Udaipur

Udaipur in Southern Rajahstan was a welcome change from the chaos of Delhi. Most famous for being the setting of the Bond film, Octopussy, the lakeside town is a romantic getaway, with one of the most beautiful hotels in the world, the Lake Palace Hotel, a floating castle in the middle of the lake. It was once the head of a great kingdom, the Lake Palace being one of at least four palaces in the city. Like most lake towns, it had a relaxing vibe, mixed with the incredible sight, it was a pleasant place that I was glad I chose for New Years Eve, especially since I met a group of friends with whom I'd travel for the next two weeks.

I met Mark, the dyed-blonde Australian on the street near the ghat. It was on New Year's Eve and he was carrying a box of beer. I'd yet to purchase the night's provisions; I couldn't find a bottle shop.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Right up the street, here, I'll take you mate."

"Where in Oz you from?" I love meeting Australians. Even nearly a year and a half after my departure, a distinct part of my soul still belongs down under.

"Adelaide."

The nearest city of any size to Broken Hill, I'd been to Adelaide numerous times. It was even the first place I saw the country. We had an instant topic of conversation and we ended up spending the day together, touring the main palace, right in town and agreed to meet at his guest house that night for drinks.

We joined a large group and started our New Year's Eve party right next to the water. It was a clear, beautiful night, shared with fantastic company including Mark, Nam, Daa, Maartje, John, and Matthias who I was all meeting in Jaisalmer two days later.

A neighboring hotel was having a cultural show which provided a great tabla, flute and drum soundtrack for much of the night. At midnight, every hotel blasted fireworks over the lake for nearly ten minutes, illuminating both the sky and the reflective water. It was a lovely end to a great year. Well liquored, we headed to a nearby bar and danced wildly until they closed.

The next day, we all headed to a far-off restaurant deep into town. We were quite lost for an hour, but the fantastic thali made up for it. Featuring and endless array of Rajahstani dishes with refills for only 70 rupees, it was a dining highlight of India that left us rolling out the door. Every single one of us got sick the next day.

Food Diary: Sweets

Ah, one of the special joys of India is wonder the streets and trying all the different desert snacks at the copious sweet shop. Getting lost was always pleasurable with a barfi in hand. The general name for a sweet in India is Mithai. I tried many sweets, but most seemed to be made from highly condensed milk. A barfi is a bar sweet, mostly milk, sugar and flour, with many variations. Often they have a thin layer of real silver on top, which was a neat touch. My favorite was vegetable barfi, a fudgelike carrot and other veggie sweet.

The other sweets are often various flavored balls. Ladoo are very common, typically a simple mix of flour, milk and sugar again. The most popularly exported sweet is gulab jamun, the fried milk balls that are everywhere, floating in either sugar water or honey water.

One of my favorites was jalebi, a deepfried, syrupy, batter in swirls, looking like a crispy funnel cake. Every bite oozes the gooey, honey/sugar filling. Many traveler didn't seem to like it though. The best way is to just point and eat.

Three stories of Delhi: Part Three

I awoke the next morning and asked my manager where the bus stand for Jaipur was located.

"You have to take tourist bus, no public bus."

This seemed rather unlikely, but at least I wouldn't have to go far to find a ticket. The first office was sold out of morning tickets to Jaipur, only having a night bus for 600 rupees, exorbitant.

I left and walked for a kilometer down the road, past the main tourist area and saw a sign with cheap prices for tickets. Like the first place, he could only offer a night bus. This was the second time that Jaipur seemed too much of a hassle. Mixed with my extreme negative feelings for Delhi, I figured a swift change in plan was needed.

"Do you have a night bus to Udaipur?"

"We have a bus tonight at five. 800 rupees."

"800 rupees! That's insane!"

"That is the price."

"Is it for a sleeper berth?"

"Yes."

I sat for a moment, weighing my options and decided that 800 rupees was well worth it to leave this city forever. "Fine, I'll take it."

"Would you like a sightseeing tour for the day?"

"Nah, that's ok."

"Only 100 rupees."

"Where does it go?"

"Sightseeing around Delhi."

"Yes, but where?"

"Lotus temple and other places?"

"What other places?" I asked.

"Red fort, parliament, President's house. Indira Ghandi museum. A very good tour. It brings you back here at 4:30 so you can catch the bus."

My attempts to the see the city on my own power had proved fruitless, mostly because of its size. Maybe a tour would help me leave with better feelings. Plus, I really wanted to see the Lotus Temple, which was a convoluted trip by public transport. "Fine." And I gave him the money. "When does it leave?"

"It left hours ago."

I hate this city.

His cronie popped his head in the door. "Ok, come now." He invited me onto the back of his motorbike and we sped off, weaving in and out of traffic as I squeezed his midriff. After a few miles, he pulled up beside a bus that he waved at while speeding through traffic. It pulled over and let me on.

I was one of two foreigners on the bus, but many of the natives were friendly and happy have a gorah to chat with. Our first stop was the beautiful Laksmi temple, followed by the well presented, but uninformative Indira Ghandi Museum. After a stop at the government buildings, it was already one pm, and we had many places and a lunch stop still ahead. I pulled the guide aside, "What time are we getting back to Pahar Ganj?"

"Around 6 o'clock."

"The guy who sold me the tour also sold me a bus ticket and he said we'll be back by 4:30."

"Well, that's stupid."

I wasn't sure if he was taking about what the travel office said or my purchase of this tour.

"So, at what point can I catch a subway back in time."

"After lunch, we go to Qutb Minar. You can get back from there."

The next stop was a handcrafts shop, followed by lunch. The restaurant was overpriced, so I wandered around to find some of the ubiquitous street food. A nearby street vendor was selling a delicious looking treat. He took fried potato balls, mushed them up, then poured curry and a couple of hot sauces on top.

"Nameste! I'll have what they're having." I said pointing to the couple of Indian who'd just gotten food.

The man took the potato balls, covered them in curry, then ruined the whole mess with with half a cup of ketchup.

"40 rupees!" He said, handing me the disgusting looking slop.

"Hey man, glad you have such fair prices here." I'd paid twice as much as those in front of me. After two bites of what may have been the worst food I'd eaten in my entire time in India, I threw the mess on the ground with all the other garbage, urine, and fecal matter, then walked away seething.

The next stop, Qutb Minar, I had no time to see. I didn't even see the Lotus Temple, the whole reason I booked the tour. I caught a bus to Connaught Place and power walked the mile to the tourist office, working out all the angry things I planned to spew at the shifty travel agent

"How was the tour?" He asked with a smile when I entered.

It's hard to tear into a man when he greets you with a smile. "It was good until I found out that it ended an hour after my bus leaves and I had to pay for my transportation back to this part of town and walk two kilometers to get here in time."

"Oh, ok." Not seeming phased by his ridiculous business practices. "I'll have a rickshaw to take you to your bus in a moment. I waited for thirty minutes, making small talk, trying to keep my cool, until the rickshaw came. I was busting with so much buried anger, I feared for its inevitable recipient.

The driver took me to Old Delhi, where we were stuck in traffic for 20 minutes. He took a right, passed a line of nearly twenty people, squatting in a long line, partaking in the old Delhi tradition of tandem defecation right on the sidewalk, only meters from a public toilet. He stopped at an office, beckoned me to come.

 The office then told me to go someplace else, back the way we'd just come to catch my bus. I was already late. Thankfully, there was another bus. When I arrived, I was stuck with the 100 rupee rickshaw bill for being carted all over town for apparently no reason. Despite my demanding that he get the money from the agent, the bus company ordered me to pay him.

I entered the bus to realize that I had a seat, not a sleeper as promised.

"Fuck this city!" I began yelling to nobody in particular. "They think cause I'm white that I'm rich and try to rip me off!"

"It's not just you." An Indian man from Mumbai said. "this city, they do it to Indian too. This is the most dishonest town in the world. Everyone cheating. I'm so sad that Delhi is in India, because people leaving hating this country, just from one bad town."

I was feeling the same. When I'd come to Delhi, I was enjoying India for the most part. It was busy and intense and the people were in your face. I was living with a constant state of diarrhea. But there were so many nice people, great food and it was hard not to get swept in the history that stretched back thousands of years. But Delhi. Delhi was taint of the world, tainting my whole trip. Making me hate this country.

The man was stirring in his anger too, "I was supposed to get a sleeper. I pay extra for a sleeper. Now I'm here in a seat."

"Me too!" I exclaimed.

"Me too!" another overhearing us said.

One by one, the people filed onto the bus, looking along the line of sleepers, only to find, disappointed that they had seats. Finally, an African man cracked. He stood up. "This is lunacy. They are screwing us all. I am calling the police."

He dialed while still standing and made sure everyone on the bus could hear his conversation. "You need to come now. There is cheating and bad things on this bus. Ashok Travel. This is no good. They are no good. They stealing money and cheating. You come and seize this bus right now!"

Right after he started the call, the bus sped off.

"Now they move!" the man said. "You must come and stop this bus!"

Others stood up and formed a circle around him to protect him from the ticket collector who was becoming increasingly angry.

"There is much bad things with this company. They steal our money!" He yelled out to us on the bus. "Who is Indian? Who can read signs?"

He stayed on the line, while some Indians yelled our position from the road signs we'd passed.

I turned to the Mumbai man. "Oh god, if they seized this bus, then I'm stuck in this shithole another day!"

"I know, but we have to do something," he replied, "or this will continue for others. Our pain can maybe save pain for others." I was on the bus with a modern-day Gandhi.

Suddenly, he stood up too and recruited others. "This cannot stand! These people are bad, bad people. They are stealing our money. They are cheating!" Suddenly, there was a mass of angry passengers in the aisles. The ticket collector yelled to the driver and headed for the door, clearly ready to jump out of the moving bus.

The crowd grabbed him and started yelling at him in Hindi. At the same time, others tried to pull the driver out of his seat while he was driving. The bus began swerving. I was not in the mob. I stayed in my seat with my safety belt, hoping none of the rickshaw drivers or others who shared the road with us would get killed.

Finally, the bus pulled over and the two employees were dragged off the bus by the mob of angry customers and I didn't see what they did to them while at the mercy of the rabble. Within minutes, the police arrived and broke up the uprising. They all filed a mass complaint against the company and half left, demanding refunds. I remained in my seat the whole time, praying that I'd be able to this horrible town.

Thankfully, the bus did leave, five hours later.

I slept my best sleep in days on that bus seat, because I knew that when I woke up, I'd no longer be in Delhi. I woke up at times when the road got too bumpy. There were times I looked out the window to see we weren't even on a road, but driving through what seemed to be fields, but I didn't care where I ended up. Anywhere was better than where I'd come from.

It became light and I woke up, staring out the window as the landscape became a bit hillier, the highway twisting and turning along small, idyllic lakes with dessert beyond. I saw a with English script saying we were nearing Udaipur. I began to breath easy. This terrible chapter of my trip was coming to a close.

Thirty minutes from our destination, screaming brakes grabbed all of our attention just for us to see our bus smash head on into a jeep that was passing around a curve.

It was no contest: the jeep bounced right off of us. I chose not to watch as they pulled the bloody, dying women from the wreckage. Instead, I sat at the shores of a nearby lake and shared a beedie with the man from Mumbai, who'd oddly enough stayed on the bus after he'd started the uprising to stop it. He was as eager as I was to just leave. We smoked looking over the horizon to the open world before us, doing our best to ignore the poison that lay just behind us, glad we had finally found at least a moment of peace.

Food Diary: Classic Street Food

India is not a street food paradise like China, but it still has a lot. Samosas are the most famous street snack, a flaky deep fried pastry filled with potatoes and other vegetables. Most carts will have a dish called panipuri, I never tried it, but it looked like crispy ball, tiny puris and served with sauce or curry. Men will walk with big trays on their head, featuring an assortment of nuts, legumes and puffed rice or popcorn. These are mixed together with masala, onions, and a squirt of lime. Another quick, yet unfilling treat. Honestly, I hit up mostly restaurants in India, but the street food is a great way to have some quick, cheap sustenance.

Three Stories of Delhi: Part 2

The next day was rainy and cold. I went through my bag to find, my $150 raincoat, the lifetime guaranteed REI jacket I swore would be the last I'd purchase in my life, was gone. The rain had mellowed after twenty minutes and I headed to New Delhi to explore.

The fog was so thick, the white buildings of Connaught Place were all but invisible. New Delhi is a city that is a wonderful design architecturally, but totally impractical for the foot, cycle, ox car traffic of the city. I realized I was going nowhere fast and combined with the rain, I headed home.

I had a half day to kill, so I rounded up my gifts and planned to send some packages back to the US. The hotel manager directed me the post office, but I couldn't find it. Three other random people gave me direction to this elusive post office, but none seemed to agree on its location. Looking for something in Pahar Ganj is the worst thing one can do; all the normal hassle of just walking is magnified by twenty.

"Are you lost?"

"Rickshaw?"

"See my shop?"

"Something to smoke?"

"Where are you going?

"Hello friend! Excuse me."

I was beginning to hate the gratuitous use of the word friend by complete strangers.

Finally, a fourth person finally told me the right way. The post was hidden on the second floor, behind a fruit stand. I walked up stairs and greeted the postman. He was filing through some letters, looked up at me for a moment, then went back to work. He continued to ignore me for five minutes until he finished his stack of papers. I greeted him again, but he didn't look up. A couple minutes later, an Indian man walked up, body checked me out of the way, and was given prompt service. I left to rejoin the jungle below.

"Where are you going"

"Hashish?"

"Rickshaw?"

"10 rupees!"

Every second, another person would get in my face. If I looked in any direction but straight ahead, "What are you looking for?" I veered to a side street, hoping it would be more peaceful, "Where are you going? Are you lost?" I went back to the main drag and booked it back to the hotel, so I could just read until I slept, then I could catch the next bus out of town.

"Hello friend!"

"What's my name?" I replied.

"Excuse me?" the random man said.

"What is my name?" I asked, staring him in the eyes.

"I don't know."

"Then you aren't my friend!" I said and started walking away.

"Tell me your name then, so we can become friends."

I laughed, then kept walking; the man followed.

"Why don't you want to talk to me?"

"Because everyone in Pahar Ganj is bothering me all the time, trying to get my money."

"I hate this place too, but we aren't all bad."

"Oh, I'm sure of it, but I don't know who to trust in this town anymore, so I'm trusting nobody. It's safer."

"I only want five minutes of your time, just come to my shop."

"I don't buy souvenirs, they just weight down my pack and sits in boxes at home."

"Oh, not this kind of shop. I just want to tell you about a place you can go, different from Delhi, better. If you want to leave this city, I can help you leave. Only five minutes."

Now he was speaking my language.

The guy seemed cool and I had nothing better to do, so I complied. He was from Kashmir and his family owned a houseboat on Dal Lake in Srinaar, a peaceful town in the foothills of the Himalaya. The price was cheap, it even included home cooked meals. Best of all, it wasn't Delhi. The man's brother arrived. Both had the same strange left eye that always pointed out, as if looking at something to the side.v They invited me to their apartment across the street for some tea. I should have learned my lesson by now, but something gave me a good feeling about them.

"Man, you're gonna love this place! My parents are great and the love guests. You stay with us, you become family. You ever had Kashmiri tea?"

"Nope."

"You're gonna love it man! There's this Australian guy up there now, he's gonna be so happy to have company. I'm actually leaving tonight, we can go together, spend New Year's Eve up there. Peaceful place, my father will make us hash cakes. It will so nice."

"Nah man, that actually sounds cool, small relaxed New Years." I paused one second. "A hash cake would be nice. You know, I think I'll head up there for New Years. I'm in."

"Oh great. Wanna smoke some hash?" Without waiting for my reply, he started rolling a joint. "Man, did you see the photos at the office? So beautiful. You stay with us, you become family..."

Every time he'd caught his breath from his massive drag, he'd repeat his pitch lines until I couldn't take it anymore.

"Dude, I said I'd go, you don't have to keep selling it to me. Let's just chill. Thanks for the smoke, by the way."

"Oh cool man, sorry, man, that Aussie guy is gonna be so happy to have some company. New Year will be great." He then started the pitch all over again. "So, can you pack by nine tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Yeah, it's easy to go tonight. I'm heading up there to visit my wife. We get bus together, 1000 rupees, overnight, we sleep, then we are in Kashmir. Easy, cheap. No hotel. Good for budget."

"I already paid for tonight at my hotel."

"That's ok, that's ok. Here, I give you discount the first night. You're coming for a whole week, right?"

"I'm not sure yet dude, I'm trying to keep it loose. Take it day by day." I took another drag. "This is actually a really fast change in plans. I might need a little bit of time to reorganize my route. Figure a plan."

"You can go anywhere from Kashmir. Buses go all over India from my town, no problem. Here, I'll just call the bus company and book some seats." He then picked up his phone and speed dialed a number. He asked about seats. The weed was kicking in and I stood there transfixed with his conversation. Maybe it was paranoia, but something didn't seem right. He kept talking, asking about bus times and the arrangements, when suddenly it clicked.

He was having the conversation in English.

He hung up. "Ok, they have seats. So, tonight?"

The implications of this didn't hit me at first, but it was clear that I didn't want to go anywhere tonight with this guy. "No, I need to think first. There are certain things I want to see in India and I have to work it all out first. How about this, I meet you up there for New Year's Eve."

"But it's cheaper to go direct, tonight, with me."

"The cost isn't the most important thing for me. If I'm heading all the way up to Kashmir, I'd want to go someplace in between, see some sights, maybe Amritsar, on the way."

"It's better to go direct, cheaper. Then we can go the houseboat. My father is so cool, he can make us good Kashmiri hash cakes. Home cooked meals. You stay with us, you become family..." The then continued his whole pitch again for a few more minutes before I lost it.

I started yelling. "Dude! Stop it! I said I'd go, so stop selling me your guesthouse. In the west, if somebody talks too much about their product, it means they have no confidence in it."

"Oh, sorry man. So, I'll just book the tickets now."

"How about you give me an hour to pack, look at my calendar and make a decision. I'll come back, I promise."

"Why you need an hour, just do it!"

"Stop pushing me!"

"I'm not pushing you."

"Yes you are! 'Now, now, I need to know now.' " imitating him. "I think slowly and I can't do it with you sitting there telling me I have to leave tonight. The more you push me, the more I don't want to do it anymore."

"Ok man, sorry. There's a bus tomorrow too, but tonight is much better. Here, I'll make one more pot of tea and a joint, and you can think right here."

"You just don't get it! Stop it! Seriously! I'm going to my hotel, I'm going to walk around, eat some food, then I'll tell you what I'm going to do."

"Why do you have to go to your hotel?"

"Because that's how I do things. I'll come back."

"Ok, I'll see you in an hour."

I rushed out of there and headed to the first internet cafe I could find. First, I checked up on the company, but could find no info. The Lonely Planet strongly suggested booking boathouses in Kashmir, not in Delhi and to always check the news in the typically volatile region. It seemed safe at that time, but all public transportation there was on strike. So the question was, who was he talking to on the phone?  Also, the forecast showed snow for the next five days and they expected major road closings going into the higher elevations. Also, to go directly there would force me to either skip Rishikesh or zigzag around the North, making my travels a lot less efficient.

I'm a man of my word, so I returned after an hour as promised, knowing he wouldn't like my decision. We sat in the office and I told him that I would come, but after a week.

"But it's better to go now!"

"No, there's a strike on all transit in Kashmir."

"No there isn't!"

"Yes there is! I just read about it. And it's gonna snow until Saturday, probably blocking the roads."

"What? There's no snow! Here, I'll call the Aussie guy. He'll tell you, no snow."

"It is not snowing now, but it will tomorrow night."

"No, only in the hills!"

"No, in Srinagar."

"Not true."

"Hey," I said, "check the weather."

"Did you go online? Don't you trust your friend?"

"Do you remember my name?" I asked.

"What did you read? Why did you go online?"

"Because it's Kashmir and I wanted to see if it was safe."

"Of course it's safe. Kashmir is a safe place. I'll call the Australian, you talk to him."

"Hey, I still want to come, but I'll just do it in a week."

"Better to go now!"

"Why? I don't want to go now, I want to go in a week. Why can't I plan my own traveling?"

"But the roads will close soon. Snow is coming very fast."

"You just said there's no snow!"

"There's always snow in winter. Roads close a lot. You might not get into Kashmir in a week."

"Then why would I want to go there now? Why risk getting trapped in a cold place like Kashmir?"

"You won't get trapped. There's always a way through."

"Ah, then I can still go there in a week." I'd won.

"Well, put a deposit down then."

"Why, what is the point of putting a deposit down now. I have your number, I'll call you when I get there. Plus, what if I pay and the roads close?"

"You can get a refund."

"How?"

"Come back here."

"Ah, then I'd have to return to Delhi, and that is something I will never do again!"

"Just put a deposit down."

"What's the point? Damn it! How many times do I have to explain this to you, stop pushing me!"

We sat there in silence. His sale had gone from a yes to a probably, and now, it was dead.  And he knew it. Finally, he made a last feeble effort. He opened his drawer, threw a chunk of hash on the table. "Want to buy some hash?"

I stood up and left. I spent the rest of the night in my room, reading until I slept, planning to catch the next bus out of town.

I laughed four days later as I saw the coverage on the news of the massive blizzard that hit Srinagar, closing all roads in and out for the unseen future.

Paneer

Paneer is the official cheese of India. It's not a femented cheese, more like a hard cottage cheese. It's not as rich as all the cheeses we in the west have come to love so much, but it's still tasty. Most vegetarian restaurants will have a few dishes that are quite common, Palak Paneer, which is spinach and a light-flavored white sauce, Mutter Paneer, which is paneer and green peas, and my all time favorite paneer dish, the decadent Paneer Makhani or Paneer Butter Masala, depending on where you go.

Here's a recipe for Paneer Makhani I'd suggest adding a few tablespoons of cream to this recipe.

Three Stories of Delhi: Part One

My plan had me headed to Jaipur, but there was a massive transportation strike, blocking all routes from Agra to Jaipur.  Instead, I tried going to Mathura, a very holy, Hindu city between Agra and Delhi. After attempting of board a bus, I was tossed off, "No Western!" the driver yelled. So, I was forced to go with plan C, Delhi, a place I will never go again.

The bus broke down about halfway there, so I got a refund and waved down another that was already packed full of people. While driving into Delhi, I was excited, fueled by the my great experiences in one of India's other megalopolises, Kolkata. The bus stopped at a different place than I expected and it was not close a subway stations, so I hopped on the first city bus I find, hoping it led into the city instead of away.

After have backpacked for years, I'd become quite skilled at figuring out where I was in place I'd never been. Using maps and landmarks, I deduced that I was on the Ring Road, heading South into New Delhi. According to my map, Indiraprathstra station would be the next stop; I was right. My kuhkuri posed too much of a security risk for me to board the metro, so I caught a rickshaw with a functioning meter (I've been in India waaaay to long to trust the honor system.) and headed to Pahar Ganj, Delhi's tourist ghetto. I was right about my location, but wrong about the direction. At first I thought the driver was taking me the wrong way, but when I arrived, I knew it was I who was disoriented.

My hotel was 300 rupees, a bit high, but acceptable. I took off on my ritual exploratory walk and was assaulted by every person on the street.

"See my shop!"

"Rickshaw!"

"Hello friend. Excuse me, Hello!"

"Something to smoke?"

"Where are you going?"

I stopped to photograph a sign for the landmark Hotel Decent, when a man started talking to me.

"Hey, why is that nobody will have tea with me?"

"Because everybody knows that Indians never invite foreigners for tea unless they want something."

We started a nice conversation and eventually, I did feel comfortable enough to join him for tea fraught with caution. He was a musician from Mumbai and was coming up for a gig. His tea shop of choice was five minutes walk, but the chai was cheap (actually, he paid) and good. He left for the toilet ("Even Indian's get Delhi belly", he said.), but not before another man, Raviv (we'll just call him that), apparently his friend, came and started to chat me up about religion. Our conversation was soaring. We'd unpacked many of the philosophical mysteries of the world. He invited me to dinner, an invitation I declined. I didn't hide my trepidation of leaving public places in the company of a stranger.  However, I did accept his offer to join him for some sightseeing the next day. He was from Mumbai and he told me it's been a while since he saw the Red Fort.

At nine the next morning, he arrived and we continued to talk over more chai. Finally, tea with an Indian was a friendly gesture, not business.

"Before we go, let's stop for breakfast at my friend's office."

I followed him, not recognizing the signs. We arrived at closed store front and he invited me in. I hesitated at the pull-down shutter over the door.

"I've seen this movie before," I said.

"We'll leave the door open. It's going to be a hot day."

Our breakfast of Puri Baji was shared over a conversation of religion and its effect on Indian culture. With a mere hour knowing the man, I felt quite comfortable. I'd finally made a friend.

"So, let me tell you about my business."

Apparently, the man was a jeweler, selling cheap handcrafts from India and Thailand to the US and other countries for a profit. When the company maxes out on their duty exemptions, they find tourists to mail the goods overseas.

The procedure was simple. The tourist packs the box, declares the goods and their value, then sends them to their home country to be stored at the post office. When they arrive home, they give the products to the overseas representative and receives a cut of the money saved in taxes. Overall, it was a high profit, low risk scam that would be tempting to many people, myself included. He looked at my passport and said that I'd have no problem with the authorities.

I sat for an hour, thinking of all the ways that this company could scam me, but I could think of none. I thought of all the ways that I could get in trouble by the government, but could think of none. I though all the moral objections I could find of screwing the government out of a few thousand dollars of tax money, but could think of none either, but something didn't sit right. I couldn't pull the trigger.

"Would you like to see the jewelry?" he asked.

"I guess." I have no idea why I agreed.

We headed downstairs where I was shown about five bracelets, while another less-friendly man, explained the process to me again. I'd make $4000 profit on my first round of jewelry smuggling and if it went well, I'd have more opportunities to make even more on the next trips.

"Next trips?" I asked.

"Yeah, you can do this again and again. It could become a very lucrative job for you. And us."

 When I explained that I was traveling for four more months, longer than the post office would hold packages, he offered to fly me back to the United States, then back to Asia again. A one-time deal was tempting, but to become a jewelry smuggler as a job was too far.

"And this would be a secret business. I want us to sleep well", the less-friendly man then looked me directly in the eyes, "and I want you to sleep well."

I looked at the jewels and looked at the two men for five minutes in silence. The stared at me the whole time, waiting for my response. Easy money. I could continue my travels with no worries of my already tightening budget. The only thing they would have of me was a photocopy of my passport, which many hotels and internet cafes have already, and my trust, but I still couldn't shake that heavy feeling in my gut. Why was this involving so much thought? I wasn't bothered in the slightest by their illegal business; it was actually quite clever. But something was holding me back.

Then it hit me: they'd betrayed my trust, the one thing they wanted me to give them. The man came to me under the guise of friendship, then lied to me of his intentions, and if somebody lies once, they'll lie again.

I cleared my throat then began, "I don't see anything wrong with what you are doing. It's a clever scam and from your records, I see that many have done business with you, having no problems. Thank you for trusting me enough to give me this offer, but I can't do it. I'm an honest man and I can keep secrets when I need to, but I'm too honest to want to carry something like this with me. Though I do not feel any moral wrong with this business, this is not the person I am. I live my life in a certain way, and this isn't it. I'm sorry."

"But you showed us your passport. I thought you were interested." the second man said. "You've handled our goods."

"I was, but I had to think. I decide things slowly. You talk of wanting me to sleep well, but if I do this, I won't sleep well. I don't like carrying secrets. I'm sorry."

The second man clutched the bracelet. "So, let me get this straight. You just sat here listening to us explain our whole illegal business plan and you think you're just going to leave?"

"Yeah. I do. You asked me to trust you. Well, now trust me. I don't care about this thing you have going on here. I'll keep quiet. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry. We can find others who would easily do this. We don't need you."

I tried to unpack if that was a threat and then put on my best smile. "That's good to hear. Thank you for the offer."

I sat in tense silence, not leaving, weighing my choice.

Ravi, who'd not said a word through this whole thing was looking down at his feet. Finally he looked up at me. "Are you disappointed in me?"

"Yeah, I am. You came to me claiming to be a friend. You said you had no motives. You just wanted to talk. We shared tea and food and some great conversations. I thought you were my fast friend. Then it becomes, like it always in India, about business."

"But it's best to do business with friends," said the second man.

"No, business gets in the way of friendship. They don't mix. So, sorry, Ravi, you're clearly not a friend. Now, I've already spent half of my day here and I'd like to see the Red Fort like I originally planned."

"You're not going to tell anybody in the marketplace about this?" Ravi asked

"I may be an honest man, but I'm not a stupid man. Goodbye.

I left quickly and headed back towards my hotel. As I left, there was a man in a green hoodie leaning against the door, clearly keeping watch. Suddenly, the true weight of what had happened hit me. I had sat in and heard a lot of information from an organized crime racket.

I started walking faster. I checked for tails; suddenly everyone was following me. Orange striped shirt. Green hoodie. I took a left, then a right, deeper into the unknown streets of the ever sinister growing city. I stopped for a moment and there was green hoodie again.

So I ran, twisting around the corners indiscriminately, hoping I could find something I recognized or some tourist site I could lost in. After about ten minutes, I popped on the main market street and became just another white face in the crowed. I floated on the mass until I was about two blocks from my hotel. I wasn't dumb enough to go straight there with a tail.

I ducked into an alley, stopped for chai and waited for the green hoodie to appear. When finished without seeing a familiar face, I continued down the street to my hotel. I walked towards my hotel, then went past it and then waited in the doorway of another hotel. Nobody came, so I turned back and went straight to my hotel and locked the room.

An hour later, I walked the two miles to Old Delhi to see the Red Fort, but it was closed. Instead, I headed over to Delhi's grand mosque, the Jama Mastid. There was a 200 rupee camera fee, so I buried it deep in my backpack and decided I didn't need photos. Just through the gate, I was shaken down by a large, bullying Muslim Indian.

"Where's your camera? Give me 200 rupees!"

I emptied my pockets to show him I had none on me, then he grabbed my bag and scattered the contents onto the ground until he found my camera.

"Now, give me 200 rupees!"

"I don't want to take photos, I just want to see with my eyes."

"Give me 200 rupees!"

"I think I'd rather just go home."

Some house of God!

My first twenty-four hours did not leave a great impression.

Food Diary: Chana

Chana is a generic term for chickpeas and pulses, another of the staple foods of India. It is often used in curries. Puri Bahji is a common breakfast of puri bread and an aloo and chana soup. In Bihar and other places in India, chana is ground into a flour called sattu and used in desserts and littis, spiced balls that are grilled over charcoal. Of course, the most famous use of chana is in Chana Masala, among the most popular dishes in India.

Chana Masala Recipe

Christmas at the Taj Mahal

I celebrated Christmas in a way two days before the date, sharing Korean food with lovely women, Selam from Ethiopia and Jaida from Denmark. Jaida had managed to find a tiny Christmas tree, which we decorated with proportionately tiny ornaments. It was a delicious meal with good company, but it wasn't family.

My one consolation, which was admittedly a big one, was that I would be visiting the snow white Taj Mahal on Christmas morning; my ironic Muslim Christmas gift.

Selam continued with me to Agra. She was quite the asset. Her walk was the strong, assertive gait that only an African woman could have. When she told anybody "No!" it was short and convincing. This helped a lot in bargaining situations, "How much is the ride to Taj Ganj?"

"50!"

"No!" Selam would jab, then walk away in her walk, showing no signs of stopping.

We found a decent hotel for a good price; the autorickshaw-away is much more authoritative than the walk-away. Each of us went to our single rooms and washed the train out of our skin. I climbed to the roof and grabbed my first glimpse of the Taj, giant, much bigger than expected, white, shrouded by mist, or smog (it was hard to tell). It was closed that day, so we headed to Agra Fort.

The red fort was lovely, especially contrasted with the white marble palace inside. If not for the looming Taj Mahal, easily seen in the distance, this would be one of the most spectacular buildings in the world. The Moguls built large, simplistically beautiful buildings, featuring domes, pillars, towering archways, minuretes, sculptures and marble inlay work. All these culminating in the world's greatest tomb.

Selam asked me a price and pitted six rickshaw drivers against each other until, finally, the old man, our target, agreed to fifty rupees to take us to another tomb in the North of town and a park with perfect views of the Taj from the North. The catch, we agreed to visit five shops, which would earn the man 20 for each and 10% of everything we purchased. Most of the stores were selling the handcrafts of the area, Persian rugs, marble sculptures, mediocre marble inlay work, and jewelery. The one jeweler almost cracked Selam's statuesque resolve. Heck, I almost bought the jewelery.

We both headed to bed early to awake for sunrise visit to the Taj. Waking was easy even in the dark, just as a child, ready to tear into presents. I knocked on Selam's door and she was ready to go. The gate was closed, not opening until 6:45 and the ticket counter was a kilometer away. I'd hate to imagine the line that would make that practical. Walking in the dark, a horde of rickshaw drivers, awake early, attacked like wolves, chasing us down the road, some running ahead to ask us after we turned the first strikers down. The line at the counter was already full of people. We were still, thankfully, among the first to enter that morning.

It was an ethereally foggy morning and the Taj was barely visible, even from the gate. In many ways, the Taj Mahal is a shame to see; no other building will ever surpass it. Every gushing traveler who's ever said those words are telling the truth. To see it up close pulls unconditional wows in a symphony of languages. It's huge, white, breathtaking, simple and ridiculously complex, all at the same time. The gardens frame the approach, getting more captivating with every step. The door arches stretch to the sky. It's like walking into a fictional that can only exist in books. Koranic verses line the towering doors, all done in carefully cut, marble work, black upon white. Inside, the eerily peaceful mausoleum lay two coffins, the small white sarcophagus of Mumtaz Mahal, the culmination of the whole building. Next to her is the out-of-place add on of Shah Jahan, designer and funder of the greatest monument to love, his own tomb never built. They sit in a cage of carved marble and meticulous marble inlay flowers, with not a seem between rocks. Sunrise threw an orange beam though the perfectly placed East windows, illuminating the flowers, which glowed against the dull white. The proportions of everything was just right, perfect.

Selam had a train to catch, so I headed to Fatepur Sikri, an hour from Agra. 'Tis home to an old abandoned city, featuring great Mogul architecture, on a smaller scale than the other buildings in the area. When I arrived by bgus, a young man pointed down a street and said, "Go there! Monument." So I walked, noticing the man was following me, but he was doing it in front of me, trying to make it not look obvious. Finally, he turned around and said, "Oh, going to monument? It's this way.", pointing back the way we came. He then started leading me there, and as expected, he started giving me a tour for which I never asked.

I tried my best to lead him where I wanted to go, ignoring the direction he was pointing and not caring as he told me the number of stairs in each set. I was roped into a sculptor's sales pitch for a while, then I decided to tell the man to bugger off.

"I got this man. You don't need to show me around anymore."

"Ok, so tip?" holding out his hand.

I stared at his young face, seething, acting as if I was so oblivious not to notice it was he who deliberately led me off course before he "helped me." I was about to tear into him, berate him for his disrespect for the foreigners that keep his town alive, his loathsome tendency to lie, and most of all, insulting my intelligence. Then, I remembered, it was Christmas, and though I'm not a Christian, I must have felt a bit of the spirit that day. My frown turned to a smile and I tipped him 100 rupees. He had successfully tricked me after all.

My time became more enjoyable after he left. The main draw and the one part that costs money for the tourists are the three palaces of Emperor Akbar, that he built for his wives, one Hindu, one Muslim, and one Christian. The largest was for his Hindi wife, Judh Bai. It's an interesting place to explore and imagine the past grandeur of the once great city. Most is in ruins; the city was barely used, abandoned because of lack of water. The red buildings are magical in the afternoon sun, and haunting to see such a magnificent city abandoned, crumbling.

I went back to the bus stop and found the trickster, waiting for the next sucker. I joked around with him about his scam, harassing the begging children and having a great time. Even though he tried to cheat me, he was still Indian and Indian people have great senses of humor. Merry Christmas!

Food Diary: Kofta

Kofta is a generic term for a dumpling, typically used in Middle Eastern and Indian cuisine. In India, I found that most kofta is made from potatoes and paneer. In nearly every vegetarian restaurant in the country, Malai Kofta is on the menu. This is a potato ball served in a cream sauce made by heating milk then letting it cool and skimming the hardened skin off the top. Paneer is typically added, making this a tasty curry. Other variations use the addition of coconut milk or nuts or nut paste. This is one of the great Indian dishes.

Recipe This seems ok from a quick read. I'd suggest adding Malai to the sauce to make it thick and creamy. Yum.

Varanasi

A Malaysian photographer, who'd quit his high up management job to travel and shoot told me one night over a bhang lassi that if someone could only visit one place in India and come anywhere close to understanding the country, it would be Varanasi.

I had to agree with him. Situated on the Ganges, Varanasi is India's holiest city. Bathing in the waters, polluted with sewage, ash, chemicals, garbage, and severed limbs ironically cleanses the soul of all its sins. Shiva is strong here and being cremated on the banks, then dumped in the river releases the soul from the cycle of rebirth. Dying here does the same, so the sick come here to die. Kings from all over India built lavish hospice palaces where they ended their lives. Pilgrims travel from everywhere for a plunge, a once in a lifetime journey. The banks and ghats are lined with rainbow processions of women, clad in pink, orange, red, green, and blue saris with bags balanced on their heads, singing in joy for having finally reached the holy place. Funeral processions go on endlessly; the people chanting along the way. There is nothing to do but press against the walls of the narrow streets as groups ranging in size from two to fifty carry their passed loved ones to the ganga for burning. Joy and sorrow mix together in a crazy sensory feast. And oddly enough, it's such a holy feeling place, it feels relaxing.

It is also one of the most popular tourist towns in India and with it, the touts and scams. Walking the ghats conjures an endless flood of people offering boat rides, one of the best ways to experience the city. I had quite a traumatic experience one day. Photographing the cremations is understandably taboo. The cremation happens just in front of a complex of beautiful temples. I stopped to snap one photo, careful to not get any burning bodies in my shot. 100 meters up the river, two men pushed me and exploded in angry yelling.

"You can't photograph the burning!"

"I didn't!" trying to sound strong, "I was taking a photo of the temple behind."

"Don't lie, we saw you take a photo of the burning."

"No really, I didn't!" I pulled out my camera and showed them the photo. "See, only temples."

One of the men pointed to the far bottom right corner at a black smudge not bigger than a dot. "See, smoke, right there!"

"No man, it's just temples."

"How dare you disrespect our culture!" The other yelled.

I knew I was right, but I tried to appease them. "Fine, I'll delete it." And I did. "There, happy!"

"Don't delete it motherfucker!"

"You're in big fucking trouble you shit!" The other chimed in.

"Why? I didn't photograph the burning, and you know it."

"Come with us. I'm taking you to the police. You're gonna pay!"

"No, I'm not."

The other one got in my face. "How dare you treat our culture like that. How dare you disrespect the families."

One of them grabbed my arm and started pulling me. "Come to the ghat and apologize."

"I'm not going anywhere!" wrenching my arm free. "You just want to rob me. I'm not an idiot!"

"We're taking you the police."

"No, I'm taking you to the police, the police I find." I started walking the other way, hoping police did in fact exist in that direction.

"Come with us!"

"No, you come with me!"

Finally they backed down. "Fine then, go. But don't let us see you around here again, or we'll fuck you up."

I knew the two people were not in fact any family of the deceased, but merely scammers cashing in on an opportunity to get me alone to rob me. Either way, I heeded the warning and avoided that chunk of the river, sticking instead to the narrow streets of the old city. Varanasi is a literal labyrinth, with dead ends and all. One doesn't choose a destination and walk to it, one wanders around and hopes to stubble on it. Getting lost was kinda fun, especially when there was a good sweet shop. At first, I had a list of sights I wished to see, but within a couple of hours, I ditched my plans; Varanasi is a town you feel, not see. Still, it's a beautiful place. Few India experiences are more iconic than sitting on a row boat, beneath a grand palace or great temple, seeing happy Hindus taking that once in a lifetime splash. No place is more India than this.

History of the Buddha: Part 2

Last time on the History of the Buddha:

"Gosh, my mother said having a baby was painful and hard, this must have the been the most peaceful birth ever."

"We'll call him Siddhartha."

"A king! I feel it too! He'll be a great king of kings, like this Jesus guy I'm always hearing about."

"He will be a king, and like all great kings, the best way to prepare him for a successful rule over his people is to shelter him completely from them."

"Father, ya know, life here in the palace is pretty bitchin' and all that, but what is it like outside?"

"Ok son, I'll tell you what is out there. Outside the palace are old people and sick people and poor people and the worst, the worst are the dead people. These are the types of things that cause existential crises. It's just better to never think of these things."

"The man is no more. He has ceased to be. He's expired and gone to meet his maker. He's a stiff, bereft of life, he rests in peace. His metabolic processes are now history. He's off the twig. He's kicked the bucket, he's shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleeding choir invisibile! This is an ex-person!"

"Oh dear!" He said aloud. "Is this what my father meant when said I'd have an existential crisis?"

And now, the story continues...


"Father, I need to leave the palace...for good."

"Oh son, why did you go outside? I can see from your face that you're going through an existential crisis, just as I had worried."

"Yes father, and the only cure is suffering and poverty. I can't live with such rich comfort, knowing that others are so poor."

"Son, that's not the answer. You should be happy that you are one of the fortunate ones. You have money, palaces, a beautiful wife, a child. So many people don't have what you have, and you're willing to give it up like them?"

"I am no more worthy of this life than anyone else."

"I can't stop you from leaving, you're a grown man of 29 years, but I wish you'd reconsider. I'd miss you."

"I have to do this father. It's the only way I can get rid of the suffering I feel."

So Siddhartha went to his tailor, replaced his fancy lycra clothes for a burlap sack and left all of his possessions, family and life in the palace. Not more than a minute after leaving, he met a familiar face.

"Oh Shiva help me! It's you again."

"Yes poor man, it is me, Siddhartha."

"What are you wearing?"

"It is called burlap; it's quite itchy, but I've never felt more comfortable in my life."

"Where is your lacra?"

"I left my lyra at home."

"Why on Earth did you do that?"

"I have decided to become poor, like you!"

"Why the hell would you like to be poor."

"Because it's not fair that I was rich, while you are poor."

"Are you daft? How does becoming poor change anything? Are you such an asshole that you think you need repentance for being rich? This is not going to give you the release you're searching for. What you'll need is repentance for casting aside the things so many want."

"It doesn't matter what you say, this is what I have to do."

"At least you standing up for the stupid things you believe."

"I have a question for you. May I join you and learn the secrets of being poor?"

"There are no secrets to being poor. If you're poor, you either survive or die. Simple."

"But I don't know how to survive. I need a tutor."

"I don't like you."

"Why don't you like me?"

"Because you're a naive, rich, annoying man-child...just to name three."

"Well, I'm no longer rich and you have the power to rid me of my naivete." Siddhartha paused a moment. "Am I really that annoying?"

The man thought for a while, with Siddhartha staring dough-eyed. "Fine, I'll let you tag around."

"What is your name?"

"Raviv."

"It's a great pleasure to meet you Raviv. So, how do we get food?"

"Get used to being hungry."

"So, what do we do for the day?"

"Live."

"Do you wanna play a game?"

"You ask a lot of questions?"

"I need a lot of answers."

"Your vocabulary shows you are far from the answers you seek."

And so, Siddhartha went into the tutelage of Raviv, where he learned many lessons of a lifestyle that was so different from the one of his past. He learned to forage int he garbage for good food, how to sleep comfortably outside with merely his burlap sack, how to train a monkey to dance for money, and how to elicit pity money from tourists. Never once did he join Raviv in stealing, a despicable act in his eyes. Even though he found this new life to be a new adventure, it wasn't hard. It especially wasn't giving him the release he so desired. That hole was still in his heart.

One day during an exceptionally poor day of begging, Raviv grew quite frustrated.

"Damn ascetics! They're begging us out of our business today."

"Ascetics?"

"Those bastards in the robes. They fancy themselves holy men, but they're just the same as you or me, they only add a pretentious goal to their poverty."

"Really?"

"Pretty dumb."

"No, maybe that's what I need, a solid goal for my poverty."

"Oh god, I knew this would happen, the second I start liking you, you realize how unfulfilling this life is. Do me a favor, if you leave me, go back to your old life, being an ascetic is not the answer."

"How do I find these men?"

"Just follow your nose, you'll find them."

"Right when he said that, an oppressive odor welcomed them as three long-haired, dirty men in robes rounded the corner, carrying a metal can with a thin layer of coins."

"How can I become an ascetic?" Siddhartha asked the men.

"You merely have to follow us and abandon all your possessions and ties to the people you love."

So, he removed his burlap sack, thanked Raviv for all he taught him and became an ascetic.

Siddhartha found a particular knack for being a man in robe. Meditation soothed his soul, having nothing freed his heart of much of his suffering. Soon his beard and hair grew long, his robe grew dirty and years passed before he knew it. His introspection tempered his quick tongue. With his kind eyes and simple wisdom he developed, all who passed him gave alms. He touched all he met.

After a particularly good day, the leader of the group approached Siddhartha. "Siddhartha, I am growing old, too old for the life of a pilgrim. Out of everyone here, you seem to have learned the most. Your wisdom defies your age. Though you are the youngest and have been with me the shortest amount of time, I feel you should become the leader when I pass."

Siddhartha soaked in his words, closed his eyes for five minutes before speaking. His patience kept him from quick decisions, quick responses. Finally, he opened his eyes, turned to his mentor and began to speak. "Baba, I am flattered by your decision. I feel I have learned much from you, more than one should learn in a lifetime. To hear that you feel I am worthy to be a teacher shows I have but little more to learn from you, and when you pass, your wisdom will only exist in your followers, in me. However, as of late, I feel that there is more to learn, another step. How can I learn more in the context of this group if I continue along the same path? The life of an ascetic has taught me much, but we are still bound to the same needs as everyone else. Plus, to live, we much beg, taking alms and food from those who need it. Do we deserve to benefit from the toils of others, just because we wear robes and travel the country?"

"Siddhartha, will there ever be an end to your quest for detachment? Your decision is wise and your are right. Perhaps your wisdom surpasses even me."

Siddhartha smiled, stood up and walked into the woods to find the next step of his growth. He abandonded beggin from others, only eating what he found in the forest. Slowly, he lowered his intake of food until he was eating merely a single nut and a single leaf. Why hsould he deprive the other animals of precious food, just because he was human? He grew thinner and thinner, only having enough energy to meditate. Then one day, he went to bathe and collapsed,too weak to return to land.

Luckily, a fisherman found him, saved his life. He spent a month, nurturing the emaciated Siddhartha back to health with milk and rice pudding. When he finally regained lucidity, Siddhartha realized that the fisherman was none other than Raviv.

"Raviv!"

"Siddhartha, I knew it was you. What were you doing, starving yourself like that?"

"I rejected all things, even food."

"Well that's just stupid!"

Siddhartha did not linger upon regaining his health. Never in his life did he see a man happier than Raviv as a fisherman. He realized that this life he had only narrowly survived had brought him no closer to his release, it hindered it. He envied the modest lifestyle of his friend and found a beautiful pipal tree under which to meditate on his new knowledge. After 49 days, he found the peace for which he was searching. He awoke enlightened. He awoke the Buddha.

Hesse and the Bodhi Tree

Herman Hesse's Siddhartha has been sitting on my bookshelf for years. It's not that I didn't want to read it, but Hesse is a writer who needs to be absorbed at just the right time. My friends and I had stumbled upon Damien at 14 and it came perfectly placed in my life. I figured India was the prime place to read Siddhartha, since Hesse wrote it while inspired by his travels, so I tossed it my backpack, where it's lived for the last three months. Finally, I decided upon the place. I'd go to Bodhgaya and read the whole novel under the Bodhi tree, the very place where Siddhartha Gautma achieved enlightenment. Pretentious and cheesy yes, but it felt right.

Bodhgaya was crazy, swarming with pilgrims. I visited the divine Mahabodhi Temple, home of the tree and did a two quick koras, one on the outside, then once on the inside. Some man was giving a talk to thousands of bald-headed monks. The grounds were a sea of heads and robes, yellow, red, maroon, and orange. At first I thought it may have been the Dalai Lama: the speaker was obviously important and looked Tibetan from the distance. Upon closer inspection, I saw it was the 17th Karmapa himself, Ogyen Trinley Darje, second most holy man in the Buddhist faith. Right behind him was the tree, which still had a bit of space open between the masses crowded under it. I plopped down in the shade, pulled out my Hesse and began my journey towards enlightenment.

It was a special setting; people from around the world, some praying, some meditating, some reading scripture, but most were hanging intently on the Karmapa's words. I read in surprising peace under the tree, only feet from the future head of the Buddhist faith. About 20 pages in, a bird shuffled a small stick which fell onto my head, it felt like a blessing. Next to me, another man had a leave fall onto him, he looked to the heavens in bliss. I picked up the stick and rubbed the wood between my fingers, the precious wood from the world's most sacred tree and had a revelation. It was just wood and this wasn't my tree. This was Siddhartha's tree. To sit here, hoping for some spontaneous life-lesson was pointless. Everyone was here, hoping that this particular tree had some magic, wisdom-granting powers, praying, searching, yearning for the ironic enlightenment, as the very idea of searching for nirvana prevents one from finding it. Suddenly, I was in a sea of hypocrites, lost souls. My neighbor was a white man, almost giving himself a hernia trying to meditate under the tree with hundreds around him, with the Karmapa's voice booming over the loudspeakers. I stood up and left. I wasn't searching for any answers, only a good place to read this beautiful book, and this wasn't it. As I said, it wasn't my tree.

I said a quick prayer out of respect and found a cafe nearby. All trees were essentially the same and a cafe was as good as tree, maybe better, since I could sip chai while reading. For the rest of the day, I picked a spot, read a chapter, then saw a few temples, then sat and read some more at a different location.

My reading was often broken up by many inquiring people, intrigued by the title or familiar with Hesse. It was a town that bred philosophical talk. I met a German woman, flirting with Buddhism and discussed the book and the irony of Buddhism as a religion. She encouraged me to walk 4km to a monastery I'd just visited to receive a blessing by the Karmapa. I told her that it wouldn't hurt since I was here anyway and she rushed to join what was probably an endless line.

"I hope you find the answers you're looking for." She said as she left.

I looked at her and replied, "I'm not looking for any answers, the search itself keeps them from coming."

"Well then, I hope that the answers come to you implicitly or magically."

I smiled and waved as another of the lost souls of Bodhgaya left to force enlightenment upon herself. I chose not to seek what would be an empty blessing; to stand in a long line only to have a holy man look upon me fore one second would be meaningless, especially since I'm not Buddhist. Too much ritual bogs down the teachings of Siddhartha. To go to the blessing would erase the very lesson I learned under the great tree. Plus, I had a book to read.
`
The novel unfolded like my day, Siddhartha learning the same lessons throughout his life as I learned them chatting with random pole at a cafe on a dusty, crowded, vendor-lined street. I met a couple from Hong Kong who travel every year to Bodhgaya for the Karmapa's annual visit.

"We love how he tells you how to live life in a happy, peaceful way. Priests just tell you what to think, the Karmapa tells you how to live."

"Will you seek a blessing from the Karmapa?" I asked.

"Oh no, we just love to hear him speak."

When I was only ten ten pages shy of what may have been the most incredible passages in all of literature, the ending, my thali arrived and I needed my hands to eat. Behind me, a long-haired, braid-bearded Christian American, dressed in a white robe, carrying a flute and two dolls, one white and one black was conversing on religion with a Tibetan monk. I tried not to eavesdrop, but Americans talk loudly. He told of how he found Jesus, lost his wife from his devotion and talked of all the lesson he'd learned from the Koran, Hinduism, and Buddhism. I agreed with his thesis, that spirituality is religion shy. As he was leaving, I pulled him aside.

"Hey man, you're a Christian right?"

"In that I follow the ways of Jesus, yes, I am a Christian." He looked like Jesus too, a bespectacled, pasty white Jesus.

"I'm sorry, I was overhearing your conversation while I was eating..."

"...That's fine, I don't mind."

"It is so refreshing to hear a non-hypocritical Christian speak. I grew up in a small town and I really saw how the church has obscured the teaching of the man. Jesus."

"Thanks man."

"So you've read a lot of religious texts?"

"I first read the Koran after finding Jesus and I so surprised by the wisdom of it. The west demonizes the book so much."

"Muslims help with it. It's another case of how people lose through religion the very lessons and lifestyles that the book teaches."

We discussed religion for a while; I told him of my friend Brant and his conversion to Islam while in the seminary.

"Oh! I see you're reading Siddhartha!"

"Seemed like the right time and place."

"Yeah, I read that, myself, years ago for the first time...well right here in Bodhgaya."

"Seems like the hip thing to do."

I told him of my experience under the Bodhi tree, how the tree itself, though beautiful, had no more power than what we, the people gave it for its incredible historical significance.

"It's not your tree. I'm glad you realized that.

"No, it's not my tree, it's the Buddha's tree. And if I was to read the whole book," I said, tapping the cover with my index finger, "under that tree, than obviously I've learned nothing from it. I might have well never read it."

"It's not your tree."

"It's nobody's tree, but so many people here are looking to it, as if it's the tree that's going to save them. I read this book in various cafes around town; why can't a dingy cafe be my tree? It's not the place that matters. Much like it's not the religion. It's the wisdom, the spirituality. And spirituality is a universal need, I'm convinced of it."

"I'm a Christian, Jesus fills that need for me."

"And nature fills that need for me. Heck, even atheists fill that need with their conceited sense of superiority from their logic."

"Their science."

"Exactly!"

The man was about to leave when I asked him about the two dolls, cuddled together in a neat bundle. "These represent one form of the Hindu gods, both children, one man, one woman. One white, one black. They have the innocent love and playfulness of a child, but the wisdom of the gods."

"I really like that!"

"Yeah, me too." He paused for a moment. "I'm glad you figured out it wasn't your tree, man."

"Thanks, Nameste."

"Nameste."

I sat and read the last chapter of the masterpiece, the final paragraph nearly bringing me to tears. I didn't linger after finishing, shutting the book quickly. Staring at the dirty wash basin, outside of the flooded toilet of the restaurant, I'd found my tree.

My baggage was waiting safe at a small used book shop, whose owner was kind enough to store for the day. As a tip, I slipped him the Hesse with 50 rupees.

"Oh," he sighed, "this book. I have so many."

"Popular book here?"

"Everybody has it!" he said as he tossed it carelessly onto a pile of other people's enlightenment.

Egg Rolls

Don't be fooled by the name, these great street snacks, commonly found in Bengal, have nothing to do with the Chinese favorite. I probably ate a million of these in a few short days: for under 50 rupees, it is one of the best deals on the street. They start with a flat bread, coated in an egg mixture and fried on a well oiled skillet once golden brown, it is filled with a wide range of ingredients, most commonly eggs. I also tried paneer, chicken, and mutton as well. All delicious. The filling is then topped with hot sauce, red onions, chilis, and a bit of cabbage. The bread is then rolled up and placed on a newspaper. Devour at will.

This recipe is not quite it, but it'll suffice. The bread appears to use yeast, cause they weren't selling them in the morning, since they had to wait for it to rise.

Bengali Food

Bengal had its own unique cuisine that was quite tasty. Mutard prevailed the most common flavor, but this was also combined with tamarind for sour twist. Most dishes were fish based, but the other curries were quite good too. I wasn't in Kolkata long to make any kind of comprehensive sampling of the food, but I defiantly did my best to try as much as I could. Here are some highlights:

A giant thali featuring: Bhaja, fried leaves; Shim Jhalde, sesame in mustard; Dhonkar Danla, pulses in gravy; Pui Shak Kanta Chachchari, fishhead with spinach; and Phool Kopir rosa, cauliflower curry.

Bhetki Pathori: a delicious fish with mustard, wrapped in a banana leaf and steamed.

Tingri Malaikari: Giant river prawn in a rich creamy curry!

Kolkata

Normally, big cities are off-putting to me. Most seem to blur together, have no special character. Dump somebody in the middle of one big city and it could be a challenge to even guess the country. Kolkata is not one of these cities: it's India all the way.

It was once the capital of the East India Company until it was moved to New Delhi because of constant uprisings by Bengalis. Grand colonial buildings, such as the incredible Queen Victoria Memorial, stand next to the typical Indian concrete. The colonnial buildings are not the only stars of this sprawling city; there are fabulous Jain temples, the towering Dakshinswar temple, and the spread out collection of religious buildings at Belur Math. Walking around the city offers many surprises, no matter if its the wide British Avenues of the narrow crowded streets.

Most of the scant tourist--it's a bit far from the Taj Mahal--stay in the cluster of hotels on Shudder Street, which is hardly the tourist ghetto that most would expect. Meeting travellers is easy in this compact area and there are relatively few of the typical touts and rickshaws.

Kolkata is one of the most living places I've ever been. Tourist do dot the streets, but everyone is so concerned with life, they don't seem to care. It was the home of Mother Theresa and it's easy to see why. Slums are rampant. Worse are the street-dwellers, cooking food with little fires while sitting on blankets, the closest thing they have to a home, right on the sidewalks of the busiest streets. Dirty children play naked amidst it all. Smartly dressed, rich businessmen walk through all this mess, the only ones not looking out of place beneath the Victorian excess. The city has so much energy, just being there was exhilarating. Dirty, clean. Rich, poor. Beautiful, Ugly. All share the chaotic mess, yet it never seems off-putting.

The Bengali food was great. Featuring mostly fish, mustard and tamarind dominate the flavor. The food burst with so much power, it managed not to be overpowered by the city's intensity. One of the best dishes I had was chingri malaikari, giant river prawns, as this as twinkies, in a tasty orange sauce. I had a lunch of this with rasgulla, a delicious cheese coated ball filled with rose-soaked dough. This meal was free when a nice Indian man, a teacher in Memphis, Tennessee, picked up my tab after chatting. Another fine example of the kindness I've found in India thus far.

To make my experiences in Kolkata even better, Douglas and Justin, two of my friends who traveled with me to Sikkim, were there as well. My morning chai at a popular street stall always grouped with both new and old friends. Douglas and I didn't even need to make plans, we'd meet every night at the Fairlawn for a beer, where we'd always pull some other people into our conversations. Our usual victims were an older British couple who may have two of the coolest people I've met.

Simply put, Kolkata was great!

Food Diary: Know your Roti

For the first entry to my food diary of India, I'll start with the basics, the breads, or roti. Most restaurants in the US serve Indian food with rice, but for much of the country, especially the dryer places, roti is king. Roti also serves as a fork or spoon. Always eat with your right hand!

Chapati

Chapati is the easily the most common roti, especially in the North. It is a flour based unleavened flat bread that is basically a tortilla. In fact, I can't think of too many ways in how it differs from a tortilla except it's always fresh. Very rarely does a home-cooked meal come without it.

Here's a recipe (note, I haven't tried this recipe, but I've made it before at home. Super easy.)

Paratha (Parantha)

This is another flat bread, quite like the chapati, only slightly different. They are typically made with whole wheat flour and fried instead of grilled. Most paratha are stuffed with various fillings. Aloo Paratha is filled with potatoes. Gobi Paratha is filled with cauliflower and so on. Sometimes a dish one its own, often as a breakfast, parathas are among the tastiest snacks in India. Yummy.

Recipe (Please observe above note)

Naan

Naan is easily the most popular export or all the rotis. Few trips to an Indian restaurant are complete without naan. Though also a flat bread, it differs from the above in that it contains yeast and is cooked in an oven, not in a pan. Common variants of naan include garlic naan, pashwari naan (kashmiri naan) containing dried fruits, and keema naan, containing meat. Sadly, naan is not too easy to make at home as I've discovered many a time. Cooking naan in a normal oven, still yields a tasty bread, it is nothing compared to tandoori style, flattened, then slapped on the side of the Pujabi charcoal oven.

Here's a recipe, but don't expect any miracle unless you have a tandoor in your kitchen. (I find that to approximate tandoori naan, use the dough from above and cook in the oven on high broil, either directly on the shelf or on a pizza pan, brush with copious butter on both sides, flip a few times to keep from burning).

Puri

Puri is a common breakfast bread all over India. Another flat bread, it is deep fried until it poofs up like a big ball. It is then flattened then eaten with curry. If a chapati is like a flour tortilla, then puri is like a fried corn tortilla, even though it isn't made with corn (but it could be!!)

Recipe!(To really be authentic, substitute in a bit of coarse wheat flour or be adventurous, use some massa.

Papad (Papadums)

This is a super flat bread that is often a snack or served as an extra bread with many thalis. Crunchy and tasty, I believe this style of bread originally come from Malaysia. It is often made with rice or chickpea flour and seasoned with masala.

Here's a recipe, but wow, high yield!

Now, this is only a list of the most common breads found in every restaurant in the country, but there are so many more!

Sikkim

For years, I fathomed seeing Sikkim, the tiny mythical Indian state my old friend Steve visited while in High School on a mission trip. I never really heard much about the state, except of chicken lollipops and the childrens' love of hackey-sack. Instead, I heard more interesting stories of his mission work and people he met. Either way, he was the first friend I'd had who ever visited a real exotic place.

As I learned more about the place, it became evident that this was a place I really wanted to see. It was an independent mountain nation, once a part of Nepal, now a part of India since 1975. The people there are similar to Nepalis, with a strong Tibetan influence. Though a part of India, the people still have the sense like they are still their own nation. It is among the richer of the Indian states, muchly from the special concessions after joining the nation. The government is strong, enforcing strict, western inspired rules. Littering is not so common, since the police crack down on it. Smoking is banned statewide, but all stores sell cigarettes and most of the citizens discreetly smoke in not so public places. If a cop chooses to enforce it, you can be fined. It was quite nice not to see butts and garbage filled streets. It is a beautiful state, so it is nice to see the laws trying to preserve it. The people are relaxed and friendly; it was refreshing to not be hassled so much.

I joined Doug, Justin, and a few others in a jeep to Gangtok, the capital. We all shared a seven bed room for a couple nights before parting ways. Gangtok was a nice, surprisingly modern city, though there wasn't much to do. We mostly stayed at Aurthur's, a cool restaurant that allowed us to plug in our mp3 players and jam out.

I visited the Rumtek monastery, head of the Black Hat sect and home of the 17th Karmapa, Ogyen Trinley Darje, not that he's ever been there himself. There are actually two who claim the title, but Ogyen Trinley Darje was chosen by the Dalai Lama. He can't ever enter Sikkim because the Indian government fears he'll upset the Chinese by being so close to Tibet. He's the second most powerful spiritual leader in the Buddhist faith, so things surrounding him are a bit sensitive.

Doug and I continued to the west of Sikkim to the village of Pelling, known for its magical view of Kanchenjunga. I never really saw it myself in my three day visit. Pelling was once the capital of the Sikkimese kingdom, so tourists can visit the ruins of the old palace. Not far from the palace is the Pemayangtse Monastery, which was wonderful since they allowed visitors onto the upper floors of the temple, where there was some curious art depicting sex between Padmasambhava and women. This is not meant to be erotic, it is meant to show the balance by the unity of masculine and feminine. There was also a beautiful work of art called the Zandog Palri, heaven for Padmasambhava. It was a hand-carved pagoda palace, beautifully painted and ornate, easily one of the most incredible sculptures I've ever seen.

Next door was the Elgin Hotel, a heritage inn whose managers, a delightful Australian/Indian couple, invited us for tea when we'd met them in town the day before. I felt out of place, sipping a cappuccino in my grungy, sweaty clothes and terrible beard, but the couple were excellent hosts, giving us all a tour of the place. The people in Sikkim never failed to to impress me with their kindness.

On my last day in Sikkim, we took a day tour around Pelling, visiting Yuksom, where the nation of Sikkim was born. We also visited the lovely Tashiding Monastery. Just when I felt as if I was completely monasteried out, a place like Tashingding grips me. There was a forest of chortens, stupas, and prayer flags that were simply stunning. The highlight of my visit was seeing what seemed like the whole village, women, children, monks, even dogs, working to clean, paint and beautify the great monastery for the Dalai Lama's visit two day later. I considered sticking around for a chance to see the great man, but I figured that it would be a circus. Plus, since i'm not Buddhist, it would just be celebrity spotting, which I feel is not respectful towards such a holy figure. Our final stop was Khecheopalri, a peaceful holy lake that had a wonderful vibe.

I enjoyed my short stay, though I saw little. I barely missed on a chance to head North with Justin (the jeep was full) and so it goes. Though lovely, the highlight of Sikkim for me was the people. Everywhere I went, I was greeted with smiles, some conversations, and even some uncomfortable man-love at a karaoke bar. Much like Steve, my memories will be dominated with not places I saw, but stories of people, children playing hackey-sack and even chicken lollipops, which were as delicious as promised.