Wonderful Cape Town: Day 43

Are you aware of the seven natural wonders of the world? No? Perfect, because I'm about to list them off: Victoria Falls in Zambia/Zimbabwe Mt. Everest in Nepal/China The Grand Canyon in Arizona, USA The Great Barrier Reef off Australia The Northern Lights Paricutin Volcano in Mexico The Harbor of Rio de Janiero

Do you know what is missing from this list? I propose to include an eighth natural wonder of the world based on the fact that its just as spectacular as the landscape of Rio.

Cape Town. It's beyond words.

Beyond words, indeed, but I'll attempt anyway. Not only is this stunning coastal city hugging beautiful chilly waters of both the Atlantic and maybe a smidge of the Southern Ocean, but it's topped by a plateau that throws the clouds over its summit like a table cloth as well as the twelve jutting crags that line the western face of the mountain range. To look up any street in the city and see in the crisp sky this massive formation just makes the heart melt. The best is when this view comes at you from your hostel WC. Talk about a loo with a view!

Not only is it gorgeous to look at, but it has a scene that bustles. I think I'd have a hard time fitting in all I wanted to do in Cape Town if I had a semester...or even a lifetime. And the exchange rate, which sucks for the SAs but rocks for 'Mericans, makes tasting every morsel of Cape Town life possible.

What is there to do in Cape Town, you ask? If you like to spend money, look at things, eat things, climb up things, free fall, ride around, drink things, or dance around, you'll enjoy yourself in Cape Town. I was certainly overwhelmed upon getting into town, trying to figure out what to do in such a short amount of days. Luckily the Garden Route on our future itinerary gave us some relief as far as adventure sports went, so we could steer more towards those things which are specific to the Table Harbor zone.

What cannot be overlooked, though, is the history that barely dates back more than a decade. In our lifetimes, there was complete havoc between racial and socio-economic lines, travesties committed against people by people. And now this place waits for you at the bottom of Africa, tempting you with sports, wine, and awesome views. It doesn't seem like the dust could have settled by now, and in many ways it hasn't, since racism will continue to flourish probably for decades to come (sadly). So in the mix of traveling throughout this great city, it pays to visit the townships and orphanages that resulted from the human cruelty of apartheid. It's not quite "dark tourism", but it gives you an awareness that could easily be avoided (to your disadvantage) and could definitely enhance the trip.

My best friend wrote on her twitter "Cape Town = Heaven", and I think she's onto something. It's a 15+ hour flight from the States, and yet it feels like our back yard. It's comforting and loaded with things that make a young heart flutter. The African aspect of Cape Town isn't hidden, it's salient and exciting to experience first hand. And with the World Cup hitting the scene in 2010, that city will probably be Heaven on Earth for a couple cool months. If I had a good chunk of change to my name, I'd be signing up for game tickets instead of writing this blog.

In short, I guess you could say, Cape Town is just darn cool. At least...I'm a fan.

Animals All Up in your Computer Screen

Just because I like to show off nature...and if you'd like to read about East Africa, don't even think about hesitating!

The East African Safari Experience: Day 36-42

You've just flown thousands of miles across massive oceans and expanses of land. You've had too many airport transfers to bother remembering. Those weren't cheap tickets or easy transit days. But you came to relive those deeply rooted Lion King fantasies from your childhood and by golly you'll do anything to make those happen!One thing you will realize upon getting to Africa is that the wild animals aren't really as close to civilization as some North American wildlife can be. We may imagine lions wandering into people's flower gardens and elephants backing into generators, cutting of the city's power supply. But unless you hit up a National Park in a city like Nairobi or Nakuru, you have a long way to drive to get to those classic landscapes teeming with long-necked, 2 ton, man-eating herds.

Therefore, most travelers who want to see East Africa and live out their safari dreams either book a full service transport/guide/camping/catering service from Arusha or Nairobi or they overland on massive multi-functional vehicles. Regardless of your travel mode, quality is key and can dictate whether you enjoy yourself or not. Research the companies and their average age of passenger or style of travel and make sure it fits with you. Ask about the experience of their drivers or guides. When it comes to the driver or tracker on safari, he or she needs to have loads of experience in order to find what you are hoping to see. Those who have been around for a while are downright psychic when it comes to predicting animal appearances or future behavior. Also, inquire about the vehicles for the drives into and around the game parks. Land Rovers clearly trump Land Cruisers, and vehicles with frequent maintenance will make, not break, your experience. No one likes getting stranded in those steamy, remote landscapes.

And if you're looking for a straight forward recommendation, I actually really dug our tour company because they met every standard of quality I found important. Bottom line is to decide what you find important (comfort, experience, fellow passengers, travel style, etc.) and do the research. No one wants to spend wads of dough and realize they missed the mark on their travel dreams.

For those of you who have no idea where to begin planning your Lion King fantasies. http://www.nomadderwhere.com

Nairobi at Night

I tried one more time. Nairobi at night. This time with the help of two GAP guides, one being my future leader across Tanzania and the game reserves. They escorted me back to Ranalo Foods to educated this rusty mind on eating with your hands in East Africa. Grabbing ugali (corn flour and water boiled down to a squishy solid) by the fingertips, they molded a wad to fit the width of their hands, ending in a spoon-like shape near the thumb. Then, they went for the meat or greens, pinching the food together to the ugali and taking it all in with a large, meaty bite. It took me a few attempts to look as thought I eat like this all the time. Of course, I still got some stares and was probably looking quite silly, but having those guys accompany me gave me the confidence I, for some reason, lacked the night before.

And then we went out for drinks. People were pumped to get on the dance floor, but most of the time, it was a floor full of gyrating men. The guys explained most men are pretty afraid of girls because the majority of the women surrounding us were quite obviously "ladies of the night." They danced with an eye behind them, seeing who was watching and hoping to entice someone.

The bathroom was for refueling, to smoke and primp among the puddles. Standing in my simple, modest attire, the ladies and I had a moment of pausing to observe the other. All faucets were covered with bags, so a massive tank of water took up the majority of the open space, and a small bucket bobbled in hopes someone would want to be clean. A woman in front of me couldn’t stop moving to the music outside and gyrated by the toilet stalls. I loved it. I wanted to join her. The other woman next to me, one of the few ladies that wasn’t working that night, handed me some toilet paper. I was much obliged.

The curtains by the dance floor parted on a band led by a great Congolese singer, and immediately the place exploded with energy. The music pulsed to a heartbeat or a quick breath, to the natural bounce of the joints, all about the hips, shoulders, and head, which usually looked down to see how the rest of the bod’ was doing.

At one point, a man collapsed "dead" on floor in a game to get money. He rose after the efforts of a few very dedicated and drunken men (giving money and pleading to the gods) and came alive…alive enough to strip down to basically a full spandex onesie and about twelve pairs of colorful or slinky underwear. Once he got down to nothing but a G string over his black shiny get-up, he proceeded to do a headstand fit with impressive hip gyrations. A couple audience members were quite enthusiastic to have me contribute to his medical school fees or whatever he was dancing for, but my boys had my back and gave me a backbone in the vulnerable situation.

The dancing king of the night, a.k.a. the Masai Matisyahu of sorts, told me to get up and dance. I mimicked the popular moves and fit in nicely. Then he asked me to be at home (that's nice) and feel free (oh ok...) to make another Obama if I felt like it (since I’m an American woman…in Kenya...wait, WHAT?). It was the second time someone said this to me in two days. At first it struck me as hilarious. Then I realized with the inauguration of our new president, the entire country of Kenya had a fresh new joke for the tourists that they all found as comical as they did the first time.

Bottom line: Get a local perspective on Nairobi nightlife, and you'll walk away pleased...and possibly swervin'.

Take my Taxes and Bribes but not my Smiles: Day 35

I made a friend while lounging at the hotel pool, Samuel, who comes from Kenya and beams with helpful information for the interested tourist. Since I feel like I’m cheating or lazy to only hang out at my hotel when abroad, I used his knowledge to develop a safe plan to see the city. Good man…though he fell in line with so many passing East African men I’ve met and asked me about my marriage status, but he stood as representation of a city I feared but without the malicious intent. While reading at the pool early on the second day, he cheerfully began another conversation with me that casually went into detailing his evening in jail. Since I had seen Samuel the afternoon before, he had been picked up by the Kenyan police and held in a cell, jammed in like a tin fish, and released on a bribe in the wee hours of the morning. He spoke with a smile and a near giggle throughout this story of corruption and dishonesty. This was his second time being detained, and his offence…not having his I.D. on him while waiting for a matatu (taxi bus) on his way home.

I took narrative exaggeration into account when he said 2,000 other suffered the same fate, but that would still leave a helluva lot of citizens at the mercy of the hired officials who supposedly “keep them safe”. Samuel informed me Kenyan police are the most corrupt on Earth, and considering Obama refused to come to Kenya recently due to its seedy government, its easy to take his story in and develop a healthy fear of Kenya’s system.

Tours start here based on airport convenience, and besides a quick shopping trip to Karen, a few animal activities, and spit grilled meals, there’s little else here that justifies time spent among the corruption bookends of government and criminality. I know the people who live here are lovely…it’s the search for them throughout the city that will do you in.

But the wonderful thing is, as soon as you leave the town limits, its nothing but love, gyrating hips, and carnivorous animals in Kenya.

Move. Just Do It: Day 34

I hit up a local joint in Nairobi on my first night: Ranalo Foods. The night involved my failed attempts at eating without utensils and a staring problem aimed at all the moving bodies on the dance floor. This is what I observed. “The body is constantly swerving into different 'S' curve forms, snaking and rolling and making dance a public display of their private spirits. Moving like they're underwater, yet unable to abandon the rhythm. The smaller the moves, the better; slow, deliberate gyrations all with the smooth coat of style. It's 'own world dancing'...no one is self-conscious. And it's all in the joints with hips gliding, shoulders throbbing, and all eyes looking down to the work being done by themselves and the handsome one nearby.”

I rarely am intimidated by the dance floor, and even if I'm in a new country, I usually take the stance that if I make a fool of myself, I'll see none of these people again in the future. But, I didn't dance this time. I wanted to so badly, to test my skills at mimicking this underwater, snaking, gyrating dance of East Africa. I thought I could break the barrier between myself and the rest of the crowd on that Saturday night. Oh, but I was alone, and I didn't want to be a spectacle.

I added this first night at Ranalo Foods to the list of moments I regret. I could have given a nearby soul my camera to record whatever failed or successful attempts I made to assimilate into the dance culture. I could have smiled and gotten so far, making new friends who would dictate the way I should move.

And why am I writing about that one time when I didn't dance at a restaurant in Kenya? Because it could have enriched my Nairobi experience to unknown heights, and I'd rather you not make the mistakes in your journeys that lead you thinking later..."That would have been really cool if I had been ballsy enough to do that." I didn't show those boys in the bar in Cambodia the Soulja Boy dance, and I didn't swerve to the music of East Africa. I still remember the things I missed. They're small, but they could make all the difference.

The Sauna that is Dubai: Day 30-33

I’ll be honest. The only time I’d subject myself again to a natural, sauna-like environment with sky-high prices and buildings and a soul burning sun would be on a really…really long layover. Though I absolutely love the airlines flying around the Gulf (and so much of these cultures is fantastic), I just don’t see myself coming here for any other purpose than to get somewhere else…fast. Now that you know how I feel about traveling in Dubai, and other cities akin to it, I’ll spend some lines telling you about how to make your layover friggin’ stellar.

First stop, book yourself in a nice hotel, not that hostels scatter the landscape, but fitting yourself in a stylish accommodation will score you a bed that releases the deprived slumber angels from their hiding places. The billowing breeze of the air-conditioning chills your travel weary bones, causing you to wrap up with a lovely down blanket and rejuvenate the soul. And it sounds like you could really go to town on this bullet point by booking yourself in a seven star (yes…7) hotel on the water if you felt like it. Of course, if you were capable of doing such things, you probably aren’t reading this blog ;).

Second is the kebab. Arabic food and its nearby influences make the Gulf a pretty dandy place to grab a meal. My mouth had a ball with chicken kebabs and shawarma. The yogurts and blends of spices are really unique and demonstrate the “schmushing” of cultures that occurs in this immigrant-filled city.

Third and most important stop…dune bashing. Remember that opening scene of Aladdin? Well, we saw no enchanted tiger head sand sculpture, but the dunes an hour outside the city stretch forever and provide a perfect setting for testing the limits of Toyota SUVs. It was a slow-motion car commercial, or slow-motion car accident without the eventful ending. We drove sideways and slid down sandy slopes. Upon finishing our ride (which had me bracing my stomach and holding a baggie), we ended at a desert barbeque fit with henna tattooes, sandboarding, ATV rentals, and belly dancing. Natalia was quite the ripped, yet feminine, shaker and showed up every single ambitious soul that joined her on stage. Chris and I managed to get up there for a few shimmies and hip shakes. It was completely touristy and completely awesome, and those words definitely aren’t synonymous. It was a success.

So now you know what to do in Dubai. And if you’re capable of sticking around for longer than three days, you’re pretty hardcore in my book.

It's totally touristy...and totally awesome. http://www.nomadderwhere.com

Why it will be a while for India: Day 28/29

Imagine an alternate universe that’s accessible by easy flight. A Mars or Twilight Zone with roaming holy cows, instant disease upon the consumption of food, toilets seemingly nonexistent, and pimped out buses roaming the streets. And imagine this place has so much of great appeal: colors, spices, drinks, music, dancing, people, animals, mountains, beaches, and this list fails to find its end. The journey is costly, but the destination is not. And it is nearly impossible to find a side of this culture bland…in any way. India is a place for me to find beauty, tragedy, and examine what is “necessary”. Many destinations make sense to the Western mind (I was instantly down with African and South America), but India for many leaves us cowering or flailing or blinking our eyes repeatedly, trying to figure out, “Why?! Wah-wa-wah-WHY?!” This shock to the system is harsh and often welcomed enthusiastically by travelers jones’ing for something refreshing.

This is one of the reasons why I won’t be coming back to India for a while. I have to preserve the Subcontinent as something unknown and confusing, keep it in mind as a throbbing, spazing, flowing, technicolored fantasy world that is possible to traverse and experience in reality. To be all knowing about the ways of India, I fear, would be to take the mystery out of this world. It’s the constant quest for knowledge with the joys of an infinite library.

I spent my last days in India hanging out in the ‘hood of Pahar Ganj among the novices, the immigrants, the locals, the travelers who never left, the familial frequenters who find the area comforting…and I knew I wasn’t any of them. I had my friends and the necessary haggling skills. I was stained by henna and dirt, sweating from every pore. My physical presence was in Delhi; my soul was not.

This is not a place for me to be but to remember like a past life and wonder if it really was. And one day, when I make that fantasy ride back for whatever demanding purpose, I’ll be floored once again, uncomfortable, and in need of the necessary transformation to deal with the organized and beautiful chaos of India.

I brought my recently finished book to my friend’s shop and exchanged it for a beautiful, purple scarf; this wasn’t really customary, but I think they wanted to do me a favor. With a telling hug, I knew, as did India, that I’d be a while. On this endless path, I’m learning where I don’t belong, and through the eventual process of elimination, I’ll soon find where the chaos makes sense to me.

India Travel Photographs Galore

See the true beauties from India. Also check out my blogs on India for some insightful musings.

Keeping Royal Ladies Covered since...a long time ago

Sunrise over Marble: Day 27

The following came to my mind while viewing her in splendid beauty. And by her I mean the Taj Mahal.

“From a brutal sun, she grabs the softest light and increases her elegance as more is revealed. Detail. Elaborate. Pristine. Smooth. The grandeur. The scale. All reflections point to a love harbored by one man for one woman. A place worthy of a Queen’s stroll, she will only experience it in spirit.

“I stood breathlessly close to nine chipmunks nibbling on seeds, making the sound of a bowl of Rice Krispies. It amazed me I was alone outside in India in a silence that allowed the sounds of chipmunk lip smacks. And I wasn’t melting for a moment! I had enough privacy to emit snot rockets that were essential at the time. My feet grazed dusty stones and stars, and a minaret often stole my shadow. Displacement. The audacity to move. How on Earth am I mobile enough to be here?”

I felt awful that morning, raw nose and constant pressure from inside my face. And I could barely break out of a horrible dream state from the night before. But I had to take in one of the World’s most iconic and recognizable sights. I couldn’t crap this moment away. It was mine for only a bit, and it moved me beyond my physical state to one consumed with the concept of love. After all, this is why the Taj exists.

I was crippled by the idea that people could aim for such perfection for another. It was lovely. Though I would never expect or even want a similar display aimed at myself (that’s just plain vain), but the intent behind it was beautiful. I feel bad for the dude’s other two wives who obviously didn’t receive the same level of admiration.

The Taj Mahal for some can be a destination that proves their reaches, but I wanted to take from this place an idea and a mission. And that I did. We’ll see if this mission pans out. I’ll keep you in the dark on this one, if you don’t mind.

What is Fatehpur Sikri? Day 26

Akbar’s capital city and home in the 1500s. An incredibly well-preserved complex of structures created in the Mughal style of architecture.

A pretty far out place in rural India.

So many centuries-old monuments are dilapidated and crumbling representations of their formerly grand selves. Sadly, pillaging and the wearing effect of time get the best of most. This UNESCO World Heritage site looks like it was mothballed for our later enjoyment in the 21st century. India has done great job at making this place a must-see site today and for the next century to come.

Massive cloister-like open spaces, green grass, human-scale Parcheesi boards, huge wells and ponds, temples, individual homes for all three wives tailor-made to their backgrounds and tastes (Hindi, Muslim, and Portuguese); by golly, just look at the photographs!

I wandered the place with a large-scale roll of toilet paper in my pocket and pulled it out about every minute to allow air to pass through my faucet of a nose. And the sore attitude that usually comes with this sort of discomfort remained hidden until I left the old city. Outside of this complex at Fatehpur Sikri, it seemed people just wanted us there to shell out hundreds in the breeze. Buying these little trinkets for 300% more than they bought it; it seemed a front for the real transaction. Some people actually sidestepped the process of supply and demand altogether and simply asked for foreign money, claiming they collected it. I know this is part of understood Indian culture, but I refuse to like it.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if this occurred only on the outskirts of a tourist or special attraction and not amongst them. Upon entering the nearby mosque, people used any reason to demand pay, everything from postcards and jewelry to merely being cute or talking to you. I found it disappointing that even inside a venerable tomb, the high holy man tried guilting us into paying for glancing.

I am so sensitive and worried when it comes to being a part of someone’s intimate culture, almost to the point that I don’t like visiting these sorts of religious or locally special sights. But it’s part of an experience that most tours and travelers find legitimate, necessary, and acceptable. Why then are we sometimes treated as such outsiders and exploited in a place where people worship? Are we also exploiting them and their destinations for our own scrapbooks and memories? I really don’t know (…and would love some feedback on this). In the meantime, I’ll balls up and love what I’m seeing, because it is truly wonderful.

Step in the Name of Water: Day 25

There are many perks to being in India during the off-season, a.k.a. the blistering heat of summertime. I walked into some nicer, yet empty restaurants and mentioned the items on the menu looked quite expensive. This usually got me at least at 20% discount because they needed the business. However, the heat is inescapable and takes a toll on your body, whether you’re baking in the sun directly or lounging in an air-conditioned bus. Therefore, anytime we were in transit from one fantastic city to the next, I was fast asleep across two seats, bouncing around while unconscious with every pothole and corrugated stretch of road. I awoke, sweaty and groggy, when our bus stopped in the middle of rural India. We had reached our destination of Abhaneri where we were to have lunch and a tour of something called a step well. We all anticipated something akin to a circular well with some spiraling steps down to the water. Whoa, baby, were we wrong.

It looked like the world’s biggest Tetris game, a gaping square hole in the Earth where people used to descend to the water level and receive buckets of heavenly H20. The steps zig-zagged down meters and meters on three sides, and the noon sun revealed every nook without the hint of a shadow. I could barely stand the heat, but this step well was something that could overcome that discomfort.

Some of our tour passengers stood out on the diving boards, from which people used to plunge into the cool waters. I was nearly certain Lara Croft would soon swing out of the palatial-looking structures that made up the fourth side of the well. Everything about this place, aside from the bats, was magnificent.

We could only weather the weather for about an hour and then returned quickly past the tiny shopping area of town to bus’ AC. But had we not stopped on this tour in Podunk, India, we would have missed seeing this feat of incredible innovation and creativity.

That evening, we all eagerly jumped into the pool at our luxurious hotel in the middle of nowhere, and even though it was warmer than my normal bath water, it was relief to be surrounded by liquid and relax my buoyant muscles. And it only took a somewhat painless rickshaw one kilometer away to find a cheap place on the side of the road to eat (instead of the overpriced hotel restaurant). I, along with four other travelers, ate a simple plate of incredibly spicy vegetables and chapatti for a mere $0.50.

This day was Indian satisfaction. We saw the extent of India’s untold greatness: incredible rural constructions and fulfilling, cheap meals alongside real Indians. We had both the tour structure and the small discoveries of lone wandering. Perfection.

Bollywood's Kal Kisne Dekha: A Quality Laugh

Nihal was a simple boy, bright and charismatic. He moved to Mumbai to go to his dream college and befriend the sweet women who liked him dearly and charm the spoiled ones who didn’t. He pulled some Matrix moves on the bad boys in school (who fittingly wore leather jackets and rode motorbikes) then saved the pretty girl from exploding as she stood over a bomb in a shopping mall. Nihal can see the future…did I mention that? The film is translated from Kal Kisne Dekha as “Who Can See Tomorrow?”

He envisioned the bomb going off and his lady flying into the air, Mafia style. He then goes on to build bombs for his professor, who pretty clearly had evil intentions all along, and then only finds out at the end of the movie that the bad guy was his mentor all along. The movie ends with a car, containing both a bomb and Nihal, bursting out of a building and landing about a half mile away ON TOP OF the bad guy’s boat, who is out on the deck watching the whole things transpire in binoculars. Nihal managed to emerge from the water unharmed, in slow motion, cologne commercial-style.

Believe it or not, I downplayed the details of this High School Musical turned Matrix turned 007 flick. And the entire time, Chris and I were barely hanging onto our seats, curled over in laughter, and video taping the absolute best part out of necessity for later viewings, bootlegging be damned.

The movie was so bad it was brilliant. It was completely worth the $2.30 ticket to get out of the Rajasthani heat and leave with a belly sore from laughter. Don’t take this movie review to mean that all Bollywood movies suffer from poor scripts and extremely skewed views of American cinema. Many of them are pretty top notch. But I appreciated this one even more than I would have a quality flick, and I welcome any laugh lines that come from watching movies like this one.

Great Wall + Indiana Jones Movie Set = Amber Fort: Day 24

Outside of an intriguing city called Jaipur sits a massive sprawl of buildings that seldom leave people unimpressed. We approached the area and got out on the side of the road to take distance shots of the entire panorama. Brushing off the hats that hawkers placed on our heads for purchase, we clicked the crusting landscape in our viewfinders and prepared for an enlightening, yet steamy day. There are two ways to ascend the hill towards the Amber Fort: walk on foot or hire an elephant to get you there. Seeing as it costs $13 for five minutes on an ellie that gets horrendous care and maintenance, I silenced my desires to roll around on the back of a pachyderm and employed my boots. A couple boys on the way tried to sell us postcards of the site, but never have I been inspired to write a postcard and send it even if it were free…so I moseyed on with them still calling me in my wake.

Our tour leader hired a guide that explained in great detail why we were wandering around on a mountaintop under a blistering sun. The structures boasted both Hindi and Muslim architectural elements, intertwined with a level of craftsmanship not found too often in today’s world. Mosaics caused the palaces to bling, and the intricate stone carving made it possible for the old Mughal inhabitants to develop such things as air-conditioning and one way windows. There were perfume fountains and wheelchair ramps for the royal ladies who couldn’t walk with all the layers of clothing they had to adorn. Every factoid this guide threw at us wowed us, even as our heads were slowly baking in the sun.

Both tourists and Indians wandered the grounds. It wasn’t packed but was easily scattered with interested minds and clicking cameras. It was one of those miracle destinations where the hype doesn’t surpass the reality of the site, and the aspect of tourism doesn’t take away or inhibit the experience from being awe-inspiring. Way to go, Amber Fort, you did it.

In the dead heat of the day, we dropped into the chaos that is Jaipur’s jewelry market, a strip of infinite shops and outdoor informal gem trading that had me thanking my lucky stars I don’t wear jewelry. It’s well known and apparently worthy of hype, but I saved my money and moved on to lunch and the most hilarious movie I’ve never witnessed in a theater. Bollywood, you complete me…

Movin' On from Delhi: Day 23

So much about Delhi intrigues me. The spice markets and the grand monuments. The tree lined roads and innumerable modes of transportation. I have friends in Delhi and enough knowledge of certain neighborhoods to make me feel somewhat comfortable with this harsh environment. I can’t say I enjoy the street side groping (by any stretch of the imagination), which occurred to me twice on this trip, but I take pleasure in being in the city nonetheless. But we moved on for a new, and arguably better, state where history slaps you in the face and leaves you twitching in awe. Our whole group seemed pumped for Rajasthan, and with due reason. The last 12 kilometers of our full day drive towards Jaipur revealed the beauty that is Amber Fort, a scattering of structures that span very dry mountaintops and calls to mind the Great Wall of China and Indiana Jones movies. But we were to experience that wonder the next day, so we headed to our lush hotel and the palaces of the city.

We took an audio-guided tour of the City Palace, which is never as satisfying as the hopeful tourist anticipates, but upon finishing the succession of numbered stops and enthusiastic explanations, I plopped down at the gate to view the outside world for a bit. Upon entering the City Palace, we were bombarded with hawkers and beggars who were enthusiastic and as forcefully pitiful as was humanly possible. As I watched them all from afar, away from the baseball-cap-wearing, touring public, I saw them in their element: eating popsicles and giggling around the street, relaxing at the nearby drink stand, enjoy the balmy weather and watching the birds dart around the sky, Hitchcock style. One baba in brightly colored cloth tried to make eye contact with me for some change, the kind of eye contact that makes you think he’s trying to suck out your essence with his optical powers. Freaky. But it was another world away from foreign eyes.

The nighttime brought a buffet of good smells right to our noses in the beautiful courtyard of our hotel. And with a vocal performance and puppet show following the meal, we truly felt like we were “on vacation.” Though we were paying a hefty price for the meal and encouraged to tip the puppeteer like Rockefellers would, our entire tour group could be together without the hassle of avoiding skewed restaurant suggestions, transporting everyone on the cheap, and searching for high quality, semi-authentic entertainment. Sometimes going with the tour flow ain’t so bad.

And then, the following day, we saw Amber Fort...wow...

Feeling Balmy and Looking Skyward: Day 22

The extent of my knowledge on Sikhism stops at the turbans. That’s pretty sad, which is why putting on a headscarf, washing my feet, and walking up the steps to Bangla Sahib, the Sikh temple in Delhi, was an experience I happily embraced. Red, beautifully woven rugs covered the marble floor completely, and we slinked towards the back, attempting to be discreet, our backpacks bumping into shoulders and blocking the views of those behind us. Within seconds, we were offered a silver bowl filled with a brown, slick, floury, sugary substance that the man scooped into our open hands. It was an offering to be consumed. It wasn’t half bad. Every once in a while, I feel unwelcome and bothersome when checking out a foreign religion, thinking they find this intrusion either disrespectful or amusing and certain that I’m breaking about twenty-nine rules of their godly law. Fortunately, the practicing Sikhs in the room didn’t seem to really care we were there. It could have been over-exposure and the fact that they get lots of tourists following their motions every day. Whatever the case, I basked in the breeze of a hundred ceiling fans and enjoyed the peace of the room that overcame the chaos of the city outside. I couldn’t understand a thing, but being among so many calm presences was satisfying.

A little volunteering of your time in the temple’s kitchen scores you a free meal of lentils, vegetables, flatbread, and other goodies from the Sikhs. And so, we enjoyed. With full bellies and soggy fingers, we then headed to the massive mosque adorning Delhi’s skyline: Jama Masjid.

It was at this religious destination that we felt we were wrong for being there. It was our bad for hanging out in the open prayer area, but the stares were ceaseless and intense. A thick line between them and us was evident. The architecture was imposing and magnificent but hard to appreciate when hawkers nearby were more interested in making us pay for various services and goods than letting us be a part of the moment. And it’s probably necessary to add the heat of the day made us ever-so sticky, which isn’t conducive to a positive attitude towards being a spectacle. But we remained there, with our borrowed coverings billowing in the subtle breeze, hoping to reap from this monument a feeling of awe. If I had any visceral knowledge of Islam at all, I’m sure it would have been a moving experience. I’m not putting Sikhism vs. Islam here, as I really love both followers, but these were two very different experiences and ones I found amusing as an onlooker.

Independent Travel vs. Tour Group: Day 21

The age-old debate: should we call our own shots or pay someone to do it for us. It all depends on how you value your own physical, mental, emotional exhaustion and how things like this affect your appreciation of a destination.

Last year, I traveled across Northern India alone, at time spending only $20 bucks in 5 days and living on the bottom of the tourist barrel, other times living the high life in the mountains. I met many Indians and Kashmiris I adored, which in turn led me to be a little closed off to the other tourists like me, and I had quite a bit of alone time with the things I came to India to see.

Traveling alone, as pleasurable as it can be, doesn’t easily put you in the position of being able to talk about your experiences and be understood. I had no one to turn to and say, “That mountain is stunning. Why do I live in Indiana where none of these things exist?” or “Is that chai wallah over there doing Michael Jackson dance moves?”

Our tour group for the Golden Triangle last week was just the kind of “cha-ching” blend of hilarious, fun-loving, and thoughtful travelers that can enhance the experience of seeing a destination. Without a thing to plan ourselves, we were able to react to the things we saw, discuss and be a part of them, and walk away from our trip pleased to have met good people in a place we loved. If we didn’t have this good group dynamic and weren’t on such a fitting tour for our travel styles, India would have remained a little bitter in our memories.

It takes careful planning and lots of luck for a tour to be the best route, and when it happens, you gotta smile because you’re in for a really good time.

A Friend Among the Hassle

Upon reaching our luxurious hotel in Delhi, I practically sprinted for the area I know best, the backpacker district…Pahar Ganj Main Bazaar. This one stop shopping/lodging/dining/etc. paradise for budget travelers was the first place I planted my feet and bags during my India visit last year, thinking this would be the perfect launching point for both the mountains as well as the iconic Taj and Ganges stops. Surrounded by fellow, like-minded vagabonds, I figured I’d be in good company.

Instead, I befriended a shop owner on the street, while looking ever-so confused during a roti purchase, who convinced me to go on my incredible Kashmir trek. With this connection, I experienced an enlightened perspective on Pahar Ganj and India in general that surpassed what I could have wrangled from a late night conversation in a hostel’s rooftop restaurant.

And so, with our arrival to Delhi, I made an effort to find my old friend and reminisce in the comfortable squalor of the Main Bazaar, which is the main drag where one could buy fruit, internet minutes, a new cheap wardrobe, lodging for $1.50 per night, and I’m certain a slew of unspeakable things. Immediately, I received a cold drink, a quality lunch, and all the insider information I could hope for.

In a place like Delhi (and tourist India in general), it truly pays to know someone without an agenda. To get anywhere or anything in this country, one must understand the art of the haggle, know who to ask for recommendations for anything, and realize (and accept) that everyone has connections for potential commissions on their end. An unbiased opinion hardly exists.

Enter local friend. Making a local friend with no personal agenda is a treasure to pamper, enjoy, and maintain for years to come. I credit my comfort with India to befriending these people who want you to know the real charm of their complex country.

A quite sketchy but lovable home away from home. http://nomadderwhere.com

India, Shock with Awe: Day 20

The last time I left India, just eight months ago, I related the effect the country had on me to a scruffy, irritating, acidic kiss from which I recoiled…and then later longed for. As the horns screamed around our taxi from the airport, I turned to Chris and said, “Home Sweet Home.” He nodded.

This place, upon first impact, is not exactly this easy to embrace and appreciate. In fact, the heat radiating from every passing vehicle and the sun was blistering. Dust already covered my face. The passing vistas revealed some atrocious living conditions, but having already been here on a combined three trips, we were aware of what to expect and how things work in the Subcontinent.

I asked Chris, “If this were your first time in India, what do you think you’d be in shock of right now?”

From this started a sporadic conversation of things that described the crazy differences between our American understandings and the realities of India.

The modes of transportation spanning from cars, bikes, and auto rickshaws to camels, horses, and the occasional very hot elephant.
The near absence of road rules and the organized chaos of traffic flow.
The smog that covers the entire city and reflects back in the eye as blinding light.
The smell: a mix of feces, incense, flowers, chicken coups, dirt, trash, spices, delicious food, bonfires, and a few other things indiscernible.
The brightly colored sarees, Sikh turbans, and fully covering clothing in +40 degree Celsius heat.
The red, rotting teeth edging most open mouths.
The roughly one inch space between our taxi and all vehicles surrounding ours while moving at 40mph.

How is a place so rough to our senses so lovable?

India. Over one billion people can’t be wrong.

Red Rock, Roadkill, and Rough Transit: Days 18/19

Our penultimate Oz experience was nothing short of a red rock smorgasbord. King's Canyon had a steep start and a smooth finish as we hiked around this fault line in the Earth's oldest crust. Nature and rock are gorgeous themselves, but for some reason, we felt it necessary to complement the experience with our own humorous interpretations of the red rock. Chris made it very clear he knew absolutely nothing about the terrain, and I had a ball feeding him lines like "This looks like Grandma's Elbow Red Rock" or "This should be entitled Teenager's Complexion Red Rock." We're so global and mature.

Descending the canyon, our fingers swelled from the blood flow and feet ached from stomping around six kilometers of hard rock. We happily boarded our luxury overlanding vehicle to sleep and relax for the five hour drive back to Alice Springs. Upon parting with our tour and very cool guide, we had two objectives for the evening: to buy mad loads of internet minutes and to eat the most uncommon meat we could find. In between our feverish bouts of work all night long, we took the much needed break to have dinner at Bojangles, the local famous saloon that served the meat lover's platter with our names on it.

We chewed around some kangaroo, crunched into a crocodile spring roll, sawed into an emu sausage, and topped it all off with two pitchers of beer we mistakenly ordered. Who knew "lost in translation" moments could happen in countries that speak your native tongue! Two beers please. Two pitchers?! Well, okay, that will have to do!

httpvh://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9DHVoUXFBgc

We made the long walk back to our hostel (the fourth time I made this jaunt that evening since I forgot my ID and needed it to get into the ever-so classy and popular saloon) and passed some shadowy characters in the night. Someone on our Fiji tour announced to us that Alice Springs wasn't the safest of destinations, and I think we figured out why this was the case. Unfortunately, the stats on Aborigines in local society do not describe great birth rates, high literacy, or many things positive at all, and considering the fact that Australia only formally apologized to the original Oz inhabitants only LAST YEAR for their horrible treatment for centuries, it's understandable that they are hurting as a group.

And then began the process of sleeplessly uploading our many, many blogs, photos, and videos from both Fiji and the most recent tour. We froze outside near the only wireless hotspot, trying to meet our deadlines, but ended up getting slap-happy and playing games of "Slap the Bag" with the boxed wine our tour guide gave us. What professionals we are. We boarded a bus the next day at 11:45am, which started our 27 hour transit period between the smack-dab center of Australia and the steamy capital of India. For 2 hours, we were bumping and cramped, sleepy and hungry, disoriented by time and location, and increasingly concerned for Chris' swelling ankle. That thing got massive, and he developed a disturbing limp.

But that all didn't matter. We were heading back to a country both of us have not only experienced but grown to love. We were destined for the Subcontinent. Hindu country. India. Oh, and on the way...we saw Mt. Everest.