We’ve been dealing with some crazy, but no worries, we’re back and we’re strong. I’m going to be adding photos, video, and some more fun surprises soon enough. Our photos are pretty sick, so I’m psyched to share them, and I hope that you people show us your interesting stuff. We want your links, photos, maps, questions, comments, suggestions and all that shit. Drop us a line, we’ll feel really good about ourselves! and you will too.

I heard once that if you were to to drop an a-bomb smack in the middle of Dharavi, India’s largest slum (and the second largest in all of Asia), the shock wave wouldn’t reach any permanent home dwellers…

You’re abolutely right you smart Alec, there’s no way anyone could ever prove something like that, but the point is that Dharavi is enormous. There’s reportedly over a million people living there and it keeps getting bigger every year. I wanted to go, so we went.

As we walked through the swampy arteries of a labyrinth  of shanty houses and trash heaps, children started to show up, smiling, running, following. I had reservations. I didn’t know what the politics of me entering this slum would be like. Would these people try to sell me stuff? Would they try to steal my bag? Would they ask me for money?

These kids were just laughing at us, talking amongst eachother, plotting some hi jinks that my rudimentary understanding of Hindi would never be able to grasp. What did they WANT?

They were probably thinking the same thing about us. We kept walking deeper into the slum, shimmying through narrower and darker passage ways, not knowing whether we were eventually going to end up at a dead end, or maybe find ourselves back to the main road, or maybe we’d end up in someone’s kitchen. One of the alleys was barely wide enough for me and my daypack to turn around 180 degrees. Every few feet I’d pass a threshold, and being the ever-curious voyeur, I would peer inside, maybe even stick my head in and snoop around while my eyes adjusted to the darkness. There they were, the masters of the house doing what people do, cooking their food, washing their clothes, raising their children, (many of whom had been following us).  As we kept moving through the maze, I realized that I was in an insular universe, packed into these tiny holes in the walls were homes of ten people or more, but also shops and business of all kinds- tea houses, tv repair shops, leather workers, barber shops, clothes, food, you could find anything in downtown Dharavi, you wouldn’t need or want to spend your money or your free time outside the slum. I’m watching some potters work the wheel in a 3 foot wide alley when a cow and a man riding a  bicycle while carrying a large jug of water on his head both need to pass eachother, and I’m in the middle. I decide that I’m better off not moving, because these characters will just know what to do. Sure enough they pass me without slowing down.

I notice that hanging from the rooftops were strings lined with flags of all kinds of symbols and religious icons. Muslim flags, Hindu, Sikh,  Jain, Christian- and though I didn’t find any sign of Buddhists, I’d guess there a few hanging out there. I took my camera out to snap a few shots of some of those pretty flags, and a group of the children who were following us ran into frame and crowded together so everyone could get in the shot. They never asked for money, they never tried to sell me anything, but they did want their picture taken as often as I would take them. They didn’t ask to see the photos or anything, they just wanted to be in the frame when I pressed the clicker on my antique minolta. Many of these kids were posing for the first photograph ever taken of them. Not bad at all for their first try.

The booming markets of a mumbai slum… it just makes you realize the extent of the scrapiness of Indian culture. Most of these people make whatever they can in the city and keep their money within the slum economy, so there’s a lot coming in, and very little going out. Shanty houses with sattelite dishes and dvd players aren’t hard to find. One guy we passed posed for us leaning against his sporty Honda coupe- it looked pretty new. And right near the shiny red car were walls of year old trash, children shitting liquid into a gutter lining main street, and through the heart of it all a river of sludge running thick and black, you could smell it from a mile away.

It’s important for the traveler to remember not to pity the world through which he wanders. Sometimes that’s nearly impossible, but the challenge is recognizing the beauty of the drama, the universal stakes of human survival and all the pages of themes that come with it. Parents raising their children. Boys meeting girls. Competition among pals. The beauty of struggle. We found some of it there in Dharavi.

Das

I left behind my home and headed towards another

went to meet my other families my other sisters and brothers

its a departure a flight from every day existence

everything i know, all the people I love, and live with

from the city of angels and my own sacred space

i found it necessary to change my sense of place

taste new flavors of unfamiliar territory

yet something unmistakeable stirs my cellular memory

this feels like a return to the rhythms of home

awakened by a scent a feeling a language the places I’m shown

its another way of seeing

another way of being

another philosophy

another way of believing

because the gods here are different than the ones I’ve known

you gotta switch modes decipher codes and go with the flow

sometimes you stay in luxury rooms with AC

sometimes you stay in a dump with stained sheets

sometimes you get hooked up by family or friends

sometimes you feel like the rip offs never end

you have to be adaptable and ready for whatever

stay ahead of the hustlers don’t get screwed be clever

if you have a bad experience just leave it behind

and if you have a good time keep it forever in your mind

cross over into the future

say goodbye to the past

enjoying the present moment is all we really have

the journey of life is long and the path unknown

just when you think you’re done growing something new is born

now is the time to divulge secrets

to open up vaults

cuz if you never share your soul

it’s no one else’s fault

Why am I on this strange trip?

How can beauty and evil coexist?

Why has my life taken this manifestation?

Why do people worship destruction and creation?

What pulses beneath everything

what is always there

what do I really need to exist

Who am I laid bare

From the top of an icy mountain

to the reef in the ocean deep

what do I bring with me everywhere,

what do I keep?

what is this presence I feel

watching over me wherever i go

I don’t have to ask anymore

now I just know

this is an experience that can’t be bought or sold

and I trust in whatever will unfold.

The best 300 baht ever spent- (10$)- 2 hours of blissful massage.  Thailand’s national pastime, massaging the shit out of foreigners for money.  But it’s so worth it.  I’d do it again in a heartbeat.  Probably tomorrow after the elephant hike. I feel great; my body light, stretched, rubbed, scrubbed, anointed by the hands of trained professionals.  For cheapcheap.

That, and Thailand’s mark- the bliss-filled greedy nature of being taken for all we’re worth.  Everyone gets hit.  No traveler spared, everyone succumbs to some sort of scam… We’ve been had.  We’re going to take care of it.  Guns a-blazing like real American heroes.

And I’ll finish with a Buddha hunt.  My Thai cultural immersion- searching through cubes and cubes of Phra Somdej Wat Rakhang amulets to find a real one.  Inspired by a Thai gentleman, a gift of protection to friendly Americans who won’t understand.  But I’ll try; a gift from the heart at least.

And home again.

Nearing the end.  Must learn to scuba dive first.  Going for broke.

jello snorkeling

Before I fall in love with you

there is something I have to do

Before I give my heart to you

there is a thing that I must do

see I have a secret boiling inside me

instructions and code waiting to be transposed

the buds have blossomed and ripened into fruit

ready for the plucking

ready to be devoured

like the dark red juicy center bursting with seeds

I have colorful powers

I have kaleidoscope dreams

tiny mirrors sparkle as my heart revolves round and round

now its time to turn my whole self inside out

bit by bit and day by day

step by step

each note I play

I can’t force it out or scare myself with threats

thoughts of destruction

delusions of success

I feel my soul overflowing with joy

my heart bursting and bleeding

dripping on the dance floor

acts of celebration

acts of aliveness

the opposite of death

the embodiment of bliss

manifestations of physical cultrue

emanations of a deeper power

the humming drone of a shared source

the spiritual nature of a creative force

the layers of sediment caked over with time

erosions and explosions

decay and dust

ashes blown to the wind

steel structures coated in rust

the various faces of gods in different places

the creation of a divine order

the personification of unarticulable sacredness

the permanence of carved stone temples and squares

beauty is as old as time and as new as the moment

individuals blessed with great vision.

people who have been invited to wak the path of the master.

women who have been blessed with the tools of unlimited creative action.

monuments in time that reverberate for eons.

Veiny bitten skin

wrinkles and scars

fat spots and bones sticking out

long fingers and high cheekbones

the thighs of a deer

the neck like a conch

hips and legs that want to dance

shoulders arms and hand that want to drum

a head that wants to think and dream

a heart that wants to love and trust

a body that wants to seduce and give in to seduction

extreme sexual bliss savored for a moment before it passes

giving way to the delta of evry day

brimming over with peace and contentment

so much its too much for just one

so much you have to share

replicate myself into another small population

emissarys diplomats from the embassy of my soul

he made pilgrimages to the temple of my breasts,

the sacred mountains of my thighs,

the monestary of my heart,

the shrine of my vagina,

the altar of my stomach.

I writhed and danced by myself all over the bed in ecstacy.

warmth crept in and stayed there.

I twisted turned and flailed

running my hands over my body

my skin responisve to its own touch.

myself responsible for the fulfillment of pleasure.

elements of nature in me working in synchronicity.

crystal clear frost bitten at the tips

melt and boil at the caress of the fiery sun.

breath breathing through me making my treetops sway and my pollen shakes loose.

ino the crack of the desert floor

deep where the earth shifts and makes plans.

into my core where i sit and think

where everything is black, alien, and unknown.

the thread that binds us together.

the string that the beads hold on to.

the ring that seals the promise of forever.

the symbolic gestures that add up to a life.  

m. light

Last night, we ate supper at the restaurant Cuba, located right on fantastic Palolem Beach at the edge of the Arabian Sea. The waves rolled in, knocking down the last of the eager swimmers as the sun set and the final rays of light vanished into black. Three mid-westerners had caught our attention at our beach hut and we’d been invited to dinner by the one who, in light of his amigos, seemed extremely cool. His two buddies, pre-determined douchebags, required that we concoct an emergency evacuation plan. “I have to go back and take a shit,” might not be the most original excuse in the book but for our purposes would have worked well enough.

We arrived at Cuba ready for travelers dinner conversation, wary that the two dudes might not be cool. It took mere seconds to verify that our predetermination had been correct. One of the first comments out of Douchebag #1’s mouth, on the topic of mistaken identities, was a comment directed to Dev, “They must mistake you for a convenience store owner.” I stared, mouth agape, waiting for a witty and disarming response that never came. (Today Dev told me that he didn’t hear him and had no idea why I was staring at him with the WTF look. I mean, I have no problem antagonizing retarded travelers- I attempted to expound on the virtues of Quebec to a traveling Albertan ex-union busting lawyer after our trio toured the Dharavi slums, and, needless to say, our traveling trio didn’t last very long after that.) Of the traveling buddies out our dinner table, the Hindi speaking, former Dharamsalavolunteering, Golden Gopher who had invited us in the first place earned his traveler badge when he relaxed during the debate over the awesomeness quotient of Nine Inch Nails vs Rage Against the Machine (both playing Lollapalooza this August).

After the name-the-capitol contest and the Thailand tips discussion the “Do you actually believe in the moon landing?” question arose. The original discussion-stopper scoffed, revealing that he’d never known that that was a point of contention until he’d hit the backpackers trail. Along with the various conspiracy theories involving Bush and Osama, he recognized an entirely different conceptualization of America, one he hadn’t learned from the US media or from his education at Michigan.  (One might commend him for at least learning something.) Interestingly enough, ask an international dwelling individual living out of backpack about America and you’re bound to find out all sorts of information that the bubble of America filtered and you might have missed.

Now I’ll admit, our team is special.  We’ve traveled deep.   Our small band of travelers has stayed with friends and family and locals in homestays, been exposed to situations and lifestyles that the tourists don’t see when they check into guest houses. We’ve lived with farm families, learned languages in kitchens, gone on rescue missions with hotel owners, gotten (and given) love advice from (to) locals,  drank local alcohols with their brew-masters.  We’ve moved off of the beaten path, and then away from the not-so-beaten path and carved our own way through India, creating our own unique route through conversations.  We’ve creating bonds with individuals with such information!

But when it all boils down, western traveler’s exposure to the “Other” remains limited to a tourist beat unless the local flavors are sought out with a vengeance. Without relating to the local culture on an even keel or with eyes open to learn instead of teach, the tourist only gets tepid props for venturing out of their polluted holes.  Our urban tribe seeks out the unexplored and attempts to discuss other issues with locals instead of squabbling over the finer details of how the west rules the day. (I personally think that that time is over and Americans are just too dumb to realize it. But they’ll understand soon enough…)

It’s uncanny the wealth of information transferred through evening conversations with random people over beers. The exchange of hopes, dreams, dreaded pasts, unknown futures, secure jobs, past and present pursuits, in the two+ months of traveling, the conversations have spanned the limitless potential of topics. More than the question, “what’s your country,” and “what did you do there,” discussions can range from history, sociology, social organization, languages, the US vs Canada, the US vs the EU and the Euro, modern financial matters, the US vs Solar Energy, the Us vs International Education systems…

But between all the travelers, the Dutch, French, German, Spanish, Danish, Swede, Czech, Belorussians, Brits, Portuguese and every other variety we’ve run into- the most important conversations, the litmus test of traveler integrety, really comes down to books. The definition of every travel circuit can be found in the novels, passed hand to hand, throughout the traveling community. The books include only the very best specimen of published words available. With limited space, travelers hoard and trade their treasure with as much passion as they put into searching out their next fantastic meal. This round, I’ve been lucky enough to get my hands on two of the three required readings of India 2008. The novels, usually heavy as bricks, mashed together great stories and fantastic information on India, scrumptiously ingested like home made dal bhat eaten by hand. Traveling wanderers, with little space to spare for extravagance, lug these huge tomes with them, the sacred scrolls of their journey, to be studied and discussed at length with the great variety of transients met along the way.

I’ll begin the list of Required Reading for any India 2008 adventure:  Begin with Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance for a nice overview of the qualities of Indian life that are unique to the country and will look completely foreign to the untrained eye.   Rich verse and fantastic literature, this read is all encompassing and a balanced joy. 

The second edition that is a must is Gregory David Roberts’ wild fictionalized biographical adventure Shantaram. (Currently being made into a movie featuring none other than JONNY DEPP!!  I hope it rocks because I couldn’t put the book down!!)  Through Shantaram, a traveler will gain the glorious, gory knowledge of Bombay and it’s potential.  Not to be missed.  And it’s a great read! 

These authors have unknowingly scripted the adventures of international bohemians. People who have quit jobs to adventure in the world and invariably have their noses stuffed inside the books they hold so dear, learning even as their physical selves change, adapt and find themselves in unknown circumstances and destinations. Traveling brains absorb the information jammed into the plethora of books passed and read and passed again along the journey. The body, mind and spirit, parched for the unknown when sedate and secure in the land of its forefathers, refuses to allow the torrential downpour of information inundating the banks of its neuropathways to flood, stubbornly swelling as needed and finding respite in intense discussions with perfect strangers and travel buddies.

So after inquiries over beers, judgements form based on simplistic responses to the question “What’s your top 5 books?.” If the two aforementioned book titles come up with at least 40% interest, the individual gets a pass. At dinner last night, after a fantastic meal, the reveal determined Dev’s preliminary prediction: The two  Americans didn’t give even one hint of recognition. For the cool one, at least he’d heard of them.

Not Only Red White and Blue Jello

I was charged 360 rupees by this little boy driving me to the airport. the cab didn’t even make it all the way to colaba, it broke down about halfway. I was about to protest when he pulled out this “cab fare conversion chart” that said that if the meter read 180, then I owed him 360. It was the chart that did me in. I trusted the chart. He hailed me another cab, and I got nervous, really fucking nervous, when the meter was reaching into the 700s, then 800s. I was exhausted from the flight, a little nervous about being in mumbai alone, starting to get depressed and resigned myself to the fact that I was probably going to just bend over and take it. But when we reached the man told me 130 rupees. I breathed a sigh of relief and forked over the money. I did ask this shop keeper later, did I get screwed? But he said no, cab rides from the airport are usually around 400. so I did get ripped off, but only a little.
This same shopkeeper, fucking hooked it up with Hindi disco records from the 70’s!! I am really excited to play around with them when i get back. I was hoping for some record shopping but didn’t expect it knowing it would be hard to come by. But I got some rare, really great Asha Bhosle, R.D. Burman and Kishore Kumar albums.
I’ve been staying in the Salvation Army hostel, its a trip. Kind of a cross between a mental hospital for girls and some weird, Pan European alternate universe. Actually right when I walked in the room there were about three Indian chicks, one of them who had just taken off her shirt. It was like that movie Hostel.

M. Light

It’s Saturday night at Palolem Beach. If you define paradise as beautiful, long sandy beaches, 50 meters to bath-warm water with frequent tumbling waves, a plethora of restaurants at which to eat succulent fish, beach huts with beds and a shanti shanti attitude with few tourists as the season is about to close, perfect sun and a ridiculously fantastic adventure novel to read, then yes, this is absolute paradise. There’s a band playing on the stage of downtown area, we’ll see how long the party lasts. I’ve heard they have a special 24 hour permit. Or else, like every other night, the music will be cut at 11pm. All thanks to a crazy British lady potentially with a drug problem and a young 14 year old who hadn’t cultivated her street sense.

The tragic events that changed the social cycle of Goa happened early this year. Without going into too much detail, a British woman took her 14 year old daughter out of school to tour India. They settled in Goa, fun town, land of beautiful beaches, 24 hour parties, drugs, alcohol and plenty of other ways to get into trouble. For some reason, and again I don’t really know all the details, the mom left her daughter with some sketchy dudes in Goa while she went off to tour the rest of India and the girl ended up quite violated and dead. Because of this story and a few less horrific others, rules have descended on this part of town. Rules tend to have an adverse effect in areas known for extravagant amounts of fun. So now there’s a sound law and a quiet time and I haven’t been solicited even once. I even did a tour through the town on my own just to see who might approach. It didn’t happen.

But tonight, old Goa is showing off. The end of the season, the monsoons are coming, perhaps there is a bash or two left in this beach town. Tomorrow I’m going to kayak to the little island sheltered in the bay and climb to the top of the mountain. And if I wake up early enough, I’ll do some yoga on the beach while listening to the waves crash against the sand.

No Jellyfish Jello

On the way from the Mumbai airport to my friend’s apartment, a cabbie tried to convince me that the fixed rate for our journey was 550 rupees.

Granted, I’m just getting off a plane, and my accent rats me out as a brown-skinned yankee without a clue about local prices in Mumbai. I know it, my cabbie knows it- I’m not on home turf. But I’m not going down without a fight.

First I tried to haggle with him.

I said “what!? that’s horribly expensive! I know this route (complete bullshit, I had no idea where I was, or where we were going) and I know it’s never more than 300 rupees”.

In Hindi he said “What? Nobody will go there for 300 rupees! You can’t do anything in this town for 300 rupees, no way. Final offer 500.”

“No deal no deal, that’s way too expensive. Okay, you’re a nice guy, I’ll give you 400, that’s my last offer, no higher than that.”

“No, 500, last price”.

At this point I stopped to think. I have no idea what things cost in and around Mumbai, but I realized that for less than the price he was asking for, I had gotten from Gangtok in Sikkim, all the way across the state of West Bengal to Kolkata. Something just wasn’t right. Even for a crooked cabbie, this had to be an absurd rip off. But without a basic knowledge of the pricing in Mumbai it was impossible for me to know how much was reasonable. So I resolved to ask some locals at our stop how much it should cost to get there from the airport. I told him to hang on, that I was looking for some change.

I got three responses, all under 200 rupees. 

“You tried to cheat us!” I shouted. ”You said 550 just because you know we’re not from around here! You’re a CROOK!”

Meanwhile he’s just wobbling his head like an apologetic fool as his taxi cab brothers laugh at him for getting caught red-handed and at me, for making a scene and yelling at him in choppy Hinglish. I tossed him 125 rupees and marched off, triumphant. He grabbed my arm and said I owed him a few more, according to the meter, and since I didn’t want to get into a fight with this guy, (he grabbed me with some vigor) I shelled it out. In total I gave him 180,

I’ve heard of too many westerners getting caught up in scams and crooked deals that, more often than not, begin right outside the airport. A wide-eyed Westerner gets off the plane, ready for all the spiritual enlightenment he can soak up from whatever romantic ambitions he’s laid out for his journey to ultimate truth. He seeks to find himself, to wear flowy cotton kurtas and eat with his hands, to meditate on the merits of polytheism and tantric sex while sitting cross legged on the banks of the Ganges, musing on his newfound oneness with everythingness, communing with dread-locked sadhus while smoking hash mixed with dried cow feces and dead bugs. Oh yeah, these Westerners invent some pretty cute notions for themselves about the spiritual splendors awaiting them in the far far east.

But the second these wide-eyed little rabbits hit the pavement they just get worked over by a pack of jackals, all hungry and salivating. These jackals drive the cabs, offer guided tours, run guest houses that are always full, man innocent looking rickshaws, and send children to beg you for change as they put their hands near their mouths and rub their bellies and squeak in pitiful voices “food! hungry! food!”. These predators know what they’re up against. They’re fully versed in the products of circumstance, and they are not afraid to cold call you face to face, right there on the street. And as these poor rabbits watch their entrails get chewed to bits by a swarm of hungry, bloody mouths, the truth sets them free. So this is India.

You’re in the jungle now you pasty fuck! You better pull yourself together and come to grips with the facts. If you’re not doing the hunting, you’re getting hunted.

So, what can you do to protect yourself from getting screwed?

Don’t believe anyone who advises you NOT to get second opinions. Anyone who says that all the guest houses in Delhi (or whereever) are full is lying to you. Any cabbie who says there’s no meter today, fixed price only, is lying to you. Any tour guide who says that all the trains are booked is lying to you. Don’t take it personally,  just know what you’re getting into, there’s a billion people in India and if you’re from the west and have the ability to travel to India in the first place, you have more money at your disposal than 95% of everyone in the country, but without any of street smarts. Always ask someone else for a second opinion, or a third. I’d advise approaching locals and just asking them what they think about this deal, whatever it may be. NEVER get into a cab right out of the airport without having a fixed address and some landmarks that you know are close by to your address. This is crucial. You must know where you’re going from the airport, don’t give them a chance to take you to their crooked guest house operators so they can take a cut from you getting ripped off. Go somewhere specific, anywhere, but don’t just ask a cabbie to take you to a guest house. It’s a recipe for disaster.

I heard this one story about two 19 year old girls, fresh from Canada, who got off the plane in New Delhi in the middle of the night and got into a cab without knowing where they were going. They asked the driver to find them a guest house. He told them to wait in the car as he went in and checked for them at different hotels and hostels, saying that it wasn’t safe for them to be outside at night. Sure enough, the first guest house was full, then the second, then the third, then the fourth, then they realized that of course, all the guest houses/hotels in Delhi are full. They would logically have to go Aggra… Four hours away.  Of course, all trains to Aggra were full, so they would naturally need to hire a private car to get them there. This con artist was able to convince these brainless Canadians to buy a cell phone and call him whenever they needed anything. They finally had to escape from this guy on a train, which I am told was not easy, after realizing that they were getting fucked over. This guy would not stop calling them for weeks after their escape, and they could not return to Delhi because they were afraid of being found. 

Just be smart you crazy kids, know what you’re getting into. I love India and its people, but I would be careful about harboring any romantic notions that separate this place from the west in character. These people need to make a dime, and they’re going to turn to you cuz you look and sound like a sucker. Be polite, be friendly, but keep your wits and your wallet close at hand.

-Das  

I bought a phrase book thinking it would provide me with some useful Hindi locution to get me through the language barrier. Here I will present some useful, everyday phrases that I learned. (I’m quoting straight from the phrase book)

Matdaan imaandaari se hanim hotaa.

Voting is not honest.

Hindustan mem aam aadmi ke paas naa khaali samay hotaa hai, naa koi sauk.

A common man in India has no free time or hobbies.

Sab fasa Kharaab ho gai hai.

The entire crop has been ruined.

Bare-bare ghotale hote haim.

Big scams take place.

Bharat mem dahej ke lie nav vadhu ko jalaa diyaa jaataa hai.

In India, for dowry, brides are burnt to death.

Yah sac hai ki bahut gharom mem var aur uske maataapitaa milkar vadhu kaa utpiran karte haim.

This is true that in several homes the groom and his parents together torture the bride.

Yeah, everyday Hindi is fucked up.