Adam and Tina

The Andaman Islands are a set of tiny islands sprinkled in the Indian Ocean. The islands are politically a part of India, but are geographically closer to Thailand and Myanmar (Burma). A hand full of indigenous tribes still reside within the jungles on secluded islands, mostly in the Nicobar islands.  We spent two blissful weeks on Havelock Island, roaming around on a motorcycle, scuba diving, rolling down the sandy beaches, walking around the jungle looking for elephants, and enjoying fresh tropical fruits at the cost for pennies.

The Andaman Islands felt like the calm lull after the storm. After enjoying a little slice of home in Brian’s comfortable and stylish flat in Chennai, we were back on the journey. We got to the airport early in the morning, only to find that our flight had been delayed for several hours. Since the security guard wouldn’t even let us in to the baggage check, we curled up on the leather covered airport benches. The Chennai airport was the most modern airport we’d seen in India. Having only seen the roads in the dark, Brian’s flat and the airport, we had a pretty high opinion of Chennai. I rested comfortably in an Indian airport, for the first time.

In my drowsy state, I overheard a speaker with an indian accent announcing that breakfast was being served for passengers of Indian Airlines flight to Port Blair. Tina didn’t believe me at first, but we walked around and finally found the Taj restaurant. The lineup was long and slow, which is to be expected whenever you give anything free to India. We had a very filling meal of fresh fruit and other breakfast goodies. I couldn’t get enough of the real peanut butter. By the time we finished our breakfast, we were just in time to walk right onto the plane. As expected, the flight was nearly empty and we both got a chance to pass out again. As we approached the Andaman islands, the clouds were fleeting to uncover the green peaks emerging from the bright blue water. What a sight!

The airport in Port Blair looks like a small hotel, with the first slanted roof I’d seen on any building in India. I am certain that it was rebuilt after the tsunami in 2005. The guards at the small customs desk were very careful about picking out white people and segregating them. We knew about the required island permits ahead of time, but Tina still didn’t want to deal with surly and incoherent officials. I signed our papers and got our permits. Our bags were the only ones left on the baggage claim by the time we got there, and we simply walked out the door into the crowd of drivers.

Looking at Port Blair from our flight from Chennai.

I don’t think there’s anything more frustrating or humorous than trying to negotiate individually with a crowd of merchants. Tina masterfully fought off the encircling group of rickshaw drivers and negotiated one to a reasonable price to take us into town, then down to the dock. Laid in the overhead ledge of the rickshaw was a sparkly picture the blessed Amma, who built and gave away houses after the tsunami struck. We searched the bazaar for snorkels, but decided that at seven hundred rupees, the price was too much for our taste and limited need. After being dropped off at the ferry jetty, the driver angrily demanded more money than we agreed on. My experience in telling people off paid dividends, and we walked away at the agreed upon price. This man really believed that he deserved more than twice as much money as we agreed on, and was very loud and persistent in his pursuit. No matter; I have a policy of non-negotiation with irrational minds.

We barely make the ferry, but I didn’t blame myself for it. We arrived at the government-run public ferry ticket office, a nearly-western building with large glass windows and connected plastic chairs. Several queues of people defined the booth lines and a tv screen listed the ferry departure times. Tina went to line up while I changed out of warmer clothes into a cooler and cleaner set. After Tina was gone for more than 30 minutes, I started to get a little worried. I could no longer see her in the line that is no more than six people long. I get mixed answers from a group of Indian teenagers I’m chatting with, and most think that we can no longer buy ferry tickets for today. They had the impression that we could buy tickets on the boat. Tina had finally returned after being pushed between three different agents and we realized we need to take a different approach. I walked out to the ferry dock, and stroke up a conversation with some other foreigners. I found another Canadian couple who had similar problems trying to get ferry tickets, the day before, but had been able to purchase theirs at the terminal building earlier in the morning. Then I met a pair of British girls who were in the same predicament. Together, we were able to get some information out of a ferry captain leading passengers onto another ferry bound for Havelock. He sent us to a little hut on the edge of the jetty to buy tickets. With our papers in hand, both the British girls and I ran down the jetty, only to find a group of men sitting around a table, signing papers. Showing them our permits and six hundred rupees got us hand written tickets on a second boat to Havelock. We dragged our bags aboard not five minutes before the ferry leaves the dock.

Tina testing the water.

An excruciatingly hot afternoon, both Tina and I couldn’t stop sweating while sitting in the leather seats of the unventilated but air conditioned (ceiling fanned) lower galley of the 1930’s British ferry. We tried to read, and listen to music, but it was so hot that just sitting was horribly uncomfortable. Eventually, we went for a stroll on the open-air upper deck. A few breaths of the sweet sea-cooled air and bites of fresh fruit, lifted the salty dampness from our spirits. We landed in Havelock village number one, excited for the beginning of our next adventure. I nearly landed on my face trying to carry over a hundred pounds in large awkward bags down a narrow meant-for-skinny-people-only ramp off the boat, but was bounced back upright by the crowd at the end of the ramp eagerly waiting to get on.

Top: 2-level bamboo hut at Emerald Gecko. Havelock, Andaman Islands, India.
Bottom: Inside view of the hut

We found a driver looking for guests of the Wild Orchid, the sister resort to ours, and followed our ticket past the haggling rickshaw drivers back to his taxi. We arrived at the Emerald Gecko in the middle of the afternoon to find it nearly deserted. There was no sign of a reception desk, nor any staff members or resort-goers. We walked around a couple of buildings surrounding the entrance yelling “hello” until someone in a green t-shirt finally appeared. He showed us the available split level and single level bamboo huts, and Tina instantly fell in love with the split level hut. It was a two floor hut made completely from bamboo drifted from Burma. The living space had lots of lighting, with a connected bathroom on the ground floor, which really sold the extra couple hundred rupees per night.

We showered and went for a walk down the beach. We were both instantly captivated by the warm sunlight and beautiful sandy beaches with encroaching palm trees. We ate dinner in the bustling covered patio restaurant, while overhearing many recommendations that this was the best on the island. The restaurant was served by a full bar, and kitchen consisting of a grill and a chef, and all the tables, chairs and benches were all made of tree trunks. I found out later, that the resort was creatively designed by a fellow Canadian, who had moved there with her Bangalorian husband. We compared our resort to all the others on the island, and found that the Emerald Gecko was an unbeatable value in quality and semi-competent service.

The relaxing two weeks we spent on Havelock Island are a blur of stories in my memory, so the stories to follow may not be in chronological order.

Before coming to the Andamans, I had my heart set on doing two specific activities; learning to scuba dive and riding an elephant. I managed to accomplish both, and so did Tina, though the scuba diving proved easier (and more expensive!) than the elephant ride.

Upon arrival in Havelock, we went to check out the two dive shops; Dive India and Barefoot Scuba. Both were associated with resorts and prices were nearly identical, though the service from one was significantly more trust-worthy than the other. Dive India is run by locals and their lack of focus or ability to answer any probing questions really worried us. Barefoot Scuba is mostly operated by English speaking foreigners, a combination of Brits and Canadians, and had no problems resting our fears. We returned the next day and signed up for a four day introductory PADI certification course.

We spent four full days learning about the equipment and safety procedures of scuba diving, taught by our kind and efficient instructor, Vicky. Tina absolutely reveled in the studious part of the course, where she would be quick to point out that she beat me on every test, except the exam (she blames me because I told her a wrong answer before the test).

A Brit and an Indian joined us on the course, and both were a delight to dive with. The Brit, Ian, was taking the course to catch up to his girlfriend, Lisette, who was an advanced diver and had already been there diving for months. The Indian, Devi, had also been in the Andamans for months, though she had been doing biological research as part of her masters degree from a college in Chennai. Devi warned us that midway through her stay, she had contracted malaria and had to be rushed back to Chennai for treatment. After recovering, she hopped right back on a plane to continue studying the leatherback turtles native to the islands. We spent a fifth day diving off South Button Island in the final days of stay, which was the best dive of our package and a wonderful way to cap off our stay. We were promised by all the dive masters that we had been thoroughly spoiled by our dive experience in the Andamans and there are few other places in the world that compare to the quality of underwater life found there. I believed them, as I was never bored looking for an interesting sight; devil rays, cuttlefish, anemonefish, moorish idols, camouflaged octopus, glass fish, garden eels, puffer fish, and the list could go on. Tina can’t wait to go diving, again.

Top: Adam, Tina & Viki scuba diving by the Ship Wreck.
Middle: Diving by the Ship Wreck. Havelock, Andaman Islands, India.
Bottom: Umeed the underwater photographer. Getting the camera ready.

The elephant ride was more difficult to secure, and ended up requiring some luck. There is a well marked elephant training ground on Havelock Island, that holds a family of elephants who are trained for logging and construction. The ground is run by locals and has become more of an elephant petting zoo than a serious facility. The elephants are brought from the forest to the grounds every morning, chained to trees, and the trainer walks them around a path dragging logs while he whacks them with a pointed stick. Watching this circus, I couldn’t help but feel that the elephants were more intelligent than the trainer, yet were under the tyranny of the stick and chain.

After the show, the tourists would be allowed to feed purchased bananas to the elephants. We were told that tourists were able to ride the elephants, however after the third time we were turned down, we decided it wasn’t going to happen.

At the elephant training camp. Feeding them bananas.

There was one other known elephant on the island, also being kept in custody. Rajan, the fifty six year old elephant is famous for being the only elephant in eastern asia who can (and does!) swim. Rajan has a special meaning to the island; he was owned by a private party who wanted to sell him to a temple in Kerala to be made a captive attraction. The Barefoot group couldn’t bare to part with him and made a financial settlement with his owner, through a combination of donations and a loan, to the tune of a hundred thousand US dollars. To this day, Rajan remains on Havelock and earns his freedom by swimming with guests for a thousand rupees per half hour. Every day, Rajan’s trainers walk him down the beach from the forest to a forested area of the resort, while feeding and bathing him.

Tina and I just happened to be strolling down the beach along the forest in his direction when he came lumbering up. His trainer agreed that for two hundred rupees, we could ride him down the beach. We did, and happily paid five hundred. I made the most of my twenty minutes of fame by trying to balance myself from falling off his bouncing slender dirt-covered neck. Tina had her short turn after Rajan’s bath and was left with a wet behind.

Havelock Island covers enough distance that transportation is necessary and options are surprisingly plentiful. Rickshaws regularly patrol the main road, taxi jeeps offer service and motorcycle and scooter rentals are easy to find. Tina and I started with a scooter after my initial attempt to clutch a motorcycle ended in a rock. After understanding the difference in fuel efficiency, I was convinced by a competing bike dealer to give it another try. After a few false starts, I got a sense for the hand clutch and we stuck with the bike for the remaining two weeks, at a total cost of about fifty dollars.

Rajan, the famous 56 year old elephant, know as the only elephant in eastern Asian who swims. We met him on Beach #7 during his daily walks.

After a few days, I was loving the freedom and feeling of our well-used Honda Hero bike and already eyeing a more powerful Suzuki from another dealer. We got pulled over once by the police for riding without a helmet or a drivers license.  :)  We talked our way out of the drivers license fine (I hadn’t even brought my license to India!) and returned to our resort to fetch the plastic (construction site) hard-hat I had been given with the bike. The law in India states that the person at the front of the bike must be wearing head protection, but gives no safety standards or specific description of the protection.

The most memorable people we met in India would definitely be Bob Dillon (pronounced Dylan) and his wife, Fannie. A hilarious Irish-British couple living in France, the companions have set foot in many of the world’s most unusual places.  Bob is a wonderful adventurer in every aspect of his life. He has taken all sorts of different positions in his career, from investment banker to organic farmer to paintball field owner. He and Fannie have covered nearly every corner of the world in their travels, and have no interest in slowing down in their passing age. Bob would spend hours recounting stories of unimaginable adventures in their historical travels. Even his daily activities were always exciting to listen to, especially in his clever Irish style.  One night, he and a twenty one year old Dutchman got lost in the jungle and fought off snakes, birds, crabs, lizards, bugs and all sorts of wildlife in their quest for survival. Our resort manager picked them up at 5am, in a bar on the side of the road, while Fannie was having a fit.

Bob and Fannie’s best memories were of their two-year trek through Africa in a Land Rover, accompanied by their daughter. For days, Bob would talk about Africa, each story more absurd and lung-shatteringly funny than the last. “If thars one place ya have ta go before ya pass, it’s got ta be Ethiopia. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. Things go on there that ya wouldn’t even believe.”

Ethiopia became the topic we frequently came back to, and those stories would always end with the same advice, “Adam and Tina, go to Ethiopia.”

Our time on the Andamans flew by. We considered that two weeks on the islands might be a long stretch, but there was so much to experience and so much natural beauty to enjoy that we completely lost track of time. In our last couple days, we woke up early, around 4:45 am, to fully absorb the sky-flaring sunrise. We enjoyed a hearty seafood meal with our friends before saying goodbyes and planning our journey back to Delhi, and on to Seattle. We waited in tightly packed lines with warm bodies for hours before purchasing our tickets for our ferry ride back to Port Blair. We graciously shared the ride and dinner with Dylan, the same Dutch adventurer who was lost in the jungle with Bob just a few nights prior.

A short rest and a full day of flights landed us in Delhi for a day before the long haul back home. We spent the last day of our trip with Puneet’s family, sharing stories and learning about their lives. We searched the malls of East Delhi for clothes, presents and an extra piece of luggage to carry it all. We shared a final amazing dinner with Puneet and his family, said our goodbyes and landed a couple hours sleep before our early morning flight.

One journey ends, and another begins.

Sunrise. Havelock, Andaman Islands, India. April, 2008

In the end, we couldn’t wait to get back to work and feel productive again. For a full report of what we learned, read Tina’s The Mini-Retirement Misconception

With our experiences on the Indian trains in Kerala and Rajasthan behind us, we weren’t looking forward to another train ride. After a couple hours of online research over an internet connection that puts my patience to the test, we discover that it will be many thousands of rupees to fly to Bangalore. We decide we can’t possibly afford the flight, which leaves us only one option; the train. We search a little deeper and find that the flight from Delhi to Bangalore is reasonably priced, but flights out of Varanasi are overpriced. We rationalize that any option saving us from a 57 hour train and the Varanasi airport can’t be all bad. In my stomach, I could feel we were embarking on an adventure. In hindsight, that feeling in my stomach was really something else.

We request that our hotel staff goes to the train station to buy our tickets for us, which saved us hours of painful waiting time. We had bought tickets for the highest available class on this train, which was 2AC, offering larger beds, heavy air conditioning and navy curtains which partially blocks people from peaking in. The ticket was more than four times the price of the lowest class, the sleeper class, but we knew it would be worth the money. We methodically packed all our belongings, including our new Varanasi bamboo flute which we bought because the merchant was a creative comedian. I ripped up the room to make sure we hadn’t missed anything, and dragged our bags down to the baggage room, before we checked out of the hotel.

Tina had her heart set on the marinara pasta at Pizza Hut, so we walked to the shopping mall down the street and ordered takeout. I went to McDonalds for a savory and healthy McVeggie burger and an ice cream sundae. We left the shopping mall to find our Sarnath taxi driver lined up outside, and he had not forgotten us. “You pay four hundred rupees for extra restaurant, then for Pizza Hut. Cost more.” Incomprehensible that this man thinks he can make me feel guilty for paying his agreed price. “Four hundred rupees was the price you agreed on. That is what it was worth and I paid.” As we took off in a cycle rickshaw, the taxi driver continued to fumed in a much quieter manner. I respect the Indians for being consistently persistent, even if I don’t agree with their tactics.

Train station lobbies turns into public hotels at night time.

We passed the price-fixing congregation of rickshaws outside the hotel, and found a reasonable negotiator out on the main road. He got us to the train station, but not before demanding more money. We weaved our way through the fields of rolling corpses in the station hall and found our way to the Varanasi to Delhi platform. The first platform we were directed to was the wrong one, which we only find out after Tina does some more probing of the station officials.

We heave our bodies up the overhead walkway to cross the railway tracks to the final platform. We descend into an open mausoleum. Bodies are strewn over every inch marble, lying awkwardly and appearing only half alive with no movement like a terrible war had just stripped the life of hundreds of men, women and children. Tina spots a small patch of ground space just beside the tracks further up the platform. We claim the spot and take a seat while we wait for the train. As we waited, I peered across the tracks and through the chain linked fence to a shack that was barely standing but still inhabited. A family was outside sharing a meal of rice, and I couldn’t help but feel for what appeared to be a very difficult life.

I looked to Tina to say “How could they possibly live with trains passing them all day and night, only meters away?” I knew the answer as soon as the words left my mouth. They literally had nothing except each other, and yet they were smiling.

Tina and I had a bet that the train would not have a restaurant or kitchen car. I had seen the restaurant cars in Europe and didn’t think there was any possibility that the Indian trains would have anything similar. The other trains we’ve been on had no sign of a kitchen, only sellers rounding the carts offering chai, soup, samosas and common Indian snacks. As soon as we found our seats, Tina couldn’t wait to search the train for the kitchen car. “I win! I win! The kitchen car is three cars to the right. They have pots on the stove and a menu that’s surprisingly cheap.” I couldn’t believe it. I went to get us a cup of tomato soup to prove it. It wasn’t much longer before my stomach was telling me I had lost more than I had bet. I had to cut our game of euchre short, which frustrated Tina who had managed to beat me consistently in a game I had just taught her how to play. I ran to the bathroom, and stuck my head down towards the metal hole in the floor. The wind flying up through the Indian toilet wasn’t enough to keep the bathroom smelling rank. I definitely didn’t leave it smelling any fresher. It was a long night. Tina and I tried to rest curled up on a bed that is too small for me.

The train system was built during British occupancy and still remains today (without much change it seem) since India’s independence in 1947.

We finally arrive at Delhi’s Paharganj railway station, and my stomach couldn’t thank me more. I felt like I was about to drop a lung and can’t do enough to rush to the only toilet in the area; a paid toilet with a long lineup. I push my way through the line and reach the ceramic hole in the ground just in time. We booked a taxi the night before, and fought with the driver to come find us at the right gate into the station. Ironically, the driver was the same man who drove us to Agra, and scammed us by using the air conditioner, just a few weeks ago.

We had only a few hours before our flight and headed off to spend it with Puneet and his family. We talked, ate exquisite sandwiches and recovered from the uncomfortable train ride. Puneet warned me that even he does not eat the food on the train. His family is always very careful to bring their own food before they embark on any excursions. “You do not know where that food is coming from or how they make it. Everybody know food on train is not good for you.” I certainly learned my lesson. Yet again, Tina was surprisingly healthy despite having consumed more than I. It was long before we were off to the airport to catch our very budget SpiceJet flight to Bangalore.

Arriving in Bangalore, the sky was pouring and we were forced to pull out our rain jackets for the first time. Our hotel was one of the cleaner place we stayed the entire trip, as the staff was clearly catering to business professionals. Newspapers were brought to our door every morning and they had a lounge area connecting the rooms. We arranged a meeting for dinner, took a desperately needed shower and nap.

Dinner at Puneet’s house was waiting when we arrived. They are the best!

Tina had a couple friends in Bangalore who were very anxious to meet us. We invited them to the hotel restaurant, and I was quite glad we did. It was really amazing to get to know the brothers, who own a real estate development company in Bangalore. “We usually just go to Subway.”, they responded when asked about their favorite restaurant. I was completely taken aback as the dinner conversation was very reminiscent of home. Topics include business management, the internet and personal development. We ended the night by getting a picture together on a Blackberry.

When we woke up the next morning, we had only twenty four hours to explore Bangalore, get ourselves to Chennai and get to the airport for our flight to the Andaman Islands. We rented a car, and had the driver take us directly to the train station. We needed train tickets and we had no time to waste. Unfortunately, the staff at the train station had another idea for us. There weren’t many people in the station, but no agent would serve unless we were in the Foreigner and Special Assistance queue. This counter was intended for seniors and people with disabilities, and included a ramp to roll wheelchairs up to the window. Even the empty women’s line wouldn’t serve us and redirected us back to the Foreigner sign. This counter was also the only unmanned station, excused by a note from the agent stating she was on a break. I got my first taste of Bangalore civility from the man sitting in a row of chairs beside the window. He had been there before us, mostly ignoring our frantic Indian attempts at locking up the space in front of the window. Occasionally, we would passively mention “There is a queue here. You are next chair.” After a while I could help but follow his advice because he was being so honest and civil in his manner. We wasted more than an hour in line, until the agent finally showed up and sold us two seats in the chair car at four in the afternoon.

I had only one place to visit in Bangalore, and it was Electronic City. Known as the Indian Silicon Valley, I could only help but be curious about what it was really like in the bustling tech capital of Bangalore. Electronic City is about an hour drive outside of downtown Bangalore, and definitely cured my curiosity and skepticism of Indian technology business. The Infosys campus is grand to be sure, a Microsoft style compound surrounded by thick stone walls and cameras. Nothing was more of a contrast in India than here, were the walls literally separated the chaos of life in India with a Californian utopia of lush greens and clear glass structures. Even the flying dust of construction and garbage seemed to disappear at the wall leaving only fresh blue skies. Despite our best efforts to break the security at the main office, we were unable to get ourselves onto the campus, but I had seen enough to satisfy the nagging questions in my head. It really does exist, it really is grand, and it is obvious why outsourced technology jobs are so prestigious and competitive in India. Being employed at one of the multinationals in Bangalore, Chennai, Mysore or Hyderabad, is really the really the difference between a comfortable life and a challenging one. Once you are welcomed onto that campus, you are welcomed into a different world within India. After being rejected at Infosys, we rolled around the rest of Electronic City before heading to the shopping mall to fuel up before our train ride.

The shopping mall was at least as western as everything else in Bangalore. It was the largest mall in the city, but could have been a medium sized mall in Seattle. We found everything we needed in the food court, as well as sunscreen in three different stores. Indians don’t traditionally use sunscreen, so this should have been a difficult item to find. We grabbed some Pizza Hut takeout and Baskin Robbins ice cream and were on our way.

The Bangalore train station was strikingly modern. The underground passageway still smelt overwhemingly of urine, but was quite devoid of people. The platform was well marked and easy to locate. Those waiting for the train were standing with dignity instead of lying on the ground. Even the beggars had the decency not to pester anyone. I felt comfortable for a time.

“Why are you making the seat dirty? You would not do that where you are from! You are using the same shoes you use to go to the bathroom! Do you think just because you are in India you do not need to be civil?” I couldn’t believe the gall, the nerve of this man. I get down off the seat I was standing on to put our bags up on the high baggage racks, and turn around. “You know this man cannot sit in his seat now that you made it dirty.” I look around and the train is entirely empty. There are so many empty seats there was no need for them to be assigned. I look down at the seat. There are so many stains on the leather that you couldn’t visibly identify the marks my shoes had made compressing the cushion. I look at the man who is supposedly out of a seat. There are lots of words to explain his appearance, but respect-worthy cleanliness was not one of them. “I live in America, and I know in America people would not do that.” I chose not to rebut the rude grey haired man sitting across the aisle, for his irrational arguments were not coming from a mind willing to listen to reason. Tina was about to blast him, but I just looked at her and we both knew what the best action was. Needless to say, I was more careful of the seats on the way out.

The conductor of the Bangalore Chennai train was overtly efficient. He enticed with drinks, snacks and a meal, which Tina thought was a wonderful surprise. She even saved her Pizza Hut pasta to consume the meal she was served. I held my ground. After the sip of soup 24 hours earlier that still resided in my digestive system, I could not take the chance of aggravating it further. Tina was all too happy to scavenge the best bites from my plate. We played a few card games until I decided I needed to return to my strengths and picked up a book.

There’s no such thing as a line. People squeezing on a SpiceJet flight.

We arrived in Chennai and made our way to Brian’s flat, a midway from the train station to the airport. It was absolutely fantastic to see our friend from Ladakh again. We had the chance to marvel at his diverse matchbox collection before a good rest on a comfortable bed. Thanks Brian and his wife! We really appreciate your hospitality. It made all the difference in the world, and a fond memory.

Tomorrow, we’re off to the Andaman Islands!

There is no place in the world like Varanasi. The town on the river Ganga has been marked as one of the oldest inhabited regions in the world, and it shows. It’s not the Ghats, the water or the spirit that is most breathtaking, but the corruption and deception. Varanasi considered one of the Holiest cities in India, attracting hundreds of thousands of pilgrims each day to bathe in the river water.

Varanasi is a stark contrast from the mountainous plateau of Ladakh. The temperature was a humid twenty to thirty degrees higher, forcing Tina and I to shed all the clothing we could immediately upon arrival. The clear blue rapid waters of the Indus river were replaced by the centuries-old pollution of the relaxed Ganges. The picturesque mountain ranges were noticeably missing from the dirty and crumbling ruins of mass and ancient civilization. The deepest contrast was in our interactions with the locals, who really left me dumbfounded.

By the time we reached Varanasi, we were tired from long flights and dirty from spending eight days in a beautiful place with no running water. We were really looking forward to checking into the hotel we booked and just relaxing for a few hours. The flight was bearable, but the airport was not fit to land airplanes. In typical Indian fashion, as soon as the plane lands, we jumped from our seats to grab all our belongings, then pushed our way to the door. Tina and I managed to be first off the plane and into the airport.

From the tarmac, we were led into a room no bigger than a condominium with a scatter of carts and an exit to the parking lot. I raced to grab a cart and fought my way up to the baggage claim. It is especially important to be on top of the conveyor belt as the bags come out in Varanasi because the belt runs about five meters and drops bags into a pile on the ground. This was the only airport conveyor I had ever seen that doesn’t loop back!

As I tried to display my manly strength to fend off would-be baggage-claim spot stealers, Tina eyed the well marked pre-paid taxi booth, hoping to get us a car. When she came back, she exclaimed “There is something really fishy about that pre-paid taxi booth. They wanted to charge me five hundred rupees, which is a lot more than that ride is worth. I think we should try looking outside.” I collect our bags, and agree with her assessment. As we passed through the gate to the parking lot, the man from the pre-paid taxi booth yells at us to come back (usually a sure sign someone is trying to rip you off). Once we got outside, Tina spotted another pre-paid taxi stand. The man at this desk knew Tina by name because our hotel called ahead to notify them of our arrival. Tina denied that was her name, as she knew that the price would be double the rate to compensate for the driver having to drive to the airport to meet us. We paid the three hundred rupees or so, and a seemingly kind man offers to help our bags to the car. Before reaching the car, the man introduced himself as the car owner and explained how he runs his own value-added service of charging passengers a parking fee for his cars to park at the airport. We know we’re getting ripped off, but the owner continued to argue with us for five minutes after we were loaded and ready to go. We finally got out of the airport, only to have the driver stop moments later to put fifty rupees of gas in his car from the third pump he tried. Unbelievable! What could possibly happen next?

Top: 3 people hopped on our rickshaw randomly while we were in it. Varanasi, India.
Middle: View from the rickshaw. People and cows, typical Indian street.
Bottom: Street along the Ganges. Lots of owner-less cows, donkeys, and dogs.

We arrived at Hotel Buddha to a pleasant surprise; it actually looked clean and well kept! The bus boy came out to help us with our bags, and we were immediately escorted into the lobby. The clerk found our reservation and had the owner show us the rooms he had available. We found a room with a tub and a balcony, and chose it despite the price and the brown stains in the white tub. We settled in and took a well deserved nap.

Finally, a moment’s peace! After I awake, I turn on the water and prepare to take a shower. While I’m admiring the night-use-only restriction posted above the air conditioner, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a member of the hotel staff traversing the roof immediately outside our window. Both Tina and I were mostly undressed and he stopped to take a look, until he noticed me and moved on with his business. Tina frantically cried for decency in India, but got no reply.

The day passed and we decided to ask the hotel restaurant for something nourishing enough to fill our stomachs. We sat at a table in the back of the empty fishbowl of a restaurant, and order to our hearts content. We saw the kitchen on the way in, and they had clean metal tables, so we were in for an uncharacteristically clean treat. It wasn’t not long before the owner came in and started some small talk. “I organize Varanasi tour everyday. Start at five in morning. We give Ganga boat ride for hour and half, then four Varanasi temples. We show how silk tradition is made. Price is 250 rupees each.” A tour for the both of us at 500 rupees sounded hard to beat, and Tina absolutely could not wait to get her camera down to the Ghats. We accepted, and I grudging rolled out of bed in the middle of the night.

We made our way down to the main lobby and were carted into a rickshaw, which served as our tour vehicle. The driver took off down the minefield dirt roads on his “fastest” route to the Ghats. After getting lost only once, he arrived on a cow dung covered street, just as the city was being touched by the sun. Tina was in a hurry to capture the magic of India’s holiest city bathed in the morning glow, so we took off running down the street towards the Ghats. The buildings cleared and we got a glimpse of the mist rising over the endless flights of stairs down to the brown murky waters. Our rickshaw tour guide found the boat driver, who lead over a thirty meter swamp to his barely seaworthy vessel. He pulled a collection of rotted wood out of the floor for a foothold, secured his oars, and pushed us off. I offered gratitude to my scarf for protecting my nose and lungs from the terrible smell of death in the air.

Top: Many pilgrims along the main ghat doing their morning prayers and washings.
Middle: Some boats can carry many people.
Bottom: Many tourists and many boats in the Ganges, the most popular tourist attraction.

The glide down the Ganges was not as peaceful or spiritual as the tour books make it seem. Our boat driver couldn’t stop talking about how he barely makes any money and is being swindled by the man who owns the boat. When he’s not talking, he focused on hooking us up with the various tourist scams floating down the river offering flowers, candles and souvenirs. A large man, who was a much quicker paddler than our driver, placed a paper plate covered in flowers and flaming candle into my hand, suggesting that it’s free. He guided my hand into the water, then requested thirty rupees. I gave him ten and told him to get lost. Our driver returned to his docking Ghat after an hour, and yelled after us for a tip. We ran off in search of the rickshaw tour guide, stopping only to double check faces.

The famous Varanasi monkey temple had its monkeys, though there weren’t that many, and those that were there were very hostile. When we reached the temple, Tina and I were snarled at and nearly attacked by a larger monkey who could have bit my toes off. The temple itself was different, but not especially noteworthy. The next two temples, I found more memorable. The largest temple we saw was built by a son for his mother, in an uncharacteristically massive two story marble building. The idols depicted stories of the Hindu Gods so well you could read them like a book. This temple had the fewest patrons, and was the most peaceful, so Tina and I were able to enjoy a spiritual moment of self reflection and energy.

Another temple, I nicknamed the working man’s temple for men and women in dirty suits and sarees would pass though in a ritualistic manner, following a train of people around the temple grounds. We got the chance to enjoy a man and older women fighting over space in front of a deep black pit to perform their flaming pujas. The final temple was built in the name of Gandhi and featured a thirty meter wide carved topological map of India and the surrounding regions. On the way back to the hotel, our rickshaw tour guide chose the same potholed road, and Tina was swearing that she would never ride this road again. I was in too much pain to do any swearing.

Top: Adam and Tina taking a reflective photo at a grooming station by the ghats.
Middle: Happy groomers/hair-dressers servicing customers along the ghats.
Bottom: A man relaxing at a groomer’s service station.

When we got back to the hotel, we voiced our opinions of the tour to the hotel owner. “Our boat ride was half an hour short. We were not taken to the Hindu University’s Golden temple as promised. We were taken to a tourist silk shop instead of being shown how to make silk.” After a lot of arguing, he agreed to accept whatever we thought was fair. I put three hundred rupees down on the table. We knew how much the boat driver made, and how much the rickshaw is worth, so we knew that three hundred would easily cover his expenses. The owner was visibly disgusted, would not take my money, and stormed out of the room saying that he would pay out of his own pocket. I felt no sympathy for him, but neither Tina or I felt comfortable staying at his hotel any longer. We booked another room, packed our bags and immediately checked out.

We moved from Hotel Buddha to Hotel Surya, and wound up paying less for an even nicer place, though we were further from the Ghats. All the talk at Surya was about the upcoming Hindu holiday, Holi, a day designed by children for children. Except that everyone participates. The idea behind Holi is that everyone dresses up in their worst clothes and ventures out into the streets to have an India-wide color fight, throwing buckets of liquid chemical pigments at each other.

We met several exploratory foreigners who thought this holiday was the most exciting party they’ve ever been too, and ventured out to get their khaki cargo pants, white t-shirts and blonde or white hair all discolored. Some were embarrassed by their unnatural color like they disowned the holiday, but the younger tourists were wearing it proudly. Tina’s dream was to be down at the Ghats for Holi, though we were recommended by several not to venture out into the streets on this day. “The lower caste does not understand, and often throw harmful things like rocks, dirt and glass. Many people get injured in Holi every year.” We decided the compromise was to get another hotel room along the Ghats for the night before Holi, and hang out at the rooftop restaurant until later in the afternoon. We were safe and the entire ordeal was vindicated when Tina was able to capture a shot of a bum circled in white cloth against a deeply purple painted store. She tells me that this shot will win a National Geographic award.

Top: Local news anchor interviewing people at the ghats during Holi. Varanasi, India.
Middle: Husband pouring a bucket of red-dye down his wife during Holi.
Bottom: Outside a store after Holi, where a homeless man lays a sleep.

For the rest of the week, all I could think about was getting out of there. I hadn’t been negative about any place in India so much as I was about Varanasi. Tina adored the Ghats and had wanted to stay longer. It was finally her opportunity to get the pictures she came to India to capture; the babas, sadhus and pilgrims that collected at the Ghats everyday. We met some amazing sadus and Tina had a way of communicating with them without words. They exchanged food and smiles, Tina gave her fruit bars and sadus offered her seeds to nibble on.

There was always a show going on at the Ghats, and the show usually involved hassling the foreigners who come to enjoy India’s Hindu traditions. There are more touts and wallas per meter along the Ghats than anywhere else in India. I learned the fake sadhu smoke test; I would wait for them to request something from me, as a real sadhu is truly happy with what he already has. I was afforded a lot of opportunity to practice saying no like I really meant it. After a couple days, I was finally able to find some enjoyment in escorting Tina to the Ghats every morning and evening, just by releasing my hostility, relaxing and taking it all in.

One afternoon, we found a ride to Sarnath; a famous Buddhist pilgrimage site where Buddha supposedly gave his first sermon and met his first disciples. A middle-aged driver and his mate took us on the hour drive to the suburb for a reasonable last minute rate.  Though we didn’t realize the price included probing conversation. “Are you married?”, the friend asks. The conservative Indian culture still has no concept of boyfriend or girlfriend, and offers no middle ground between friendship and marriage. Tina and I just told everyone we’re married because it makes the conversation easier and saves us of the disapproving looks. “As a matter of fact, we have been married about a year now.”, I replied. “How many children you have?”, he insisted. I’m a little thrown back by this question as I have no intention of having children for at least a couple years. “No children. Zero.” “How many children you have this year?” The man in the passenger seat is very persistent with the newborn questions. “Zero. No children this year.” “How many children next year?” Now, I decide to change the subject. “Are you married?” He is all too happy to answer this question. “No, not married. I have many girlfriends. Girls call all time. After work every day I go see girls.” I sat back smiling and nodding as he showed off his cell phone contact list, backing up his prowess with the ladies.

Top: Sadu peacefully sits during sunrise.
Middle: A homeless man, waiting for morning donations.
Bottom: Laughing grandma.

Our final days in Varanasi seemed to get easier. The rickshaw drivers, touts and wallas recognized us now, though they remained persistent in their objective. I was able to find my own peace in the chaos of the ghats and maybe even appreciated the place. I jokingly bargained with a comedic flute walla and ended up buying a semi functional bamboo flute for a hundred rupees, down from three hundred. Tina laughed while she flashing her camera at a gold loving sadhu whom I loaned my bright red sunglass for the sake of a picture. I flex my ribcage watching the famous hand masseur capture an unsuspecting tourist in his grip. I certainly wouldn’t want to stay in Varanasi any longer than necessary but I felt proud of myself for getting past the ruthless face of the town and appreciating what life has to offer. Being escorted by the most beautiful and energetic girl I could imagine is really the origin of the change in my personality. Her joy resonates deep within me, and warms my cold attitude, even in the time when I find it most difficult to be positive. Love is just the most wonderful thing.

Our Baba/Sadu friend who asked to try on Adam’s sunglasses for fun.

After the high intensity action and sleepless nights in Delhi, Tina and I both took a breath of fresh air when we arrived in Ladakh. The air-born pollution in Delhi is as suffocating as opening your window in Beijing, and the calm mountain air was exactly what the doctor ordered. Unfortunately, we hadn’t anticipated poisoning ourselves.

Ladakh is a secluded valley nestled between two mountain ranges in the Kashmiri region, at the very north tip of India, not far from the Chinese border. The valley is so secluded that historians claim the form of Buddhism practiced here precedes that of Tibet and the rest of Asia. Otherwise, culture and life is similar to a modern (and free!) Tibet. Ladakh was the first area of India we encountered that wasn’t overcrowded. The population growth is a steady twenty five people a year. The respect given to monks and nuns, as well as societal and environmental values, keep Ladakh’s native population to a very small town feel. Locals are so compassionate that we hitch hiked twice during our stay, a practice that is as common as taking the bus. In the summer, the valley gets flooded with tourists who come in search of nature, majesty and peace. The economy in Leh is the tourism industry, meaning that business is good for four months of the year, and goes into hibernation the other eight months. The Indian army maintains a significant presence all through Ladakh, as it is the closest safe zone to the war-torn area of Kashmir. There is little evidence of Indians integrating themselves into society there, they mostly hide in their heated shacks behind barbed wire along the one major road. Kashmir has been relatively safe for some time, and army’s only remaining purpose is keep the snow covered highway clear.

Top: street vegetable sellers laughing.
Bottom: our hotel room with mountain facing windows. Leh, India.

Life ranges in altitude from three to six thousand meters above sea level, which means elevation sickness is guaranteed. The first step off the plane was a great contrast from muggy thick air of Delhi. I instantly felt healthy and full of energy again. We were weary of trusting anyone at the airport, but Tina found them to be so warm and helpful that she couldn’t resist chatting with them, while trying to get the phone line to work. We hired a driver for a very reasonable non-negotiable price, and went to check out a couple of hotels. Within a half hour, we had found the hotel we liked the most, Omasila (1800 rupees/night, ~ $45). The owner was quick to point out that Brad Pitt had stayed in the room above ours, last year. He had the pictures and movie posters to prove it. Nawang had a beautiful place, entirely wood lodges with big beds, satellite tv and a spectacular view of the Zanskar mountain range that lights itself in the morning. Not a single hotel had running water, as all the pipes were frozen, but most had propane heaters and staff that would bring hot water on request. We were very lucky to be staffed by the very humble Rigzen, who is usually an expedition driver but works with Nawang during the off season. Rigzen brought us everything from food to water, drove us all over the valley, and ensured that we were well taken care of.

Our first couple of days completely blindsided both Tina and I. I felt like my neck was restricting itself, giving me a headache and draining every ounce of energy my muscles had. I slept most of the first two days, while Tina read and slept. On the third day, we wanted to escape our escalating cabin fever and explore the area. We mounted a japanese-built buddhist stupa, high above the village. It took Tina and I more than an hour to complete the steep hundred stair climb, as locals breezed by us. It was painfully slow, but well worth it. The view from the top was the first mind-centering wow moment I experienced in India. We happened to meet a photography professor who became a good friend as we talked on the slow descent to lower paradise. Exhausted from the exercise, we slept well that night, especially after removing the leaky propane heater that was poisoning us while we slept.

Top: Adam, on our climb to the Japanese Gompa.
Middle: Tina, above the village of Leh, beside the Japanese Gompa
Bottom: Middle aged men chilling on the street side. Leh, India.

We spent the next two days exploring and enjoying the village life in Leh. We made an exhaustive, but memorable climb to the highest gompa in the Leh valley. We haggled with the merchants in the market, and got denied every time (turns out they’re honest in Leh and do not charge a foreigner’s price). We ate traditional Ladakhi and Tibetan meals in the most popular restaurant in town. We consumed bags full of prized Ladakh dried apricots like they we our only source of digestive nutrients.

On our fifth day in Ladakh, we witnessed firsthand what compassion means to the Tibetan people. To give some background, during our stay in Leh, there had been an uprising in Tibet. The Tibetan people were rioting against Chinese control by vandalizing Chinese businesses. The Chinese were fighting back by sending the army in to calm to situation. There were many reports of citizen and monks being killed and injured in three of Tibet’s major cities. Although we were safe in India, we were physically quite close to the Tibetan border, and many of the local people were Tibetan immigrants or descendants. As a display of spirit and compassion, the town of Leh organized an evening parade through the streets leading to the gompa in the center of town. All the townspeople carried a single candle, most with homemade wind shelters, as they marched chanting Tibetan prayers. As we felt the songs of prayers, tears came to our eyes. Upon reaching the overcrowded gompa courtyard, the town huddled together for warmth and the lamas offered prayers, then united them in song. An unforgettably heartwarming experience.

On our second last day in Ladakh, we hired Rigzen to drive us out to Lamayuru and Rizong monasteries. Lamayuru in about two hundred kilometers from town on the most nerve-popping, ball-busting, don’t-look-down-or-straight-ahead drive I’ve ever been on. Blasting down the one-lane mountain-snaking road through the Ladakhi plateau, Rigzen played the steering wheel and stick of his Mahindra SUV like a world famous cellist. Once I was able to relax and trust the traction of the car and reaction speed of the driver, I got rewarded with the most spectacular views I have ever witnessed. Mountains that touch the sky, and endless deep canyons filled every view. And, there was not a single sign of life in sight for miles and miles.

Top: Tibetan parade praying for Tibetans in China after Chinese lock down.
Middle: Overlooking Lamayuru’s gompa on ledge to stupa.
Bottom: Lamayuru Monastery from a distance along the highway.

Lamayuru is a special place. Set high atop a mountain and surrounded by peaks, the iconic monastery is peaceful and soul warming. I witnessed my first Tibetan Buddhist monk reciting scriptures with a gong-like drum, and was instantly mesmerized. I wanted to just sit for hours and chant with him. After exploring all the stairs, mud passageways and locked doors, we shuffled up a rock ledge to the stupa overlooking the gompa. Peering down kilometers in the gorge and out over snow-capped peaks disappearing into fleeting clouds, I felt my true physical insignificance on earth. Really puts your life into perspective, and makes you introspective.

We spun back down the mountains and recovered from our dizzying spell in a canyon facing a white-walled, red-roofed Rizong monastery that stood up like a wall in front of us. The feature of is its school where 50 young monks and nuns are given a western education to offset their buddhist studies. As we slid up the hill, Tina pointed to small heads peering out over the roofs and balconies examining the foreigners invading their peaceful fortress. Once we reached the main level, we were graciously welcomed by an older monk who was having trouble speaking through his missing teeth. Before long, the curious younger monks came to see who their friend, Rigzen, had brought this time. We later found out that Rigzen was born and raised in the small village where we entered the canyon, and as a driver, had become a local celebrity.

We followed them up the narrow rock-cut stairs as they showed off their colorful prayer rooms, filled with old world charm. Without question, we left them a donation of a few hundred rupees in a donation box that had clearly never been emptied.

Top: A smiling Lama at Rizong Monastery.
Middle 1: Small monks greeting us at Rizong Monastery.
Middle 2: We were welcomed with both sweet milk tea and Tibetan butter tea.
Bottom: Monks on the patio taking a tea break during their scripture studies.

We were then led to the main patio where all the monks in the monastery were memorizing scriptures out loud, while partaking in milk and yak-butter tea with plain flatbread. Without anything to chant myself, Tina and I sat and soaked in the zen-like atmosphere while we were so graciously served by our maroon-clad hosts. I knew I was blessed to experience such an amazingly warm gathering in the middle of such secluded mountainous landscape. I took off one of my jackets. Tina took pictures of the monks and was then surrounded in a sea of maroon capes when she showed their smiling faces. We spoke with the director of the gompa and offered to return as volunteer teachers.

On the drive back to the hotel, I felt that the last couple of days had been worth all the trials and tribulations of our India trip up until now. Little did I know what was coming the next morning.

After a very nourishing breakfast of corn flakes and boiled eggs, Rigzen brought us to the grand Thikse gompa, just thirty minutes south of Leh. When we arrived, we were surprised to find the paths between the mud-brick buildings almost devoid of life. We had been promised that the busiest gompa in the winter months was Thikse, and we were sure to meet quite a contingent of monks. We wandered around for an hour before hearing a Tibetan horn echoing from the main courtyard. We rushed to look, and found a parade of colorful dresses flowing down the concrete path towards the main entrance. The horns and drums were loaded into the back of a truck while they continued their symphony. We begged Rigzen to follow them down into town, where they unloaded into a stone-walled courtyard encompassing a common building with traditional Ladakhi temple doors.

Top: Thikse Monastery set along the sides of a mountain 15Km south of Leh.
Middle: Adam at Thikse Monastery.
Bottom: The backs of village women near Thikse.

We followed the crowd shyly and tried our best to fit in, but we stuck out like a sore thumb. Everyone took a double look at us, as we tried to blend in by sitting in a corner on a tree log. Sighs of relief puffed out of us, as we saw some smiling faces greeting us from a distance. One of the organizing women invited us into their outdoor exhibition hall, where all the ladies of the village were sitting and enjoying tea and thukpa (Tibetan noodle soup). We started a conversation with three girls who looked around our age, and found out that this was the opening of the women’s center and temple. They promised that tomorrow would be a fantastic festival of song and dance that villagers from near and far come to partake in. Tina snapped the shutters of her camera in front of everyone in the hall, while they passed hats and flowers, and begged her to take more.

Top: Girls at the village opening ceremony. Tina knew how to make them laugh.
Middle: Adam being served thukpa.
Bottom: Faces of local women. They took turns getting photos taken by Tina.

We wished we could stay longer, but had planned for this day to be our last in Ladakh, and our plane ticket was already set. When we got back to town, we did some internet searching and made some phone calls, but weren’t able to change tickets until we got to the airport the next morning. After some fast talking and three thousand rupees (~$75), we changed our flights for an extra day of culture assimilation in Leh. We did make it to the ceremony and it really was fantastic, but the sights and sounds are best described in Tina’s descriptive photographs and my short videos.

We left a day later than planned, but I knew on the plane that I was losing much more than time.

Top: The girls in traditional costumes for special occasions.
Middle: Good laughs as the girls dressed Adam in Mongolian gowns.
Bottom: Tina dressed in traditional Ladakhie costume at the ceremony.

Tina and I made a quick exit after Sonu & Tashu’s wedding ceremony in Delhi, as we were hoping to make it to Agra to witness the Taj Mahal over night. Avlok’s father had helped us secure a car and driver for the long drive, which we had been told would take about three hours. The agreed price was 2200 rupees ($55 USD) for the car, driver and gas, and remaining in Agra overnight. When it was time to pay, we were charged 3300 rupees ($83 USD), because the driver had switched on the air-conditioning, despite us having never asked. We had packed all our things and loaded them into the car that morning, and were now prepared to leave directly from the wedding. With a quick goodbye, we were off and finally able to relax. The heavy food from the wedding reception put both Tina and I to sleep before long, and when I awoke I assumed that we must be there. “No Sir. We stop. Bad traffic.” Sure enough, there’s motorcycle out one window and a red saree covered butt in the other. We were in the middle of the biggest traffic jam I had ever seen, stretching up the highway (2 lane road) as far as I could see.

Three hours later, we finally arrived in Agra, more than 3 hours late. Our driver didn’t know where our hotel was, so he stopped to ask another hotel owner. The owner jumped right on us. “You cannot take car to where hotel is. You must stay here.” Our taxi driver agreed with him. It took closing my window on some fingers, and loud commands to our driver, but we turned around and found the right direction. We were able to call the hotel owner, who offered directions to the driver. While still on our mobile, the driver stopped in the middle of a crowd. He reached back to my door and unlocked it. “What the….?” A man tries to open my door. I quickly grab the handle and held it, while slamming the lock back down. “What are you doing?!?”, I yell at the driver. The driver’s window is down and the man identifies himself as the hotel owner. It takes me a moment before I can trust him, and let him into the car. The hotel room was the smallest we stayed in during our entire trip, but also the cheapest. At 400 rupees ($10 USD), we decided it was a steal. We go for dinner a restaurant across the road, run entirely by 12 year old boys. Tina gets so frustrated by the lack of service that she throws our cutlery over the balcony at them. Luckily, they take no notice.

Tina wakes up easily irritated the next morning, insisting that we make to the gate before 5 am. To her great frustration, I awake slowly and we waddle down the dirt streets to the south gate. Upon arriving, we are informed that the south gate doesn’t open until 8:30, and the only gate that we can enter through is the east gate. We curse India with the conviction of a southern pastor, and find a rickshaw to take us over to the east gate (a 20 min walk). We pay the foreigner price (which is 100 times the domestic price) and proceed to be harassed by the officers at the entrance over carrying a backpack. When we finally reached the Taj, we were instantly impressed. No picture fully does it justice. We took several moments to sit and just breath it in. Definitely the most impressive monument we witnessed in India.

While admiring the Taj, I noted yet another inconsistency in Indian culture. Many of the major distinct monuments of India were built by Muslims or Buddhists. The Taj Mahal is quite obviously built by a Muslim, as it is covered in writings from the Quran. Throughout India’s glorious history, the country was ruled by the Mughols who invaded from the east. The Mughols, such as the famous Akbar and Shah Jahan, built many of the great palaces and forts throughout India. The World Heritage sites in central and southern India are mostly Buddhist temples or dwellings. That doesn’t leave much for the Hindus, whom are the large majority in the modern day. India’s Hindu sanctuary seems to be Udaipur in Rajasthan, the only city that didn’t give in to Emperor Akbar’s armies.

Jewelery worn by the bride on her wedding day. March, 2008. New Delhi, India.

Nearly midway through our stay in India, Tina and I had the good fortune to attend a reputably magnificent Indian wedding in the capitol, New Delhi. I have a good friend from school, Avlok Kohli, who heard we were headed to India and insisted that we attend his cousin’s wedding. Both Tina and I are so deeply grateful that we did because it offered us a view of India that was both amazing and completely unlike anything we had seen so far, or expected to see. For a traveller there are two completely different views of India; from the outside looking in and from the inside looking out. The extended family is the atomic institution upon which India is built, and once accepted as a family member, the world instantly lights up.

When we arrived in Delhi on a flight from Jaipur, we were warmly received by Avlok and his father. Avlok had been sent to another terminal by an official, but once we found each other in the crowd, I felt instantly relieved. Maybe it was a familiar face in an unfamiliar place, or simply a full english conversation, but either way it was welcome after being sick all through Rajasthan. Avlok’s father whisked us off to their flat in south Delhi, quite close to the hotel Puneet found us the first night.

The 3 day festivities were just about to begin at the Kohli residence, and you could hear that life was stirring from four floors down. We mounted the seemingly endless flights of stairs (Curious Note: Why do the Kohli families all have penthouse flats?) to a rush of Kohlis moving in every directions. Grandmothers sit and gossip in Avlok’s parents flat, while across the hall, Sonu’s mother yells at him to quickly get dressed. Today is Sonu’s wedding day, and as is traditional in India, the festivities are beginning later than planned (also referred to as “Indian Time”). Sonu is just getting out of the shower and we greet him wearing a towel, as he pops his head out of his room to return the marble shattering hindi reply to his mother. His voice becomes much softer and genuinely kind when Avlok introduces us. Before we have the chance to sit down and share a cup of chai, we are rushed off across town.

Sonu’s unmarried wife is a Sikh, and as part of the wedding ceremony, Sonu has agreed to appease her family by wearing a traditional Sikh turban. Sonu has a Sikh friend who has offered to wrap his ceremonial turban today, however he lives nearly an hour away. The streets of Delhi are wild and ever encroaching, surrounding the rolling car with crowds and cows. Tina hides her eyes as Sonu narrowly misses a rickshaw, then slams the brake pedal to the floor to halt inches from a fifty car traffic jam. My mind races trying to discern how Sonu knows which direction to turn. At the house, we are already late for the ceremony and dispense with the long formal introductions. Marching directly into the bedroom, we find the ten meter turban fabric being stretched and rolled. Sonu tightens his teeth on one end of the fabric while the other nine and a half meters fly around his head in a precise and artistic manner. The first wrap isn’t perfect enough for a wedding, so we get a second show. Finally, Sonu is ready. We wave to Sonu’s very talented friend and his family while the car speeds off towards the gurdwara (Sikh temple).

I am going to be honest, that I don’t fully understand all the proceeding and ceremonies involved in an Indian wedding. If you do, and you notice that I’ve made a factual error, please don’t hesitate to correct me. Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims all have unique traditions, although those of the Hindus and Sikhs are similar. We were in for a treat because Sonu’s (the groom’s) family is Hindu and Tashu’s (the bride) is Sikh. In order to represent the union of the two families, the wedding is also a union between the traditions of the two religions. The Hindu/Sikh wedding is a series of events staged to introduce the groom’s family to the bride’s, and bless both families.

Adam and Avlock sitting on the male side of the gurdwara.

The first day held a ceremony at the bride’s gurdwara, where the groom was introduced to her family. The groom was force fed by the brides family, which I believe was a sign of respect. The ceremony was otherwise uneventful, but I was fascinated by my first experience in a gurdwara. The staff consists of the guru, and his band. The band plays a traditional indian chant, while the guru chants his blessings during the pauses. There was no idol that I could recognize, instead they had some ceremonial objects (including a knife) and a holy book, from which the guru would read. Men and women are separated in the gurdwara, separated by a colored fabric path from the entrance to the alter. Tina chose to disregard this obviously visible religious law, and sit with the photographers on the male (right) side.

Ceremonial feeding of sweets during the engagement party on day one.

Following every ceremony is a banquet feast for all members of the wedding party. Since Indian families are enormous, they need a massive banquet hall to host the hundreds of people that constitute friends and family. Since the first two days are hosted by the bride’s family, they also plan the meals. Lunch on the first day is extravagant, but in hindsight, only modest compared with what was to come. Just before we sit down to eat, the bride and groom exchange rings that look cartoonish in size, with bright jewels encrusted. Sonu’s juvenile nephew, Nonu, wreaks havoc by tossing a fork into a crowd of elderly folks.

By the time we arrive back at the flat, Tina and I are both completely exhausted. Avlok reminds us that the day is only half over, and the real fun is only just beginning. “Tonight is henna night. A couple of henna artists will come over, and all the women on the groom’s side will be getting their hands and feet painted before dancing to Indian traditionally loud music. Last time, I got dragged into the middle of the dancing circle by Sonu’s mother, and was trapped for hours. Adam; you’re going to be their primary target.” I have never been very interested in dancing. This was enough to push me to dance on my own terms, by accepting to go salsa dancing at a club, instead. This was Tina’s first choice, since she’s a closet professional.

The ‘priest’ during blessing ceremony on the evening of day one.

We ordered Domino’s pizza and watched in wonder as Sonu was engaged in another ceremony. A man dressed in yellow and red appeared at the door, and was instantly welcomed and treated like a priest. This man sat Sonu down in the middle of the floor and proceeded to light cups on fire and put fruit into his hands. I quickly understood that the fruit was not for eating, but instead for blessing. The raggedly dress priest would repeat short chants, then utter instructions to Sonu. After requiring Sonu to bless various fruits and sweets, he painted Sonu’s hairy limbs with a yellow coloring. We take off just before the ceremonial shower to clean off the toxic yellow holy color.

I have painted a very sarcastic picture so far, but there are some heartwarming moments that I completely glazed over. As Tina would tell you, Indian hospitality is second to no other culture we have yet encountered. Even just knowing that I was a friend of a cousin’s, Puneet and his family went out of their way to help us in our first couple of very overwhelming days in India. When we arrived for the wedding, we were welcomed with open arms. The Kohli flats in south Delhi were completely over booked, with all beds accounted for, and unused floor space fought over. Where would we stay? Avlok’s neighbors were all too happy to take us in, offering us their bed, while they slept in their living room. Astounding. They even offered to help Tina put on her saree at 7 in morning. On our final night in Delhi, even though the Kohli’s had room for us, the neighbors still wanted us to stay with them, and so we did. Any time we stay with the greater Kohli family, food was always being pushed in front of us and anything we needed was instantly taken care of. Both Tina and I thoroughly enjoyed our stays with Avlok’s and Puneet’s families and are deeply grateful for their generosity.

Dancing on the street, on our way to meeting the bride’s family.

The second day begins bright and early at 7 am. The events began with Sonu riding a very flashy horse to his local temple, symbolizing his journey to meet his bride. Sonu got fully suited, as a Rajput king should, and headed to the street to mount his horse for the long journey (5 minutes). The horse was fed, and the women (plus Avlok) danced to the band of drums and horns following Sonu’s lead. Once he reached the temple around the corner, we all jumped in cars and drove to the banquet hall. The groom’s family (including Tina and I) danced our way up to a well decorated arch blocked by the bride’s family. The band was so loud that they overpowered the industrial saws ripping through logs on the other side of the street. Upon meeting at the arch, the two families exchanged gifts (ten sets of blankets), and the bride’s family officially accepted Sonu. We were led into a new and even larger hall, where lunch and afternoon snacks were to be served. Sonu and Tashu were joined on an alter, where they were forced to sweat for more than half an hour while two video-camera-men with high voltage bulbs heated them with solar radiation. I felt most pity for Tashu, whose wedding day saree weighed more than 30 pounds.

Immediately after the photo session ended, we were back at the gurdwara for the official wedding ceremony. Ironically, this ceremony was attended by the least number of people, as most of the wedding party awaited Sonu and Tashu’s return to the banquet hall. The Sikh wedding ceremony is a simple one. There are four prayers which both the bride and groom chant, followed by a march around the alter. The Hindu equivalent is to circle a holy flame. At the end, the groom finally gets to hold hands with his new bride as they gracefully exit the gurdwara.

Tina and I make a quick exit as we were hoping to make it to Agra to witness the Taj Mahal over night. [See next post for details]

When we arrived back in Delhi, we were informed that the flat was infested with hijras, the night before. Tina was instantly fascinated by transgenders who wander into births, weddings and funerals because she yet to be approached by them. While in Jaipur waiting for Tina to buy a saree top, I found myself encircled by several imposing male figures dressed in female clothes and accompanied by two guys with drums. I was danced and kissed until the drummers could tell that I’d had enough, and moved on. Tina prodded and discovered that the hijras come to weddings to perform sexually suggestive dances and demand whatever sum they choose for they blessing and smooth exit. Last night, the hijras that came to the Kohli residence had left with more than ten thousand rupees, the equivalent of three hundred US dollars for twenty minutes of dancing. I was flabbergasted that anyone in India would actually respect these lower-class citizens enough to pay them whatever was demanded, reminding myself that no Indian respects anyone demanding money from outside their family. Just as we’re trying to understand another Indian inconsistency, another group of hijras shows up at the door. This group also happens to hail from the neighborhood and demand a fee, like it is their right. After some hostile negotiation, Sonu’s mother pays them to leave.

The final wedding reception is hosted by the groom’s family, and is held in one of the most exclusive five star resorts in Delhi. Avlok refers to it as a ‘five star location’. The party starts fashionably late at 9 pm, but is worth it. The food is a healthy feast, and both Tina and I marvel at the real vegetables, fresh stir-fry’s and pasta. Oh, and the Indian options were also spectacular. My meal is frequently interrupted by Puneet and his family trying to get Tina and I on the dance floor. I’m not certain he ate anything all night; he couldn’t stop dancing. The party cleared out quickly, as families with small children, of which there were many, left early. The final straw was when a fight broke out between Avlok’s father and a distant member of their family. The two of them were separated, but Avlok’s father was noticeably missing a few minutes later. We discovered that he disappeared, not because of the fight, but because Sonu chose to wear the ceremonial turban again. This evening was hosted by Sonu’s family, a Hindu family, and by wearing a Sikh turban, he was not showing his own family any respect. Avlok’s father disapproved and left. As I said at the beginning, the Indian family is a very closely-knit and proud institution. Families take each other, and their respect for each other seriously. The bad blood that night will be recycled, but will clear with time and effort. They are family, after all.

Day 1: outside of gurdwara, posing with head coverings.


Day 2: being tricked by the boys to pose on the bride & groom’s chairs.


Day 3: at the reception.

View into the old city of Jodhpur, Rajasthan.

These words are coming in the heat of passion, backed by fear for my life. Not more than a moment ago, a bee the size of a hummingbird flew in through one of the eight windows in our hotel room that does not have a screen. Both Tina and I scurried madly around the room, until I finally found an object I deemed large enough to kill the bee in a single whack. As I returned from the bathroom with a plastic pail (normally for use as a manual biday), the bee had paused on the ceiling to do an upside-down hip-hop style belly flop. The power had just come back on, after the daily power outage, and we suspected that the bee might been drawn by the light. Tina jumped up from her spot cowering in the corner to flick off all the light switches. She exclaimed “I can’t take this anymore. I’m going outside!”, just as the bee circled the room once more. The bee landed on one of the two windows that does have a screen, and I grab the guestbook filled with names of French and British people, preparing to the trap the pest in my biday bucket. As luck would have it, the window screen was not sealed and the bee slowly waddled out. I quickly slammed the shutters behind him.

Rounding the room to close window shutters, I noticed a pigeon was peeking through. I thought to myself, “Why can’t India just leave me alone?”

Yesterday, Tina and I arrived in the desert fort town of Jodhpur in western India. Our taxi driver stopped in a busy market, turned around and said “I cannot take you any further. Rickshaw only.” Conveniently, a rickshaw driver pulled up and promptly tried to harass us into taking the rickshaw. “You must! There is no other way!” We really disliked being dropped in an overly congested and pushy area, so we tried to convince the driver to take us to an entrance to the old city that was closer to our hotel. The driver wasn’t interested in the detour, as it would clearly take another half hour or more out of his already long day, and instead offered to pay for the rickshaw. I could sense that the discussion was going no where, so we picked up our things and jumped on the rickshaw. After paying the driver 2300 rupees for his services, he double checked that I still wanted him to pay the 20 rupees for the rickshaw. This time, I looked him in the eye to ensure there was no verbal confusion.

Adam in our hotel room, before attacked by the large Bee. Jodhpur, Rajasthan.

I am appalled at every rouse that we encounter. You would think that after a month in India, I would have gotten used to the constant pain of trying to do anything, but I have not. They still surprise me every time.

For dinner, Tina and I made our way to one of the classier restaurants in town. It was hailed as being clean and served excellent pizza. I was stoked. I had been eating almost exclusively indian local fare, until recently. Either a bowl of fresh fruit and yoghurt or an oily paneer butter masala had induced a stomach that wiped me out for a day, as well as my appetite for curries. As the doorman held the door for us, the manager greeted us. We were lead by two waiters to the non-smoking section at the back with more than eight large tables, all empty. We were offered the menus, which were clean and appeared to be brand new. Both Tina and I thought out loud, “Wow! We’re in for a treat!” We ordered water, a tomato and cucumber salad, and the usual cream of tomato soup. I got my pizza and Tina picked vegetable fried rice. Our food came out quite quickly, and we were eating before we had time to wash our hands. We picked up our utensils and dove in. The food tasted quite good, but felt like one detail was a little off. We looked up from the table to catch more than four sets of eyeballs staring at us while we crunched away. I first assumed that we were surrounded by waiters because the restaurant had more than 8 staff and only two customers, but I quickly remembered that the waiter had asked me if Tina and I were married. I understand that it must be quite a sight to see an asian girl who would marry a white guy, but we are still human. Don’t we deserve a little respect? Tina and I continued to make constructive restaurant management comments throughout the rest of dinner. We both agreed that we would eat there again, simply because we had seen the alternatives.

Why can’t India just let me relax a little? It seems that I can’t walk anywhere without 80 decibel requests for money, pictures, rickshaw rides, clothes, shoes, jewelry or trinkets. This is worst in the touristy areas, but even outside, there are still many people and foreigners are spotted easily. I need to be constantly on the watch to keep us from being hit by a car, bicycle, motorcycle or cow. I check every footstep to avoid potholes, liquids, cow dung and other feet. I feel like I’m being endlessly bombarded with demands for time, and I don’t see any near end to it. In the land where the only consistent, trustworthy fact is the very inconsistency itself, you have no choice but to make the most of what you have.

Typical street corner full of cows in Jodpur, Rajasthan.

On the way home from dinner, Tina and I agreed on price with the second rickshaw driver we talked to, as the first was trying to stick us with the foreigners’ price. A short command of the english language isn’t always as big a problem as it was tonight. The driver had little clue where he was taking us, even after agreeing to the price of 30 rupees. He stopped to ask nine other drivers before finding one that had heard of our guest house. We were finally off to get some rest after a long day. About a third of the way, the driver stopped. Three men had dug a deep hole in the middle of an intersection and the driver could not continue. He informed us that he could drive around the fort in a different direction, but that would cost us another 40 rupees. I thanked him but decided to get off, and offered him ten rupees for his troubles. He would not accept my rupees arguing that his time was worth twenty. After more than a minute, I told him that either he takes it, or he gets nothing. He would not accept, so Tina and I jump around the intersection and were on our way down the dark alleyway. We quickly found another driver who left us at our door for a mere twenty rupees.

Large number of scooters and auto-rickshaws

When I first arrived in India, I enjoyed playing the games of deception and other deal brokering tactics. However, playing the same game time and time again has transformed my excitement into frustration. I would much rather trust that I am being offered the best deal, the first time, accept it and move on.

This morning, while we were lying down reading books, I looked at Tina and exclaimed “India sucks!” And we laughed. We laughed because we both realized that there was nothing we could do but accept it and laugh. But, if you’re ever looking for a list of hotels not to stay in, restaurants not to eat at or places not to visit, I will be happy to bombard you with them.

We long for the comforts of home, especially Tommy (our 3 yr old dog).

Note: So what did we think of Jodhpur? The fort was amazing (you have to get the audio tour), and the old city provided a wonderful view of pastel colored blocky buildings. However, the old city is incredibly congested, where you might just get hit by a cow/auto-rickshaw/scooter/bicycle (seriously). It is also exceptionally run-down, lined with sketchy hotel options and open sewers, uneven streets and extra cow dungs (more than in other cities). We don’t recommend staying here for more than two days, unless you check yourself into the fabulous Ajit Bhawan luxury hotel, and don’t leave.

Women washing clothing and bathing at Gangaur Ghat in Udaipur, Rajasthan.

Tina and I have just concluded our week in Udaipur, the first city in our tour of India’s Rajasthan state. I certainly enjoyed our visit. Though, I’m not sure I can say the same for Tina, who has been caught nose deep in Harry Potter books six and seven. Luckily, I do get regular updates of which characters are killed in fictional magic battles, amidst the bright red sunsets over the fairy-tale lake.

Tina immersed in Harry Potter over lunch at Mewar Hevali. Udaipur, Rajasthan.

Udaipur is known as the city of maharajas, which is a great billeting. The main city contains 3 maharaja-built palaces which have been transformed into hotels, all priced at US$300 and up. The Fateh Prakash hotel is part of Rajasthan’s largest palace at the top of a hill overlooking Lake Pichola. At the center of the lake is the prize of Udaipur, the Taj Lake Palace hotel. The holy white brick floating for all to see, has only one entrance, and must be boarded only by a palace-owned charter from a private boat jetty. Once used by emperors as a summer home, the palace was fully booked this week at the end of February for wedding season. We would gaze over to the palace everyday, reminding us how exclusive it is.

The evening we arrived, we found ourselves in the middle of three different weddings. The first was a colorful parade for the bride and her maids, carrying a presentation to the grooms father. Later in the evening, we were caught by two bachelor parties. Pressed to join the festivities by a local family, we danced to the loud music while being nudged by the groom’s elegantly fashioned marwari horse.

Pre-wedding bride’s party. Udaipur, Rajasthan.

The groom and the marwari horse at the bachelor party. Udaipur, Rajasthan.

The James Bond movie Octopussy was filmed here, and seems to have brought quite a following of tourists. Most hotels show the movie nightly, and it can get tiring seeing the name on every other sign as you walk through town. One of my highlights was witnessing the 1937 Rolls Royce Phantom III that Roger Moore drove in the movie at the Garden Hotel. However, I would guess that Tina would disagree as she was poorly treated at the hotel’s restaurant while waiting for me (reading Harry Potter).

Despite the hustle and bustle of the centralized tourist area, we never really felt badly harassed, and life was quiet and peaceful most of the time. We frequented a couple restaurants in town for good prices, quality and service. Our favorite was a french (style) bakery and rooftop restaurant, conveniently located just above our favorite person in town, the very warm Shreem palm reader.

Akhand is one of the most interesting people we have met in India so far. Our travel writer friend Beth had met him a year ago, and highly recommended that we meet him. He has a profound and mysterious manner, but is clearly very wise in discussion. Very adept at reading palms and personalities, Akhand analyzed both Tina and I with the perfect diagnosis of an experienced surgeon with a fine scalpel. We talked for several hours the first time we met him, and ended up in internet cafe to buy him a domain name (www.bestpalmreader.com). Over the course of the next week, we went to his house for dinner twice and he helped us arrange a day trip to Ranakpur. I even got sick in his bathroom (Sorry Akhand and Anjuli!). He has a beautiful family and we were certainly blessed to meet them and be graced by their welcome arms. Akhand’s bubbly personality never seemed to burst, even when discussing some of the hardships in his life. We highly recommend seeing Akhand if you are visiting Udaipur. You’ll love the palm reading experience.

Akhand and his beautiful family.

Tina and Adam goofing off at Akhand’s home over delicious dinner. Udaipur, Rajasthan.

Malayalam Resort viewed from lake, showing day bed in yellow. Alleppey, Kerala.

Alleppey (Alappuzha) is one of those fantastic towns where days can drift by while relaxing with a good book and watching happy village life flow by in front of you. This sensation is in great contrast to northern India. Here, the pace is slower and people are always smiling.

Most travelers miss the gem by rushing through Alleppey and jumping straight into an overnight houseboat. We recommend that you stay in a guesthouse along the backwaters for at least one or two nights (we stayed for 6 nights). Take this opportunity to kick back and relax in one of the most chilled out places in India. We used this time to study the houseboats and decide on the type of houseboat we wanted.

Accommodation:

We highly recommend two neighboring guesthouses, located just outside of the town. Both are exceptional places and neither are listed in any English guide books (yet). They are however listed in French guide books.

Keraleeyam Lake Side Resort

This place has our highest recommendation. After having traveled through several India cities (we’re currently in Rajasthan, writing missing posts), this was still the best accommodation we’ve experienced for the price range. Fully equipped with room service, restaurant and ayurvedic massage center. The best options here are lake facing huts/cottages made from palm leaves. Every cottage has a private porch along the lake, built for hours of relaxing. No need to spring for AC, peak season doesn’t bring temperatures high enough to need it.

Contact: keraleeyam.com
Cost: 1710 Rs / $45
Recommended: Room 107

Pros:

• Exceptional breakfast
• Super clean, mosquito nets, lots of light
• 24 hour hot water. Western standard bathroo, minus the roof.

Cons:

• Limited non-Indian food options
• Lacking village family feel
• Food delivery is very slow. Reserved meals are always late (order for a time prior to 30 minutes of when you actually want it.)
• Cost: relatively pricy

Lake facing hut at Keraleeyam Resort. Alleppey, Kerala.

Partial outdoor bathroom attached to Hut at Keraleeyam. Alleppey, Kerala.

Malayalam Resort

We fell in love with this place on arrival: especially the day bed perched over the lake water. Malayalam has two of these comfortable spots, held up with four wooden anchors, and decked out with bamboo mats and a Persian body pillow. Don’t be mislead by the word “Resort” in its name. It’s extremely down-to-earth here, with a village life feel. This family run place has six rooms (including one traditional hut) and is run by a very charismatic and down-to-earth manager, Jose. The owners, Thomas and Rosie, are kind but do not speak much English. Home-made dinners are served under candle light, and are most delicious but the portions are small. We loved the family here, but after staying at both places, this is our second option due to limited eating options and lack of hot water.

Contact: Jose cell phone 9447505567
Cost: 800-1200 Rs / $20-30
Recommended: Cottage/Hut

Pros:

• Family and village feel
• Economical
• Day beds and hammock

Cons:

• Limited food options (i.e.. no lunch options and dinner portions are very small), but a restaurant is just a tuktuk-ride away.
• No hot water
• Due to its family-run nature, it’s not as professionally run as Keraleeyam. Do not have laundry done here, at least not white clothing. Tina’s white clothing turned tie-dyed blue (while Adam’s stayed white).

Lake facing hut at Malayalam Resort. Alleppey, Kerala.

Tina reading Harry Potter on day bed at Malayalam Resort.

Restaurants

Eating options are extremely limited. Most guesthouses have some eating options, but your best bet is in the town and in higher end hotels.

Kream Korner, recommended by the Lonely Planet is not bad (good food, bad service and questionable hygienic). There’s a restaurant several doors down from Kream Korner with green signage that serves pretty good vegetable noodles which we frequented.

Houseboats

Staying in a houseboat in the Kerala Backwaters is listed as one of the things to do before you die by the Lonely Planet. We enjoyed the experience, and also learned many lessons that we wished we knew before getting on the boat. Here are some suggestions and tips to help you while selecting a houseboat.

Houseboat we rented for our two day backwater tour.

General Knowledge

Houseboats come in 1 bedroom, 2 bedrooms and 3 bedrooms. Prices start at 3500 ($90) per night for a basic 1 bedroom boat, and can cost up to 10,000 Rs. ($250) for a larger luxury boat. The price includes 3 staff (captain, cook, guide/manager/server) and all meals.

Checkin time is 11am or noon, and checkout time is 9am. The boats will either come pick you up, assuming that your pickup location is along the backwaters, or you meet them at “Finishing Point” for check-in.

Our Experience

We got a double decker boat for two days. Asking price was 6000 per night, and we bargained it down to 4000 per night (~ $100).

The first day was extremely fun. By second day, we started to get the sense that we were being cheated. The crew was leaving extra late the next morning, driving very slowly, choosing large river ways instead of the more interesting narrower river alleys, taking mid-day naps without request, and all our meals were so similar that they were clearly reruns. Additionally, there was no hot water, and we found lots of small bugs in our bed.

Despite the negatives, we still found the experience memorable and recommend it to others. Though, we do not recommend the boating company we employed.

Kitchen on our houseboat. Fully equipped.

Tips for Renting a Houseboat

Spend at least a day checking out the houseboats by staying at a hotel along the backwaters (or have a drink there). 9am and 11-noon are the best time for doing this, as boats are returning or leaving the general check-in point. Both hotels above are just up the river from “Finishing Point”, and most boats will pass by in the morning. Seeing all the boats will give you a better idea of which boat features and style you prefer. Use this knowledge to be an educated consumer and narrow your options down to a hand full of boats. For example, we decided that we wanted a 1 or 2 bedroom boat with a second level deck, which narrowed our options down to 4 boats, and made our negotiations quicker and easier.

• Know the Market - asking around for pricing. Ask other travelers who have already rented; ask hotel managers (note: managers will likely give you a higher price, because they have something to gain from referral).
• Best Pricing - it’s cheaper to book directly with boat owners by examining boats at “Finishing Point”. Removing agents and other middle men will save you several thousand rupees per night (~$20-50 lower).
• Boat Selection - Give yourself an extra day or two to find a boat, so you don’t feel rushed and you can guarantee the boat you want will be available (boats are most frequently booked for single night stays). Go to “Finishing Point” at 10 am (preferably two days prior to your desired date) and see the boats for yourself. Don’t be pressured by any one owner. Take their information and call them later, after examining all your options.
• Size Matters - During boat selection, we recommend a boat with a larger kitchen. Since, this is where the crew spends their time when you are eating. This is also where the cook spends all of his time (including sleeping time). Larger kitchen means happier cook and crew. Also note that double decker boats cannot enter into many small river alleyways due to height, however, you will get better views on a two level deck.
• Fine Details #1 - Find out where you’ll be going exactly. It’s recommended to get a map of the backwater area and make them draw it out, including the names of villages you’ll be passing. If you don’t do this, their goal is to cover as little land as possible to save gas money.
• Fine Details #2 - Find out exactly when you’ll be stopping and for how long. This includes the time when the boat stops for the night and when it’ll start again. Many boats will try to skim you out by stopping at every meal. The government requires that boats start no earlier than 8am, and stop no later than 6pm, but any other stops are unnecessary. If you don’t discuss when the boat will leave the next morning (ie. 8am), they’ll make sure to leave extra late (ie. 10am or 11am). Not having this ironed out ahead of time will result in reduced boating time (about 4 hours for the whole day). Typically, they are supposed to leave 8am in the morning, stop at 6pm for the night. But many will not follow this format.
• Fine Detail #3 - Find out what you’ll be having at every meal. This is especially important if you are staying for multiple days. We had the same coconut curry dish at every meal, and I (Tina) wanted to shoot somebody by the end of our two days. The food was fantastic at first, but after repeated sightings of the same dishes at every meal, we needed some variety. Ask about variety when negotiating details. Also, because the crew eats the same food (after you eat), if you ask for non-spicy food they’ll be reluctant to give it to you. I found this to be quite frustrating.
• Multiple Days - We originally planned to rent for three nights but went with two instead. By the end of two days, we couldn’t wait to get out of there. The novelty factor will pretty much wear off after a day, and you’ll start to pick up on all the annoyances. We don’t recommend staying for multiple days, and if you must, two days max.

Keralian breakfast served on the houseboat

Villager’s means of transportation: canoes. Feb 14, 2008. Alleppy, Kerala.

Alleppey is the place of tropical dreams. Forests of palm trees. Huge networks of interconnecting backwater rivers surrounded by massive rice paddy plantations and tiny villages. Bright misty sunny days marked by brightly colored sunrises and sunsets.

The villages that line the 200 meter wide rivers seem to blend together as you pass by them. Only a narrow one-man path and a single line of palm trees separates the rivers from the hundred acre wide paddies.

Alleppey’s backwater village. Shown with two traditional houseboats.

The water is green with a tinge of brown, and the current moves as quickly as as the rest of life in Kerala; a pace barely recognizable with the passing of time.

Homes are very traditional, and distinctively Christian. Men garner rupees through trade in villages and towns, or simply just enjoy the shade and a conversation worthy of the Ents. Women are eternally washing clothes by riverside, by stamping linens on concrete walls that line the rivers. Mothers care for the young children and hold up the house. In the mornings and early afternoons, bathers can be seen submerged up to their knees in the murky waters, covering themselves in white soap while conservatively protecting their taboo areas with a cloth or dress.

Village kids goofing off at the strange foreigners. Feb 18, 2008. Karnakary village, Kerala.

Life exists only between sunrise and sunset. As the daylight fades, the people and any sign of movement seem to disappear all at once. Nature is left only to the bright stars and sparkling moon.

The Alleppey lake and river-side resorts are immediately captivating. At $25 per night, a small bamboo leaf hut offers all the comfort of a cheap hotel, however no one pays for the sleep or the warm water. A deck with Keralian sun chairs and a daybed overlooking the water are where your time will be spent; the most relaxing days you may ever experience.

Life on the water varies through the day hours. Early mornings are when the kayak racers train, for they have the open water to themselves. Mid-morning, the fishermen and garbage collectors pass, calling in a low echo of a bird call to bring attention to their service. At noon, a parade of extravagant houseboats jostle and honk for room to maneuver.

Houseboats are traditionally made long and wide, with pointed bow and stern ornaments fixed, while the canopy is covered in local palm leaves and bound with brown twine. They all sport open front decks with large tables and thickly padded couches and beds. The driver sits at the tip of the bow, hands firmly planted on the old pirate-ship steering wheel, often measuring nearly a meter in diameter.

‘Captain’ Adam driving the houseboat we rented.

The resort chefs bring a full, but light, three meals each day. Local Kerala foods consist of a thin fried rice-bread, called chipati, and various potato, coconut and tumeric-based curries. The south Indians like their food hot, and add spicy green chili peppers into every dish. Fresh organic fruits can be found everywhere, including pineapples, bananas, green mangoes and coconuts.

Breakfast at Keraleeyam Resort, served on the porch of our coconut hut.