I have many more experiences to write about, but I am one hour away from leaving India.  Outside it is pouring rain, the first rain of my visit.   I don’t want to leave without posting a few words of thanks.   There is an old saying that a journey of 10,000 miles begins with the first step.  In my case that first step was working with many individuals to gain the knowledge, confidence and permission to go on this trip.  I know I am leaving people out, it is unintentional, I am sorry if I have left someone out.

 

First I am grateful for Bob and Jim for authorizing this trip.  Without a business purpose I would not have been here.

 

At the first vendor I visited:  Bhaskar, Syamil and Subrata for being the perfect hosts.  You paid attention to every detail and addressed every need and question.  

 

The original Kolkata team: Subrata, Sabyasachi, Anabik, Soumen, Prosenjit, Samadarsi, Anup and Manas.  You guys are the brainpower that drives our group.  Your hard work shows in every success we have.

 

The Noida team:  Kamlesh, Avinash and Som.   I had a great time working with you and I was amazed how much stronger our relationship grew in 3 short days.   Thanks also to Sanjeev for running a great team and for Sudakar for all the advice and information.

 

The new team I setup in Kolkata:  Radhakrishnan, Abu, Samik, Sandeep and Harish.  I have been very impressed by your energy and enthusiasm.   I look forward to working close with you in the future.

 

Thanks to Sathish and Sriram in Chennai for all of your help in building this team.

 

To my good friends and colleagues in Woodland Hills:  Thanks for all of your interest in my trip and much more importantly for your hard work in my absence.  Thanks to Travlin for running the show while I was away.

 

In particular I need to thank Arnab for the immense amount of information that you have shared with me.  Your patient explanations and suggestions of all things India have made this trip the success that it was.  I am also very grateful for your long hours and expertise on our team. A tin of Rosogulla is nowhere close in value to all of your help, especially when I bought the sweets in Chennai.

 

Jyoti and Samadarsi:  Orissa, and particularly Puri, Konark and Bhubaneswar were so much better with good friends and knowledgeable guides.   I can’t wait for the opportunity to host you in my country and return the favor.

 

 LeAnn and Paul on the train back from Agra: The 2 hour long train journey that took 5.   What a great way to spend an evening.  Thank you for sharing your spirituality with me.  May God bless you in your labors, best of luck in your missionary work and music.

 

There are several nameless individuals that have made a permanent impact on my throughout this journey:

 

The man in Siliguri that suggested I move to the front of the train ticket line.  That was the one time I lost control in India, and you immediately made me feel like a fool for loosing control, but that I was valued as a guest.  I can still here him say to me “India is our country, you are our guest, please..”

 

The people I met on the beach in Pondicherry.   Any time I feel that I am in a bad situation I will remember the heartache that you wore so visibly.

 

The “woman in the blue sari”:  Thank you for allowing me to feel a bit of your reality.  You have permanently changed the way I view poverty and homelessness.

 

Thanks to all the honest cab drivers and shopkeepers in India.  Knowing that there are people of integrity in your ranks kept me from losing hope that I meant more on the streets of India than the contents of my wallet.

 

Thanks to everyone who has read this website.  Knowing that there were a few readers has fueled my desire to share my experiences.  Putting these experiences into words has given much more meaning to my travels and perceptions.

 

There are a lot of friends in Gilbert Arizona who have helped my family in my absence.  I don’t know many of the details but I and Amy are very grateful to have such good friends

 

Josh, Ian, Sarah and Abby put up with my absence far too often.   I miss them terribly and can’t wait to experience India with them.

 

Nothing I have accomplished or experienced would be possible without the love and support of my wife Amy.   I can’t come up with words to describe how much I appreciate her.

 

Rounding the corner at the end of Nehru Street, my destination was a store that maintained a set of phones.  Next to this phone store was a food counter.  Standing near the food counter was a woman in a dirty blue sari.   She was watching me approach.  I steeled myself to resist her begging.  I had to walk right up to her to get in the door.  I did so, took my sandals off and reached to open the door, as I did she just looked at me and smiled. I talked to Amy on the phone for about 15 minutes and then headed for the hotel.  The time was about 11:30, later than I had stayed out and probably not the safest thing to be doing, but I am more comfortable being out late in Pondy than I am in the US.   Putting my sandals on, I started across the street, the hotel being on the outside of the road forming the ring around Pondy.   Crossing streets in India is tricky, even late at night.   I got stranded in the middle of the street as a bunch of cars raced around a corner.   As I was waiting for an opportunity to cross the second half I noticed that I was now heading directly for a group of women holding babies, including the woman I had noticed earlier.   As I crossed the street the women surrounded me with hands outstretched.   My focus landed on the infants sleeping undisturbed in the woman’s arms as they swarmed around me.   I had accumulated a bunch of 1 or 2 rupee coins throughout the day.    Further deviating from my no money to beggars promise, I dropped one coin in each woman’s hand.   I noticed at this point that the woman I had seen earlier was not among the beggars.  She had sat down in the street next to a sleeping girl, another baby in her arms.   I walked on to the hotel.

 

Back in my room, I opened the bag of sweets I had been carrying.   I didn’t feel much like eating them anymore.   I closed the bag, tried to wash some of the grit of the day and went to bed.    I couldn’t stop thinking about the women on the street.   Where they from a scheduled-caste of beggars, where they from successful middle-class families but had fallen on misfortune?   My thoughts were evenly divided between curiosity and empathy.

 

I just couldn’t sleep.    Getting dressed again, I grabbed the bag of sweets and left the hotel.  As I walked out onto the street my watch indicated the time was 12:00 midnight.

 

I walked up the street.  The women were sitting on the sidewalk.   My purposeful stride and the late hour must have caught them by surprise.  They remained sitting as I walked right into the middle of the group and handed the bag of sweets to the woman whom I had first noticed, the one who hadn’t asked anything of me.

 

Then I sat down in the dirt.  The sidewalk was covered in black sooty grime, the same color as the slimy sewage that seeped by in the ditch a few feet away.

 

As soon as I sat down the women sprang to action, placing a baby in my arms.   My own daughter Abby would have been fussing and screaming with all this commotion.  The first baby just kept sleeping.  I had the feeling that this was more a factor of health or nutrition than a peaceful demeanor.   After a few minutes I handed the first child back.  The woman who I had given the sweets to now handed me her younger child, a boy.   Her daughter slept between the two of us.   She was lying on a multi-colored sheet but her head had moved off and was on the raw dirt.   The woman started to shake her awake but I stopped her.  

 

As I held her baby I asked her a single word question: “Why?”

 

She understood.  With the help of another woman she explained that she had married at 17 and when she was 20 her husband left her.   She was 23 now.  She had no idea where he was.  She showed me a leather strand, about the thickness of a shoelace, around her neck, an evident symbol of her status as a married woman.  

 

I asked if she had lived in a home, she had.   Husband gone, she lost the home.

 

Were the other women in this group her family?  No.  But they helped each other out.   They would watch each others kids while taking a shift begging.  They would get about 25 rupees per day.  60 cents.

 

The hopelessness of their situation was apparent to me.  It pulled on my shoulders like a heavy weight.   My work and educational training is essentially centered on solving problems.   I could see no solution to this problem.   For the 10 minutes that I sat there taking turns holding babies I lost the impulse to find a solution to their problem.  But I decided that I could no longer withhold money from a woman asking for help to feed her family.  I would continue to refuse to give money to children, my part of an attempt to break the cycle.  Otherwise I would take each supplicant on a case-by-case basis, with a goal of giving as much as I could.

 

I don’t know why the woman in the blue sari had never asked anything of me.   Maybe it was the icy indifference of my face, initially steeled to oppose her request.  Maybe the dignity of an earlier time had resurfaced.  I don’t know, but her resolve and poise marked a change in my attitudes.   Being part of the group in India that have the money, the jobs and the future provides a certain filtered perspective on the problem of the hopelessly poor that probably appears aloof and distant to the poor.

 

Sitting in the dirt in the middle of the night, with rats and cockroaches scurrying around the sleeping children gives you an entirely different perspective.   I felt connected to them in a “there but for misfortune go I” type of sentiment.   What if it was Sarah sleeping in the dirt, with Abby too malnourished to cry in my arms?

 

I tried to summon the guts to hand them my hotel room key, explain which hotel, explain how to get to room 305, instruct them to return tomorrow, I would be here, taking their place sleeping in the dirt.  Couldn’t do it.

 

Instead I returned to my room.  It was too much for me to comprehend how so many people could get in this situation and have no possible way out.  

My last night in Pondicherry was destined to be an eventful one, literally.   It was a full moon and evidently the Hindu astrologers had noted that this was an important and valuable date for taking the idols out of the temples and immersing them in the sea.  I returned my motorcycle to the rental shop at 8:30 PM.  The shop is near one of the temples and there was lots of loud bell ringing, drumming and trumpeting in the air nearby.   Walking over to see what the commotion was I found a throng of people following a cart carrying a statue of one of the gods.   There was a young brahmin on the cart dressed only in a dhoti.  He was accepting offerings from the crowd and them handing them a brass plate that had a flame burning in the center of it.  People would gather their hands together through the smoke and flame of this fire and then bring their hands together in front of their face.   It was impressive to see this whole event happening without any real sense of civic coordination.  The people knew what to do, as if this event had been held regularly for 1000+ years, which it probably has.  

I followed this slow moving procession for a while, before noticing a similar procession heading down a side street.  As I briskly walked through the streets I found about 10 different processions, all making their way through the city in a seemingly random route.

I am not sure which god these are, maybe one of you can tell me.  

The whole evening was pretty surreal.  The air had a certain electricity to it, the crowds were even more friendly than usual and there was no annoying people trying to get me to buy trinkets anywhere near these processions.   I had missed the part where the dip the statues in the ocean, but watching these events gave me another dimension to my understanding of the Hindu faith.

The processions winding down, I realized that I was pretty hungry, and had wanted to try out one of the nicer restaurants in town on my last night.   It was on the far side of town, so after a long march through the empty streets of the French Quarter I arrived at Seagulls for a surprisingly lacklustre dinner.   But the view of the ocean at moonrise made up for the food.

Short time lapse of the moon over the Bay of Bengal.

I was on the opposite side of the city from my hotel, it was nearing 10 PM.   I started the long walk back and stopped at a store selling sweets that was jammed with nearly 100 people.  As I walked in the store another customer motioned for the manager to greet me.  He walked me down the length of the counter offering samples of different sweets.  At one point he described how a fruit cake would last for up to 90 days.  I contemplated trying to explain how the fact that not even bacteria would take to fruit cake was not a desirable feature, and that this "delicacy" has a bad reputation in America, but in the end I bought a small piece.  I figured I could use it if anyone asked for a gift from India.

I left the sweet shop with 450 rupee worth of sweets at about 10:30 PM.  The first of the cookies I ate reminded me again of the sweet snack I had been given on the ride up to Gangtok.  It didn't taste bad, but it wasn't the best tasting.  Walking up Nehru Street I was accosted for about the 10th time by a little boy who had asked me daily for money.   I have a strict policy about not giving money to kids, but I did reward his persistence with a cookie.   I think at that moment the gods, newly refreshed in the ocean on the auspicous night of the full moon decided that I needed an entirely different perspective on India.  I thought I was 10 minutes from calling it a day, but little did I know that one strongest experiences in India was just around the corner on Anna Salai Street.  More on that later. 

Part 1
Prior to coming to India, I had talked about spending a week working on tsunami relief efforts.  This week was supposed to be that week.  After emails to numerous aid organizations I found that the government of India has taken responsibility for relief efforts.   Without a clearly defined mission I decided that I would simply spend time in Pondicherry (Pondy) instead.

While planning that week I came across articles about how survivors just down the coast in Cuddalore were angry at “tsunami tourism” where people come to devastated areas and take photos and then leave.   I decided that I would not have anything to do with that and for my “Beach Day” in Pondy I would find an isolated beach and spend my day reading V.S. Naipaul’s “India: A Million Mutinies” and swimming in the ocean.

I rented a bicycle and headed north on the East Coast Road.  After 5 kilometers I found a sign that pointed to a private beach at an Ayruvedic Massage Center.  I coasted down the narrow road indicated and came to a small grove of trees, the ocean and an open expanse of beach visible in the near distance.   Pushing my bike through the trees I could see people off to my left.  As I walked on I stopped between two piles of large bricks.  In the sand were some more of these bricks arranged in a tight rectangular pattern.  I instantly realized that these were the foundations of homes and the piles of bricks were created by the tsunami when it leveled the homes.   In a flash I knew, without a doubt, that people had died on the spot that I now stood.   As I looked up to leave a man approached me and said “What you want?”   His tone was not friendly or inviting.   I replied “Beach” while pointing to the open beach behind him.   He said “Go far over” and turned to leave.   I agreed with him and went to the middle of the expanse, equidistant between the little villages on each side.

In my mind I resolved to write no more about the tsunami other than what I mentioned above, that I would take no photos since there was nothing constructive to add, I would leave it at that.

I stayed on the beach only for an hour.   I had not brought enough water to endure the 90 degree heat, and I realized that the beach served as the communal restroom for the village, both factors urged me to move on in search of even more isolation.

Part 2
Moving another 14 kilometers up the coast highway I found an open stretch of beach that looked totally uninhabited.   Riding and walking down a dirt path I arrived at a patch of palm trees.   The day was impossibly hot.  Stopping in the shade of a palm, I rolled out the small rug I had bought in Puri and laid down, intent to sleep through the mid-day heat after my long bike ride.  

My nap lasted about 30 minutes.  Three women woke me up by saying “Sir, Sir”.   They were standing right over me and startled me, causing them much laughter.   They were motioning at my water bottle.   On the ride up to this location I had bought a new liter bottle.  I handed it over and they each took a long drink, leaving me with the amount of water that had forced my first beach retreat.   As I have learned to say in India “Oh well”.   They thanked me and moved on.

I returned to sleep and was awoken 30 minutes later by goats.   Turns out this was not an uninhabited beach after all.   The goats were tended by a young girl who came and sat down near me.   She didn’t seem to want anything, but I offered her water.    After a few minutes I showed her my camera and asked if I could take her picture.  Though she spoke no English, and I spoke no Tamil we understood each other.  I snapped her picture and showed it to her in the screen of the camera.   She was delighted with it and ran off after a few minutes.  

She returned with her younger sister.

I had nothing else to give them except music.   I gave each of them an earpiece of my iPod and queued up some Grateful Dead, thinking that would be more appealing than punk or Pink Floyd.   They sat in joyous captivity.   I got out my book and started to read.

A man appeared shortly and motioned happily at the girls.  Through rough sign-language and limited English I understood that they were his daughters.  

The man went on to explain that his wife and son were killed in the tsunami.    He explained that he and his daughters were farther inland, near the road when it hit and were spared by hanging on to a tree.   He said that 21 people along this single stretch of beach were killed.   The bodies washed ashore for days afterwards.  Three days later he recovered the body of his wife.   He never found his son.

He went on to explain that the government of India had given him 2,500 rupee.   The boat on the shore was his, but he could not afford to buy nets, which cost much more than that.   His home had been destroyed.  He now lived in a small grass hut, no more than 4 feet tall and 6 feet across, visible in the distance.   He said he had no money, but that was OK, since no amount of money could bring back his family.   I nodded and turned to leave.   At first all I offered him was “Good Luck”, but a few paces later I called out to him.  Reaching for my wallet I gave him all I had, 500 rupee.   He thanked me repeatedly and then left.

As I started to pack up, my “Beach Day” no longer seeming interesting or appropriate, thee more men walked up to me.   They told me similar stories of wives killed, children missing and lives devastated.   They must have found out of my gift to the other man and were obviously hoping for something similar.  I rummaged through my bag and found a $5 US bill.  I explained that it was worth about 200 rupee if they took it to a Bank of India.   I gave them the last of my water and the Cliff bar from my bag.   One of the men opened a canvas bag he was carrying.  It was filled with a couple dozen small crawdad type animals.    He explained that this was their subsistence, roaming the beach for these small creatures.   He invited me to eat with them.   I was amazed that people having so little would offer me some of their food.  I indicated I was not hungry.   Raising my hands between theirs to tear filled eyes, they repeatedly thanked me and turned to leave.

I also turned quickly to leave.   The road back to Pondy was very hot, not having any water or money made for a sunburned heat stroked ride.   I thought no complaints though, having nothing to complain about in comparison to those I had just left.

Last night in Pondy there were fireworks sounding off at wedding celebrations.  Shops were open and the city was busy.    The next morning as I write this, processions of grooms from the weddings are making their way past the hotel in noisy processions, on the way to the home of their new bride, ready to start a new life together.

Life goes on, but somehow along this coast and beyond I get the sense that it probably will not be the same as before the tsunami.

If you have not donated to tsunami relief please do so.  If you can give more please do so.  I don’t have a recommendation of what organization should receive your contributions, but suggest you research organizations that are giving loans and grants to coastal fishermen to replace their boats and nets.   

I hate to compress three days into one post, but I am days behind in my posting, and the memory of certain details is fading.

Journey to Orissa
I left Siliguri by plane, flying to Kolkata on the wonderful Jet Airways.   I strongly recommend them for flying around India.   Landing in Kolkata, I purchased a ticket at the prepaid taxi stand for a ride the Hyatt.  They had omitted a page from my receipt the week before and I needed that to get reimbursed.   As I left the prepaid stand, the cashier told me “Find taxi 4116”.  As I walked out the door of the terminal, a man came up and said “What taxi number”, to which I replied “4116”.    There is a sucker born every day, reborn in my case.   He said that was him and took the luggage cart and pushed it to taxi 4116, which had a driver in it.  He turned to me and said “50 rupee”.   I seriously considered punching him, yelled at him and then got in the taxi.   I gave him 20 rupee and told the taxi driver to go.  When the taxi driver hesitated I started to get out.  He then finally started moving.

After stopping at the Hyatt I decided that my most pressing need was to get currency.   Not happy with the exchange rates in Gangtok, I headed off by taxi for the American Express office, which according the guidebook was on Old Courthouse Road, just south of BBD Bagh.   In a rush against time (it was almost 5:00 PM) I got out of the taxi near the Amex office.  I was down to 100 rupee, not even enough for the cab fare to the train station.  Turns out the office has moved, to a location a mile away.     Not wanting to use my last rupees, I headed off of foot for Park Street.   Loaded with heavy baggage in the heat and stifling pollution of downtown Kolkata, I was soon drenched in sweat.   Finally, as 5:30 came I started hailing cabs, but none of them could understand where I wanted to go.   Getting really nervous about time I finally found someone who understood.  

Park Street should not be pronounced with an emphasis on the “k”, it should be pronounced “Park-a” as is you were describing the parka that keeps you warm.   The seemed to work with the autorickshaw driver.  For reasons I cannot fathom though, he turned down Royd street, a one way road that runs near parallel to Park.  It was a one way, so he couldn’t turn around.  He took me to the next intersection where I then had to walk quite a ways further to the Amex office.   There was a guard standing at the door, looking like he was preparing to lock the door.   I pushed my way inside and said “You are open”.  There was not much questioning in my voice.  The time was 5:55.   He said “Yes, until 6:00”.    I finally unloaded some US currency and travelers checks, at a rate only 1 rupee better than Gangtok and was on my way.

Howrah Station at night, as seen from the balcony of the waiting rooms.

The train to Bhubaneswar was uneventful.  The best part was being met by Manas at the terminal to see me off.   The guys in Kolkata have gone out of their way to take good care of me.  Manas had checked the charts and verified my seat and talked to me until just before the train left.   When traveling it is nice to see a friendly face.

The man sharing my cabin didn’t talk to me except to point out that I had dropped my ticket.   That was fine, I couldn’t expect to have great conversations every trip.

Day 1
I arrived at the train station at 6:00 AM.  Jyoti met me and we headed for a hotel near the station.  I relaxed for a few hours and then we took off for Khandagiri and Udayagiri Caves.   These cave complexes are on adjoining hilltops north-west of Bhubaneswar.   The caves were carved centuries ago and still have vividly detailed sculptures in many places.

A whole tribe of monkeys lived on the two hills, sustained by a steady stream of gifts from the visitors.  They were quite clear in their expectation of food from me.

 

Khadagiri also had caves with a Jain temple on the top.   We took off our shoes, paid a 1 rupee entry fee, which included having our feet sprayed with water (the day was so hot I thought about going back a second time just for the cool water).  

This is not Berchtesgarten.  The swastika is a holy symbol to Hindus and Buddhists.  Talk to them about it and they either don't realize its use by the Nazi's or are quite upset that such a valuable and meaningful symbol was misappropriated.

In India, the elephant is associated with the god Ganesh.

 

After this we had a great lunch back in Bhubaneswar and then headed to the local zoo.   This was an interesting experience and quite different from my solitary roaming of the zoo in Gangtok.   There were throngs of people wandering along the pathways.  A majority of the cages had no sign to indicate what was contained inside.  There were only a few interpretive signs.   It seemed to me that there was evidently no need for a sign at the tiger pits, because everyone knew it was a tiger.    It would be a good project for students to collaborate with the zoo in making signs that explained the habitat, behavior and risks to the various animals.    As it were, my guidebook was correct.  People at the zoo were hissing, spitting and throwing rocks at the animals in an attempt to arouse activity, or to take out their own frustrations.   The animals had long ago become conditioned to ignore these idiots.

So many signs in India have a different meaning in US English.  Just in case, I made sure to be on my best behavior so that I wouldn't have to go to the sit out.

A life of captivity enduring the slings and arrows of an outrageous fortune.

A better view of a Himalayan Black than I had in Gangtok.

Unlike most U.S. zoos, at evening time they bring out the animals and parade them through the streets.  I wish they would have brought out the tigers for a revenge feeding on some of the other visitors.

 

 

The zoo adjoined a lake, which had some dilapidated boats that did not look capable of holding afloat more than their own weight.

We left the zoo and took an auto tour of Cuttack, Jyoti’s home town.

Day 2 Konark and Puri
I was delighted to have Samadarsi join us for the day.  He had taken the train down the night before.  He grew up in Puri and knows the area really well.   He had also impressed me with his strong knowledge of Hinduism when we had talked in Kolkata.  He and Jyoti proved to be a great set of guides.

Dhauliguri

There is a Hindu temple behing the white Buddhist temple.  There I was given the red dot, and asked to pay a couple rupee for it.  One of the officials in the temple also puts his hands on my head and pronounced a prayer on my behalf.  I'll take all the help I can get.

One the way to Konark we stopped at Dhauliguri, the location of the Dhauli temple.  This temple is a Buddhist temple that is built on the site that the emperor Ashoka is said to have adopted Buddhism after a dreadful battle where thousands lost their lives.

In my planning for India there were three must-see places.  The Taj Mahal, Konark and the Himalayas.   One down, one to go.   Konark was an incredible monument.   The temple was almost totally covered in exquisitely detailed sculpture.

The lower levels of the temple were devoted to sculptural representations of the Kama Sutra.   I won’t post any close-up photos, the sculptures were very detailed, even after 700 years.  We hired a guide to walk us around.  He was perfunctorily detailed about each section; “here we see a man and a woman….”   Yes, thanks that didn’t require explanation.  

The temple is in the form of a giant chariot.  There are seven horses pulling the chariot.

These boys were insistent that I take their picture.

 

Next stop was Puri.  We headed down the road until I came to the beach.    Impulsively I got out of the car, and walked right down to the edge.  Kicking off my sandals, I walked into the water.   I have now touched the waters of three oceans.   Not bad for a country boy from Utah.

Continuing into Puri, we inched through crowded streets towards the main temple,  the Lord Jagannath Temple.   This temple is one of the four main Holy Centers or Dhamas of India.  I paid a 100 rupee “donation” to the library across the street from the temple to be able to go to their roof balcony and see into the temple.  Jyoti and Samadarsi each went into the temple.

The Jaggannath Temple comples in Puri.

Washing prior to entering the temple.

Main Street, Puri, Orissa.  After Calcutta, this doesn't seem to crowded to me.

At the park in Puri I tried to be an art photographer.  Didn't work out, I couldn't hold the camera still enough to complete the low light exposure of the Gandhi statue with the moon in the background.

On the way back to Bhubaneswar we stopped at a Dhaba, or roadside restaurant.  These are mainly frequented by truck drivers.  We sat outside on a patio, with crickets chirping in the distance.  If there had been catfish on the menu I would have easily believed we were in the Lousiana bayou.  Instead, I had chicken khorma.  Khorma is a sauce made from ground coconut.  It was great.   So far in India the only food related sickness is a little discomfort from the spices.  No food poisoning.

 

After the temple visit we went to a beach in Puri and then went around the town meeting friends of Samadarsi.   I shopped in the silver store of one of these friends while Jyoti and Samadarsi returned to the temple.

Day 3 – Chilika Lake
We departed early for the vast Chilika Lake.  This lake is an inland estuary off the Bay of Bengal.   After a long drive we arrived at a government tourist facility and had a quick lunch.  We then got on a boat and went on a tour of the lake.

Fishing boats working the lake.

Other tourists on the boat.

In true Indian fashion, people were on the roof.  Jyoti is in the middle.   And yes, I indulged in the tradion myself and rode on teh roof for about 30 minutes.  I decided this would be the safest vehicle with which to claim the priviledge.  We were actually stuck in mud in the middle of the lake at the time.

Jyoti Ranjan Dash.

Indiana Jones Proof that I was on the roof.

We approached an enchanted island.

The tour boat not operated by the government.  I wouldn't recommend it.

After the lake we returned to Bhubaneswar and visited a park in the city.  Jyoti is engaged to be married to Julie, my trip to Bhubaneswar was to attend his wedding.   Unfortunately, it was postponed due to a recent death in Julie’s family.   I spent the time in the park peppering Jyoti with questions about how his marriage with Julie was arranged, what the details of the ceremony would be and how he felt about the arrangement.   Coming from the west, where parents are given no say in who marries whom, the idea of an arranged marriage is kind of odd.   But talking to Jyoti and hearing how he has put his faith in the concept and more importantly how he has already formed a strong bond with Julie, you get an idea of why this practice has worked well over the centuries.  

It was sad to leave Jyoti at the station.  I am not sure when we will see each other next.  He has been transferred off my team and is planning on taking an assignment in Britain in a couple of weeks.

The Train to Chennai
I got on the chain to Chennai.  Once again there was only 1 other passenger in my cabin.  We immediately started talking.  Turns out he is a Commodore in the Indian Navy.  Moreover, he has spent the last six years managing software development projects for the Navy.  I hit the jackpot for good train conversations.  I wanted to talk about ships and fleet deployments and what ships India was buying from Russia, he wanted to talk about software development.   Even though I was on vacation, I returned to work related thoughts and he did likewise.  We talked for a couple of hours until we were both so exhausted that we were falling asleep mid-sentence.

He got off the train 3 hours later, at 4:00 AM at Vishakpattanam, site of the Eastern Fleet Headquaters.  For the next 13 hours I had the cabin to myself, a very relaxing solitary confinement.

 

 

26 hours after leaving Jyoti in Bhubaneswar, I arrived in Pondicherry.

I came to India with three sightseeing goals:  The Taj Mahal, Konark and the Himalayas.  Gangtok was overcast the entire time I was there, forcing me to accept that the few fleeting glimpses of snow were going to be all that I would see.  Kanchenzonga was proving to be a shy hostess.   Resigned as I was to not accomplishing my goal, I awoke early Thursday morning for what was going to be an inevitably long day going back to Siliguri, flying to Kolkata and then taking an overnight train to Bhubaneswar.   I awoke at 5:00 AM to finish packing, too exhausted the day before to even really start packing.  What little effort I could exert on Wednesday evening was spent on a load of laundry in the bathtub.  I had forgotten to send out laundry the previous morning.   That laundry was set out to dry over the small space heater in my room, casting a glaze of steam across the mirrors and windows in the room.   Bending over and carefully hoisting my pack I noticed an unfamiliar glow coming in through the window at first light.    The view out the window the prior day only yielded the slopes across the valley from Gangtok.  Flinging the windows open I finally saw Kanchenzonga.    She was not shy, just mischievous, but benevolent enough grant my wish at the last possible moment.

Five minutes were spent at the window, soaking in each detail of the view.    Finally, regretfully turning to leave, I started the long march down the empty morning streets of Gangtok to the Jeep stand.   My legs were aching and throbbing with each step, the result of my long hike the day before.  With the added weight of the backpack, each step seemed to stiffen my resolve to stay in Gangtok for a few more days, but I had a friend to meet in Bhubaneswar.

The jeep stand was more awake than the rest of Gangtok.  I arranged for passage to Siliguri and went to the jeep for the expected wait for the rest of the seats to fill.  After a few minutes a large crowd of Indian tourists started loading their luggage on the jeep.  Things were going better than expected, until a driver of another jeep drove up started talking to the tourists.  He must have offered a better deal.  The tourists unloaded their luggage from my jeep and started getting in the other jeep.   Realizing that this group was my best hope for getting out of Gangtok in the next hour, I started talking and gesturing for them to stay in this jeep, not having much to pitch since they were exactly the same vehicle.  After failing at that, the driver of my jeep motioned for me to get in.   Angrily lighting a cigarette, he started his jeep and roared out of the jeep stand, just the two of us.   I said “You will go with just one passenger?  I can wait a little longer.”  He shrugged and continued driving.   I guess he realized that on a Thursday morning his best bet might be to meet the morning trains from Kolkata and bring tourists up.   

I also realized that his plan was to pick up some passengers on the way down.   At each occurrence of someone on the side of the road with a bag, suitcase or no apparent goal for the day, we would pull over and he would make his pitch.   Feeling a sense of duty to help him out, I started joining in.  I would lean out the window and shout “Shilly-Gurry, come on, get in”.   This produced more laughs than results, but I felt that I was at least doing my part.  In the end we added 4 men.

Once outside of Gangtok proper, the drivers intent changed.  From focusing on finding passengers he shifted the diesel engine into high gear and started racing down the Teesta valley.   The winding roads filled with traffic and potholes, and lacking barriers in many places had seemed so terrifying on the way up to Gangtok.  Now, it seemed that some Buddhist tranquility had washed over me, because instead of terror, I was filled with delight at the dangerous race I was witnessing.  The Maharasta Motors jeep seemed to be a licensed clone of an Isuzu Trooper.   Its diesel engine was roaring even on the steep downhill slope.  The driver would deftly work the clutch and the gears as he maneuvered around the slower vehicles in front of him.   I imagine the view from the side of the road as we approached and quickly passed would have been identical to watching the Paris-Dakar Road Rally.   We were not passed by a single vehicle the entire drive down.   I estimate that we passed well over 150 vehicles in the 130 km race.   According the guidebook the drive takes 3-4 hours, we did it in 2.5.

Along the way were cheerful and quirky messages put up by the highway department:  “Married?  Divorce Speed”, “Treat my curves softly”, “Enjoy the valley, this isn’t a rally”, and “Faster equals Disaster”. 

Stopping at the border town of Rangpo, I headed off to get my passport stamped while the driver refueled.   On returning there was a new passenger sitting in the middle, between me and the driver.  Unfazed I climbed in beside him and slammed the door as we took off.  This man promptly fell fast asleep, his head flopping over on my shoulder with each turn to the right, and then back towards the driver with each reciprocal turn to the left.

Even though driving down a narrow dangerous mountain road at the very un-India like speed of 70 kph, I was very comfortable and relaxed and able to spend time thinking about the differences between Gangtok and Kolkata.     Apart from size, the two cities offer a stark contrast to each other.  Each seem deeply rooted in their predominant religions.   Gangtok, perched on the edge of a steep mountain has tall thin buildings reaching up like tall pine trees.  Flags flutter from every place likely to catch a breeze.  I have only seen a few pictures of Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, but it looks very similar to Gangtok.   Especially in the views looking down from above the city, with the monastery at the top of the hill, Gangtok seems like a city built in a Tibetan Buddhist style.

Kolkata on the other hand, only 300+ years old seems like it exists to bear witness to the ability of Lord Krishna to take many incarnations.  You can easily see evidence of the early first incarnation of British colonial planning, followed be early 1900’s attempts at becoming a modern city.   In so many places, such as the boat house I photographed on my second day in the city, that there was a rush of exuberant energy after independence that has proven to be too much for the country to sustain or maintain.   Lastly, you see a truly modern city emerging from the chaos of previous versions.  Especially to the east there are new cities growing up in the marshlands towards Bangladesh.   It seems the temple cities of Puri and Bhubaneswar fit this same pattern, reflecting a Hindu order trying to make sense out of the chaos of a British trading post turned into metropolis. 

In the jeep on the way down from Gangtok I wear my winter coat and hiking boots.  As we descend lower and lower it gets progressively warmer.   Bursting out of the canyons we roar across the Ganga plains, leaving the cold breezes blowing through thousands of prayer flags.  My coat becomes heavy and hot, my thoughts turn from the austerity of the monastery with its chanting, drumming music to the land of the durga, the temples with their own variety of chanting and drumming.   There are so many parallels to be found in this country.  The influence of these two religions appears to me to be so fundamentally rooted that I can’t imagine India without picturing the two different but intertwined faiths.

I look over at my driver as he deftly works the gears, calmly purring the diesel engine past school children, rickshaws and lorries.  Is he the enlightened Bodhisattva driving along the eightfold path or is he an incarnation of Shiva the destroyer, roaring down from the heights of Kailisha in his white bull jeep?  Like the rest of India, he is probably an intertwined mix of both.

   At the start of my second full day in Gangtok I realized that I would again not get to see Kanchenzonga.  Even though I new it was pointless, I hired a taxi to take me out to Tashi Viewpoint, about 8 km away and a great place to view the peaks, weather permitting.

I thought this would be the best view of the Himalayas I would get.

See nothing more than the clouds I had photographed the previous day I returned to Gangtok.  Looking back on my previous posts, I am bemused at how much more comfortable in India I am now than even a week prior.  The cabbie stopped and picked up a friend, then took a second hire, a woman going to work, and then stopped for a quick "break".   When the woman asked to be let off, the driver told her that I was paying the fare.  None of this bothered me as it would have in Kolkata.

I asked the driver to take drop me off at Enchey Monastery, for lack of anywhere else to go.  As he dropped me off I decided to have a "Henry David Thoreau Day", many of my days adopting themes.   Thoreau was a naturalist and author that lived in the woods of Walden Massachusets in the early 1800's.   He would go on long roaming walks through the forest, documenting in a journal the things he observed along the way.  Having 2 cliff bars in the pocket of my jacket, my camera, GPS and purchasing a water at Enchey, I was ready.  My only goal was to be back between the onset of darkness and 10 PM.  

Since the prior morning I had not entered the monastery, I decided this time to wait and go inside.   The guidebook said it opened at 8:30 AM.  That time came and passed with no noticeable change at the gate.  At 8:40 I asked if I could enter.  They said yes and I walked up the flag draped walkway towards the central compound.  At this compound there was a school, with young boys chanting their lessons in rote fashion.   Across the courtyard was a temple.  I stopped in front of the entry and looked inside.  In the temple was a large golden statue of the Buddha.  Several monks were seated alongside the approach to the statue.   There was a loud sound of chanting and drums coming from inside.   I observed this for several minutes before leaving the monastery.  I had an interest in entering, but I was not certain of the protocol, and there was nobody to ask.

The communications tower, observed from near the gates of Enchey

Enchey sits on top of a ridge above Gangtok.  I decided to start my walk be dropping down a narrow road on the other side of the ridge.   I passed through narrow streets, houses on each side.  Most houses had some form of shop on the first floor and living areas above.  If there was no shop then there was usually a garage on the first floor.

I kept walking around this valley for about 6 km, past lines of children heading for school.  Most of them would say "Hello" or "Hi" and give me a friendly wave.  The mothers that were accompanying some of them regarded me with a bit more caution.

Gangtok is on the other side of this ridge.  Enchey Monastery is in the woods at the top left of the ridge.  My walk started by winding down through the houses pictured.

I had registered 5200 ft elevation in Gangtok.   Before long I passed 6000 feet.

The view to the southeast through the morning haze.

Looping back around to a higher spot on the ridge above town, I was rewarded with an even better view.

Along the ridge above was a tourist overlook, decked out in prayer flags.   It was a surreal experience to come around the corner and see this.

Climing to the top I was able to get another view of Gangtok.

Gangtok proper is on the right side of the ridge, my starting point was to the left of the large reddish building along the top of the ridge.

Across from the viewpoint there was a zoo.  This proved to be an interesting path to take.  The entry cost 30 rupee, not much, although before I could buy a ticket the gatekeeper walked me out to a couple of signs.  The first explained that the zoo was managed on principles of large enclosures, so I might not get to see an animal, if not please come again.

The second sign had all sorts of warnings:

Of particular interest was the mention that catapults were not allowed in the zoo.  Sorry Josh, you will have to leave your catapult in the back yard when we come to India.

I headed off to the first exhibit, Himalayan Black Bear.  

This was the only legible direction marker/sign in the entire zoo.

I felt very secure with this stout fence to keep me and the animals separated.

I was luckier than most because I actually got a glimpse of the bear.  He was a long way off and just showed himself for a moment.

Leaving the bear behind, I noticed paw prints on my side of the fence.  I need Aragorn to tell me what they are, but to me it looks like Bengal Tiger.

In ONLY one way, the zoo was the high point of my day.   I passed through the 7000 foot mark while waiting for a barking deer to appear (he never did).

At the far side of the zoo I was presented with a view looking out towards Tashi Viewpoint where I had been the past two mornings.  There were three distinct roads heading in that direction.  Being the highminded and morally sound person that I am, of course I took the high road.  

After a few minutes, to my left down the ridge I saw two soldiers walking up the hill towards me.  I shouted down to them "Army base?"  They shouted back that it wasn't, a second question confirmed that I was allowed to walk here.  I was concerned because down the ridge to my left was an army base.  

These two soldiers climbed the fence and started following me down the road.  I soon nicknamed these two "The Goon Squad."  They looked like two guys out spending all day to do a 10 minute assignment.  My gut feeling that these two could be trouble.  I decided that if they wanted trouble they would have to catch me.  I have a pretty fast walking pace that was still available this early in the day.

"The High Road" is visible in the top right. This was taken from just outside the zoo gate.

I walked along this road for another 5 km or so, all the while approaching a large communications tower.  It appeared that the road would drop down the other side of the ridge and I could then walk back to Tashi, grab a hot bowl of Tibetan Momo soup at the tourist lodge and continue.

As I got to the base of the radio center my plans were reinforced by this sign:

I had no idea where Ratay Chu was, but since it was good enough to merit its own moss covered sign, it was good enough for me.

The view looking back.  The farthest visible ridge is where the zoo and the overlook were located.  Straight line distance 4.5 km.

After walking another 100 meters I met up with a man in an Army style uniform.  He gave me to ask the question no wandering tourist should ever be in a position to ask:

Question: Is this an Army base?

Answer: No, but to the left is, to the right is a restricted government building and the road leads to the gunnery range of the army base.  You need to turn around and go back.

Well, at least I wasn't getting arrested.

As I headed back down I started to worry about the Goon Squad.  They had still been visible on the road behind me.  As I rounded a corner I saw a new group of men.  I decided to go back around the corner and have lunch, suddenly hungry.

After 20 minutes these men were still standing on the road.  As I walked around the bend I say a fifth man sit down in the middle of the road, 10 meters ahead of me.   I decided that I had no choice but to walk past him and the other 4.  As I did so I saw that he had a large Ghurka knife on his belt.  I suddenly realized what happens to all those American backpackers that disappear without a trace.

A quick "hello" and my fastest pace put me past them.  The goon squad must have gotten bored and left, because I never saw them again. 

I continued my walking for a total of 25.5 km (15.8 miles).  The walk was always either up or down.  By the end of the day I was dreading the downhill parts.  My legs and knees were aching.   I had bought my Asolo hiking boots in November for just this walk.  They had been beguilingly comfortable in the store, but a week later I hated them.  They were too narrow in the toebox for my feet, causing sores that would easily lead to blisters.  My uncomfortable solution was to remove the liners inside the boot.  Allowing me to walk without blisters but without the comfort of cushion.  They were great for the steep muddy slopes, the only time I slipped was about 10 steps from the end of my journey.   My Himalayan Walking Shoes had done the job, but I have not worn them since.

It took 4 days afterwards for me to stop hobbling when I walked.  It was an easy price to pay for a remarkable walk.  Henry David Thoreau would be proud, I think.

On the bus from Chennai to Pondy last night I passed a motorcycle accident.   The bike was sprawled across the street, with broken glass an plastic visible in the glare from the headlights.  Six men were carrying an apparently lifeless man towards a taxi.  My first thought was to get off the bus and help, my first aid kit only inches away.  I didn't get up because I realized that me and my overly stocked first aid kit with its scalpels, suture kits and syringes could not help out in this situation.  If the man was not in fact dead he was unconscious with severe head trauma.  His arms and legs hung limp.  In the two previous motorcycle accidents I have witnessed, the victims were screaming loudly and trying to get up.  Maybe if I had brought a neck brace I could have donated that.

Indian roads are dominated by motorcycles and scooters.   Most of the motorcycles have a metal frame along the left side so that a woman can side sideways on the motorcycle and have a footrest and a guard to keep her sari from getting caught in the chain and gears.   It is very typical for such a vehicle to be the family vehicle, with the father driving, the mother sitting sideways on back, holding a child and another child riding between the fathers arms.  

When I was traveling with Jyoti in Orissa on Sunday he told me of an accident that he was in years ago that involved just such an arrangement, four people on a scooter.  Accident happens, mom and sister bail off the rear of the bike just before impact.  Jyoti is thrown over the handlebars and lands on the street, getting a wound to the forehead that he still carries the scar from.   Dad also is severly injured.

Amy and I have talked on several occaisions about how as children we were rarely required to weat seat belts, if our cars even had them.  We survived childhood without getting thrown through a windshield, although my brother Derrick did fall out of a moving car once.  

I think the reality of India is that it is probably not desirable to load up your family on a scooter and take to the streets, but there are few viable alternatives.   Public transportation is limited, taxi's are too costly for everyday use and cars are more expensive in India than in the US.

As I travel around in various modes of transportation, I try to always consider my options in an emergency.  Most options are not good.

Jeep to/from Gangtok:  No seatbelts, not that it would matter.  Head on collision or plunging off the side of a cliff, both likely fatal.

Plane to Calcutta: Mentally rehearsed this a hundred times on the flight to LA, note the location of the closest exit before takeoff, crawl over seatbacks to reach exit, don't take aisle.   Hope that if there is an emergency that that is an option.

Boat ride on Chilika Lake: Take two water bottles, drain one and stick in shoulder bag to use as floatation aid, drink water from the second one and it adds to flotation as I get more tired (I am not a good swimmer).  Hope that the boat sinks in or near the part of the lake that is only 3 feet deep.

Motorcycle Rickshaws: Sit right behind the driver, in the middle to put as much space between me and a side impact, and so that I land on the driver in a front impact (hey, this is a matter of survival).

Cycle Rickshaws: Pay attention to everything, get ready to jump as hard and far as I can to the left.

Walking:  Pay really close attention to sounds.   Don't walk and read, listen to iPod or chew bubblegum because I will most likely be walking on the road and cannot expect anywone to swerve out of the way. especially if the honked as they approached me.

Train:   Try to sit facing to the rear so that in the event of a collision I am pushed into the bulkhead instead of thrown across the cabin.   Plan on using blanket to protect feet and leg as I kick out the window.

 

I do all this planning because years ago I saw a documentary on how to survive a plane crash.  The expert on the show said that most people die in accidents that are survivable because they panic, and they panic because they are not prepared.  Now I have a habit of preparing an exit strategy for each situation I am in.

Overall I think road traffic in India is safer than in the US.  The speeds are much slower which makes an accident more survivable.  In the 3 weeks I have been here I have seen 4 accidents.   It is not uncommon to pass that many in a single day on my way into work in Phoenix.

 

Morbid planning aside, I survived a day long train and bus journey.  25 hours after leaving Bhubaneswar I arrived in Pondicherry, the city of my dreams.

I am currently in Bhubaneswar, but will be leaving in an hour for Chennai (Madras) by train.  The jouney will take about 22 hours.  I finally got my reservations all worked out for Pondicherry, so will be there all next week.  I am really excited about that, expecially because it should allow me time to slow down and rest, the last few days have been a wonderfully busy tour of Orissa.

I have about 20 pictures that I want to post, and lots of stories to go along with them, but I cannot find a cyber cafe that has a USB port (I guess there was something good about Shiliguri, that was the last time I was able to upload a photo).

I will also be asking for your help to bring a devious criminal to justice, more on that later, but I have seen a crime committed and I know who did it, but justice will take an international effort.

Next post, hopefully with pictures from Pondicherry (Pondy).