Amram Abraham

It turned out the two who were sharing my room were also intending on heading to Dharamsala the next day, and so together jumped on a morning bus, into the mountains and away from the India I had come to know and love. Dharamshala is a haven for Tibetan refugees and it is they who populate they small town and mountains within the province of Himachal Pradesh. The bus slowly trundled through hills and gradually ascended into the himalayas. Pines replaced broadleaf, it reminded me of BC actually; the rolling hills, the lush foliage. The only difference was that it was populated with shops and small towns every step of the way. I remember wondering what a billion people might look like and now I understand: there are people simply everywhere.

When we arrived in Dharamshala it was night, we met a swiss girl and the four of us all took a cab to a town further north of Dharamshala called McLeod Gang. This was where the Dalai Lama lived, it stuck onto the mountainside, green everywhere. The following morning I awoke feeling awful. I had a bad cough, and a unsettled stomach. Unfortunately because of this I wasn't able to take part in the treks my colleagues had in mind, and instead went from sleeping in bed and small walks around town. I had been craving some quality noodle soup and a bowl of dumplings for ages, and I would finally get my wish. Not yet though, my stomach had other ideas.

I had heard of a Tibetan hospital and decided to head for it, my polish friend came along. It was tough going; the roads were steep and my asthma wasn't abating. What's more, when I finally arrived I realized it was a Saturday and therefore closed. I returned to town empty handed. Together with my Polish friend (I almost want to make up a name for him, I can't keep calling him that, how about Milazs?) we headed into a dumpling shop when I was heard a faint mumbling next to me. I looked down and saw an old man, his body bent, his hands gnarled and shaking. 'Could you stand me up?' was his request. Sure, I said. I grabbed his hands and pulled him up, then, at his request, stretched his hands above his head. He let out an audible sigh of relief. Afterwards, he asked him if I'd like to hear some things that might help me out. When an old gnarled mine, visibly wise beyond years, says things like that you sit down and listen.

He told me of sun-gazing, the art of staring at the sun right as it is rising, to gain power from it. He told me of ways to work around the world, and many other things. After speaking for around 30 minutes, he had a request. He was an old man suffering from Parkinson's disease, and he was traveling alone. Many of those who ran guesthouses knew of him and, afraid he would die in his sleep and the trouble that would cause them, would not allow him stay alone, or sometimes at all. Would I mind sharing a room with him? I said yes without much thought, I liked this old man and liked the chance to help him. He was visibly relieved. Who knows what he would've done had no one provided him help. His name was Amram Abraham, and he'd been traveling for 44 years straight. He was born in Brooklyn in the late 30's and took off to Israel when he was 18, he hadn't stopped moving since.

After a number of noodle soups and a massage I my stomach had returned to normal, but my lungs, unfortunately, had not. I coughed a lot, and was short of breath constantly. Nevertheless Amram and I wandered the streets of McLeod Gang, stopping for dumplings and coups of Ginger-Lemon-Honey tea. Amram mentioned that the next day there was an English Sunday service at an 200 year old church somewhere in the woods out of town. He thought it might be a good way to spend a morning and I thought, what the hell, why not? Amram was Jewish and I was ... a non-practicing Buddhist (sure why not) so the service might be interesting from an outsiders point of view, in addition with the whole context of the situation, with His Holiness living 20 minutes away.

That night I realized the extent of what I got myself into when I said yes to Amram. He would need my aid in very nearly everything he did. In retrospect I'm amazed he managed to get to Dharamshala on his own in the first place. I won't get to much into it here, I'll just say I got very little rest, and that after 5 days I knew acutely my calling was not to be a nurse.

That morning we were to take a rickshaw to the church. This proved more challenging because of drivers' reluctance to take Amram as a customer. It seemed the people of McLeod Gang wanted very little to do with this old man, the added trouble of his lack of mobility seemingly too much for them to deal with. We got one, and were taken to an old stone church in the middle of the forest. Inside there were stones that read 'This pew is dedicated to Capt. Rawley, who was killed by a bear in 1887' and stuff. Cool. The pastor was an aging Indian man in a baseball cap. There was a surprising amount of people here, so much so there wasn't enough psalm books to go around and I was unfortunately, left without. It was okay, I just kinda hummed 'Jesus Jesus Jesus God Jesus' along with the melody. I guess the pastor wasn't confident enough in his English and so  Sean, a 21 year old Japanese-American from Oregon, did the talking. He spoke about how God is great and that we should always be asking what God wants from us. Sacrifice etc. Sorry, but after about 5 minutes I couldn't help but tune out, the church itself being far more interesting that was being said in it. Amram fell asleep beside me.

We painted quite the picture the two of us, wandering the streets of Dharamshala. In the morning I'd read him the newspaper, we'd sit in front of a dumpling shop and talk about our lives. He seemed to somehow have his ear on the ground about live music events, and at night we would go to Jam sessions and concerts. I'd bring my didgeridoo and I'd play with them for hours. Amram would sit and fall asleep to the music. We'd head home and be in bed by 11. Sounds kinda nice, doesn't it?

The truth was I was getting exhausted. In general and with Mr. Abraham. I was sick myself, and I literally got no time to be alone. I was his 24/7 nurse. I helped him do everything and it was starting to take its toll on me. I realized I didn't have the patience for it, I knew that if I continued any longer with Amram I would begin resenting him. Around the 3rd day I began wondering what the hell was this guy doing here? Alone? Why wasn't he in a rest home, or at least in some place where his needs were looked after by paid professionals? Why burden strangers in the middle of India? Why risk his own health to be here?

The truth was that it's all he knows. When he left home he had been given a traveling allowance from his parents and when they died, they left him more money. He had no need to work and instead traveled the Earth. He had led a blessed life. His dream was freedom, and he saw traveling as a way to practice that freedom. In a way I agree with him. But in another way I realized that maybe freedom isn't all it's cracked up to be. That freedom isn't everything and that life isn't about only attaining and living freedom. I couldn't help but think that wandering the Earth for 44 years a bit of an empty existence. A lonely one. One time we were sitting in a cafe, I had just finished reading an article about a politician who had just taken up a fast unto death protesting corruption in the government, when in a soft voice Amram said simply: 'I should have married her'.

He was 18 and choose travel instead of marrying his sweetheart. He still thinks about it now, 44 years later. After a life chasing the dragon named Freedom, he wished for commitment.

I got a hug from an Amma in Bangalore. I got a book from an Amma in small village in Tamil Nadu. When Amram Abraham signed his named in the hotel ledger of our hotel, he signed it AMA. What did I get from him?

Intestines still fine.  

Turbans, Temples, and a Border Guard Mating Dance

After the better part of three weeks traversing the dusty dry climes of Rajasthan, the largest state of India, I headed north to one of India's smallest states: The mighty state of Punjab, land of the Sikh, where Singh is King (most Sikh's have Singh as their surname). Punjab is also home to the Sikh's holiest of shrines, the Golden Temple, located in the Punjabi capital of Amritsar. After an overnight bus in which I got little to no sleep (overnight buses are strange, you float in and out of sleep without ever truly realizing you slept. There were times I felt I had an unbroken internal monologue going but had, indeed, slept over 5 hours. It is not a satisfying sleep in any way, and you usually arrive at your destination  floating in a mental smog of exhaustion, not asleep and yet not awake. It is always at this point of disorientation you get attacked by a barrage of hotel touts insisting you stay at their hotel, when all you want is a few minutes of respite to collect and orient yourself to your new surroundings. At times, it is difficult to refrain yourself from resorting to violence in order to be free from these agonizing touts. Usually if they respect my 'please fuck off for a moment' they have a better chance of me going to their hotel; the super-aggressive ones just get coldest shoulder my exhausted, disoriented body can provide them).

I arrived in Amritsar the earliest it can be and still being considered morning. As always, despite the time (or perhaps because of it), the touts were out in full. Luckily I knew where I was to be staying, the Golden Temple itself. You see the Sikh's believe in goodwill, respect and love to all despite race or creed. And unlike many other religions I can think that exhort the same message, they practice what they preach. The Golden Temple is more than just a temple, it's a large complex of dormitories, book stalls, and kitchens all provided free of cost. I jumped on a bicycle rickshaw and he pedaled me to the entrance of the Golden Temple. I thanked him, paid, and then was immediately accosted by someone trying to sell me something to cover my head, a small orange bandana type thing. I had heard you needed to cover your hair to enter the complex so I bought for 50 rupees (I found out later they cost 20 but, it was 5 am and I was new ... That's how they get ya, they can spot a newbie from a mile away). I wandered in, aware of the existence of free lodgings but clueless as how to get there. I was quickly handed 5 pieces of bread to eat and a cup of tea. I stood there with my bread and tea, watching the activity around me, unsure of what to do next. They had a huge place to put your shoes. Should I give them my shoes? Did I have to? Most people had their shoes on, but a lot of people where there giving their shoes for storage. Should I wander around in search of my dorm? Should I sit down with my bread and tea and just wait for someone to notice my confused state?

Luckily it didn't take long for an old Sikh man to invite me to sit down for a chat. In heavily accented english he told me the basis of the Sikh faith, the belief that truth is the path to purity and that one must be honest in speech and thought, and that that leads to truthful action and the purity of the soul. I couldn't disagree. With that in mind I asked him how to get to a dorm, and he gave me the directions I needed. There were a few lefts and rights and without him I might've wandered for hours. We parted ways with him telling me that 'We would not meet again'. I quite liked that. He was, in true Sikh fashion, completely correct. I didn't see him again, though I looked for him.

I found my dorm. He pointed to a room with an empty bed and two full ones. I collapsed in the empty one and had a very restful sleep. If i remember correctly I dreamt of steep mountains and the colour orange.

When I awoke, I was greeted by my dorm-mates: a Pole and a Romanian, who have difficult names that I unfortunately cannot remember. They were cool dudes though and when I said I wanted to get a turban they came with me. We found many a turban shop, but the one we picked had a large billboard above the store with an illustration of a James Bond-like character in a turban and a tux smoking a cigarette. Nice. They had many turbans there (or, really, large lengths of cloth that could be wrapped into turbans) and I bought the cheapest one I could find: orange, the colour of the Hindu Sadhu's.  

I returned to the dorm and approached an attendant Sikh with the cloth in my hands. He new immediately my desire and, with the help of another Sikh, they began to wrap the cloth around my head. First they drizzled water on it and stretched it fiercely. And after twenty minutes of meticulousness my head was turbaned as well as any Sikh, with a pair of shades and my beard, I felt I could slip in as a bonafide Sikh. Not really though.

The Sikh temple was gorgeous. It is surrounded by a large square pool. It is entirely wrapped in gold flake and at the entrance, there is a man in a room made entirely of gold reading the massive book of the Sikh faith, the Guru Granth. The man just sat there reading the book aloud. Apparently they have someone in their just reading the book aloud from start to finish, 24/7. They do it in shifts, but there is never not someone in their, reading aloud. People come to bow and pray before the man reading the book, who is completely oblivious to those around. In the temple they sing passages the Guru Granth accompanied by tablas. They do so in a microphone that project out on speakers and song resonates around the Temple grounds. It is an incredible place to just sit and be.

Amritsar is only around 20 km's to the Pakistani border. Earlier in my trip I was told of a ridiculous ritual that's held daily there right before it closes for the night. On both sides huge crowds amass to watch the guards complete their daily duties, and it has become a spectacle complete with a huge PA system, an MC whose job it is to rile up the crowd, and, of course, serious looking army men wearing large, decorative headdresses who highstep around so fiercely that many have retired with pulled hamstrings.

While my sporting my turban, I jumped in a van along with 6 Indians and we made our way to the border. When we got there the mass of people were subject to a thorough search, bottles of water and lighters were a no go, which led to a mound of water and lighters sitting at the checkpoint. The border is framed by two large grandstands on either side. When I arrived the stands were already full; there must have been 2000 people there to cheer on their country, a glance over at Pakistan and there were about half that, but they seemed just as loud, their setup was identical, loud (Pakistani) music blasting across the border, people with Pakistan flags waving etc. ... This all seemed so strange.

One of the passengers in the van I took was a young Sikh kid who was traveling his own to visit the temple and check out this exercise in national pride. I decided to stick with him because we'd be leaving in the same van together. We were stuck up against the railings, far from were the festivities would actually be held, so when we spotted some open seats on the other side of the road, we left for the stairs. There was, however, a large Indian in army garb with a large red fan on his head (that's the best I can do to describe it, it's a huge cloth fan, and it looks ridiculous) blocking us from leaving. More and more people were trying to do the same, and eventually there was a huge crush of people stopped by a guy wearing a fan with his hand up. I had no idea why. I couldn't ask him. After about 10 minutes of this it began to be overwhelming, I could feel the crush of people behind me. Then, like magic, he looked at me and blinked 'You foreigner?' 'Yes, I foreigner' 'Okay come' and bam I was out. Apparently there is a small seating area specifically for foreigners, right in front of the action. I had to show my passport to get in. And with my turban and beard, the guard eyed me suspiciously. I just smiled and nodded 'Yup, that's me!'. He let me through.

The festivities began with music and women. The women sit in a separate section and they were told if they wanted they could come out and dance, as if to mock the Pakistani side. It was cool for the first 3 or 4 songs it was fun but I felt it drag after 5 more. All of this took place with jeering and gawking men, cheering the women on.

The women were brought back to their seats. Suddenly there was silence. Then I guy in a tracksuit and a microphone came out and yelled 'Hindustan!' and the crowd replied. I could hear the Pakistan side to the exact same thing. Then the guards left the large building opposite the stands to much applause. Then, silence. Tracksuit brought the microphone to the head guard, who let out a loud 'BaOhHHHHHHHHH' ... I could hear the Pakistani side do the same thing, each one trying to go BaoOHHHHH longer. After he finished one of the guards broke ranks and marched fiercely to the border, once there he did some huge goosesteps, ones that literally extended over his head, bringing his foot hard against the ground, and stood at attention, staring at the Pakistan side. This was repeated about 6 times, with the occasional musical interlude complete with 'Hindustan!' etc.

I couldn't tell whether to be afraid or highly amused, and so I chose a mixture of both. All of this was mirrored by the two countries. These countries were made for each other. Or, really, they were the same country until an unnamed arrogant Imperialist nation decided to draw lines in the sand thus creating imaginary national pride and very real violence, grudges, and mutual hatred. But who am I?

As quickly as it begun it was over, the flags were brought down, the border closed (The Indian guy SLAMMED the gate, so hard that it hit and bounced back, forcing him to close it again, with a little less animosity). I returned to Amritsar, listening to the 6 Indian's debate the merits of the different nations and whether and its merits (or at least that's what I thought they were discussing, they were speaking hindi). I stayed in Amritsar only one day. At night, I ventured back into the Golden Temple and was struck by its beauty. I wandered inside to see it full of people, all singing the same song and scrubbing the inside of the temple with milk, this is apparently done every day. I stood there dumbstruck at the beauty of the seen, but quickly felt like I was intruding and returned to my free bunk, set to leave Amritsar for the Himalayas and the Dalai Lama's home, Dharamshala. It was going to cool and crisp there, and I couldn't wait.

Intestines Still Fine.

People Places Names and Faces

From Jaiselmer the three of us--Fish, Lisa and I--moved to a place called Jodhpur. Like Jaiselmer, it has a big burly fort up on a cliffside that looks down on the city. This one somehow looked far more imposing and unconquerable then the one in Jaiselmer, which looked more like a big sand castle. I stared at Jodhpur fort often, trying to imagine how I might invade it. Jodhpur calls itself the 'blue city', on account of a lot of the buildings are painted blue. Why you ask? Well, apparently, long long ago an army was marching on the city with the intention of killing all its inhabitants, as ancient armies have the tendency to do. Now, back then Jodhpur had a large amount of people belonging to the Brahman caste, the spiritual caste which is the one on the top. It was considered bad joo-joo to go around killing Brahmans so the invading army cut a deal: have all the Brahman's paint their house's blue and we won't kill the people inside, the rest we get to kill. Seeing as how the majority of people there were Brahman's they were okay with that, and so they painted the town blue and only those of little importance were thrown to the invading hordes. Neat.

It actually wasn't that blue.

It was a nice place though and the guesthouse we stayed in was owned by an interesting cat that loved himself more than anyone I've known. Mister Prakash! The guy literally had 7 or 8 photos of himself placed all around the guesthouse. There was a few with shades, some with a thinking pose, others sitting down, shirt unbuttoned half-way. He even had someone paint his image on the wall of the rooftop patio. Despite his vanity, or maybe because of it, he was a pretty nice guy and he ended up doing something really cool for me, but more on that later.

It was nearing the end of Mister Fish's time in India, and Jodhpur would be his last stop before heading back to Mumbai. The last few days were spent lounging around, sitting on rooftop cafe's and suggesting ways to conquer Jodhpur Fort. It was nice. On the last day both Fish and I knew it was on; one last drink-off before I another goodbye and see ya later. We found a nice place, one called 'The Blue Room', which was only moderately blue, and hunkered down. We watched cricket and powered Kingfisher's; then came the whiskey; then came the bitter local distilled concoction; then came the drunken-wrestling in the streets on our way back to the guesthouse. There was much merriment and violence. Then, in the blur of the night, two guys on a motorbike stopped in front of me with an object in their hand. Upon close inspection, it turned out to be my ipod, which had somehow fell from my pocket on the bedraggled journey home. I was astonished, not only that they found it, but that they found me too! the rightful owner! He even sat and waited while drunk Fish and drunk Me finished beating the crap out of each other, then quietly placed the Ipod into my intoxicated hands. I hugged them both and they left, smiling and waving and slightly taken aback by these two plastered foreigners.

That is, unfortunately, the end of Mr. Fish, he has returned to colder climes, and will be sorely missed. So long brother! You went to India and killed a goat you crazy bastard! 


The next day was a big day. It was nearing the end of the cricket world cup, and India was playing Pakistan, the winner went to the finals--a big deal. Not only is every Pakistan-India cricket match a potential pretense for war, this was the world cup and the winner was in the final. I repeat myself only to stress the importance of the event. Think Canada-US hockey gold medal except this time both countries give a shit, and they wouldn't mind if the other was nuked into oblivion. Long story short, India won. Huge celebration, endless fireworks, people dancing in the streets, it was similar to the red mile, just in a desert town in India, and the whole town was up and out and cheering, I was grateful, because had India lost I would have had to of faced many pissed off/sad/defeated Indians and it wasn't a pleasant thought; who knows how long it would have taken to get over such a defeat. 


What else happened? Oh yeah. I was sitting on the roof of my guesthouse, playing my didgeridoo with Lisa when Mr. Prakash came up, drawn by the drone. He sat there listening, smiling. After I had finished he told me he has a friend who works for the local newspaper, and that every so often he puts foreigners in that newspaper. He told me he would call this man and have him come over, he'd interview me and take some photos of me while I played. Nice. The next day we met, shook hands, and he asked me the usual questions (how long? from where? etc.) I told him also of the band I was in, so I got Somethin Sacred some Indian exposure! yah! Unfortunately, I was to leave Jodhpur before the paper would be published, so Mr. Prakash told me he would mail the article back home when it came out, lets hope he comes through.

Afterwards, I was off and on to Bikaner, a little city north of Jodhpur, this time alone in my journeys. What was I to find? Without any tether to my homeland, what would I encounter? Rats. Lots and lots of rats. Holy rats of course, the holiest of all rats; to step on their poo is auspicious, to have them scurry over your feet extremely lucky. What I am talking about is the rat temple of Bikaner, and as the name suggests, it is a temple full of rats. Yeah, it was weird, but it's the kind of weirdness I've come to expect here in India. Indeed it is the only place on earth where a temple devoted to holy rats would seem right at home, and it does. I didn't see a white rat unfortunately, so no extra luck for me.

Other than that, Bikaner was a crazy Desert town not unlike the one I had just left in Jodhpur. I met some cool people, a brit who I convinced to go to China and a Norwegian who I would meet later in the himalaya's. Oh! and it was in Bikaner that I watched the world cup final: India and Sri Lanka. We sat with the whole guesthouse contingent and drank whiskey and beer, cheering India on. The game came down to the very end, but India came out on top. Once again, out came the fireworks. And after we all blew a few things up, we packed into a rickshaw and headed downtown. There were 8 of us crammed in that thing, music blasting, screaming at the top of our lungs, yelling 'IIINNNNDIAA!!'. It was Holi all over again, paint getting thrown around; just madness, pure madness. My poor Norwegian friend got kicked in the balls by an overzealous Indian who clearly could not control his ecstacy. I suppose his only way to express such happiness was to sack one of the only two white guys around. It was all good.

Well that was Bikaner. There was, of course, other things seen and done in Bikaner, like the largest Camel Farm in India and a very interesting Jain temple, but all I can say about that is that Camel Milk ice-cream is good and that Jain priests mumble naughty things in your ear while you're posing with a photo with them. But Camel Ice Cream is actually pretty good though.

Hmm, I think that ought to be enough, I'll end my post here, at the end of my Rajasthanian journey. From here I head north, to Amristar, The Golden Temple, and the Pakistani border. Such adventures will be recounted in greater detail soon. Otherwise,

Intestines still fine.     

Come on Camel Let's Go Desert

As much fun as the Holi festival was, the city of Jaipur itself was pretty unremarkable. It was huge, and Fish and I didn't really dig the vibe, y'know what I'm sayin? Plus, we had an acquaintance to reconnect with; a French girl I had met a month and a half before on the beach of Gokarna, a place that is very near to what my definition of paradise would be; more topless women would've done the trick, but I hear in Brazil they have them in abundance so at least those places exist somewhere. Anyways! What was I saying? Something about Paradise? Shoeless dancing around a fire? Meat on a stick BBQ'd just the way you like it? Warm ocean water cleansing away worries cares thoughts? No, no, I was talking about Jaipur: a massive, dirty city in the middle of the desert, and us leaving it.

We were off to meet Lisa. She was hidden away in a wonderful little hippie hideout called Pushkar, a small town with narrow streets, a beautiful ghat (which is a huge square pool situated in the middle of town, old whitewashed buildings surrounding it), and pretty much all you could want. Well, everything but meat and beer (needless to say, Fishman wasn't to pleased, luckily for him we didn't stay long). It really was a nice place, a small desert village with narrow streets and tall square buildings, bustling with tourists and those wishing to sell them things. It was there I saw my first camel, huge things those are. We stayed two days, and decided that together we would head to Jaiselmer, a place far off in the desert, about 50 clicks from the Pakistan border, where a massive red fort has sat on a cliff overlooking the town for almost a thousand years.

Now, Jaiselmer is likely one of my favorite places that I've visited so far. It's just so impressive. Not only that, but the fort, despite is age, is still living. What I mean to say is that people still live inside; children play cricket in the narrow lanes, clothes dry on lines over our heads; cafe's, offices, restaurants all reside within its walls. It's really it's own little town within a town, and it's where the three of us stayed. The outside of the fort was impressive enough, but inside was majestic, balconies of stone ornately carved existed wherever you looked up. The rooms that the three of us stayed in were easily the most luxurious, while also being the cheapest, and the staff was warm, friendly, and made sure they had loads of cold beer ready for us (they quickly learned Fish and I's habits). At night, you could eat in a restaurant atop one of the turrets and look out over the city. I could have stayed there for days. Could of, but what brought us to Jaiselmer wasn't really the fort, it was the ability to jump on a camel and go off into the desert for a couple of days and have a look around. Three days, to be exact. Along the way we met a peculiar German man named Elmar who would join us on the trip, he had a peculiar way of speaking and an accent that Fish and I spent the rest of the week mimicking. We were to meet with the rest of our desert troupe the following morning and start off. Despite this Fish and I drank several beers and played cards until 2 in the morning, as we are wont to do.  

Along with Fish, Lisa, and myself there was two Scots and an American joining us. We were to drive out of town about an hour and rendezvous with our guides and their camels. During the drive I fell asleep holding 24 eggs and nothing terrible happened.

Okay, so it's 9 am and I'm staring at a 10 foot camel who is munching on his own teeth. The camel makes this really pleasant *crunch* sound, like biting into fresh vegetables, every time he bites down. I can feel the heat creeping up on us already. I've decided to use a white t-shirt as a pseudo-turban, and it helps. My camel's name was Tiger and he yelled a lot as the camel men loaded him with cargo for the trip. It was either *crunch* *crunch* *crunch* or braarrwaarrggurrghh!! After listening to the grunts of camels for a few days, I'm convinced the people who make movies involving big monsters/dinosaurs/etc. used camel recordings and just tweaked them to fit the particular monster/dinosaur/angry woman. Bwrawarrgguuurrrr!

Camels have the astounding ability to appear eminently wise and incredibly stupid at the same time.

Anyways I'm standing there staring at this camel making all sorts of terrifying sounds and am told that now I am to jump on top of it. Sure man, whatever you say, up I go. Naturally, with my additional weight, Tiger makes more protests, but to no avail. I pat him on the neck and tell its all good buddy, you're with me now, and if you don't shut up I'll get a stick and beat you with it. After a few days, as I began to learn camel-speak, the two of us grew to appreciate each other.

We were off into the great bright wilderness of the north Indian desert. It didn't take long before my inner thighs were chaffed and sore, but the bleakness of the surroundings more than made up for it. The landscape was primarily red dirt, with small shrubs and the occasional tree, and there were small hills that divided the flat desert valleys. Surprisingly, there was no real sand though, or very little of it; it was just really dry ground. There were loads of wildlife flitting through arid landscape too; vultures (huge birds!) we're seen on a distant tree before they swooped off; gazelles, looking very similar to small Canadian deer, scurried about, afraid of everything; I saw a small red fox saunter through the shrubbery, completely disinterested with us; there were all kinds of birds, an occasional dog (they're freakin everywhere in India) and of course, goats, but we'll get to goats in a little while.What was a very bizarre addition to the landscape was an endless stretch of huge, 50m tall wind turbines. The turbines made this eerie wooshing sound that seemed to complement the silence, to complete our feeling of isolation. We walked through the desert for several hours before settling under a tree and setting up for lunch: cauliflower curry and chapati cooked over a fire, with a nice hot chai to wash it down. After lunch we waited out the hot afternoon sun under the shade of a tree, lazily falling in and out of sleep. For the next three days I did very little other than sit on a camel or lay on the ground, with the occasional stroll from one tree to the next. Oh yeah, while in the desert Fish and I helped kill something, but that comes later.

At around 5 or 6 in the evening, we finally approached what appeared to be a sand dune. Judging from the surrounding area, it's a bit out of place. But it was a perfect spot to set up a fire, roast some chappati's, and settle down for sleep. The sun went down and the stars came up. It was truly a beautiful environment to exist in. Utter silence but for the occasional mew of a camel and the snap of the fire. We had warm blankets and comfortable conversation, warm beer and cold chapati's, and, of course, the brilliant starry sky. It was beautiful, there was no doubt. Seeing sand dune and star, with a chewing outline of a camel right before I closed my eyes for sleep, is a memory I will long keep with me. It was cold at night, but that's the desert, hot hot days and frigidly cold nights.

We awoke just before the sun rose, and watched it light up the desert as we sipped our morning chai's. Back on the camels, we sauntered once again through the desert. One of the conversations that floated around the night before was the potential to buy a goat and eat it over the fire (we were told it was a vegetarian desert trek, and it was, until the potential for some truly carnivorous actions were presented to us). I mulled this option over for most of the day. We would kill it, clean it, disembowel it, then chop it up and cook it, oh, and pay for it too (of course). Did I want to do that? Goats had been a mainstay of the landscape since we've been out here, and I had to admit, these tiny little desert goats were pretty danm cute. Did I want to kill one and eat it? Yes, after careful consideration, I did, in fact, want to kill a goat and then eat it. You see the way I figure it is I'd been a meat eater all my life. And for the most part I'd found that meat in a grocery store in neat little packages. This was my opportunity to erase the massive disconnect I have with meat and live animals, and if I couldn't handle the raw reality of death that surrounds every chunk of meat I eat, than I shouldn't eat it at all. Okay then, a goat's fate has been sealed.

I gave the camel man some rupees and he was off in search of a goat. We set up our camp for the second night and awaited our dinner. There was a nervous tension surrounding the camp. Apparently, this was a bit of a secret service provided by the camel men, they wanted to make sure that no one told home base about it, because they might get in trouble. Some of the girls weren't too happy about the idea, and so naturally the camel men were concerned they would rat them out. Nevertheless, the deed was carried out, and at around 8 o'clock, long after night had descended, we heard the faint bleating of a goat being brought to its demise. This bleating naturally aroused sorrow with the people against the whole thing, so we set up a smaller camp away from the rest, one out view and (somewhat) out of earshot.

I had my headlamp, a camel man had another, and Fish had a small travel lamp--it was under LED light that we slaughtered a goat in the desert. I held its legs, a small bunch of leafs were placed under the goats head. I silently thanked the goat, and then, without any ceremony or 'a few words', Mr. Khan the camel man brought the blade to the goat's throat and began to saw. The goat kicked but I held him in place. The goat screamed, loud and shrill, twice, as the blade cut deeper into his neck. It occurred to me that the screams were uttered not from the poor goats mouth, but from his open throat, ugh. A few quick saws later and the head was off. I held one leg, Fish another, and we raised the newly-dead goat up while Mr. Khan peeled the goat's hide off like a sock. Then we punctured his skin. I pulled out his stomach, which was full, and tossed it. It felt like a big rubber balloon filled with jello. Next came his intestines and kidneys and etc., all chucked into the sand. Then, almost like magic, the goat transformed from animal to meat; into recognizable chunks of (nearly) grocery-store meat.

Mr. Khan quickly chopped up the meat and over a fire we cooked up goat curry along with BBQ'd legs. And God damn it all, the goat was delicious. It was really good. I ate until I could barely get up. We drank whiskey and beer and ate the freshest goat of our lives.

Okay then, I guess I'm a carnivore after all. Mr Fish had no compunction over the death of the goat, and while I experienced a moment of horror when breath still shot out of the decapitated goat's body, I was okay with it too. I'm allowed to eat meat now, and continue the cycle of death, without remorse. Hooray.

I'll finish on a lighter note. On the first night, while we were in awe of the stars and of us being in the desert, a camel man sang us a song. It was an old camel-man song sung by the men of the trade for generations, and it was beautiful. Afterwards, he sang a more modern rendition. You are aware of the song barbie girl? well, so were the camel men: 'I'm a camel man, in a camel laaand ...and then... Come on camel let's go desert ah ah ahhhh yeah'. Ugh. That song remained in my head for days. Horrible. So, please, do your best to imagine it now: Under the desert stars, around a desert fire, a high pitched, poorly sung cover of Barbie Girl,  performed by Tiger and the Camel Men. (ah ah ah yeah)

Intestines still fine.

Let There be Paint

Well, So long Goa! Fish and I left you, so long, keep on rocking the world that is only moderately free. The two of us have got on a plane for drier climes, into the desert, into a place called Jaipur, into Rajasthan. Ah, Rajasthan, where camels pull rickshaws and carts full of vegetables, computers, and business suits, all destined for the same market; where goats, cows, dogs and vultures all compete for the same city scraps; where huge, ancient forts loom on cliff sides and overlook bustling cities; and where one of the craziest of all the Indian festivals is celebrated in full force, one in which Fish and I have arrived just in time to take part in. I'm speaking, of course, of the Holi festival. A festival of colours and mayhem, where normal cultural barriers are shed and people celebrate together in full force. It starts early, around 9 o'clock in the morning. People start with going to temples, praying, then throwing a huge array of colours at everything and everyone. Afterwards they take to the streets. It doesn't take long before you are absolutely covered in paint from head to toe. Pink, Green, Orange, Red or Green, all extremely vibrant and all used as ammunition against everyone else. It's madness, it's India.

Luckily, I had a white shirt and a pair of white pants (thanks Adam) just for the occasion. Around 10 o'clock Fish and I strode outside, unsure of what to expect. It was eerily quiet. Not many people were on the streets, and at first it seemed like just another day. We walked by a group of teenagers, who were clean, we eyed each other suspiciously. Then a man drove by in a scooter with pink hair and a green face, and purple down his shirt. Farther down the road, a man selling cigarettes and chocolate bars was covered in orange. People were standing around smoking, faces as sombre and plain as any other day, they were just bright pink. As we were walking, two guys named Sonu and Dave drove up on their rickshaw and offered us a lift. We said sure! Take us to the action! We arrived at a temple, but unfortunately we were just a bit late, people were streaming out absolutely smattered in a  vast array of colours, laughing and singing. Damn, I thought, we're still completely white. None to worry. It being Holi, we would get ours. Sonu had to visit his family and asked if we'd like to join, yeah, that sounds fun. We were brought to his uncle's place, but not before buying a bag of orange powder and a bag of green. When we got out of the rickshaw a large crowd of children awaited us, smiling devilishly. There was a slight pause, like the moment before gunslingers yell 'Draw!' ... oOoOoooo Wah wah wah ... Wham! they pelted Fish and I with powder of all colours. We retaliated, and the little buggers scattered down the alley. I stopped, and so did they, giggling while slowly coming forward. I attacked again, and they quickly scattered once again. We must of done this 3 or 4 times before I felt a gush of water on my head; someone behind and a huge pail of pink paint and doused me from behind. The watching crowd roared with laughter, 'we got him!'. I laughed and the kids quickly took this opportunity to chuck another barrage of paint in our direction. As Fish was laughing at me, he quickly was taken by surprise, pink paint covering him from head to toe.

Okay, back into the rickshaw we go! Over to another friends place. This time we went inside. We were offered some tasty food, whiskey, and, of course, lots of paint. And while we were certainly the main target amongst the people there, we had our fair share of chances to return the favor. What you do is get two handfuls of paint and approach someone, when they see you coming, smiling with a glitter in your eye, they will smile back and let you smear the paint on their cheeks, maybe some on their head too, it's considered auspicious, and the more paint the luckily you are! Fish and I were very lucky. Afterwards, we headed to the roof for a 'shower'. This 'shower' was in fact more giant pails of pink paint that would be ceremoniously dumped on both Fish and myself. Again we said our farewells and moved on to the next place, which was another friends house, this time two of them came along with us. There were now 6 of us in that small rickshaw, all covered in a wide variety of colours. I felt seriously like I was in a clown car that was late for the circus.

Now, Holi is not all fun and games, there is an unpleasant side, which isn't indicative of India but of humanity in general. When lots of people start drinking early in the day, some of those people get violent. We were all in the rickshaw when we past a group of around 12 people, all splashed in different colours, literally beating the shit out of each other. It was clear this was not some kind of 'friendly tussle', they were really going at it. We drove by, they didn't notice us, and the last I saw of them a man had fallen and no less than 6 of the stomped him, he lay flat and motionless. There was nothing I could do and Sonu the driver clearly was not interested in doing anything. We moved on, a period of silence followed. But when the picture of six people driving down the street in a rickshaw, completely covered in paint but with silent and sombre faces appeared in my mind, the ridiculousness of it caused me to laugh out loud. They looked at me and laughed, it was okay. On to the next stop.

Another family friend, this time he was sick and so not entirely in the mood for celebration. We sat in his front yard and drank beer, and though as to instill some sense of merriment, the man we have visited pulled out two large speakers and a tape deck, and blared hindi music into the air. A few of us (well, me) got up and danced for a few minutes, but we just couldn't feel it. We sat back down and said nothing as raucous hindi music cascaded over us. Yet another surreal moment in India. Ten minutes after taking the music system out he it brought back in and covered it with a blanket, clearly what was intended to happen had happened, and we went inside and watched cricket, while children peered at us from the doorway.

We left, and around 2 o'clock the festivities had more or less stopped. People had cleaned up yet had a faint tinge of pink to them, and the cows and dogs that wandered the streets were still dotted with various colours. All in all it was a incredible surreal, joyous day, filled with lots of laughs. I should mention I don't have any photos of the event, which is regrettable, but I simply didn't want the camera to get ruined with the paint and water I knew would be everywhere. I do have a cool little video I took with my Ipod of Fish and I post-Holi, which when I figure out how to get it from my Ipod to the internet I will be sure to expose to the world.

Intestines still fine.

The Good Folks of Starco

It was still dark when Fish and I stumbled to the train station, tired and slightly hungover.We were on our way to Goa. After finding our train we entered our compartment and sat down, wishing for a pillow and some peace. The train began its slow march towards Goa, and the train was quickly filling up. I had just fallen asleep when a man showed up waving his ticket and yelling. It turned out we were in the wrong compartment, so after getting nice and comfortable we collected our things and trudged down the traincar to our rightful place. In our seats sat a trio of Germans and an Englishman who sounded just like a character in a David Firth cartoon (a incredibly bizarre internet phenomenon that only the most twisted would enjoy). No matter, we sat next to them with a smile and a nod, and as time passed and I felt more human, we began to talk amongst each other. The usual 'where ya been? how long? where ya from?' kind of stuff that usual fills the silences between travelers who are just meeting each other. Later on, I met a danish cat named Martin and an American couple, Graham and Jenny. They were all nice to talk to and it turned out we were heading to the same beach, Anjuna. With that came the fast friendship that arises when traveling, and which is one of my favorite things about it.

In the middle of our journey the train stopped, and stayed stopped, for quite some time. As we were standing outside on the platform, unclear as to the reason of the delay, I realized I had no idea the names of the Germans, so I asked. "Alex" he said, and I replied "Oh nice, me too". He looked at me with a grin that suggested there was more to this story, and he said "Yeah we have the same name, exactly the same name, I am Alexander Meyer, nice to meet you". And so it was that the first Alex Meyer I meet that isn't me is a German man who had been sitting in my seat, on a train in the middle of India. Serendipity, I love you.

The night we arrived Martin, Fish and I walked down to the beach. It was quite late and the beach was empty. We walked to the edge of the water, the tide splashing at our feet. Then we went in a bit more, then a bit more, and then when Fish suddenly shoved Martin into the water it was on. The three of us fought and tussled, getting soaking wet. I felt alive. After we found some Indian guy's and drank whiskey.

The is my second time in Goa, and I spent it primarily drinking, dancing, and sitting around swapping stories and good times. Mota Matchi and I met a load of good people. And while some of the parties there were really great, other ones lacked the necessary volume of people needed to create the right ambiance. The venues themselves, however, were beautiful; gorgeous open air dance floors ringed in palm trees that looked down to the beach. In part, I felt I missed out, the busy season had come and gone and police were shutting places down as early as 9:30pm. Ah well, such is life. What I enjoyed more was the camraderie between the people we met and at our guesthouse. There was Noel, a jolly Goan man who had sailed the world on an oil tanker and has been to ports in every continent. He had a big, infectious laugh and an easy smile, he taught me how to play Backgammon and then proceeded to win 50 rupees off me, the bastard. He was also convinced that there were some big things coming, the Japanese earthquake was more than enough proof for him. He's convinced we humans have only 9 months left before the Earth finally chews us up and spits us out, permanently. There was Martin, a Danish Columbian who is a DJ and told me endless stories of the music festivals in Denmark and the rest of Europe. Roskilde, Glastonbury, Melt, on and on. He'll get me a job at Roskilde which will get me in for free ... nice, my ass is going to Denmark. There was Aicha, an older scottish woman who has been the frontwoman for a punk band for the past 25 years. I loved her because of her gentleness, her easy smile, and her voracious appetite of books. And while she does carry a deep sense of serenity about her, you can tell while on stage she's an angry Scottish punk witch and noone would dare cross her path. We spent lots of time discussing favorite authors, and life as a punk rocking gypsy. There was Anna, a mysterious German girl who walked everywhere barefoot and had a rainbow in here hair. Of course there was Mr. Tony, a British hippie who'd been everywhere and seen everything, he was very wise and very funny. I liked to listen to him talk and enjoyed the way he would say words like RajaSTHAN and Rupeee.

When Fish and I finally left Goa for the north, a day before the infamous Holi festival, it was with the 5 of them sitting at the gate of the guesthouse, hugs and goodbyes and smiles. Easily the most pleasant farewell I've had the pleasure to experience. It like I was saying farewell to family, and that I would return and they would be there, waiting, with a cold beer and a pot of hot tea, and we'd all play backgammon and discuss old times. Heh, Life is Good.

And so are my intestines (wish the same could be said for ol' Mota Matchi, I think he still hates me a bit for getting him on that plane in the state he was in).

Mota Matchi Meets Terence the Pirate

 Hello Everyone!

I'm back in Mumbai and my good friend Fish, AKA Mota Matchi (Fat Fish in Hindi) has joined me. I picked him up in wearing my best: a tailored white shirt, cowboy hat, my orange skirt, and a camel leather utility bag (heheh) over my shoulder. At around 4 am Fish finally found the exit of the airport and threw me an awkward smile that asked 'what's with the dress dude?'. I returned the smile with one of my own, one that said 'Yeah man I'm wearing a freakin skirt and it's comfortable, and so am I, so how the fuck are ya doing?'.

We jumped into a cab and entered a sleeping Mumbai. The next morning we walked around, drank some beer, and very nearly got caught up starring in a Mumbai hair commercial (we had our photos taken but, unfortunately, it was canceled at the last second. Ah well, maybe next time). At around 7:30, while standing on a busy street corner we asked ourselves 'what the hell should we do next?'. Enter Terence Alan Bradley, who magically materialized in front of us. He was a small, wiry Indian man with crazy eyes, a long beard, and massive mole on his bulbous nose. At first, he asked us the typical 'gettin to know ya' questions i've come to expect, but then he unleashed his shpiel: A tour of the darkside of Mumbai, a mind blowing experience you won't see on any travelogues or guidebooks. Mr. Terence knows Mumbai better than anyone, every nook and cranny, and he'll show us how sadness and joy can exist within the same smile; how the poorest of us can also be the richest; how cruelty and compassion can live side by side and somehow be amicable neighbours. Okay Mr. Terence, we say, we'll take your tour. We shake hands, and then, Mr. Terence revealed his own darkside, his pirate side : "How bout a drink!" he asked through a devilish grin. Of course we said yes. This ought to be an interesting night.

Like many, Terence's greatest strength is also his greatest weakness. Actually, for him, it's his second greatest weakness. Terence loves to talk. And will never allow a moment of silence to pass through his presence. This is nice when you want to avoid the sometimes inevitable awkward silence. However, through Terence I have found that there is far more awkwardness found with speech than without it. And from now on I belong to the camp that believes there are some things better left unsaid. I digress, on to Terence's single greatest weakness: Alcohol.

Once we found a nice bar to sit in it didn't take long for the patrons to simultaneously love and hate this gremlin of a man. It didn't take long for me to do the same. The cricket world cup is on, and Canada (yeah Canada is in the cricket world cup!) was playing Pakistan, India's bitter rival. Very quickly Terence was Canada's greatest supporter. As the game wore on and Canada's chances grew slim, rum replaced cricket as Terence's main focus. We spoke of many things, of injustice, of women (or chickens, he liked to call them ... more on that later) and when his loudness and appeals to nobility reached a pitch too high for the establishment to handle, we were kindly given our bill. We chased taxis around until one dared to let us in. We were to meet Terence the next day at 9 am, to begin our tour.

9 am came quickly and Terence was there bright, early, and only slightly drunk. This man has traveled the world, he has met many people from all walks of life, he himself has walked many paths and through the next 2 days only a few of those paths were revealed to us. We began the day at a massive market in the heart of the city. He wanted to scare us off eating meat, as this market shows how the meat is handled before being shipped off to the many restaurants around the town. From holes-in-the-walls to five-star dining. The meat room was a large dank room buzzing with flies, crows cawing and swooping all around. The walls seemed stained black, hooks swung slowly from the ceiling, and a pile of skulls sat in a pile, crows picking off what was left to eat. It smelt of rotten blood and death. What Terence didn't know is that I've seen the darkest markets of China, and held no illusions, and Fish is greatest carnivore I know. So when he asked us if we would continue to eat meat after what we saw we looked at each other, shrugged, and said 'Yeah'. He seemed disappointed.

From there we were taken to the largest clothes-washing machine in the world: Thousands of large cement water basins sitting in the middle of a large slum. Even more thousands of women could be seen cleaning all kinds of clothes, and it is said that nearly every hotel sends its clothes there to washed. When I got my clothes back from the wash, they were very clean, very well folded, pressed, and wrapped and tied in a neat newspaper package. From there we caught a train to northern Mumbai to the 'Mosque on the water'. In high tide the mosque is inaccessible, but in the low tide a thin trail leads to a large, beautifully intricate white building. The trail is lined with beggars of all sorts. Small, dirty, naked children scampered alongside us, mumbling 'Please handsome friend please'. Old woman sat staring vacantly at the ground, their black dresses signifying them as widows. A circle of men lay sideways on the ground, their crippled or non-existent arms raised in the air while they chanted 'Kana ... Kana ... Kana ... Kana ... Kana'. It was chilling. My pocketful of change disappeared before I got to the halfway point of the trail. The Mosque itself was grand, it was the tomb of an old Muslim who went off on a pilgrimage to Mecca but drowned along the way. His body floated all the way back to his home, to the coast of Mumbai.

From there we went into the largest slum in Asia, the Dharavi slum. It felt strange. I didn't really like the idea of ogling at people's poverty; of taking pictures to send back home of the suffering millions of people call everyday life. But it didn't turn out like that. Children came and shook our hands, large smiles on their faces. Men would do the same, smiles with outstretched hands. After each handshake they would touch their chests and then show me their palm. It was a beautiful way of greeting. We were invited to a woman's home who had the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. I very nearly fell in love with her. Her children were working hard at studying the Koran, when they looked up at Fish and I with amazed expressions, she quickly returned them to their studies. We left them and entered a slum bar, to try the local liquor, which was some sort of fermented lime concoction. It actually didn't taste half bad. Once again, the men at the bar silently approached us, only to shake our hand to greet us. After a few shots of distilled lime we left the crowded, incredibly narrow lanes of Dharavi behind. But the place has left an indelible mark on me. I am grateful to have visited it and to have seen the pride of the men and women who live there; the ingenuity of people who seek to meet only the most basic of needs.

We moved on. It should be said that Terence, well, all of us, had been drinking all day. And by 5 o'clock he had his familiar swagger about him. He would speak loudly and constantly to the taxi's we took. But whenever I thought he might of crossed the line somehow, the driver bellowed out a deep laugh. There was something bizarrely likable about this man. He wanted to rob a dog because he believed he was hiding millions, then chased a rooster down the road for no apparent reason at all. On the train he appealed to everyone about the daily injustices found everywhere and people either completely ignored him or listened and agreed.

There is more to Mr. Terence then I can put here. At first, I had planned to tell you his story but, I think it's better he do that. He's certainly far better at it than I. We spent the next day with him as well, along with his dear friend Ramon. The four of us found an instant rapport, and we shared many great laughs and fond moments.We very nearly convinced the two of them to come with us down to Goa. But alas, it was not too be. I'll attempt to organize a reunion with Terence on my way home, it should be easy because I got him on facebook ;). The day after Fish (furthermore referred to as Mota Matchi) and I caught a train to Goa. Where I met my doppleganger and found a reason to visit Denmark.

Intestines still fine.