BOND. JAMES BOND IS THE BEST.

Me: Um. OK.

We arrived into Pondicherry exactly on time. I may have to revise my opinion on the Indian Transportation System. Unfortunately on-time was a little after 9PM. By the time we had offloaded from the bus and checked into our hotel, most restaurants had already shut down for the night. I was all for scavenging for street food, but Cz was feeling less adventurous. We had nibbled all day on the bus, and V's staff had served us an enormous lunch, so we weren't particularly hungry. We decided to call it an early night, and wait for tomorrow to sample some good Frenchy-Indian cuisine.

Day 167 - Movie Marathon

Today was a slow day, which is nice sometimes. I spent the morning doing a little mending for M and Cz. While I was stitching, the boys saw to it that my eighties movie education was expanded by watching Transformers: The Movie (The 1986 animated one - the good one). It may be the first movie I have seen in which the good guys have bad-guy aim. A whole base can't defeat 5 measly Decepticons. Sheesh!

After our movie morning, we went out to lunch at Koshy's. Mostly chosen to aggravate V, though I have to say, it was the finest dining experience we have had so far in India. The chicken Tikka Masala was especially nice. Though I wish we could have had a mango lassi.

BTW, one (among many) reasons V loathes, hates, and despises Koshy's is because they serve not-food. I.E. chicken tikka masala - they serve it under the banner of Indian, but it was really invented in London. Same for mango lassis - real lassis are sweet or salty, none of this foufy fruity malarky. The waiter agreed with V on the mango lassi count - we got the stare of doom when we tried ordering one.

We followed up lunch with a few errands including buying ou bus tickets to Pondicherry. The KSRTC bus ticketing office was by far the fastest, simplest, most efficient ticketing counter we have encountered so far. Too bad the bus stand isn't similarly run (more on that tomorrow).

As mentioned in an earlier post, Bangalore is a swiftly growing/changing city. On our way to the ticketing office, we passed by this old building and car. In its heyday it was probably quite the estate. Today we think it might be a good candidate for the Bollywood set of Threepenny Opera.

We spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on the blog, watching Tango and Cash (Cz and M only. Some of us were busy blogging.) and playing ferocious Scrabble.

In the evening, it was time fo M to have the first fitting of his delux, custom-made tux. I didn't give the tailor too much trouble.

Day 166 - Bully Monkeys

Nandi means bull. In theory Nandi Hill is supposed to look like Shiva's bull. I don't see it, but it still makes for a nice day trip from Bangalore. The walk up from the bus stop led through the old hill station where the stepped cistern was still populated by large carp. We climbed down and fed the fish crackers until a lady in a sari yelled something incomprehensible. Seeing as she didn't stop yelling until we left, we think the gist of it was "NO FEEDING RITZ TO THE HOLY FISH!"

Undaunted we continued up the hill. Where we were attacked by monkeys. M had assured me that Nandi Hill monkeys were NICE monkeys. They were not. Now I admit to an anti-monkey bias, but these monkeys did nothing to dispel my prejudice. They GROWLED at us. One even jumped on M's arm and had to be physically flung off. Lucky for him, we weren't at Tippu's drop, where an emperor used to dispose of his enemies. That monkey might have been in for a short ride with an abrupt end.

At the top of the hill lies a ruined temple guarded by a mercenary priest. To him, foreigners are great, big bags of money just waiting to be plundered. Unfortunately for him, we are broke backpackers, and only donated at slightly higher than the Indian rate. He grumbled but let us in anyway. The ruins were lovely and old as ruins are want to be, and we enjoyed meandering through the stone passageways until we emerged on the other side.

Where we were accosted by more monkeys. I threw an old banana at them to appease them, and we scooted into the hilltop restaurant. Lunch was good, but the best part were the views over the surrounding hills, plains and lakes.

After lunch, we moseyed our way back down to the bus park. Our bus was supposed to leave at 2:00. 2:30, and another bus came and went. Some monkeys came over to wait with us. 3:00 - still no bus. I bought a cucumber from a street vendor. I ate some. I gave some to M and Cz. I shared some with the Monkeys. These were much nicer monkeys than the ones on the hill.

3:45 the bus finally showed up. Not only was it the same bus we rode in on, but we wound up in the same seats!

We slept much of the way back to Bangalore.

V met us when we arrived at his house, and we went out for dinner and kulfi (the local ice cream). Which was lovely. All the weight I lost trekking is coming back with a vengeance.

Despite the nice monkeys at the bus stand, I still think they are evil, sharp-fanged little beasties. One exception does not make the rule.

Day 165 - Inverse Proportions

We futsed and puttered away a good bit of the morning deciding what to do. We finally settled on taking the bus to Mysore, a nice city in theory only 2.5-3 hours from Bangalore. With traffic it was nearly 4 hours. When we arrived, we discovered that the main attraction, the City Palace, was closed to set up for a festival. As M says, "It's like the Fourth of July every friggin' day here!" Undaunted, we made our way to St Philomena Cathedral, which was lovely, though not "full of birdsong" as the guidebook promised. I guess people got tired of bird poop in the pews and put nets across the doors.

We did find the small sign and arrow indicating the way to the crypts which were satifactorily dim and eerie, complete with a polychrome Jesus lying in one hallway and St Philomena watching over a blue-painted well into which donations could be flipped with a certain degree of irreverency. Interesting, very few names in the crypt were Indian. I guess when the church was still taking bodies it was strictly Anglican territory.

On the way out of the church we passed a fruit vendor, and treated ourselves to the sweetest pineapple ever. We couldn't finish it, much to the delight of the cows who got the leftovers.

By then it was nearly 5, so we moseyed our way back to the bus stand. Where it took another 4 hours to get home.

So. 8 hours of bus. 2 hours of touring. Still worth it.

Day 164 - Trivia is not Trivial

Perhaps the only people I have seen take quizzing more seriously than the Brits are the Indians. There are quiz nights at the local bars, but even more fun, every other Sunday, V and friends get together for Quiz time at a friend's apartment. This being a quiz Sunday, Cz and I were invited along. The game is essentially Jeopardy meets Trivial pursuit. The quizmaster asks questions, and the first team to clap in must answer them. There is a wide range of subjects and question formats. The boys' team had an unfair advantage with Cz and V and their prodigious cache of movie trivia, but the girls' team rallied on the science and literature questions.

In the end the boys won, but not by much.

One poor fellow came in in the middle of a heated debate about whether or not to grant points on a question. "It's just a game", he made the mistake of saying. He was duly chastised. I don't think he spoke again for the rest of the morning.

After the game, we went out for a late lunch and returned home for some scrabble.

I won.

Day 163 - Barbe-cute

Barbequeing is not really done in India. Not done, that is, except by Indians who happen to have studied in the US and have US visitors. V and M used to have frequent barbeques when they lived together at Cornell. In honour of that tradition, and because it's just plain fun, they decided to throw a cookout party at V's house. Most of the day was spent preparing - buying huge amounts of groceries, marinating obscene amounts of meat, and perfecting the hamburger.

We also went to the high-end tailor to get M measured for a tuxedo. And to pick the fabrics. I had a grand time choosing fabrics and cut and tailoring details. The poor shop owners/tailors didn't know what hit them. And M will have a fine tuxedo.

The evening began with lighting the 'barbequtes' (pronounced barbe-cute), invented by V's father. M was insistent on not using kerosene, so there was a lot of fanning the fires to catch the coals. Cz ended up manning one of the grills, cooking up the lovely hamburgers that M prepared. Did we mention that we have not had burgers since we left? These nifty barbeques fold out to a nice grill size, but collapse down to store the size of a small suitcase. Sadly, they are only available for sale in Australia, or there would be one living on my fire escape as soon as I got home.

V's friends are all lovely, and we had a terrific time munching, chatting, and drinking. Said combination (primarily the drinking) led to a three-guitar jam session and much singing. Luckily the neighbors were having a party too, or there might have been trouble.

Fun was had until the wee-smalls of the morning. Cz, M, V, and I went to bed between 3 and 4 AM. Apparently the card games and gambling continued (with V's mom in the lead) until nearly 5AM. It's a far cry from our go to bed at 7:30 trekking routine!

Day 162 - Shopaholics

Most conversations with Indians begin thusly:

Indian: Where are you from?

Us: America

Indian: Do you like President Bush?

Us: No

Indian: Every American I ask says they don't like Bush. If no one likes him, how did he get re-elected?

Us: Because the sort of people who vote for Bush are not typically the sort of people who visit India.

Occasionally the conversation continues into the realm of economics. In the short version, most Indians with whom we have had this conversation believe the US is the biggest Global superpower, but that the current government is poising it for a fall, and that China is ready to become the next superpower. Once China is the world's economic superpower, India (according to the strangers with whom we have had this conversation) believes that it is next in line.

There are many arguments both for an against this theory which I will not go into here.

Bangalore, where V and his family live, is a city experiencing an impossible growth rate. Within the last 10 years, the population has soared from 3mil to 6mil. In thirty years, it has gone from 200,000 to the current 6mil. Bangalore has one of the fastest growing economies in the world, and is the IT center of India. Property values in some neighborhoods rival the property values (in US dollars) of NYC.

That said, no city's infrastructure, no matter how strong the economy can support that rate of growth. Traffic, pollution, poverty, education, healthcare for the poor, etc are all MAJOR problems.

As Western visitors, we can see surface of both the good and bad sides of the growth. Everyday is an exercise in dodging cars and cleaning grey filth from our eyes, noses, and ears. At the same time, we have visited some of the nicest (and most shockingly western) shopping centers, eaten in some of the finest restaurants, and enjoyed a higher standard of living than almost anywhere else in India.

We spent much of today puttering around various shopping centers. On one street, prices are similar to the rest of the country - fairly cheap. Just around the corner, on MG road, we visited a shopping mall with shops (and prices) to rival anything we have Stateside.

It is impossible to call India a 'poor country'. True it has one of the largest populations of people living in poverty, but it also has some of the wealthiest, some of the best computer technology, and some of most advanced medicines. India is a huge, lumbering beast of a country. It currently lacks the infrastructure to distribute its wealth within the country or to mobilize on a massive global scale, and I believe it will be many years before such systems develop. But they are developing. China will probably be the next major superpower in our immediate future. India may well follow suit.

Day 161 - Happy Thanksgiving!

No turkeys were harmed in the making of this post. That's because we spent Thanksgiving tooling around on Kerala's backwaters in a Kettuvellum, or traditional rice barge. The boats are made of wide wooden planks sewn (that's right sewn) together with coir rope.

Kerala's backwaters extend for miles. Somewhat similar in structure to the Chesapeake bay, the backwaters are a mix of fresh and brackish water peppered with islands. As on the Bay, most people who live here make their living from the water. We passed sand barges, fishermen, and clam harvesters. Interesting, very few of the clams are used for eating. The shells are the main resource, used primarily to make calcium carbonate. They also dredge up the river for sand, which makes for some interesting sailing for some of the barges we saw floating by.

Those who do not ply the water rely on the coconuts that grow on every patch of land. In terms of versatility, Coconut palm rival the peanut. The water is drunk, the meat used to make oil, soap, eating, cooking, dried, etc. The leaves thatch the houses and Kettuvellums, husks are used for fuel or carving, and the coir is used for everything from rope to mattress filling. When the tree is 70-100 years old and stops producing coconuts, the wood is used to make fine furniture.

We stopped for lunch on an almost deserted island. Deserted but for a very vocal kitten who we suspect got all the leftovers - the mews that punctuated our Thanksgiving dinner vanished when the pots of leftover rice and curry went back into the kitchen.

We have a lot to be thankful for this year. We hope you do too.

Day 160 - Melting Pot

Our day began with breakfast by Mama. And by breakfast, I mean a feast of egg and peas curry, fresh papaya, tea, and pappams or maybe apams. I still haven't figured out what they're called, but if a fluffy American pancake and a French crepe had a baby made out of rice flour, this would be it. The middle part is thick and soft, with lacy, crispy edges. We didn't tuck in fast enough, so Mama thought we wouldn't properly experience crispy edges. Her response - to cook two more and insist that we eat them right now. Which made a total of ten pancakes between us. It's like being back in Germany.

Somehow we did manage to roll ourselves into town. Kochi has been a trading center since 72AD. As such, it has always been a relatively wealthy and influential city. Read: much desired by colonists of every variety. On our wanderings, we passed an overturned tree with signboards indicating 'the roots of Kochi'. Pretty much everyone who's anyone has ruled this little plot of land at least once.

Currently, the most visible histories in town are Portuguese, Dutch, and Jewish. Who would have thunk that one of the oldest Jewish communities in the world would be in Southern India? Jews established trade routes with the Malabar coast sometime in the 1st century BC trading frankincense, gold, and myrrh for spices, ivory, and peacocks. In 72AD when the Romans(?) destroyed the Temples and Cities and the Jews were forced to flee, a contingent landed in India north of current Kochi. In the 16th century, when the Portuguese burned that city, the Jews moved a few KM south to Kochi, where a small community survives to this day. The current synagogue in Kochi was built in the 16th or 17th century, though one stone is from the original synagogue built in 72AD! Jew Town, the area around the synagogue has been a trade center (primarily spices) since the first families arrived in 72. And while many of the businesses now have owners with Keralan names, there are some with Jewish names that have been in the same family since that first landing.

Closer to our guesthouse are two Christian churches. The church of St Francis was originally Portuguese, was bombed, rebuilt and claimed by the Dutch in the 17th century, then by the Anglicans in the 18th. It is now Indian. Read up on the history of St Francis church, and it pretty much sums up the political history of the southern half of the country. St Francis' claim to fame is that Vasco De Gama was buried here for 14 years before being shipped back to Portugal. Basilica Maria de la Luz was also originally a 16th century Portuguese Catholic church. From the outside, it retains its somewhat reserved, European countenance. Step inside though, and it's all Indian Catholicism - Polychrome carvings, angels, Jesus lit up in neon - Vegas has nothing on Indian Catholics.

Near the two churches, a short walk down the seawall, lies the Dutch cemetery. It's old and overgrown, but very quiet. According to my guidebook, "All of the crypts have been opened by grave-robbers, and some show signs of being occupied, all the more reason not to visit after dark." The cemetery must have been cleaned up since the book was written, as all the tombs were tightly sealed. We did find an enormous chicken foot - nails and all - curled up on the edge of one crypt though, and some feathers scattered on another...I'm thinking that this chicken did not die of natural causes...

By now we managed to walk of Mama's breakfast, and ate a delicious seafood dinner at a streetside restaurant. While we were eating, a kite (sort of like an osprey) landed on a perch nearby. Apparently he visited the tree near the restaurant for so long that the owners built him a perch near the kitchen where he gets the fish scraps.

After dinner, we watched the last of the sunset of the Chinese fishing nets, and went to a concert of traditional Indian music. As stated before, Kerala (the state which contains Kochi) has been occupied by pretty much everyone at one point or another. In each occupation they have taken the best of that culture and integrated it into their own. Hence, a European violin featuring in a night of traditional Indian ragas.

Day 159 - Down South

Southern India has a reputation for being at least a little slower and less hasslely than the northern part of the country. You wouldn't know that arriving into Ernakulum Junction. The train pulled into the station at about 9:45. We found the ticketing desk without any problem. The ticketing desk, however is only for trains leaving in the next 2 hours - we wanted to book a train for Thursday. Someone in line there said the the reservation office was 'that way, by the east entrance' and gestured down the platform. So we went 'that way'. The reservation office wasn't there. But the cafe was, so I asked the man behind the counter. 'Across the street', he said. Which was in fact, across the parking lot. Near the 'east entrance' to the parking lot, as it happens, the first guy was half right.

Ernakulum Junction has no tourist line. Luckily, by now have figured out how to read the timetables posted on the all, and luckily this station had them printed in English - often they are only written in Sanskrit. I filled out the appropriate forms and got in line. Where I learned that they could only confirm reclining chair seats, and that I would have to come back on the day of travel to confirm sleeper seats. I went ahead and bought the tickets. This stressed Cz out. So I went to the timetables again to see what other trains were running to Bangalore on Thursday. Then I went to the Enquiry window to ask if sleeper berths were available on any of them. They were not, but the man at that window said that for an extra 150 rupee, I could get Taktal tickets. (last minute reserved for tourists and emergencies, but not officially tourist quota tickets - trains to and from Bangalore do not have tourist quotas). Of course the guy at the ticket counter didn't tell me this. Indian rail is very regulated: One line for the forms, another for the ticket, and another for information. Add in the Indian propensity for line jumping - which I have learned to counter by spreading myself entirely across the width of the line - and you are looking at a very long morning. In stations without a tourist office, buying a rail ticket can very well take an hour or more.

Anyway. I deliver this info to Cz. Pay the 300 rupee he says. (150 each). But I've wised up. I don't go back to the ticket window. I go back to the enquiry window and show him my chair seats. Enquiry man tells me not to bother with Taktal, that there are 200 sleeper berths open on that train, they just can't release them until day of travel.

I still have no idea why. I hope they are still there when we get back to the station.

By now it is past noon. I had planned on doing a combination of tuk-tuk and ferry to get to our guest house out in Fort Cochin, the older, quieter, Dutch/Portuguese side of town, but Cz was looking so frazzled, that I opted to hire a tuk-tuk the whole way, rather than trying to negotiate the main ferry terminal. (The city of Kochi encompasses a series of islands and peninsulas. Ernakulum is the loud, modern, mainland part of the city. It is connected to the older, nicer parts by a series of ferries or bridges).

After a brief haggle, the driver and I settled on a price, and we were off and away. We must have had the horniest - as in horn-loving - auto rickshaw driver in all India. Beeping and weaving, irregardless of the direction of traffic, we zoomed our way through the traffic and out to Fort Cochin. "Traffic no problem for Ferrari" our driver would hoot, leaning on the horn and shooting through an impossibly tight gap between the trucks. I think I have my first grey hairs now.

But we did get there quickly and without hassle.

I dropped Cz at the restaurant of a guest house that we had read about in Lonely Planet, and I went out to hunt down better digs. A little while, and a little getting lost later, I did secure us a family-run guest house near the water and the basilica. A little more getting lost, and I collected Cz, and settled us into our new home.

The guesthouse is run by three generations of a friendly local family. A girl our own age checked us in. An older woman and man (I'm guessing her parents), saw to it that we had tickets to the local dance program, and that she (mama) would prepare us a fish dinner and a traditional Keralan breakfast.

Kathakali is one of the traditional dance forms of Kerala (the state where Kochi is located). It involves elaborate costumes and make-up. So elaborate in fact, that the getting into make-up is a performance in itself. We joined a handful of other tourists at the theatre over an hour before the performance to watch the star get into his makeup. Like any actor, he fussed with his prosthetics as soon as his helper was out of sight.

The performance was excellent, though my favourite part was just the demnstration of all the facial movements and expressions of various scenes from nature.

After the show, the MC requested that everyone donate to a box to 'support the artists and their families'. Scam or not, we dropped a few rupees in - it serves to have good theatre karma.

Back at the guest house, mama had prepared a huge feast of local specialties. We had spiced fried fish (which I now have the recipe for), fish curry in coconut milk (quite possibly from the coconuts growing in the backyard), spicy cabbage, local red rice, and local papaya. Papaya is not generally one of my favourite fruits, but this was amzing - soft, sweet, and perfumy tasting. Mama even made a special spicy red pepper chutney just for Cz because I mentioned that he liked spicy! Throughout dinner she checked in on us, trying to refill our plates, adn making sure we had enjoyed our evening. It was like staying at your favourite auntie's house.

Tomorrow, she will be preparing us a traditional Keralan breakfast. If tonight's dinner is any indication, we shouldn't have to eat again all day!

Day 158 - Waiting Game

It's a hot and drowsy afternoon. Everything in Goa, even the train station seems more laid-back than in the rest of India. Like the stations in the rest of the country, Goa's has its share of stray dogs. Only here though can they afford to snooze in line.

We however are having a less restful day. We went to buy our tickets to Kerala, and were told that there was a good chance that we would get bunks, but that there was a four-person waitlist. I went ahead and bought the wait-list tickets - we had good luck with them last time - and crossed my fingers.

Being wait-listed freaks Cz out. After a good while of fretting, we decided to calm down by catching up on the blog and e-mails. Good for the moms and other readers, less good for playing tourist in Goa.

Goa was one of the (possibly the longest) Portuguese-held colonies in India. As a result, Old Goa has some astounding Portuguese architecture. Not that we would know - we never made it as far as Old Goa. We did finish blogging and internetting with enough time before re-checking our tickets to visit The Church of the Holy Spirit. We had heard that the interior was richly decorated, but unfortunately it was closed when we arrived. It was still quite pretty Portuguese-looking from the outside.

From there, we took a tuk-tuk out to Rachol Seminary. Lonely Planet notes that this is not a tourist destination and to ask before wandering around. There were a group of caretakers outside when we arrived, so I approached the one that looked most in charge. Not only did he grant us permission to explore the seminary, but he gave us guided tour of the building and grounds.

The Seminary was orginally built in 1604 by Portuguese missionaries. Over the years, it has been headed by the Dutch, The English, and now, finally, Indians. The best thing about the building was the fact that it wasn't a tourist attraction - nothing had been 'prettied up' or set out as a display. We stopped first at the organ loft over the chapel. There, partially under a dust-cover was a 400 year old pump organ. The back panels were loose, so our guide even showed us how the bellows worked (one person pumps with theur feet at one end of the organ, another plays the keys on the other). We then went down a hall lined with black-and white photos of Seminarians from the past centuy, a skeleton, Portuguese coins, and assorted dusty artifacts. A few steps down, and a low doorway led us to a tiny balcony nestled in the ornate woodcarving that covered the front of the church. I don't knoiw the dates on all of it, but the parts around the alter were 17th century.

Many old homes in Goa have mother of pearl instead of glass in the windows. The seminary was no exception. Each of the large upper windows comprised hundreds of shell panels, filtering and diffusing the light.

Up in the attic proper, we found what was probably a classroom - an old chalkboard stood on a stand in the corner. The real draw though was the views. Window lined three walls of the room, and from that height it was possible to see over much of the state, and out over the bay.

Back down again, we passed playing courts where we could hear what sounded like a rowdy game. Even seminarians are allowed to some fun! In another courtyard, our guide pointed to what looked like a tennis court, and said that a canal ran underneath it from one end to another. We were perplexed until he took us outside and down some dark stone stairs. A cavernous cystern filled the space under the courts. Cz shone his headlamp around the space - the beam barely penetrated the dark, but it was enough to wake a few of the ats who lived there.

We spent at least an hour going up and down and around all the nooks and crannies of the seminary. Our guide never asked for anything, but we slipped him a couple hundred rupees 'for the church'.

By then it was time to head back to the train station.

Where we discovered that our bunks had been confirmed. With that stress over with, we ate an easy dinner in the railway cafe, found our platform, and were soon on our way south.

Day 157 - Beach Bums

We were on the beach before 8AM. We spent the entire morning wandering, collecting shells, and frolicking in the waves.

V took us to a terrific restaurant for lunch, which again had its own fishing trawler. Where we again feasted on Goan sausages (like extra-spicy chorizo, a holdover from Portuguese colonial days), and local seafood.

After lunch, we stocked up on liquor, and returned to the apartment.

We spent the rest of the afternoon (by then it was nearly 5PM) alternating between lounging by the pool and lounging on the balcony of the apartment.

V and I opted to wander down to the beach for sunset (which we just missed, but the dusk beach was still lovely). We took a shortcut home through the grounds of the Radisson, concocting an elaborate story of how V was a non-resident Indian, and that I was his trophy wife from the US. We even invented a room number and business in India in case a security guard stopped us. None did, so our fabulous tale went to waste.

Back at the apartment, we drank a few rum-and-cokes, and called it a night.

Goa is the holiday state, both for Indians and Europeans, and it certainly lives up to its reputation.

Day 156 - Just Beachy

We arrived at the station at 6:30 AM - not just on time, but half and hour early. This never happens. We waited around until 7, when our train was supposed to have arrived, because there was a chance that M and V (his college friend who is Indian and whose family owns a house in Goa) were going to meet us there. They didn't, so we gambled that the apartment was in North Goa, and caught a cab up the coast.


After a lovely breakfast at a beach resort, it was a reasonable enough hour to dial V's cell. Turns out the house was in South Goa, so we hopped in a cab, and headed back the way we had come.

The beach where the house is located is a lesser known beach. We drove down to Palolem, the main tourist beach of the south, and were directed back north AGAIN to Colva beach, which is still in South Goa, but only just so.

Meanwhile, V sent the cab driver a text message that we should get off at the Radisson Hotel and walk south along the beach, and they would wait for us there. We did so, and followed the path towards the water.

The path dead-ended at a swampy inlet with no bridge.

We hacked our way through the scrub until we burst out on a different path which spilled directly onto the beach. The sunbathers gave us some weird looks. I don't know why - surely sweaty, fully-clothed, backpack-toting foreigners crash out of the woods all the time...

We trekked our way down the beach, and sure enough, V and M were heading down to meet us. They wore nothing but swim trunks, and I was very jealous.

Carmona Beach, where we will be spending the weekend, is an unbroken, largely uninhabited stretch of palm-fringed white sand on the Arabian Sea. It's pretty much paradise.

We spent the afternoon doing not much of anything. Dinner was an event, at a restaurant with its own fishing trawler. We feasted on a smorgasboard of fresh local seafood - crab, fish, curries, and Goan Sausage.

With a local (V) to guide us, a brilliant apartment, and a swimming pool for the turns of tide when the sea currents are to strong, it promises to be a terrific few days!

Day 155 - Rollin', Rollin', Rollin'

We rode the train. We have been riding the train since 3 PM yesterday. We will be riding the train until 7AM tomorrow. I am tearing through my trashy novels, and Cz is doing the same.

Indian culture does not place value on child-development in the same way as the West. As a consequence, children on trains are not provided with toys, books, games, crayons, or entertainment of any sort. The children on this train, being children from wealthy families were all somewhat spoiled. No toys plus spoiled children equals high-decible travel.

One of our immediate carriage-mates was a young Indian woman who had been born in the US, but who chose to move back to India. She had interesting stories, but she really grated on my nerves. Basically, she claimed a free-wheeling lifestyle, travelling the world, making a living by purchasing goods in India, and then selling them on the Italian music festival scene. There was more to it than that, but long and short of it is, she claimed to be a free-spirit bum, but her lifestyle was only possible because her family was incredibly wealthy and she has no bills (lives at home, family pays for everything, Italian boyfriend pays for everything when they are in Italy). This in itself would be annoying, but not terribly so, except that she acted with such a sense of entitlement, and was so horrid to the sweepers that sometimes passed through the car (children that clean the carriage floor, then beg for food or small change) - her level of hypocrisy was sort of astounding. Luckily (for me anyway), she had a cold and spent much of the ride sleeping, so I didn't have to talk to her too much.

Even so, the train is relatively comfortable, and I have enough books to keep me busy. It will be strange returning home where there is virtually no long-distance public transportation, comfortable or otherwise.

Day 153 and 154 - Delhi

Day 153 - Our train arrived at about 5PM. It was supposed to arrive at 2:50, but any delay of less than three hours is sort of to be expected. Our train arrived in Old Delhi Station. Ticket sales for trains leaving from any other station are sold at the New Delhi Station. We left Old Delhi, expecting to find a phalanx of taxis waiting to zoom us across town. Nothing doing. No taxis to be had. There were some tuk-tuks, but for whatever reason they wouldn't stop for us. Maybe we looked like we knew what we were doing and they knew they wouldn't be able to overcharge. We finally managed to wave down a pair of cycle rickshaws. This turned out for the best - there were massive traffic jams all over the city, and only the cycle rickshaws were able to penetrate the crush.

M, Cz, and I all trooped into the New Delhi Railway station. Our previous experience here had us ready for all sorts of trouble. This time however, we found our way straight up to the tourist booking center...which was air-conditioned, and organised, and HELPFUL. and the bathroom was CLEAN. We doubted we were in India anymore. Within half an hour, and no fuss at all, we had tickets for the 40 hour train to Goa. We even splashed out for an air-conditioned car. Less for the cool temperature, and more because we hoped it would be a little quieter.

From New Delhi railway, we were able to find a cab, and soon arrived at the Delhi Youth hostel, which is actually more swank than a lot of the hotels in the area. The poor brow-beaten young man behind the counter tried his best, but still manged to take almost an hour to check us in...and he's the GOOD employee.

By now it was nearly 9PM and we were STARVING. On our way out of the hostel, we ran into a man on his way home. We suspect he was someone's private driver, but that he was moonlighting as a 'taxi driver' while the car's owner was out of town. He proved to be a better driver than most 'real' taximen, and we did not regret surrepticiously slipping him our 'fare'.

We ate dinner at a Thai/Chinese restaurant, so that M could claim to have never eaten Indian food for dinner in Delhi. It was excellent, and I don't even think it was the extra-hungry talking.

By the end of dinner I was ready to collapse. Cz and M were feeling no pain from only 2beers with dinner. It was an uneventful ride home, and then immediately into our beds.


Day 154 - M took care of checkout since he was going to be in Delhi for another night. The other lady was behind the counter. Unlike the poor, abused young man from last night, she is frazzled and grumpy. And even slower. It took two tries and almost two hours to get everything sorted out.

All three of us (M, Cz, and I) planned to go to Goa, though M was going by plane, and we by train. The train wasn't scheduled to leave until 3PM today, and we had already seen all the tourist sights in Delhi that we wanted to see, so we decided to accompany M on his errand-running. The main errand involved trying to send a large duffel bag full of gifts back to the States. Posting anything in India is an adventure to say the least, so while Cz and M waited at the Post Office, I decided to go for a walk and try to find some Drammamine.

Women traveling alone in India are subject to incredible levels of harrassment. Other travelers I have spoken to have said that India is by far the hardest country that they have had to navigate. Sure enough, as soon as I was out on the street, touts started approaching me. The dialogue went like this.

Tout 1: The post office is down this way. (gesturing to an alley where the post office was decidedly NOT, and where a store was waiting to pay him a commission for my business)

Me: No. it's not, I've just come from the Post Office.

Tout 2: Don't listen to him, the Post Office is this way.(It wasn't. I told him so.)

Me: Umm, no, it's not, and I'm not looking for the PO anyway. I'm just waiting for my friends.

Repeat with many more touts and variations on the theme.

Me: Look. I've been in India a month. I KNOW where the PO is and I'm not going to follow any of you!

Touts: Oh.

And they all went away.

And I went back to the PO, where M had given up on sending his package.

We went to lunch in a tiny hole-in-the-wall...So hole-in-wall-ish that it was right next door to the guest house we stayed at our first trip to Delhi, and we never even knew it was there. As is typical of holes, this one had delicious food, including lassis made with house-made yoghurt.

By the time we finished stuffing our faces, it was time to head to the train station, on the off-chance that our train might be leaving on time.

Which it did, to the second. This was a total surprise - we have come to accept 'on time' as 20 minuted or less late.

The train from Delhi to Goa takes 40 hours. We will be reading a lot the next two days.

Day 152 - Old and New Friends

We shared the lodge with a group of travel agents checking out Sapana's facilities for Shoestring Travel. They had an elephant ride scheduled for the early morning, and as we were packing, we heard the elephant driver talking to his elephant. I peeked out the window, and it was none other than our old friend Jumbadu! I went down to say hello, and was pleasantly surprised that both Jumbadu and his handler remembered me. Jumbadu nuzzled me with his trunk, and seemed to enjoy getting scratchies on his trunk and chin. After greetings were exchanged with both elephant and handler, he (Jumbadu) proceeded to sniff me over from head to toe. Whne he reach my shoes, he curled his trunk in on itself and took a step back. I think I might be burning my shoes when we get home.

Jumbadu is a young male elephant. Once they are mature, boy elephants only think about food and sex. (not unlike some boy humans...) As they mature, glands which secrete a liquid open up on the sides of their head. If this liquid gets into their mouth, it makes them aggressive and unpredictable. Carrying tourists becomes too boring for them, and they are retired to stud or to working in hte forest. Jumbadu is developing the gland on one side of his head already, and his handler thinks that he will only be tame enough to play with tourists for a maximum of five more years.

After seeing Jumbadu off (and accidentally dropping scraps of food for Lukar), we took the lodge jeep to the bus stand. At the stand, we met another American who also happened to be heading to Delhi. He had spent the summer teaching in Rajasthan, and was just finishing a trek and visit around Nepal with his family before heading into India to visit a college friend. We hit it off, and decided to be travel buddies at least as far as Delhi.

The bus ride to the bus station nearest the border crossing was uneventful.

So was the rickshaw ride the rest of the way to the border.

M (our new friend), had crossed into Nepal at a smaller border post in the middle of the night. The border guard had to be woken up to check his visa, and forgot to put in an entry stamp. This was not a problem while he was traveling in Nepal, but the Nepali border police at this border refused to grant him an exit stamp without the official entry stamp. A 2000 rupee 'fine' (read bribe) later, he crossed into India, got an exit stamp from the India border post, and then retuned to the Nepali side, where he was able to get both entry and exit stamps.

We all walked to the Indian side together. The Indian border post tried to tell him that he had to stay in Nepal for 24 hours to be granted re-entry into India, but another 'fine' was payed, and we were on our way.

After a short walk into India, snagged the last three seats on a bus headed for Gorakhpur, the nearest railway station. After we took our seats, they continued cramming people on to the bus. It was like riding the 'L' train out to Brooklyn during rush hour - sardines have more roomy accomadation.

We forgot that the bridge just outside Gorakhpur was structurally unsound, and that buses were not allowed across.

Everyone on the bus tumbled out and into waiting auto rickshaws. After some intense haggling, we agreed on 50 rupees each and crammed ourselves into the auto with a huge Indian family. Rickshaws are designed to carry 4-6 passengers. Ours had 15. The littlest child in the family actually wound up on my lap. The children were all charming though. They all wanted to talk to me, but were too shy, so the girls would whisper to the boy on my lap, and he would then talk in formal school English - How old are you?, Where is your home?, and the like. When I would return the questions, all the kids would giggle wildly, and the answers would all be funneled back through the little boy.

The rickshaw driver was less charming. As soon as we were onboard, he tried to raise the price back up to 100 per person. We refused, and he relented. Then he tried again, and again we refused. Then, when we were almost to the train station, he pulled into a gas sattion and demanded all our fares (read 100 rupees each). We outright refused. He insisted. He claimed the rickshaw was almost out of gas. The Indians gave him some money, so M payed his fare, and we said we would pay the balance when we got to the train station. We then continued to the train station - without putting any gas in the rickshaw! At the station we handed over the rest of our fare, and headed to the trains. The Indian family stayed behind to tear into the driver. Grandma led the charge. You do NOT mess with Indian grannies, I have learned.

At the train station, we discovered that the train to Delhi was full. We bought waitlist tickets. Every hour I would go to the window and check if we had confirmed seats. Eventually we had one seat confirmed, but the other two still waitlisted. The ticket man said to go ahead and get on the train, that there would probably be space. This may have had something to do with the few hundred extra rupees we slipped into the fare.

There were, in fact seats, and we were soon rolling our way across the subcontinent.

Bribery (never called such, though) is a way of life in India and Nepal, but today was extraordinary. In less than 6 hours, M bribed his way through two border posts, and the three of us bribed our way onto a 'full' train. I am feeling quite pleased with myself.

Day 151 - Technical Difficulties

Today was our one full day at Chitwan. We planned to spend it catching up on the blog, but unfortunately, the computers at Sauraha (the nearest town), were running too slowly to support blogger.

Instead, we down to the river to watch the elephants having their baths. When we did our elephant wash a month ago, an elephant was brought over to Sapana, and I got to ride her (even got to control her myself!) down to the water. The group elephant wash is much more touristy. Most of the elephants from the breeding center come from their morning jungle treks, and converge on the river behind one of the lodges. Anyone who wants to can go into the river and play with the elephants, but it is much more impersonal.

We were highly entertained by one teenage elephant. He was small - about the size of a clydesdale horse - and invented his own game with the guy trying to wash him. Teenage elephant would crouch in the water. Tourist would climb on, whereupon teenage elephant would give a big shake and toss him right back into the river. Teenage elephant would look very pleased with himself, and crouch down again, as if to say, c'mon, I dare ya...

This looked like it could go on indefinitely. My money's on the elephant.

Day 150 - Kathmandu to Chitwan

We try to keep our bus rides under 12hours. Buses in South Asia are incredibly convenient, but comfort is generally not a priority. More than 8hours and one's butt is in danger of permanent damage.

For this reason, we decided to break our trip back into India into more manageable chunks...that, and we like Chitwan.

The bus from Kathmandu was scheduled to leave at 7:00. We rolled out at about 7:30. Luckily it was still festival time, so traffic was relatively light. We drove through impressive mountain scenery, only stopping once, briefly for a pee-break and snack purchasing. The combination of light traffic and only one stop meant that the anticipated 7hour bus ride only took five.

As a consequence, we arrived at the Chitwan bus park 2hours ahead of schedule. Sapana was going to send someone to collect us, but because we were so early, we decided to walk to the lodge. We just trekked about 200K in the mountains...we figured 2K on the flat wasn't going to kill us.

And it didn't. We actually crossed paths with the Sapana Jeep on its way to the bus park, and so were able to hitch a ride after all.

After settling in, we went down to the restaurant for lunch. The newest member of Sapana's staff, a grey kitten named Tukie, thought that Cz made a great jungle gym. Tiny kitten claws are not so condusive to good reading, but cute trumps claws, so Tukie got away with just about everything, including an attempted flying leap into our plate of buff momos.

We spent the rest of the afternoon doing laundry, reading, and generally relaxing.

In the evening, the sound of singing and clapping drew us to the window. A group of children were clustered below, performing. In Chitwan, as in Kathmandu, part of the festival activities include children going door to door singing and dancing for money and sweets. In any given night, several groups might come by, and the festival goes on for nearly a week. By the end of Diwali, the owner of Sapana had given out over 2000 rupees to these roving bands!

Also as a result of the festival, Sapana was running on limited staff...including no one in the kitchen. Luckily one of the other staff is an excellent cook, and made dhal bhat tarkari (rice, lentil soup, and vegetable curry) for everyone. While we were eating, one of the geckos (tiny lizzards that eat mosquitos) that live in the thatch over the dining area decided that he wanted to be a little festive too, and took a flying dive into another guest's beer mug. He eventually was nudged back onto the table where he staggered around for a bit licking his lips before scampering away.

I hate to think how his head felt in the morning.

Just a minute of your time...

We were curious to find out the readership of this blog so if you would be so kind would you state:

1. Who you are (first names or blog name or secret identity)
2. Where you are reading this (city, state, country)

Comments are enabled in this blog. We reserve the right to sell what little information that you give us to a major corporation (kidding).

Thank you.

PS We have updated our further adventures in Nepal, but most of them are below this post so don't forget to scroll down...just so you know, we are now in Southern India.

Day 149 - Bouda Sights

Bouda is a tourist destination in its own right. Living her, as is so often the case, we had yet to actually see the tourist sights of Bouda. Today we remedied that.

After spending the morning at Little Britain drinking coffee and reading books of course.

And after running a few errands, including mailing some presents back stateside.

So really we only spent part of the day being proper tourists. Bouda is most famous for its Stupa. We have walked chora around the stupa at least once nearly every day. Religion aside, chora around the stupa is the time and place for both meeting friends, and prime people-watching. We have enjoyed the stupa very much from that point of view, but had yet to actually go inside. This afternoon we ducked through the low entryway, and turned the large prayer wheels on our way up the levels. I believe the levels of the stupa leading up to the dome are supposed to represent the planes of existence, but I'm not positive. Prayer flags running from the pinnacle of the dome to the points around the edges flap in the breeze. I have been told that the different colours each reperesent a different element, and that each time the flag moves, it 'activates' the prayers and mantras printed on it. The dome itself is a thousand or more years old (people think - oldest guesses on onstruction dates range from 600AD all the way up to 1600AD), but it is freshly whitewashed anually. From the ground, the domw looks smooth and white, up close however the (possibly thousands) of years of whitewashing have given the surface the nubby, drippy texture of melted wax. Historical or Holy, the platforms of the stupa seem to serve much the same purpose as walking chora. Some people come here to meditite or to pray, but many simply walk around chatting or watch the world go by. Many find comfortable perches around the different tiers and sit reading or looking out over Bouda.

From the stupa, it is possible to look into the upper levels of one of the temples that border the courtyard. It is elaborately painted with scenes for Buddha's life, and symbolic representations of different incarnations and levels of existance. We never actually went into this particular temple, though we did make at least one pass through the monastery nearly every day.

Today was also special as it was one of the final days of Diwali (or Dipawali or Dipauli as we have also seen it spelled). All during the festival, the streets have been decorated by mandalas, and the entrances of homes and businesses festooned with marigolds. At night, those same homes and businesses light butter lanps or candles around the mandala and in lines leading into the doors and windows. Often, the lamps and candles are further supplemented by Christmas lights, and firecrackers. Laksmi, the goddess of wealth is supposedly attracted to light, and will follow the brightness into the homes.

We ate dinner at Stupa View, and from there could watch all the fireworks and candles in the street below. Groups of children went from business to business singing and dancing. We later learned that the children are participaing the moral equivalent of trick-or-treating. Anywhere they stop, the business owner and audience is expected to give them money and/or sweets.

After dinner we returned to our guesthouse. We had hoped to have dinner with UW, but she was feeling poorly. Happily, she was still awake, and feeling somewhat better by the time we returned. We chatted for a while, gave her some of our meds, confirmed contact info, and said our goodbyes.

We needed to catch a cab to our bus at 5:45AM. We wouldn't even expect a healthy friend to be up at that hour.

Day 148 - City of Beauty

Patan, a town about 13Kilometres from Kathmandu, is referred to on many maps by its Newari name, Laliput. Translated, Laliput means"City of Beauty". Though much of Patan's architecture has been obscurred by modern buildings and stores, the core of the old city remains largely intact. Built on traditional Newari lines of communal courtyards connected by narrow alleys, or even tunnels under and through buildings, Patan is a delicious maze. In any given courtyard, a visitor might find women doing laundry by the elaborately carved public well, rice drying in the sun, or children playing football (soccer), using shrines as their goalposts. Every courtyard contains at least one shrine, temple, or well, sometimes all three.

Among the most impressive are the Golden Temple and Durbar Square. The courtyard of the Golden Temple and monastery can be approached via two entrances. From one side, a dark tunnel leads off the lively communal square. From the other, two somewhat crudely carved stone lions guard a low entrance. Neither way in gives any hint of the bright courtyard, elaborate gold temple, and two-storey monastery only a few metres away.

Royal palaces of this region face out onto plazas containing shrines, temples, and businesses. These plazas are known as the Durbar Squares. Patan's Durbar Square contains the highest concentration of Newari architecture of anywhere in the valley. The shrines and temples are all elaborately carved with religious and political scenes. The oldest structure in the square is rumoured to be as old as 12th century, thought the first written record of its existence dates to the 14th. (There are older monuments in town, Durbar Square's are just the more famous). Perhaps the most interesting tale surrounding the sqaure regards the statue of the 17th century king Malla.

A golden statue of the king sits kneeling on a lotus bud, facing his palace. A cobra shades his head witha its hood, and a gold bird perches on the cobra. Legend has it that so long as the bird sits on the cobra, Malla might return. For this reason, one window and one door of the palace are always left open, and the king's favourite hookah kept prepared. The legend further states that on the day the bird flies off, the stone elephants guarding the Bhimsen Temple will stroll down the hiti (central well) for a drink.

Patan is an interesting synthesis of the old and the new, walking between the old squares, one can frequently be surprised by 17th century carved windows and roof struts looming over a very modern convenience store. There is similar dichotomy in the well-preserved traditional courtyards. Such courtyards in the west would be roped off, under glass, or taken in pieces to museums. Sometimes art thieves and dealers do succeed in taking pieces out of the country. I've seen chunks of them myself at the Met in NYC. In museums, they are dead relics - beautiful, but not particularly interesting or exciting. In their proper setting, as a vital, and integrated part of the city, they take on a new life. Rather than dead sculpture, these buildings and art are part of the people, and their day-to-day routines. The sculptures tell the tales that everyone knows, the steps are places to gather, to meet and discuss, even the wells, which in the West would be relics of a bygone age, are bright with the clothes and conversations of women washing there.

Diwali is sort of like a combination of Christmas and The Fourth of July. Everyone celebrates, whether they are Hindu or not. Our expat friends were no exception, and planned a big Diwali party at their gorgeous apartment. From Patan, we caught a cab back to Bouda. We had the driver drop us at the grocery, where we picked up some whiskey and sodas for said party, before heading back to our guesthouse to relax a little before the big night.

Soon, UW came by (technically it was her friends throwing the party, but we got to tag along), and we made our way over to yet another friend's house to visit the dog and take care of some last-minute coordinating. After scarfing down some delicious street samosas and special festival sweets, we all gathered on the balconies(yes balconies plural) of her friends apartment for drinks, cards, and commanding views over the city. There was a power outage (common in Kathmandu), which was good for all the fireworks and candles at each house, less than good for the party's rented speakers. Luckily the electricity came back just in time for the arrival of the rest of the guests, and a night of much merriment was ensured.

Most of the party's atendees were 19-22 year-olds from the local monastery's buddhism course - it has an exchange program with one of the Boston colleges. We sat in a corner sipping our drinks and chatting with whomever stopped by, but we couldn't help noticing a definite college vibe to the party. Just a year ago, I think I would have still felt right at home there, as there really isn't that much difference in being a student in a grad school or a student in University. Today, though I did have a good time, I felt distinctly out of place.

It was a little bittersweet realizing that I had outgrown that sort of party. I enjoyed them recently enough to remember how exciting they were, and feel a little sad at losing that simple thrill. On the other hand, I am all in favour of growing up, and the new and different thrills the future may hold.

Day 147 - Living in Bouda

In the past few posts, I have made the Freudian slip of writing, “We are living in Bouda”. I believe this slip stems from the fact that we are quickly establishing a routine, and spending a lot of time with people who do live here.

Today was no exception. I left our guesthouse early to collect our trekking clothes from the Laundromat. The guesthouse lies behind one of the monasteries and when the gates are open, cutting through the monastery grounds is a convenient shortcut to the main street. The gate was open today and I slipped through, with my daily nod and “namaste” to the security man posted there. Just past the gate a small room houses my favorite giant prayer wheel. An old man was lighting incense and just beginning to turn the wheel. I joined him, and together we got enough momentum to set the bell atop the wheel ringing.

From the prayer wheel, the walk through the monastery grounds passes the main temple complex and gardens, where the monks were going through their morning rituals and prayers. It being festival time (Diwali), today’s rituals involved much drumming, chanting, and blowing huge horns. (Like silver and brass versions of the alpine horns in Riccola ads)

Out the other side of the monastery I took the back path (another shortcut) to the Stupa, and walked Chora (the clockwise turn around the central structure). Everyday people walk Chora. Today was special because today is the day for honoring dogs. (Diwali is a 5-day festival in Nepal. Day 1 honors crows. Day 2 Dogs. Day 3 is the festival of light for Laksmi. Day 4 honors bulls, and Day 5 is the brother-sister day, when sisters give their brothers fruit and sweets, and the brothers give their sisters money gifts.) Dog Day meant that many people walking chora this morning had their dogs with them, and that the dogs had tikkas on their foreheads and white silk scarves and marigold garlands around their necks. Taking the Bouda gate exit off of the stupa courtyard, I wove my way through the traffic and honking horns to the cleaners, collected my laundry, and made for home.

I decided to take the slightly longer route back, via Little Britain to see if anyone I knew was there. There wasn’t yet, so I continued home, dropped off the laundry and met Cz and UW. We all took the route back through the monastery where Cz took a great photo of the elaborately painted main hall.

After that brief detour, we headed over to Little Britain. Where we were all greeted by name, and where none of us had to look at the menu to decide what we wanted.

We spent the rest of the day internetting and puttering around Bouda. Part of the putter was a late lunch in the momo hole. It was near enough to closing that we had the place nearly to ourselves (just a monk and a Tibetan grandma besides us), and were able to sit right next to the momo-making action. Our attention was pretty evenly divided between the passersby outside, and the momo chefs inside.

The little hallway, and area where the ladies are cooking is the sum-total of the momo hole. Everyone who wants momos crams in and sits on the narrow wooden benches, or stoops in the hall. There is no sign above the door. Everyone here has been sent by someone else. And it is nearly always packed.

So, as you can see, we didn’t do much today except run little errands, eat, and putter. One perk of long-term travel is feeling free from the requirement to do or see something absolutely every day. Sometimes the best days are simply spent being somewhere and feeling like a local.