These are Keegan’s infamous quick facts, a man’s version of two weeks of travels.
It was fun.
….end of story?
From the Perhentian islands we made our way back to Kuala Lumpur where we hung out for a few days getting our bearings, hanging out with friends, trying to get an extended visa to Indonesia, checking out tourist traps, and even learned that flip flops are apparently not acceptable in night clubs with Lamborghini’s parked outside. And that, that was one sentence. For fifty dollars an hour you can make the four hour flight from KL to the good vibe island of Bali, Indonesia. I guess it’s alright.
The sun bakes our backs every day, the azure waters sparkle like stained glass in a sunset as you dip your toes in and realize that it’s oh so warm, and most importantly…  the warm smiles of the people are genuine. I don’t know what we did to deserve this.  Life is hard.
Starting in Sanur I chased the waves first east, then west to Kuta, then south to Nusa Dua to no avail. After three days, two pairs of fake Ray Bands, one new tank top to combat an aggressive farmer’s tan, and a five dollar shirt shopping spree we went back to Sanur and threw down the big bucks taking a “Fast Boat” to Nusa Lembongan. Believe me the “Slow Boat” really is amazingly slow.
Nusa Lembongan is super cool. Through a repertoire of stories lived by locals and passed on to me via the infamous Mang: a kiwi who’s been coming here for 23 years consecutively, I’ve learned about the past and present black magic, mafia, and fleet of pro surfers to come off this small island of 2500 people. I’m even going to my third session later today with a local black magic “guru” /medicine man. He’s been taking great pleasure in poking my feet and blowing away bad spirits. His wife makes great Thai food though.
The place we’re “shacked” up in has a restaurant, lounge chairs, waterfront view of the swells and stunner sunsets, and a pool. All for the disgustingly posh price of $15 a night (oh baby!). From left to right the surf breaks are labeled Shipwrecks, Razors (aptly named), Lacerations (also aptly named…), and Playgrounds. All feature incredible samples of super sharp mushroom coral. When dropping into a wave you can check out all the fish, watch as the crabs take cover, and closely inspect the colour of the local under sea flora and fauna as it prepares to rip you in half. It’s a great place to learn…
So we’ve been here 10 days? I don’t know what day it is. Surfing, snorkelling, and scuba have ensued. Wildlife has been spotted. Good food has been eaten. And Kristina has finally forsaken her Danish heritage and is developing a tan. Life is good.  
I’ll go pull the author I know you all want to hear from out of the pool. Scratch that, she’s reading a book on a lounge chair basking in the afternoon sun. (If anybody has any research supporting the washing of one’s hair can you send it to her? thanks).
Ketut the magic man is calling. Here’s Kristina to fill in the details.
Cheers, Keegan
ps. I destroyed my waterproof tough adventure camera. Which means we now have a communal tank top, and a communal camera.

KRISTINA’S TRANSLATION
Well that was fun.
I was a bit overwhelmed at the prospect of covering the last 2 (or is it 3?) weeks and asked Keegan to lend me a hand.
That’s a lie.
The sun has baked my brain and I was simply too lazy to drag myself off my poolside chaise and focus my attention away from the sun, surf, scuba, sand, snorkelling and suspense of “Jane Eyre” (she hasn’t professed her love and he’s going to marry another woman!?- and whats with the secret in the attic?)
Alas, I tore myself away. Principally to temporarily appease my mother’s (among others’) hints, nudges and full blown complaints that I had yet to update.
I suppose I was hesitant because it felt like there was little to divulge- besides perhaps brag about the utter and total relaxation the last 10 days have bore. The last 10 days having been spent, as Keegan (in his cryptic way) mentioned, on the small island of Nusa Lembongan, just off the SE coast of Bali. As he alluded, the water is azure, the breezes gentle and the people unrelentingly friendly, smiling and hospitable. Also, there are no cars: only mopeds and bicycles. It is in a word, chill. Our hotel, “Tarci” has tables right to the breakwater that allow us to eat our meals while watching the surf curl as some of Indonesia’s best surfers (some of them wee tiny tots!) rip and carve. Our hotel also has a pool, and yes, we are paying $15. I should mention we could be paying $10 but I insisted on air con. And no that price isn’t each- that’s $15 split between the two of us.
 Not too shabby.
Still wondering why we lingered 10 days? I’ll go on. The island (like all of Bali) is renowned for both surf and scuba, so on the days we actually manage to drag ourselves up at a timely hour (occasionally) we have adequate activities to satisfy both our tastes. The first two days we rented surfboards and had a boat take us out to “Playgrounds” aptly named because it is a gentle (comparatively) spot for newbies to learn. The waves here, unlike Tofino, break when they hit the coral reef, rather than when they hit the beach. This means two things: its somewhat nice to hire a boat to take you out there, so you’re not pooched before you get there, and that when you fall, you run the risk of being smashed up against the all too shallow (and sharp) coral and thus having your feet, legs or other ligaments shredded.  There are many scars wandering the beach that tell this tale. So when I tell you the other ‘breaks’ are known as “Shipwrecks,” “Razors,” and “Lacerations,” you can only use your imagination…

So for 2 days we sat on our boards and I successfully managed to evade every wave that came my direction. I DID however manage to catch a killer sunburn.  Note: when you tell a male to “just go around the bikini straps,” take care to ascertain whether he fully comprehends, and doesn’t, how shall we say, leave huge gaps which are now peeling…
Keegan, his long standing dream of surfing not soon deterred, has been out several times since, also to Shipwrecks, but with little avail. In his defense, the waves are HUGE , and there are many well seasoned surfers to contend with. Surfing, I suppose (unlike the wind sports I prefer to partake in) is somewhat competitive, and one must be aggressive to beat out the 30+ other surfers for a wave.
On another occasion we rented bicycles to explore the island. The narrow asphalt traced along the clear turquoise waters, only momentarily shaded by the lush and vibrant mangrove foliage.
Yes, I am exercising my descriptive abilities. Not because I mean to brag maliciously but because well, it was pretty darn nice. Particularly to be on a bike again.
On another occasion we awoke early to go diving/snorkelling. We were taken by boat to Manta Point where I scuba dove and Keegan snorkelled. Unfortunately the water was too deep and conditions rough for snorkelling but I can happily say that down below we were treated with the sighting of a manta ray every few minutes. (About 6-8!) They are huge, graceful, prehistoric looking creatures. Like a terradactyl of the sea yet calm and peaceful. After being served lunch on a sandy secluded beach we dove in Crystal Bay, which was much better for snorkelling and even better for diving. Huge coral structures of every imaginable colour and plenty of schools of patterned fish (plus a moray eel and banded cleaner shrimp!)
I should mention that it was here that the supposedly bomb proof Olympus camera popped open its water proof seal and filled with water… but at least the pictures survived!
Yesterday we also walked in off the beach near the mangroves and went snorkelling where it was almost as lush. It struck me how oblivious this other world is too us and yet so delicately affected…
Now I’ll backtrack and fill in a few holes Keegan left decidedly vague…
After the Perhentians we once again took the overnight bus back to the same hostel in Kuala Lumpur. During our stay of several days two memorable events occurred: Rosy and Alice, friends of Keegan’s flew in and we took them, as Callum had us, to Batu Caves, where we once again missed out on the “Dark Cave” because we were too cheap to fork out for the $12 tour (budget travelling!) The second event Keegan alluded to about flipflops occurred on our last night. Keegan and I were planning on finally indulging in the much advertised (or should I say hawked) ‘foot reflexology’ before calling it an early night, as our flight to Bali was early the next morning. Callum however, impeached us to come out on the town with some of the modelling crowd, and after calling us a married couple… we agreed to “live a little.” Hah. So off we went on an impromptu shopping spree in order to spiff up, because reader, somehow or other in my packing haste, I left my stilletos at home. The power shopping yielded little, it being already 10 or 11 (and of course we still had to get that foot massage- which resulted in 30 minutes of a man rubbing my feet yet taking every care not the look remotely in my direction= awkward.) So we did the best we could, and aside perhaps from the flip flops- thought we looked pretty darn good. Relatively speaking of course. We’d just travelled India: a comb through the hair and a swipe of deodorant, maybe a pair of earrings- we felt fit to dine with the Queen. We were brought back to reality however when the bouncer at “Elixir” told us we could not come in with flip flops nor without a collared shirt.
Shit.
Well then.
A drink at a bar down the lane later and we formulated the brilliant (pathetic? Married? No! Brilliant) plan to stock up on booze at the local 7/11 and watch Toy Story 3 on my laptop back at the hotel.
I know.
We live on the wild side.
Thus ended our game of dress-up.
And that brings Malaysia to a close.
I raise a toast to Indonesia. Where we hope to extend our visa, having already blown through half of our allotted 30 days without even seeing much of Bali.

Bali is funky, and seems like it has a lot to offer and discover. Tomorrow we leave our island enclave and head back to the ‘big city.’ After obtaining our visas we plan (plan being used tentatively- they aren’t exactly ‘a la mode’ here) to visit Ubud, an inland mecca of handiwork and artisan goods. Aka where all that shit in the Bali import stores is actually made. SHOPPING. And after that? Who really cares…
I hope the sun has started to peak out and show its face back home…
Until next time!

Tsunami! Goodbye India Hello Beach!

Last night I sat on a hill waiting for a tsunami.
Wait.
Hold the phone.
How the heck does a tsunami hit the Himalayas!?
Alas. It has been a while.
Last I blogged I was hanging out with Tibetan monks while Keegan was puking out his guts/ freezing his nose off/experiencing the unmatched hospitality of the war torn Kashmiri people.
But we’re not in Kansas anymore.
Or India for that matter…
BACKTRACK.
While I hopped a lovely 12 hour bus ride to Dehradun, in order to get to Rishikesh, Keegan, sick of being sick, cold and “nothing working in Gulmarg” (heat, electricity, water) and disappointed that he would be unable to ski the good terrain for some time since “the military ran out of explosives” and couldn’t do avalanche control, hopped on a plane (with a clear view of the Himalayan range- lucky bum) back to Delhi.
That was one sentence. English grammar is obviously becoming compromised.
I went to Rishikesh, of yoga fame, thanks mostly to the Beatles staying in an Ashram there in the 60’s. Sian (the Brit girl I was travelling with) and I stayed in the lovely “Swiss Cottage” on a hill overlooking the Ganges. Flower pots and wicker chairs made for a nice little oasis, albeit it was perhaps a little removed from the action. We took a yoga class, which ended up being just the two of us, in a white marble floored room, with a young instructor dressed all in white. He babbled on about inner peace and fire and seemed like a genuinely lovely (yes I’m saying lovely again) man though  later admitted she could barely make out a word and we weren’t quite positive if the massaging was a standard yogic practice… we had dinner that night in a stilt bamboo hut hanging over the Ganges.
The Ganges LOOKS clean.
It’s green. Good green, like a sandy tropical beach.
But I never forgot that it’s full of sewage and corpses.

The next day, while booking our onward journey at the train station, we met Maria, a lovely (again!) older Belgian lady. She invited us back to her room- in an Ashram with a balcony overlooking the Ganges. She showed us around town, then Sian and I did another yoga class in an Ashram- this time with many other foreigners. Later we met up with Maria and did an evening meditation in a colourfully ornate (in colonial fashion)-if peeling room, with a holy man again dressed all in white but with a badass beard.
The meditation was… how shall I say… stereotypical?
Monotone chanting telling us to “go deeeeper into eeeemmmptinesss… fooocuss on the whiiiiite fiiiiire betweeeen your eyebroooows.”
I don’t think I’m meant to sit still that long.
Don’t get me wrong, I think mastering your emotions and calming your mind is a noble pursuit- but is there a meditation that involves getting up and running around the room every once and a while!?
Alas, I made it through the hour.
Later that night, and I mean LATE late, Sian and I decided to find the music we could hear wafting in our window. After crawling under a fence etc. we turned a corner to find 10 or so dreadlocked Israelis jamming on 4 guitars, a didgeridoo and a kuzoo, among other instruments. Everything from blues to the Pixies to Israeli folk to Pink Floyd (during which a Hare Krishna man with an orange towel draped on his head began singing and dancing.)
I woke up as early as 4 hours of sleep would permit and caught a 7 hour bus to Delhi, back to the Tibetan colony to find Keegan hiding from Indian food.
A few days later we flew the nest to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
So there’s your answer, we are in Malaysia.
Kuala Lumpur first impressions:
CLEAN
FRIENDLY
MODERN
STARBUCKS
…mmm soy latte…
Let me repeat that: SOY latte. No arguing over “no milk, no sugar” as if it were blasphemous.
Second impressions:
AIR CONDITIONING
EFFICIENT NEW BUSSES
EFFICIENT NEW TRAINS
NO TRASH.
Keegan’s personal sneak attack side note: I CAN HEAR THE BIRDS!!!  back to Kristina…
Let me repeat that: after months of trash EVERYWHERE, it was no longer a culturally acceptable or EXPECTED practice to litter.

Kuala Lumpur itself is extremely modern, much like Singapore I’m told. With a HUGE metropolis shopping mall on EVERY corner (quite literally.) Gucci. Louis Vuitton. It’s all there. In unfathomable abundance. Strangely, India and extreme materialism almost appealed to us. It all seemed so luxurious. The cleanliness.
So we went to upscale grocery stores and loaded up on health food and revelled in (often overkill) air conditioning. We ate fresh fruit from street vendors and I chugged as many soy cappuccinos as I could muster. We even found and organic vegan restaurant. Yum.
Callum Gunn (for those who don’t know: Keegan’s friend who has been modelling in KL) acted as our tour guide and showed us the ropes of Malaysian street food (mmm durian…NAT). We also went to Batu Caves- a Hindu worship place. Basically gorgeous natural wonders lit up with Christmas lights and Disneyland esque figurines…. Roight.

Callum also acted as our travel agent and sent us to the Perhentian Islands. Though not before going rock climbing at SE Asia’s largest climbing gym. RANDOM. And sweet!
So a 7 hour bus to Kuala Besut. But this ain’t no Indian WWII school bus. It had 1st class seats and roads that didn’t bump. And horns that honked less than every 4.6 seconds! Oh the luxury. Then a dingy ride in rough seas and monsoon rain. Might as well have swam.
Now would be a good time to mention the monsoon.  When it rains in Malaysia… IT POURS. I’ve never heard thunder so loud in my life. SO COOL. I invested in an umbrella in KL.
So we made it too the Perhentians. First to the larger Island of Besar because it was too rough to get to Kecil, but after a night we took a water taxi to Coral Bay on Kecil and walked to the backpacker enclave that is Long Beach.
For Callum’s sake, who cannot make the journey due to work, and for those stuck home in the cold, I am sorry for the next line.
THE BEACH IS SO FREAKING BEAUTIFUL AND THE WATER IS CRYSTAL CLEAR AND TURQOISE.
Yeah. Sorry. Turrets. Got that out of my system.
In all fairness though, the rough seas mean visibility for scuba is poor and we’re stuck relaxing on the beach. How annoying.

We heard a ukulele in the room next door.
Canadians!
Small world.
Tom and Chelsea from Calgary.
We went to a party at a local beach bar. Tried the local “Monkey Juice”- basically liquorice vanilla rum- almost as quality as the Indian $2 ‘Triple X.’ In Keegan’s words “felt good but hurt later….really hurt this morning actually…”
After another productive day… you know sleeping…swimming… walking the beach… and a good bush wack out to the point for some storm watching, our Canadian friends informed us an 8.9 earthquake hit Japan.
Which meant a tsunami headed for Indonesia.
Malaysia is beside Indonesia.
To put it in perspective, the earthquake that messed up Thailand wasn’t that big. This is, if I’m not mistaken, the 7th largest earthquake recorded ever. But I’m sure you all watch the news.
So we-literally- packed our bags and headed for the hills.
But not before buying cookies.
So there we were. Four Canadians, three ukuleles, and enough oreos, pringles and digestive biscuits to survive the second coming. Sitting in a construction site on a hill. Mowing food. Waiting for disaster. Nobody else seemed particularly worried.
Well as you can assume from this blog, the tsunami missed us. Apparently Hawaii’s a little worried.
A strange way to pass an evening no doubt. Eating cookies. Waiting for everyone below to get wet. Not sure if we’re paranoid or prepared. But hey, at least the Canadians are going to survive. Eh?
Keegan has just informed me I’ve been typing for a solid two hours. I hope for your sake I’m just a slow typer.

Meanwhile. We’ve evaded disaster, and are enjoying the new, slower pace. If you would like a post card from paradise, now would be a good time to drop me your address.

Monks, Nuns and Indian Rum!? : Macleod Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama


My nun friends are going to miss me. And I will miss them. Mcleod Ganj has been a pretty lovely experience and much needed reprieve.
 To backtrack, I’ve been in the home of the Dalai Lama and countless Buddhist monks and Tibetan refugees for about a week now.
At first, I was quite lonely, despite the novel (for India) amount of smiling faces and “Namastes,” but after a few days, and shacking with a rad Brit named Siân Kidd, a marionette puppeteer who stayed to do a wood carving course.
Through an Australian monk doing his PhD I met a vague French girl who introduced me to a head monk guy who led me up some winding paths and stairs up a mountain (Mcleod Ganj is a hill station- my buns have been woken up) to some stone huts where 3 Buddhist nuns were living while on their one month holiday from the monastery. They were enthusiastic to learn English (enthusiastic being one of the words they keenly soaked up.) So every day, I went up the hill and hung out with the nuns in their hut, and they made me chai and we read folk tales and played word games and practiced pronunciation. Let’s be honest. I have no idea how to teach. Something in the arts MAYBE, but English!? Where to begin? But they were SO CUTE. And appreciative. They called me “Teacher.” (Kristina is hard to pronounce: ends up like Qwuistina at best.) Their names were Thukjay, Sonom, and Tenzin.

On the same day I began that, a monk approached me over lunch in a monastery run restaurant wondering if I could teach his sister English. I hung out with the monks for several hours and he (Sonom Gyatso) told me about Tibet, and how fabulous ALL Western people are. (I don’t know what TV shows he’s been watching, but obviously not ‘Two and a Half Men.’) I need not mention what he said about Chinese people. Earlier I had gone to the Dalai’s house including the Tibet museum. Tragic. Tragic. Tragic. How are these people not completely bitter!? Too much meditation mastering the emotions. GET ANGRY.
His sister never ended up coming, but I did end up tutoring a sweet little monk named Buga everyday who worked at the restaurant and spoke next to no English. So every day we practiced everything from ‘foot’ to ‘fork’ to ‘pencil.’ In the end we even mastered “open/close the door” and basic ‘yes it is…/no it is not’ questions. Sweetheart.
I managed to drag my sorry buttocks out of bed one morning to watch the sun rise over the mountains from my modest little balcony. A pivotal moment.

On another occasion I dragged myself to a morning mediation and yoga class with a jolly little man named Shivim. Sitting still for 40 minutes was admittedly painful (literally- it was cold!) but the yoga proved worthwhile as the sun shone in over the mountains. 15 years of dance somewhat paid off and I managed to not fail completely (I think I faked it pretty darn well actually!?)
But let’s not kid ourselves, I’m not turning spiritual on y’all or remotely WHOLESOME…
I went to an Indian pub. Had local “Apple Wine.” The cheapest brand. Tasted like vinegar.
On another occasion, on the night Siân and I shacked up we decided to celebrate her new independence (her mates were moving on to Thailand) and trotted off for some Indian Gin and Rum (about 2 & 3 $, respectively) and got crunk under the stars on the hotel restaurant balcony, with lightening flashing behind the mountains. We then retired for some ukulele in the room. After what we thought was some half decent harmonizing a knock came at the door- surprisingly not to tell us to shut up but because 3 Aussies and an Austrian had heard “Space Oddity” and had to invite us. Cal, Tim, Emma and Elizabeth. So we jammed with a guitar and not one but two (full sized- HEAVY) didgeridoos. Yes, the Australians had met a random Sadhu man in Rishikesh who made didges had all made one. Because they’re Australian. (I was sorry I forgot my pet beaver and maple syrup.) So Sian and I tried to learn ‘circle breathing’ (i.e. breathing in and out simultaneously) and jammed on everything from “Build Me Up Buttercup” to Bowie and Beatles to “Hey Ya.” Rad.
 I also took a Tibetan cooking class to make “momos” (Tibetan dumplings.) Extremely simple, though the chef was comically serious and made us take COPIOUS notes. Now if I can just convert them to wheat free…

Tomorrow we move on to Rishikesh, pretty much the yoga capital of the world, then I’ll eventually meet up with Keegan in Delhi, who, by the sounds of it, didn’t have the epic Himalayan skiing adventure he was stoked up for and is somewhat keen to leave the country. But first I have more shopping to do. Okay I admit it. In a town full of the most reputably UNMATERIALISTIC people IN THE WORLD, I have become addicted to shopping. A shawl here, some Tibetan silver there… but a girl has to kill time somehow right? And in my defense, shopping in Mcleod Ganj is a workout on these hills. I’m going to need some serious yoga when I get to Rishikesh.

…Oh  and I’m seriously fashionable now. Staying warm means clashing striped pajamaish attire which I wear 24 hours a day. And Gramma thanks again for the thick knitted socks. Time to head South!

I want that instrument! Is it a lyre?

Delhi and beyond…

We’ve found the cold. Admittedly where I am is not nearly as cold as where Keegan is heading as I type. We’re in the foothills of the Himalayas. The sun is shining on snow-capped peaks outside my window. I am in Mcleod Ganj. The mountaintop town of the Dalai Lama, and countless Tibetan refugees and Buddhist monks. As a matter of fact, it appears the Dalai Lama has returned home as of yesterday- obviously he received word of my impending visit.
From Mangalore, where I last left off, we flew North through Mumbai to Delhi- cheating perhaps, by not taking the 4 day train for reasons that could may be summed up in “4 day Indian train.” And no, do not conjure to mind visions of the Wilson brothers sipping chai in “Darjeeling Limited,” conjure squat toilets.
Upon arriving in Delhi we headed to ‘Paharganj’ area which is loaded with budget accommodation. Unfortunately when Lonely Planet refers to something as “seedy,” they aren’t joking. A few times we’ve found out the hard way that Lonely Planet is quite a serious matter. So after being incessantly hawked and stalked by drunk teenagers trying to get commission, and not particularly taking to the dank pink cell with no windows, we haggled with some ruthless rickshaw drivers to take us to “Majnu-Ka-Tilla,”the Tibetan colony, which, though less central, became our little oasis from chaotic Delhi.
The area was not much more than winding back alleys- though noticeably more clean, kempt and not to mention charming than the rest of Delhi. Here maroon robe clad Buddhist monks hung out drinking redbull,  the Dalai Lama on tv. In an internet café, I found myself explaining to a monk the premise of the video game “Grand Theft Auto” that some 6 year old Tibetan kids were engrossed in. We shared a chuckle. Another was engrossed in Youtube videos of that amazing 5 year old ukulele prodigy. The world is oh-so small.
On the first night arriving in Majnu- or “Tibet” as we referred to it, everywhere was booked. Funny, because the ever charming Paharganj seemed to have endless free rooms. Completely randomly we ran ran into Andrew. Not sure if I mentioned him previously but Andrew and Juliana were a Canadian couple living in Berlin we met our last day in Hampi. Andrew had raced a rickshaw from Rajastan to Kochin. A dinky Indian 3 wheeled buggy through Indian traffic for 7 days. 7 days. And lived. Remember him? Hard to forget. Juliana had already gone back and he was leaving the next morning at 5am. Long story short, we met him for dinner and he invited us to share his double room, which was huge. Crown moulding and a balcony overlooking the river. For the same price as that little pink cell. Sweet. Over dinner we also met a Russian, “Olga,” who translated Buddhist literature and had hung out for 2 weeks in an all male Buddhist monastery, because she had a monk friend. Rad. We shared nasty “Kingfisher” beers back at the room.
While sitting in a square by a Buddhist temple I was taking a picture of, 3 somewhat raggy children approached me and asked me to take their picture. They were very excited to see themselves on the screen. They then started chattering excitedly and dragged me, sadly wary of beggars (even children) off. But they just wanted ice cream. I felt bad for thinking they just wanted my money at first, but India really hardens you. But these kids were sweet. I bought them ice cream, there now being about 6 of them. Word spread quickly. Kids began pouring from everywhere, looking at me with the most adorable eyes. Obviously I couldn’t discriminate. I have no idea how many icecreams I bought. But there was some happy kids in that square, and the ones who knew scraps of English thanked me. SO CUTE.

On multiple other occasions we bought bags of dry rice (and if Keegan was buying- cookies, if I was- lentils) for a young boy who quickly learned to seek us out.
Keegan needed warm clothing for his jaunt north so we went on several missions about the city each day, seeing everything from upscale spic/span malls to crowded/chaotic winding markets and bizaars. We eventually learned that the subway was brand new and very efficient so we were able to give the rickshaws a break. They were also very popular. Major routes made sardine cans look like desolate plains. But that’s okay, because at major stops, 50 people would surge off at once- and only 70 would surge on.
We went to the Taj Mahal. We can officially leave India. The Taj Mahal is in Agra, a 2 hour train out of Delhi. Booking said train in advance was a bureaucratic nightmare. You know that nightmare- or maybe you’ve only seen it in the movies. Where you wait in one line up to be told to wait in a different line up to be whisked off by some guy seeming to be an official, into a rickshaw to be taken several blocks away to the “official” booking office, realizing all the while of coarse that this is a classic scam, and walking back to the office, to the rickshaw drivers dismay, meanwhile being touted by a young guy claiming to be a student and not to trust anyone and that the REAL office was actually over HERE but we weren’t trusting ANYONE so we walked back, meeting a French couple along the way and waited in a long line to be told to stand in another line to be told I had filled out the form wrong and the train was booked on the return and no they were not polite. (Though at least the ladies queue was considerably shorter.)
Then we got to wake up a 430 am to make the train. It was smaller than I expected. But don’t get me wrong. Blindingly gorgeous. And yes, I got the picture I set out to take:

At an upscale mall we found a schmancy grocery mart where we splurged on granola and organic cookies. And SOY MILK. It was heaven. We appreciate the little things. Also so bought wine which was enjoyed while watching tv,  flipping through beyond cheezy Bollywood channels and infomercials.
So after 6 or so days in Delhi. Oh and p.s. “Delhi Belly” is no myth. We took the overnight train North. Didn’t sleep a wink. 2 snorers one beside, one below, having a snoring contest. Though the adjacent hippo soon won out. There was also a birthday party. All night. And no we didn’t opt for the “AC” class. Squat toilets. Indian train. Delhi belly. On the bright side I finished my first game of solitaire every thanks to a man who didn’t speak English. I thought he was just staring trying to figure out what I was doing. Or just staring per usual. The world is small.
So I jumped off the train in Pathankot, Keegan stayed on till Jammu. Heading to Kashmir and hopefully Leh, if the passes are open. From Pathankot, a bent old man I named Rafiki cycle rickshawed me to the bus stand where I caught the 5 hour bus up to Mcleod Ganj. Not much to say about it yet. Lots of monks and smiling faces. Met some fellow travellors including a rad marionette puppeteer from London. With her (Sean, sp?) and her friend Jimmy went to a bar last night and had local Apple wine. Which tasted like vinegar. It was cheap.
I hope Keegan is warm. I hope I see the Dalai Lama. Both are unlikely. For now, the sun is shining, and I’m off to meet some female monks from England.
                                                                                                                                                         

Delhi and beyond…

We’ve found the cold. Admittedly where I am is not nearly as cold as where Keegan is heading as I type. We’re in the foothills of the Himalayas. The sun is shining on snow-capped peaks outside my window. I am in Mcleod Ganj. The mountaintop town of the Dalai Lama, and countless Tibetan refugees and Buddhist monks. As a matter of fact, it appears the Dalai Lama has returned home as of yesterday- obviously he received word of my impending visit.
From Mangalore, where I last left off, we flew North through Mumbai to Delhi- cheating perhaps, by not taking the 4 day train for reasons that could may be summed up in “4 day Indian train.” And no, do not conjure to mind visions of the Wilson brothers sipping chai in “Darjeeling Limited,” conjure squat toilets.
Upon arriving in Delhi we headed to ‘Paharganj’ area which is loaded with budget accommodation. Unfortunately when Lonely Planet refers to something as “seedy,” they aren’t joking. A few times we’ve found out the hard way that Lonely Planet is quite a serious matter. So after being incessantly hawked and stalked by drunk teenagers trying to get commission, and not particularly taking to the dank pink cell with no windows, we haggled with some ruthless rickshaw drivers to take us to “Majnu-Ka-Tilla,”the Tibetan colony, which, though less central, became our little oasis from chaotic Delhi.
The area was not much more than winding back alleys- though noticeably more clean, kempt and not to mention charming than the rest of Delhi. Here maroon robe clad Buddhist monks hung out drinking redbull,  the Dalai Lama on tv. In an internet café, I found myself explaining to a monk the premise of the video game “Grand Theft Auto” that some 6 year old Tibetan kids were engrossed in. We shared a chuckle. Another was engrossed in Youtube videos of that amazing 5 year old ukulele prodigy. The world is oh-so small.
On the first night arriving in Majnu- or “Tibet” as we referred to it, everywhere was booked. Funny, because the ever charming Paharganj seemed to have endless free rooms. Completely randomly we ran ran into Andrew. Not sure if I mentioned him previously but Andrew and Juliana were a Canadian couple living in Berlin we met our last day in Hampi. Andrew had raced a rickshaw from Rajastan to Kochin. A dinky Indian 3 wheeled buggy through Indian traffic for 7 days. 7 days. And lived. Remember him? Hard to forget. Juliana had already gone back and he was leaving the next morning at 5am. Long story short, we met him for dinner and he invited us to share his double room, which was huge. Crown moulding and a balcony overlooking the river. For the same price as that little pink cell. Sweet. Over dinner we also met a Russian, “Olga,” who translated Buddhist literature and had hung out for 2 weeks in an all male Buddhist monastery, because she had a monk friend. Rad. We shared nasty “Kingfisher” beers back at the room.
While sitting in a square by a Buddhist temple I was taking a picture of, 3 somewhat raggy children approached me and asked me to take their picture. They were very excited to see themselves on the screen. They then started chattering excitedly and dragged me, sadly wary of beggars (even children) off. But they just wanted ice cream. I felt bad for thinking they just wanted my money at first, but India really hardens you. But these kids were sweet. I bought them ice cream, there now being about 6 of them. Word spread quickly. Kids began pouring from everywhere, looking at me with the most adorable eyes. Obviously I couldn’t discriminate. I have no idea how many icecreams I bought. But there was some happy kids in that square, and the ones who knew scraps of English thanked me. SO CUTE.
On multiple other occasions we bought bags of dry rice (and if Keegan was buying- cookies, if I was- lentils) for a young boy who quickly learned to seek us out.
Keegan needed warm clothing for his jaunt north so we went on several missions about the city each day, seeing everything from upscale spic/span malls to crowded/chaotic winding markets and bizaars. We eventually learned that the subway was brand new and very efficient so we were able to give the rickshaws a break. They were also very popular. Major routes made sardine cans look like desolate plains. But that’s okay, because at major stops, 50 people would surge off at once- and only 70 would surge on.
We went to the Taj Mahal. We can officially leave India. The Taj Mahal is in Agra, a 2 hour train out of Delhi. Booking said train in advance was a bureaucratic nightmare. You know that nightmare- or maybe you’ve only seen it in the movies. Where you wait in one line up to be told to wait in a different line up to be whisked off by some guy seeming to be an official, into a rickshaw to be taken several blocks away to the “official” booking office, realizing all the while of coarse that this is a classic scam, and walking back to the office, to the rickshaw drivers dismay, meanwhile being touted by a young guy claiming to be a student and not to trust anyone and that the REAL office was actually over HERE but we weren’t trusting ANYONE so we walked back, meeting a French couple along the way and waited in a long line to be told to stand in another line to be told I had filled out the form wrong and the train was booked on the return and no they were not polite. (Though at least the ladies queue was considerably shorter.)
Then we got to wake up a 430 am to make the train. It was smaller than I expected. But don’t get me wrong. Blindingly gorgeous. And yes, I got the picture I set out to take.
At an upscale mall we found a schmancy grocery mart where we splurged on granola and organic cookies. And SOY MILK. It was heaven. We appreciate the little things. Also so bought wine which was enjoyed while watching tv,  flipping through beyond cheezy Bollywood channels and infomercials.
So after 6 or so days in Delhi. Oh and p.s. “Delhi Belly” is no myth. We took the overnight train North. Didn’t sleep a wink. 2 snorers one beside, one below, having a snoring contest. Though the adjacent hippo soon won out. There was also a birthday party. All night. And no we didn’t opt for the “AC” class. Squat toilets. Indian train. Delhi belly. On the bright side I finished my first game of solitaire every thanks to a man who didn’t speak English. I thought he was just staring trying to figure out what I was doing. Or just staring per usual. The world is small.
So I jumped off the train in Pathankot, Keegan stayed on till Jammu. Heading to Kashmir and hopefully Leh, if the passes are open. From Pathankot, a bent old man I named Rafiki cycle rickshawed me to the bus stand where I caught the 5 hour bus up to Mcleod Ganj. Not much to say about it yet. Lots of monks and smiling faces. Met some fellow travellors including a rad marionette puppeteer from London. With her (Sean, sp?) and her friend Jimmy went to a bar last night and had local Apple wine. Which tasted like vinegar. It was cheap.
I hope Keegan is warm. I hope I see the Dalai Lama. Both are unlikely. For now, the sun is shining, and I’m off to meet some female monks from England.
                                                                                                                                                         

Lush jungles and spice plantations: Kerala. But we want the beach!

For those who need be visually stimulated. Pictures! http://cid-555be8206d79d3b3.photos.live.com/browse.aspx/India3?sa=447958638

Mom, I’m alive, not lying in an Indian ditch.

 

Where to begin? India is exhausting, I can’t even keep up in my journal. I have to write it in point form. So without further ado:
-I can’t afford toilet paper.
It has now become a luxury item. (In India, they splash themselves.) Admittedly it was because the local atm was broken. But it was still paramount.
-Train/bus station squat toilets no longer phase me.
-We stayed 5 nights in Hampi, I spent a whole day just walking. Got very lost. Kept walking. Everywhere you go is ruins. Ornate temples. In the middle of no where. And boulders. We stayed 2 nights across the river where the sunsets from our hammock left little to be desired. We climbed 600 steps to Hanuman temple for a fantastic view of the boulders. This place goes on forever. We met a couple from Canada living in Berlin, the guy had raced a rickshaw from Delhi to Kochin. Read: the length of India. For shits. Or charity. Or was it a death wish?
-We saw 5-6 wild elephants, including a mother a baby.
-In order to get to such wildlife preserve, we had a LONG haul. 10 hour sleeper train, from Hospet (near Hampi) to Bangalore, arriving at 630 am. Took another train to Mysore (4hrs), then rickshaw to the bus station where chaos ensued but a crippled beggar eventually pointed out a bus for us… which had no windows (bad sign?) More buses & rickshaws and many hours later. We reached Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary. And found out it’s closed for several months.
BUT, as it was Keegan’s 19th, I wanted to spring for somewhere- less groady shall we say? So at the homely guest house Pachyderm Palace, sweetheart host Venu cooked us feasts for every meal (Keegan even got a beer on his bday!) While the next morning his son Dilleep took us on a jungle jeep ride in the early morning – on which we saw jungle fowl and bison (yes dad, chicken’s and cows exist in the wild.) A guide then took us on a 7 hour hike up through the mountains to awesome views and a cave with millions of bats. We also so black and maqaw (sp?) monkeys and a malabri (sp?) a small red jungle cat with a fluffy tail.
After dinner that night we, an artsy couple from UK who had hung out with us that afternoon, and all of Venu’s extended family PILED into the jeep and we went for a little safari, on which we saw the elephants and bison. Strangely we ended up at a circus. And I mean that literally and figuratively.  A church lit up like time’s square in the middle of the tackiest and most chaotic night fair you’ve ever been to. Like an acid trip…or what I’d imagine it to be. Corny games and junk food? Check. Tacky balloons and other such junk for purchase? Check. Hindus ROLLING and CRAWLING around a Christian church in order to get lucky? ….Check!? ….
….
Righto.
Moving on then.
We pulled another loooong travel day to try and find the coast. Maybe a quiet beach? I’ll spare you the details, but lets say we spend a lot of time on our ass. A days worth of CONSTANT honking takes a lot out of you. Roads are baaad. SO, avoid Indian transport if a) you have to pee, b) are not wearing a sports bra.
On a positive note, the bus wound through the lush Keralan jungle past many spice plantations.
Kappil beach was gorgeous. Deserted. Too bad by the time we got there the sun was setting and there was nowhere to stay. We stayed in a gem of a motel. GEM. Neither of us brushed our teeth. The sink was just- too beautiful.
Righto.
So we booked it to Mangalore to Moti Mahal. With a CLEAN pool, gym, and 3 restuarants. AND A SCALDING HOT SHOWER. We scrubbed.
Shopping in India is slightly less efficient. We never thought we’d long for a Wallmart. AIRCONDITIONING IS GOD. Indian stores consist of grimy stalls with a specific stall for everything. I.e. don’t think you can buy a pencil the same place you buy you soap!
All in all, we’re clean, and quickly planning our departure Northward.  To the cold. Real cold. None of this, its 35 degrees and Indians are wearing fleece earmuffs nonsense.    
                                            
Things happen very quickly in India. You learn a lot. About you priorities, likes dislikes. I like cleanliness. And recycling.

Hampi!

Pictures are posted here: http://cid-555be8206d79d3b3.photos.live.com/browse.aspx/India2?sa=63514745

Anjuna beach was a nice reprieve. We stayed two nights at “Tantra” which resembled what you would imagine in Morocco where people are lounging on cushions with low tables sans hookah. I bought a loose linen shirt in the market for triple the norm ($6!?) just so the lady would leave me alone. She didn’t. I later bought loose harem style pants from the only man in town who let me look in peace. We ditched the shirt along with a huge pile of other stuff when we left, pack immediately felt lighter but already plotting what else to ditch.
We took a rickshaw to the city of Panagi (Panjim) then a bus to Margoa (Madgoan).  After realizing we missed the train to Hampi we stayed the night in Margoa at the relatively swank Hotel Tanish. And by swank I mean it had hot water. The LUXURY! (1200 Rs; $24)  We tried our first Indian sweets/baking which are basically pure sugar, perhaps deep fried. They’re not about subtlety here. After waking up early the next day we found there was no train. So we took a 6 hour bus which wound through the lush jungle mountains to Hubli, then waited a long time playing our ukes with no clear idea when the next bus would come. A guy from Japan and a girl from Spain were in the same boat. On a whim, we hopped on a bus to Koppal which took about 4 hours.
 The roads are very bad, combined with a bus driver with no regard for human life and you frequently find yourself flying a foot in the air off your seat. Everything you heard about driving in India is true. I honestly don’t know why they bother painting lines on the road. Maybe they’re for the cows to abide them cause the drivers sure don’t.
 In Koppal we got a 1 hour bus to Hospet and finally took a rickshaw to Hampi, which looked surreal in the dark. Arriving around 11, we settled for our driver’s “friend’s” place (we knew he’d get commission) which had fluorescent green walls and an awful bug net that draped over and in your face. It was beyond groady but we were mostly just miffed that we paid too much (500 Rs; $10!) I slept horribly and in the morning vomited at least 10 times- you can thank my dad for requesting more avid description. I’m not sure how I got sick as the only substantial meal I had had was at a super posh restaurant with amazing view (buffet breakfast, 120 Rs; $2.50).
In any case Keegan brought me porridge. I miss porridge. I miss healthy raw vegetables and I could really go for kale or cold borscht.
Don’t get me wrong, Indian food is tantalizingly scrumptious, they definitely know their spices. Unfortunately for a celery muncher such as myself however, a typical Indian meal (acknowledging that cuisine varies greatly per region) comprises of vegetables overcooked past recognition in copious amounts of oil & butter which is usually eaten with a white bread such as “chapatti”- a tortilla. Delicious but heavy (particularly as a mildly wheat intolerant vegan). But what can you do.
We changed rooms to “Gopi” guest house which has a roof restaurant with a fantastic view. Hampi is surreal. Giant teetering boulders as far as the eye can see with amazingly opulent and detailed temples, monuments and structures cropping up everywhere. Strangely the 700 year old, 500,000 people civilization only lasted 100 years before a Muslim attack ended it permanently.
When I was feeling slightly better we walked a ways to the waterfalls. Nagi was our unrequested guide. People tend to announce rather than ask. Afterwards we cut through a banana plantation to the river and shared a coconut as the sun set. The river bank is lush with banana and palm trees and looks like a dreamy oasis. On the way back we got lost as the bugs were coming out, getting very muddy and later washing off in the river as the locals do.
It is very hot. I am continuously fantasizing about heading North early, before the whole country warms up. I did not think I would miss/appreciate home this much so quickly. It’s barely been a week. I am not necessarily home sick but definitely sick, and away from home.

I realize this post is long. Things happen quickly! :)

Pictures: http://cid-555be8206d79d3b3.photos.live.com/browse.aspx/India1

A lot has happened in a very short time. Hard to believe its only been a few days since we landed. The flights were long. 12 1/2 to Korea then 9 1/2 to Mumbai. ouch. A nice Indian man from Winnipeg befriended us on the plane and helped us translate to get a cab etc. Mumbai was super hot and dirty. Everyone stared at us, particularly me. Talk about culture shock, though it may be that they are simple blinded by our pastiness. We hired a guide to take us around the city, including Gandhi’s house, then went to Elephanta island where temples are carved right into the mountain. Looked a lot like the dwarf home in Lord of the Rings. There are a lot of Indian tourists but very few white people. We are a bigger attraction than the heritage sights.  Seriously.  Everyone wants are picture.  We tried to be wary of scams. ‘Holy men’ wrapped our wrists with colourful string and dotted our foreheads with paint and then proceeded to charge us 200 rupees. Crossing the street in India is like playing dodgeball.  With cars, buses, rickshaws, motorcycles and bikes.

In order to escape the crazy muggy dirtiness of Mumbai we hopped on a ferry to Mandwa. We had no idea where that was but it wasn’t Mumbai. An hour or so later we arrived. We came across an American architect who lived there and recommended we take a rickshaw the Kashid. Sure why not? So off we went and  an hour or so later arrived at the beach. We stayed in the village that night. When eating we walk up to an establishment and say food? Veg? Then somebody runs to find a translator. We keep repeating food? Veg? Decide on a price. They make us something delicious. In this case, 2 huge dinners, 2 chais and a club soda came to 150 rupees. 3 dollars. We tip well. The next day we just started walking down the road. In the middle of nowhere. In India. Had breakfast the same way. Lots of people waved, nobody stopped. After a long time in the sweltering heat we flagged a bus. It was rackity and very full. Imagine a bus circa world war two, rackity doesn’t begin to describe it. We made 6 friends on the bus. College kids plus their 12 year old cousin from Mumbai. All studying commerce, wanting to get in on the ‘share market.’ They took us around Murud, to Janjira fort which is a huge fort in the middle of the water about 600 years old. On the way back the boat (which resembled the boat Jack Sparrow arrives on in the first pirates movie but with about 50 people on it) mysteriously found out I could sing and pressured me into singing. I sang 2 verses of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. They asked if I knew any Hindi songs. Again, we were a bigger attraction than the Fort. Our friends took as too lunch and treated us royally. Apparently friends do not thank friends in India. We told them it’s the Canadian way and thanked them at every turn. They found us a bus headed for Roha so we headed there to catch a train. 2 ½ hours later we were there but had to wait 3 hours (Indian trains are notoriously late). This time the  attention we attracted was very unwanted. Keegan and I have decided we are married from here on out. The term “girlfriend” doesn’t seem to translate nor deter their leery glances. Not glances, full on glares. We did make one friend however. Rewan Powar. An intelligent, unassuming man who invited us to stay at his home in Ratnagiri. A 6 hour train ride cost us 38 rupees (45 cents). Rewan and Keegan talked for much of it. He was a veterinarian but due to lack of work became a bank manager.  We arrived at 130am. Rewan’s wife and child were visiting family and he insisted we take his bed and he slept on the floor. In the morning he was watching the X games (skiing!) He showed us pictures of his family and took us for breakfast at his friend’s restaurant who wouldn’t accept money. Indian hospitality is unparralled. If you are a guest, you don’t pay for anything.
We then took a train to Thivim, and a rickshaw to Anjuna, which apparently is tourist central. More white people than we’ve seen the whole trip. Mostly Europeans and hippies. I can finally show skin! (I’ve been wearing long pants thus far.) There are no big resorts here but plenty of guest houses and beach bars. I am currently sitting on a pile of cushions in a treefort on the beach.  Could not be more different than the gawking of the late night train ride. Time to check out the market. I need hippy pants!
Did I mention there are a lot of cows in India?
*A note for Brian (because I know you’re likely the only one besides my mother that read this whole post): don’t ever go to India. You will never leave. There is too much too see/try to comprehend/never understand. The contrasts. The colours. The culture.