Travelogue

Hello all!

For the inquiring minds who wanted to know about how
our last hotel room turned out -- the one the taxi
touts had insisted was simultaneously "closed, dirty,
and full" -- it was fine. Marble floors, walls,
ceilings. 24-hour rooftop restaurant with views of
the city and a big Ganesh statue. Bathroom with
sometimes hot water. Television which got the Delhi
MTV channel. Round-the-clock front desk. And the
bazaar directly outside. All this for $7.50 per
night!

Greetings from the State of Rajasthan (literally, Land
of the Rajas), from the city of Bikaner (BEEK-uh-ner).
This is the desert halfway country halfway between
Delhi and Bombay.

For those of you into romance and legends, this is IT.
This beats anything Launcelot and Arthur had, hands
down.

This is the land where ancient desert caravans laden
with spices and silks, travelled from China to the
Middle East.

This is the land of chivalry -- in the old days, where
when faced with an overpowering invading army, entire
villages would commit suicide rather than surrender.
The men would ride out to certain death in their
finest battle-gear, and the women and children would
build a huge bonfire and immolate themselves in it.
In one city it is said to have happened 3 times!
(Which leaves me wondering who survived enough to
record it all???)

This is the land where widows would burn themselves on
their husbands' funeral pyres. The Maharanis (queens)
would leave handprints (sati handprints) on the wall
of the castle before mounting the flames, and we saw
at least 10 prints today on the fort. The practice
was outlawed long ago but Lonely Planet says there was
an 18-year-old sati death nearby in 1987.

This is the land where 10-foot-tall camels still plow
gracefully through the desert shrubs, pulling wooden
carts loaded with cotton, wood, bricks, anything.

And, to us here today, this is the Land of Contrasts!
Some commandments the average BIkanerite seems to
follow:

* Thou shalt not use thy left hand for anything social
-- no handshaking, no food serving, no fork-moving.
(Thou shalt use it to clean thyself after 'making the
poo.' It seems that not even being a toilet-paper
using foreigner will get you out of this social
faux-pas.)

* Thou shalt not impede or harass the holy cows or
bulls. They are large creatures and shall wander the
streets (traffic islands, intersections, train tracks)
at their leisure. If they are in your way, you can
either 1) wait or 2) beep at them. (Nowhere in India
does beeping seem to count as harassment!) Thou shalt
feed them greens, vegetables, garbage, donuts, rice,
and papadams. (And thou shalt steer clear of the cow
shit which is everywhere, in all the streets, all the
time, especially the still-liquid, steaming variety.)

* Thou shalt spit when and wherever you please. More
power to you if it contains tobacco (rare) or betel
nut (reddish, popular).

* If a man, thou shall pee when and wherever you
please. The walls of the palace are a favorite for
this, as are the gutters, corners, train tracks, and
the back wall of the post office.

* If a woman, thou shalt have to learn to hold it.
(Even *I* was finally grossed out by a bathroom in a
train station. It was not the fact that the floor was
covered in urine with little brown floaties in it --
the soles of my shoes are pretty thick and it wasn't
more than 1/4" high. It was the old man peeing on the
handle of the door to the ladies' room which did it
for me.)

* Thou shalt not drink booze. Beer is difficult to
find, whiskey expensive, and the government is trying
to make Rajasthan a dry state.

* Thou shalt look differently, however, upon hashish.
Thou shalt have it offered by many taxi drivers,
shopkeepers, silk-sellers, etc. Thou shalt also be
aware the "special lassi" or "bhang lassi" (right next
to Coca-cola and Lemon soda on the restaurant menus)
is laced with bhang, a hashish derivative. (For us,
this is a no-fly zone...)

* Thou shalt solve all thy problems with a maximum of
manpower and a minimum of money or materials. For
example, world-famous professor Stephen Hawking is in
Delhi. He is severely handicapped and in a
wheelchair, and India is not exactly
handicapped-accessible. Rather than giving him the
one wooden ramp he requested so his wheelchair can get
up and down the steps of attractions, they have
stationed pairs of men at each staircase he could
possibly want to go up or down at three major
attractions. The mens' sole job is to carry him up or
down that staircase, if needed, exactly once.

* Thou shalt solve all thy problems with a maximum of
manpower and a minimum of money or materials -- take
2. For another example, we took a tour of the Bikaner
fort today. It is a large palace, and the main tour
was given in Hindi and English. There was also a
French-speaking Indian guy for the French couple
there, and a German-speaking Indian guy for the German
couple there, etc.

* If thou art a father, thou shalt tenderly carry thy
offspring around like a sack of potatoes -- over the
shoulder. It does not matter which end of the child
faces forward. If thou must also carry a sack of
potatoes, do not let having a child stop you. Put the
child over one shoulder and the sack over the other.

* Thou shalt, in all thy artwork, portray British
government in general, and British soldiers in
particular, as all of the following: evil, wicked,
weak, on the losing side, dead, dying, pale, sickly,
having bad hair, but mostly just evil.

* Thou shalt consider the bizarre to be commonplace.
There are only two models of a special brand of a WWI
biplane left in the world. I do not know where the
first one is, but the second is inside the palace in
Bikaner.

* Thou shalt consider the commonplace to be bizarre.
Everywhere Scott and I go, we are the main attraction.
We upstage elephants with sparkley lights on their
tails, camels pulling cement bricks, brass bands
marching through streets, policemen, oxcarts, holy
cows, bullfights, and Internet Cafes.

* Thou shalt have an exception to every rule. Today,
finally, for one brief (but glorious!) moment, we were
upstaged. Here's what it took: a Caucasian man, old,
with white hair, blue eyes, and a straight nose, with
a moustache, wearing a coat and trousers, leather
shoes, and a tightly-wound turban, after the Indian
fashion. He was going on the tour of the Bikaner fort
with his elderly Indian wife, more Indian relatives of
various descriptions (all in turbans and saris), and
was placidly chatting away with them in Hindi. To see
an elderly English guy in a country gentleman's
threads or even in a Bozo the Clown suit would have
probably been fine, but there was something positively
disconcerting about seeing one who had clearly "gone
native." As soon as Mr. Turban walked up, everybody
stopped staring as us and started staring at him.
Including us. Really, I have never before seen
anything like it!

Recommended reading:

"Kim," by Rudyard Kipling
"Raj" and "Karma Cola" by Gita Mehta
"Ramayana" and "Mahabharata," two Indian epics (akin
to Iliad and Odyssey)
Anything by the authors of the Twilight Zone

Love to you all from the Land of the Bizarre!
C + S

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January 21, 2001 - India: daki with your coffee, madame?

Hello beautifuls!

Time to read the newspaper again! Breakfast, perhaps?

Today we will sit in a restaurant in Bikaner. I have
chosen a rather expensive one, with a front wall and a
door on it (rather than just open to the street). The
seats are even cushioned, a deep red velvet cushion.
This way we will not be bothered by touts who all want
to sell us camel safaris.

We just went on a camel safari and do not currently
want another one. Will tell all in another email, but
suffice it to say they are really goofy beasts with
really large, bony backs. I have a case of "daki,"
which is the local slang for "saddle sores obtained by
riding a camel rather than a horse, ox, cow, or other
beast."

But I digress. Back to our velvet cushions and our
newspaper. We order coffee with milk. (The bad news
is the cups are tiny; the good news is they are cheap,
and sweet, and strong.) We also order uppadams, a
type of fried pancake, with coord (yogurt curd with
cardamom-type spices in it). Yum.

Some headlines (with article summaries by moi):

DIALOGUE WILL REDUCE THREAT OF NUCLEAR WAR: India and
Pakistan will keep trying not to blow each other up.

ARMY TEAM TO INTERROGATE PAK SPY: Oh heavens, there's
a Pakistani spy amongst us!

SIKHISM A SEPARATE RELIGION, SAYS MINORITIES
COMMISSION: The Government says the Sikhs are part of
the Hindu Religion. The Sikhs vehemently disagree.
And everybody is having difficulty categorizing the
Christians.

CHAMBERS URGES INDIA TO BUILD NETWORKS OF THE FUTURE:
Cisco Systems CEO John Chambers announces a donation
of equipment and training programs to India to allow
it to 'skip a generation' in technical development and
move straight ahead to networks of the future.

IT'S A MIX OF GRASS, POLITICS AND NIRVANA AND KUMBH:
At Allahabad, over a 45-day period, 70,000,000 (no
typo, seventy million) people have immersed themselves
in the holy Ganges River in a festival which happens
every 12 years. To immerse one's self will remove any
sins which may have accumulated over the past 12
years. Amongst the bathers are a lot of grass-smoking
Americans, naked Canadians, and lost-looking
Europeans, following Hindu Naga sadhus (holy men).

VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN ON THE RISE, SAYS UN REPORT:
Wife-beating in India is growing faster than the
population rate. Most reports involve a husband
beating a wife for either 1) failure to perform
domestic duties properly or 2) failure to bring a
large enough dowry with her to the marriage.

IRAQ GIVES $95 MILLION TO RELIEVE POVERTY IN US: (no
summary; this is verbatim!) "President-elect George
W. Bush's plans to cut government aid to the poor, and
let private philanthropists shoulder the burden is
already reaping its rewards. It was announced
yesterday that Saddam Hussein had donated $95 million
to impoverished Americans. Given the current state of
relations between the two countries, it is unlikely
that the US will allow Saddam's uniformed lieutenants
to wander the streets of the Bronx or east Washington,
distributing his dole. The donation would work out to
about three US dollars for each American living under
the poverty line."

We pay our bill -- less than $2.50 for a large
breakfast. Happy newspapering!

Love,
C + S (wondering how long "daki" takes to go away...)

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January 23, 2001 - Beef vindaloo, anyone?

"Cooked eggs, tofu, beans, lentils (dhal), and nuts
are all safe ways to get protein."
-- Lonely Planet India

"I spent two months in India and didn't get sick to my
stomach at all! Except once, horribly, from food
poisoning. I ate the fish curry in Goa."
-- twentysomething Dutch fellow with long dreadlocks

"India! What a positively wretched place! We spent
two horrible weeks there en route from London to
Sydney and I was so sick the whole time! Didn't even
see the Taj Mahal. We had to upgrade hotels because I
really needed a bathroom attached to the room. I lost
15 lbs there because I could keep nothing down at all.
The only thing I could manage was maybe a little
mutton curry from time to time. I'm never going back
to that ghastly place."
-- Vickie, 28, insurance executive from London

"My wife and I are strict vegetarians, thank you very
kind sir."
-- comment overheard at a train station restaurant,
made by a robust forty-something Indian man in a large
turban. His plump, pretty wife smiled and nodded
vigorously.

"We spent four lovely months in India and had
absolutely no digestive problems whatsoever! We ate
all the local food - delicious! We got the best
advice before we went and will pass it on to you:
drink only bottled water and don't eat any meat."
-- David and Barbara, 50-something, from Ontario

"India! How wonderful! I had four enchanting months
there and ache to return. The food - the curries, the
sweets. But there is the meat issue. I won't even
tell you to go vegetarian. But I will tell you to
first visit a butcher. Then, if you still want the
meat, go ahead and order it."
-- Astrid, elementary school teacher, from Germany

"Mr. Venkat Mukherjee, 32, was cited and fined Rs 500
for conducting his butcher business in a public
restroom. He was given 10 days to cease and desist
slaughtering the animals in the public convenience.
Evidently Mr. Mukherjee had been selling the meat at
the local market for six months before police
responded to complaints from residents who were
annoyed because he would only allow them to use the
urinals outside of his normal business hours.
When asked his opinion, Mr. Mukherjee said: 'I
hate this man! The police are wrong to do this! I
have paid the bribe they want and they are still
coming for me! I am a decent man supporting my family
in a lawful profession! I am keeping a special bucket
full of blood and offal here. The first man who comes
to make me move, I will throw this bucket on him!
Every day I am making a new bucket with which to
defend my livelihood! I will never move!'"
-- article in a local newspaper

"Hello, waiter? May I see a menu please? Hmmm.how
late are you open tonight? .. Oh, excellent. We'll
be back for dinner later on, then. Darling, you know,
I was thinking that tandoori chicken looked really
rather inviting."
- British woman and husband, at a restaurant in
Rajasthan

--------
Yes, it's a wacky enough place to make me want to
travel first-class and Scott want to go vegetarian!

Love,
C + S

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January 25, 2001 - Rajasthan: A Camel Safari

Hello!

Remember when we had breakfast the other day? We were
choosing the restaurant with the red velvet cushions
because of our "daki" (camel-saddle-soreness).

Well, we got the daki on a camel safari.

First of all, as you may have guessed, we are in the
desert. It's the Thar desert, on the borders of India
and Pakistan. It is somewhat famous because a long
time ago the Indus River civilizations (Mohenjo Daro
and the like) were there. It is also somewhat famous
because a short time ago (1998) India detonated a
nuclear bomb there. And among the tourists, it is
famous because you can take a camel safari there.

*****

We chose the 2-day safari.

What we paid: $80 (2 people, 2 days, $20 per person
per day).

What we got: 3 camels, 2 saddles, one camel cart, one
English-speaking guide, 1 camel driver, 3 assistant
camel-drivers, 1 cook, food for the duration, one
gratuitous visit to the rat temple, and all the Indian
chai tea we could possibly drink.

What we did not get: a partridge in a pear tree.

It turned out to be a private safari -- just the two
of us and that huge staff! It is so typically Indian
to use the maximum possible manpower to do any task.

*****

We did a huge loop out into the desert -- 26 km out
one day, a night camping on sand dunes beneath the
stars, and 24 km return by a different path.

As far as barren wastelands go, this desert is full of
people! We passed:
   * People mining sand (of course, maximum manpower -
by hand with pickaxes and baskets on their heads to
carry it with)
   * Herds of goats and their goatherds
   * Lots of wild antelope-type creatures
   * Mustard, anise, and dill farms
   * Small villages where we had tea
   * Isolated farmsteads where we had tea
   * Camel stopping-places where we had tea
   * And of course, holy cows (who may be the only
creatures in India that do not want to constantly feed
us tea.)

*****
In the front part of the camel:

Camels have ears like the Greek God Pan. They can
move in all directions. When I was sitting on top of
the camel, the one noise he always turned his ears to
listen for was my sneeze.

In Rajasthan it is very important to have a
fashionable camel. The easiest way to do this seems
to be to put something fruity-looking on his harness
right above his nose. One of our camels had a plastic
marigold flower and another a large blue puff-ball
made of yarn. (I wonder how many camels are
cross-eyed.)

Camels have lips like a monkey's and can be very
dextrous in picking open camel food bags.

Camels make a noise which is somewhere between a
donkey's bray and a chainsaw motor. They are not
necessarily mad when they do this.

*****
In the middle of the camel:

How can you duplicate the camel riding experience at
home?
1. Find a car (4WD preferable).
2. Put a large wine barrel on top of the car.
3. Put some sandpaper on top of the wine barrel.
4. Climb on top and ride'em cowboy!
5. You can have a friend make camel-noises and add
reins and a turban if you want to feel particularly
like Lawrence of Arabia.

Seriously, camels are TALL. Their backs are 8 feet
high at a minimum.

And they walk with a goofy bouncy gait which makes the
wine-barrel dimensions feel rather, well, wide.

Camels have feet the size of dinner plates. They are
made out of a spongey material and don't sink in sand
dunes.

When their saddles are taken off, the camels love to
wallow in sand and dust. They look like giant puppies
rolling around with their 12-inch tongues hanging out
and their 12-inch feet in the air.

* * * *

At the back of the camel:

Camels have a tail about the size and shape of a
Springer Spaniel's. It looks sort of ridiculously
small on a beast the size of a camel. When he is just
walking around, the camel tail waves slowly up and
down, shooing flies. When he is eating something or
otherwise really happy, the camel tail waves quickly
side to side, just like a spaniel's.

Camels are famously flatulent. Additionally, male
camels urinate backwards and unpredictably. For these
reasons, it is not recommended to stand behind them.

*****

Other things I learned on the camel safari:

The caste system is alive and well. Our
English-speaking guide was of one (relatively high?)
caste. Our cook was of another caste (lower down).
The camel-drivers were at the bottom. Here, at least,
caste seems to loosely correspond to skin color - the
lighter your skin, the higher the caste. (This was
true even before the British got here.)

We cannot figure out exactly where *we* fit into the
caste system. Probably somewhere between incompetent
bumblers and space aliens.

Camel food must be really yummy. Whenever the camel
drivers set out food for the camels, some holy cows
would materialize and want to eat the camel food. It
was a full-time job to properly shoo the holy cows
away from the camels. (Because they are holy you
can't just shoo them any which way...)

Camels are very curious. Every other camel cart we
passed was hauling something - bricks, firewood, sand,
tourists. Each time we passed a cart, our camels
oh-so-desperately wanted to stick their huge noses
into the other party's cart.

An adult camel weighs approximately 1700 lbs, can go
2-3 weeks without water, and costs $200 here.   Our
camels were living rather large and got a drink every
other day.

Camel riding seems to be strictly for old-time
warriors and new-time tourists. We never saw any of
the locals ever ride a camel. They all ride in the
camel carts, which are wooden wagons hitched to a
camel and covered with camping equipment, water jugs,
musical instruments, family members, smoking
materials, firewood, blankets, and camel food.

And we now know why the locals ride the cart, not the
camel.

*****

Missing all of you!
Love,
    C + S (who are thinking of maybe getting a camel
instead of a puppy when we return home???)

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January 26, 2001 - Earthquake

Hey everyone,

Both Carrie and I are doing great. The earthquake
didn't bother us at all. As a matter of fact, we
didn't even know there was an quake here till you kind
folks informed us of the fact. Yes, some of you might
consider us uninformed...we like to think of ourselves
as blissfully ignorant. We are quite touched that
everyone is thinking about us.

Thanks,

Scott

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February 2, 2001 - For Love and Money

The SUNDAY TIMES -- MATRIMONIALS SECTION
(In case you don't get the Sunday New Delhi Times
delivered to your house with a hot cup of chai...)

* * * * *

Gaur Brahmin High Status family seek qualified match
for their only issue: 24 (years old) /170 (cm tall)
/BA, S/W Web and e-commerce, own consultancy, 15,000
(rupees per month, about $400)/handsome, cultured,
veg. Father BE, mother MA B Ed. Subcaste no bar.
Send biodata/photo/horoscope. Girl below 22
preferred, comp. Lit. Girl main consideration.

* * * * *

Wanted: Tall, fair, smart homely non-vegetarian girl
from a respectable high status business/professional
family for a Tall Smart Healthy (on the fat side) MBA
26 / 178 / Punjabi Khatri boy. Only son of a very
respectable high status industrialist of Ghaziabad.

* * * * *

Sunni Muslim, millionaire, God fearing, 39/172/68 kgs,
wheatish (complexion), short bearded, smart.
Languages known Urdu, English, German. Export
business. Visits Europe and USA every 3-4 months.
Wants 2nd Nikah (2 wives as per Shariah). First wife
living happily with groom (has 2 children). Bride
must be religious, graduate (English speaking
preferable), beautiful 22-30 years. Any caste.
Widow, divorcee, barren most welcome. Strictly no
dowry. Groom will arrange all the households at his
own. Our reliability and guarantee with Allah.

* * * * *

Looking for a very handsome, smart highly educated
issueless status life partner up to 42 years for very
pretty exceptionally young looking smart honest
sophisticated and lovable homely daughter from status
family in her mid 30's. Issueless divorcee, brief
non-consummated marriage. Centre Head in a leading
family.

* * * * *

MATCH for two beautiful Rajput sisters. The first 29
(years), 165 cms, graduate B. Ed., knowing German,
French, working as editor in publishing house. Second
25/160 cms, fair, graduate, Commercial Artist, working
as a computer graphic artist. Preference Armed
forces, Govt employee. Caste, region no bar.

* * * * *

CALIFORNIA based well settled north Indian Jain
parents seek matrimonial for cultured, sincere,
attractive, vegetarian Hindi speaking daughter with MS
in accounting, chartered accountant who is 29 years
old and is 5 ft tall. Has good Indian values.
Looking for highly educated, ambitious,
family-oriented boy. Family visiting India in
December/January. Respond with biodata and
photograph. Serious enquiries only.

* * * * *

PROPOSING MATRIMONY? RESPONDING TO FAVORABLE OFFER?
DO NOT TAKE CHANCES WITH THIS VERY IMPORTANT EVENT.
Very reasonable discreet personal courier service,
door-to-door marriage proposals taken anywhere in
Delhi, anywhere in India by hand in person. Call
Shakra Couriers on Connaught Place, New Delhi. Prices
start at Rs 50 ($1.15).

* * * * *

Reinforcing our beliefs that

1) there is somebody out there for everybody!

2) there is somebody in India ready to provide any
service you could possibly need for a very reasonable
rate!

Love,
C + S (who are sticking to Yahoo, which is free!)

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February 4, 2001 - The way things are done in India

Rules of the road.
Actually, the rules are more of like suggestions. One
is supposed to drive on the left, but in practice
everyone just drives where they want and shouts at
everyone to get out of the way. The horn must be used
at every occasion. The louder the horn, the better.
Blast it, and even tho everyone ignores it, just keep
blasting it. If it is late at night, or early in the
morning, let everyone know you are around by your
horn, they will be happy.   When driving down the
road, toot it at everyone you pass, at every temple,
cow, donkey, camel, bird...everything. One can always
pass a slow car/rickshaw/bus/truck/camel cart at any
time. It is even okay to pass a truck that is passing
a rickshaw that passing a cow. This is even more fun
to do around a blind corner. This is okay because the
traffic coming toward you is doing the same thing. If
it starts getting dangerous, blow your horn...everyone
knows that makes things better. If your vehicle
breaks down, stop. Start working on it. Don't worry
that you are in the middle of the road. Make sure you
have all your friends around to help. If they are not
near, go and get them. Everyone knows that a huge
crowd helps fix things faster then doing it all alone.
Argue with your friends even if you don't know what
you are talking about. They don't know either.

The bus
Your personal space ends at your skin. Normal bus
seats can hold 4, easily with enough pushing. No
matter what size bus it is, it can always hold 5 more
people, no matter how full it is. Keep pushing them
in till someone falls out of a window.

Public manners.
Feel free to belch public, as loud as you possibly
can. Picking your nose is okay, especially if you are
talking to a tourist. Insist on shaking their hand as
soon a possible. When walking down the street and
someone gets in your way, feel free to push/pull/elbow
them out of your way, they don't mind.   Stare at
people that look different from you. They expect it.
Follow them. Especially western women. They are easy
and probably want to have sex with you.

Taking a leak or talking to a man about a horse.
If you have to go, just walk over to the nearest wall/
post/ tree/door/historic monument and go for it.
Everyone else does, and it smells like it, so why
shouldn't you. When you pee, make sure you squat and
face away from other people (or at least the ones
closest to you). If you have to do something more
than pee, point your tail away. Don't use toilet
paper, which is nasty. Sprinkle some water on your
left hand and clean yourself that way. Much better.

Shopping.
Nothing ever has a price tag on it. Ask the price.
Scream that it is 400% over what everyone else is
paying. Bargain hard for 30 minutes. Agree on the
price. Double check that what you have bought is what
you were bargaining for. Be very happy you saved 21
cents over the original price. Realize the shopkeeper
still has overcharged you by at least 150%.

New friends.
Everyone wants to talk to you, and the conversion goes
something like this:
"Your name?" Scott (if I am feeling like a fool)
"Your country" America (still feeling foolish)
"Where are you going" Down the street (getting
smarter)
"May I have a coin/stamp/pen from your country" No,
don't have any (couldn't find a dime to save my life)
"May I have a rupee" No! (getting tired, as this is
the 15th new friend I have met since leaving my hotel
10 minutes ago)
"Do you want camel trip/textile/water/film/hash" No!!

Scott

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February 4, 2001 - Dangling Conversations

Hello all!

Dangling Bits of Conversation we have had in India:

* * * * *

With the man at the front desk in the hotel

Him: "Did you read this newspaper article? It is
very funny."
Us: "No, what is it?"

Him: "There are these two crazy foreigners.
Frenchmen, they are. They bought two camels for Rs
7000 apiece (a little under $200 each) and are walking
around the desert between Jaisalmer and Bikaner."

<< This is a 14-day trek for experienced
camel-trekkers through a major desert.>>

Him: "But they are having some little problem.
Evidently sometimes they are tired of camping and wish
to stay in the hotel in a little town. And the hotel
has room for them but not for their camels."

Us: "If we had two camels with us, could we stay in
this hotel?"
Him (pensively): "Of course, kind sirs, with
sufficient rupees everything is possible. We would
charge you two people Rs 500 ($12) for your one room,
and Rs 1500 ($38) for each camel for the yard."

* * * * *

With a woman running a restaurant in Jaisalmer:

Us: "Yes, we just got married six months ago."

Her: "Oh, congratulations! I have been married 23
years now. For 19 of those years I lived apart from
my husband, in Calcutta with our two children. He
worked half the year here (rural Jaisalmer) and half
the year in Australia, doing camel safaris. The
children saw their papa in pictures and knew him as a
man who pampered them once a year for the weekend in
which he came home. And I missed him terribly.

But I wanted my children to be raised in a
cosmopolitan city where they could get an education,
not in the rural village. So I got a job as a
stockbroker and raised them as a single mother. Now
the daughter is grown and married, and the son is 13
years old, so the son and I moved out to Jaisalmer to
be together with his papa. Next year we will join my
husband in Australia where we are immigrating.

Everybody down there asks him, are you not sick and
tired of the same woman after 23 years? Do you not
want to try something different? And he tells them,
no, this same woman, this is my wife. They just don't
get it - we have been married for the past 23 years
and will be married for the next 23 years as well!"

* * * * *

In a bar at the Rajputana Sheraton in Jaipur. The
Sheraton there starts at $200 (US!) per night and goes
opulently up from there. This is a stupid amount of
money for India.

Waiter: "Hello, may I help you?"
Us: "Can we get a pitcher of beer?"

Waiter: "I am terribly sorry, sir, but it is National
Independence day today, and it is a dry day. The
Government has declared no alcohol is to be served and
the hotel management honors this wish."
Us (disappointed): "Oh, well, how about two Cokes?"
Waiter: "Of course, sir."

Waiter (bringing Cokes over to table): "Of course, it
might be possible to quietly have some rum in your
Cokes if you would be liking it. It would be
necessary to pay cash for the drinks."
Us: "Great! Yes, please!"

Waiter (back to management, deadpan): "Would that be
a single or a double shot, sir?"

We did leave him a big tip. In cash, of course, sir.

* * * * *

In a bar in Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, India about noon.

(Note: The British Residency is the bombed-out
remains of the British Raj headquarters. This is
where the Mutiny of 1857 began, and is a minor tourist
attraction.)

Us: "Can you tell us how best to get to the British
Residency from here?"
Drunk #1 (thin old Indian man, wearing nice suit,
speaks excellent English): "What a great place to go!
I was a medical doctor to many British people for
many years here. You know, the British were the
greatest thing to happen to India. I wish they'd come
back. They taught us to speak English, they put order
on the place, they made it much better. Now you can't
walk down the streets without being robbed, just like
before the British came."

Us (rather surprised): "Oh. Well, do you know how to
get there?"
Drunk #1: "You are not British, are you? Too
goddamned bad. This country needs more British but we
killed the ones we had and now they don't want to come
back."

Us (to Drunk #2): "Do you know how to get to the
Residency?"
Drunk #2 (chubby fortysomething Indian man, speaks OK
English): "Don't take a rickshaw. Those f**king
thieves will steal every rupee you have. But let me
finish my beer and I myself will drive you there."

We wait for about half an hour, and the two men at the
bar drink several more beers.

I am thinking we may be better to risk the cycle
rickshaw.

Scott is thinking this is what I get for asking
directions of strange men at bars. When our proposed
driver has his fifth beer, we get up, say goodbye, and
hail a rickshaw.

He takes us about 3 minutes away, demands 40 rupees
(extortionate; should be 10), and waves us towards the
gates. They are not the gates to the Residency. They
are the gates to the zoo. F**king thief!

* * * *

With a man working at our hotel, who spoke pretty good
English, at 10 pm:

Us: "Are you married?"
Him: "Yes, I have a wife and almost six childrens. I
was married when I was 19, she was 17, she is a nice
girl my father found me. And now my wife, she is
almost 26 years old and now very pregnant. Five boys
already. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, I pray to Allah
it is a girl."

Us: "Shouldn't you be home with your family now?"
Him: "Now I am working hard. Go to Delhi (5 hrs
away) and pick up passengers at airport, drive back
here. I cannot read, cannot write, only speak.
Hindi, English, yes some French, some Urdu, maybe
little Italian. But I send my childrens to school.
Government school is no good so I pay for private
school, 400 rupees (under $10) per month per child.
And it is my happiest wish all almost six childrens
learn to read and write."

Us: "Will you have any more children?"
Him (broad smile): "Allah willing, maybe."

* * * * *

Love,
C + S (who think that three childrens is more than enough!)

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February 8, 2001 - The Indian Experience - for Quant Jocks

Hello beautifuls!

So -- you want to try a bit of India but there's no
good restaurants nearby and you don't relish the plane
flight? Well, here it is:

The Indian Experience - a Do-it-yourself Guide

The Quantitative Guide (for John, Gerry, Mareike, Dad,
and everybody else who likes to crunch numbers . you
know who you are)

This is Fermi estimation at its grandest.or, (finally)
a use for a PhD!

Population: As nearly as we can figure, India has 4x
the population of the US (1 billion vs. 250,000,000).
And the US has approximately 2.5 x the square miles
(from eyeballing my port-o-atlas). So, India is 10x
more crowded than the US.

Money: The per capita GDP of India was about $350 per
person in 1999 (from Lonely Planet). For the USA, it
was something like $23,000 per person (from Time
Magazine's "The E-Party's Over" issue). So the India
is about 1/60th as affluent as the US.

What does this mean to you? To pretend you are living
in India, you will need the following information:

* Number of people living in your household
* Total household income last year

Your new Indian-simulation living conditions are:

* The number of people in your household increases by
10x. For example, if there are two of you, 2 x 10 =
20 people now living in your house.)

* Your household income decreases by a factor of 6.
For example, if last year your household income was
$60,000, it is now 60,000 / 6 = $10,000 per year.

Thus, your cosy 2-person household earning $60,000 per
year has become a rambunctious 20-person household
sharing $10,000 between all 20 of you. (That is just
over $41/month for you . barely enough to support a
latte habit!)

You can get even more authentic by filling all the
extra spaces in your household with relatives
(especially mothers-in-law, but really, any cousin
will do the job.)

Want the perfect simulation? The lot of you should
produce one baby every 2.5 years to keep pace with 2%
population growth, and your purchasing power would
erode 10% per year due to inflation.

Oh, yes, and the government has just raised taxes to
provide earthquake relief to Gujarat.

The newspaper today carried three other stories.

First, the relief supplies for the last disaster, a
cyclone in Orissa, which were funded by a prior tax
increase, are still rotting in the docks because of
corruption.

Second, two mobile hospitals donated by Germany and
Israel are not allowed out of the airport because
"there is no place to set them up" (translation - the
Germans relief organization won't pay bribes to the
mayor).

Third, the high official in your town has just bought
his mistress another private jet for her Paris
shopping trips. His wife is angry and clamoring for
one of her own.

(The paper is too discreet to suggest that any
earthquake aid may go to the wife's airplane, but
everybody knows that unless the minister has a
peaceful happy home life, he cannot possibly supervise
rescue operations.)

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February 8, 2001 - The Indian Experience -- for Artists

Hello lovelies!

Want to experience the subcontinent but spent your
younger days taking classes like "Physics for Poets"
and "Math for Plants?" There's something for everyone
-- and so this one's for you:

The Indian Experience II -- a Do-it-yourself Guide

The Artist's Guide (for Mom, Miss Adams, and everybody
else who likes to feel the experience. you know who
you are)

This is more of a performance art way to experience
India from the comfort of your own home.

EQUIPMENT:
You will need one garage.

ADVANCE PREP:
1. For one week ahead of time, do not let anybody use
your toilet. Answer nature's call in your garage.
Preferably in a different spot each time. If you have
ever wanted to eat prunes and All-Bran, let this be
the week you do it.

THE DAY OF:
2. Friends, Romans, Countrymen - get about 30 of them
to come stand in your garage with you. (Bonus points
if they will relieve themselves there too.)

3. Close the garage door, turn on the light, and start
your car, chainsaw, and lawnmower. IF you don't have
these, burn several small piles of wet leaves.

4. Get the radio to play something really loud -
Britney Spears, HindiPop, Robbie Williams, 2Pac Shakur
- anything so long as it's really loud, exuberant, and
has a funky beat.

5. Push your way through the crowd. Get someone to
walk in front of you, shouting "Taxi madame? Taxi?
Where you go?" Get somebody else to trail you,
calling out "Hello! Your Country? Do you have coins
for me? One pen?"

6. Finally, get a small thin dirty barefoot child to
jerk at your arm, grabbing at your hand and wallet,
gesturing towards her mouth, begging, "One rupee?
Chapati? Madame, you give rupee?"

7. Feel horrible. You're rich, she's poor, you'd like
to give her something - she's barefoot and it's really
cold. But you don't want to take your wallet out in
such a crowd. Plus, you know when the other 250
million beggars see you give to one they will all
descend on you, clutching and grasping like drowning
people, yelling and demanding money like raucous
crows. Even if you were to empty your entire bank
account it wouldn't make a dent in this much human
misery. And never, ever, has a single beggar ever
said thank you. They take the money and run, so their
fellow beggars do not beat them up and steal the
rupee. You cannot cope.

Do this morning and night for 3 weeks. At midday,
visit the most grandiose fortresses you have ever
seen, eat delicately spiced curry, shop for beautiful
silks, and try to make sense of it all.

P.S. You are allowed to hose out your garage when
you're done with this experiment.

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February 8, 2001 - The Indian Experience -- Final Installment

Hello everybody!

This is the last of the "Indian Experience" set -- and
this one's for everybody who's ever tried to get
concert tickets, waited in line at DisneyWorld, or
gotten in a determined little old lady's way.

* * * * *

Agra is a large polluted city of 2 million souls on
the dull, flat farmlands of northern India. The
streets are the color of smog and terra-cotta. The
air smells of roasted peanuts and stale urine. To
touch anything is to feel old banana peels, motor oil,
and crumbling brick. Through the alleyways fly the
whines of a welders' torch, the screams of a hundred
angry bus horns, the placid moos of a thousand cattle,
the footsteps of two million people. It tasts of flat
distilled water, overboiled white rice, and the sandy
gum on the back of ½-rupee postcard stamps.

* * * *

I push through the crowd, elbowing my way to the front
of the Ladies' Line. An old woman in stockings and
flip-flops pushes in front of me, knobby hands
reaching for the service window. I let her go. Then
another, and then a third gerbil-like granny squeezes
in front of me. They are all grannies - all the
sturdy young women are at home with their housework,
all the beauties home with their babies, all the
unmarrieds home with their chastity. And I -- an
unbalanced over-the-hill married yet childless
creature from the West -- now somehow I am at the back
of the line again.

This is nuts. Grannies! I am huge and they are puny.
If this were a boxing match, all the announcers
should be commenting on my excellent reach, all the
gamblers laying their money on me. I have at least
18" and 50 lbs on each of these women. F=ma says that
they should be rebounding, not me!

A fourth one wobbles up, purple sari decently over her
head, red dot between her eyes, burly son supporting
her elbow. She presses into my ribs with one shaky
arm and eagerly looks towards the service window.
Deep breath. I put my elbow to her eye and slowly
press her back.

* * * *

In a distant universe I can hear my mother's voice:
"Caroline! Mind your manners! Nice girls don't push
- stand back and wait your turn! Respect your elders!
Open the door for old ladies! Let the other person
go first!"

But oh, mama, I'm not in Kansas anymore. I look
directly at her son and press harder on the old lady's
eye. Neither of them notices. I press gradually
harder, further, and finally feel her elbow lift out
of my ribs. I steadily press still more and at last
she stumbles back, out of my way, out of the line,
back into her son's arms. She is so frail she cannot
stand by herself.

There are now only two grannies ahead of me. Quickly
I step forward and grip the bars of the service window
with both arms, encircling the two tiny veiled figures
ahead of me. I look behind me, at the old woman I
pushed. She is completely unfazed. Her son has
maneuvered her in front of the lady behind me, and
ratlike she is prising her way into that part of the
line. I cannot believe it, but still neither
wraithlike granny nor burly son seems to have noticed
I just about knocked a frail old lady down. They
don't care. I feel a little better but still rather
guilty.

* * * *

My offensive stance seems a good one - the 2 ahead of
me finish and I anchor all 6 feet of myself on my
sturdy footwear right next to the bars of the window.
Elbows out to maintain defensible space, I slide $40
plus 200 rupees under the bars to the man working
there. Before he can pick it up, there is the stealth
attack from behind me: a bony bejewelled hand shoots
under my elbow and makes a shaky grab for the
greenbacks.

But now I have learned how to move pushy old ladies
out of the way. The key is you gotta do it slowly.
To push them is fine; to hit them is not. The
difference is all in the speed. The one grabbing for
my dollars is wearing flip flops. Like one doing
tai-chi exercies, I slowly step harder on her bare
toes and dig a glacial elbow into her Adam's apple; at
the same time with my other hand I hold the money even
further out to the ticket agent, smile weakly, and
say, "Two, please."

I feel a sickly crunch under my shoe, as if I have
crushed a snail. The money-grabber finally falls back
against the crowd. I feel two tickets pressed into my
other hand. I snatch them away, hold my prize high
above my head and swim in slo-mo back through the
molasses crowd. A backwards glance shows that the
purple-sari-with-burly-son lady and the moneygrabber
are now jockeying for position.

Oh, mother, please forgive me. For not minding my
manners, and for feeling so satisfied when I crushed
that old lady's toes.

* * * *

Still, though, the Ladies' Line is THE way to go. The
mens' line has infinitely more people in it (they are
not home with housework or babies) and they are much
more aggressive. Plus way too many of them have B.O.,
hawk, spit, and smoke. Old ladies only smell of oil
and incense, weigh next to nothing, and, once you get
past the cold bony fish-flesh, really aren't all that
bad for the full-body-touch.

I am glowing with success. First, I have at long last
perfected the granny-blocking technique. Second, in
my hands are two foreigners' tickets.

* * * *

Scott has been waiting for me at the back, chatting
with a guard who is holding a WWI-era rifle. We turn
to go.

"Bye!" says Scott.

"Goodbye," says the guard. "So, you have some little
present for me? Some coins or dollars perhaps?"

We quickly walk through the gate.

* * * *

To quote Hemingway, we are really in another country.
Across the river, it is another century - camel carts
pull sheaves of grain, and shrouded women beat bright
laundry on rocks on the riverbed. I can breathe here.
People wear their nicest clothes to visit. On each
side, there are two mosques, carved of red sandstone
with marble inlays marking where the prayer mats go.
Only one faces towards Mecca; the other is purely for
symmetry. Closer in, there are 4 secondary pillars at
the corers, each one as tall as a gleaming lighthouse.
And at the center, it rises above the cow shit and
din of the city, like a towering white Dairy Queen
cone pressed into the cool quiet blue sky. It is so
perfectly proportioned from a distance it looks
unreal.

Huge flowers, vines, and leaves curl delicatly across
the main dome's surface. Going closer, I can see each
petal, each leaf is formed by a pietra dura inlay of
lapis lazuli, azure, sapphire, ruby, jade, blue stuff,
red stuff, yellow stuff, impossibly expensive, carved
by hand and laid one full inch into the marble, one by
one, each one unique, but forming a perfectly
symmetrical pattern. In the center of the dome, there
are 6 11-foot long screens of pure white marble,
carved as havelis - lace in marble. The chamber is
perfectly symmetrical and echoes of visitors, pigeons,
and bright green parrakeets.

* * * * *

In 1810, the British tried to sell this building for
the scrap value of its marble but could not find a
buyer. In 1653, when it was finally completed, the
emperor ordered that all the artisans who worked on it
should lose a thumb or a hand, so that the grandeur
could never be recreated.

In 1611, the 19-year-old virgin niece of a viceroy
became the second wife of the Mughal crown prince.
Over the next 20 years, the prince filled his palace
with more wives, more concubines, more treasures. From
behind the marble screens of purdah, his second wife
dutifully gave him 13 children, including the coveted
oldest son. The prince became Emperor.

In 1631, at the age of 39, his second wife departed
this life, dead of the effort to bring a fourteenth
baby into it. On her deathbed, she begged him not to
replace her. He promised her he would never remarry
(but was allowed to keep his 3 current wives and
uncountable concubines, dancing-girls, and
courtesans.)

The emperor was devastated and commenced the building
of a tomb so the world would remember him (and his
beloved dead second wife). The tourists never learn
her birth name or her married name. The name we are
given for her is Mumtaz Mahal, the Queen of the
Palace. He was Shah Jehan. The tomb is the Taj
Mahal.

* * * *

He had plans for a second tomb, for himself, of even
more precious black marble, to be built next to the
white one, that the world would forever remember him
twice. But it was not to be. Six years later, a son
who was not the precious oldest son but rather a
power-hungry middle one deposed his father and
imprisoned him in a fort near the Taj Mahal.

The old Shah lived out his days a prisoner in a velvet
cage, surrounded by perfumes, fountains, and his
concubines. He was able to see the Taj Mahal but
never again would he visit, touch, or pray there. His
first and third wives were eventually buried there as
well. And when the old Shah died, a broken old man,
he too was buried there. The tombs are still there,
in the basement, down a set of rickety stairs behind a
dusty floor grating.

And the world does remember him, much more so than
either his father or his son.

And, I guess, in a way, although I do not know her
name and could not recognize her picture, I do
remember his second wife, the woman of the white
palace, the famous Mumtaz of the Taj Mahal.

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February 9, 2001 - Shelley's questions ... and answers!

Shelley - good comments on the whole Matrimonials
section!

S: I "interpretted" some of the
language in your post...however, I do have to ask:
what does "homely" mean in India? Is it a good or bad
trait?

CB: "Homely" is more like the American "June Cleaver"
- it does not imply ugly or plain-looking, but rather
one who will enthusiastically cook, clean, wear her
sari over her head, and pump out the kids with the
best of 'em.

* * * * *

S: Now that you have posted a sampling of ads, what
is the relative exchange rate, say "caste" vs. "no
issue"? "Multiple daughters" vs. a "sole
issue"? And the "second wife" thing....

CB: Probably 50% of the ads specify they are looking
for a spouse of a particular caste. The other half
say what caste they are but say it's no bar to a
future spouse.

From the very little I know about it, there seem to be
about five major castes (Brahmin/priest,
Kshatriya/warrior, Vaishna/merchant, Shudra/servant,
and Untouchable) and about five gazillion minor
subdivisions (for camel-skinners, corpse-burners,
water-buffalo-milkers, light gun artillery
technicians, management consultants, etc.)

My guess is most of the "caste no bar" ads will take
someone within their major caste (i.e. one Kshatriya
looking for another) but won't fuss if the exact minor
subdivision is a bit off. It would be unusual for
somebody to go caste-hopping without a whole lot of
beauty, money, political clout, or of course that
great equalizer, the U.S.A. green-card.

Maybe 1 in five ads is a family advertising for
multiple siblings - two daughters, two sons, etc.
Since weddings are so expensive it makes sense to go
for a large double/triple/etc. wedding.

Mahatma Gandhi himself was married in a double wedding
(at the age of 13 to some chick his parents picked out
. for the most part she was a great wife for him. But
as I recall, he said later in life one of his biggest
challenges was to get Mrs. Gandhi to get rid of her
gold jewelry. She didn't mind the white loincloth,
the fasting, the house arrests, the criminal status,
the fussing with the Raj, but it took a direct order
from her otherwise-pacifist husband to get her to take
off her gold!)

The second wife thing was in a category all by itself!
Nobody else was advertising for one (but I have no
doubt he will find one.)

* * * *

S: So, all things considered...would you rent a car &
drive in SE Asia or India? Or, are the seemingly
insane local drivers a safer bet?

CB: The best answer to that runs parallel to the
"meat in India" advice - they said you don't have to
go vegetarian, but visit a butcher first. I'd say you
don't have to take public transit, but it's worth
visiting first and scoping out the roads.

The road maps are horrible at best, ancient, written
in Hindi, and it costs about $30 per day to rent a car
you drive yourself. For about $20 per day you can
rent the car plus an English-speaking driver (plus
insurance!)

Wishing your trip next year is a fabulous one -
Columbia sounds very much off the beaten track! We
can wholeheartedly recommend Thailand and Nepal for
everybody (even my mother!) and India for those who
love the horrid fascination.

:)

Love,
C + S

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February 14, 2001 - Confessions of a traveller -- Nepal

Hello all!

Greetings from Pokhara, Nepal, about seven dusty bumpy
hours west of Kathmandu by bus. Crossing into Nepal
from India was a night and day difference.

The Nepali policemen behaved like greeters at Target.
The pervasive pee-wee smell of India was no more. We
could even hear birds - no more incessant honking of
horns. The rickshaw drivers announced their
availability with a little tinkling of a bell, and it
was finally possible to 'window shop' without buying
anything. Scott loves it here.

Nepal is the place to see nature. India is the place
to see people. I do like it here. But I must
confess, rats and fortresses and holy men and all . I
liked India also!

Pokhara is a sleepy little town at the base of the
mighty Annapurnas. From my hotel roof in the
mornings, when it is clear, I can see the peaks of the
range - impossibly distant, tremendously high,
delicately traced out in white against the
cornflower-blue sky like shards of broken Ming china.

The town has the charm of the mundane - holy cows raid
produce carts; Tibetan women peddle silver jewelry and
hand-knotted rugs; foot-pedal-powered sewing machines
flutter in velvety-dark tailor shops, and
restauranteurs toss silvery arcs of water to quiet the
dust in front of their streetside cafes.

Scott is out trekking. He left a few days ago with
two other Musketeers, a chubby-faced Korean university
student and a curmudgeonly Canadian cook. They are
going to walk from here to Jomsom, higher in the
Annapurnas. It should be a 7-day trek, in which they
spend their nights in Nepali tea-houses and their days
on a very large slate-colored stairmaster. At the end
of their centuries-old ascent, they will return in a
high-tech manner, covering a week's worth of heavy
climbing in a delicate 15-minute flight.

I did not go. I did not go for two reasons. First,
and mainly, because old age and flat feet have caught
up with me and I don't think my knees could take it.

And second, I didn't go because I am sick.

There is gross injustice in this illness of mine,
which I picked up on our last day in India and came
down with for real on our second day in Nepal.

Everybody else I know who got sick in India has this
phenomenal poop soup story, with all the accompanying
tales of frothy bus travel, exotic laundry-doings,
desperate Pepto-Bismol chuggings, and wild
speculations as to whether it was the curry or the tea
which finally and truly did them in.

They have a special aura about them. They find each
other in cafes. They share Texas-sized tall tales
about their tummies. They are a tightly-knit sorority
which uses chicken vindaloo as its rite of passage.
As in high school, it seems everybody else is
included, everybody but me.

My illness is an insultingly common cold which turned
to bronchitis. It travels well on busses; it
generates no red spots, black tongues, or other nifty
gossipworthy side effects. In short, folks, I didn't
need to go to Pokhara to catch this one - I could have
picked it up in Peoria. How depressingly normal.

So I am here in town, scumming it with my creaky knees
and my antibiotics, making a completely unspectacular
recovery. When you are a little bit sick and have a
lot of time on your hands, you learn things about
yourself.

My revelation: I am cheap. Possibly pathologically
so. I am here, in one of the cheapest countries in
the world, with enough money to indulge any and every
whim. I could buy a water buffalo; I could purchase
the entire weekly local cauliflower production; I
could dine six times a day at the nicest lodge in
town, served by my own personal waiter.

Instead, I spend my days being thrifty.

The hotel room (with hot water, attached bath, and
Annapurna view) is just under $4 a night, and we are
here mostly because Scott insisted the bathroom was
worth the extra $1.50 a day to him. I avoid the
restaurant with the plump, clean, middle-aged German
tour group (although I will haunt its bakery after 3
pm, when all the pumpernickel is half-off.)

Instead, taking full advantage of my apparent
guts-of-iron, I eat in local places, the types with
dirt floors. Breakfast is $1 for a large plate of
eggs, toast, hash browns and coffee. Lunch is $1 for
an all-you-can-eat plate of dhal bhat (rice, lentils,
curried vegetable, and pickles). Dinner usually rings
in at $2 but if you pick it right, you can get a free
movie. Last night I saw "American Beauty."

Even my new friends are cheap. I have been hanging
out with a bald American from Santa Rosa who intends
to live the next 6 months in India on $10/day, and
with a Japanese couple whose hotel room runs them 75
cents apiece a day.

I entertain myself by watching water buffaloes in rice
paddies, and by walking downtown after school to have
the most amusing ungrammatical conversations with the
10th grade English students. My victory-du-jour for
yesterday was a $1.10 copy of "Into Thin Air," the
Everest tragedy writeup, which was half-off because of
its coffee-stained condition.

So, now you know three dark confessions of mine - bad
knees, unspectacular illness, and terminal cheapness.
I am now debating whether I have the guts to read the
Everest tragedy book while my husband is up in the
Himalayas. I may instead see what the Cleopatra
Beauty Salon can do for me - if, of course, the price
is right.

Miss you all!
Love,
C (unspectacularly at an Internet Cafe)

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February 14, 2001 - The Christians in America: a 10-th grade Nepali perspective

Hello all!

I told you I talk to local high schoolers as an
inexpensive yet informative form of entertainment.
This one takes the cake.

Conversation with a Pokhara 10th grader named Ramsey.
He was wearing a white Oxford shirt, navy blue pants,
a blue necktie, and bright pink flip-flops.

Ramsey: "Madame, are you a Christian?"
Me: "Why, yes. Why do you ask?"

Ramsey: "I am Hindu, but I know all about the
Christians. Your god is the Jesus Christ and the
mother of the god is the Maria. She was not married
and the god made the magic and then she was pregnant.

And later after the baby she is married to the Joseph,
but everybody knows the Jesus has no father. So the
children are suffer unto him and he has to be with
beggars and dogs and lepers and with the other
childrens who have no fathers.

Then the nice married families all hate him - because
he is a, how you say, bastard - and kill him. For 3
days they kill him and he does not die so finally they
put him under the rock and he is dead at last.

And the Christians, they worship this dead man, they
all drink the blood of the Jesus and eat the body of
the Jesus. When there was no dead god's body to eat
anymore and they are still hungry, they must feed on
dead bodys of holy cows which everyone knows is, how
you say, abom, abomin, very evil, more evil than to
eat the dead bodys of the peoples.

And now because the dead god is done, and there is no
more dead god to eat, once a week these Christians
meet and drink the blood and eat the body of the holy
cow. Sometimes in middle of week if they are very
hungry too, they will eat the hamburger and drink
blood.

George Washington Bush, your king, keeps a place in
the Tekkas full of the holy cows. So each week the
Americans get one cow from the President and drink the
blood of it and pray to their dead god that he will
return and kill Saddam Hussein finally. That is all
about the Christians.

So, you will tell me something else about America?"

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February 25, 2001 - Marie Antoinette is in Nepal

Hello all!

One day last week, I went out walking around a dusty
red track on the side of Lake Phewa, at the foot of
the Annapurnas. It was a beautiful flat walk, a bit
hot, perhaps, but lovely. I had just been to the
money changer and had a few thousand rupees in my
wallet; like recyclable newspaper, they aren't worth a
lot (in western terms) but do take up a bit of space.

To my left there were rice paddies and water
buffaloes; across the lake the World Peace Pagoda sat
regally like a mini Taj Mahal housing its very own
Golden Buddha, and to my right were the foothills,
rising impossibly to a monastary, and possibly, a
local village school. Ahead the red dust of the track
curled up over the tops of my tennis shoes. This is
the type of walk the National Geographic people send
photographers to find.

* * * *

And then I picked up a little "friend," a 14-year-old
boy who ran alongside me. He was wearing a
schoolboy's uniform, flip-flops, and had big, dark
eyes and teeth like a rabbit's. He was a bit dirty,
but many boys are after a day at school. In breathless
English, he asked if I'd mind some company while he
practised his English. It was his favorite subject at
school.

Sure, I said, fire away. What's your name, kid?

A few minutes later, I had learned lots about him. He
said he had a brother and a sister, a father dead of
alcoholism and a thin mother working as a farmer. He
had a 2-hour walk uphill to school and a 2-hour walk
back down, every day. He wanted to work in America
some day. He wished he had a bike (3000 rupees, $36)
to cut his school commute. I was ever so very
beautiful - so nice and fat, almost as fat as this
other lady he'd met last week (right idea, kid, wrong
approach).

* * * *

And then came the touch -- with big wide black eyes -
his school wanted to raise money for football and
volleyball, and the Swedish couple he'd just talked to
had donated 300 rupees to the cause. Look, it must be
true, it is written in a shabby little notebook he
pulled out of his pocket. I must help too, no?

(An adult porter, carrying 120-lb loads uphill for 10
hours a day, earns 200 rupees each day; the average
Nepali family subsists on under 70 rupees per day for
all of them. To put a 300 rupee donation in terms of
American money in San Francisco: it's like an
8th-grader asking a visiting Saudi businessman for a
donation of $100, just one thin small $100 bill, to
help his school play cricket like the Saudis do.)

Oh no, I say, looking directly at him, I'm not sure
the money would really go to the school. But look, he
points, we can go to the school and see it right now.

And, I add, you remember I am so nice and fat? Well,
you should know fat ladies like me don't like climbing
2 hours up hills to see "schools." No school
donation.

* * * *

We've been chatting for 30 minutes by this point. A
little further, and he asks, how much does a hotel
room cost in America? Sometimes as much as $100?
Have I ever stayed in a $100 hotel room? How much is
lunch? $10? How many rupees for 1 US dollar?

Did I have, perhaps, a dollar for him? No? How about
a pen? A chocolate? Would I give him rupees to buy
schoolbooks? Please? No? Why not?

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no place to
escape the relentless questioning. I finally looked
at him directly and said, "Because I don't want to."
I felt both terrible and really annoyed.

He looked reproachfully at my expensive backpack,
touched my pants where the pocket held my bulging
wallet, and asked again and again.

I kept walking, happy I'd safety-pinned that pocket
shut.

Finally, I looked directly at him, made a fist, and
said, "What did I just say?" And he said goodbye and
flitted off.

I felt wretched at my own stinginess for the next few
hours.

I felt enraged at his tenacity for the remainder of
it.

* * * *

I am turning into Marie Antoinette. I eat at nice
shady restaurants. I dine on fresh produce and choice
rice. I get annoyed at the beggars for getting in my
way - the old woman with a large gold trinket hanging
from her nose, begging my spare change when I bought
stamps this moring; the Tibetan couple standing
quietly on the sidewalkoutside my restaurant, watching
me eat in silence, outstretched hands steady; the old
man with 3 teeth and a palsy that shakes him so badly
he can barely walk, sitting on the corner in the shade
and wobbling up to me as I go to see the lake.

And now my 14-year-old with the "dead" father and
"thin" mother - the smooth higher-class,
English-speaking touch. I am focusing only on my own
little world, my own whims and pleasures, my own
flowers and conveniences.

* * * *

In some ways, that's the deal I signed up for when I
got my tourist visa. I'm not a Peace Corps worker
(though there are lots) or an organize-the-proletariat
agitator (those would be the rather successful
Maoists) or the Minister of the Interior (who is more
corrupt and callous than Ceaucescu). I don't want to
save the world. I am a d**m tourist, coming here to
exchange hard currency for a pleasant experience.

In other ways, it's such a gross imbalance. I am here
by accident of birth, the planet alignment that
plunked me down in an industrialized nation with good
currency rather than in a poor nation with good
mountains. Personally, I have done little to merit
such wealth - I didn't fight wars for it; I didn't
farm or dig or raise convertible bonds for it. $1 is
so little to me and would mean so much to them - and
doesn't the Bible say something about "To whom much is
given, from them much shall be expected?"

And in still other ways, it isn't good to encourage
begging. Holy men and monastaries aside, the name of
the game in developing nations is self-sufficiency.
Sustainable investment. Individual enterprise.
Handouts from the World Bank don't do much; most
foreign aid goes to augment the Royal Family's
lifestyle. Individual hand-looming and animal
husbandry projects go a long way - or so the theory
goes. In any case, I am convinced giving schoolboys
rupees won't solve anything for long and will instead
only encourage him to pester other tourists.

* * * *

What it boils down to is simple: I HATE to be asked
for money! I especially hate it when people suck up
to me in the name of friendship, international
relations, hospitality, or my fat beauty, and then
slide in the pitch - we are friends, why can't you
help a friend? These people don't like me, they like
my money.

I have an entirely new sympathy for movie stars and
millionaires who live in uber-expensive gated
communities and hire bodyguards. They don't do it for
the image. They do it so the rest of us will leave
them alone.

We are the great unwashed masses seeking autographs,
donations to Save the Children, investments in Nevada
real estate and appearances at school bake sales.

Always and forever the crush and press is what Tom
Hanks can buy from me, how Nicole Kidman can come to
my kid's birthday party, how Bill Gates can save my
favorite Great Spotted Owl, how Oprah Winfrey can bail
me out of impending bankrupcy.

In their guarded, gated hideaways, everybody else
there is similarly affluent and similarly wishes to be
left alone. The limousines and diamonds and
heart-shaped whirlpools and personal chefs are merely
pleasant additions to the overall environment, much
like hot water or clean tablecloths or English
language menus are perks for me.

But oh, you say, it's different for them - they all
chose to be movie stars and public figures; they
sought out this high profile deliberately. And, I
would add, one could also argue that I deliberately
flew across the ocean and purposefully remain in this
country.

I hope it doesn't make me horrible.

(Disclaimer here -- Nepal is so much better than India
on this account - the beggars here don't touch me as
much, few have leprosy, none are missing fingers or
hands, and only three or four crawl along the streets
wailing for money...but still, it gets really old
after a while!)

Love,
   C (Missing the luxury of being anonymously
middle-class back in my own country) and
   S (who pointed out the "school donations" in our
travel book as a classic scam later that evening)

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February 27, 2001 - The ups and downs of Nepal

The Jomsom Trek is one of the premier routes in Nepal.
Everyone was raving about it, and I knew it was
something that I just had to do. Carrie, with her
knee problems decided to give it a miss (an excellent
call on her part). I was quite happy to go solo, but
she would have none of it. She "suggested" that I
find some other like-minded individuals to go along
with to keep me out of trouble. So a note was drafted
and pinned up, and not one but two stepped up to the
plate. The first was a college student from Korea
named Im. Kevin, a cook from Vancouver also joined
up. We were ready to head off into the Himalayan
unknown.

The Jomsom Trek starts in Birethanti, a 45-minute taxi
ride or a three-hour local bus trip from Pokhara
(where we were at the time). I managed to buy 3
tourist bus tickets, and was assured that this was a
direct, express bus, that would not for any reason
stop to pick up anyone on the way. The cost was 80
rupees (about $US1.20). What a bargain, I jumped on
it. The morning of the trip, we met the bus.

Me: Does this bus go to Birethanti?
Driver: Namaste? (Hello in Nepali)
Me: Bus to Birethanti?
Driver: No.
Me: Oh, okay, thank you.
(I walked away quite surprised, having never heard the
word no being uttered from a Nepali's mouth.usually it
is something like "Not today" "Maybe tomorrow"
"Yesterday".even if it has never, and will never go
there.they hate to hurt your feelings).
Another guy: Where you go?
Me: Birethanti.
Another guy: This bus (pointing to the bus I just
came from), you get on now.
Me: But that man says it doesn't go to Birthanti.
Another guy: He doesn't speak English.
Me: Hmmm.okay (just another day in Asia).

We piled our packs on top, and jumped in. The bus was
empty. This was strange, because in this neck of the
woods, buses are never empty. I should not have
worried. The bus stopped at 3 bus stations before we
left Pokhara. After the first we were overflowing,
and always managed to squeeze a couple more on.
After we could not possible fit another living soul
inside or on top, the driver stopped for a coffee
break   A brisk 30 minutes later we were on the road
(only to stop another 30 or 40 times to pick up or
unload). I was happy. I had a seat. I really liked
my seat. Everyone who didn't have a seat really liked
my seat. They tried to sit in it with me. I would
not let them. I was already sharing it was a young
girl with 80 pounds of produce on her lap. After 3
hours, we arrived at the trail. The nice guys on the
top of bus threw down our packs with great gusto and
knocked me flat (my fault, I ignored they warnings.had
my Nepalese been a bit better I might have paid more
attention). No problem, I picked myself up, grabbed
the pack and headed on out.

The Nepali believes the shortest distance between two
villages is a straight trail. These are cut into the
hillside. The landscape has many ups and downs. So
does the trail. If it is really steep, they make
steps. The trail is often really steep. Our second
day out we hiked from Tikhadunga (5052 ft.) to
Ghorepani (9022 ft.). The trail was really very
steep. There were many steps (3350 the book said). I
lost count, but think there was more (or many be it
just felt like this). Ponies were going up and down
the trail. They did not like the steps. Their owners
would have to encourage them to go either up or down.
There is no SPCA in Nepal. The favorite encouragement
is a well-thrown rock (favored by the owners.that is).
Another trick to get them moving was a sharp thrust
in the privates. This was not enjoyed either. They
would try to escape this sort of attention. It was
not a good idea to be in the way of the ponies when
they were on the move. You might fall, and the drop
was a long one. Ghroepani was a village that lived on
a high pass. The views of Annapurna Range (very high
mountains) were fantastic. At 5am, we hiked to the
top of Poon Hill (10,476 ft.) to watch the sun rise.
It took us 30 minutes to get to the top. The guides
of the other trekkers (we were too cheap to spend 300
rupees (about $US3.90) on one ourselves) said we must
be there no later than 5:45 am. These same guides had
friends on the top selling coffee, tea, and hot
chocolate for outrageous prices. The sun didn't rise
until 7:00 am. We were very cold. We complained
about the prices for the drinks. We tried to bargain.
We told ourselves we didn't need/want anything warm
to drink. Our hands/feet/noses started to get numb.
We bought several hot chocolates (life or death kinda
thing.ya know). The sunrise was fantastic. Watching
the snow blowing off the towering peak of Anapruna I
(26,970 ft.) was something I will never forget.

That morning we waked to Tatopani (3904 ft.). We
thought the trail to Gorepani was really very steep.
The trail to Tatopani made it look like a slight
incline. We pounded down the many steps for 8 hours.
In the end we were emotional and physical wrecks.
That evening we were very sore. The guesthouse we
were staying in only had a squat toilet. Squat
toilets are not much more than a porcelain hole in the
ground. I have a hard time using these when I am
feeling limber. That evening I was feeling very
unlimber. The worry was not squatting, but standing
after a prolonged one. That evening we learned that
Nepalese don't trek for pleasure, and wonder why all
the Westerners want to? As we hiked, we watched the
mountains grow on either side of us, towering white
giants watching our every move. It seemed that every
time we looked around, the view got better and better.

We often had to cross bottomless crevasses spanned by
slim plank covered suspension bridges. These often
would sway, making the crossing very exciting. I have
never minded heights, but these scared the shit out of
me.   Signs on both sides would caution one to only
cross one at a time. Once, while in the middle of a
partially deep and long crossing, a pony train (about
30 of the loaded beasts) started crossing from the
other side. Rocks were being thrown, sticks jabbed,
and they were in a hurry. The mildly rocking bridge
started bouncing. I was a man in motion, and was
having a hell of a time keeping on my feet. The
ponies and I met; it was like a Mexican standoff. The
planks were narrow, I felt huge, and my hairy
companions were even larger with their bags of rice,
cartons of beer and cigarettes tried to share the
bridge. I got battered, and gave as good as I got. I
pushed my way to terra firma, and praised every deity
I could think of. I then turned to let loose my
wraith on the pony train owner, who was just passing.
He must have been about 12, and seemed oblivious to
any of my discomfort. He even smiled and shouted "
Namaste, hello, how are you?" as he passed. My rage
vanished, ahhh..Nepal.

As we progressed on the trail, bottled beer and cokes
started to get expensive. We would drink the local
wine (a home made rice wine.the first glass tastes
foul but gets better with repeated tasting). We would
dine on Dal Bhat, a ride and lentil mix that was a
pleaser because of the unlimited seconds we would
receive. Im ate incredible amounts of Dal Bhat, and
our hosts were quite impressed. The fifth day we
reached the town of Tukche, known for the inhabitants
and the quality of their apricot and apple brandy. We
drank much of this with guide from another group. He
was able to down respectable amounts of this fiery
liquid. He then told us stories about the mysterious
furry legend of the Himalayans, the Yeti. He told us
(in a slurry but cheery tone) that the Yeti were know
to kidnap young children (between 6 months and 3 years
old), keep them for several months, and return them
safe and sound to their families. During this
absence, the children were imparted with secret
knowledge. We were on the edges of our seats, and
pressed him (with more of the brandy, much to the ire
of his paying customers) to tell us more. He said the
increasing population in the area was driving them
away. A Yeti skull (the slur becoming more
pronounced) was known to exist in a monastery far in
the hill, and he and seen it. A red hair covered a
cranium slightly smaller then a human skull. We
pressed for more, we were hanging on every word. More
brandy consumed, and he whispered, "Do you know what I
think?". "No, what?" Our hushed voices returned. "I
think Madonna is really cute" and he slid off his
bench.

Scott

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February 19, 2001 - A Pocket Hercules (in Flip-Flops)

Hello all.

Scott did make it back from the Annapurnas and I did
not make it over to Cleopatra's Beauty Salon.

In the words of business-job-recruitment people, it
didn't look like their skills matched my needs . I
need a trim and some dye to fix bleached-out ends and
dark roots. The Nepali women seem to never cut their
hair, and when they dye it, it is black, jet-black. I
didn't want to be somebody's first-ever hair trim, nor
do I think there is any dependable red hair dye in
Asia . So my bad-hair month continues...

...and we begin this time with a portrait of a local:

* * * *

On his head, if it is a cold morning, will be a
homespun handknit yak-wool hat, a pointy one which
covers his ears but not his forehead. His face is
wrinkled, chestnut-colored, and wind-chapped, the
features half-Chinese, half-Indian. He is a happy,
carefree man. He wears a T-shirt with slogans like
"Hard Rock Café Kathmandu," "Just Doo It," and
"University of Kentucky."

He is a thin man, so thin if he pulls off his shirt
you can see his heart beating, but still he is a
sinewy, wiry little fellow. Instead of shorts or
pants, he wears a white cloth, a cross between an
upside-down turban and a diaper for adults, a baggy
white garment mysteriously wrapped and tucked and tied
on.

His legs are like ostrich legs, all sinew and skin,
except for his calves, which are like great round
softballs, pressing solid networks of blue veins to
the surface. For warm weather, his footwear of choice
is the flip-flop; for colder weather, he will choose
(if he can afford them) low-cut canvas sneakers.
Think basketball shoes sans ankle support.

He has a name like Dorje or Lhakpa or Norbu or
Jamling, and if he comes from a poor family he may
share his wife with his brothers. (She will assign
the children to each father as she sees fit.) A
self-appointed ethnobiologist told me this polyandrous
arrangement evolved because at such high altitude, the
UV radiation adversely affects male fertility. That,
the biologist said, combined with the long absences
from home and the absolute necessity of producing
offspring, makes the "one bride for seven brothers"
concept a pragmatic one. But the man in flip-flops
does not bother too much with academic explanations.
If required, he will share his wife, mostly because
his father did too.

He is 5'4" or 5'6", weighs perhaps 130 lbs, and makes
his living carrying loads which weigh as much as he
does up and down the foothills, glaciers, icefalls,
moraines, and flanks of the highest mountains on
earth, the Himalayas. He is a porter.

He has lived at some altitude his entire life, as did
his ancestors before him, so his red blood cell count
is higher than that of sea-level-dwellers. He has
been doing hard physical his entire life. During the
off-season monsoon he plows muddy fields by hand and
ox-plow, digging ditches with wood shovels and
stooping to plant rice seedlings.

It is unlikely he can read or write, but he may speak
some English or German. On a good day he will have 3
meals, one of porridge and two of lentils and rice; on
a very good day he may also get some meat or yak
cheese. This man is a cardiologist's dream - he has
no heart disease, no hardening of the arteries, and
gets lots of exercise every day. He cannot afford the
rich foods that would give him one extra pound of body
fat.

* * * *

He confidently says he can carry baggage for 2
Westerners, plus of course his own stuff. At first,
they stand towering over him, a bit uncomfortable in
their $200 hiking boots and bright purple Gore-Tex
jackets. (They do not realize that the most blatant
display of their affluence is neither their clothing
nor their cellphone, but simply the pounds of body fat
they flash with their soft chins, their pinchable
arms, their jiggley bellies. You can fake owning a
cellphone, but it takes months of being well-fed to
build up that type of butter-fed physique.)

I feel silly, says one (in the $200 boots), hiring a
porter to do something I can do myself.

Yes, says the porter, of course you could carry the
bags yourself. You can also cook for yourself, and
yet you eat in a restaurant without shame. You can
wash clothes for yourself and yet you send out your
laundry without embarrassment. I cannot cook or wash,
but please hire me to do this one small service for
you.

But, says the other (in the purple Gore-Tex jacket),
if I had a porter I'd feel like I was exploiting you.

No, says the porter. Portering is my profession, as
it was for my father before me. I am a poor man.
Portering is honest hard work and allows me to feed my
family. How is putting food into the mouths of my
children exploitation?

But, says the first (staring at his boots), but we
will be out for 3 weeks, and I fear it will be
expensive to hire a porter for the whole trek.

No sir, says the porter (staring at the fleshy calves
leading into the $200 boots), very cheap for you. 500
rupees per day, and I will pay for my own food out of
that amount.

A little haggling (in the time-honored Nepali
tradition) and they have agreed on a figure of 350
rupees per day for the 21-day Annapurna circuit - just
under $5 a day.

The Westerners feel a bit uncertain at the necessity
of a porter and worry that they'll look silly letting
this tiny man carry all their luggage.

The porter feels thrilled at the windfall of steady
work and thinks his clients already look rather silly
with their bushy blond hairdos and mirror-faced
sunglasses.

* * * *

He puts the two bright space-age backpacks side by
side in his wicker basket, and then fills in the empty
space with beer bottles, mineral water, lettuce, wool
blankets, anything he thinks he can sell higher up on
the trek. The load is 80-100% of his body weight.
Then, in a flash, the deed is done and he is standing
there, a bit unsteady perhaps, with the wicker basket
on his back, the strap around his forehead. From the
back it looks like a load with legs -- you cannot see
his head, shoulders, or arms. If it's a particularly
heavy load or a rather steep trail, he will also carry
a walking stick.

And with a smile, he begins to sing as he climbs the
slate steps in the side of the mountain. Sheepishly
his clients follow him, watching their backpacks
bounce merrily uphill. Three hours later, he will
still be singing; his clients (who carry only daypacks
with cameras and water) will be gasping for breath and
desperate for a stop. While they lie down, he will
light up a cigarette.

Most Westerners make it barely a week on this terrain,
unloaded. He will spend his life here. Carrying
loads for Westerners in Gore-Tex is slow work but it
pays rather well. When there are no tour groups he
may run loads to and from villages over paths so dodgy
not even the yak trains will travel the route. If you
bargain well, you can hire him for $3/day in town. If
you start out carrying your own backpack, but a few
days out want a porter, it may cost as much as
$12/day.

When he goes downhill he takes light little tiny
Sherpa steps. His heels (always in his battered blue
flip-flops) never touch the ground; his mammoth calves
absorb the shock. Behind him, his clients crash
downhill like water buffaloes in their Vibram-soled
boots, hitting each step heel-first and pounding
ibuprofen for their knee pain before lunch.

Still, his is a hard life - in addition to the eternal
hunger and long weeks away from his wife and family,
the retirement prospects are rather bleak. By the
time he is 40 he will be an old man, and if he lives
to 50 he will not be able to walk.

By that time, if he is lucky and his wife has given
him a son, his son will be strong enough to begin
carrying loads.

* * * *

Disclaimer - This account of porters is the best I
could do with the info I have! However, I am sure
this tale is somewhat parallel to Ramsey's tale of the
Christians . sincere, well-meaning, but an outsider's
view, replete with gross inaccuracies. My apologies
to all the porters out there.

* * * *

Love,
C (who watches the porters with this fascination
anytime they come to town)
and
S (who did not hire a porter for his Annapurna trek)

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March 2, 2001 - Not for the squeamish (or for Hershey's syrup fans!)

Hello everybody!

Disclaimer -- this posting is not for the squeamish.
Nor for those about to eat. Medically trained people
probably won't like it too much either - but read on
if you're brave.

It was frothy (like a frappuccino). It was unexpected
(like a surprise family visit when you're late for
work). It was uncomfortable (like a sucker-punch just
below the belly-button). And it was incredibly
persistent (one week and counting).

It hit the entire alimentary canal - it was
disagreeable at the top (I did not eat for a while).
It was unpleasant in the middle (I did not digest
anything for a while). And it was positively sinister
at the bottom (I will not elaborate further on any
back-end emissions, but I will also never look at a
bottle of Hershey's syrup the same way again).

It kept me prisoner at my hotel. There is a little
electronic anklet worn by some criminals sentenced to
house arrest. The alarm requires them to stay within
a certain distance of home at all times and will go
off if they stray too far. Well, folks, I had the
travel restriction but had committed no crime.

It has required fasting, great quantities of mineral
water, a few pulp fiction novels, and some
foil-wrapped antibiotics purchased from a "medical
clinic" on the streets of Kathmandu (the same guy also
had baby oil and Newsweek, and his "cousin" around the
corner was willing to sell me some hashish and magic
mushrooms in case the Cipro didn't do the trick).

And - praise be - I think it may be gone.

And now I am ugly. It's not the kind of ugly that
comes only from bad hair, space alien clothing, jet
lag and cultural disorientation. (24 hours at the
Marriott can fix most of those).

This is the nasty kind of skinny ugly that comes from
months in the Third World. It is just a little bit of
lost weight but from all the wrong places. I look
like a snowman with stick arms and legs. My hands are
like skeleton hands; my feet are like chicken feet; my
elbows are unbelievably pointy; and I am always cold.

And - any of the ladies who have ever hoped 5 lbs
would come off of a middle or off of a rump may
sympathize - there is a nasty kicker: the rest of me
is exactly the same size as when I left home.

Jenny Craig would most certainly not approve -- this
ain't the glamour weight-loss clinic. There is no
24-hour Marriott solution for this
Michelin-tire-man-with-stick-arms-and-legs look. It's
a long-term fashion catastrophe. (Scott's solution is
twofold: to quit looking in the mirror, and to quit
poking him with my pointy elbows, and I must say, I'm
beginning to think he is onto something there .)

So here's to hoping it has dripped, frothed, bubbled,
squirted, and rumbled its last.

Our next stop is Hong Kong, where I am hoping to take
full advantage of the world-famous Chinese food.

Love,
C (who is now definitely thinking once is enough)
and
S (who is hoping he does not have to declare that
type of war on his intestines)

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March 2, 2001 - My Guy: the Tout

Hello all!

Just like every dog has his tapeworm, and every
celebrity has her own lawyer, for a while in Gorkha, I
had my very own tout.

A tout is a person - usually a twentysomething Nepali
man - who makes his money as a middleman. A tout will
take you to a hotel and receive a 100 rupee
commission. Where does this commission come from?
You! If your hotel room usually goes for 200 rupees,
the management will charge you 300 to cover the tout's
commission. And so on and so forth for everything
from restaurants to souvenirs and taxis.

* * * * *

How does it feel to do business with a tout? The best
description I've heard yet is from Scott: "Imagine
you have a stack of $1 bills in your hand. Stand in a
large field and let the wind blow them out of your
hand, one by one. The tout is the guy about 20 feet
downwind with a large butterfly net, snatching your
hard-earned dollar bills out of the air one by
glorious one."

So, Gorkha is a small town jammed as far as they could
get it up into a Himalayan valley. A long time ago
one of the old Shah dynasty rajas was born there, and
since nothing big has happened there since they are
still really really proud of him. It is also
extremely steep - aside from the paved roller-coaster
track the bus uses, there are no real alleyways,
streets, front yards, or avenues. Instead, there are
stairs and terraces. Cross Lincoln's birthplace with
a game of Chutes-n-Ladders and you've got the idea.

* * * * *

My tout and I met inauspiciously enough. Scott and I
had just gotten off another standing-room-only,
head-bumping, greasy-body-odor-smelling,
blind-corner-racing bus ride and were eager to get to
our hotel. It was 3 blocks away and we started to
walk. A swarm of touts followed us like bees,
shouting and proffering business cards.

My tout was special from the beginning.

* * * * *

For starters, he was psychic. He predicted our hotel.
Sort of.

Tout: "Hotel madame? Very nice hotel, you come with
me."
Me: "No, thanks, we already have a hotel."

Tout: "Your hotel is bad, very bad. This way to good
hotel."
Me (impressed he knew which hotel was ours): "Oh."

Tout: "Come this way! Your hotel, she burned down
last night!"

I saw our hotel with a large red "Welcome" sign. It
had been miraculously rebuilt and, really, looked
rather nice for one which only last night was in
flames.

Me (turning into hotel lobby): "This is my hotel.
Goodbye."
Tout (shouting): "Madame, no, this is not your
hotel!"

Heck, even Nancy Reagan's astrologers were a bit off
at times.

* * * * *

My tout was also superhumanly attentive. Maybe next
life he will be an English butler. I got my first
demonstration of this talent only minutes after
checking in. Scott was in the shower with his bar of
antibacterial soap and I was at the rooftop restaurant
with my beer. The beer was lovely - it was crisp, it
was cold, and it was not on the bus. The view was
lovely - across the valley I could see hill folding
over hill until the greenish blue mist blurred them
into the sky. And then, something unlovely: a large
grey blob in the middle of my view. It was, of
course, my tout.

Tout: "Hello madame! This is my hotel. This is your
hotel."
Me (glad his psychic powers now agreed with reality):
"Oh, hello."

Tout: "You like anything, you tell me. Like guide to
hill, I go. Need bus ticket, I buy. Want tour of
town, I take. So we go now, I take you on tour? Very
cheap. What you like?"
Me: "I like you to go away while I finish my beer."

And so he did - he took three steps upwind, lit a
cigarette, and fixed me with his big green cat eyes.
He watched me take every sip of my beer. And as the
final swallow went down the hatch, before the glass
touched the table, he was back. I felt as if a cat
were rubbing itself all over my legs, back and forth,
back and forth.

Tout: "Where you go? I buy you bus ticket to
Kathmandu, 300 rupees. You must come with me now
Madame.."

Talk about service!

* * * * * *

Gorkha is not very big. There is one hill to climb,
one Himalayan mountain range to see, really no town to
tour, and one bus stop (where there is a bus with a
large "Kathmandu" sign on it; you can buy a ticket for
105 rupees).

I had "done" Gorkha in an afternoon. (Due to a
his-n-hers pair of the Hershey-squirts, we ended up
spending 3 days in Gorkha before we were dry enough to
brave the six-hour, two-rest-stop bus to Kathmandu,
but really, one afternoon would have been sufficient.)

* * * * *

It was out and about this small town that I saw a pair
of my tout's finer qualities. First, he had the
uncanny ability to be everywhere at once. And second,
he was impossible to offend.

Tout (for the seventh time that morning): "Hello
Madame!"
Me (walking away): "Goodbye."

Tout: "You like bus ticket? 300 rupees!"
Me (realizing in such a small town there is nowhere to
run, nowhere to hide): "No, I'll buy it myself for
only 105."

Tout: "But I can buy for you, very good, very fast,
you must give me money now!"
Me: "You speak English very well. You should
understand the word NO. NO bus ticket."

Tout: "You need help, bus very confusing. I do for
you."
Me (walking away): "No. Go away."

Tout: "One ticket, 300 rupees."
Me: "Fuck off."

Tout: "Have a nice day. I see you at dinner tonight,
maybe you like bus ticket then."

Talking to him was like kneading cheesecake. Or
stepping barefoot on sardines.

* * * * * *

Another of his amazing qualities was his respect for
the patriarchy. He didn't really believe I meant
anything I said, but when it came from Scott, it was a
different story. Scott and I were walking down the
street.

Tout: "Guide, madame? Walk to hilltop? Very cheap!
Shopping? Nice silks."

Scott (brusque, aggressive): "Hey, you! Don't talk
to my wife! You wanna talk to my wife, you talk to
me."

Tout: "Oh?"
Scott (sounding very much like a Marine commander):
"And I don't wanna talk to you right now!"

My tout scrambled up an alleyway faster than a monkey
up a tree.

* * * * * *

My tout's final pair of amazing abilities was his
resourcefulness and his optimism. He was convinced to
the end that I needed something he could provide.
Scott and I had checked out of the hotel and were
walking to the bus stop, going to buy our very own 105
rupee tickets on the bus with the big red "Kathmandu"
sign on the front. He was following us:

Tout: "Hello Madame! You like bus ticket now?"
Me: "No."
Tout: "Tour guide to town? Walk up hill?"
Me: "No."
Tout: "Doctor? I call you doctor, very good doctor."
Me: "No."
Tout: "Very nice restaurant."
Me: "No."
Tout: "Postcards? Souvenir?'
Me: "No."

We got on the bus and paid the driver our 105 rupees.
As the bus pulled away, I could see him waving to us
from the curb. And from far away, I could swear I
heard his voice,

Tout: "Hello Madame! You like maybe magic
mushrooms?"

* * * * *

Love,
C (who does not, indeed, like magic mushrooms) and
S (who does not, indeed, like touts talking to his
wife!)

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March 2, 2001 - The Nepali Experience: A do-it-at-home kit

OK, all you closet chemists and our at-home audience!

It's what you've been waiting for!

From the wacky travellers who took you to Happy Hour
at the Hard Rock Café in Kuala Lumpur during Ramadan!

From the people who showed you how to convert your
garage into a Passage to India!

Here's your chance to have a Nepali experience in your
very own country!

You will need:

1 University or Professional-sized football stadium,
empty. Think big - the University of Michigan, the
San Francisco 49'ers, the Superbowl.

1 Fire hydrant and matching hose, ideally with fireman

Several Monopoly games

As many Chia-pet kits as you can afford (see
http://209.35.234.162/chiapet/tab_chia/chiapet.html or
www.chiapet.com if you need to order online)

What to do:
1. Coat university stadium seats with Chia-pet
mixture.

2. Follow Chia-pet instructions and wait until a
"lush, healthy coat" appears on your Chia-stadium.
(http://209.35.234.162/chiapet/tab_chia/instructions.html)

3. Carefully remove all the houses and hotels from
your Monopoly games. Plant them on the lush Chia-lawn
now growing on the stadium seats.

4. Get the fireman to stand in one end-zone and direct
the fire hose towards the other end-zone.

This is approximation of a Nepali valley, complete
with "lush, healthy" rice terraces, sparse tiny
houses, and a raging river at the very bottom.   (For
extra thrills, rig up a small-sized roller coaster up
the side of your stadium and cram it full of
motion-sick people and their babies, potatoes,
transistor radios, and goats.)

Love,

   C (wishing you were here) and
   S (who wants to see how the 49'ers stadium looks
all dolled up)

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March 2, 2001 - Sex, death, and rock-n-roll

Hello beautifuls.

To add just a small bit before and after Scott's
Pashupatinath comments . making his "BBQ" into a BBQ
sandwich . if I dare . hoping it is in good taste .

For the sex part:
Pashupatinath is also full of temples containing Shiva
lingams. Lingams are oblong, upright stone pillars
which are carved so they resemble the business end of
the human male.

As in humans, these lingams come in varying sizes -
the ones we saw today were all about 2 feet long.
There is, of course, the yin/yang concept going strong
here, so every male lingam had a round stone ring
around its base to represent the female part.

Women who want to have babies go to these lingams and
pour butter, milk, and rice on the top. The mixture
is thereby blessed, and when it runs off of the side
of the lingam, the women drink it. With luck, a baby
will be on the way soon. I think it must work; there
are millions of Hindus.

For the death part: I could not add a single thing to
Scott's description.

For the rock-n-roll part: All Nepalis love noise.
Our cab ride back from the temples gave us first
Madonna, and then some good old West Coast Rap.

So, put it all together, and today for us was one of
sex, death, and rock-n-roll.

Love,
C + S

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