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I’m a Baliever

Bali is one of those places–like Tahiti, Fiji, etc–that I never thought that I needed to see. Yeah, yeah, beautiful beaches, paradise, sounds great. Whatever, it’s probably full of drunk Spring Breakers. It’s probably expensive. It’s probably full of bony models.

But I was wrong. I love being right, but in this case I’m happier that I was wrong. In a sense, Bali IS all of those above things–but it doesn’t eclipse the majesty of the place whatsoever.

Back in Pittsburgh, Emily and I began concocting a plan to meet up and travel in Asia. I can’t remember how it went, but eventually we settled on meeting in Malaysia, traveling to Singapore, and then flying to Bali. Our good friend, Caralyn, overheard the plans and eagerly joined in. Before we knew it, we were counting the days until our reunion in paradise.

As is customary in our culture, we bragged about this on Facebook. It was spotted by Sameeta, one of my favorite people ever. We were roommates in college and most of my most cringe-inducing memories involve her somehow. She asked if she could come along. Um, obvi.

So that’s how, on December 26, we all boarded a flight to Denpasar, Bali Rather than force my readers, most of whom are in cold, snowy climates, to endure a long description of our daily island paradise routine, here are the highlights:

Snorkeling and diving in Amed. We stayed in a beachfront villa on a blacksand beach. Two steps into the water and there was a magnificent coral reef, teeming with sea life–and a sunken Hindu altar. After a couple days of great snorkeling, I began to wonder what going down a few more meters would be like. Sameeta and I went diving (both of our first times) and saw some truly incredible things–like a lionfish. The next day, still not having reached my underwater limit, we took a sunrise boat ride to another bay to snorkel around a Japanese shipwreck. Add this to magical sunsets, amazing beachfront food and truly luxurious digs–and you see why we fell in love immediately.

Playing UNO under the mosquito net in our villa, Amed, Bali

Sunrise boat ride to snorkel the Japanese shipwreck

Hinduism. Though Indonesia has the world’s largest Muslim population, Bali itself is a Hindu island. Tirta Gangga, a water palace of a former king, was an unexpected highlight en route from Amed to Ubud. Little offerings of flowers, foodstuffs and herbs are omnipresent everywhere in Bali, but especially Ubud. They were everywhere–on the seats of motorbikes, on the threshhold of businesses, tucked into rocks along trails. And Gunung Kawi, a last-minute road trip, proved to be one of the most incredible sites I’ve seen on my entire trip so far. It’s a 1000-year-old temple site with nine shrines carved into the mountainside. It’s reached by an interminable series of steps. We climbed high up on the hills to altars with incense still smoldering, views of incredible terraced rice paddies, and devotees paying respects. Criminally, I’d forgotten to charge my camera, and little evidence of this site exists in my photo collection.

The water palace of Tirta Ganga

Little offerings everywhere

Rice paddies on the way to Gunung Kawi

The shrines of Gunung Kawi

New Year’s Eve. I’ve written about it before, but a fancy Italian dinner, good wine, great friends, fancy dresses and homemade fireworks. Here to 2012.

NYE

Textile course. I try to get a sense of local textiles everywhere I go. In Ubud, I attended a course at Threads of Life, an NGO that works with cooperatives of weavers in remote areas (sound familiar?) I was worried the course would be too basic, but it was fabulous. I plan to write a long post about textiles at the end of the trip, so I can save details for that. But Balinese textiles are truly among the world’s finest. One example is the presence of the double ikat–a type of textile only found in Gujarat, India and Bali. It’s dual warp and weft dominant design makes it excruciatingly difficult to weave, exquisitely fine in detail and on the whole, simply amazing. I’d never seen one before the workshop.

Uluwatu. Fabulous cliffside house on the world’s most famous surf break. Chiseled Aussie surfers climbing the rocky cliff, dripping with sea water and adrenaline. Ethereal sunsets. A motorbike. A bunch of restaurants in motorbike range. Friends. Sun, sand, blue blue skies.

A day alone. You all know by now that I love and value my alone time. I was sad to see Emily head back to Cambodia, but I spent my day in Seminyak well. I was recovering from a stomach incident and so didn’t push too hard. Seminyak is strange–imagine SoHo and South Beach put together. It’s a ton of batik and silk boutique stores, upscale restaurants and wine bars, bony models and international jet set. I couldn’t be bothered with any of that, and instead made my way to Good Earth, where I nursed myself back to health with some quinoa soup and a beet juice. I wrote postcards and looked at the ocean. I took a cab to the airport, whizzing by an enormous, escalatored Carrefour supermarket and the world’s flagship Rip Curl store–a massive, florescent affair.

Incredible Bali

Bali’s a strange place. I’d encourage anyone to go there. I’ll definitely return some day. The beaches are irresistible, yes, but it’s so much more. The Hindu spirituality oozes from every crevice. The Balinese people are kind, honest, educated and gentle. The art in Bali, ranging from theatre to painting to music, is simultaneously light-hearted and technically sophisticated. Bali is both rural and rustic, and urban and swanky. The prices aren’t bad, the landscape is amazing, and the island is easily exlpored independently on a motorbike. What are you waiting for? I’ll meet you there.

Kuala Lumpur

Kuala Lumpur was a revelation.

Stepping off a plane from India in late December and arriving there was the closest thing to culture shock that I’ve experienced on this trip. I arrived at the clean, efficient, safe and friendly b international airport around 1 a.m. I caught a shuttle bus into the city, where even in the dark, I saw modern, new highways lined with trees and clear, easy-to-understand signs. The Malaysians on the bus were respectful and quiet. We arrived at KL Sentral, the main bus and train station. I hopped off in the middle of the night, got a pre-paid taxi to Chinatown, and made pleasant, non-threatening conversation with the driver. He brought me to the door of the hostel, and I was greeted warmly and ushered inside.

The hostel was the nicest I’ve ever stayed in. Housed in a mansion, it is multi-leveled, immaculately clean, gleaming white everything, marble this and that, with the most creative and efficient use of space EVER. Add that to free drinking water, free breakfast, brand-new bathrooms, a rooftop bar, air conditioning, keyless entry to rooms, swanky restaurant, movie theatre and wifi throughout and you have the best $12/night I’ve ever spent. I arrived around 3:30 a.m. to this marvel of modern backpacking and was given passcodes to access my room and locker. It was a 24-bed dorm, which normally spells not quite death, but sleepless nights, drunk Aussies and petty theft. Not here. Here it meant dead quiet and individual sleeping pods. I climbed up to mine–a pleasant pea-green color with a full-sized soft mattress, writing shelf, mirror and cabinet. A curtain cordoned me off from the world outside. I could’ve lived for eternity in that little pod, no doubt. The hostel is undoubtedly king of the international movement of flashpacker accomodations, taking the grand prize easily.

OMG.

Emily, who lives in Cambodia and came to meet me in Malaysia, was below me and had awakened with my arrival. She climbed out and we talked briefly, squealing in hushed tones about the hostel.

“I want to LIVE here,” she said, meaning in the pod, not in Kuala Lumpur.

“Can we stay three nights?” I pleaded

“YES! This is amazing,” she said.

“I know! Coming from India, this is unreal!” I responded

“Right!? Cambodia’s poor,” she faux-whined.

“India’s dirty,” I lamented back, recalling Delhi’s streets and Mumbai’s masses.

We cracked up and went to bed, falling into glorious deep sleep. Breakfast the next morning was fruit, strong coffee, tea, and bread with peanut butter, jam, honey and Nutella.

We reluctantly left the cocoon of the Reggae Mansion to find that the rest of the Kuala Lumpur was… also gleaming, clean, spotless, and more than anything, filthy rich. We were staying sandwiched between Chinatown and Little India, which were maybe the more chaotic parts of the city, but we still found completely reasonable. We spent the following days realizing that every building is a mall full of designer brands, every street vendor sells delicious, hygenic and cheap food of pan-Asian fusion, and that every train is clean, modern, efficient and inexpensive. We were in love and couldn’t stop gawking at the development all around us. Government buildings are an elegant blend of Western and Islamic architecture, with cream-colored archways surrounding lush courtyards and sprawling complexes.

Government building in Kuala Lumpur

One day, we took a day trip out to the Batu Caves north of the city. We boarded the bus, and Emily said, “So I looked up some stats on Malaysia last night…”

I cut her off, saying, “Me too! GDP’s about $12k/year.”

She responded with “Adjusted for PPP, it’s more like $17k/year.”

“Yeah, with 6% annual growth since the 80s,” I said and she nodded.

“With one of the highest literacy rates in Asia,” she agreed, beginning to smile.

“Yeah, HDI’s about .80,” I said, marveling at the statistic.

Then we both stopped, looked at each other and cracked up. Once development nerds, always development nerds.

We found much of the same level of amazingness (or development, whatever) in Melaka, south of KL, where we spent a few days eating, riding bicycles and wandering in markets. We stayed in the Rooftop Guesthouse, run by a Malysian man with glasses on the tip of his nose, perpetually bearing an expression of amused intellectualism. His eyebrows slightly raised, eyes gazing out over the top of his reading glasses, thin face half-smiling, he’d welcome us warmly when we’d come home at the end of the day. The bathrooms were spotless and tastefully designed (incorporating stone, I love that), the room was ample and air-conditioned, there was a massive rooftop area, and large leather couches surrounding a flat-screen TV with DVD library downstairs. We each spent $10/night.

 

Melaka by night

It was a much-appreciated change from the subcontinent and accompanying craziness, disease, depressing reality and mass humanity. It felt good to be somewhere not just comfortable, but downright luxurious like Malaysia. It assauged my conscience to see a country thriving as a whole, not just in pockets. The government buildings–an elegant blend of Islamic and Western architecture, were somehow comforting in their condifent austerity. And it was somehow–what’s the word?–satisfying to be in a place that felt nicer, more developed, safer and more assured of itself than the United States.

But I couldn’t help but wonder what Kuala Lumpur, the banking capital of Asia, will look like in twenty years’ time. Or thirty, fifty, or whatever. I often wonder the same about Dubai and other megacities that have sprung up in recent economic booms. How long can they last? Will they crumble, like Potosi, Detroit, other cities that have sparkled and faded? Will Kuala Lumpur find ways to reinvent itself (like Pittsburgh!) when being the banking center of Asia is no longer viable? Or will I come back in the future, to find it bombed out and hollow, the center of wealth and prosperity shifted somewhere else?

The Bottom of My Lungs

I’m nearly five months into a six-month solo backpacking jaunt. But despite the element of aloneness, I’m almost never without company.

Sometimes the company is better than others. Faithful readers remember Vern, who I couldn’t shake off my Everest-bound trail fast enough (and, owing to my lousy karma, I ran into on the beach in Kerala months later). Then there was Meghan the Canadian, who was a true pleasure to be with–through trying to keep a straight face at the ashram in Nepal to zany adventures in southern India.

But nothing really compares to the company of real friends, friends from home, friends from other moments of life, that know me beyond this trip and its inherent character confines. I can be whoever I want when I meet other travelers out here, but real friends know Anne Marie as I truly am. And that might just be the most comforting thing in the world when you’re five months into a six-month, sometimes lonely, solo backpacking jaunt.

I was lucky enough to spend the past five weeks entirely in the company of such friends. I’m way behind on blog posts, but it’s because I’ve been soaking in the revitalizing lift of being with close friends. Frankly, I haven’t had much time to think of anything else, and even the winter holidays passed with only a sideways glance cast at the calendar.

Now that the last of my friends has left and gone back to their real life–and it was just this morning from a fancy hostel in Bangkok–I can sit down and recount the incredible memories recently made. That’s what I’ll be doing over the coming days: Finally writing about the holidays spent with Sameeta, Emily and Caralyn between Malaysia, Singapore and Bali; a visit to Katie and Tim’s Peace Corps site and exploring the cities of Cambodia; and the most recent visit of Eric, a sight for sore eyes and a wonderful companion in Bangkok and a handful of luscious Thai islands.

The past weeks felt like taking a long, deep breath–and finally, after holding my breath around Chinese soldiers with rifles in Tibet, gasping for thin air on Everest, and covering my mouth and choking on fumes in India–finally, finally, taking that breath and feeling the bottom of my lungs, clean and true.

Be patient. I’m just beginning a slow, steady exhale, and there’s a lot to tell. Behind eyes full of tears from laughing so hard, veins full of alcohol of fancy cocktails served in rooftop bars, and a brain blurry with delirious happiness of so much love all around, it might take me awhile to get the details just right. Stay tuned, friends.

High Fashion in the High Andes: Awamaki Lab in the News!

Yes, yes, I know I’m dramatically behind on all sorts of blog posts about my exciting adventures. They’re coming, I promise! But first, let me make space for an interlude about Awamaki, an NGO near and dear to me.

Awamaki does great work in the rural areas surrounding Ollantaytambo, Peru, most notably through work with indigenous women’s weaving cooperatives. It’s a special project. I’ve been around since its early days and currently sit on the board in the United States. Awamaki runs many effective programs, from health to education to sustainable tourism, but the weaving project gets special love (from me, anyway) for its all-encompassing developmental impact. And I used to be coordinator of its predecessor project, so I’m biased.

A few years back, a wonderful, motivated woman named Annie Millican found us in our utopian corner of Cusco and brought a new project idea: A fashion design residency that would source materials from the traditional weavings. She brought that seed of an idea into a full-fledged operation program, now called Awamaki Lab, complete with newly-founded sewing cooperatives and snazzy promotional materials.

I have a Google Alert set up for Awamaki, and every few days there’s some new press buzzing about just how plain rad and innovative Awamaki Lab is. Fashion blogs from New York to Paris are chattering about Lab, and we even got a mention in a New York Times blog article last year profiling Andrea Crescioni, one of this year’s Lab designers.

Three members of the sewing co-op showing off their work on Awamaki Lab jackets

This week, BlackBookMag ran a piece about the new collection–with the squeal-worthy headline “The Return of Awamaki Lab: Peruvian Fashion Comes to the Big City”–with previews of the line. Hand/Eye Magazine got in on the action, too, with an in-depth piece showing last year’s line and a sneak-peek at this year’s.

This year's collection

Another piece from the Awamaki Lab collections

Forgive me for gushing, but I’m so proud of Annie and the rest of the Awamaki team in Peru. This coming week, we’re celebrating our second season at the Textile Arts Center in Manhattan, with a presentation and trunk show. See ad below (and swing by if you’re in NYC!)

Click to enlarge

Four Months

I’m a few days behind on my monthly update. This time I’m checking in from the four-month mark–exactly two-thirds of the way finished with this trip.

It’s unreal to think I’ve been traveling so far and so long. In some ways it’s gone by in the blink of an eye, and in some ways I can’t even remember what “real life” is like back home. To think that in less than two months, I’ll be in Pittsburgh at the tail-end of winter is both a thought too gruesome to comtemplate and simultaneously too glorious to fully indulge.

And so, in keeping with tradition, my trip by the numbers:

-Eight countries visited
- 3,750 miles traveled in the past month
- 19,236 miles traveled on the trip so far
-Four segments on Air Asia in the past month

And the highlights from the past month:

Gokarna spirituality. Gokarna was one of my favorite stops in India. It was the perfect blend of the omnipresent spirituality of India without the interfering influences of a billion souls on all sides. Coupled with the reasonably attractive beaches still resisting Goa-esque development, Gokarna’s town center felt like real India mingling alongside Western spirituality-seekers. I could’ve stayed longer.

Om Beach near Gokarna, India

 

Bollywood. Not only did I see two Bollywood films (in Bangalore and later Kochi), I was an extra in one! Bollywood is indisputably an unrealistic, glamorized depiction of India, but I couldn’t help but love it. The characters are exaggerated, the love connections idealized, the romantic scenes heavily censored. It’s at once not at all real India and perfectly representative of India. Movie-goers hoot and holler throughout the film and the intermission is a time for socialization and concession-stand chowing-down. It’s fun.

Meghan and I are slightly overly enthusiastic for the male lead of Ladies Vs. Ricky Bahl

Wood Castle. In Kochi, I got upgraded from a $30 room to a $120 room in the penthouse of this funny little inn.

The loft at Rossitta Wood Castle in Kochi, India

Petronas. Emily and I got gussied up in Kuala Lumpur one night and headed over to the Golden Triangle part of the city. We got off the train and meandered through high-end malls and skyscrapers to get to the Skybar, where we’d watch sunset over the Petronas towers. They were once the world’s tallest buildings, but now are simply the world’s highest twin towers. They are magnificent.

Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Reunion and Christmas in Singapore. I met up with not only Emily in Malaysia, but Sameeta, my roommate and good friend from Penn State, in Singapore. We had a ton of screaming laughing sessions, recalling hilarious times from college and beyond. She reminded me of many things I’d forgotten. We were bad asses back then, if I do say so myself. It was the best kind of reunion: Despite having not seen each other for nearly two years, being together was completely natural and we picked up as though no time at all had passed.

Singapore by night

New Year’s Eve in Bali. Fancy Italian dinner on Emily’s dad. An expensive, delicious bottle of wine. Homemade fireworks, many drinks, good friends, and lots of laugh. Happy New Year indeed.

Caralyn, myself and Emily on New Year's Eve in Bali. Not pictured: Sameeta

Motorbiking around Bali. It was like working out the solution to a complicated math problem. Or finding out I’d had a twin sister all this time. Or putting cream in coffee. It just made sense. Me on a motorbike. I love it. It feels right. It feeds my need for independence and freedom. It was exhilarating and mine, all mine. Petrol was cheap, driving was easy, speed was tolerated. Roads were mostly paved. Sunsets were inspirational. The coast was a guide that made getting lost difficult. The locals honked and waved. Me, a motorbike and Bali. I’ll revisit that someday soon.

Motorbike and me, at Padang Padang beach near Uluwatu, Bali

Scuba diving. My first time. I’ll let the photo speak for itself.

Sameeta and I about to take the plunge

 

Four months down, two to go. I’m in Cambodia now, embarking on the last chunk of this trip: Southeast Asia. From Cambodia, I’ll go Thailand, then Laos, then Vietnam, before heading to hong Kong for a few days before my flight out. I’ll stop by Macau to fulfill the demand created by the title of this blog. My re-entry looms near, but I’m staying focused on the trip. After all, two months is still considerable time to travel. I’m not letting my guard down just yet. But I am relieved to have made it this far without major incident.

Southeast Asia, let’s see what you’ve got.

On Happiness (or is it Contentment?) and Freedom

I guess I had a couple of objectives in taking this big trip. I sort of defined them in advance. From a previous blog post:

“One [goal] is to feel free, unencumbered, exhilarated. It’s good exercise for the soul and it’s lacking in my life here.”

I may have written to some of you when I realized I had discovered Happiness on this trip. As a reminder, it was September 22 and I was leaving Ulan Bator, Mongolia. I boarded the train bound for Beijing and found my berth–a four-compartment arrangement with three Swedish men as bunkmates. I settled into top bunk and arranged my gear. It was 7 a.m. I pulled out a packet of instant coffee, fished out my pink plastic mug that I carry around, scrambled down to the samovar for some hot water, and climbed back up. I took a sip of the putrid, boiling hot liquid and felt a surge–maybe it was my insides being burned, or maybe it was the realization that I had never felt happier. The self-sufficiency, the efficiency, the mobility–I love it all and at that moment it all made perfect sense. I was happy.

Or was I? I’ve revisited that thought and that moment many times. I’ve written about it in my journal. And every time I wrote it, another word popped into the back of my head: Content. Not happy. Not NOT happy, just not HAPPY. Content, instead. In fact, contentment IS a better word for that feeling, and I think the feeling may be more desireable, since it’s likely to be more lasting. I was turning this over in my head when I came across a quote at the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple in Singapore, attributed to Shi Fa Zhao: “Desire brings suffering, whereas contentment is a form of happiness.”

AHA! I thought. That’s exactly it: It wasn’t the bliss associated with happiness that I felt, but rather the peace associated with contentment. But call it what you like: It was a complete moment, scalded esophagus and all.

About a week ago, I might not have been able to distinguish totally between happiness and freedom. I guess I’d had a few working definitions of “freedom.” But on my last day in Bali, I felt that free, unencumbered, exhilarated rush I’d been searching for. I’ve had a few very high moments on this trip so far, but this one topped them all. It was my last day in Bali and I took out my scooter for one last cruise around the peninsula before heading back to the crowds up north for my flight tomorrow. Caralyn had gone, Emily didn’t feel well, and so I was alone. I didn’t really know where I was heading, but that was the fun of it. I traced familiar roads along the coast and finally inland, starting in Uluwatu and finding Pecatu. Then I headed towards busy Jimbaran, a developed area. I weaved in and out of traffic, feeling the warm air rush past me and the hot sun on my shoulders. Then I got sick of being on major roads, so I took a random left turn. And another. And then a right. And a left. And right, left, whatever. And eventually I ended up at the coast–a stunning spit of white sand beach, completely deserted. And on the cliff above, a temple sending waves of incense smoke to the beach below. It was magical. I stayed for about half an hour. I got back on the bike, checked the gas gauge and realized I should head back.

I tried–really, I did. But I got a bit lost, since I hadn’t really paid any attention to where I had originally turned. So then I had another adventure, finding a suburb of expensive homes occupied by what I assume are the Indonesian elite, dirt paths leading to banana plantations, and hidden temples everywhere–all the while honking around turns, veering around chickens and dogs and struggling to keep my eyes on the road, when so much beauty surrounding me. Gas was low, so I stopped on the side of the road and bought a glass litre jar of petrol from a wizened old man. I popped the seat up, dumped in the fuel, and took off, 75 cents poorer. The adventure continued for another hour before I reluctantly tapped into my sense of direction and found the main road back to Uluwatu. On the final stretch of gentle hills, I sped up, going much, much faster than someone who learned to drive that thing two days ago should be allowed to go. But it felt great. I returned the bike, tossed the keys to the owner and said goodbye to my motorized blue piece of freedom.

Petrol for sale in Bali

So, freedom-loving friends, that’s it. Freedom is a motorbike in Bali on a sunny day. I guess it’s not terribly creative, but it was real. The funny thing was, I didn’t necessarily feel happy–just free. I gave it some thought while I was riding. Happiness was a neutral thought, not positive or negative. And I didn’t even want to stay in Bali longer to continue being free–feeling it today felt like enough, and it was indeed good exercise for the soul. And, naturally, the bike in Bali isn’t the only place we can find happiness. But its not a bad place to start looking.

Freedom is a motorbike in Bali on a sunny day

The friendly skies redux

The man snorted with perverse pleasure as he awoke me one last time, babbling in a tongue unknown to me.

Air Asia strikes again. I thought surely Peter’s dad and the dinner debacle of 2011 was a fluke, but no. Flight AK 1407 with service from Kuala Lumpur to Siem Reap was its own fiasco.

I can imagine that hearing about someone’s less-than-pleasant flying experiences is akin to listening to someone recount their dreams from the night before: Just not that interesting. But I can’t resist.

I’d flown, mostly without incident, from Denpasar, Bali to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia late the previous evening. I was finally en route to Siem Reap, Cambodia, where I’d see my best buds Katie and Tim, who are in the Peace Corps there. Nothing could damper my excitement–or so I thought.

I landed in Malaysia, knowing this airport fairly well already, passed quickly through immigration, and attempted to scout out a place to catch a few hours’ sleep in the international terminal. Unfortunately, thanks to low-cost carriers like Air Asia, several hundred other people had similar itineraries and the same idea. The result was crowded floor space, chattering in a dozen languages, florescent lights gleaming, and backpackers trying to get Skype to work on the molasses-slow free airport wifi. I spent the night trying to find sleep, first on the floor of the terminal inside (too cold), then nestled up against the giant metallic Ronald McDonald on a bench (too… weird), and finally outside on the uneven pavement where the city shuttles pass by (too exposed).

I didn’t sleep. I checked in for my 6:50 a.m. flight to Siem Reap, realized I’d forgotten to pre-pay to check a bag and was forced to hand over $20 USD on the spot. I did it wordlessly. I groggily boarded the plane and immediately put my head down on the tray table, falling into deep unconciousness in my middle seat. It wasn’t to last. The Khmer man next to me had the window, but his girlfriend was in the middle seat in the row ahead, and his two friends were in window seats on the other side of the plane. I spent the two hours of the flight with him yelling to his girlfriend, and by association into my left ear, while leaning into me none too accidentally. He’d slap me on the back occasionally, ostensibly in clumsy attempts to pass magazines to his friends across the plane. He snorted in a guilty giggle every time I glowered at him.

I hated him. I hated him passionately. I tried to commiserate with the burly Brazilian in the aisle in our row, but I think he had something against Americans. Every time I was awakened, I’d put on my meanest look and say something like, “Bloody HELL, man, don’t you know how to use your indoor voice?”, to more snorts and giggles.

I was once awakened by the Brazilian, who asked a passing flight attendant for some water. “For what?” she asked, squinting her eyes suspiciously. “To… drink,” the man said. “I can only give you 250ml, warm, for a baby’s bottle,” she said brusquely and marched off as quickly as her saran-wrap-inspired skirt would allow.

After that, I’d managed to catch a solid 20 minutes uninterrupted when the final slap on the back came. The pilot had announced our descent and the Khmer man was prepping for the inevitable moment of truth when he’d have to unlatch his seatbelt. I shot up straight, glared at him, and said “WHAT?” He faux-plaintively indicated his confusion regarding the simple mechanism in his lap, and so I demonstrated the procedure. He accepted this and spent the descent latching and unlatching the belt. His girlfriend found this hysterical.

I was awake now and had to stow the tray table, so I decided to accept wakedness. What are other airlines like?, I wondered. I daydreamed of the mythical Thai Air, that luxury cruiseship of the sky, with its complimentary drinks and busy businessmen working on BlackBerrys rather than physically assaulting fellow passengers. I let my mind wander to the comparatively first-class service I’d received on bankrupt, state-owned Air India, with its attendants in elegant sarees serving vegetarian or non-vegetarian snacks and meals, complimentary drinks and to-order chai tea. And thoughts of my Transaero flight from JFK to Moscow, with its free mini-Haagen-Daaz containers and uberefficient Russian cabin crew seemed dreamlike and impossible.

The plane lurched in a jerky descent, finally touching down unsteadily. I was still mostly unslept, but now had the excitement of seeing Tim at the airport to look forward to. The visa process was a mild debacle, no doubt exacerbated by my impatience and exhaustion, but finally I emerged from the airport. And there was a Tim, waiting for me calmly, with a sign in hand (Anne Marie: Party of Awesome). I threw my arms around him in gratitude and genuine excitement to see him.

As we tossed my backpack into a tuk-tuk, I caught a glimpse of the Khmer man out of the corner of my eye. He and his girlfriend were walking hand-in-hand toward a family with arms outstretched and huge smiles on their faces. My heart softened. The tuk-tuk started towards the city, Tim and I began chatting excitedly, and the flight was behind me.

The Friendly Skies

The child’s screams were horrific.

I’m not much for children, but this was the kind of full-throated, near-choking wails that would have, in a different situation, aroused my concern. As it was, aboard Air Asia flight AK 1204 with non-stop service from Kochin, India to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, the screams did little more than thwart the best efforts of the sleeping pill I’d popped in my mouth half an hour earlier.

Most children tucker themselves out after a solid 15-min round of body-wracking screams like these, but I have to hand it to this Indian child: He had a mission. He also seemed to have a strategy, alternating between rapid heaving breaths punctuated with wet, gurgling screams and one long, steady wail sustained evenly over a breath even a yogi would admire. Just when I believed he’d likely asphyxiated himself or busted his larynx, he found new reserves and continued his aggrieved vigil at precisely my four-o’clock, three rows behind.

Peter, it irks me to note, paid him no mind. Peter, of course, being the pimply British teenager tourist in the window seat in the row behind me. He and his brother Jackie were blissfully ignorant of the child’s distress as they made crashing and shoot-em-up noises behind me, often excitedly enough to cause my headrest some turbulence. I must’ve accumulated some seriously poor karma while in India, because Peter’s father was sitting in the aisle seat across from mine. A large, disheveled man with wire-rimmed glasses persistently sliding down his greased nose, he had elected himself Dinner Captain for his family and took his role quite seriously.

The Air Asia stewardesses, wrapped tightly in cherry red pencil skirts, arrived at our aisle with pre-made, pre-ordered, pre-paid-for meals (I opted out). The menu seemed expansive as they shuffled papers to get Peter’s family’s order correct. The entire cabin and crew, by the end of the 10 minute affair, knew that the family had collectively ordered vegetarian pizza, chicken lasagna, spaghetti bolognese and barbeque chicken with roasted vegetables, to be washed down with half a dozen cans of soda.

In the midst of sorting the order, the plane hit serious turbulence. The child, having been momentarily distracted, used this new inspiration for more anguished cries. I closed my eyes, willing the sleeping pill onward in its pursuit. No luck. The plane lurched around, losing altitude and eliciting gasps and murmurs from the passengers. The pilot clicked on the intercom, allowing us to hear his slow, exasperated sigh before he began to talk in thickly-accented monotone: Weareexperiencingturbulenceplease. Fastenseatbeltsandremain. Seated. Another sigh, this one more disdainful, I thought, and he clicked the intercom off.

Peter’s father seized the opportunity, yelling across the aisle. “Jackie, do you want pizz-er, lasagn-er, spaghet-ti bolognese or barbeque chicken?” He was asked to repeat the choices. Jackie paused his game long enough to say, “Pizz-er’s good, I guess.” I facilitated the exchange of hot aluminum boxes with a tight smile. Next up, Peter: “Dad, what’s for dinner?” he yelled, cookie crumbs escaping his enormous mouth.

“Aw, bloody hell, Pet-er. For the last time, it’s pizz-er, lasagn-er, spaghet-ti bolognese or barbeque chicken.” More handing of hot aluminum boxes across the aisle, as Peter finally settled on the spaghetti. Thinking this surely concluded the dinner demonstration, I relaxed. Nope–Peter’s dad checked in with the kids several times throughout the meal, inquiring about the flavors of each dish, before it became clear that he’d like to try them all, too. More aluminum-box shuffling, now with bits of food flying out of Peter’s dad’s mouth as he alternately praised or discredited the Air Asia chefs.

Finally the meals were finished, the aluminum tins scraped clean of any stray calories lest they escape, and I felt drowsy. The baby had paused. The turbulence had abated. The fasten seat belt sign was turned off. I got up to use the toilet before, I dared hope, falling asleep.

When I came back, I was alarmed to find that the dessert cart had stopped in my aisle, and Peter’s dad was again in deliberations. Would it be the rice pudding, or a piece of mango cheesecake? What’s that Malaysian option, and is it caramel or butterscotch coated? Was the exchange rate better in Indian rupees or Malaysia ringgits, and why was pre-paid dessert not an option at the time of booking? I stood impatiently behind the cart and tightly swaddled stewardesses. Finally all had made their choices, rupees were exchanged and change was made, and I got back in my seat. Peter’s dad sat contentedly with an enormous pile of cardboard, aluminum and paper garbage heaped on his tray table.

But then it was over. Really over. The meal was in the past and the lights were dimmed. I allowed hope to creep into my brain again. But the child kept screaming. And then another joined in. The middle-seat dweller next to me was in that restless sitting-sleep, his head lolling about dramatically as he continually jolted himself awake with a half-cough/half-snort, his slobber-covered chin occasionally crashing into my shoulder. And Peter and Jackie continued chattering behind me. And me–I’ve flown countless times, and every single time, I forget that airplanes make me sneeze and produce an overwhelming amount of phlegm. And, after all, you know what they say–if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I joined the cacophony, sneezing and blowing my nose as the plane lurched and tilted in the stormy sky. The child screamed bloody murder until we touched down.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for low-budget airline choices. Hell, I paid just $125 for a direct 5-hour international flight between exactly the locations I needed. I don’t mind that there was no beverage service, drop-down movie screens, or one word spoken to me by cabin crew. I was annoyed, sure, when informed I had to pay $15 to check my bag, but I understood the nickel-and-dime strategy of the company. No problem that pre-requesting a seat cost $5–I accepted an aisle seat near the back of the plane without complaint. When the duty free cart ran over my bare toes, I didn’t even flinch.

But it all seems to be a bit much, right? Sure, for my next Air Asia flight I know that pre-registering my checked bag costs half the price, and that printing a boarding pass before arriving at the airport saves the $5 in-person check-in fee. And, no, I won’t expect there to be anything but instant coffee available in the Low-Cost Carrier Terminal (inhabited, it seems, solely by Air Asia), though I don’t think it’s such a ridiculous notion. I just… I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe I’m getting cranky or high-maintenance. But just once… a decent flight, at a decent price, with decent service and decent decibel level. Is it so much to ask?

Incredible India

Sorry, hold on. I can’t hear you over the Bhangra music blaring on this interminable overnight bus ride. What? Just a sec, let me squeeze myself out of this crowd of chattering schoolkids all demanding to know my good name. Now, come again? It’s been a month, and it’s time to leave India? Impossible–I just started digging fingers-first into this delectable South Indian thali, and I’ll need some time to finish, not to mention the kulfi and burfi stands that await me across the street. Sorry, what now? I leave TOMORROW? No, no, can’t be–I haven’t yet visited the hill stations of Karnataka or the holy lands of Rajasthan, and my skin is just becoming accustomed to the scorching sun of southern Kerala. I’m just beginning to decode the enigmatic Indian head wobble, and am afraid I’ll need at least another week to perfect the phrase “Fifty rupees and not a cent more” in Malayalam. I must insist, its quite impossible that I take the 2 p.m. bus to the international airport tomorrow–I’ve just discerned what makes a cup of masala chai great and not just good and it requires me to pay a late-afternoon visit to my favorite vendor.

Can it be true that I’ve been in India a month already? I don’t feel nearly ready to leave. I know I’ve been largely absent from the blog, but you’ll have to excuse me–I was completely enthralled by this noisy country and haven’t had time to properly reflect on my time here. But it IS true, I leave India tomorrow, and I’ll reluctantly depart, wanting to learn and experience so much more. Undoubtedly, I’ll be back.

First things first: I’ve been here just a month, an imperceptible dot on the timeline that makes India the historically and culturally complex nation that it is. I’m in no way qualified to editorialize about the place, but I can talk about the way the place affected me. To sum it up: India is a whole other ballgame, and I’m not just talking about cricket.

Northern India, I’ll admit candidly, scared the shit out of me. Even arriving from frenetic Kathmandu, the chaos and clamor of the streets of Mumbai took me aback. I’d never been somewhere that made me feel so utterly vulnerable and to so many simultaneous elements: rickshaws spewing plumes of pollution screeching through intersections, the grimy hands of street children unabashedly reaching in my pockets, the intermingled presence of rats and cockroaches and human pavement dwellers in the late-night Colaba streets.

That was day one. By day two, I felt more comfortable. I crossed busy intersections by taking cues from veteran Mumbaikers, hung out with my pals Kathleen and Subash who’d been braving the city for a week already, and began to let myself fall in line with the city’s rhythm rather than resisting it. I began to see Mumbai for what it is: Manic, swarming, classist–yes. But also metropolitan, forward-thinking, and entrepreneurial to a fault. I grew to kind of like it.

Then it was time to go to Delhi and the culture shock happened all over again. By now, hometown hero Eric had arrived for a week’s stay in India. I was glad to have a buddy with whom to wade through the grime and grind of this dusty, distant cousin of cosmopolitan Mumbai. I’m sorry to say that I didn’t grow to like Delhi, not in the least, and I’d be happy to offer a list of reasons (starting alphabetically: Acrid smells, Agra in its entirety, alms-giving fatigue, animal feces…). We left for Mumbai enthusiastically, craving the shelter of friendly Leopold Cafe and our swanky digs at the Gordon House Hotel.

Sandwiched between Mumbai and Delhi was a visit to the Gujarat state, where a friend of Kathleen and Subash was to be married. The new couple and their families were gracious enough to allow me to attend the two-day ceremony–a sensory overload of rich flavors, fabulous colors and friendly smiles. I was glad to escape the cities and be in a familial setting, far away from horn-honking and street-begging. Though I was shamefully underdressed (and in such drab tones!), I soaked in the experience gratefully and hope I didn’t ruin too many family photos.

After Eric’s departure, I hopped a quick $30 flight down to Goa. Stepping off the plane to tropical breezes, friendly faces and wide-open spaces was like taking a long drink of water for my parched nerves. I had no idea where I was heading, and my only guidance was from a fellow traveler I’d met in Nepal: “I’m at Patnem beach, near the end, by a yoga place. The place I’m staying has no sign posted.” I chatted up some other Westerners at the baggage claim and arranged to share a cab south, in the general direction of Patnem. A few hours later, I’d found my sarong-clad friend in a beachfront shack sipping a mango lassi and swapping stories with long-time Goa expats. I settled into the new routine quickly, securing my own $10 beach hut and staying four nights.

Goa is a 100 km strip of beachfront that was long ago claimed first by Western hippies, then the trance/rave/party crowd, then tamer couples and honeymooners. All elements still exist, and the choice of which beach to stay on defines one’s tastes and behaviors. Patnem was quiet, and in the evening restaurants favored fairy lights and evening catch over glowsticks and Ecstasy. I found it to be the perfect fit. My days were filled with bike rides, dips in the ocean, padding barefoot around the beach and one-street town, and three meals a day of fruit salad and yogurt. Life was good.

Nice guy who took us dolphin watching in Goa

Eventually Meghan continued south to Gokarna and scoped it out. She wrote and said it was great, and I decided to follow her down the following day. Gokarna turned out to be my favorite stop in India. The town is a religious center, full of temples, chanting, incense, candles and spookily-spiritual late-night ceremonies involving drums and processions. Western hippies have found the place, but they’re serious: Half-century-old Hindu hopefuls wearing nests of decades-old dreadlocks mingled peacefully with the local population.

Kids selling dried foods and powdered dyes (for bindis) on the street, Gokarna

There was essentially no infrastructure geared towards Westerners (unlike Goa) and all expats and tourists ate and slept at Indian venues. Our perfectly decent room, for example, cost just $1.50 each per night. No Western toilet in sight, and it was here that I mastered the squat-and-left-hand-and-water method.

There are beaches at Gokarna, but they’re largely populated by local Indians. We happened to be there on the full moon, and so there was some serious hippie-rific happenings like yoga-boxing on the beach, but the Westerners seem largely interested in blending in and acquiring ancient Hindu characteristics, not bringing in the funky banana pancakes. It was a nice change from Goa, which felt like stolen property at times.

Gokarna Beach

Gokarna kept us entertained and I could’ve stayed longer, but we chose to venture inland to Mysore. The bus was 14 hours long and there was another foreigner on the bus: An African Union economist from the UK, and he and I chatted the whole time. We ate no meals that day and instead snacked on street foods gleaned from five-minute stops: dried bananas, coconut cookies, dried spiced chickpeas, dried lentils, some weird fried bread and milky ice cream.

In the end, the economist came to the same hotel as we did. He found his room and the hotel boy let Meghan and and I into ours. I poked my head in the room to see a lone medium-sized cockroach scuttle under the bed out of view. “Cockroach,” I observed passively, not really complaining but simply noting. “No, madam,” the hotel boy responded courteously. “No cockroach here.” I opened my mouth to disagree, and just then the cockroach reappeared, making a bee-line for the shallow puddles on the cracked marble floor of the bathroom. The hotel boy watched the scene and handed me the key. “Enjoy your stay, madam.” Meghan and I shared one bed and settled into a deep sleep, safe from vermin in our respective sleep sheets with the fan whirring overhead.

The next morning we had breakfat with the economist before he took off for Ooty, a former British hill station. Mysore was a transit point for him. I chatted up a pair of Brits at a nearby table and we became friends. Meghan and I visited the magnificent Palace, which was worth the journey in itself.

In the evening we went to the Mysore Mandala Yogashala center with the boys to do a strenuous (and pricey–$8) yoga session together. The center was founded by one of the world’s renown Ashtanga practitioners, BNS Iyengar. I was excited and nervous. We waited for the session to begin, and one Brit hesitated, eventually saying he’d chosen not to spend the money (and sweat) on the session after all. Meghan sipped a lassi quietly and eventually said she’d rather check out the night markets in the city instead of plunking down cash on yoga. I was left with Steve the Brit, who is traveling for four years (!). I paid the fee and went in the room ahead of him while he talked with the yogi outside. I waited and waited, and he never entered. The session began, and I quickly realized I was alone in a room of serious yogis, all of whom had been living, practicing and sweating at the center for months. I was seriously out of my leagues but kept up as best I could. When I left, sweaty and exhausted, Steve was nowhere in sight. I caught a rickshaw back to where we’d chosen for dinner and found my crew there. Steve had revealed a back injury to the yoga people, and they’d spent a half hour subjecting him to some excruciating brand of reflexology which left him in pain but curious, and he planned to return the next day for another treatment.

We decided we deserved a nice dinner and went to the fancy hotel with a restaurant inside. The food was fair and overpriced but I had a nice martini and relaxed in the cobblestone courtyard of the heritage hotel. We got very, very lost walking home that night–me with a ton of US dollars and my passport on me. The city felt deserted and seedy at night, and when we finally found the hotel, we gratefully let ourselves into the room of cockroaches and standing water, vowing never to stray again.

The next day it was time to move on again, this time to Bangalore just for an evening before boarding an overnight train to Kerala. We caught a day train and chatted with an affluent middle-aged Indian couple, both with excellent English and charming dispositions. We arrived at the train station, left our bags in storage, hopped in a terrifying rickshaw and alighted at the glitzy Garuda Mall. Wealth looks the same everywhere, but this mall was over the top. The mall was a first-world scene of all brand new, glassy angular storefronts and sleek escalators, with well-heeled young Indians drifting in and out of stores and munching happily on food court fare and ice cream. We were there for a Bollywood film, but guiltily took advantage of the food options and expensive coffee.

Inside of Garuda Mall

Outside the Garuda Mall

The overnight train ride was fine, though we’d been waitlisted for tickets and therefore didn’t get to sleep in the same berth. My bunk mate was an Indian economist who’d worked in the US and Europe. We had a nice chat before I fell into a deep sleep–I do love to sleep on trains.

We arrived the next morning in Kochi, caught a ferry to the old town and checked around for somewhere decent to stay. We found a nice place in the heart of the old town, which is a mixture of Portuguese, Dutch, English, Muslim and various Indian influences. The small streets are dotted with art cafes and silk shops, and we were happy to spend the day slurping iced coffees and planning the coming days. We agreed to do a backwaters cruise the next day but head to Varkala beach, in southern Kerala, for our final day together before parting ways. While on our way to a Kathakali performance that night, we were recruited to be extras in a Bollywood film called Cinema Company. Look for us in the cafe scene!

Meghan on the set of Cinema Company in Ft. Kochi

Chinese fishing nets at the dock of Ft. Kochi

The following day, we took a backwaters cruise. We started off on a boat with about 15 other people, mostly Indian tourists from various states and walks of life. The guide got on the boat and immediately began to antagonize his compatriots:

“Excuse me,  Indian friends. Excuse me!” He raised his voice and his honey-colored eyes narrowed as he glowered at the Indian tourists chatting in the back of the boat. “Did you come here to learn about Kerala backwaters, or chat?” They stopped talking and he reprimanded them, by looking first at me and asking: “What do you know about Kerala backwaters?” When I responded, “Er, nothing,” he seized his opportunity, wobbling his head forcefully back and forth, saying “See? She knows nothing about Kerala backwaters, she is not talking, she is here to learn.” He smiled approvingly at me. One particularly argumentative Indian, who I later learned is a Portland, Oregan resident (and quick to remind all of it), gave the guide some lip but the confrontation mostly dissipated quickly.

Later, in the rubber tree forest, the guide set his sights on me again. “Madam, what is your good name?” At first this phrasing had perplexed me, but I’d been asked the question no less than 20 times over the past month, so I was ready and I responded with my global, simplified version: “Ana.” Then the most commonly-asked question in India: “And you are coming from?” I responded and his honey eyes lit up with approval and opportunism. “I like people from America,” he said. “Very polite. Very good. I try to study in America soon.” I smiled and shimmied over next to Meghan, my Canadian companion, to escape the intensity of his stare. After he’d explained the various uses of other plants in Ayurvedic medicine to the group, he called after me again.

“Hey, America, America. Come here, America.” I obediently, if reluctantly, went to his side. “What happened to American economy, so bad? What happened?” As I fumbled with a response, his stare intensified and he shushed away the Indian/Portland tourist asking about a more nuanced use for the neem plant (his wife has unsightly facial hair and he’d like to find a way to rid her–and him–of it for good). I scuttled to safety after another moment, saying “I’m going to go find my friend, Canada, she has my water bottle…” while the guide insisted “America, I have more questions, America!” but I was gone.

The group reconstituted itself around a bush to learn about the making of toddy, a liquor made with a local root. The Indian/Portlander was talking about how good his own English is, and the guide visibly bristled. He launched into a monologue about how hard guiding is, because of the variations in regional English. “YOU!” he said, pinning a lone Frenchman with his accusing glare. “Say, teodaidaihuay,” he demanded. The Frenchman squinted and tried his hardest: “Tayadeedenay?” The guide scoffed his disapproval and the Frenchman gave it a few more stabs before the guide became exasperated and looked at Meghan, saying “Canada, you! Teodaidaihuay!” Meghan was befuddled for a moment before a look of realization crossed her face, and she correctly announced: “TODDY!,” the name of the palm liquor. “Yes! Now you, America” And so I also said “Toddy,” while the Frenchman reddened. The guide’s point was that America and Canada pronounce their vowels slightly differently. The group yawned. The Frenchman attempted to redeem himself, laughing and saying, “I thought you meant T-O-D-D-Y was a word, like Teodaidaihuay, ha! ha!” to which the guide responded with a sharp look and the reply “America and Canada got it right. You misunderstood, your problem. Not my problem. I say T-O-D-D-Y, you make a mistake, your problem.” With that, he ushered us back onto the boat to eat some (admittedly delicious) fresh mussels, washed down with still-frothy t-o-d-d-y.

Fresh mussels near Alleppey, India

Next stop,  we arrived at a village, and he told us an author was from there, who wrote the book “The God of–”? and waited for someone to fill in the rest. A Canadian behind me took the bait and the guide made us all chant in unison “Small Things” several times until the Indians could repeat it back, illustrating the point, I guess, that foreigners know more than Indians. Then he said that Arundhati Roy was always around, that he’d see her when guiding tours, until she won the Man Booker Prize. Now she never comes back to her village. He made us repeat “The God of Small Things” a few more times, and then we moved on. Some of its captured in the video below.

Mercifully, after lunch of thali on the boat, the guide departed. Nobody tipped him. Then we piled into separate canoes and floated down less-trafficked canals where village life unfolded before our eyes. Women had gathered coconut fibres into baskets and were using an alternator (right?) to weave the fibers into rope, later sent to the city for rugs and other uses.

The guide made the cruise a spectacle, but in reality the experience was amazing. The village life reminded me of similar habitations on the Amazon river, but here in Kerala, life seems a bit more relaxed. Women washed clothes in the river, kids splashed in the canals, bicycles whirred over bits of solid land. It was a relaxing cruise and I wasn’t struck with guilt, as there was not extreme poverty surrounding. For once, a glimpse into rural life didn’t leave me saddened.

In fact, we left the tour on a high note and elected to go to the big city of Ernakulam, or mainland Kochi, for another Bollywood film–this time, Ladies Vs. Ricky Bahl. Without gushing too much, ohmygod I love Bollywood. It’s the best thing ever, and even though I understand zero Hindi, I lovelovelove Bollywood. That is all.

The following morning, a quick 4-hour train ride to Varkala in the lowest class imaginable, where we stood and were subjected to the curiosity, scrutiny and inquiries of hundreds of Indian men all chewing and spitting betel nut. We arrived in Varkala, a cliffside beach town where Meghan and I found a cozy shack in the woods. We spent our last night feasting on tasty Indian food and clinking glasses of coconut lassi to a month well-spent together. The following morning we parted ways with a quick hug and promises of visits in North America. I’ll miss her.

I returned alone to Kochi on the train the next day, arriving late. I had decided to splurge on a niceish room for my last two evenings alone in India, and I chose a hotel with a low-end single room for about $30 per night. The website promised A/C and WiFi, and that was good enough for me. I had been looking forward to it for weeks.

I arrived and a charming pair of handsome young Indian men helped me with my bag and showed me to my room–the penthouse suite of the 300-year old Dutch wooden castle cum hotel. I looked at them sideways, as if to say–you know I’m paying $30/night, right? They DID know, and it seems they just liked me and put me in the nice room. I had dropped off my big pack a few days earlier, and had been friendly and chatty with them. Truth was, I liked THEM–they weren’t the standard variety of over-eager, over-nosey, over-invasive Indian man I’d been dealing with over the past month. They were just nice. I expressed my delight repeatedly, causing them to happily wobble their heads back in forth in satisfaction and acknowledgment of my gratitude. They brought me fresh papaya juice and chilled water and wished me a very comfortable night’s rest.

I took a look around–a living room with hand-carved, antique wood furniture and doorways, two ceiling air-con units, a hand-carved wooden armoire, a TV, a spacious bathroom, tasteful paintings and high wood-beamed ceilings. I sat gingerly on the bed in a final test–it was a mattress, not a wooden plank! It would certainly do for my last two nights on the subcontinent.

I spent today, my last day in India, writing this blog post. It really did take me most of the day, spent at the Kashi Art Cafe where I had a delightful lunch of cold coffee and fruit salad. At night, I dined alone at my favorite hole-in-the-wall locals’ restaurant, where I had malai kofta (vegetable balls in a cashew curry sauce) with paratha bread and plain lassi for just more than $2. I came back to the wooden castle hotel, nodded amiably at the gents at the desk, and settled into bed. And here I am.

Hello, lunch!

Incredible India is the government’s tourism slogan for the country. Unlike others–like Puerto Rico’s “Explore Beyond the Shore” or Peru’s “Pack Your Six Senses,” India’s slogan says it all. In fact, it’s the only word to describe India–incredible, in the amazing sense, in the unbelievable sense, in the gotta-see-it-to-believe-it sense. Incredible, India. Incredible, indeed. That was an incredible month.

The worlds I wrote about in Mumbai characterize the country itself–one of extremes, poverty and wealth, education and illiteracy, humble rice paddies and soaring skyscrapers. India has some of the world’s best universities and most wretched slums. India is home to the most billionaires of any country, but polio has not yet been eradicated here. The Dalai Lama calls northern India home, while a thriving Catholic population down south stands in solidarity with the exiled leader some 1,000 miles away. Taxi drivers compete with donkey carts for space on major highways. And children, rich and poor, run through the streets of every town and city and absorb a reality of colors, smells, a dozen languages, and a world of possibilities.

Incredible, India. You are incredible. You win.

What Meets the Eye

Laughing. On a long 15-hour bus journey from Kochi to Mysore, I sat in the window seat, alternately watching the scene outside and reading Shantaram on my iPod. We were on a single-lane highway, but our bus sped up to overtake another one on the right side. I had my sunglasses on and was listening to my iPod, but had taken my eyes off the words on the screen for a moment. As we pulled up alongside the other bus, my eyes caught those of a young woman about my age. I lifted my glasses and gave her a broad smile. She returned it immediately. While our buses rode alongside each other for those few moments, our gazed remained locked and we spontaneously burst into giggles, though as far as I can tell, neither of us knew what was funny. Then my bus overtook hers, the moment passed, I replaced the glasses and let the smile slowly fade.

Crying. I was alone, sitting opposite a young woman on a 4-hour train journey from Varkala to Kochi. Her eyes were closed and head leaned up against the window in a kind of half-sleep. It was that shadowy time of day, with the sun receding behind villages of rice paddies that flickered past my eyes out the barred windows of the train. The train was dark inside and dirty, with cockroaches exploring the crevices of its long-neglected grimy corners. I had a few oranges with me, and when I peeled one for myself, I put half in front of my seatmate for when she awoke. I felt like making a friend, or at least hearing her story. An hour passed, and I half-concentrated on the rural scene silently passing outside and half reflected internally. My thoughts wandered through my trip thusfar, life at home, friendships, romances, family. The train was traveling at a moderate speed through the rice paddies, pooled with water right to their brims but not overflowing. I let my mind wade deeper into the past couple of years, and I got sad. I don’t often get sad, and it’s nothing to be concerned about. But right then, combined with the scenes of rural poverty and fading daylight, I felt sorry for myself and the world. My eyes filled to the brim with tears, mimicking the paddies outside. Had I blinked at that moment, they would have spilled over. But just then the woman stirred and opened her eyes. She noticed the orange, then looked at me and saw my watery eyes. Her face softened in some sort of intuitive understanding and she gave me a kind, soothing smile. She let the moment pass, and the tears never spilled over.

Unknowing. When I landed in northern India, I felt like I had arrived somewhere truly foreign. Every country from Russia to Nepal has been strange and unfamiliar to me in various ways, but it was especially the sight of crowds of Muslim men and women at the Taj Mahal, in the din of Delhi’s streets, in Mumbai’s markets and waiting for buses alongside the road that caught my eye. Perhaps it’s because these are the people we see on the news from the frontlines of the occupations in Iraq and Afghanistan–the ones whose religion is believed to be the enemy of the Western world. I’d never before been immersed in this domain, and the feeling was disconcerting and challenging. I was fascinated, especially by women who often bore the full burqa. In the stifling, oppressive heat of Delhi and Mumbai, their garb seemed not only ridiculous but cruel. Entirely wrapped in black, their only visible feature are the eyes. Many of the older women wear large wire-framed glasses, whose size often exceeds the slotted eye opening of the burqa. The effect emphasized for me their near-invisibility in the world and made me wonder what they saw, looking out from behind the wire and fabric. I was entranced by them, their silence, their inaccessibility, their eyes. When I passed a group of burqa-clad women at the Taj Mahal, I trained my eyes on theirs, waiting for one to return the glance. I was desperate for a glimpse into their thoughts, but not one returned my gaze. On the street, if I did manage to catch the eyes of a passing woman, the glance I received in return was cold and brief, lending no insight. Boarding buses, I let my eyes flicker over the rows of quiet women, hoping one would look at me in curiosity or even contempt, allowing me a narrow window into their world. None ever did.