Communism and the Seven Deadly Sins

Today marks the day that I brake my personal Guinness World Record for longest time out traveling. This trip, in total, is twice as long as my previous longest trip and I've noticed the drastic differences between traveling on vacation for a few weeks and becoming an international bum. The dynamic changes from a relaxing getaway to a temporary lifestyle change. Life turns into this extended fantasy life with no job to report to, no obligations to meet, and the days blur together into one long weekend. There is something extremely satisfying and gloriously disgusting in the question, "Is it Sunday or Thursday?"
Money, however, continues to shake us back to reality and be the ever present black balloon. The biggest challenge being trying to control the unrealistic urges to starve ourselves and walk ten miles in order to save $2, because that two dollars, over time, will increase enough to buy us another week out traveling. The beginning of our trip was especially bad, when I was still fresh into the rough, backpacker life and had a cushion of leftover holiday fat. We calculated that we could save $400 over the course of the trip if we ate two meals a day instead of one, and meals of saltine crackers with jelly were fairly common. We weren't above stealing the leftover bread from bread baskets or siphoning the tea from our neighbors teapot. Every several days, however, we noticed ourselves hunched over a quart of ice-cream wondering how it had gotten there. So we decided to loosen up a bit, plus in India the food was half the price.
Instead we had to be on guard with our nickels and dimes as the Indians constantly tried to squeeze every one out of you. The stereotype that white people equals money has been particularly hard to kick. Street food suddenly doubles in price, hotels have extra "taxes" and taxi drivers refuse to use their meters. The especially annoying white charge is the "luggage fee" instigated by the bus attendants. It happened so frequently that it has became a daily routine that I can repeat while sleeping:
The bus attendant comes up to and holds out his hand.
"Ten rupee luggage."
I snarl at him and shake my head.
"Ten rupee luggage" he wiggles his fingers. I shake my head again, "You don't charge her ten rupees" I jerk my thumb towards the innocent Indian girl sitting next to me with a duffel bag.
"Only ten rupees, Madam, is nothing."
"If ten rupees was nothing do you think I would be riding the local bus!" And then to completely disprove my point, I jam in my iPOD headphones. He finally leaves and
I am successful in making friends with yet another bus attendant.

The ideas of social equality when it comes to money have been a present theme throughout our journey, and we have become so good at it that we could have made the Hollywood blacklist in the 1940s. Our greatest invention: the communal wallet.
We love it so much, it has morphed into a personified fourth member of our traveling trio. We have affectionately named it "The Master" as he is the one who controls our finances, whether we eat or starve, take a taxi or walk, and determines the level of quality at each hotel. We therefore treat him with dignity and respect. He can be our benevolent leader, treating us to ice cream when he is fat and happy with new bills, or a malicious dictator when he is low on funds, calling in all debts and demands payment with interest. We each deposit an equal amount, and since our communist ways extend to having intense food envy if one person orders something that might be better than the rest of us, we all end up with the same food and a nice even bill. We have scared off new friends along the way, when after dinner I turn to Megan and ask, "Do I need to pay, or is the Master getting it."
Other than money and penance to our Master, the practical needs and errands of everyday life become a challenge. The search for sustenance can take hours, transportation often requires physical and verbal fights, and a whole day has to be budgeted to find hair conditioner.
We fit the profile of the stereotypical wanderer of the developing world. Our unpatriotic tendencies have us cursing our homeland, shaking our fists in shame through the airplane window as we shun the middle class lifestyle of our forefathers (that so many dream of having) only to end up curled under a mosquito net missing hot showers and dark chocolate. We have our ungratefulness beaten our of us by the uncomfortableness and inconveniences of the real world, and are forced to be reconciled to our intolerances.

Our rooms are constantly being decorated with our small wardrobes, drying to a crispy consistences, after a laborious hand washing in the bathroom sink. The most disgusting and unattractive clothes become our most valued possessions as they ware out in a blaze of international glory. Our bowel movements become a daily topic of never ending concern and entertainment. Our conversations have regressed in a sort of reverse evolution from the start of our trip, where flagellants and constipation were followed with giggles and blushing, to now, where each individual is given a turn to describe the progress of their movements while the group nods in unspoken camaraderie before turning their eyes to the next commentator. Is it a sort of bonding experience among westerners described so perfectly by Paul Theroux in his book Great Railway Bizarre, "After the usual greetings and pauses, these people would report on the vulgarities of their digestive tracts. Their passion was graceless and they were as hard to silence as whoopee cushions." Even the proper British are exempt, turning the conversations so vile their charm school teachers role over in their grave.

We realized one night that our trip has become the embodiment of the seven deadly sins. Our cheap, penny pinching ways are the realization of greed, envy and lust are apparent when we meet other travelers whose journeys have been longer, they have been to more places, or have mobile income. Our anger is American, and brews to surface with the lack of customer service and the frequent shouting matches with taxi drives, hotel managers, and kiss-blowing locals.
That leaves sloth and gluttony, the most satisfying of all our debauchery, since they have already been woven into our pre-sojourner lives. Only sloth can describe how we can be exhausted from a 6-month vacation. Rising before 9 am will have us spending a day lying in bed eating crackers off our chests. We seem to expend energy at such a rapid rate we cannot eat enough to keep up with it. The 50%-off-after-9-pm bakeries in Nepal have been a huge obstacle for avoiding temptations. Every night at 8:45 you can find us boguarding the cakes.

God, in His relentless attempts to save us from ourselves, sends us little reminders to convict us and encourage us to change out ways. Such as the beggar woman with no teeth, who hovers over my croissant and cup of chi, pointing to it then to her mouth. Or the adorable Nepalese children, who run up with their ratty pigtails and dirty cloths, hands outstretched, shouting, "SWEETS! SWEETS!" I push my purse full of chocolate bars behind my back as I lie, "No sweets. Don't have." I excuse my behavior because of their impolite manners and lack of "please." Plus, sugar stunts growth and they can't afford a toothbrush.
In conclusion, traveling, in essence, doesn't really change a person, but merely becomes the antidote for bad behavior. The glamor and exoticism that accompanies the traveler is only an illusion created for the families and friends with whom we have unlimited bragging rights upon return home. In reality, travel is really just an excuse to make a jobless life seem productive and validate political incorrectness in the name of a cultural experience. Overeating comes with the guise of trying something new, and to bombard the private lives of unsuspecting foreigners is considered tourism. May God have mercy on our souls.

Thank You Very Much Please

Place: The Thar Desert

Stepping off yet another Indian bus in the city of Jaisalmer I felt for the first time that I was in India. Seeing the ornately carved sandstone buildings, shadowed by the massive fort encircling Trikuta Hill, the dusty, tan landscape decorated by crunchy green shrubberies, I felt like I had woken up in an Arabian dream. Thanks to the help of a smooth talking 19-year-old who loved his beer, we checked into his family's luxurious (at least for us) hotel with marble floors, Arabian style lamps, and a rooftop restaurant with a view of the fort. The whole atmosphere made be feel like an Indian princess, drinking chi tea while lounging on mirrored cushions, strolling the textile markets with the fort walls, and sailing around the golden archways and temple ruins surrounding Jaisalmer lake.
The city of Jaisalmer is on the far west side of the state of Rajathan, along the border to Pakistan and at the edge of the Thar Desert. One of the main activities for tourists is to mount a camel and trek out into the wilderness. Our hotel, an extensive family run operation similar to the Italian mafia, also owned a camel farm and had cousins who led treks. Go figure. Keeping our money within the family, we signed up for a two day, one night trek into the dunes of the Thar Desert.
It was the most memorable experience thus far on our miniretirment adventures, no so much because of the scenery, but the company. Yes, the natural beauty of the desert is breathtaking, the milky white sand dunes rippling for miles into the horizon, their tips smoking from the constant sand being blown of their crests, but the memorabilia of our trek can be summed up in the eccentric style and hilarious broken English of our three guides.

Our trek included a total of nine people, three girls from China, three guides, and the three of us, or as our guide put it,
"3 American girls, 3 China girls, and 9 Indian mans - 3 man, 6 camels."
Still unable to pronounce the names of our guides, we remember them fondly by their appearances and phrases. The one guiding Megan's camel had a cataracts in one eye, making it milking and bluer than the other. My guide was tan and tall and loved to sing in an extremely high-pitched voice, and Jen's guide wore a white turban over is hideously died orange hair. All three had weather worn skin, black from the sun, rotting brown teeth, and infectious laughs and personalities.
Some of the phrases they loved to say included, "Good camel, very strong" (as if to imply we would need that), "Thank you very much please" (as a way of being totally polite all at once, I guess) Yea sure, why not? (even when it was not an appropriate response) and tacking "You know?" at the end of most statements. Or, my absolute favorite, when they took credit for God's own handiwork in creation. For example:
Guide: You like sand dunes?
Us: Oh yes, they are beautiful.
Guide: Thank you very much please. Stars? You like stars?
Us: Yes, yes, amazing!
Guide: Thank you

or:

Guide: I use flashlight, ok?
Me: Oh yea, that's fine
Guide: Thank you very much please

or:

Us: You are such a good cook! The food is delicious!
Guide: Thank you very much please
Us: How did you make it?
Guide: I make many many times, you know?
Us: Is that a cucumber inside?
Guide: Yea sure, why not

As the sun sank over the sands, we huddle closer and closer to the fire for heat and light. The Chinese girls started a game of guessing a number within a given range until one person got the exact one, then they would have to sing a popular song from their country as punishment. Although he didn't quite grasp the concept, one of our guides attempted to play along.
Us: Ok, say a number between 2 and 20
Guide: 45
Us: No, 2 and 20, like 10, 15
Guide: 200
Us: Er, yes! You win!
And before we finished congratulating him on his guess he burst into a long, high-pitched song in Hindi. When he finished we all burst into applause and cheers.
"Thank you very much please. It's Indian song, you know?" or "It's love song, you know?"
We continued playing for a while, our guide so excited that he would suddenly burst into songs without winning the game, and being the polite tourist that we were, we waited, clapped and applauded as usual until the fire died and the guides came over to prepare our beds and tuck us in.
They layered us with blankets, congratulating us for opting out of a tent, unlike the Chinese girls, because they "Never ever see stars!" (Plus it was less work for them.) Little did we know we would see no stars either, as the entire night would be spend with our entire bodies under the covers to bar against the freezing night desert air.
Once the blanket were set, the guides said goodnight and clicked off the flashlight.

Total darkness.

We heard a crunching sound and gasped and clicked the flashlight on and started shining it one by one at the herd of camels who were residing too close to where we were sleeping. The first camel was sitting, munching loudly on his cud. The next was doing the same, and the one after that, until...BOOM! One was standing and looking right at us. We yelped and hid the light from view. We were right in his pathway should he decided to venture out for a midnight snack.
"Uh, hello?" I called to the guides, "will the camel step on us in the dark?"
"No!" he yelled back, "never ever! Never ever step on tourist."
"Ok, thank you"
"Yes, yes, please."
We flashed the light on the mischievous camel again and he was closer now, the light making his eyes silver. We yelped and hid the light again. We did this for an hour of so, watching the camel inch closer, and closer and wondering if we should sleep in shifts to protect ourselves. We all dosed off eventually, awakened occasionally by the camels munching and farting.
I was grateful when morning came and the guides woke us up with their call of "Chi! CHI!" which indicated a meal was ready.
Still sore from the days ride before ,Megan and I opted to walk alongside the camels for a while, since even at a run they were easy to keep pace with. The guides were very impressed.
"You are very strong. Like camel."
We had our last meal with our beloved guides and there even more beloved chapati before a jeep came to pick us up. We said our goodbyes, left them a tip and our flashlight as a gift, and praised them on what good cooks, guides, and company they were.
They responded, "Thank you very much please."

Diarrhea Diaries

Place: My rotting insides

India has a way of getting under your skin. Literally. I've never had a problem with traveler's diarrhea, despite the wide range of disgusting dishes and appalling hygiene of some of the places I've eaten around the world. Fried germs with a side of parasites. Roasted bacteria smothered in salmonella. Yum! Somehow, my stomach of iron and intestines of steel perform mob justice on any riot-causing food I ingest. However, as of recently, I'm not sure if my immune system is weakening with age, or if India's bugs are just that hard core, but India has definitely gotten under the skin, and gone straight to the gut.
I was perfectly fine for about a month. Only a few small fires that my ever present antacid quickly exterminated. Except of course, that one incident in Sri Lanka induced by some fish curry, where I came back from a walk in the fetal position only to find Jen in the shower. Unable to wait a minute more, I ran down the hall and burst into an empty room to rescue myself. I finished just in time to greet the owner and two new guests who would have the pleasure of smelling my flagellants for the rest of the evening.
But after that slightly embarrassing incident, I kept the pains at bay through Southern India until I hit the beach resort state of Goa.
Up to that point, India had not been able to penetrate my rock iron stomach wall. Not with food anyway. So, determined to break me, she took another method. The sea. I didn't start feeling seasick until the boat ride back from our snorkeling trip. I managed to hold on to my insides and pride for the ride back and not embarrass myself by puking like the snorkeler I was in front of all the scuba divers. The taxi driver was not so lucky. About 100 meters from our hotel I started screaming "STOP STOP STOP!!" before vomit projected our of my mouth all over the backseat of the car. The driver hardly seemed phased, just sat patiently and waited as I finished, looking passively out the front window. All he said was "Ok?" after I had cleaned off the window and ceiling of his car.
Unfortunately, the seasickness hadn't worn off by dinner that evening, where holed myself up in the restaurant bathroom. Now bathrooms in India are all inclusive, sink, toilet, a shower head attached somewhere randomly in the wall, and a drain (or hole) in the floor: there is no shower curtain or door. I used to find this quite irritating, that the entire bathroom is wet after I shower, but, in that particular moment, when my insides decided to escape from both exits, I found it very convenient. I squatted on their flat toilet seat and heaved out what was left of me right onto the floor. Run the shower for a minute or two and no one's the wiser. Ha! Perhaps that's why they are built that way.
But it wasn't until Delhi that I discovered the full range of talent that my bowels were capable of. After two days of munching on eggs fried on street carts and Chi tea prepared in front of the open urinals, my internal system shut down and had me woozy and nauseous for ten full hours before it had the courtesy of releasing my pain and stomach lining.
The next day we returned to Jaipur to attend a three-day Indian wedding and eating fest that our new Indian friends had invited us back for. And my body, so starved of food, decided to hang on to every meal I ate for dear life and never let go. Ever. At first, this was a welcomed change, thankful to not have my meals running like an express train through me (or in reverse). But after 3 days, my stomach gurgling and burning like fresh volcanic lava, my intestines filled with more black tar and filth than the Ganga river, I decided I envied Jen and Megan's current diarrhea situation. By day five they convinced me to go to the doctor.
Now the pharmacies in India can top any adrenaline pumping activity in the world. Walking up to the streetside stand, distinguished from the convenience stores only by the red cross painted on the front, and playing a kind of "guess what's wrong with the white person's body" game with the clerk and his broken English. Afterwards, he hands you some ten-cent pills wrapped in foil and you cross your fingers and wait and see what they do to you. Will the parachute release? Maybe, maybe not.
Now I had performed this medical melodrama several times by this point, for allergies, sore throat, acid, and the like, but none have been quite so challenging or interesting (for the audience) as acting out constipation. I will leave my hand gestures and charade movements to your own wild imagination.
Even thought my new Indian friend Dilshad had accompanied me to the local pharmacy in his Muslim neighborhood to help translate, I still wasn't sure if even he understood exactly the bad behaviour of my greedy innards. After finishing the performance of my symptoms, Dilshad and the doctor both stared blankly at me for several minutes before conversing in Hindi for many minutes more. Finally DIlshad turned to me and said, "You lose the motions, yes?"
I hung my head in shame. Yes, I had lost the motions. How careless of me. The doctor game me six colorful pills, told me to take three at once, and sent me and my lack of motions away.

I am convinced that naughty bowel movements are the perverted brother of menstrual cycles: coming at the most inconvenient time is in their genes. At the time I was trying to find my motions I was staying with my friends as guests of Dilshad's very friendly, and very large, Muslim family in their four story house. There was one bathroom on the roof shared by anywhere from 11 - 15 people. We were in a guestroom on the third floor, so I only had to run up two flights of stairs in case of an emergency and hope and pray the bathroom wasn't occupied. I had a 1 in 16th chance. I took the colored pills and sat as my friends watched me like a ticking time bomb.
Finding my motions was not an easy feat. There were several false alarms, miraculously coinciding with the Muslim calls to prayer being pumped thorough the speakers in spires throughout the neighborhood. My host family probably thought they had converted me.
Luckily, in Indian culture, burping, gas, and the like are common enough that they don't provoke looks of shame or disgust. In fact, as I lay in my bed of pain with my stomach gurgling and bubbling away, my host family hardly flinched. Jen and Megan, on the other hand, went running from the room and we all burst into fits of laughter as I squirted the air with scented talc powder. They looked like someone who didn't understand a joke. "Why laughing??!!" they asked, confused.
But, as usual, by the grace of my Christian God who makes all things right in their time, my motions found their way home. And I was even invited back to live with my new Muslim family for a year.

I am happiness that you meet me....Reflections of India

About to board my final Indian bus toward the Nepalis border, my heart gives a little twinge of sadness to leave this large country where I've spent the past eight weeks of my life. I am also so relieved I could do a mini-Bollywood dance.

A well traveled man once told me that you either love India, or you hate it, there is no in between. Truthfully, there is too much variety and chaos in India to completely love, or completely hate anything in total. I love the sound of my hotel owner singing in the next room, but hate the million bugs buzzing into my face and arms as I'm trying to write. I love the food, but hate it's aftermath effects. I love the ginger tea, but hate that an 8-year-old boy was it's maker. I love the crowds and large sense of community, but hate when they are all in one bus with myself. There are pros and cons to everything. And therefore, looking back, I have compiled a list of my personal loves and hates of India.

1. The Wandering Pinkies and Man Love


In general, I like the conservative practices of the predominant Muslim and Hindu religions. While the arranged marriages and sex-segregated schools are extreme, I prefer it to the pregnant 13-year-old girls that I saw everywhere in Central America. Many consider the Indian man sexually suppressed by his culture, which is why he leers,stares, and cat-calls at the white women walking down the street. But very few actually are brave enough to go beyond that. But the few who actually venture out to touch another women have created a very stealth and sneaky method, which is so bizarre it is almost comical.

I had my first experience with this on a crowded bus in Rajasthan. After taking a seat next to a teenage boy, I felt, every few seconds, a brush on my upper arm. Thinking it was just an accident at first, since bumping and touching are common on the bouncy bus rides, I ignored it. But when I happened to look down, the boy had is arms folded across his chest and was stretching his fingers out discretely from his armpit. When I looked at them, he immediately pulled them back in like a frightened turtle, all the while looking casually straight ahead. Annoyed (and a bit confused on why he would want to touch my jiggly upper arm) I jabbed him with my elbow and put my purse down in between. Almost immediately his hand was on my purse. Not comfortable with that either I snatched my purse back and put it in my lap. He put his hand on the bench in between us and, ever so slowly, stretched out his pinky finger and brushed my thigh.

I grabbed both his wrists and threw them in his lap. It didn't seem to phase him and his hand went right back to the same spot and his pinky began wandering again. He even started playing "If You Think I'm Sexy" from his cell phone to set the mood. I finally yelled at him loud enough for the entire bus to hear, "Hey! No TOUCHING!" and he casually got up and changed seats. Talking to a girl from Switzerland the next day who had the EXACT same tactics used on her, I realized this is a common move in India, which I dubbed - the wandering pinky. Hate it.

But Indians, as a compromise to not touching women, have resorted to being very publicly affectionate with their male friends and family, and it is not uncommon to see boys with linked pinkies strolling down the street, arms around each other, and holding hands with interlocked fingers. I've even witnessed thigh-stroking in front of a textile shop. The man love: I love it!

2. Mob Justice

One positive thing in India, despite the wandering pinkies, is that I never once felt unsafe. For the past eight weeks, I'm pretty sure we were the most dangerous thing in India. While Indian men can be gawky and just plain annoying, I can credit them in never making me fear for the safety of my body or possessions. In Latin America, I clung to my purse and backpack as if they were life itself, and avoided late night walks home alone. In India, I've hiked mountains solo at 2 am, and passed my large pack that contains all my belongings off to the first Indian man who claims to work for the bus. He grabs the backpack and rushes off into a bustling crowd of people and I never think twice that it won't be there at the end of my journey. Why this is, I have no idea. Perhaps it's the Hindu sense of spirituality or superstition. Or perhaps it's the interesting way that Indian's take the law into their own hands.

Like most developing countries, the police are highly ineffective when it comes to administering justice. Because of this, when a small crime, such as traffic accidents and petty thefts, occur, the victim instead of notifying police, sounds an alarm to the surrounding crowd. The general public within earshot, assess the situation and determine who is the guilty party, and let out all their pent up Hindu rage in an angry group beating, which can often be very severe and sometimes even deadly. Afterwards, the bloody and broken defendant is dragged to a nearby police station.

While I never experienced mob justice to an extreme (Thank God), I did see it on a scale so minor it could only be comical. The first experience was in the Rajasthani capital of Jaipur. Jen, Megan, and I were shopping in the bustling old city when a rickshaw driver (a human beast of burden who transports fat locals around in a carriage attached to a bicycle) turned and craned his neck to look at the three white girls walking down the street. While his head was facing the wrong direction for driving, his carriage ran into Jen and a parked motorcycle, knocking it over.
"Ouch!" Jen screamed, "watch where you're going!"
The motorcycle owner also came out and yelled something nasty (I'm sure) in Hindi. The rickshaw's passenger in the carriage noticed the commotion, and as a completely uninterested party, reached out and gave the rickshaw driver a hard smack on the back. The driver looked at the bike and Jen, received the whack, and merely faced forward and continued to drive. The passenger sat back and began chatting with him like nothing had happened.

My second experience was in the backpacker ghetto of Delhi. Megan and I, hungry for a late night snack, were buying eggs from a street vendor, who was frying them up in a pan on a kerosene stove. While we were waiting for our tasty treat, a group of naughty teenage boys walk by and one of them gives Megan a lingering and hard butt squeeze. She whips around and immediately starts yelling, "HEY!! NO NO, NO TOUCH ME!! VERY BAD!! I ANGRY! NO NO" (Our English dumbs down for the non-native speakers). Our egg-cooker, looking from Megan to the boys, deduces what happened, sets down his frying pan, and walks out from behind the cart. He goes over to the guilty looking group of boys, and without saying anything, shoves one with both hands in the chest. Another shove. And one more for good measure.

Then he walks back behind the cart, flips the frying egg, and nods at us with a grunt, as if to indicate that justice has been served. Megan and I left a tip.

3. Mammals and Filth

A quote from Paul Theroux's book describes it accurately when he says "Indians value all life except for that which is human." You can see that all over India with the thriving population of animal life. Cows hog the roads and block traffic, stray dogs run in packs and howl all night, large hogs with hairy back bristles rummage through the trash, monkeys hop from rooftop to rooftop, and rats scurry along the floors of trains. The Indians merely swerve around them in traffic, shoo them away from their porches, and live in their filth. While I do agree with the ethical treatment of animals, to allow them to reduce the quality of human life creates an appears of life being backwards. Plus, having been attached by three dogs, a baby cow, and a monkey, my tolerance of animals (which was never very high) has dropped considerably.

The animals, however, can't take all the blame for the high quantities of filth in India. There are no garbage trucks or dumps, and trash is just thrown from people's rooftops and bus windows into the streets. Open sewers run through many cities, and people will stop on the side of the road, squat and relieve themselves. I don't often blame them, as the side of the road is often more clean than some of the hideous public restrooms, where even I've peed on the floor to avoid actually using the toilet. But, like so much in India, amid the feces and trash, there is always something beautiful. Even the majestically white Taj Mahal is surrounded by meandering alleyways filled with sludge and crumbling homes.

Indians are just more acclimated than westerners. Or they revere it as holy. In the pilgrimage city of Varanasi, people bath and drink the holy water of the Ganga River, while dead bloated bodies float a few feet away and hundreds of thousands of pounds of human ashes are thrown in from the cremation ghat (which is located next to the laundry ghat, by the way)

4. Happiness to meet me

But the crazy spirituality and superstitions of the Indian population is probably what gives them the ability to tolerate western tourists like ourselves, who smother people in buses with our huge backpacks and clog their sewers with our toilet paper. Even with all my bad behavior, I was told after a broken conversation with a young Indian girl on a long hot bus ride, "I am happiness that you meet me." I don't think I've ever heard it put so eloquently.

Despite our cultural differences and language barrier, I've been welcomed with open arms into a large Muslim family, inherited a new protective and hilarious Indian brother, and was invited to a large Hindu wedding without knowing a soul, where we received more attention (and photographs) than the bride herself. The sense of community and family is something very beautiful in India, and the generosity of the poorest of people is gloriously convicting. Both virtues I see lacking very much in America and within myself: the sense of family and sharing. In the Muslim community where I spent several days, the house was shared by 11-15 people, which extended to the neighboring houses. Women talked over the rooftops while doing laundry, and called to each other from windows. 3 or 4 girls shared one bed, and they ate in big groups on the floor. "When with the family," my Indian brother Dilshad said, "You are a little bit more happy. When alone, feeling more sad."

5. DOODA LOO....pause...DO DOOT

And while I love the sense of community, I still haven't figured out if it is genuinely part of the culture, of if it is forced on them by India's massive population. People are everywhere. Literally. It is almost impossible to ever be alone. And there are many after effects because of India's massive amount of bodies. One that you will notice right away is all the noise, Noise, NOISE!!! You fall asleep each night to dogs howling, people yelling at each other, then singing to one another. Ever bus ride I've been on has had at least one person who nobly decides to add a musical soundtrack to the ride by blasting music from his cell phone.
Even if there aren't several people serenading the bus crowd, bus trips tend to be the loudest human experience on earth. Actually, any motor experience, or being within 100 mile radius of any road means that you will have the pleasure of hearing India's constant backdrop noise of honking. I think honking might have been invented in India. There is no purpose or reason behind 95% of most honks, but from the toot-toot of the car to the dooda dooda dooda loos of the bus, India's roads are screaming out 24 hours a day. I don't think Indian's even notice it, like the sound of the wind or breathing. There have been more than a few times that a motorbike has whizzed up behind me, laying on his horn, causing me to turn, with my fingers in my ears and scream "OK!! SHUT-UP ALREADY!!, only to have the driver look at me like a crazy person. My personal favorite, and one most likely to drive you clinically insane, have been the musical bus horns. All the driver has to do is tap a button on the dash and the long winded toots come out: DOODA LOO DOODA LOO DOODA LOO DOODA LOO DOODA LOO DOODA LOO....pause...DO DOOT.
The doodaloos and hoots of the street life: hate it.

Conclusion:
Despite it all, both the things that I love, as well as hate, have had positive effects on me. I am leaving India with the determination to develop a greater sense of community in my own life, within my family as well as my friendship, and to be at least half as generous as the population here. The conclusion, in the words of my female bus companion, is: India, I am happiness that you meet me!

'ampi!

Hampi was one of my favorite stops in South India. The landscape was unlike anything I had ever seen, with it's rice patty fields, huge boulders, and ancient ruins. My article for the travel website described the city of Hampi as well as the tortuous ride there, so for the sake of efficiency, I have inserted the link.

http://www.thisboundlessworld.com/crazy-love-surviving-the-roads-to-hampi-india

15 minutes

Place: Mumbai, India

I always thought I was indifferent to the idea of fame. Glamor, stardom, Hollywood never held much appeal. Or so I thought, until we found ourselves riding an 18 hour bus to Mumbai for the chance to appear in Bollywood.
Bollywood, Mumbai's movie filming center, produces more films than Hollywood each year, and has become famous for it's dancing and singing, elaborate costumes, and lack of any physical touch between male and female actors. Also, ironically, they prefer to have Westerners as extras to make their films seem more like, well, Hollywood.
Colaba is the pretty, historic part of Mumbai that has drawn in tourists for many years. Even the terrorist attacks in 2008 has not stopped the flow of people staying at the 5-Star Taj Mahal hotel or eating at Leopold's Cafe (where you can still see bullet holes in the walls), and it is where the movie producers scout white people to be extras. Knowing this, we found a hotel room and within a few minutes were approached by a man asking us to be extras in an ad for an Indian diamond company the next day.
At 6 am the following morning, we, as well as 10 other extras boarded a 3 hour bus ride to an abandoned Arabian style house being used for our photo shoot. They ushered us into one of the rooms, shooed the boys away and the wardrobe lady handed each of the females an elaborate prom dress with tacky plastic jewelry. Then we were rushed to hair and makeup. After the first makeup artist caked our faces with orange foundation and several layers of powder, I was placed in front of the second makeup artist. He rouged up my cheeks several times, then stood with his eyeshadow pallet open in his palm. There was a total of four colors: neon green, sparkly green, royal blue, and baby blue. He glanced at me, then at the pallet, then back at me, then at the pallet. He glanced at me one more time, then chose....bright blue. After encircling my eyes and eyelid up to my brows with blue eyeshadow, he nodded in approval and sent me, sans mascara and looking like a freaky baby doll, to get my hair done.

Jen and Megan were already there. Jen's hair was slick straight, while they had given Megan Bo-beep type ringlets with a teased Pompadour in the front. They threw my hair up in rollers before pinning it in a pile on top of my head. Not exactly sure what look they were going for in this shoot, the three of us together looked like we were from 3 separate centuries: Jen was modern and stylish, Megan from the 1920's with flapper type hair, and myself, like an 18th century grandmother. The wardrobe lady adjusted my gold plastic jewelry with large pink stones around my neck, inserted rubber breast enhancers into the bust line of the maroon prom dress, gave me a pair of silver shoes and nodded in approval and sent me to join the other extras, all dressed similar to myself.


The set, unlike the extras, was beautiful and color coordinated. With bleach white columns, sheer hanging curtains and fake renaissance paintings. The main model was a gorgeous brunette from Brazil. The shooting began and lasted about ten hours, with breaks for Chi tea and lunch. I attempted several types to flatten the huge curl of hair on the side of my face, or wipe away some of the blue eyeshadow, but each time the makeup lady would run over, fluff up the curl and solidify it in hairspray. Then apply an extra layer of foundation.

My look reached it's peak when they called me in for a wardrobe switch halfway through the shoot. They handed me a huge polyester skirt, bright green, with a oriental type frock and huge dangley earrings. I went back to the set, where they put me front and center, and handed me a matching fake green cocktail as a prop.
"Well, that outfit matches your hairstyle at least" the other extras tried to be uplifting. Glancing in the mirror, I knew they were right. I was like a flesh and blood version of the evil stepmother from the Cinderella cartoon. This definitely ensured that I would never have more than 15 minutes of fame. They let me leave the set early, as I was laughing so hard I cried off all my makeup and was ruining each picture and annoying the photographer.
After a 16 hour day, we were paid our promised 500 rupees ($11), which made up the first income I've earned in the past two months. They said the ad would come out in a few weeks on the internet, Indian magazines, and possibly even billboards. We celebrated with the other extras that night at Leopold's Cafe, since we could officially call ourselves international models.

Are you the missing girl?

Traveling is bound to have it's mishaps. We (or mostly, I) encountered the first one on the train from Kannur to South Goa. As the train rambled from stop to stop, we were not exactly sure when we would be reaching ours, so we took turns running to the train door and hanging our heads out of the window each time to read the sign. It was my turn to check, I saw the sign for our stop and yelled back to the girls that we had arrived. As I was skwirming my way back to seat to grab my backpack I heard Megan yell, "I got your purse Nikki!"
"Thanks!" I called from the crowd of people trying to get off. By the time I got my backpack and fought my way to the door, the train had started to move. I saw Jen and Megan make a flying leap for it. And right when I was about to jump a herd of train attendees blocked the way.
"No no, too fast. Break your leg."
The train didn't seem to be moving that fast to me, so i tried to push past them but with no success. I didn't think much of it at first, but as the train picked up speed and began to whiz away, the gravity of the situation began to sink in. I had missed the stop. I was on a train, while my two friends were not. And I had no money, no identification, no passport, no ATM card, no phone. Nothing. I started to hyperventalate as I explained to the crowd forming around me the situation.
"My friends are there! I have to get off!"
"It's ok, no worry," the train attendent replyed, "you get off next stop and go back."
"I can't, my friends have my money! And I need to tell them!"
"You have mobile phone?"
"No"
"Your friends have mobile phone."
"Yes, but I don't know the number." We had bought a communal phone for emergency purposes. Unfortunetly I never memorized the number.
"Why you don't know number!" The attedent was now beginning to realize the gravity of the situation as well.
"Can you call the station to find them??" A million thoughts went through my head. I would have no way to find Jen and Megan. I would have no money to use the internet to email them. I would have to sleep at the train station then wander the streets of Goa looking for them. There's a million guest houses there, they could be at any one. What if they got on the train to find me and we passed each other. What if we never found each other and I was stranded in India forever, with no money and no passport. I could call my mom to wire me money. But I had no money to pay for the phone call. I would have to beg. And starve. Good God.
But as I sat worrying, I wasn't aware that the entire train was coming to my rescue. A man handed me a phone with a grunt.
"Hello?" I was relieved to hear Jen's voice on the other line. They had found them. Another man handed me a free return ticket. A little old Indian lady gave my 100 rupees to buy some dinner at the station.
When I arrived at the station, I was met by four police men.
"Are you the missing girl?" They seemed to know I was coming. I knodded embarrassed. They escorted me to the VIP air condidtioned waiting room and told me they would come get me when my return train arrived. Two of them guarded the door.
Two hours later after my train arrived at the station, I was escorted onto the on board. They woudln't allow me to sit near the door, afraid I would take a flying leap while it was moving again, and woke up a man with his sleeping baby and made him forfit his seat for me.
The police men asked three other men on the train to make sure I got off at the right stop this time.
At midnight I finally got back to the correct station where Jen and Megan were waiting, their feet scarred and bloody from their flying leaps off the moving train. We laughed about the situation and I have come to a new appreciation for the Indian people. And we came up with contingency plans incase this was to happen again which should prevent it being such an ordeal the next time. Megan would not take my purse, and I would memorize the mobile number.

Magic Man Come to Your Room Tonight

The crawl up the Indian coastline has been quick and tiresome. Just how I like it. I'm even more convinced now that Jen and Megan our my travel soulmates as they are some of the only people who prefer to maintain the same fast and exhaustive pace that I do. It happens every time I travel, there's so much to see and do I can't sit still, and would go crazy lounging on a beach for a month straight (like the lazy Australian we met in Varkala beach). So we've been doing a steady two days, one night in most locations up the coast of India. We flew into south Kerala and stopped at the beautiful cliff beach of Varkala and left the next day for Alappuzha, which Megan dubbed Alappalouza, since that's so much more fun to say. We planned on sailing through the backwaters of Kerala there, however, after an exhaustive two hours of haggling and touring a million houseboats, we could not find one that was affordable. So we took some pictures, cut our losses and went back to drink ice cream coffee and Kream Korner restaurant.

Needless to say, eating has become a big part of this trip, as with our everyday life in general. Some people come to India to do drug tours, or try various forms of religion, but we find food much more satisfying. And with less side effects. "The Delhi Belly" is the nickname the backpackers have for the nasty traveler diarrhea that seems inevitable in India. But with paneer tikka masala, naan bread, chaphati, alu gobi, and all the chi tea you can drink, we've given the Delhi Belly a new definition.



After several vists to Kream Korner. we left Alappalouza and went to Cochi, a quaint dutch colony that host the only chinese fishing nets in India, some of which are over 800 years old. We spent some time soaking up some local culture (and cuisine, of course) by testing local restaurants and attending a traditional Kathakali play (an Indian kind of opera, but with more makeup) We also made some fun new friends and got our fill of the beautiful backwaters of Kerala through a cheaper boat tour that included canoeing through the lush, jungle type vegetation of the area. As well as a random stop to see a cement factory and eat lunch off a banana leaf.
After Cochi, we began the long stretch up to Goa, with a stop at Kannur beach to break up the journey. After a hellish 6 hour train ride beginning at 6:30 am, we piled into the back of a tuk-tuk as he drove around lost for 45 minutes trying to find our hotel, as we almost past out from hunger and heat exhaustion in the back seat.




Kannur redeemed itself later that night by having a fabulous restaurant with a waiter who spoke English. He pointed us in the direction of a local theater that showed Bollywood films. None of the movies were in English or had subtitles, but we decided to check it out anyway (we were planning on being Bollywood stars later in the trip anyway) A nice young man showed us where to by the tickets, and also, to our surprise, bought one himself and decided to join us.
If Indian theater etiquette was every practiced in the states, there would be a riot with a severe beating. Indians chatting on their cell phones, loudly too, in order to be heard over the sound of the music. Some people puffed away on cigarettes, and the entire theater hooted and hollered at any part that they found funny or during the fight scenes. We were able to get the gist of the movie, thanks to the random English lines that were mixed in with the Hindi.
"The mission is off!" and "the mission is not off!" and "30 times more dangerous!"
According to our new movie theater pal, the movie was not a good one. "No singing, no dancing, very bad. Very bad movie."
After the movie he offered to give us a lift home in his car. We piled in, only to have him pull over after a few minutes and turn on the light. "I magic man." He said. "Magic man come to your room tonight."
"Oh, that's ok, we're good." Not sure how the Magic man was planning to get to our room.
"No, magic, look." He pulled out a coin and attempted to make it disappear several times by rubbing it on his forearm, only to have it fall out onto the seat.
"Yea, it's ok, we'll just go home."
He dropped us off at the hotel and followed us in. We let him use the bathroom before trying to tell him we were going to bed.
"No, I stay, magic!"
"No, you can't stay, we're married!" Jen announced, and we all flashed our pseudo wedding bans we had donned for India to keep the men away.
"No! No! for Magic!!" We finally realized that our magic man wanted to perform a magic show in our room, that was the reason for following us in. We still had to decline, however, as the little magic show preview had not been too impressive.

I ran into the Magic Man while out for a walk the next day and at the beach that night, and both times he attempted to show us his magic one more time. Our response was also to disappear. Magically. Maybe he did have some talent after all.

Fraud in the Ancient Triangle

After Sigiriya, Jen, Megan, and I officially had beef with the World Heritage Association. However, our visit to the ruins of Polonnaruwa left us with a satisfying revenge.
No sooner had we showered off the sweat of our three hour bus ride than we were approached by a balding business man on the deck of our hotel. We were enjoying a pot of black tea and small talk before he got to the real point of his introduction.

"Ok, you want to see the ruins yes?" he lowered his voice, which was how I knew he had gotten to the point. He glanced over both shoulders before continuing.
"Ok, you go to gate, they charge you 3,000 rupees ($25) and for tuk-tuk driver it is extra 500 ($5). You come with me I only charge you $20 for ticket and tuk-tuk."

We had previously heard rumors of these kinds of deals from other travelers, so, excited to save a whole $10 each, we agreed to be ready in one hour.
Before the tuk-tuk driver even arrived, we had already been introduced to a whole other group of somewhat shady people: the chubby hotel cook who loved coconut rum, the owner who came back and forth from the bus station dropping of tourist like postal packages, and a waiter, who spoke no English but his eyes said everything we would ever want to know.
When our balding business man returned with the tuk-tuk, he said hello, then began yelling into our room as we grabbed our cameras and purses.
"Hurry, now, now, now" he made big windmills with one arm to usher us out the door. "The guard goes home at 2 pm, you must get there before that."
Uh, ok, we thought and pulled into the rickshaw as he waved us off. After a short drive down the main highway, our silent but steady driver suddenly jerked off the main road and began offroading down a dirt path filled with potholes and overhanging tree branches. A while later, we burst through a hedge of bushes and came out on what appeared to be the main road again. He screeched to a stop and pointed us toward a clearing.
"Go there, then come back here" he handed us three already torn tickets.
"Uh, ok." Our standard response to this whole procedure. We meandered through the trees and monkeys admiring the large Buddhas carved from stone before coming out on the other side.
"Hello my friends!!" Our balding businessman had reappeared and coming towards us with open arms. "How you like the Buddhas?"
Before we could answer, he reached us and immediately began in a low whisper again. "Ok, you can't go straight through there they ask for tickets, you must go this way through the trees, more ruins, but don't go straight, go through trees, more ruins, then driver meet you at other side." His big white eyes made contact to ensure we understood him. "Ok?"

It was in that moment that I realize what exactly was going on. It was a scam large enough to waken the sleeping auditor within me. The balding business man and several staff at the site were in coercion, bringing in tourists for a lessor price, and no doubt, splitting the profits. We learned later from another traveler that if you already had bought legit tickets, they would drive you around the ruins for free if you gave them your ticket stubs in the end. Hmmm, my auditor brainwaves began bleeping again. This place had a definite weakness in internal controls. I knew exactly what kind of substantive testing could catch the fraud. And now, instead of being part of the solution as I was in my past career, I was part of the problem. How disappointed my former firm partner would be with me. I wondered if this could get my license revoked.
I started laughing in a way that only a former (or current) auditor could laugh. People are smart. They see loopholes where they have something to gain. I was somewhat comforted that at least the money coming from the fraudulent activity was being used to meet the basic needs of an extremely impoverished society...instead of a superintendent's weekend in Miami with his mistress.
We laughed our way through the rest of the breathtaking ruins of Polonnaruwa, our balding business man reappearing suddenly around every turn to protect his investment. He also showed up later at the ATM and internet cafe, probably making sure we weren't leaking information to the wrong people.
I asked him later that night whether he was afraid of getting in trouble. He looked very concerned at this question. "No" a pause "No. You see, I have friends." He pulled out his cell phone and showed me the desktop picture of himself and three men in suits.
"Who are they?"
"That's the president!" He said proudly. "So everything ok." He burst into a loud laugh shaking his head. "In trouble?! Ha!"
Knows the president, huh? Now I see how the scam had been functioning so well: Management override.

Sri Lankan Hillbillies

Place: Sigiriya, Sri Lanka


The remains of the wonders of the Sri Lankan past are located fairly close together in a convenient triangle layout in the center of the island (no doubt the ancient builders were thinking of future tourism) and they were our last major stops in Sri Lanka. We began in the lower right angle of the triangle in Sigiriya, where the Sigiriya Rock Fortress is located. This rock, known also as the 8th wonder of the world, is located just round the corner from the town of Sigiriya, which consisted of a convenience store on a dirt road. And two hotels. The town was dry and crispy, and had an atmosphere that gave the impression that something was not quite right. I couldn't say why it felt that way, it was hard to put my finger on what exactly was askew. Perhaps it was the clusters of young men constantly on their cell phones for short periods of time. Or the shirtless man with the gold chain serving us our dinner, also on his cell phone. Or that funny little sideways head nod all the men seem to do in response to whatever you say to them.
"Yea, ok" head bob to the right.
"So this meal is vegetarian? No meat?"
"Yea, ok" head bob to the left.
"Does the bus stop here?"
"Yea, ok" head bob to both sides.
One even told us tales, while chomping on a piece of grass, of wild herds of white elephants that storm the village at night in search of food. Despite the fact that elephants are herbivores and there are plants all around. Hmm, perhaps the elephants are taking after the local populations in their slightly hick mannerisms and IQ level. Seems we had found the hillbillies of Sri Lanka.

This is quite possibly the reason why the World Heritage Site Association, doubting the Sri Lanka public's ability, appears to have seized all the places worth visiting in Sri Lanka as their own, and are charging exorbitant fees to enter. The local price for a room in Sri Lanka, $12-20 a night, a meal $3-4. To see any of the World Heritage sites...$30. This makes it literally impossible for any locals or girls backpacking on a budget to see any of the sites at all. Fuming with anger and shaking our fists at the World Heritage Association, we walked around the base of Sigiriya Rock trying to find a weakness in their heavily guarded site so we could sneak in. They covered their bases though, with a swampy moat filled with crocodiles (or so the sign said), buzzing wasps nests, and a heard of aggressive "help men" who try and give you a tour for $18. On top of a ticket counter and guards.
I had no other choice but to bite the bullet and pay the entrance. I crossed over the crocodiles, beat my way through the wasps and "help men" and finally came to the base of the majestic fortress. The rock juts straight out of the flat landscape like the thumb of a buried giant. A straight dirt path leads you to the base of the rock. On both sides of the pathway are perfectly geometrical low brick walls, the bricks crumbling and black with age, filled with bright green grass, the remains of what was the castle gardens. Herds of cows munch on either side and occasionally a monkey swings by. Climbing up the rock face, you pass long stone mirrored walls and erotic frescoes. Half way up is the Lion Staircase with two large lion paws carved in stone that protect both sides of the marble stairs leading to the summit. They say that originally it was a complete lion statue and you enter through the mouth of the lion. Today all that remains are the paws and a few marble steps. The World Heritage replaced the marble stairway with a rickety iron staircase glued to the side of the rock with cement, where visitors clutch for dear life and try not to look down as the stairs wobble with the wind. Good to see the entrance fee is going to good use.

The summit consists of gorgeous layers of crumbling brick walls and staircases that overlook the treetops of the jungle, the base of what must have been a breathtaking community. It is hard not to sit and wonder what the place must have looked like in all it's glory, a huge palace reaching up over the curvy stone base of the rock. To wake up every morning, looking down on the lush vegetation, to pass through the Lion's mouth on your way to town, swim in the rooftop pool, and not realizing that hundreds of years later people from around the world would come to see the remains of what was your home.

Hiking to Heaven

What kind of place is this that we have landed on? The terrain of Sri Lanka is incredible, everything from white sand beaches to red wood forested mountains. A train ride through the hill country is all you need to take your breath away. The old rickety trains ride along the edge of the mountains, giving a breathtaking view of the valleys below. The mountains surrounding the valley stretche so high they pierce the clouds and cause sunlight to spill onto the small colorful villages below. The hillsides are decorated with bright green tea bushes. Redwood and palm trees grow alongside each other and whiz by the train window. Every now and then we pass a sparkling waterfall, or plunge into a stone tunnel carved into the mountain that is dripping with dew and moss. Any minute now I feel the train will pull up to Sleeping Beauty's castle.

Instead we land in Dalhousie, home of Adam's Peak, or more poetically, The Temple in the Sky. Stretching over 7,300 feet into the sky, the temple holds the magical footprint of Buddha, causing pilgrims from age 2 to 92 to clutch with white knuckles the rickety steel railings and to acscend the crumbling stairs to pay their homage. Tradition has hikers waking at the wee hours of 1 and 2 am to hike to the summit to witness the sun rise. I had no desire to be a rebel, so I dragged myself out of bed at 1:30 am and began the climb. The path was well lite, which allowed me to distract the male hikers who don't seem to find any moral dilemma in hitting on women on their way to church. Vendors sold crackers and tea along the root, and Buddhist monks stopped to give me a blessing (for a small donation). I reached the top at 5 am, and huddled and shivered with the crowd as we waited for the fashionably late sun to rise. There is no words nor photographs that can do that sunrise justice, it would be like trying to put the splendor of heaven in ink or describing the way chocolate tastes. It can only be experienced by the individual to grasp the magnitude. However, since I pretend to be a better writer than I am, I will make an attempted.

The sun, always going at it's own lazy pace, peaked it's sleepy head over the skyline, and spilled over the mountains like melted butter. The earth below appeared to light up from underneath. The lakes rippled as if from a buried heartbeat and the pulsations caused the water to dance and sparkle. The hills on the opposite side of the sun's face were covered in a blue haze that slowly evaporated with the morning heat. Low hanging clouds slither through between the layers of mountains with irritated movements, as they are not ready to wake up and face the day. The monks are chanting in a tune that is slow and deep and matches the movement of the sun. And then, it a quick jerk movement, the sun pops to full view and the rise is over. The monks are silenced and the sojourners immediately begin their descent. And I continue to be overwhelmed at the incredible and extraordinary beauty that my two very ordinary eyes have seen.

Riding the Lunatic Express

We left the southern coast to head toward the hill country via Sri Lanka's extensive and convenient railway system. The boxcars are old and wooden with heavy steal railings, painted a maroon red with large yellow numbers indicating the class. It gives an old English feel as if I'm riding the express to Hogwarts, and the view can often be just as magical. It can also be extremely terrifying. The trains can take anywhere from 2 1/2 hours to go 20 miles, to 3 hours to cross the entire country. Getting a seat can be a tricky and dangerous animal survival game. Natural selections plays a large role. In order to even have the hope of getting a seat one needs the agility of a cougar and the force of a bulldozer. Tall nimble men throw their suitcases through the window and jump on the train while it is still moving, leaving little chance for the dehydrated American girls with 50 lbs. backpacks. The women and children push so hard I can see reverse evolution in process. The Sri Lankan hospitality has yet to fail me however, and there's usually some small girl or leering older man who squeezes over and offers me a seat for one of my butt cheeks.

On our trip from Galle, I am sharing a bench with a family of six. Jen and Megan somehow were shuffled (or violently shoved) into the next car. The train begins to move, and within a few minutes it's lurching and swaying at an unhealthy speed and in such a way as to give me that same sinking feeling in my stomach that I get when I'm riding in a 16-year-old's jalopy. Watching the boxcar ahead through the doorway swinging like a clock pendulum doesn't make me feel anymore sure about arriving in my destination in one piece. And one point I swear we catch air.
Every thirty seconds, like clockwork, I shuffle my feet out of the aisle to allow one of the million fruit and fried nastiness vendors to pass by. The dad of the family on my bench orders an apple. I watch horrified as the vendor pulls out a machete the size of my arm and quarters the apple an inch from my very soft and mold-able face. One lurch of the train and there goes my nose.

The bus rides certainly don't improve the odds of death by public transportation. One ride along the coast resulted in our bus driver receiving a speeding ticket. This was somewhat of a relief and concern at the same time. On the one hour ride through the hill cities to see a local waterfall, the bus was so full we were forced to stand in the open doorway. The bus flew at an angelic speed, hugging the cliff side of the mountain, while a thousand foot drop on the other side of the road was guarded by a railing of caution tape attached to sticks driven into the mud. My knuckles were white as I clung to the railing, and at every road sign with a large black "Z" on it I would feel increasingly more nauseous. More twists and turns ahead. The bus leans over so far I could lick the dirt pavement. The bus, like every bus on the island, is complete with an early 90's one-hit-wonder CD that always includes Fur Elise and a peppy version "Happy Birthday." Don't ask me why, except Happy Birthday does happen to have a catchy beat. No bus is complete without their golden, brightly colored paintings of Buddha tacked to the ceiling near the review mirror. Flip a switch and the disco lights begin to flash around the frame. The pictures are adorned with flower leis and incense. I'm not sure if that is an act of worship, or there to conveniently turn the bus into a mass coffin if we roll over the side of the cliff. The bus toots it's horn at a constant rhythm around each corner to warn any oncoming motorists, cars, pedestrians, and natural wildlife within a ten mile radius that we are coming at a speed that cannot be easily altered.



Often times, inside the bus is just as chaotic as outside. The possibility of encountering drunk men, vomiting children, or Buddhist monks is probable, as we've encountered all such circumstances. Women have also fallen asleep on my chest while the shawl of their Saree flaps in my face and their children backpacks are piled in my lap.

Therefore, as a general rule, we avoid the buses whenever possible, once almost opting for a four hour wait instead of a one hour bus ride. But at times we have not other choice. If it's not too crowded we snag a seat at the back.
The bus turns on.
Ricky Martin begins playing.
The driver flips on the switch and the Buddhas begin flashing.
Megan: "Oh...now we're on."
Jen: "I'm about to bust a move"
Me: "Only if they play 'Happy Birthday'."

The Enchanted Island

Place: Sri Lanka's Southern Coast


Ah, Sri Lanka, where the tea flows like wine and three men are making a wedding cake in my hotel lobby. Even the dogs and cats live in harmony here. This island really is enchanted. My prediction is that in a year or two, when the dust of their 30 year civil war has finally settled (it ended just a year ago), and providing there are no additional natural disasters, this place will have replaced Hawaii. I say a silent prayer for beating the crowds.

I am on the beautiful southern coast in a Dutch colony called Galle. The city is surrounded by a stone fort that is in remarkably good condition for being so old. The stone is dripping with black moss that creates a mystical feeling. Our hotel is more like a colonial mansion, with tile floors, wooden railings, and balconies shaded by tall trees. We spent a day hunting down the cheap seamstress shops to enjoy a little retail therapy in the beach town of Hikaduwa. Shopping was a success, I walked away with three hand made shirts for under $20. Jen and Megan scored Arabian pants and two dresses. On the train ride back we were all the rage with the school children just released from class. They surrounded us at the train station repeating the English phrases they learned in school and giggling when we responded. On the train they pushed ahead of the crowd to save us seats, then about 20 of them squeezed onto the bench across from us to stare and whisper.
Now, I am just speculating, I know nothing about the Sri Lanka government or their education system, but based on my observations, they seem to be excelling. The children are polite and speak more English than I would have expected. And they somehow are able to keep their uniforms bleach white. That only is a task worth toasting.



After Hikaduwa, we took the bus in the opposite direction to Koggala. One of the must-sees of southern Sri Lanka is the art of stilt fishing that is practiced there. Men drive large branches into the ocean and attach a horizontal stick, on which they perch to have a better advantage of catching the small anchovy type fish that live close to shore. It was amazing to see. The whole coastline scattered with sticks and resting fisherman. One old fisherman was friendly enough to teach us how the sport was done, and, eager to try, he helped me up on a perch and handed me his pole. After a few minutes he realized I was never going to catch anything, so to make me feel better he reached into the water and pulled out a fish with his bare hands and attached it to the end of my pole. I'm not sure how much better that made me feel, but it's the thought that counts.




The Sri Lankans in general are very friendly people. Too friendly sometimes. The men are as leery and talkative as the ones in Central America, but come off more inquisitive than aggressive. I'm not as familiar with the cultural faux pas here as I am in central America, so we have yet been able to determine whether the men are undressing us with their eyes, or seeing dollar signs in ours. Or just being friendly and want to practice their English. Or maybe a combination of all. The taxi driver who showed up in our hotel lobby asking to visit us at 9:30 PM did not increase my faith in the natural goodness of mankind. Don't worry Dad, we told the manager we were sleeping and shut and locked the door. Either way, I have yet to feel physically unsafe, and have long since stopped worrying about my belongings being stolen, let alone being attacked. Jen has a knife just in case. Except that it's too heavy to carry so we normally leave it in the hotel room. Again, it's the thought that counts.