Alleppey: Boats, trains and fried bananas

Alleppey is the home of the backwaters, a maze of rivers and lakes that are lush, green and a little bit scary in an Apocalypse Now kind of way.  Tourists have been coming to check out the backwaters for years, but the tiny town of Alleppey doesn’t offer much in the way of charm or accommodations. Someone finally had the bright idea to construct large houseboats which double as both touring vessels and floating hotels.  The boats’ foundations are solid wood, but the cabins are woven bamboo, temporary structures lasting one season since they are blown all the way to Oz during the monsoons.

Our boat was cute as a button and staffed by three amiable men, including the best chef in India.  He fed us like we were turkeys and Thanksgiving was around the corner.  “What is in this dish? And what makes these beans so delicious?” we squealed during our four course lunch, shoveling food in our mouths like we were being shipped off to Alcatraz the next day. The answer was always “coconut”, which grows like kudzu in the backwaters and its meat and milk are the mainstays of every dish.  In between our high tea snack of fried bananas and our fresh fish lunch, we stopped at an Ayurvedic Center then toured a local village. The flowers and trees surrounding the backwater are gorgeous, and the village was rustic but pristine. Several of the local kids came out and mugged for the camera and we took more pictures of them than the pretty sunset.

We docked for the night next to a boat full of college students on Spring Break who amused themselves by singing along to deafening music and doing cannonballs into the lake.  I never knew what the saying “If it’s too loud, you’re too old” meant until that night.  “Can you make them shut up?” we asked our Captain, “We are trying to nap and read.” He marched off to squelch the noise while we realized in horror that we were teetering on some sort of precipice of middle age. We vowed to have too many cocktails and stay up really late once we got to Chennai to make up for being such fuss-budgets. 

The next day we headed back to Kochi and were informed that our train didn’t leave until 9:45 that night.  Since we had thoroughly toured Fort Kochi 2 days before, we spent some time in an internet cafe and took a class from a yogi named Joseph, a man more flexible than Mr. Fantastic.  Kristen and Erin were already fans of Joseph and had taken his classes during our previous stay, but I had opted to go for a run instead, a huge mistake since running in India is an Extreme Sport due to the roaming cows, zooming buses and gaping holes in the sidewalk. Joseph was a positive and encouraging teacher and possessed a great sense of humor.  He taught the whole class dressed in a polo shirt, pleated pants and a belt, and looked more like he worked at Best Buy than in a yoga studio.  We bent ourselves into pretzels for 90 minutes and were relaxed and exhausted by the time we got to the train station.

I think a time line best explains our Kochi train experience, so here you go:

9:00- Arrive at train station with our backpacks, 3 chicken schwarma sandwiches and a bag of various snacks.

9:10- Informed by train station lady that we are on a waiting list, our air-conditioned, sleeper-car seats are not confirmed, and the train is almost full. Begin to panic. Make frantic calls to our travel agent who doesn’t answer. Eat aforesaid chicken schwarma sandwiches.

9:20- Create back-up plan. Erin and Kristen go buy the only tickets left on the train, the cheap tickets for the section of the train where chickens are running down the aisle and American girls get kidnapped. I wait with the bags and am informed by a German guy that we should padlock our bags to ourselves if we get stuck in cheap section. Begin to emotionally eat and polish off a bag of chips weirdly called “Naughty Tomato”.

9:30- Panic more and make our 43^rd call to our travel agent.

9:45- Are told to board the train and take the issue up with the conductor.  Travel agent finally calls back and says, unhelpfully, “I think it will be OK.” 

10:10- Board train and pile our bags on shaky platform between two cars.  Sit on bags and create annoying obstacle for everyone trying to use the bathroom.

10:20- Conductor comes by and tells us to “PLEASE WAIT” and that his supervisor will be by soon to help us.

11:10- See supervisor-looking person and chase him down. He tells us to “PLEASE WAIT” and that the Supervisor of the Supervisor will seat us soon.

12:15- Supervisor of the Supervisor finally arrives and guess-what tells us to “PLEASE WAIT”.

1:15-Supervisor of the Supervisor finally comes back and says, “ Sorry. Tickets are invalid. Pay 3000 rupees to stay in the sleeper car or go sit with the chickens and the kidnappers.” 

1:20-Hullabaloo ensues. A group of three passengers get involved on our behalf and make matters worse.  We present a brilliant, concise and factual argument on why our tickets should be honored and the Supervisor responds, “OK don’t buy tickets, get off the train.” We cave and buy duplicate tickets.

1:25: Kristen and I can’t sleep so we watch 127 Hours and see James Franco saw off his arm.  Decide that buying duplicate train tickets is better than having to saw of your arm. Feel a little better.

10:00 AM: Arrive in Chennai looking like death warmed over.

Chennai, our current destination is called the “Detroit of South India”. Whatever...after that train ride, we can handle anything. Bring it on Chennai Rock City.

Kochi: Skirts and fishnets

The first thing we noticed when we got to Kochi were the skirts….on the men. They are long pieces of cloth that look like oversized tea towels, worn wrapped around the waist, either long, or doubled-up and short. This skirt is most often paired with an Archie Bunker button-up, plaid shirt. We were certain there was a ceremonial or religious reason for these man-skirts, and polled our taxi drivers, hotel staff, and waiters. We got shrugs and the vague answer, “It’s what they wear here.” Fair enough. It’s like going to Jersey and asking, “What’s up with the gold chains?” or to Texas and asking “Why all the cowboy boots?” It’s just what they wear here.

Kochi is in the state of Kerala, which is famous for Ayurveda, a holistic study of healing, and the Ayurvedic massage centers attract European and American tourists like moths to a flame. Or like flies to a bowl of green curry or like cows to a pineapple, more apt similes given our location. We’ve done a few treatments, mostly Nurse Erin since she is interested in learning more about the medical aspect of the practice, and it’s been quite an experience. There is no lying on a heated massage bed, with Enya playing in the background and cucumber slices on your eyelids. It’s an aggressive and invasive light pummeling, where you lay on a hard mat or wooden slats, are basted to death with “special” oil, then rubbed down vigorously. The therapist isn’t big on privacy or comfort; it’s all business. You come out of the treatment relaxed and loose, yet oddly feeling like you have fallen down a flight of steps completely naked.

We started our morning looking for one of these famed Ayurveda centers, stopping first for coffee at a joint recommended by our guidebooks. Unfortunately, too many traveling hippies read the same recommendation, and a bunch of doped-up white kids were asleep on mats with metal music playing in the background. It looked like a scene from Trainspotting. The menu announced “Every Order Takes 20 Minutes” and they weren’t kidding, even if coffee is all you requested. We were invited back later for the Bob Marley dance party, but decided to pass.

After our colorful coffee break, we took a stroll around Fort Cochin with its winding streets, lazy teahouses, and parks filled with school children. The numerous European settlers to the Kochi coast brought Christianity and Judaism to the area. As a result, there are several large cathedrals and a historic synagogue in a shopping area called Jew Town (Bill Maher would like the inattention to political correctness over here). The harbor is lined with the locally famed Chinese fishing nets that are raised and lowered into the water on hand fashioned wooden pulleys. Unfortunately, due to dredging and rampant pollution, the fishermen are having a terrible year and Kochi is now relying almost 100% on tourism. Kristen and I did our part to spur the economy. For a small donation, we headed out to the docks and “helped” pull up nets, chatted with the fishermen, and took pictures with fish that we pretended we caught.

We also toured a small palace built several hundred years ago by the Dutch for the local Maharaja. The Kochins could have easily speared the Dutch to death when they landed in Kochi to set up a trade company, as they had earlier invaders, but they didn’t and the palace was a gift of thanks. The coolest thing about the Kochi royal family is that the regal lineage passed through the mother, a rarity in India. While there are no royals left in Kochi, the tradition lives on to a degree, and many Kochins take the last name of their mother instead of their father. I like a town where the women are boss and men wear skirts.

That night, we went to see Kathakali, a 2^nd century dance, native to Kerala. If you knew what was going on, I bet it would be great. Regardless, it was entertaining to see the colorfully painted “mimes” doing a minimal dance routine in their wild looking costumes, making symbolic hand gestures and over-the-top facial expressions. The number we saw was about the harshest break-up ever: a princess in “heaven” falls in love with a warrior and they decide to wed. He wants to ask her parents for permission to marry, but she is a floozy and says, “let’s not bother”. He is so upset about her lack of morals he cuts off her boobs and tosses her out of heaven. Rough crowd.

Next we head to Alleppey to ride the famed backwaters in a houseboat. Our travel agent has described the boat as “OK, very good” so we could be getting anything from Huck Finn’s raft to the QE II. Let’s hope for smooth sailing.

Goa: Bus to Paradise

They make buses for adults. I’ve seen them. There is a Bolt bus with Wi-Fi and leather upholstery that travels up and down the U.S. east coast. Once a day, a Luxury Liner bus stops in front of the Smithsonian and lets out a passel of senior citizens with bright green stickers on their lapels that say “TOURIST” so their guide can track them down. I have even seen these “buses for adults” in India, speeding down the highway full of passengers reclining in comfy seats. When we were traveling with Phool Singh through Rajasthan, one of these grown-up buses almost ran us off the road every half-hour. The bus we took from Mumbai to Goa was not for adults. It was the kind we rode in elementary school, with the shock absorption system of a wheelbarrow. Every bump and turn threw us against the iron rails, which was only slightly better than bouncing off the top “sleeper bunks” and crashing onto the dirty floor. Our travel agent, besides not finding us seats on the train, had also put one of us (me) in a bunk with a stranger. Luckily, my bunkmate, Manisha, was awesome and we bonded instantly over our hatred of the bus. “I had an interview in Mumbai and have to go back home today and the train was full,” she explained, “And just so you know the place they stop for dinner is terrible and so are the bathrooms.” Manisha and I talked about boys, dating websites (theirs is shaadi.com), our mothers and our jobs for most of the way, and the chitchat made the 14-hour trip tolerable.

Once we arrived in Goa, the complaining stopped immediately because there is no whining in Paradise. Palolem Beach is a laid-back little community, encompassed in a natural harbor and overlooking white sand and the Arabian Sea. Hundreds of palm trees, a few rocky cliffs, and a large selection of open-air restaurants surround the beach. We stayed at the Dream Catcher, which lived up to its hippie name and was both charming and chill. The hotel is made up of 20 or so cottages, each named something beachy and cute (ours was the “Drift Inn”). For the first time in 3 weeks we were staying in one spot for more than two days, so we took advantage of the situation and did laundry like it was 1923, in a bucket with some soap. In no time our cute cottage looked like the opening scene from Sanford and Son, with beach junk and drying laundry taking over the front porch. Luckily, we befriended Jared, the manager, and his adorable 4-month old German shepherd puppy, Khali so he let our tackiness slide.

For five days we read, walked on the tiny main street and kayaked around the harbor. We were so relaxed, if we had stayed for one more day, I probably would have dreaded my hair, opened a banana stand, and stayed indefinitely.

We had two major decisions to make every day in Goa: where to go to yoga class and where to eat dinner. Fresh seafood comes in every day and is kept in an ice display at almost every restaurant. The highlight of each dinner is wandering over to the fish tank and watching the wait staff twirl each selection around like Vanna White. Our favorites were the calamari and the local Kingfish, the namesake of a popular Indian beer and, of course, Huey Long.

Kristen was the boss of deciding which yoga class to go to since one of the goals of her trip is to improve her yoga through classes and, later, a stay at an ashram. We actually had taken two classes prior to arriving in Goa, a challenging one in Udaipur where we worked on breathing through the nose, which is harder than you think when you are balancing in one leg trying to look like a tree. The second class was in Pushkar and was a phenomenal waste of time. The chief yogi was not available, so his daughter led the class after, I suspect, Googling “how to teach a yoga class” on her laptop. The water aerobic classes they teach at nursing homes are probably more challenging. However, the classes in Goa were fantastic, both for experts like Kristen and beginners like me.

With enough sun exposure to ward off any potential vitamin-D deficiency, and armed it a handful of bootleg DVD’s to watch on the train, we are headed we are headed to the state of Kerala, first to Kochi, then to Alleppey. Goodbye paradise, it’s been fun.

Mumbai: The Gateway to disco

If I owned a car dealership, I would only hire Indians. An eight-year-old that hawks postcards over here could teach the marketing course at Harvard Business School. The “Assume the Sale” approach in India has been so perfected, you find yourself thinking, “Maybe I do need a plastic Shiva snow globe” or “You’re right! I would look fabulous in those purple genie-pants”. We thought we had experienced every type of vendor by the time we reached Mumbai, but we were mistaken. In addition to the jewelry, t-shirts and pashmina hawkers, there is a contingency that sells extremely large, oblong balloons. Oddly, people actually buy them and tour the city while schlepping around a gargantuan, polka-dotted, pink souvenir.

Mumbai used to be Bombay. Sort of like “Istanbul used to be Constantinople” but nobody wrote a fun song about the name change in this case. We arrived in the morning after a 14-hour train ride, which wasn’t nearly as terrible as we feared. The only real issue was figuring out train protocol. We bumbled around in the aisle for a bit until our fellow passengers taught us the basics, like where to get tea and how to pull down the sleeper bed without decapitating the person in the next bunk. Most of you have actually seen Mumbai Train Station on the silver screen. It is the spot in Slumdog Millionaire where Jamal and Latika finally reunite at the end of the movie and are suddenly surrounded by a Broadway-like dance ensemble. We rolled onto the platform, fully expecting to be greeted by boys professing their undying love and a dance troupe, but alas, we were sorely disappointed.

Our hotel was near Covala, in the southern, more historic, part of the city. The first day we ventured to the Gateway of India, an Arc de Triomphe-looking structure, on Mumbai Harbor built to commemorate the landing of King Edward V when India was still under British rule. The Gateway is now a patriotic symbol, because it was also the point where the last regiment of British troops marched before their return home after India gained its independence.

We then walked through the lobby of the lovely Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, one of the top hotels in the world, and sadly one of the sites targeted in the 2008 Mumbai bombings. The hotel has recovered fully, and is so spectacular it makes the Ritz in DC look like a Holiday Inn Express. Although we couldn’t afford to check in, we did walk through the magnificent lobby, pretending to be important, and stopped by one of their posh restaurants to have a cocktail and clean them out of their complimentary bar snacks. The Taj’s past-guest roster is impressive and they have a little photo gallery to make sure everybody knows it that features VIP’s like the Clintons, John and Yoko, the last Shah of Iran, and Roger Moore.

That night, we met up with a friend from DC, Pranav, who was in Mumbai on business for his company, Hugh and Crye. Pranav makes fabulous and reasonably priced men’s shirts, so if you are wearing an ill-fitting, ugly shirt (you know who you are) click on this link immediately: http://hughandcrye.com/.

Our first stop that evening was at a disco (disco=club/bar) that had a weird French DJ and steep cover charge, so we headed instead to the nearby Hard Rock Café. As we sipped the local beer and chatted, we noticed that we had somehow slipped down a wormhole that shot us back to 1991. The wait staff wore baggy t-shirts and blue eye-shadow, every single person in the bar knew the words to the Bon Jovi songs (including us of course), and the patrons held up lighters when the DJ played a slow song. Since we had forgotten our high top Reeboks and banana-clips, we headed to the disco next door to dance. Movie soundtracks are very popular over here-lots of “Mama Mia” and “Eye of the Tiger”. Pranav tried to request Jay-Z and was admonished that the DJ did not “play the hip-hops”.

The next day I walked around the gardens of Mumbai University and got a pedicure (very cultural of me) while Kristen and Erin took a ferry to Elephanta Island. The island has a maze of caves that feature impressive, ancient carvings of Shiva and other religious figures. The island is so named because, legend has it, the Portuguese tried to steal a large elephant statue from one of the caves and the ropes serendipitously broke as they were attempting to hoist the statue onto their ship. The elephant sank to the bottom of the sea, was later recovered, and is now safe and sound in a Mumbai museum.

After big city living we are headed to south Goa to have quiet beach time. Unfortunately, we are taking a bus, not a train, because of a snafu within our travel agency. If there is a Hindu travel god, we probably need to make him an offering.

Ranthambore and Agra: Tigers and a love story

No trip is perfect. We went to the famed Ranthambore Tiger Park at 6 a.m. in a cantor, a large, open topped jeep. Our little safari group included some Japanese folks, a cute Indian family, 2 Dutch anthropology students, and a crazy Eastern European lady who kept standing up and waiving her arms around. It just so happens that tigers only attack people in cantors when they stand up and waive their arms around so, lucky for her and unlucky for us, we never saw a tiger. The most exciting moment of the safari was a three-way tie between spotting an owl, seeing some tiger paw-prints, and having a magpie land on our dashboard. This was not the tigers’ fault. They were poached for hundreds of years before they became a protected species. Then, in 2008, it was discovered that park officials were being bribed so the poaching could continue. This has caused the tiger population to dwindle down to 32. We were so bummed that the only thing that could possibly cheer us up was seeing the most beautiful building in all the world. So, we got back in the car with a hung-over Phool Singh and headed to Agra to see the Taj.

Believe the hype. The Taj Mahal is spectacular. If you haven’t been yet, go write “GO TO THE TAJ MAHAL” on your bucket list right this second. Not only is it one of the man-made wonders of the world, it symbolizes a truly fantastic love story. Cue the piano music and release the doves…So, one of the most acclaimed Mughal Emperors, Shah Jahan, had three wives which turned out to be two too many. He didn’t care for wife one or three, but number two, Mumtaz Mahal, was the love of his life, and they made Jon and Kate look like total amateurs by having 14 children. But, like all good love stories, something really sad happened. The renowned beauty Mumtaz died in childbirth, and Shah Jahan had a complete meltdown. He bailed on his imperial duties and went into hiding for a year, leaving his daughter Jahanara, the Mughal Hilary Clinton, to run the show behind the scenes. He also left his son, Aurangzeb, who had a fondness for conquering neighboring countries and discriminating against Hindus, unsupervised. Shah Jahan finally came out of hiding and did something constructive with his sadness, building the Taj Mahal as a mausoleum for his beloved wife. It took 22 years to build, cost $60 million dollars (in 1653!), and it was worth every rupee. Rudyard Kipling said it was “the embodiment of all things pure” and Shah Jahan wrote the following lines about his creation:

Should guilty seek asylum here, like one pardoned, he becomes free from sin.

Should a sinner make his way to this mansion, all his past sins are to be washed away.

The sight of this mansion creates sorrowing sights, and the sun and the moon shed tears from their eyes.

In this world this edifice has been made, to display thereby the creator's glory.

I am not going to try to linguistically compete with guy who created Mowgli and an emperor so just check out the link below for pictures.

Next we are off to the train station for a 14-hour ride southwest to Mumbai, the city formerly known as Bombay. I wish I had packed an Acela in my backpack.

Pushkar to Jaipur: Monkeys, elephants and pashminas oh my!

We spent the morning in Pushkar, getting our first cardiovascular workout in days by climbing the hundreds of steps up a hill to see Savitri’s temple. Savitri has a loyal band of monkeys patrolling the steps to her temple and they put on a little show to entertain us as we made the long hike. Baby monkeys bopped each other on the heads and the older males sat together with crossed legs and folded arm, looking as if they were discussing whether or not to withdraw funds from their 401Ks.

After the hike we drove to Jaipur, the capitol of Rajasthan where the first order of business was to ride an elephant. The coolest thing about the ride was, well, the elephant. The ride itself was good for a photo-op but we really just trudged along for about 10 minutes on a tiny little road overlooking a sad little field. We had more fun meeting beautiful Marana, our huge 40-year-old elephant who was painted beautifully with lotus flowers and colorful shapes. We had even more fun feeding sugar cane snacks to 20-year-old Sheila, who snatched the cane from us with her trunk and leaned forward so we could pet her head.

The next morning I took my first solo venture since arriving in India-a trip to the pharmacy to procure some laundry soap and Q-tips. The pharmacist and I did fine with laundry soap: “No, try the store across the street.” Q-tips were another matter. He did not know the words “Q-tips” or “cotton swabs”, and I certainly didn’t know the Hindi translation, so I mimed cleaning my ear, which I belatedly realized was the same gesture as the international sign for “crazy”. The pharmacist nodded slowly. “No medicine here for that. Very sorry you are crazy,” he said sympathetically.

We then headed to Amber Fort, where, to our total delight a low budget movie was being filmed about the Indian fight for independence. We figured it was low budget, at any rate, because the British were all played by Indians and it was sort of like watching Hugh Grant play the part of Kunta Kinte. Nonetheless, we jumped up and down when the Indians warriors in yellow tunics rushed in to defend the fort from the evil British. The director wasn’t as pleased. “Look angry!” he shouted to the actors, “You are being attacked! Stop smiling!”

As we were watching the drama unfold, I snapped at a persistent street vendor, then felt guilty, so I perused his paintings. The vendor, Honey, was young and charming and admitted his paintings on silk were more like paintings “on something similar to silk”. He told me he was studying history and Italian so he could be an escort. When I looked a little shocked, he yelled, “I mean guide! I think escort is different.” I bought four paintings and he threw in an extra painting of a camel, viewed to be a Hindi symbol of romance. “This is a gift because I can tell you believe in love! And as we say in Italian, ‘Gracias Chica!” Close enough, Honey.

American historical sites, like Mount Vernon, run a tight ship, with curators in every room ensuing you don’t make off with a priceless candlestick or use your camera flash around oil paintings. Not so in India, since the forts were looted years ago for the most part. The Amber Fort itself withstood hundreds of years of invasions so it can handle a few Americans and Europeans running through the many passages and stairways. The Maharaja’s private quarters are decorated with gemstones and mirrors; there is a glass, octagon-shaped sunroom and lovely gardens within the courtyards. We decided which of the hundreds of bedrooms we would want if we lived in the palace. It’s important to be properly prepared in case we are asked to serve as princesses of Jaipur.

We then headed to the famed Jaipur bazaars to get our haggle on. We got lots of loot for a little rupee using the “OK that’s too high, we are going to another store, bye, bye” method. The proprietors of our last stop, the jewelry store, asked us if we would like a cocktail, and, as I always say, why hassle with finding a bar when you can just drink at the jewelry shop? A fun Aussie couple joined in the fun and after a cocktail or three, Erin decided it was finally a good time to get her nose pierced. With five pairs of shoes, six pashminas, and a handful of jewelry weighing down our backpacks, we are off to Ranthambhore to see the tigers.

Pushkar: Karma and a prayer

Bad Karma is kind of like sin, but with more immediate consequences. Christians have the Golden rule, which is similar, but less fun. For instance, if you have a temper like Charlie Sheen or the tact of Mel Gibson, you don’t get to wait for St. Paul to call you out in front of the Pearly Gates. Instead, you fall in a puddle, get audited by the IRS or your electricity cuts off in the middle of the Super Bowl. En route to the holy city of Pushkar, Kristen and I got into a tiff over semi-colons. That’s right, surrounded gorgeous mountains and ancient temples, and in the middle of a carefree vacation, we decided to fight about punctuation. I don’t like semi-colons, she thinks my lengthy sentences could use a few, and Erin, rightly so, doesn’t care. Immediately following some snotty remarks, glares, and all around bitchiness, the headlights in our car just blink off. One minute we are scrapping over grammar and the next minute we are barreling down an un-lit highway holding a flashlight out the window with Phool Singh (driver/guide/buddy) ensuring us it will be OK. And it was OK; (semi-colon) the 18-wheelers missed us by inches, we didn’t blow a tire in one of the 80 potholes we hit in the dark, and we arrived in Pushkar safe and sound. But I think a lesson was learned.

The holy city of Pushkar is home to almost 600 temples and at least that many hippies. This international band of dreadlocked drifters started sticking around for so long that Pushkar passed a law that limits a tourist’s stay to one week. Pushkar also has the one and only temple in India honoring the Hindu god Brahma, the creator. Brahma made a huge mistake and took a second wife, and Savitri, wife #1, made him eternally sleep on the couch by vowing that he would only have one temple dedicated to him in all of India. Not only that, but no blessings may take place inside his temple. Instead, prayers to Brahma are made in the many ghats (river steps/baths) on Lake Pushkar. His temple is beautiful, with a big red spire, a silver alter and hundreds of memorial prayers written in the stone floors. But Savitri’s temple looms high and prominent on a hill above the red spire and, if you listen carefully, you can almost hear her whispering, “I told you so.”

Our Pushkar guide Nadu was also a “priest”, probably ordained, as Erin pointed out, by the tourist bureau. Nonetheless, when it was our turn for the blessing on the ghat, it was truly a spiritual moment. We prayed for our families and our futures, and received ceremonial red dots with rice on our foreheads. Nadu, visibly shaken by our single status, prayed for us to find husbands. “May they be rich and good,” he said solemnly.

That evening, we met Phool and his colleague and friend Anail for a taste of the local rum (called Triple X) and a pizza, of all things. Anail informed us he had 200 girlfriends, which was not his fault because, after all, he shares his zodiac sign with Krishna who had 1600 girlfriends. Anail valiantly attempted to induct us into his imaginary harem, claiming he was a trained masseuse, a master chef, and a priest. As tempting as it was, we rejected his offer. We can’t interrupt our trip and plus, now that we have our good Karma going, Brahma is sending us good and rich husbands

Udaipur: A Warrior and a King

OK, let’s talk about it: the caste system. Bring this issue up in the wrong context and it incites more controversy than Sarah Palin crashing a dinner party at the Kennedy Compound. Our Udaipur guide, Yusuf, is part of the high-ranking warrior caste (we didn’t ask, he offered) and his take was, “you can change your job but not your caste.” He didn’t look like much of a warrior, soft spoken and wearing a Mr. Rogers sweater, but he was fiercely proud of this designation and told us marrying in your own caste was necessary to preserve heritage and bloodline. We have all had heard enough West Virginia jokes to know inter-marrying is a bad idea, but we let him pontificate. Later, we met an enigmatic young entrepreneur named King. He was from a much lower caste and spent his childhood being told not to drink in certain fountains, go into particular houses or speak to those in a higher class or he would be beaten. “The government may have outlawed the caste system, but all the people have not. I ignore it now. I talk to and date whomever I want,” he explained, waiving his hand down at the city, as we sat with him on cushions atop his rooftop restaurant. King was scrappy, moving from his small village to Udaipur, first becoming a taxi driver, then a restaurant owner, and, most recently, a pashmina dealer. He learned English from the tourists, beat a Drew Barrymore type booze and drug problem he developed when he was only 12, and admits he grew up fast, too fast. We watched King work the room, greeting a traveler from Tokyo in Japanese, snap at the waiter to move a little faster, and con his friend out of half of a chocolate bar. “My view,” he said with a shrug, “the caste system is total crap.”

January 26 is Indian Independence Day, which, like American Independence day celebrates running the Redcoats out on a rail. We unfortunately celebrated by getting our butts kicked by potholes on a rough 8-hour trek from Jodhpur to Udaipur. The high point was a stop at the famous spice lady’s shop in Jodhpur, where the charming owner let us sample teas, sniff spices and taught us the difference between real and fake saffron (real looks like tadpoles) while Phool amused himself by taking close-up videos of his smiling face and pictures of his little white car with my camera. We got to Udaipur late, and with two of us suffering from a minor case of Delhi belly, stayed in our cute blue and gold room, watching Indian Idol and Terminator 3 that was inexplicably in English with English subtitles.

The next morning we met Yusuf the Warrior Guide for a tour of Bagore-Ki-Haveli, a restored, 138-roomed, haveli that housed hundreds of interesting artifacts used by royals and other important peopple. An antique make-up box with colorful palates for powders makes a Mac eyeshadow kit look like an ashtray. There was an amazing, hand-painted puppet display (only a little creepy), the world’s largest turban, and, oddly, a Styrofoam sculpture of the Eiffel tower. We then got a foodie lesson in the local market. The matriarch of the family is responsible for the combination of spices and oils in food, and this delicate, flavorful balance ultimately determines the harmony and well being of the family. In fact, it is mama’s job to use curry and peppers in the winter to warm the body, lemon in summer to cool it down, and…get this...extra oil during the monsoon season for better procreation. Ordering Dominos or heating up a Lean Cuisine could therefore lead to undue sweating or lack of grandchildren.

Yusuf did a nice job explaining to us some other major cultural concepts. For instance, hiding your eyes shows respect for your elders, different professions and religions require different turban shapes, and through meditation and discipline you can achieve the most important virtue, patience. He then tested our not-quite-virtuous patience by taking us on a pricey boat ride and inviting himself to lunch. We ventured off on our own to enjoy Udaipur, which is easy to do. Called India’s most romantic city (not helpful in our case), it surrounds Lake Pichola with one palace dominating an island on the lake, one in the city itself, and one, the Monsoon Palace, overlooking the city on top of a mountain. The Lake Palace was featured in the James Bond movie, Octopussy and one local bar, which I assume has the highest wait-staff turnover in the city, shows the movie every night. We decided to catch 007 another time and went to a “puppet show” at the Haveli, which featured mostly local ladies doing traditional Rajasthan dances. The biggest crowd pleaser was the finale, where the dancer, who looked like an Indian Paula Deen but could move her hips like Shakira, put 12 pots on her head and danced on glass. The crowd went wild. Tomorrow we are headed to Pushka, the holy city. Let's pray for less potholes.

Khuri to Jodhpur: Seven peppers, one lemon and a massage

Indians tend to be hippies, not in the pachatolie using, free-loading, Widespread Panic following way, but in their even-keeled, optimistic approach to life. In fact, I am pretty sure hippies stole their best ideas from India: flowing floral skirts, 5-day music festivals and the willingness to let it be. Any request, however big or small, is answered with “not a problem” or “everything is possible”, never an American “we’ll see” or “hell no”. Indians find luck in everyday existence, not just in rabbit’s feet, leprechauns, and beating the house at Caesar’s Palace. It’s luck when a rat runs across the floor, you sneeze, you walk counterclockwise around a temple, you step in crap, or if you get married according to your zodiac. Doors to houses are adorned with lucky images of Ganesh, swastikas (ancient Hindi symbols that Nazis epically misappropriated), and, my favorite, seven chili peppers and one lemon threaded together in the door jam to protect the household.

It was hard not to feel lucky when we left Khuri and made a quick stop back in Jaisalmer, our favorite city. We stayed just long enough to offend a silver dealer by refusing to buy his lovely but pricey jewelry and get an ayurvedic massage, an Indian phenomenon where you get treated with special oils from head to toe, even in your hair. For time saving reasons, we were excited the massage parlor could take us all at the same time. We were a little less jazzed to find we would all be in the same room. We got over it, after all, we’re all friends here and for this cheap of a deal, I would probably agree to use the counter at McDonalds as a massage bed. We left Jaisalmer for the final time, relaxed and hydrated but with enough oil in our hair to fry a blooming onion.

We headed to Jodhpur, the “Blue City” and namesake of the MC Hammer looking riding pants. The trip took forever, but Phool Sing, our driver/guide/new BFF, gave us a break by stopping at a tea stand where we were entertained by a 11 year old boy who could sing like and angel and a holy man who asked for American coins so he could make a ring. Erin gave him a penny and I gave him a quarter, wondering if he had really thought through his plan to sport George and Abe themed bling, but happy to honor his request. India has Louisiana like open container laws, so we stopped for roadies at Phool's suggestion, getting beers in thug-sized bottles to spice up the last few miles of the trip. We kept the party going when we got to our hotel and took our (still greasy) selves up to the gorgeous rooftop restaurant for cocktails and floral soap flavored hookah. Three hours later we had solved most of the world’s problems and wandered to our room. Tomorrow we head to Udaipur, one of Rajasthan’s most beautiful cities. Lucky us.

Jaisalmer to Khuri: Must love camels.

The “Golden City” of Jaisalmer was quite the hot spot on the trade route years ago and evidence of the city’s former wealth is visible in the intricate architecture of the havelis (merchant houses) and a fort that makes the one in Bikaner look like Smurfette’s mushroom house. About 100 km from the Pakistan border, Jailsamer is known for its silver jewelry, beaded and mirrored textiles, and Jain temples. Unfortunately, the fort is sinking like Venice, due to the 5,000 folks inhabiting the fort every day crammed into the many hotels, shops and restaurants.

Our tour guide was Bhagwan Singh, an educated, well-traveled gentleman, as proud of his hometown as Duke fans are of Coach K. He was kind and helpful but had the mannerism of a drill sergeant when it came to pointing out the sights, giving us little swats when we weren’t paying attention and unabashedly using the locals as exhibits to his lessons. His tour went a little like this.

Pay attention!...look at the beautiful architecture…you only see in Jaisalmer!.....please watch the cow dung…walk left!...see her? Muslim! Beaded top and dark sari….probably poor …..Hindi women wear bright saris…that beautifully made only in Jaisalmer!...careful for scooter...The man that built haveli is very wealthy. Opium trader! Illegal now….now only tea…Pakistan not a problem anymore; we have a fence….it’s electric...there is a military base here just in case…..She is married, see all her bangles? She wears every day. Then she will burn them with her husband. Probably soon, she is old….pink turbans only for merchants...khaki turbans for carpenters…I said khaki! Not green!...careful for the Pig!

After our tour we stopped at a co-op textile shop, where we stocked up on pillows and coverlets like we were planning to open a Pier One at our next hotel. We then headed west to Khuri, with loads of architectural knowledge, very few rupees, and 13 beaded pillows en route to DC via India Post.

In Khuri we took a much-anticipated camel safari out to the Thar Desert. Each of us shared a camel with a guide, who sat behind us in the saddle and used clicks and kicks to steer. My camel, Sia, was lovely and sweet; my guide Raji was flirtatious and wasted. The views were spectacular- antelope herds running across silky sand dunes, women in colorful saris carrying baskets on their heads, and quaint villages dotting the skyline. We played catch with charming kids who resourcefully hustled us out of hair pins when they figured out we left our wallets at home. It would have been perfect if Raji weren’t holding on to my hair like reins, reeking of booze, and singing off key. We stopped at 5:30 to watch the sunset and while we waited for the red ball to drop we ran through the dunes doing cartwheels, handstands and jumps, at Kristen’s direction, lady-like and poised as always. Raji watched us flip around, drinking from Kristen’s water bottle, with my pashmina wrapped around his shoulders, occasionally using the edge of it to wipe his mustache. Awesome.

After the ride, we returned to Khuri to stay in our hut, equipped with a dirt floor and a thatched roof and little cots that a prison probably rejected because they were too uncomfortable. The lack of creature comforts was overshadowed by the fantastic food, pretty courtyard and the memory of a desert sunset that looked like the cover of a National Geographic magazine. Even Raji ultimately redeemed himself by bonding with me over our shared love of dogs as we returned to camp. He revealed that it was his adorable pup Lepu, that had been following us during our trek, cutely chasing down an antelope, and snuggling with Sia the camel at sunset.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Yes,” I lied for convenience’s sake.

“Too bad,” he replied, “I love dogs. And camels.”

Me too Raji, me too.

Bikaner to Jaisalmer: Shaadi Crashers

Indians get right to the point. Asking a woman her age, if she is married and if not, what’s the problem is standard conversational procedure here. My mother told me it wasn’t polite to stare, but here, folks unabashedly ogle strangers and when you return the look, they smile and say “hello” which is hard to get used to, but refreshing. Also, let’s face it, there are billions of Indians here, and a white chick with blond hair that says “Hey ya’ll” instead of “Namaste” is the freak. I totally appreciate this bluntness and directness. After all, we want to immerse ourselves in this fantastic culture, so let’s not waste time complementing each others’ outfits and talking about the weather. Occasionally a line is crossed. Taking pictures of strangers’ rear ends is frowned upon in the states and, in some cases, illegal. Like when some little punk shot a few pictures of mine and Erin’s asses as we went up some steps or someone cops a feel when taking a picture, but this is not the norm, and mostly we are greeted with top-notch politeness. Speaking of cultural differences, we committed our first faux pas today with Phool Singh (driver/tour guide/new BFF) by asking him to chip in when he ate lunch with us. He was visibly irritated, and after some awkwardness and door slamming, Kristen engaged him in a discussion starting with, “Um, are you mad at us?” Apparently at expensive places, he eats for free, but at cheaper places, it is customary for us to pick up the tab for our guide; after our little Indian protocol 101 lesson, we made up quickly.

Today started out with a tour of the impressive fort, Junaghar, a large Mughal fort, with a moat, multiple courtyards, gardens, a substantial collection of elephant saddles, and even a World War 2 plane, given to emperor Akbar by the British as a thank you for India’s contribution to the War. We got separated from our tour group, or rather they effectively ditched us as they ran through the corridors as we pondered what the guide had just said and took pictures of the painted ceilings and elaborate bedrooms.

We took a long car ride to Jaisalmer, which so far has been our favorite city. Phool suggested we go have a beer, code for “you wound-up Lonely Planet reading, camera happy, question-asking chicks need to relax”. So that’s what we did after checking into the bright, cheerful Royal Hotel. We dodged cows, dogs, racing scooters and wild pigs (good for cleaning up the trash, who knew?), and found Saffron, a picturesque restaurant set on top of an old haveli carved out of sandstone. We were into our second beer when we got hit. The fireworks started off in the distance, exploding up into the night, red, gold and red. They moved closer and our waiter announced that it was a wedding (shaadi) and the display was following the bride as she made her way toward the reception. Firework laws in India are a redneck’s dream comes true as you can shoot any size firework absolutely anywhere. When the procession got next to our restaurant, the fireworks came over the roof and hit us like little asteroids, flaming out as they hit our hair and table. We shouted a few expletives, put out the small hair fires, got our tab and, what else, joined the party.

The bride was nowhere to be found, but who needed her when you had a DJ spinning tunes off the back of a buggy, a groom on a horse with a beaded costume, and a hundred or so party-goers shaking their booties to everything from bad 90’s American music to local dance hits. We were invited to join the parade by cousins and friends of the groom. I got a dance lesson from young ladies dressed in gorgeous saris (I wasn’t shaking my hips properly), Erin got her boob grabbed, and Kristen befriended a pretty three year old and her even prettier mama. We were escorted through a tent lined with lights and fresh flowers and into an open-air reception hall, with painted walls and more food than Costco. Kristen was challenged to an eat-off by a bossy, female cousin of the bride. We mixed, mingled and took an outrageous number of pictures. We had such fun we plan to do it again. Move over Owen and Vince, we have a shaadi to crash.

Bikaner: Peace, love, and holy rodents

India, despite its long history of political and religious conflicts, is the most harmonious place I have ever been. A city thoroughfare is politely shared by moped-like taxis (rickshaws), camels and donkeys pulling carts, tiny cars and large delivery trucks. There is a lot of horn blowing; not New York City “get out of the way jackass” honking, but polite little beeps that say “hello” or “please move your camel to the left”. Phool Singh, our driver, uses a sort of human GPS system, cheaper and more effective than a Garmin, and when there is a road closure he pulls up next to a local who happily points him in the right direction. On our way to Bikaner we saw lots of camels and trucks carrying green hay used to feed the sacred cows, a community shared responsibility. The cows apparently know they are sacred, because they boldly cross in front of cars and take naps in front of shops and cafes with a sense of self-importance. Drivers also break for sheep, goats and wild pigs that seem to have their own agendas and head decisively through town like they are late for important business meetings. I am a dog lover and was panicked that I was going to see mangy, starving, wild dogs everywhere. There are certainly a lot of dogs wandering around, but honestly they look well fed and cared for, many with cute faces and shiny coats that could land their pictures on the front of a Purina bag. Even the rats peacefully co-exist, but more on that later.

Our 3 hour trip was set to the hip-hop sound of Phool Singh’s Akon CD, so we got jiggy with it as we scooted down the road, singing along to “Mr. Lonely”, Phool’s favorite track. We stopped at a modern Hindi temple that was so art deco and funky, we thought we were pulling up to a water park or put-put course; embarrassing and illogical conclusions while traveling in the heart of Rajasthan. You enter the temple through a plaster lion’s mouth flanked by colorful statues of Hanuman, king of the monkeys and Vishnu, the god with four arms. After you get eaten by the lion, you pop out in a courtyard where Ganesh, the elephant headed God, is depicted in bright pink and about 30 feet tall. Ganesh supposedly lost his more human-like head during a tiff with his dad, Shiva. Shiva felt badly about the misunderstanding and be-heading, and gave him the head of the next live being that wandered by, in this case an elephant. It could have been worse; it could have been a rat, but again, wait for that story. From there you go up a steep ramp, crawl through a tunnel, where the God Krishna sits, blue-skinned and large and in charge, at least 40 feet high.

We arrived at the Hotel Sagawa in Bickaner, too late to see much but the rat temple. I know what you are thinking: “Whatchu talking ‘bout Willis?” That’s right, buckle up readers, we went to a rat temple. The Karni Mahta temple is inhabited by 1000’s of kabas (holy rodents). The temple itself is a pretty, wide-open, black and white tiled courtyard with holy rooms branching off. There are more rats than in the labs at L’Oreal and Estee Lauder combined, running across the scrolled gates, up and down the marble steps and into holes in the tile. They are fed and cared for by a local family and are brought treats and sweets by the Hindi worshippers. We reluctantly ditched our Nikes to go inside (standard for all temples), and while it’s considered auspicious for a rat to run across your feet, it is freaky as hell. The locals come in droves to worship, cool as cucumbers, walking in bare feet among the rats, making offerings to the kabas, and sitting nonchalantly on the steps as the rats run across their laps. Only our desire to be respectful of the Hindis kept us from screaming like teenagers at a Jonas Brothers concert. We danced around in socks, grabbing on to each other’s arms, and trying our damndest not to have an all out panic attack. The best part, besides having a totally unforgettable and cool experience, was that Erin saw the elusive white rat, which will grant her good luck for the year. Let’s hope she is lucky enough not to see another rat for a really long time.

Delhi to Mandawa: Everything is Possible

Amazingly, everything has gone according to plan. Kristen and Erin picked me up at the airport and we began our journey to Rajasthan. They had hired a driver named Phool Singh, a dark, stocky man who navigated the potholes like Dale Earnheart, and was patient with our girly cackling. He would be with us on this first jaunt and was a good choice, with a sharp sense of humor and an endless supply of home mixed Punjab CD’s. My first glimpse of India was surreal. There are the inevitable piles of rubble and trash, but there are bright colors everywhere, in the scarves wrapped around the heads of the three Indian teenagers jammed on one a scooter, the tassels swinging from car mirrors, and in the fruits sold in the stands on roadside. The delivery trucks were even painted with bright colors, the cab grills painted to strategically to look like monsters, which had a scary effect when they zoomed toward us head-on before sliding back into their lane at the last second. Which bring us to the driving, which is basically a free for all dash to wherever you are going. There doesn’t appear to be a speed limit, a discernable traffic pattern and the right of way goes to the biggest vehicle or the most nimble driver. We stopped a few times on our 8-hour journey, once at gas station where I got a crash course in Indian living, using one of the restrooms that consisted of an oblong hole in the tile. I did ok with that considering I lack the tool (ability) to aim. I tried to find a place to toss my McDonalds cup (Indian diet coke is delicious to their liberal use of tasty, cancer-inducing sweeteners) and was encouraged to throw it over a wall into the adjacent lot. I felt guilty adding to the trash piles but I caved to the urgings of the smiling, turbaned gas attendants and secretly felt rebellious to be a litterbug. We stopped at a tea stand/hotel and had delicious Indian chai tea while gathered around a fire. Unfortunately the fire was made of hay, so its warmth lasted about 30 seconds. The owner took a shine to Erin and asked her if she liked India 18 times since that was seemingly the only full English phrase he knew besides “I love America”, which is two more Hindi phrases than I know. He showed off the hotel he was building, which was more of a manger really, with a thatched roof and bales of straw. Not that I am an expert in identifying mangers outside of Christmas pageants, but baby Jesus looked like he would be right at home. We finally made it to our hotel, which was beautifully decorated with painted tiles and had large open courtyards. Our room was nice enough, the highlights being the impromptu a cappella prayer that some well-voiced Muslim sung at 6 a.m., the two peacocks I saw when I crawled half-way out our window in the morning, and the tour of the honeymoon suite we got in the morning before breakfast. That tour was given by the hotel manager, a self-proclaimed hotel “VIP and a very important man”. The honeymoon suite was quite spectacular with painted glass ceilings and upstairs and downstairs beds, for variety I suppose. “Sexy room!” our hotel VIP exclaimed as we oohed and ahhed at the chandeliers and beaded quilts. After a breakfast of omelets (Erin got the best one, seasoned with turmeric and vegetables) and some sort of oatmeal casserole we are off to Bikaner. I am excited because as the Indians like to say “everything is possible.”