Burning Expectations

India doesn't make sense. The light switches are upside down. The people are flawlessly clean with white teeth and pressed clothes, yet there are immense piles of trash, often burning amongst open latrines filled with sewage and piss. Asking directions is futile, no one seems to know where anything is and on the roadway ancient holy cows rub flanks with the newest Audi's and Benz's money can afford. Slums are next to skyscrapers and people look intently toward the future in cities like Varanasi where the written history is over 5,000 years old. Muslims set up loud public lectures through megaphones in the Hindu quarters and cab drivers with Shiva on the dashboard cross themselves whenever they pass a Christian church.

There is an elegant beauty in the lack of expectation. I learned this yesterday.

My plans in India were changed almost immediately upon arrival. The plan was to take a train to Bodhgaya, land of our Buddha first, then fly down to Goa to unwind of the beach before heading home. After being denied entry onto a train I had booked for months due to overbooking, I got fed up and took the next bus down the coast to Goa.

Goa is beautiful. When I first woke the next morning, I panicked because the bus was cresting a forested mountain ridge. But before long we descended to the dank sandy coast. Goa was first a hippy haven, then formed part of a global rave scene that encompassed Thailand and Ibiza, and now is a place for anyone who wants to TRULY get away from it all. An unregulated state in a largely unregulated country, the partying and hash smoking in Goa was formidable. I was in bed by 9 every night. All jokes aside, Goa is big business for shop keeps and autorickshaw drivers who make money for their families up north when all manner of Europeans, South Americans, Australians and South Africans descend upon the area to spend their foreign notes. I met all these geographic types of people and more, and zero Americans. I found myself altering my accent to sound more French, just so people could understand me. It sounds odd but no one, including the Indians, ever got my name right the first time. "Trouble" and "travel" were two popular interpretations. But the beauty in Goa transcended language and I concluded most afternoons by watching the sun set over the Arabian sea with a Kingfisher Beer and plate of tandoori chicken, a go to dish that at the very least wouldn't make me instantly ill upon consumption, something that can't be said of all curries in country.

And like all small towns, when you start to know everybody's name, it's time to leave. I took a very early flight out and wound up in Varanasi, the holiest city in the world for Hindus. It was then I met Rocky, a very small Indian man with what I'm pretty sure was a twinkle in his eye, a soul who made Varanasi my favorite city in India after only a few hours there.

Indians are full of questions for foreigners and inquisitions about your salary or even sex life aren't uncommon. It took Rocky half a second to realize I was in Varanasi to look for a sitar and with a beckoning hand, set off at a race clip. I had trouble keeping up even with my much longer stride, dodging dogs, goats, cows, piles of poo, rickshaws, busses, Chai carts, impossibly hoveled old ladies with canes and young children. We arrived at Bablu's music shop, the paradise music hall and sat on the floor drinking tea as Big Baba Bablu showed me his wares. A sitar is a large instrument played while siting down, the butt of the instrument resting on the side of the foot at the base of the left leg, crossed under your ass to the right. The first time I tried it I almost fell over from the pain when standing again. The sitar I wound up purchasing was made at that very shop, by a sitar player, and the materials include teak wood, camel bone and intricate ceramic inlays. The frets are big bronze affairs that you can slide along the neck for perfect intonation.

My sitar is more special than the rest and not for the price, materials or shop where it came from, but because it was bought on the night of a lunar eclipse on the bank of the holiest river in the world. This was my one night in Varanasi and due to no planning on my behalf there was a stunning lunar eclipse unfolding over the Ganga during my short stay, attracting thousands of Hindu pilgrims to the city so they might bathe in the river during the celestial event.

The scene was incredible, I felt as though I was witnessing a cosmic event at the center of it all and as we rowed down the river, a trip Rocky facilitated with ease, lights from the city and hundreds of floating Karma candles lit the surface to a twinkling, sparkling shimmer in the dark Indian night. Thousands of Hindus sat on the banks or in the water, still and waiting for the lunar event, for the right moment to plunge in for one hell of a communal holy bath. Short of jumping in, I forced myself to forget stats about 120 times the fecal content of what our own EPA would deem safe, and poured the sin-cleansing water onto my head and face. Continuing down the river, flames from the fires of burning bodies on the main ghat grew larger and larger, until I could strain to see anatomical details, wafting into ash and the soul into Moksha, eternal enlightenment for those lucky enough to die in this place. Pictures are strictly forbidden here and although I could have easily snapped a discreet one off from the dark river and the boat's cover, I wouldn't want to offend Rocky or our boat captain. I will only have the memory of those twelve burning bodies, upon pyres of wood which are constantly re-lit for 24 hours of enlightenment and flesh-smell.

Back to the music school, I took a short sitar lesson and finished the night in the bar having food and drink with Bablu and Rocky. We called each other brother and having run around with Rocky all day I felt as much. Bablu ate an enormous plate of chilies and I watched him sweat more and more with each gulp of rum. Rocky talked of his Italian ex girlfriend and coming to visit me in America and when we stumbled back out into the Varanasi night, much cooler than the Goan sweat box, I felt as though I had stumbled upon some benign alternate reality where all I had do was smile ad give a small Indian head-wiggle of affirmation to achieve cosmic results. In India a smile is currency and Varanasi is rich.

We are taught to plan, have expectations, think we can control our destiny. If my travel plans hadn't been turned around I would have never met Rocky, or seen the Earth's shadow black the moon out from a boat drifting on the Ganges. Learning to expect the unexpected is a huge part of travel and life. Don't worry about what makes sense because even though you might have it all worked out, the world is inevitably random. Just find somebody and smile.

First Day in India-Mumbai

You will get run over here. A short honk is all you will hear before you die. And it smells like shit. Not a euphemism, the smell of shit particularly burning shit, permeates the air in between periods of smelling like trash and fish, alternately.
My room is clean and smells good, or at least neutral and is very cold and dark when I turn the lights off. This worked to my disadvantage today when after being awoke by loud Muslim calls to worship, I went back to sleep figuring I would wake after a couple more hours rest. As I emerged onto the hotel balcony at 6pm, the full extent of my jet lag became apparent. Forgoing a shower, knowing the sweat and shit-smell awaiting me, I stumbled into the restaurant below. If I hadn't seen the airport last night I might have well thought I was in Cairo because of the large Muslim population in this neighborhood and the Afghani Chicken Curry was amazing. Trying the food, trying anything for that matter here is a bit nerve racking, if only for the horror stories you hear. But Afghani Chicken and another chicken kebab on the street and I'm still able to write coherently and sit upright, more than the horror-story tellers would have you believe.
Next I walked, and walked and walked because this jet lag clearly wouldn't be letting me rest any time soon and there is no better way to get to know a city than by on foot. Mumbai is a dirty, dark city at night but very active until around midnight (also not helping the jet lag, no bars open!). After walking for no more than ten minutes I found street vendors who could help me pick up a few things I intentionally left at home. Paying 20 rupees (40 cents) for an electric converter to plug my phone in (the method with which I now scribe) I'm not sure how I payed 450 for some sunglasses. 10 bucks sounds perfectly reasonable for some shades, but not here! I think the sunglass merchant's unwillingness to barter was almost endearing, reminding me of our strict MSRP way of doing things back home, although in India they have a MRP or MAXIMUM retail price. I'll let you infer what both those acronyms say about our respective cultures.
Fed up with the cheap purses, wallets, shoes, clothes, printer cartridges and bamboo smoothie stands, I made for the nearest watering hole. Still overpaying, but not unreasonably so this time, I asked my auto-rickshaw to take me to where the Europeans drink, knowing my fellow backpackers from across the pond have a knack for finding cheap booze. There I met the coolest South African couple who had much great advice about food, prices, lodging in different cities and generally how to survive here. Thanks Paul and Ally, you guys made my first night of confusion a fantastic time!
Now back at the hotel, it's 1am and I might try and adjust out of this jet-lagged haze and get some sleep. Tomorrow I take a train to the place of Buddha's enlightenment after what is sure to be an enlightening 23 hour train ride.