Pokhara, Nepal

Maintaining flexibility in travel plans is necessary when undertaking such a long trip as you’re bound to discover a new locale or adventure you previously didn’t know existed. The flexibility can come with a price, however, as failing to book ahead can often times result in wasted days, as the timing of events may be off, or the bus you’re looking to take may be full.

The former can be chalked up to bad luck or poor planning. The latter can always be negotiated.

Arriving back in Kathmandu on a Sunday meant all the bus offices were closed, so Monday morning we made our way to the offices just as they opened, and 30 minutes before the only bus of the day left, headed for Pokhara. We needed 2 tickets, but unfortunately, they only had one seat left. The office worker gave me a sad look as if he thought I was just going to give up on finding another seat. I awkwardly stared at him and assured him we would find a seat. He pretended to make some calls, again telling me there was only one seat left. After 15 minutes, he must have got the hint that I wasn’t going to let the bus leave without me, as he opened the door to the bus, folded down a makeshift co-pilot’s chair across from the driver, and pointed to the 1 square foot platform, asking with his eyes if I was crazy enough to buy a ticket for this newly-found “seat.”

With my front row seat, I saw the chaos of every little town we passed and the serenity of the open mountain roads, potholes and all. 8 hours later, sore butt and all, we arrived in Pokhara. It didn’t take long for us to decide that we would leave hiking in and around the Annapurna range for another trip, and instead enjoy the lakeside setting, picturesque views, spas, and delicious, healthy food of Pokhara for a few days as a well-earned respite.

The town of Pokhara can, all at the same time, be considered a trekking capital, a locals’ getaway, a congested, smog-filled city, a health and wellness retreat, and a raw/organic/granola foodie paradise. Somehow, it all works. After weeks of dahl, we welcomed the smoothie bowls, adaptogen drinks, and avocado toast. Grueling glacier climbs turned into peaceful strolls along the lake, the energy previously spent carrying our packs was now used to paddle a rowboat to the distant shore, the ringing bells of prayer wheels turned to releases from nearby OSHO yoga classes (yes, the Wild, Wild Country guy).

We did manage to squeeze in a little adventure in between massages, juice cleanses, and sunrise panoramas, as we hiked the hills for temple views and zip-lined from the top of the mountain (or at least the mountain that sits in front of the real mountains). On our last day before braving the night bus back to Kathmandu (with a real seat this time), we ventured out into the mean streets on a potentially-not-registered scooter, making our way to Begnas lake, a lake that lacks everything Pokhara has grown to be, mostly untouched, save for a few hotels and coffee lodges scattered in the surrounding hills. Between pit stops for fresh coffee, we passed through rice fields and lush forests, making detours for viewpoints and swinging sessions with the local children. Like a daydream, I was brought back to my time in Southeast Asia, where the back roads, best navigated by scooter, seem to always steer one towards the greenest of scenery, smiling locals, and freedom from the business and burden of the towns left far behind.

As is the case when time is of no concern, we were brought back to earth only by the gas meter, as the blinking light signified an end to our ride through paradise, and with that, our time in Nepal.

Mischief Managed.

Gokyo

Nestled deep into the Khumbu, at least a week’s walk from the closest airport, and two weeks from the closest road, lies a village with an aura and setting that every backpacker, wanderluster, businessman, laborer, working mom, housewife, retiree, and Instagram-addicted teenager dreams about. A place where emerald lakes run into snow covered peaks, where strolls along the lakeshore lead only to more lakes in both directions, where every window in town provides a lake view, and where adventure or serenity awaits, take your pick.

Descending upon Gokyo after an arduous 8-hour day over Cho La pass felt like discovering an oasis in the desert, a respite from unforgiving terrain. I had but one desire upon making our way down to the shores of the lake: take the plunge to cleanse from the 2 shower-less weeks and to re-energize my tired feet, legs, back, shoulders, and mind. Alas, my intentions proved to be futile, as the lake is considered to be holy for the native Sherpa, no swimming is allowed. I understood, but lamented what I considered to be a waste of pristine natural surroundings waiting to be enjoyed.

After checking in to our $1.75 room and enjoying some salty yak butter tea along with a fresh-baked brownie, we stared out our window onto the glistening lake, watching the sun make its way slowly behind the peaks as the afternoon fog rolled its way in. The following morning, we made our way up Gokyo Ri, a summit just outside of town, for a panorama of all the surrounding lakes, Everest, and the whole valley. The views never get old, even if the words to describe them run dry. Despite the panorama in front of me, my gaze continued to revert below, as the now tiny village of Gokyo and its dozen or so lodges lay perfectly positioned on the emerald lakeshore, directly opposite a string of peaks similar to Lake Moraine in the Canadian Rockies.

After making our way back to town, I decided to take a walk along the lakeshore in the late afternoon sun. Past breeze-blown prayer flags and meditating trekkers, I found a spot as close to the water sans swimming, and stared through the scattered clouds into the reflected rays on the water, through the peaks, into the hazy sun. I prayed, I praised, I let myself go for a bit, freeing myself from the physical and mental challenges of the trek. With the warmth of the sun fading, I became overwhelmed with emotion as the urge came to speak with my grandfather, catching up on all the things he’s missed since he passed almost 5 years ago, and just how much he’s inspired them all: the trips, the work, the life I’m living. I laughed, cried, joked, and smiled. A long overdue conversation, a physical and mental reminder of what heaven looks like. As the tears dried, the clouds descended, and the sun disappeared, I bid farewell and made my way back along the lakeshore to town, fresh off a cleansing and re-energizing that no dip in the water could have ever accomplished.

Perhaps it is a holy lake after all…

Everest and the 3 Passes

The hike to Everest Base Camp from Lukla is well trodden by many a tour group and individual trekker. The (mostly) out and back route takes approximately 12 days, including acclimatization days, to complete, and has been criticized for the crowds and, unfortunately, trash that tends to accumulate with such an influx of people in an area not suited to dispose of the refuse that comes with. While we wanted to see Everest during our trek, we opted for the 3-Passes route, a difficult route that crosses 3 passes in the 18,000 ft range, with the option to take the offshoot up to Everest Base Camp. The trail was rated as “Hard” and, in some areas, “Remote.”

These are both accurate statements.

From Chukung, we set out for Kongma La pass, supposedly the hardest of the three. Within 20 minutes, I began to feel light headed and the sensation that typically comes prior to passing out. Perhaps it was the 5am start, or the altitude, or the skipped breakfast, or the frozen hands, or the nervousness. Whatever the reason, the first course of action was to remove my pack and get some GU and some chapati in my system ASAP. After a few minutes’ recovery, all was right and we were back on the trail. The morning was beautiful, but the hike was grueling. After what seemed like endless false fronts and one too many impossibly steep switchbacks, we found ourselves at the top of the pass, 18,000+ feet up, overlooking lakes, rocky peaks, and snow covered faces as far as the eye could see. A sense of both accomplishment and awe overwhelmed as we enjoyed our extra hard-boiled eggs from the top, straddling the rocky crags of the pass, looking back at what we’d just accomplished, and out into what lay ahead.

As if the climb up wasn’t enough, we spent the next 5 hours maneuvering our way down the mountain, over icy boulders and down, down, down what seemed like a never-ending trail. The trip down was wearing, as food, water, and energy ran low. At the bottom of the hill, we reached one last obstacle – a glacier crossing, or at least the remnants of what once was a glacier. A steep climb up, then down into the maze of rocks, ice, and pools, following the flags that would eventually lead us to our resting spot for the evening. Into a new world we ventured, with new peaks to ogle over, new terrain to traverse, and new mental battles to fight. Alas, we arrived in Lobuche, back on the well-trodden path to Everest, the first pass in the books.

With bodies and minds sufficiently shot, but our confidence boosted, we continued the push towards Everest Base Camp the following morning, reaching Gorak Shep, the last remnants of civilization, for a quick tea break and sendoff towards the great Sagarmatha. The route was cake compared to the day before, and we arrived (along with dozens of others) to the desolate wasteland that is base camp. With the climbing season over, just a couple tents lay strewn about the rocky hillside that butts up against the undulating, spiky glacier than leads the way up the mountain. Almost hidden behind the surrounding mountains, Everest barely reveals its broad peak to would-be climbers. Based on my recent reading of Into Thin Air, I could somewhat trace the path up in my head, doing my best to envision how in the world the massive icefall could be traversed up to the next camp. I thought about those who met their demise on the mountain, the fact that they were still up there, preserved in the ice and snow, so far removed from the revelers down below celebrating their great accomplishment of walking to base camp with some trekking poles and a porter. I was proud of our feat, no doubt, and floored by the grandiosity of what was in front of me, but my experience at base camp felt much too heavy to celebrate. I made my way down into the glacier, leaping over a deep, fast-flowing runoff (the closest brush I would come to falling victim to the mountain), and did my best to get a sense of the size of it all. I imagined the difficulty of climbing over the ice 4 times my height, plodding my way up the mountain, staunchly reminding myself that I had no business being on that mountain, and thankfully, no desire.

If Everest Base Camp was sobering, Kala Patthar was pure glory. The following morning, we made our way to the top of the nearby hillside (if you count 1200 ft vertical paths hills), to the “footstool” of Everest. The vantage point from Kala Patthar puts the great mountain in plain sight, along with its neighbors to the left, right, and all around. The climb was tough as always, but invigorating, as we had positioned ourselves face to face with the top of world. Everest stands strong, broad, doesn’t show off with any fancy features, almost blends in as it sits behind lesser peaks that may seem to match its height, but don’t come close. It’s as if the mountain is content to sit and let the other peaks deceive its viewers, because it knows who sits atop the throne, and that’s really all that matters. We sat on our own makeshift throne at the top of a rocky outcropping for who knows how long, soaking up the glory that surrounded, high on both life and earth, unsure that we’d ever come down.

Continuing along the route, a short day on the trail left us in Dzonghla, the jump off point for the next pass, Cho La. Dzonghla quickly became one of our favorite stops, nestled at the top of a valley, perfectly framing Ama Dablam, our favorite peak. After Kongma La and Kala Patthar, we were confident for Cho La, though that didn’t make the effort any less challenging. After a short, lost-trail detour and a slip into the creek, it looked as though we were in for another rough day. With our heads down, we persevered, up and over even larger boulders, across snow-packed ledges where one bad step would send us sliding, and finally to the top of the 2nd pass, where we reaped the spoils once again. Snow and peaks and outcroppings on all sides, we sat again on nature’s perfectly selected pedestal. As tends to be the case, two photos of different passes may not look all that different to the untrained eye, but the real-life experience makes each pass uniquely its own, a spoil only truly reaped from the effort exerted to make your way to the top. A similar fate from Kongma La await us on the other side, as we cautiously made our way down, with another glacier-remnant crossing as the final obstacle before reaching the village of Gokyo, the most beautiful place on Earth you’ve never heard of.

2 heavenly days in Gokyo gave way to our final test, the Renjo La Pass. Nervousness no longer an obstacle, it was our focus and resolve that was tested on the final pass. Being so close to the end, it’s easy to fall into the trap of letting down the guard, of losing focus on the task at hand, of hitting the brick wall that doesn’t provide too many options high up on the mountain. The closer we reached, the harder it was to find my rhythm. Each misstep at such high altitude required an extra few seconds to catch my breath and search for the cadence that would take me to the top. Each false front made for another blow to the psyche. The 3rd pass, the easiest of them all, was proving to be the most challenging, as if my body and mind knew it was almost done, but was not patient enough to wait it out just a bit longer. Alas, the pass was ours, quite literally, as only one other trekker, coming from the opposite direction, joined us at the top. The views, as expected, spell-bounding. Everest and its pals straight across, Gokyo and its emerald lakes below, glacier slashing through the panorama, any and all of the scenes we’d encountered during the previous 2 weeks walking, slogging, bouldering our way up, over, and through the valleys and mountainsides lay right in front of us. The Creator’s canvas, laid bare for us to take in, under a pristine sky.

If I looked hard enough, with enough imagination, I could see our footprints meandering the far-off trails. Permanent strokes on a perfect canvas, a permanent snapshot on an imperfect soul.

Through the Clouds

The mental alarm went off at 5am. Breakfast was packed and we were out the door by 6, ready to take advantage of the typically clear mornings. Our hike up the valley would be flanked by snow-capped peaks as we would spend our breaks trying to identify which was which from our map. We’d be floating on air, energized by the surroundings, unencumbered by the high altitude. It was going to be the quintessential day hiking in the Himalayas.

Until it wasn’t.

Thick clouds blanketed our route, as we descended all the way to the valley floor before climbing back out and up half again as high as we started. With each hour, we anticipated the clouds would burn off, but alas, they never did. Again, our gaze was forced towards what lay in front of us instead of above us. Again, what the sky hid from us was revealed through a different medium: through a serene and beautiful monastery in the hilltop town of Tengboche, through joyous conversation with an Israeli couple turned trekking partners, through internal self-reflection and thought between trying to catch a breath, and through the comfort of a hot glass of ginger-lemon-honey tea after a long day of hiking downhill, uphill, but seemingly never flat terrain.

The next morning in Pangboche, through the condensation of the tea house window and the sleep in my eyes, I glimpsed a patch of bluish-purple sky. Immediately, I rushed outside into the freezing cold morning, anxious to see what could be seen. And see I did. As clear a morning as imaginable, right in front of us lay a double peak, jetting into the sky, looking like a combination of the Matterhorn and Mt. Fitzroy: Ama Dablam, my pick for most attractive in the Khumbu. The morning sun glow behind it, lighting up the entire valley, peaks all the way down. I’d found what I’d come for, just waiting to be explored, seen from every angle, admired, even climbed perhaps. The day’s hike took us through Dingboche, another town engulfed by surrounding peaks, and onto Chukung, a resting place for 2 days prior to tackling the first of three passes. Upon arrival in Chukung, we found ourselves at what seemed like the foot, or perhaps the heel, of Lhotse, a neighbor to Everest, standing at over 26,000 feet. The face of Lhotse, along with its sister peaks, dominated the Skyline with a jagged ridge and rocky, snow-covered face. While other peaks were somewhat majestic, to me, Lhotse felt ominous, like it meant business. We sat in awe as we attempted to recover from our slightly-too-quick ascent from Pangboche, feeling the effects of our 15,000+ foot elevation.  

Our recovery and acclimatization day was spent, you guessed it, hiking. We took an offshoot trail to Island Peak base camp, making our way through glacial river bed run-offs, enjoying some flat terrain as we took in the beauty surrounding us. The scale of everything becomes mesmerizing, as you realize the peaks in front and around are up to 2 miles above. The sense of scale and scope stop functioning, what’s truly known is just how small we ourselves become, that the small rock seen tumbling down the glacier face across the way is most likely the size of a car, and that the trail in the distance, the one that seems to endlessly go in one direction and slope (up and steep) is on the docket for tomorrow.

As the clouds part and the air gets thinner, the breaths become harder, and the steps become slower. We are continuously reminded of the effort required to do what we came for, and must make the conscious effort to continue towards the peaks and passes in front of us, and those hidden as of yet, but that we know await.

And so we go…

Into the Khumbu

There are those places that we so often imagine ourselves being, imagine the feelings we’ll feel, the state of awe we’ll be in, the romanticism, the adventure, the grandiosity, the serenity. For some people, it’s the backstreets of Paris or the cobblestones of ancient Rome, for some it’s the promenade of Rio de Janeiro or a palm-fronded beach in the South Pacific, still others it’s a lakeside villa in the Alps, or standing atop the lost city of mystical Machu Picchu. Wherever the locale, we create the scene in our minds and run it over and over whenever we feel the need to Walter Mitty our way out of daily life. We imagine, we save, we plan, and, if we’re lucky, we go, in the hopes that the fantasy we’ve created becomes reality before our eyes. I, myself, have dreamed up a list of time and place perhaps larger than most, and have been fortunate enough to translate fantasy to reality for many a locale.

Mount Everest was never on that list.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, the Himalayas never made their way into my daydreams. The biggest mountains in the world, accessible to any willing trekker, were never a place I wanderlusted over, incessantly researching and imagining what it’d be like to stand at the foot of the giants. My last world tour came to an end ever so close, as I made it as far as India, but never north into the mountains. Since then, I knew I would make it to Nepal and the great peaks next, but I can’t say I ever really wondered what it might be like. I never put myself at the foot of Everest, never smelled the thinnest of mountain air. Curiously, my only real daydreaming came from a short scene in Benjamin Button, as an aging, but now able-bodied, Brad Pitt travels through India and wakes up to the sun in his eyes rising over some snow-capped peaks that I determined to be the Himalayas where I would one day find myself.

While a lifetime’s worth of wanderlust can enhance an experience, sometimes adventure lies in the unknown. And so, I decided to jump in blind, doing as little research as absolutely necessary to plan for the trip, ready to be overwhelmed by whatever lay ahead on the multi-week trek to and through the Khumbu, the region in and around the tallest mountain in the world. The trek would take us to Everest Base Camp, the jump-off point for would be summiteers, and over three 5000+ meter passes: Kongma La, Cho La, and Renjo La.

We began the journey with a thankfully non-eventful puddle-jumper flight into Lukla airport, a short runway stuck between a mountainside and a cliff (watch the 1st minute or so). From there, our trek began, meandering along the mountains high above, alongside, and over roaring glacial rivers. We passed through village after village situated into the hillsides, with farms, gardens, goats, yaks, porters, and, of course, Tea Houses. Tea Houses in Nepal serve as de-facto room and board for trekkers, glamping if you will. The basic structures typically have a large, comfortable, sometimes warm, common area where meals are served, tea is drunk, and smelly trekkers commiserate before heading to their chilly rooms to sleep the necessary 10-12 hours each night to recover. If you’re lucky, a warm shower may exist (for a fee), and there might even be a fully functioning sink. While glamping may not be the appropriate term, the comfort of protection from the elements, a hot meal, and a steaming cup of yak butter tea sure are some significant perks over pitching a tent.

The first 2 days of the trek were devoid of the peaks we were chasing, as the high clouds that typically make for excellent hiking weather weren’t quite high enough to reveal the looming mountains that we were unaware surrounded us. Our eyes instead were fixated on the dense forests, covered in ferns and mosses, and the ubiquitous mani wheels and stones found at the entrance to nearly every village. With each village came a twirl of the wheels to cleanse our souls and ensure a safe passage. Tombstone-like slabs of carved rock piled high and long, all repeating the mantra, served as guideposts. Porters with loads piled high on their backs serve as the long-haul truckers of the region, as no roads exist to transport goods up the mountain. Distances between villages are referred to as days’ walking, rather than kilometers covered. We crossed many a bouncy bridge suspended over the powerful rivers below, some a bit more precarious than others, dodging donkey-train traffic jams and doing our best not to look down over the sometimes hundred-plus foot drops.

The deep greens of the forest and the icy blue-gray of the river below were interrupted by the vibrant pop of color emanating from the famous prayer flags. A repeating series of green, red, blue, white, and yellow flags can be found in and around every corner of the mountains, hanging from bridges, strewn across high passes, covering stupas, decorating the walls of teahouses, you name it. Always eye-catching as they blow in the breeze, they served as a sign that we were near something important, perhaps our destination for the day, providing a vibrant reminder of the different world we were in as we lost ourselves on the meandering trails.

After the first of many arduous climbs, we found ourselves in Namche, the last major “city” before climbing deeper in teahouse-only territory. Sitting at 11,500 feet, Namche is the last stop for anything a trekker may have forgotten; you can find all the gear, food, souvenirs, and WiFi you can dream of. The city itself is situated like an amphitheater high above the valley below, with peaks (still hidden to us) surrounding in all directions, it’s colorful buildings and lodges making for a kind of lego-land feel from high above. All roads, er trails, in the area lead towards, from, and back to, Namche. Many trekkers (us included) choose to spend 2 days in order to begin the acclimatization process prior to proceeding higher into the hills.

After a successful start to the trip and sufficiently getting our hiking legs under us, the anticipation began to build for the prize of the whole adventure. Sure, the vastness of the mountainside, the power of the rivers and waterfalls, the quirkiness of the donkey and yak trains, the charm of the teahouses, and the mystique of the prayer flags and mani stones made for a trek already worth writing home about, but these were the Himalayas, we came to see the Giants, and it was time to do so. My wanderlust was in full effect, no more relying on Benjamin Button, no more zero-expectation travelling. I was Koo-Koo for the Khumbu, ready for the great peaks to knock my socks off.

Let’s Hike…

Kathmandu

As we touched down in Kathmandu, Nepal, we were promptly greeted by 3 separate customs lines, for each of which we found ourselves to be in the “slow lane.” 3 hours later, we were finally on our way into Thamel, the backpacker/tourist district of busy Kathmandu. The taxi ride into town was filled with all the sights and sounds I’ve grown accustomed to in my travels: cars, motorbikes, bicycles, people, animals all occupying the plot of the road they deemed to be theirs, with more than a comfortable amount of overlap. Unprotected lefts, rights, straights, you name it. Roundabouts where the best option was to close your eyes and go. All the natural driving phenomenon you can find in most places outside of the West. I laughed to myself as we made it through one particular roundabout no bigger than a mall merry-go-round, packed with all of the participants mentioned above plus some religious shrine at the center, as smoothly as if we were the only ones on the road. I immediately thought of the recent “roundabout” that was put in near my old neighborhood in San Francisco, that for some reason still had a STOP sign in combination with the roundabout. Naturally, there were tire marks all over the makeshift garden placed at the center of the unsuccessful attempt at improving traffic flow.

I was expecting an environment akin to the large cities I’d visited in India, and I was not mistaken, though everything here seems to be toned down a bit from my experiences in India. The buildings are smaller, the horns not quite as loud, the hawkers a bit more subdued. Make no mistake, however, the chaos still rivals the neighbors to the south. Walking onto Indra Chowk, a main thoroughfare, we were thrust directly into the middle of a street packed to the gills with 90% people, 9% cars, and 1% whatever needed to be sold. Fabrics, fruits, vegetables, flowers, electronics, lassis, teas, spices, copper pots, you name it, all within shouting distance (if it wasn’t so loud), or quickly down an alley/maze. It’s a good thing Nepal isn’t known for pick-pocketing, as the proximity of everyone to everything would make it easy pickings. Our tour of the area, thanks to an art “student” looking to practice his English and maybe show us his art school (of course), brought us to many a Stupa spread throughout the city. Some old and rundown, some with fresh coats of paint, the shrines scattered throughout were often times located through small doorways or alleys that at first looked quite suspicious, but opened up into tranquil areas removed from the chaos outside. Many of the shrines are a mix of Buddhist and Hindu, as the two religions co-exist in the city. A few of the major stupas and temples were damaged quite badly during the earthquake in 2015, in particular Durbar Square, where many of the buildings are either under renovation or being precariously held up by wooden beams.

A quick taxi ride away from the buzzing tourist district brought us to the Monkey Temple. Now, I’ve had my share of experiences with these so-called Monkey Temples, and they usually end up with something from my backpack in the hands of a hard-bargaining monkey/heathen, so I was prepared. After what seemed like an endless staircase that belonged in our upcoming Himalayan trek moreso than in a major metropolis, we arrived atop a hill looking over the sprawling city. The middle contained a large stupa, equipped with the traditional 4 sets of eyes looking in all directions, painted white aside from the gold adornments on the top and corners, and, you guessed it, covered in monkeys. Thankfully, these monkeys wanted nothing to do with my belongings, and kept to themselves for the most part, unless you were in their anticipated leaping route. We made our way around the stupa (always clockwise), twirling the prayer bells as we passed, reflecting on the ubiquitous 6 syllable mantra: Om Mani Padme Hum

Amidst the chaos and delays, we were off to a great start.

Varanasi, India

Adorned corpses are marched through the narrowest of lanes as chants reverberate from the maze of buildings inhabited by those waiting, hoping, to die. Soaking wet pilgrims pass in the opposite direction, cleansed of their sins, carrying with them remnants of the holy Ganga river. The smell of smoke and volume of chants strengthens as the steps leading to the river emerge from the flooded, feces-ridden alleyways. Intense fires, more than half a dozen heaping piles of wood, roar from the riverbank, consuming the cleansed bodies, ending the cycle of death and re-birth for the deceased.

Welcome to Varanasi

Varanasi is the holiest city in India and one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world. It sees tens of thousands of visitors each year, both tourist and pilgrim alike. The birthplace of the god Shiva, and home to the Ganges River, referred to as the Ganga, it’s believed that, if one were to die in this place, the reincarnation cycle of death and re-birth ceases, with sins cleansed and a heavenly afterlife awaiting the believer. Every Hindu strives to make the pilgrimage to Varanasi at least once during their lives for a chance to bathe in the holy waters and cleanse themselves of their past wrongs. Babas of all status and stature make their way to Varanasi, as they line the streets and alleys and riverside ghats. The city itself is absolute chaos, with every overwhelming aspect of India rolled into one, tightly confined space. Cows and dogs and rats and monkeys and homeless and sickly and dying and feces and trash and heat and monsoons and horns and traffic and touts and masses of people are accompanied by incense and flowers and chants and celebrations and dancing and colors. Varanasi has it all, and then some.

The bathing rituals are both fascinating and stomach curling at the same time. Locals make their way down the steps, performing their rituals in the murky water, dripping some onto their heads and into their mouths before submerging themselves into the depths. It all seems quite beautiful, in a simplistic sort of way, until you realize that maybe 100 feet away, corpses are being ritually cleaned on the same shores, before their ashes and some bones fragments are tossed in the river. Pollution and cleanliness measurements are off the charts in all the worst ways, but the rituals continue, as they have for hundreds of years.

The burning ghat (Manikarnika), site of a 24/7 open air cremation operation was one of the more intense scenes I’ve witnessed in my life. Bodies marched in from the streets are first dumped in the river before being placed on the large piles of wood, lit from an ever-burning fire nearby. Thin white sheets shroud the bodies, though often times limbs and heads lay uncovered. Two to three hours are necessary to burn the bodies, leaving only the chest bone for males and hip bones for females, which are then tossed into the river. Families of the deceased crowd around the fires, while the “untouchables” do the work of placing bodies and stoking the flames. The cremation is meant to guarantee a heavenly home for the deceased, though there are 5 sets of people that are not cremated, for various reasons. Holy people, due to the fact they do not need to be cleansed, children, as they are still innocent, pregnant women, as they are carrying an innocent child, those bitten by snakes, as the venom is meant to have already purified them, and lepers, due to the possibility of spreading the disease. These groups are not burned, but attached to weights and dropped into the river. As I learned all of this, I felt less troubled than I expected to feel. The scene was most definitely intense, and the heat overwhelming, but there was a sense of peace over it all. Missing from the family were any signs of grief. No crying, no dejection, simply acceptance. After all the chaos embodied in the streets of the city, and really the whole country for that matter, the dead were finally at peace, all their wishes and intents granted as they succumbed to the fire.

For me, Varanasi was far too demanding on the senses to spend more than a couple days. I would like to return someday, perhaps when the river is lower and allows for a sunrise boat trip along the dozens of ghats leading into the river. I hope to take with me the sense of peace amongst chaos, and the idea that cleansing may have more to do with your mind than how clean the water may be. 

The Taj Mahal

More often than not, as the cliché goes, the journey itself is better than the destination. The Taj Mahal is a stunning piece of perfectly symmetrical, blindingly white, marble architecture made to be even more awe-inspiring by its garden and river surrounds, but before I get into all the grandiosity that is the Taj, I’d like to tell you my little story of how I got there:

Waiting in line to buy my train ticket at the local station, I battled would-be cutters as the queue became more of a blob the closer I got to the window. I requested a reserved seat to Agra, the resting place of the Taj itself, a manageable six hours away. The teller quickly handed me a ticket and demanded the 140 Rupee fee. While life is most certainly cheap in India, I walked away somewhat skeptical about the rather low price ticket I just received and a bit concerned about what my reserved seat was going to look like. Examining my ticket, I found no mention of a seat number, or even a platform number for that matter. After a few broken English conversations and a lot of hand-waving and head-bobbing, I gathered that my train was at the station now, but I needed to walk to the end of carriages, to the unreserved car, since I didn’t have a seat.

Shit.

I knew about these “unreserved” cars. On previous train journeys, I watched as the masses made a dead sprint for the end of the platform each time we rolled into a new station. Locals pile into the car, desperately trying to find some small piece of real estate where they can rest at least some portion of their bodies for the journey. That whole lack of personal space, thing? It’s real, and I’m fairly certain however many clowns the circus has managed to fit into a car won’t hold a candle to what the Indians are capable of on a daily basis with these trains.

I climbed into the cart upon direction from a cynically-smiling security guard and found zero open seats, as expected. Rather than work my way through the cart amongst the stares, I decided to lay claim to the pathway between two cars, prepared to stand for the journey. The car wasn’t nearly as crowded as I’d expected, and though I was most definitely not comfortable, I figured I could manage with my current piece of real estate. After a few conversations, I was once again adopted by an Indian, who convinced a passenger to let me share his window seat. I declined, before being persuaded to have a seat. One cheek on about 4 inches of a pleather wasn’t my idea of being comfortable, but I went with it. No more than twenty minutes later, I realized why I was persuaded so adamantly to take the seat.

The masses poured in, yelling and scrambling to find any open patch of a seat, climbing on the rafters, through windows, and toppling over those lucky enough to be firmly planted. My new seat partner held me back against the seat, urging me not to give any ground whatsoever. When it was all said and done, the yelling ceased and I took in the scene. Indians squeezed 8-deep into a row of seats meant for 4, legs sprawled across luggage racks above, nappers’ legs and arms curled around seat pillars, bodies strewn all across each other, and all the rest standing in the aisles. Somehow, vendors managed to make their way through the carriages, selling everything from samosas to sacks of cold water for sweaty backs. I was treated to a variety of treats, fully expecting my stomach to reject it all sometime later that evening.

At one point, a bag came toppling down from above, grazing my head, but landing square on top of my neighbor, who had been sitting on a big bag full of grains in the aisle in front of me. He held his head for a minute or so, expressionless, before I realized that blood was pouring down the back of his neck. I sat shocked for a second before remembering that I had my First-Aid kit with me. I jumped up on my seat, making sure nobody slid underneath me, and reached into my bag to pull out some gauze and bandages. We wrapped up the man’s head, gave him a couple ibuprofen, and just like that, I was a celebrity. The stares turned to smiling stares, nearly all of the few dozen passengers in my immediate vicinity beaming at me as I tried to avoid eye contact. After 3 more hours of a numb backside and more contorting than I care to mention, I left the train in Agra to a round of handshakes and happy faces, relieved to have survived a place I was never meant to be or see.

After all that, the Taj itself was beautifully boring, and best viewed from afar, across the gardens. You should most definitely go see it, and check a wonder of the world off your list.

Just make sure you have fun getting there…

Life is Camel Safari

After elephants, kangaroos, and monkeys, I figured camels should be the next logical progression in strange animal encounters for the trip.

Making my way west, into the Thar desert, I arrived in Jaisalmer, another fort town with a colorful nickname (The Golden City), with the agenda of getting on a camel and riding off into the desert, never to return again. Perhaps I’d find my treasure there, like Santiago in The Alchemist, or better yet, find a genie lamp in need of a good rub-down. After about 2 minutes on top of the lanky, awkward, goofy, smiling horse-cousin, I began to re-think my whole plan. With each awkward step through the sand, my legs stretched a bit further out than they’re meant to and the pressure mounted in regions it never should. Once I became sufficiently number all over, I began to enjoy the vastness of my surrounds, as we rode through mostly arid dry-lands with low-lying shrubbery before happening upon patches of rolling dunes, with sand as soft as a SoCal beach.

There’s not all that much to do on a desert safari, aside from marvel at the quirkiness of the camels and the utter simplicity of life in the desert. During break times, unruly camels in our crew would try their best to scavenge through the supplies, wander off as far their tied up legs would allow, or simply roll in the dirt before being relieved of their gear and food-laden saddle. Watching a camel attempt to gallop with its legs tied together while being chased by a camel boy is a sight to behold.

As the sun began to set, the heat finally became a bit more manageable, and we hung our turbans for the evening, lounging on the dunes as our meals were freshly prepared. We climbed the dunes and enjoyed the views over a couple special delivery beers and a pale blue sky. We reflected with the guide, as his affection for the desert was clear in his wanderings toward an empty patch of sand. Untouched landscape (save for the controversial windmills recently put up in the distance) had provided a home for his family for generations, every year at the whim of the rains and the brutal, ever-present sun. We made our beds on blankets at the top of a small dune, waiting for the stars to begin their nightly act, this time with about as unobstructed of a view as you can find. Satellites passed and I reflected on the notion that the same species that was living the most basic of lives in the most remote of places, completely dependent on the changing of the weather for nourishment and survival, that same species, put an object into space, over a hundred miles above our head, speeding along at miles per second, relaying or capturing information about our world, perhaps the weather patterns that would affect the very region I was lying in. I realized I was at the crossroads of this divide in human development, having lived a very simple life as of late, and especially in that moment, while at the same time fully aware that just last year I was working every day towards putting one of those very same satellites into space. While perhaps a bit cliché, I was reminded, as I often am, of one my favorite Macklemore lines:

“And when I lose perspective, need to go to a place where I lose reception…lookin’ at the satellites pass by, reflectin’ on my past life…”

Making our way back to Jaisalmer the next day, after another couple hours’ ride on a camel with a bit comfier seat and a quick game of 3 fly’s up with some local village children, I explored the Jaisalmer Fort in the blistering heat. The cow-filled narrow lanes and vantage points within the walls of the fort provided photo ops and an even stronger feeling of being lost in not just another land, but another time. A time and place where desert oases provided the nourishment and splendor that becomes so vital in the overwhelming and exhausting desert abyss.

Perspective regained, I hopped on the night train, on my way to yet another time and place…

Jodhpur, India

If I’d found the romance of India in Udaipur, then I most assuredly found the magic of this country in Jodhpur. Tetris-like rooftops sit above the crammed alleyways with a bird’s eye view of the labyrinth below and a front row seat to the ominous fort that looms over the city. Mehrangarh Fort, the backdrop for Bruce Wayne’s triumphant escape from prison in The Dark Knight Rises, creates an allure of olden day royalty and defense, a guard against any invading army keen enough to make their way across the barren desert landscape into the city.

From the walls of Mehrangarh Fort, the scene unfolds below: Bhangra music reverberates from the blue walls of the narrow lanes as children climb to the rooftops to take advantage of the sunset winds, flying their personal-pizza sized kites and playing cricket within the confines of multi-level rooftop perches. Like a real-life Where’s Waldo? book, I canvassed the town, finding worlds only visible from where I stood. Kites and kids danced with the wind, dogs found their way through the maze of steps that seemed to connect the entire city, cricket balls flew off rooftops, blown speakers roared, and adults watched it all unfold from above and below. It’s as though the seemingly non-stop chaos of the streets takes a moment to pause as the sun begins to fade away. With the completion of another day, a celebration of relief and appreciation and simple joy is in order. I’ve come to find this time of day here in India to be my favorite, as though all the pent up stresses and chaos of the day are released with the effortless dance of the kites and the innocent joy of children playing.

Aside from the impressive fort, the city of Jodhpur itself is beautiful. Nicknamed the Blue City, many of its building’s walls are painted blue, apparently to keep the city cool in the intense heat of the region, as well as to ward off mosquitoes. I’m not sure how well all that’s working out, but it sure makes for a photogenic area. Palaces can be seen on hilltops near and far, and perfectly symmetric step wells dot the city and its surrounds.

The excited waving from Indians continues, though instead of young adults staring and waving on the streets, young children find me from their neighboring rooftops as I stand and soak in the view from mine. Running from perch to perch, heads pop out from behind hanging laundry for a quick wave, before disappearing again, only to appear on another rooftop, one door over.

Once again, this country was captivating my imagination and my sense of wonder. My body stood and stared, but my mind drifted with the evening kites and my soul danced to the Bollywood beats…

Udaipur, India

I left the rain in Mumbai and headed north into the state of Rajasthan, where most of my Indian stops would take place. After a relatively easy 16-hour sleeper bus, I arrived in Udaipur unsure of what to expect after the craziness of Mumbai. By now, I see past the street manure and general omnipresence of flies, the trash in every gutter, and the poor health of all the street animals. What’s left is nothing but charm and fascination, as elephants share roads with camels and scooters, while cows do whatever they damn well please, even if that means taking a rest in the middle of a highway.

Udaipur is set around a beautiful lake, equipped with island palaces, a mountain backdrop, and colorful buildings that run right up against the ghats that lead down into the lake. The streets are filled with the same Frogger game of cows and tuk-tuks, only rather that thoroughfares, the action takes place on tiny, winding streets barely big enough for one vehicle. Horns blare and cows moo, but everything moves at such a slow pace that I can’t help but enjoy the charm of it all. The film location of a few movies and the setting for some celebrity weddings, Udaipur is without a doubt India at its most romantic. Activities are mostly contained to visiting the palaces and temples in the walkable lakeside area, but the main attraction is really the town itself. From the rooftop of my hostel, I looked out over the lake, bathers taking a swim, sun setting behind the mountains, bats making their nightly pilgrimage into the forests, and lights flickering from every other rooftop oasis. The only reason I ever left the perch on top of the hostel where I was staying was really only because I’d feel guilty not venturing out, even though my temporary piece of real estate offered all you could ever ask for.

So I soaked in the views, I contemplated, I ate delicious food (with my hands only, the Indian way), and I continued to have quirky interactions with awestruck Indians. The selfie request count hovers around 3-4 per day, as it must be something about the (very) white skin and light hair all wrapped up in a tank-top and headband that prevents me from blending in with the crowd. Everyone wants to know where I’m from, what I do, and where I’m going. Not all that different from a majority of the conversations fellow backpackers auto-ask in every hostel common room, now that I think of it. For the most part, it’s all just genuine curiosity, so I do my best to oblige in the conversation, even if I have to deny handing out my phone number or Facebook every now and then. If a short conversation, a headbob, and a handshake is all it takes to make a day, then I can deal with the ignoring of personal space and general western politeness.

After a massage and masala, I was on the road again…

Mumbai, India

Let the madness begin.

All the insanity I thought I’d experienced during my last 3 months in Southeast Asia was but a pre-season exhibition for the chaos I was about to get myself into in India. I was ready. Mentally prepared to see, hear, smell, and taste the best and the worst this world has to offer, I landed in Mumbai with every defense I’d ever learned as a traveler switched on. Nobody was going to scam me, the poverty wasn’t going to drain me, the horn noise wasn’t going to annoy me, and the traffic wasn’t going to scare me.

Then, something strange happened.

I walked around on a lazy Sunday morning and wasn’t overwhelmed at all. Traffic was manageable, the horns weren’t all that loud, and the touts didn’t harass me too much. Sure, there were cows wandering the streets, crippled beggars, nude junkies, and a few smells here and there, but in general it was all somewhat subdued. I took an Uber to the largest outdoor laundry in the world and ended up getting my very own guardian angel in the form of the young driver who promised that if I was in trouble anywhere in the city I could call him and he would come. Same went for my future travels in Varanasi, where his brother lived. He taught me Hindi and Marathi, and did his best to tell me all the ins and outs of the city, never asking for anything or suggesting we go anywhere I hadn’t previously planned. There was genuine care and concern in his voice and demeanor, as evidenced by the universal Indian headbob of affirmation as I left the car after telling him I appreciated all his help.

My guards were dropping by the hour. Walking around the giant laundry, with clothes of all shapes and sizes drying from rooftops as far as I could see, I was almost attacked by a dog, before being saved by another paraplegic man who invited me through the “facilities,” for a small fee of course. I obliged and climbed to the rooftops, up sets of stairs that weren’t quite up to code. My defenses were up yet again as we walked deeper and deeper into the maze of wash basins, ironing boards, and clotheslines. With each step, I memorized our path in case I needed to escape a sneak attack. Silly me, the man took me right to the exit, no hassles, aside from a plea for a few more rupees, which I politely declined.

I took my usual detours through the city, still surprised by how calm everything seemed to be compared to my expectations. I bought a ticket to see the Bollywood movie, Sultan, and ended up meeting a film writer taking his usual Sunday stroll through the city, looking for inspiration. He treated me to lunch, exuding the warm, genuine concern I’ve now come to expect with my interactions in this country. We learned a bit about each other’s countries and travels, and I went on my way to one of the more entertaining movie experiences of my life. Aside from the built in musical dance performances that are essential parts of every Bollywood movie, the paid attendance is a part of the show as well. As the main character, a persona similar to Rocky Balboa, triumphed throughout the movie, there were whistles, cheers, and standing ovations erupting from the crowd. We were all in it together, cheering the hero on, reacting to every heartbreak and heroic act. I found myself both laughing hysterically and investing myself emotionally in the whole situation. It was exhilarating. The Indian people have an expression of emotions, a sense of style, and warmth of interaction that’s all their own. The culture is uniquely theirs, and it’s quite captivating. Much like the Italians, the Indians know how to eat, how to dress, and how to love.

Reflecting on the day back at the hostel I commiserated with some fellow travelers about the lack of craziness I’d experienced walking around the city, as they too were expecting a whole new level of insanity.

Then Monday happened.

I walked the city for hours trying to find a back street that wasn’t filled with cows, bikes, taxis, rickshaws, beggars, horns, and throngs of people. I couldn’t do it. The horns were absolutely deafening, the livestock would have outnumbered any street full of people in the United States, save for maybe New York City. The sheer number of street stalls made me wonder how anybody could sell anything, yet they were all full. People went about their daily lives, whether that meant commuting, hauling supplies by rickshaw, having a morning or afternoon chai, or just honking their horn for the hell of it. All the madness I was hoping to find on the streets of Bombay, I found. And then some. I made an escape to Chowpatty beach, which is flanked by opposite ends of the city, separated by a large bay. The less than stellar sands were filled with city dwellers battling waves in full clothing, along with Muslim women in full black Burqas taking selfies on the shore. It was quite a sight. So was I, apparently, as the selfie requests came piling in.

At one point, the city nearly got the best of me, as walking through the streets I stumbled upon a dog clearly suffering from disease, bloated to nearly 3 times its normal size, lying on the streets, struggling to breathe. That dog was going to die there, it was only a matter of time. I’m not sure why, after all the poverty I’ve seen on this trip, including sickly dogs, that this helpless animal nearly broke me. Perhaps I realized that the unrelenting happiness that every dog exudes, no matter how they look on the outside, or what sickness they’re battling, was gone. Helpless and ignored, there was no hope. I imagined that the dog shared the same fate as many people living within the city and its slums. I had to take a break from it all, so I ventured into a book store and began reading Shantaram, an incredible look into life on the streets of Bombay. I smiled as the characters in the book were brought to life in front of me, with the conversations I heard around me and in the streets earlier that day. The quirkiness, the charm, the passion, the determination, the positivity. It’s everywhere.

As I left Mumbai, I couldn’t help but love the place. Not for what it offered for a traveler, but for how it captivated me, drew me into the intrigue that is India. The poverty is real, and quite disturbing, but so too is the love and generosity, and a certain something else that I still haven’t quite put my finger on. Something that entices, surprises, entertains, and can’t help but be admired.

Whatever it is, I dig it.