India Unbound

2005-05-31T12:57:00.000+05:30

The monsoon reached the Andaman Islands this week, and India let out a collective sigh of relief.

In Delhi, however, it remains 'too much' hot. The evenings are bearable, however, and the cry of the peacock from neighborhood parks is a nice touch. It's going to be difficult to leave.

But that's what we're doing tonite. Taking off after 6 months of India for the USA. We'll make a token stopover in Amsterdam this week. Then back to Texas.

As I think the preceding notes attest, it's been a good trip. I'm pretty sad to be leaving. Later.

2005-05-26T14:03:00.000+05:30

I’d been roughed up by whitewater and mugged by the unbelievable Delhi heat, so it seemed provisionally like a good idea to try for a houseboat in Kashmir. In the past two years, despite ongoing violence, this Himalayan border state has seen a tenfold increase in tourism. Peace talks between India and Pakistan have helped ease political tensions, while recent flare-ups have been attributed alternately to the Indian Army, Pakistani troublemakers, homegrown Muslim militants and Kashmir’s very own, heavily armed police force.It's no wonder, when I arrived in the state’s ill-fated capital Srinagar, I found a city suffering from extreme schizophrenia.

The shifting Himalayan light, refracted off the surface of Dal Lake, reflected the many moods of the Vale of Kashmir – peaceful, foreboding, meditative, dangerous. I wondered: Had we escaped to a land of legendary beauty and cool climate, or a war-torn Hell?

The answer was neither here nor there. For, like so much of India, Kashmir defies easy dissection; in fact, despite 50-year-old national boundaries that say so, most residents don’t even consider themselves to be a part of India. Still, it’s the national Army that crouches in the levies on the edges of town and maintains the street-level bunkers found throughout Srinagar – and those with a sense of history rightfully note that while these Indian faces represent an occupying force, they are a force invited by Kashmir. The question of who’s to blame is one that even the locals have not sorted out.

But it was easy enough to lose sight (quite literally) of these divisional factors when on board our houseboat(s). These floating properties, numbering some 150-200 locally, represent a leftover from the British era, when non-Kashmiris were forbidden from owning property in the state. In a city constructed around a series of canal-connected lakes, the British built their domiciles on the water itself, turning the city of Srinagar into South Asia’s answer to Venice.

With elaborated, Kashmiri-style carved woodwork on the walls, ceilings and doors and thick Oriental carpets coating the floors, the places we stayed – The New Crystal Palace and New Gulistan – were close to the lap of luxury. Cheerful servants were de rigueur, arranging water taxis, providing tea and Kashmiri kawa, a local beverage brewed from cinnamon, saffron, almonds and bark. In other words, Hell for the most part seemed a long way off.

During our first and last days, we cruised the lake shore by car to see Srinagar’s famed Mughal Gardens, where the pansies and peonies were in full bloom beneath the immense branches of maple-like Chinar trees. We enjoyed shikara rides in a Kashmiri-type gondola or canoe, taking in floating gardens and out-of-season beds of lotus flowers. Bird life was abundant, including herons, a multitude of kingfishers, the prettiest flashing neon blue, grebes, parakeets and plenty of domestic ducks, rumored to be tasty but never sampled.

Our estimable host on New Gulistan, Mr. M.R. Guru, sprightly at 70, greeted us unbidden at the airport, and made sure all needs were met. “Don’t worry,” he would say. “I’ll profit, but I am straight with you. You are like Guru. You must sometimes trust.” In turn, I had to convince Guru that my stay in Kashmir would not be complete without an attempt to seek out Himalayan trout. He remained concerned about militants, which made me concerned about militants, but the strength of my desire was abundantly clear.

So, after two days of touring Srinagar we headed for Pahalgam, a small town, altitude 8,000 feet, on the pilgrimage route to the Amarnath Cave, where an ice Shiva lingam, draws Hindu faithful by the thousands each year – militancy notwithstanding. The fisheries officer met us with a big grin, and let me know that I was among the first 30 international trout “addicts” (his term) to ply the Lidder River since the season opened in April.

The rough green water swirled like a question mark around boulders, dipping into deep pools, where hefty browns of 15-plus inches and up to 2-pounds lurked. I plied the water with Coachmen and bead-head nymphs, using a dropper, and weights to reach the hungry fish. A local guide put me right on the trout, which have been aggressively reintroduced to the Lidder in the past couple of years (they’re not native, of course, having first been introduced by Europeans maybe 150 years ago) with the hope that a world-class fishery will develop. The main obstacle for the time being remains poaching, both by locals and by the Indian Army, which prefers to use hand-grenades over hook, line and sinker.

Still, even in the downpour that met me on the second day, the fishing felt a lot like Heaven as I reached my bag limit of 6 trout, releasing more than three times that amount in the end.

One’s appreciation of Heaven, however, increases directly in proportion to how close to Hell one must pass along the way there. For while Guru had warned that the trout trip might not be 100 percent safe, it was easy to forget where I was when faced with the splash of the waves, the run of the riffle and the constant tightening of the line. And so I was shocked and dismayed when we arrived back in Delhi to learn that a bridge just South of Pahalgam had been blown up just after our departure from Kashmir.

Officially, militants have been blamed, but I can imagine Guru blames the Army for its dirty tricks. This violence carries a message for the Hindu pilgrims who might think the road to Amarnath is otherwise safe. Nonetheless, what the repercussions will be in the region are yet to be seen, but as there were no fatalities, the story barely rated two column inches. There’s obviously a lesson for trout bums and footloose travelers, too.

Yet, I would be hard pressed to reconsider my choice. Kashmir may still suffer the bane of violence, but it’s as peaceful there as it’s been in a generation. And I don’t know when my next chance to visit will come.

2005-05-12T13:39:00.000+05:30

Down from the snowy peaks, and into the river valleys, I’ve crossed the subcontinent once again. Left Sikkim with a grand smile after our big trek, spending a couple of days checking out Buddhist monasteries and lounging in the capital city of Gangtok, dining on Tibetan specialties and soaking up the atmosphere. Even managed to catch a speech by his Holiness the Dalai Lama before coming back to North India proper; although I’m not actually sure what the DL said in his talk (in Tibetan) about relaxing the mind, I did find something soothing about the whole affair even with a crowd of thousands attending.

Having been invited to participate in the first Indian descent of the Tons River, I followed up Sikkim with raging whitewater on this remote tributary to the holy Yamuna. One of the seven sacred streams of Hindustan, the Yamuna emerges as a dirty ditch in Delhi and is reputed to be incapable of supporting life when it passes the Taj Mahal downstream in Agra. But the famed river does get its start in the high mountains of Uttaranchal, covered this year with historic snow levels, and the Tons, flowing down from Bunderpanch (‘Monkey’s Tail’) Glacier, is one of the Yamuna’s main sources.

The expedition kicked off at the tail end of April with a refresher course for out-of-practice paddlers on the upper reaches of the Tons. The mountain scenery of the Aquaterra Lunagad Camp (Aquaterra being the sponsoring company for this outing) was all pines and ridge lines. At the outset, the river appeared impervious to the snow pack as the upper reaches were bony and boulder-strewn. A mostly Indian crew arrived, ready for action (the trip coincides with a forthcoming article I’ll pen for Paddler magazine in the US). A year had passed since my last Himalayan raft trip. Lungs conditioned by trekking to Goecha La, my arms and back – not to mention my reflexes – still needed work.

Nonetheless, it seemed an auspicious time to tackle the Tons. The sun was shining. The hills were alive with the sound of nomadic Gujjar tribesmen and their families moving herds of cattle, sheep and buffalo to the cool higher altitudes of Uttaranchal. Kingfishers – both the black-and-white Crested variety (called the zebras of the river) and common White-chinned, their fluorescent blue backs flashing in the sun – were commonplace.

The challenge got to me right away, as on the first day of practice I found myself swimming a rough stretch of water called the Horns of the Tons. Ironically, this continuous Class III/III+ stretch includes a sweep of boiling whitewater known as Longhorn Rapid; in another lifetime, I might have felt right at home. But with rocks looming and waves piling up, this erstwhile Texan was profoundly relieved when the guides pulled me back on board. That quick dip left me wide awake, ready to paddle.

I managed to avoid swimming for the rest of the trip, as we covered about 70 miles of river – including many sections of beefy Class IV rapids – in 5 days. Our raft, one of two, managed to do pretty well, losing just one other swimmer, getting surfed hard just one time, pounding down various slots and drops with a reasonable facsimile of military precision. For safety, we also had two kayaks and two pontoon boats. Along the banks, villagers came to cheer and stare in great number as the regatta passed out of the alpine zone through steep-walled canyons, eventually finding ourselves in a tropical clime with palms and fern-bedazzled seeps. At take-out, we rejoined the wandering Gujjars, their skullcaps and long beards reminiscent of Saudi Imams, still migrating upward.

So, between Sikkim and the Tons, it’s been back-to-back adventures. But as with any good travel, the memories are fueled by more than adrenaline. From local specialties prepared in Sikkimese style to the beef momos served in Gangtok’s Tibetan cafes, the food marks a change of pace from the rest of North India, marking a cultural shift. The relaxed Buddhist vibe and friendly Nepali faces (Sikkim was once part of Nepal, and with the political troubles in that Himalayan kingdom many Nepalis have come over the border) adding to the charm of this land of mountains and monasteries. New friends from my latest whitewater encounter hopefully will also remain pals well into the future.

(More details on the river trip should be forthcoming this fall in Paddler. Loyal fans, I’ll let you know. Just now, however, I’m not sure what India holds next.…)

Epilogue: With the whitewater bug still flowing through my veins, I managed to get C, who missed the river trip and has not been in a raft in a decade or more, to hop on a raft in Rishikesh. We were splashed by some big waves on the rolling, holy Ganga. For the weekend, our lullaby was the sound of temple bells. Then we came back down to Delhi, where the mercury has been hovering around 100 degrees. We hope not to stay too long.

2005-04-21T17:31:00.000+05:30

I'd been writing a massive detailed account of our recent Sikkim trek, when the freaking power went out here in this two-bit cybercafe where I'm writing. I'd been trying to convey that when the oxygen gets thin, little things begin to mean a lot. The smell of butterscotch on the breeze, for instance. Or tiny blue flowers sparkling on the trail's edge like pale, displaced stars. The bells of the yaks coming downhill warning you to get out of the way.

And so forth....

Did I say yaks? Actually, the preferred pack animals in Sikkim, a former Buddhist kingdom opposite our Indian home state of Uttaranchal on the eastern border of Nepal, are cow-yak crossbreeds called dzo (pronounced "joe"). These thick horned critters carry about 100-pounds a piece, and allowed me and the missus to backpack without much on our backs except small daypacks. The dzos are soft-furred, cleft-footed ungulates, which have the advantage of not keeling over when you reach lower, humid altitudes. Yaks, I now know, are strictly for the heights.

But don't get the impression this was a simple walk in the park. On the first day, we gained about 4,000 feet over 6 miles, to enter the alpine zone, spending our first night at 10,000 feet in a Tibetan refugee settlement called Tsoka. We soon found that full-service trekking comes with a routine; it's kind of like car camping, but instead of a car, you've got a staff. Bed tea comes to the tent at 6:30 AM, followed by washing water, generally just this side of tepid, followed by breakfast in the mountain resthouses served at seven. Most days we hit the trail by eight.

And to what purpose, you ask?

Well, we were headed for the flanks of Mount Kanchenzunga, a peak over 28,000 feet, second in height only to Everest and K2. We weren't planning an assault on the big hill, just to take a gander from Goecha La. The pass is at around 15,000 feet, and taller than most mountains in the Lower 48. The trail was not a brutal one, but it did take a lot of heart and hard work to keep on trekking as we spent the better part of the past 10 days above 12,000 feet. Fortunately, we were blessed with pretty good weather, the clouds generally holding off to late afternoon, allowing us to walk in the sunshine and get good views of the jagged glaciers on a couple of early morning efforts.

In addition to our own porters, our Nepali guide Amar, and the orange-panted yak man in charge of our livestock, there were plenty of other folks on the mountain. It was my first time to see such swarms of touristic humanity in a natural setting. We traded leads with a group of crazy Swiss hikers, a pair of American girls, a French couple, and about 15 obnoxious Germans, who I dubbed (in a fit of something other than generosity) 'the Kraut dickheads.'

Maybe it was the altitude, or the fact that I had envisioned fewer people on a trek to a land few people are familiar with, but I finally got over my reservations (except for hating the K-d's) and sort of even enjoyed the social aspects of this hard walk in the Himalayas. I even mustered energy to play soccer at 12,500 feet with the Swiss, who even with my dubious skills, could not handle the crew of Sherpas and assorted schleppers on high.

Of course, ask me now, and I'll tell you it was all worth it.

However, during the climb to Goecha La pass, I thought I would die. C was in the lead, with one of our kitchen crew making sure she didn't take a spill off the ridgeline. I was breathing hard, bringing up the rear and wondering whatever possessed me to think I was a mountain man. We crossed amazing moon-like glacial moraine, and faced into a cool wind for 6 hours to find ourselves amid Buddhist prayer flags and small white cairns, the massif of Kanchenzunga slipping in and out of the cloud-scape before us. Of course it was worth it.

Coming down, we took our time, but it's tough to find the words to describe the experience all over again. Perhaps I'll find a bit of inspiration later. Surely, I will find sparks in recollecting the amazing road I've traveled.

2005-04-06T11:46:00.000+05:30

Rewind: Forget the swelter of Delhi’s April heat.

Recall the leaves of the Sal forest in Corbett National Park, a few hours north of here. Visited back in mid-March. The wind loosening the yellow planks of vegetation, dropping the leaves to the ground with a steady tic-tic… almost like rain. And then the rain did come, as we boarded an elephant to search for a tiger in the woods. The mahout, the elephant driver, smiling, confident. “I know where there’s a kill. We should find the beast,” and then we moved out across a field of tall grass. Elephant grass, where we found a herd of wild pachyderms lingering near the edge of the jungle. The wind blowing harder now, and the sky black with cloud. A stroke of lightening, a thunder clap, and we’re crossing a field on the back of a 20-foot animal, our heads just a little below the level of the tallest Acacia trees. Oh my!

That safari didn’t produce a tiger, but it was an adventure, wheeling through the woods, following the drag marks, where the killer cat had moved its latest meal. Under this tree, over to that bush, a small piece of deer meat left behind here, and hoof there. The tiger had been this way. And the rain falling the whole time. The mahout providing us with a tarp, which makes scratchy noises against our hats and hairs so that the whole world sounds like it’s wrapped in plastic. The elephant pulling up small trees, wrapping her trunk around leafy branches and stripping them bare. We double back, the ground muddy now, the pug marks washed away in the downpour. The mahout confers with another elephant driver; we are working the forest, crisscrossing in search of a glimpse of orange fur in the undergrowth. Not here. Not there. Hiding. Always elusive. The tiger.

I’ve had good luck in the past seeing India’s most famous fauna: In Assam, 2003, a tiger poked his enormous head out of the grass to look down the road after our jeep as we birded Kaziranga Park. I spotted a tiger in Corbett from elephant back earlier that same year. Now I was beginning to worry that we would be skunked; this photo safari cursed by unseasonable rain – and with my father in tow (although we’d already spotted a tiger in Ranthambore Park the week before), how embarrassing!

That evening in the park dining hall, three American girls with a digital camera, one with quick-film capacity, share their tiger sighting. A flash of orange in the bush. A warning snarl, a scream as the camera get jostled, and a charge that would have stopped our collective hearts had we been there personally. The tiger having had enough, warning the elephant-born bipeds, stay back. We are overcome with some pale green shade of envy; fortunately, we have another day to make up our deficit. We can still bring my tiger-sighting average up to .400.

At dawn, the sky clear, we head for our mount. Same mahout, same elephant; we are happy to know them. Fed her fruit after yesterday’s ride; tipped him nicely even without seeing a tiger. We make a quick circuit of the jungle, smelling something ripe right by a watering hole, hoping for tiger. Watching the shadows for something living. With the sun rising, I begin to despair. The rain-swept countryside is beautiful, though. The Himalayan foothills, lined in tall straight Sal trees and pines higher up, shiny and full forested to heights of 3,000-plus-feet, and the bigger mountains, snowcapped out of sight. Birds call, and a jackal breaks from the bush. Deer browse the grasses at the edge of the woodlands, which makes me doubt that a tiger could be lingering nearby.

After an hour, the mahouts decide to gamble on tigress known to inhabit the far side of the Ramnagar River, just a short ways from the lodge where we have been sleeping. We make our rough way down the slope, the elephant's thick pads providing surprising traction, and soon we are riding across the river when I notice an anomaly in the light on the shore upstream. I point, tentative at first, and wonder aloud “Tiger?” Our guide, then the mahout take up the call as soon as the word is out of my mouth. "Tiger! Tiger!" She’s moving, but the three elephant drivers are quick to corner the cat, who jogs up the river bank to the tall grass, breaking by a small tree.

I admit there’s something a bit sad, and also absurd, about wrangling a tiger with the help of elephants. Certainly, it makes the old sport of hunting tigers from elephant back seem a bit less sporting.

We don’t witness a charge, and after everyone gets a good look (and I snap a few photos) the big cat swims the river and vanishes. We’d spot an additional, final tiger on a game drive that afternoon, a bigger cat, lounging in the sun. Sleeping with his/her paws up and the white fur of its belly shining in the light. Such memories will certainly define my time in India when I look back on these days.

2005-03-14T08:42:00.000+05:30

Hit the road two weeks back, and this is my first chance to really catch up. Leaving Dharchula, the Himalayan highway was lined with rhododendrons, and the towns filling with the first Hindu pilgrims of the season. Meanwhile, my father was on an overseas flight for a pilgrimage of his own -- to meet me, search for tigers and check out the Taj.

I'll spare my gentle readers the painful details of coming and going from Dharchula, and focus for now on the first of our tiger sightings. It came on an early morning jeep safari in Ranthambore National Park, a small preserve on the edge of the Rajasthan desert. Rocky escarpments overlooking the park feature thousand-year-old forts, and the jungle is said to hold anywhere from 20 to 40 of the big cats. Dad's proclivities steer as much towards birding as looking for tigers; though ultimately he is no different than any other tourist. The chance to spot India's most famous king of the jungle is one he prizes above counting our feathered friends.

As it turned out, birding paved the way for our initial encounter with the elusive tiger....

We sat at the remains of a small reservoir, a little lake populated by tall pink-and-white Painted storks, and comically beaked Eurasian spoonbills. Our fellow passengers in the jeep were a trio of older Australians, whose focus seemed as much the forest as the animals, so they were content as we observed the shore birds, when out of the woodlands behind us came the alarm call of the Sambar, the largest of the Indian deer. In a New York minute, we had left the lake in our dust and raced to the nearest high point. The deer cried again from the woods below, and we shifted into high speed once again, jostling over the jeep track to brake at a shady point in the forest.

About 70 yards distant, we spotted the tell-tale flash of orange on the heavily-muscled tigress who occupies the area (allegedly with her cubs, who were not in evidence) shifting slowly through the trees, neither concerned with us or with the Sambar hind who had tipped us off. For several minutes, she ambled at a slight angle to the road, and we excitedly glassed her through our binoculars until she disappeared from sight.

This was more fortuitous than we realized, for with three more drives through Ranthambore we never did spot another tiger. Our other jeep-mates sighed and rolled their eyes when we explained that birds were a good way to spot tigers; after all, that's how we'd found ours (though, honestly, I had some sympathy, but so did Dad). Meantime, we discussed with guides the problem of poaching -- pronounced in Ranthambore, where the arid climate forces concentrations of wildlife around water holes -- and amassed a list of over 70 bird species, not to mention seeing mongoose (mongeese?), crocodiles, spotted deer and the big Indian antelope known as a "nilgai," which means blue cow.

Our Ranthambore evenings, meanwhile, were spent at the old Jaipur Maharaja's hunting lodge, a charming if rundown state-run inn high on a hill in the Ranthambore buffer zone. By the end of two days, we were famous among the guests for having seen the tigress, an experience none seemed capable of replicating.

Next, we pushed off for additional parks -- Bharatpur's Kaledeo National Park, for birds; Corbett National Park in the Himalayan foothills for more tigers and wild elephants -- stopping off at the Taj Mahal enroute. Those seeking a final tally will be curious to learn that we saw two additional tigers in Corbett, and between all parks managed to rack up a list of some 213 birds altogether. Unfortunately, I'm heading back to Dharchula today, and the details of these other experiences will have to wait.

With luck, I'll find Internet access up the road. If I don't,expect me to be dining off my tiger sightings when I get back to Delhi at the beginning of April.

And, finally, yes, the Taj Mahal remains as wonderful as ever; though as a monument of romantic love, I can think of better company than my Old Man to take in the splendid marble architecture of Agra. Now, I've really got to get back on the road.

2005-02-20T15:10:00.000+05:30

The weather has arrived, and it has been dreadful.

Cold fronts blowing down from Tibet have kept Dharchula under a cloud of gray and steady rains since my return. It’s been the worst winter seen in 50-odd years according to those who have lived here that long; the only saving grace that the snow-lined ridges take on a mystical hue beneath the silver sky. It’s not quite enough to turn a man into a ascetic, though. The constancy of overpopulation, the march of development turning our backyard into a construction zone, and overhead passage of helicopters patrolling for Maoists on the Nepal side of the Kali River, swollen with sediment and rainwater, just make it hard for a man to lose himself.

Fortunately, the sun has deigned to visit us the past couple of days, and in the muddy streets there’s a sense that spring may be on its way. India’s northern plains line-up longitudinally with Mexico, more or less, and despite the altitude of the Himalayas pressing down upon Kali River, we expect to see sunny days ahead.

I wish I could say the same for the neighborhood across the valley in Nepal, for while the weather may improve, it’s going to be a stormy season for those remote villages. In case you missed the news, the Himalayan Kingdom of Nepal has disbanded the democratically-elected government, and the king has clamped down on press freedoms and other facets of open society. In short, the civil unrest that has afflicted Nepal for the past decade shows no sign of waning. I’ll save the global analysis for real South Asia pundits, but there’s plenty of blame to go around. To protest the royal power play, the Maoists have responded by choking supply lines leading from the cities to the villages, and at gun-point enforced a day-long market strike across the way. This forced Nepalis needing groceries and other goods to make increased use of the already busy footbridge that runs from Darchula, Nepal, to it’s sister city, our home Dharchula, India. Otherwise, the military presence on the Indian side of the border has kept things relatively quiet here.

The Maoists may be a godless bunch, but while the majority of Nepalis are not altogether sympathetic to the king, they remain nonetheless staunch Hindus. And since it’s wedding season again (guided by astrological concerns, wedding season has been nearly constant since our return to India) they’ve found an excuse to party despite the ongoing conflict. This commendable resilience could even serve as a reminder for brokenhearted American liberals still ruing last November that regardless of the political scene, life does go on

The amalgamation of Hinduism and mountain animism practiced by local people has provided a near-constant spectacle of drumming, dancing and fireworks. Thus, I found myself just a few nights ago decked out in a long wool coat, sword in my hand, a turban-like “shilay” wrapped tight around my dome dancing in the street. My friend Dinesh Vyas, a Rang man from Nepal, had made me something of the guest of honor at his wedding. Wearing the traditional costume, feeling every bit as self-conscious as a schoolgirl at junior prom, I found succor in a few pegs of rum as I paraded through the market, trailing a long line of similarly attired gentlemen.

We represented the groom’s side of the ceremony, and an hour after sundown arrived at the bride’s home suitably soused and ready to do battle, if necessary, to take her away. Actually, that wouldn’t be necessary, as the wedding was not only arranged but marked a love marriage. The sublimated violence represented by the sword and acted out in the dancing was a mere nod to ancient tradition. Sorting through the nuances of Hindu rites of passage has been no easier than obtaining expertise on the political scene in Nepal. Suffice it to say, however, that if you’ve found your so-called love match all it takes is a willingness to destroy one’s own reputation and a couple hundred rupees – roughly five dollars – to get married. Thereafter, it should take about two years for your parents and the rest of the community to ascent to this coupling, if you’re lucky, bringing down their stamp of approval with a big wedding shebang, ideal for erasing any lingering ill will.

Or so I was given to understand in a moonshine-fueled conversation that preceded our early departure from the party. C and I only knew too well from previous experience that as the night progressed, the festivities would wind up a raucous testosterone-heavy dance party. The bride and her sisters, in turn, would be kept under lock and key until the groomsmen departed for Nepal the following day. You might say that Indians really know how to put the pickle back into pickle parties.

Having crossed swords, so to speak, earlier in the evening, I preferred to stay out of trouble. After all, I’ve got travel plans: I need my integrity and health intact if I’m going to hit the road again.

2005-02-04T14:01:00.000+05:30

The end of a week in Delhi, and I'm ready for the not-so-fresh mountain air of Dharchula. Still, have managed to entertain myself pretty royally in the week since Christina departed. Checked into the old school Central Court Hotel after a few days at the Baldauf House of Mirth (where my friends Scott and Kashmira live; he's bureau chief for the Christian Science Monitor). The CCH is a throw-back place off the happening center of New Delhi, Connaught Place. A little run-down, but a pleasant surprise to get what I paid for, for a change. I had a clean room and private bathroom down the hall. The walls were not-quite-sparkling white, but aside from the bus horns in the early morning dawn the nights were peaceful.

At Scott and Kash's joint, I got to share my room with their tailor; not to rat my friends out, but their servant situation is a bit over the top. There's also Scott's driver (and I don't blame him for not wanting to take to the mad Delhi roads), a part-time cook, a nanny and a maid. It's the sort of thing one could get used to, perhaps. It's not bad having someone prepare breakfast and sew curtains, after all, but there are only four Baldaufs, including two beautiful little girls, so the idea that they need five pairs of helping hands... well, you do the math.

Of course, I should be grateful, and I am; Scott shared his stash of Stella Artois, and despite having to deal with the shards of fabric left behind by the tailor, who apparently sees cleaning up after himself a lowly, unworthy task, everybody helped me feel welcome. It's just a different life is all.

I managed to partake in some new experiences in New Delhi, as well. Friends from publishing took me out for lunch at a little joint down south of downtown, where we dined on Kerala-style curried beef -- you got that right. More likely buffalo than cow, but not the sort of thing typically advertised and more than likely to get the proprietor arrested in this Hindu milieu. Unfortunately, the consistency was just a step above spicy shoeleather, but the illicit thrill was (clearly) worth writing home about.

I further expanded my cultural horizons by heading for a performance of Sufi quaali music outside the tomb of Saint Nizamuddin yesterday evening; a group of 10 Muslim men collected money, sitting on the floor before a crowd of about 400 hundred, banging out rhythms on a two-headed drum and singing mystical chants. Very, very cool.

Tonite, am off to the hills for a spell. Did I mention I'm dreading the trip? It starts with an overnight train run, and concludes with 10 hours cramped in a shared jeep chasing mountain curves over valleys running 2,000 feet or more. If I can control my terror, car sickness and bladder, all that will remain is retaining sanity while relentless Bollywood showtunes worm their way into the deepest recesses of my grey matter.

Hopefully, the beauty of the landscape will provide some respite -- word has it, there's even some snow for a change in them thar hills.

2005-01-27T08:08:00.000+05:30

Following a week that carried us from the treetops to Mysore to the seashore city of Mangalore, and which provided glimpses of wild elephants by the roadside in the Western Ghats range and huge crowds of black-clad pilgrims, coming into Mumbai was almost like landing in Europe; slums and smog notwithstanding. Even with the crowds, the British buildings and roundabout fountains of India's most cosmopolitan seem vaguely familiar, though elements such as ornate friezes piling monkeys on gargoyles atop martial scenes show that the colonizers were not just actors but acted upon. Were I inclined to an urban existence, Mumbai-formerly-Bombay is actually a city I would consider calling home -- if they could just solve to pollution problem. And the poverty problem, marked by the largest slums in Asia.

Which is ironic, because for Western travelers the city by the sea (India's answer to Santa Monica or Miami, perhaps) is also one of the most expensive stopovers in South Asia. We were there for just a couple of days, soaking up the urban atmosphere, inhaling the smog-chocked air, dishing off loose change to beggars young and old, and checking out the Chor Bazaar, or "Thieves Market" in a largely Muslim neighborhood. With Mom still in tow, shopping was unavoidable, but it provided glimpses into life beyond the main tourist draws. With Ramadan ending and goat feasts on the menu, there was a definite exoticness to wandering streets crowded with big Rajasthani goats being fattened throughout the district. "There were 2 crore (200,000) killed yesterday," one nearly toothless fakir informed us. "Today there are only about 2,000 left. Tomorrow, they will all be gone."

(It didn't occur to us until too late to work the angle for an invite to Biryani and kebabs, so we relied on a neighborhood cafe for our mutton.)

A certain amount of cultural splashback is inevitable if you spend enough time in a foreign country, I concluded after a couple of days. This was hammered home by a tremendous sold-out concert by the band Remember Shakti, an incarnation of the longtime collaboration between British guitar god John McLaughlin and tabla king Zakir Hussain. Jazz fusion has never done much for me, but with the addition of Indian instrumentation, including indigenous Southern percussion from V. Selvaganesh, and the Sanskrit-inflected scat of Bollywood vocalist Shankar Mahadevan, the music was both as timeless and modern as any I have had the pleasure to listen to. Impeccable polyrhythmic combinations boosted by amplification shook the night air.

Scoring tickets was not as easy I would have hoped; although nor was it as big a challenge as might have been expected given the band's apparent popularity. I had been tipped off to the reunion while still in the South, but we arrived the day of the concert and were unable to score seats before the show started. I expected scalpers, but the crowds of ticketless fans and lack of personal contacts left me doubting our chances as evening fell.

The concert took place out of doors, in front of the historic Gateway to India -- a triumphal arch which the British completed in the 1920s, and then were marched back through in the '40s -- so we just settled along the fence to peak at the video screens and listen from outside the venue. Shortly, though, a grey-haired fan who had been nearby just minutes earlier arrived at the fence: "They're selling tickets at the other gate." Sitting beneath a neem tree, beneath the three-quarters full moon, in a park in Bombay, we were then transported. A rousing tambourine (!!!) solo by Selvaganesh closed the set, a display of virtuosity that transcends words. Splashback happens.

We arrived back in Delhi on Monday, and I didn't leave the tickets for Tuesday's Remember Shakti show to chance. We splashed out for the best seats we could find, and were happily surprised by a combination of now familiar compositions and new numbers, including an apparent classic "Lotus Feet." Unlike Bombay, I don't feel like I could live in Delhi, but the city is gaining a lively edge that I think most India short-timers can't appreciate. After just a couple of days here, C had to leave for the mountains this morning, while research will keep me in the capital city another week.

It won't be nearly as entertaining without my best girl, but I figure we can dine out on the shows (and our new Remember Shakti CD) in the coming weeks. Though the Himalayas got belted with snow while we were down South enjoying our midwinter vacation, springtime waits just around the bend.

2005-01-20T16:24:00.000+05:30

Traveling with Mom, we've passed from the state of Kerala to Karnataka, from the busy seaside town of Calicut (West Coast) across the Western Ghat mountains and onto Mysore, the headquarters of the Wodeyar Kings -- one of the last Indian dynasties to fall to the British -- and a center for yogic learning.

Plenty of tourists in Mysore this time of year, and with good reason as the Maharaja's Palace and local temples are celebrated sights, offering clues to India's varied and mythic history. On the way between Calicut and Mysore, meanwhile, we stopped into an excellent and unique "eco-resort," the Green Magic Treehouse, where C and I shared accommodations with Mom in a treehouse (you guessed it!) in the branches of a thick-limbed Banyan tree about 100 above the ground. The view took in the verdant valleys of the Wayanad rainforest, and the morning bird chorus and starry, starry night charmed us endlessly.

It was almost too much to arrive in Mysore, which is relaxed, but only if you're acclimated to India already. Mom made great strides, getting into the swing of things after our Tarzan-type treat. The palace was an overwrought swirl of tile, stained glass and elaborate murals, the sort of structure too rarely preserved in India and too often closed to the public in Europe; the Mysore food, a lot of veg thalis served on banana leaves, was zesty and amazingly cheap: Averaging about a buck a head.

One Mysore-area highlight for all of us was paddling around the Ranganathittu Bird Sanctuary, where flying-fox fruit bats were just returning to their riverside roosts alongside the rookeries of pink-feathered Painted storks and comical Eurasian spoonbills, their beaks looking like huge ladles. Big crocs alternately swimming and lazing in the sun proved disincentives to trailing our hands behind the boat. Kingfishers and Medium egrets in breeding plumage added to the fun.

We swung back to the West Coast just yesterday, reaching the small city of Mangalore, a steamy Karnataka trade center across the Indian Peninsula from the tsunami destruction in Madras. Remarkably, it's party-time now for the Hindu faithful as they are working up offerings for a variety of local gods. Everywhere we have been since checking out of the treehouse has held large numbers of pilgrims, most from sects worshipping some form or other of Shiva, the King of Destruction, but plenty of local deities are also recognized in the festivities.

It's quite a scene overall, with Indians from all walks of life, chanting and praying, bowing and scraping at the doorsteps to various shrines. Unfortunately, getting caught up in the action paved the way for us to become the target of our first true Indian crime....

C left her shoes at the door of a crowded temple today. It was nothing she hadn't done dozens of times before, as you're required to remove footwear in Hindu, Jain and Muslim worship halls across South Asia. I joked as we stacked our fancy Chaco sandals that they were worth hundreds of dollars, and we tottered off to see what we could of the processions, including a meal for thousands of local people come to make lunchtime offerings. But when we returned some SOB had lifted my darling's sandals! I'd heard of this happening dozens of times, but always to other people.

Don't know if someone heard my quip about the cost of the shoes, or if it was just bad luck, but we got a quick lesson in letting go of material objects. No tragedy, but an aggravation nonetheless. After a quick stop at a shoestore for a pair of utility sandals, we were back in business, though; and tomorrow off to Bombay for the final bit of Mom's tour.

Recognizing that many details are missing from this travel account, I apologize. But please if you're reading along, I'd love to get a sense of what my friends are thinking. Namaste!

2005-01-13T15:49:00.000+05:30

In the steamy South of India, well away from the tsunami wreckage. Tamil Nadu and Sri Lanka from this perspective, though, do appear to be working their way towards recovery. The long-term impacts cannot yet be judged, and it's daunting to consider what will happen to orphans and other survivors when this tragedy fades from the headlines. But talk of rebuilding infrastructures, and reconstructing local communities and bringing back the tourists is already bubbling out of the morass. Meanwhile for the fishing communities of India, there has been a double dose of pain, for not only has their greatest patron the Sea emerged as an antagonist, but many Hindus who ordinarily eat fish are reluctant to consider the gruesome possibility of a eating animals that have been feeding on human corpses. The destruction of livelihoods is almost as damaging as the destruction of property.

Without being too indelicate, however, I have ascertained that the fish caught locally near Calicut, Kerala, are far from the disaster zone, and therefore took advantage at lunch today to consume a few of our piscine friends. A delicious sweet rice and tangy curry sauce were served alongside plates of mussels, squid, small shrimp and a boney "Black" fish, lightly breaded and fried with chilies. The owner of the restaurant laughed at our gusto as we tucked into the meal, and I made a mental note to remember to observe the sea even more carefully than usual next time I visit the beach. Needless to say, this feast was delicious -- and cheap. For three bucks American, Christina, my Mom -- who joined us for a two-week tour yesterday -- and I ate more seafood than our bellies could comfortably hold.

Unfortunately, getting here was the usual hell, as we had to pass from the chill mountains to the crowds of Delhi to the upscale confines of the Mumbai airport, and finally to Kerala, where literacy is high and the birthrate low. The trip took two days of hard travel, including a 10-hour jeep ride, overnight train journey and two-flights totaling 4 hours in the air. One woman who heard our ordeal, squirmed and then said -- it's easier to reach Kerala from New York than Dharchula. It is, of course, which is one of the reasons we're going to stretch this Southern swing up through Mysore and back through Bombay/Mumbai before heading for the hills again.

Modern India is in full force in these parts, with cell phones proliferating and cyber cafes everywhere. Power outages are virtually unheard of in Kerala, and the kids are watching DVD's of all your favorite Hollywood action heroes to boot. In line for check-in at the Bombay airport, we stood behind a group of college-aged Indians on their way to Goa, and I was struck by how similar they seemed to the sorority chicks and frat boys we run across back home in Austin. Cute as heck, with perfect make-up, and a sense of entitlement which makes me think they might have more in common with Young Americans than the typical youth of their own country. Another puzzlement of the mysterious East....

Running low on gas and inspiration, I sign off here. Updates sometime next week.

2005-01-01T18:47:00.000+05:30

After nearly two weeks back in Dharchula, New Year's Eve day came with our Dharchula auntie's announcement that we would be hosting a "pooja," or offering to the gods in this case one associated with her family and town of origin in the courtyard out front. When we arrived back in December, Auntie Sonta, our landlady, had been at her hospital job. Fortunately, despite our delayed return, our rooms were still available, but the courtyard was a wreck filled with trash, indiscriminate piles of rock and large bricks of gray mortar and hand-broken stone. Sonta came back to town to welcome us briefly just before the holidays, jetted back to work for a couple of days, and then reappeared in time for Christmas. In keeping with our predominantly Hindu environs, our own Xmas had been decidedly low key; a few drinks with the German dam contractor and his small multinational crew of engineers, plus a covy of local drivers.

The excuse for a grander New Year's celebration came as a welcome. We definitely were pleased to see the courtyard cleaned in anticipation of the pooja.

For those familiar with Hindu tradition, as we've slowly become after two years, it should be noted that this celebration featured none of the serene chants, bright marigolds or fragrant incense one might expect. Rather, at about 10 a.m. the butchers showed up with a shaggy, white, very dead sheep, which they had killed in a nearby temple; we were told the process of ending the animal's life consisted of cutting a small incision through the chest, and reaching behind the ribcage to close a hand and stop the heart from beating. Still supple, they laid the sheep out on a plastic sheet and set to work skinning it, eventually opening the body cavity and cutting the meat from the bones.

Some internal organs were diced and mixed with a salty, red pepper garnish, which was served as "prassad," a communion-type snack of liver, bladder and brain. The pepper all but overpowered the flavor of the sheep innards, making them palatable -- so long as you didn't focus on where exactly they had come from.

Around here, it's worth noting, they haven't so much turned their backs on vegetarianism as they never fully embraced it (although given the high cost of meat most maintain a veg diet when it's not a feast day). Dharchula is on India's border with Nepal, which is evident in not just the steep canyon landscape but also the increased Asiatic visage of many of our neighbors. So while the region is predominantly Hindu, animal sacrifice remains an important part of religious practice as it does in Nepal. Moreover Auntie, despite concerns about her Hindu dharma retains connections to the older indigenous religions of this region. Her worship of ancestral family members, connected to her historic mountain home in the hills, calls for slaughter.

For us, the curried but curiously bland mutton, served with pungent, fresh blood sausage and large quantities of rice splashed with broth leftover from cooking, made a nice change of pace. The feast, which brought about 30-40 people to the house, involved a bit of fortune telling focused on the sheep's organs (prior to consumption, obviously), the collection of a couple thousand rupees ($75 USD) to pay for the poor animal, and a division of leftover hunks of meat among 28 family units descended from long-dead but still honored grandfathers. The name of the god additionally being worshipped escaped me, though intriguingly he was reported to be an inhabitant of holy Mount Kailash, a Tibetan peak also believed to be the home of Shiva, one of the big-time Hindu gods.

In other regards, the days since we returned to Dharchula have passed in familiar fashion. Beyond the occasional stop at the German dam engineer's to sponge off his satellite Internet connection (utilized to post this), we've been soaking up sights and smells, wandering the hills, shopping for rugs and visiting the bazaar daily for dinner ingredients. It's been pretty damn cold in our house, with nighttime temps sticking in the low 40s and no heater or fireplace. On the flip side, our old friends, including Govind the photographer and Davinder the founder of the new Rang school and community center (Rang is general name for the tribes related to Darma, which C is studying; our landlady is Byansi, which means her tribe is from a different valley), are happy to have us back.

Things remain rough in this neck of the woods for the permanent inhabitants, though. The Maoists are still running things on the far side of the Nepal hills, and the latest national news in India from Dharchula concerns a group of Sino-Tibetan traders who were robbed in Nepal and stranded here until about the time we arrived. Another dispatch discussed a smuggling operation busted carrying endangered antelope wool to New Delhi. A couple of the Tibetan traders are still here, sticking out almost as much as we do. Though doubtless they're much stronger mountaineers, they're likely stuck here until spring.

Of course, the major news from this part of the world concerns the impact of the tsunami on South India and its neighbors. The plate tectonics that caused that natural disaster, which looks like it may eventually claim some 50,000 fatalities globally, are the same that forced the Himalayas up over 60 million years ago. Not that we had any sense of what had happened until a friend stopped by to tell us the news. It was the only time since our first stay in Dharchula that I thought a television might be a good thing to have.

In a week, we'll start South ourselves towards Kerala on the West Coast, which we hope to find relatively untouched by these recent events. It seems callous to worry about our coming vacation in the face of such tragedy, but to lean on a cliché, we're all destined to be lambs to the slaughter, aren't we? With this epiphany, we ring in 2005, Indian-style.

2004-12-13T16:53:00.000+05:30

"Mr. Oko, Welcome Back!" That was the sign greeting me as I climbed down from the train at Haridwar, the holy Indian city where the Ganges meets the plains. The trip was a detour from the usual direct run to Dharchula, in order to drop off gear with my rafting buddies in Rishikesh. Specifically, hiking boots and polypro longjohns for the guys at Red Chilli Adventures, who sent along the car and the cute sign.

We spent the past two days in lovely Laxman Jhula, the northern exurb of Rishikesh, about 20 miles up the road from Haridwar. The yoga/meditation scene is heavy here in north Rishikesh. While most tourists have embarked for warm points South, long-term India visitors remain camped along the holy Ganges, a green ribbon flowing down from the Himalayas at this juncture. Evening winds ring the temple bells, and though monkeys and stray dogs ply the streets for dropped snacks, occasionally snarling at one and other or passersby, the vibe remains relaxed and curiously devout as the town is a destination for pilgrims of all stripes.

It's been nice to get a breath of fresh air after Delhi.

Yesterday, we wandered the slender alleys, window shopping and ate lunch on a primitive rooftop cafe; in the evening we caught up with my guide friends at their pad in the paddy fields outside of town and ate a scrumptious North Indian meal of kofta (vegetable balls) in a spicy tomato sauce and mashed okra. Served on the side were warm roti, flatbread, kept soft with a light coating of ghee, clarified butter. We sat late into the evening talking about politics, film, love and the environment, the conversation winding down about midnight. On our way home, C. and I stopped to admire the stars, and while picking out constellations were treated to a streaking meteor.

We slept peacefully with the wind sweeping down from the mountains, carrying the sound of the Ganges through the cracked window above our door. Now, C. must return to work in Dharchula, a two-day journey from here. We've been informed that our rooms have been prepared, and I'm hoping that it all goes smooth on the journey. In just a couple of hours, we'll leave the peaceful clime of Rishikesh behind for an overnight train, and trade the quietude for the rough beauty of upper Kumaon, where we'll be for the next few weeks.

We're still adjusting to being back in India; without a doubt this brief Rishikesh sojourn has helped, though the hard part remains ahead. With 6 months to burn, however, I am cooking up plans a plenty, and look as forward to laying new tracks as revisiting the old.

2004-12-11T13:10:00.000+05:30

Even a veteran traveler to India gets schooled sometimes. Yesterday, that was me.

With Christina in meetings through the morning, I was assigned the task of arranging train tickets for our trip to Dharchula. Things got off to a lurching start, as I could not find a rickshaw willing to make the half-mile journey from the YMCA to the station. "It is closed," I was told. "Government holiday." Give me a break. "Use the tourist center down this alley." No thanks. "I am not going to the railway." Well, I am. "First, talk to my friend." No thanks. "You owe me ten rupees." Take it, take it and leave me alone.

So I trundled along on foot, fending off the touts, walking to the station in the hazy morning air. Confident that the tickets would be no problem, I headed up the filthy stairs in the depot, and into the International Tourist Bureau, a place I have spent many hours over many trips arranging train travel in and out of Delhi. (To read about past adventures check the blogs at http://danoko.blogspot.com and http://danoko2.blogspot.com.)

Ah, yes, the snaking que, the sound of confused travelers sorting out which trains are available. Seats for Goa and Bombay, choice Southern destinations, will be hard to come by -- heading North to the mountains looks to be no problem. But shortly (by Indian standards, at least) I get my comeuppance.

After an hour, I approach the ticket counter. The chubby Sikh raises his eyebrows. "Encashment certificate?" he queries, needing proof that I did not purchase my rupees on the black market. Alas, C. has the ATM receipts, and I humbly submit that "my wife" has them, and is at a meeting, and has trusted me simply to arrange the tickets. The supervisor I'm informed, however, must now approve the transaction, while across the bottom of my ticket request the clerk writes: "Research visa."

For some reason, I take this as a good sign. After all, we're here as guests of the Indian government. Guess again, boyo!

As I protest my case, hoping that I can curry a sign of sympathy, I am informed that whatever past events have transpired, I am not a tourist. The fact that this has never mattered before makes no difference, and the hour I have wasted is worth less than fly spit. "You must listen," the supervisor says, "you are here for research, you cannot use this office." Yes, but.... "Relax, the tickets are available, you just have to go downstairs, do not cross the street, and go to the white hall on your left, three buildings down."

Certainly, the hall is no ring of hell, but it defines limbo. The thousand or so men lined up before some 15 ticket windows wait in orderly fashion, and they obey the 'no smoking' signs. One man suggests that as a foreigner I might want to check the International Tourist Bureau. I'm left to explain that I don't count. I'm an Indian, I laugh, wishing I were a lady, so I could hop onto the much shorter ladies line. Instead, I carefully choose a fast-looking que, when without warning our ticket seller up and disappears for a quarter-hour.

Eight men stand between me and freedom, while I wait. And wait some more.

Another hour later, I have my tickets in hand, and find a rickshaw driver willing to brave the construction-strewn Connaught Place and drop me back at the YMCA. The coming train journey will take me only a half-hour more than my assigned chore. For the rest of the day, no one mentions the government holiday.

2004-12-09T13:40:00.000+05:30

We arrived the night before last in Delhi. Today, is Sonya Gandhi's birthday. The old city feels familiar, the morning fog lifting by noon to reveal a less than blue sky and lemon yellow sun; at night, the smell of wood fires mix with the scent of camphor used to clean the floors of our hotel. Connaught Place, the center of New Delhi, constructed by the British, is a riot of construction as work continues on the city's new subway lines. Through it all, hungry touts wait for innocent tourists.

A contact at USEFI admitted yesterday that some minor bureaucratic monkey business might explain the delay in our visas. Apparently, some employed by the Ministry of Home affairs have "unofficially" decided that the United State's glacial pace in granting visas to foreigners should not go unanswered; as a result, Americans awaiting visas to India should be prepared for a little bureaucratic quid pro quo. What a pain!

Given that we're staying at the YMCA, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised, but Delhi seems to be getting into a full Christmas swing. There's Santa's Sleigh on the patch of grass outside the reception area at the Y, and Muzak versions of your favorite carols playing in the dining room. Shops are strung with tinsel and wrapping paper is for sale all over the place. I have no idea what Brahma would make of this, but it's certainly a contrast to what I expected.

Before long, we'll be heading out to the Dharchula and the Himalayas. As always, there are more impressions than can rightfully be recounted at this moment. Instead, I offer my last published Texas adventure, courtesy of Texas Parks and Wildlife magazine: http://tpwmagazine.com/archive/2004/dec/threedays/.

2004-11-23T19:06:00.000+05:30

It took months longer than anticipated, but visa approval has finally arrived. Tickets are booked for a Dec. 6 departure to India, giving us time to tuck in some turkey over Thanksgiving, finalize our packing list, raise a final glass of tequila and hit the Himalayas just in time to see the snow fly. Keep your eyes on this space.