"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." - The Beatles

(Part two of two, which is less a travelogue than a stream of consciousness kind of summation of a lot of lingering travelling thoughts and emotions, yet still delivered in an amusing, anectodal sort of way)

Man, is it hard to write a blog in Bali. And during a 15 hour layover in the Changi Singapore Airport. And in the half an hour frantic scramble at Narita airport (which is slowly sinking and has flights that depart for Detroit 15 minutes apart in adjascent gates. Talk about confusing!) between the 7 hour flight from Singapore to Tokyo and the 11 and a half hour flight from Tokyo to Detroit. And when you get back to Washington, DC after travelling for 48 hours. And in the ensuing collage of a week that involves reunions with friends, family and a return to a life that seems a lot like the one you remembered and were dreaming of returning to while waiting for the train in Varanasi that was four hours late, but in actuality is very different. And even after that.

I remembered reading in my travel health literature (which was voluminous) before I left, that people sometimes experience reverse culture shock upon returning home. So, not the shock of seeing a poor child begging in the streets of Delhi or the sight of a Burmese girl with traditional painting on her face that is both decoration and sunscreen or even observing the brilliantly planned and executed subway system of Singapore, but the shock of seeing your own home, your own culture with new eyes. You see, I've changed (in ways that I think aren't necessarily perceptable to even those closest to me) because of this experience. I feel a love and kinship with a whole different part of humanity that I went 26 years of my life without knowing. I distinctly remember looking at the map of our route over the Middle East as we headed towards India (way back on June 23rd) and thinking that this place on a map would soon become a face, a smell and a landscape that held a distinct memory for me. No longer would I be able to think that Delhi and New Delhi were synonymous terms that could be used interchangeably, because I understood just how much the New meant to the people of India (particuarly the "former" outcastes). How could I possibly teach the book Shabanu, set in the desert of Rajastan, to my 6th graders without thinking of Harish and my motorcylce ride through the streets of Jaipur in the setting sun? How could I feel uncomfortable in a new setting or meeting new people after travelling in Northern India on my own and gaining a confidence that can only come by feeling completely alone and totally alive? Yet, in many ways, I do feel uncomfortable in my own setting, in my own culture. I think this reverse culture shock thing is real and it has the feel of an emotional sort of hangover. (It makes me think about how a woman might feel dealing with post partem depression. Everything that has been new and challenging and exciting is now over, and you are faced with a sort of re-examination of yourself that is difficult. And I'm sure there's some actual biological emotional issues going on there as well, but that's what it makes me think of) I want to be able to look at every person I see with the open mind and welcoming heart that I so graciously applied to the people I met on my trip. It was easy (well, not always, but certainly most of the time) to be open, to be totally myself, because I had nothing to lose. I felt that by giving myself completely to the people around me, I would learn more than if I held back, remained careful. And I think it worked. By exposing myself and being willing to have people take me with them into their world, their culture and even their homes, I was getting more in return than I ever could have hoped for. I try to think about how exactly I would have responded if I had been walking down a street in DC and a young boy (particuarly of a different race and at night) had come up to me and asked me to follow him down barely lit streets to his home. Would my reaction have been different? I think assuredly so. And why? What was it about me that had so dramatically changed that I felt like this was a good idea now when a few months earlier, I would have laughed at the notion. What was different? Me or the place that I was in? Honestly, I don't know. I think that all of my experiences in India and Southeast Asia have given me a sense of clarity about the world around me that I never had before. How the world is much more about me and you, family and friends, life and death than MTV, CNN or sound bytes. The experience has also left me much more confused about why I don't give the people around me the same benefit of the doubt that an entire group of people in a different country got so readily. I'm quite sure that I can't sustain the feeling of excitement and newness that travelling brings on in my daily life, but can't I treat people the same way as I did when I was there? I hope that I can and I hope that I can bring a part of my experience, my new self into the lives of the people that I interact with because I think that when I give of myself the most, allow myself to be the most vulnerable, that that is the point at which I come closest to fulfilling my quest for enlightenment. So while I spent much of my time visiting Hindu temples in India, the Gurudwara in Amritsar, the place of Siddhartha's enlightenment in Bodh Gaya and first sermon in Sarnath and seeing mosques from New Delhi to Lombok, I feel that the truest place to sense spirituality is within your own self (I also read Karen Armstrong's religious history called "Buddha" which may be influencing my thinking at present. Incidentally, if you ever want to know something about religion or religious history, just find Karen Armstrong's book on the subject and read it. She is my hero.) Your relationship with God/Vishnu/Allah/Guru Nanak/Krishna/Nirvana must ultimately be your own. It's not in a field in India any more than it is on a wave in Bali, but in a place that you must discover within. The outward journey that I took to view far off lands and meet different people may have taken me around the world, but it is the depth at which I travelled inwardly that gives me pause. I feel as though I've been given an opportunity to peer deeper into myself than I ever could have had I remained at home becuase it forced me to examine my motivation for life. I really hope that I can be the inspired traveller, able to tackle challenges, greet strangers, absorb culture and enrich lives in a single bound, but I realize that I'm not there yet. Until then, I'm going to keep giving as much as I can because it's infintely more fulfilling than taking, and I need all the love that I can get...

"You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em..." from "The Gambler", sung by country music star Kenny Rogers, forever immortalized by the Kenny Rogers Roasters "red menace" Seinfeld episode.

The blog (in two parts) in which the author discovers that his writing style is eerily similar to one J. Maarten Troost, author of the novel Sex Lives of Cannibals (which has nothing to do with the sex life of a cannibal), pauses to reconsider his role as a unique, authentic voice in the world of travel literature (having already admitted to ripping off both Bill Bryson and Lonely Planet), then confidently charges forward with the assurance that A. the author is not really an author and B. there cannot possibly be another writer who uses parenthetical asides as much as this author (and if there is, God help that long winded soul).

Mynamar (Burma in the West, though definitely Mynamar in actuality) was the place where I almost gave up. Threw in the towel. Went home crying to mama. After our return to Thailand, where we stayed at the even more elegant (than the Angkor Century) Marriot Resort and Spa (complete with poolside service that signaled both the end of my caffeine and alchohol month long fast in the same day, introduced by the ringing of a gong and an incredibly impassioned cry of "Happy Hour!"), Erika, Jen, Jeannie (our new travelling companion) and I headed for the airport and the wilds of Mynamar. We were all in good spirits as we boarded the plane, knowing that the adventure that lay ahead of us would jump start our travelling spirits after the lush accomodation and living of the previous two days. With the kids long gone and the prospect of a mostly unexplored (by Americans) country ahead of us, we hurredly ventured forth. Perhaps that was our first mistake. You see, in Mynamar (Burma) there exists what we like to call an un-democratic government model. The country is for all intents and purposes run by the military. This has led to a less than free exchange of ideas, a unilateral political voice and a financial market that excludes most free market enterprise. All of this we knew in advance (thanks to the Lonely Planet pioneers), but nevertheless we touched down in Mynamar (Burma) with the full expectation of being able to access our vast American financial resources. Even after we landed in Mynamar (from here on out on account of the fact that I'm getting tired of writing the alternative in parentheses every time and that I believe that this is the name of the country as is, despite US objections) and realized that the sum total of our financial resources lay in Jeannie's prescient stash of 4 $100 dollar US bills (plus the three of our $130 worth of odd cash, of which the author had a whopping $12), we quickly bought airline tickets to Mandalay, our first destination. Total amount for four tickets from Yangon to Mandalay: $340. Discovering that they neither have ATMs or allow cash advances on credit cards (or accept credit cards of any kind at any hotels in all of Mandalay), priceless. This took us the better part of the afternoon to discover (an afternoon which included a somewhat lengthened stay at the Mandalay airport. Jen, having lived in Benin, Africa for three years during her Peace Corps stint and I, having just come from barter happy India, decided that the initial price of 10,000 Kyats (local currency) was far too rich a price to pay for the 45 minute ride to town. We knew that the guidebook had stated a price of 4000 Kyats and even with the yearly 30-35% inflation rate typical in Myanmar, there was no way it should cost us that much. 45 minutes later, we all agreeably jumped in a cab (the last cab, that was only there because it had come back after dropping off the other last fare) for 11,000 Kyats (a substantial ten cent increase from the previously quoted price.)) When we arrived at our hotel of choice, Erika and I headed up to check out the digs. There was one quad room (that's right, me and three lovely ladies in one big room) available with AC and an only slightly depressurized shower (it was OK, we were roughing it now), we took the room for a total of $16 US dollars and headed up to check out the roofdeck. The setting sun provided the perfect metaphor for our attitudes over the next hour. Beautiful sunset and buoyant spirits, replaced by darkened sky (with raindrops) following our conversation with two French girls (Mynamar is full of French people). They had just assured us that our optimistic plan of finding a bank that did cash advances on credit cards was utter folly as they had checked every one they could find in the entire city (the second largest in the country).

That night at dinner, we officially entered "refugee" mode.

Over a plate of fried rice and bottled water apiece (which thankfully ran us to a grand total of about $4.50), we formulated a plan for survival. The first decision was to pool our resources together as a group to insure that no one of us spent the money that could potentially alleviate us of our current predicament (I willingly contributed my $12 to the proposed plan). Next, we resolved to scrap our plan for an early morning boat ride to the ruined city of Mingun in favor of scouring the streets to find if these French girls were telling the truth (or merely exhibiting their anti-US country sentiments. jk) We would then see if we needed to take the 16 hour train ride back to Yangon, the capital, which did possess at least one bank that did cash advances on credit cards. A sullen walk back to the hotel and a few unsuccssesful phone calls to hotels later, we settled down to bed in more somber moods than we had brought with us to this exciting new country.

The next morning we headed first to the government touruist office (we wanted to avoid using government money, called FECs, if possible, but we were desperate). Nada. Then to the swank government hotel, the Sedona. Nothing doing. Then next door to the other hotel (can't remember the name). We could take out a total of $100 dollars if we agreed to get two rooms for $130 apiece for the night. Yikes. Then to a final hotel, which after much questioning and group translation, managed to get across that there was one place that did cash advances on credit cards ($100 limit per person). Score! We had decided the night before that regardless of the outcome, we would have to head back to Yangon by train that evening in order to take out enough cash to actually head around the country. It was either that, or a flight back to Bangkok and an adjusted itinerary. We arrived at the gated office of the financial oasis, were quickly ushered in, and then undertook the two and a half hour process of getting out cash. I tried first. Credit card denied (it turns out that it was my bank's system being temporarily down, but at the time it was a crushing blow to my vision of rescuing our group from its financial deficiancy). Jeannie was thankfully accepted (she was subsequently given the nickname Sugar Mama because she had in effect paid the entire portion of the Myanmar trip for the group thus far) after navigating the anti-censor web pages that allowed the office to circumvent the government denied access to rebel pages like Yahoo and Hotmail. With our shiny 76,000 Kyats in pocket (Jeannie's pocket), we headed off for an afternoon of sightseeing.

The temples were nice (I met two young Buddhist monks, James and Bill, who graciously showed me their English workbooks and read Pali tablets of the teachings of the Buddha to me, which they could read, though not understand), the boat ride to Mingun the following morning gave us a good view of Mandalay and its river life from the perspective of a irruwaddy dolphin and the ride to the train station in the smurf car (a blue colored truck with seats in the back for two, though capable of carrying four people with packs if necessary) was memorable, but it was the train ride that I will never forget. We got on the train at 4:30 pm (we thought on the correct track. Much like India, it was sort of a guessing game) and sat in the "upper class" coach, with reclining seats, but definitely without AC. It was smokin' hot. We were all drenched in a matter of minutes. It was sometime between the peeling of my legs of the leather arm of the chair and the 14th request by a boy who had hopped on the train to sell me water, that I decided that it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if we didn't get that money in Yangon. What if we just had to head back to Bangkok, sit by the pool and leisurely await our trip to Singapore and Bali. That wouldn't be the end of the world, would it? Upon the lurching start that signaled the first 15 seconds of our 16 hour overnight, non airconditioned journey, it didn't seem like it would be. Luckily for me, our refugee group was not ready to fold 'em just yet. When the guy came through the car and asked if we wanted beers for the start of the journey, our moods picked up a bit. When we headed to the dining car and ate a fabulous meal of sweet and sour chicken and guzzled another round of beers over a three hour game of spades, it picked up even more. The 30 minute stop at 2:30 am in the bustling town of whoknowswhere was a bit of a set back (especially when realizing that bugs had died in the sweat on my arms), but we arrived to a spectacular, fog drenched early morning scene of farmland outside of Yangon.

After a quick journey to Exotissimo, the travel group that had arranged accomodation for Erika in Thailand and Cambodia, we had arranged for airline transportation all around Myanmar, booked hotel rooms (including one on an elevated hut in the center of Inle Lake!) and $150 dollars apiece in US cash all with the swipe of a credit card. We ended refugee mode (which had in actuality lasted less than 48 hours) that evening with a lengthly hot shower each and a meal of as much as we could eat. The remainder of our journey was spectacular (more to folllow readers), but it was our time in refugee mode that will probably stick out the most. The group dynamic was amazing as we all picked each other up when we needed it and managed to stay positive throughout. Some call it "travellers luck", when things work out despite your best efforts to the contrary. I think it comes with the right attitude and a real sense of how far you can go before you need to fold 'em...

"I will survive, oh as long as I know how to love I know I'll stay alive..." as sung by one Erika Wiquist in the hotel lobby of the Angkor Wat Century Hotel in Cambodia with her new friend Danny, the guitar-playing, karaoke-leading dynamo .

"Su-stay!"..."Su-staaay!"..."Su-staaay!" Riding in the back of the Cambodian version of the tuk-tuk (think motorbike with cushioned two seater in tow), I was serenaded by the melodious cries of "hello" in Khmer (language of Cambodia) by Kari and Dori, two rising high school juniors from the Bullis school. The near full moon and post rain cool of the early Siem Reap night provided the perfect backdrop for the enthusiastic innocence of youth captured in those greetings. This was a far cry from the always tense and somewhat disorienting feeling of a post haggle cycle rickshaw ride in India and an ever farther cry from the environment that I had left behind a few days earlier. India was waning as Cambodia waxed into full view; a very different set of emotions and observations replacing the comfort of unruly cacophony that I had left behind. I was no longer in Kansas, but where was I??

After Bodhgaya, I hopped a train to Calcutta. The exasperating ordeal of finding the train to Calcutta (me: "Which track is the train to Calcutta?" station master: (a term I use loosely) "Track 2 or 3." me: "Well, which one is it?" station master: "Two or three." me: "Oh, ok, thanks.") had been aided by a high school student studying in Delhi on his way home for holiday. Since the track number was a mystery and the announcements came only in Hindi, I was glad for the fortuitous meeting that had provided the much needed information (track 3) as well as a lively debate about the merits of Pete Sampras as the best tennis player of all time and a earnest attempt to explain the appeal of cricket to one who had never heard of the name (which I forget) of the equivalent of the Michael Jordan of cricket. The woosy feeling I felt upon boarding the train was just the cumulative effect of the confusion of the track number and the oppressive heat, I assured myself. Eight hours of train riding and a hotly contested cab negotiation later, I could no longer deny that I was feverish. I spent the night and following day alternating between shivering under a musty blanket and venturing across the street for the comfort of Western fare (pizza and eggs). My days in Calcutta were a combination of weary jaunts and long hotel rests under the deterrant cover of the full monsoon rains. By the time I left for my flight back to Delhi, I had managed to post a few blogs, send some emails, catch a flick (War of the Worlds with a racous Indian audience. Just when Tom was facing the imminent attack of the metallic invaders in his ex-wife's basement, everyone started chatting, the lights went on and snack vendors ushered through the aisles offering popcorn, chips and soda for the intermission portion of the movie. Only in India...) and made a brave outing to the Kali temple (another place that tried to take me for a feduciary ride. Make no mistake about it, religion is big business. Every temple, mosque, synagogue and church has a way into your pockets. At least in India, they are very upfront about it. You know those incense sticks and forehead paintings come with a price). Otherwise, it was a pretty uninspired time in which I felt the constant push of India become more oppressive than endearing and more of a place to leave behind than become a part of. Travelling is a dynamic set of experiences, emotions and comfort levels. I guess I was ready for the next step in my personal edification. It was on to Southeast Asia! (India will always hold a special place in my heart. I remember looking at the travel advertisement upon my arrival that proclaimed "Incredible !ndia", an obvious marketing ploy with pictures of the Taj and a fit Western looking woman doing yoga on a mountaintop in Rajastan. Those words rang true as I boarded my flight for Bangkok (a mere four hours after the departure time. They had changed the flight a few days earlier, which was news to me. A parting gift from this enigmatic country). India is an incredible place that reminds me of my family. It is loud, difficult, utterly confusing at times but always loving and, for better or worse, a part of you. In so many ways, I felt like I had a new component of my life that would stay with me, even as I was ready to get away from it in a hurry.)

My rendevouz with Kari and Dori was still a day away, but my introduction to Southeast Asia was an immediate assault on the senses. I landed in Bangkok and realized that I had left one world (Kansas) and entered another (New York City). Bangkok is about as Western as they come. The digital camera that met my beleaugered face at immigration was just the first of many indicators that I was no longer in a place of handwritten train schedules and static announcements, but had entered a highly technologized environ. I was met at the exit by a Thai friend of a Thai resident (American born) friend of the family that had graciously offered me a place to stay for my one night layover before my trip to Cambodia. He was a friendly guy named Manok who enthusiastically questioned me about the comfort of my flight and our conversation quickly turned to golf. We discussed the dominant performance of Tiger Woods during the first two rounds of the British Open and I commented on the proximity of the umbrella chapeu'd golfers to the landing 747s of the Bangkok International airport (we landed a good 200 yards from the twelfth hole of the "airport course"). He explained to me that they wore ear plugs (of course. that'll assuredly help you block out the screaming of the plane engines as you line up for that crucial birdie put on the 18th) and have to wait to cross jetway paths until the planes roll through. He promised that we could check out the local golfing scene when I returned from Bangkok. Awesome. A relaxing evening complete with shower (hot water!), authentic Thai food (not curry), and a few hours of Tiger watching later, I was on my way to the airport again for my journey to Cambodia.

As I pondered the adventure that awaited me in Cambodia (the historic Khmer temples of Angkor Wat, life in the village of Siem Reap, and simple living after the indulgence of the previous night), I looked forward to the burst of energy that would be soon approaching in the form of Erika and her band of high school pipers. After my mostly alone time in Calcutta and a brief interaction with a friend of my Mom's, I was ready for the comfort of good friends and a group of folks that match my emotional and behavioral equivalent; namely, kids. The encounter did not dissapoint as Erika beamed her large smile and shouted "Timmmmy!" with her entourage of ipod-listening, souvenier-toting high schoolers bouncing behind. I boarded the plane with a smile as I slowly acclimatized myself to my new environment and travelling companions. After a brief discussion of the new Harry Potter book (Dori read it in two days) and awkward over the seat introductions, we were on our way to Siem Reap.

When the airconditioned bus and tour guide pulled up to our waiting group just outside the airport gate (and not a hungry group of rickshaw wallahs), I realized that this trip might have some ammenities that had not been there in India. (of course that was intentional. I surely could have travelled like that in India, but think of all I would have missed out on...) "Joy", our aptly nicknamed tour guide, gave us a brief introduction of Siem Reap as we headed to our hotel. We arrived at the Angkor Wat Century Hotel and were met by an army of head bowing, hand touching bellhops who ushered our bags into the massive foyer. This place was a bit different than the Ganpati (where I had been subjected to those neat rowed chomping bedbugs) and I felt a bit embarrased as I attempted to carry my own backpack up to my room. How was I supposed to immerse myself in the populous of this new country from the restrictive confines of this lavish cultural prison? A welcome drink and dip in the pool later, I rationalized to myself that their were all kinds of different ways to experience a place, and I would just have to quit my inner monologue complaining and make the best of it.

Pooled, showered and hydrated with complimentary water, we gathered in the foyer to make our first venture into Siem Reap proper. We were to tuk-tuk to the main street in town for a meal at the Deadfish (nice name for a restaurant) and an introduction to the people of Cambodia. One of the great things about being in a group of kids is that there is an energy there that is contagious. We arrived at the Deadfish in laughter (well, it was kind of giggling, but I of course would never describe my laughter in that manner) after sustained shouts of "Su-staay!" had met the waving residents of the small Camdodian town. We sat down (on the floor) to a pleasant Thai meal and the good company of a new group of insquisitive high schoolers. The place had ambience to say the least as a quick tour around revealed a pool table, crocodile pit, fish pond and stage where musicians sang and dancers danced to the beats of traditional Cambodian tunes (hard to describe). An invigorating post meal conversation about my favorite authors (it really is hard to talk about ones own favorite writers when confronted with the eager smile, bright eyes and nodding head of a high school student who is writing down every name you mention in the folded pages of a New Yorker magazine) with Kari, we headed back to the hotel under cover of moonlight and the thematic "Su-stay!" backbeat of the evening. As the kids made their way up to their rooms, I contentendly settled into my seat in the main lobby bar eager to catch up with Erika and Jen (her fellow Bullis teaching, group leading compatriot) and regale them with exciting tales of India. We didn't get very far. Danny had spotted our entrance with the trained eyes of a Simon Cowell protegee and before our drinks (water for me) had arrived, Erika was up "on stage" preparing for her first of what was to be ten consecutive karaoke numbers (that I saw, I went to bed and they didn't come up for another hour or so), among them the aforementioned "I will survive". Little did I know that this song would resonate in my mind over the next few days and provide the thematic inspiration for this very blog. (Which is long. Didn't have a chance to post in Cambodia. Heading to Burma tomorrow for a week where they don't have internet. If I was you and I was at an Indian movie, I would be asking for a soda and some popcorn right about now. Just wait till the Burma post!)

The next morning we met up with "Joy" (following an all encompassing breakfast buffet where they had bacon! and a full omellette bar. I may have put back on all that weight I lost in India back in a matter of three days) to check out the singular Camodian tourist image of Angkor Wat. The temple of Angkor Wat is the most famous of a complex of temples called Angkor, built over a period of Khmer rule between the 12th and 16th centuries in Cambodia. This time period represented a golden age of territorial rule for a country that has had numerous intrusions from the at times more powerful dynastic neighbors of India, Thailand, Vietnam and China. Each ruler of the Khmer dynasty built a temple to celebrate their rule (often in a hurry and with cheap labor. Angkor Wat was built in just over 30 years). Because of the number of rulers and the tendency of these rulers to legitimize their own rule and one up the past ruler, many built a number of temples in the enormous complex known as Angkor. Angkor Wat is one of the seven ancient wonders of the world, a marvel of architecture and the singular vision of its ruler, Jayavan II (this may not be the right name. Don't have the ol lonely planet in front of me). Our tour around the complex consisted of a viewing of the encircling bas reliefs of different Khmer and Hindu stories (the most famous of which is the depiction of the battle between Hindu Gods and Demons entitled "Churning the Ocean of Milk", also featured outside the main entryway of the Angkor Century). These reliefs were guarded by a thin red rope and a weathered sign posting "hands off" as a number of the reliefs displayed the residued shine of generations of "hands on" tourists. The effort to restore and preserve these important historical sites has taken on an international flavor as groups like the British, Japanese and Cambodian governments have realized the importance of keeping away the treasure hunting looters and toxin covered hands of everyday tourists (with the notable exception of the Bayon, sight of the fliming of a memorable portion of the Angelina Jolie headlined cinematic classic Tomb Raider, which maintains its natural appearance. Massive trees cover this temple and have done their best to show that it is nature and not man, who is the more powerful of these oft opposed rivals. The roots of these trees have pushed aside massive pieces of temple rock and split intricately carved reliefs in twain with the aid of nothing more than water and Co2. It is quite a striking sight to see the power of nature so overrun the best efforts of our historical ancestors). After a scramble up the 80 degree staircase to the top of Angkor Wat and a mere two hour outing, we headed back to the air conditioned sanctuary of our tour bus and lunch and a dip at the Angkor Century. Not quite the epic four hour journey across the Indian fields of Bodhgaya, but who was I to complain.

That afternoon we headed to the best part (for me and I think most of the kids as well) part of our Cambodian excursion. We were to undertake a project that Jen had done before during her time in the Peace Corps in Africa. The basic premise was to go to a local school (in this case an orphanage as well) to paint a world map mural for the students, who were oftentimes without a textbook containing maps of any kind. In a series of three afternoon sessions, we were to grid an entire blue painted wall with pencilled latitude and longitude lines, sketch a detailed version of the political boundaries of all of the countries (islands included), and paint in contrasting colors the land area that made up the soverign state of every assemblage of peoples in the world. To say that I was skeptical that me (an artistic liability at best) and a group of nine high school students could complete the task (even with the assurances and watchful eyes of our fearless leader) was an understatement. The first afternoon yielded a series of increasingly slanted longitudinal lines and an twice erased numbering system on both the top and side of the mural in our earnest three hours of work (actually, I can take no credit for this portion of the project. I spent most of my time outside of the work area observing first an English language class taught by a decidedly nervous teacher in my presence, walking around the orphanage complex checking out the housing for the Buddhist monks who shared the area with the students, and engaged in a lengthly talk with Joy about his life and country. He had been orphaned during the seventies as both of his parents had lost their lives during the infamous reign of Pol Pot and the Khmer rouge. The history of this event and the ramifications of this Marxist inspired rule had devestating effects for the people of Cambodia. It is estimated that a full quarter of the population of Cambodia lost their live in the "killing fields" of the agrarain ideals of Communist rule. (if you haven't seen the movie "The Killing Fields" starring one Law and Order Sam Watterston, you simply must. It is enlightening, heartbreaking and an accurate portrayal of both the horrors of the rule of the Khmer rouge as well as the not so blameless US involvement in that country.) The genocide initiated by the Khmer rouge as it ousted the cultural elite, (teachers, politicians, anyone who disagreed with the Marxist vision) rivaled that of Rwanda in the nineties or the Balkans in the late eighties and early nineties. Listening to Joy talk about his life as an orphan where he alternated between a life as a farmer living with his uncle and a six year stint as a Buddhist monk living at a monastery, I thought about the notion of survival. People have an amazing ability to survive in the most dire of circumstances. I immediately connected Joy's expereince with the foremost image of genocide in my mind (the Holocaust) and tried to imagine the rationalization that must have taken place in the minds of these leaders. Genocide has been a hallmark of many ruling groups around the world throughout history, a characteristic that I just can't write off to human nature, no matter how hard I try. I fail to understand what sort of person or group of people could willingly undertake the extermination of a fellow human being in the name of country, God or any other force. If I am a member of a species capable of this, maybe I want out. Joy had managed to distance himself from the horror of this reality over time, but to hear it from his lips and to see the missing limbed inhabitant victims of Siem Reap, reminded me of the abomination that humanity is capable of and its resilance as well. The people of Cambodia had survived and Joy was someone who could hopefully help to heal the minds and hearts of those who had suffered). Needless to say, I felt a renewed need to impart some positive spirit to a group of people who had suffered so much, and if that was to come in the form of a wall mural, then I was going to do my damnedest to paint to the best of my limited artistic abilities.

Over the next two days we spent the mornings on cultural adventures (always via airconditioned bus or hotel to restaurant, restaurant to hotel tuk tuks. Not once did I feel the connection with the people of Cambodia, aside from Joy and the children at the orphanage, that I had felt in India, but I did have the opportunity for a few "teachable moments" along the way. Kari, my literary minded friend, had been assaulted by a menacing group of five year old Cambodians outside of one of the restaurants. After giving away her half drunk milkshake, her two single dollar bills and whatever change she had in her pocket, she handed a ten dollar bill to the last begging child! Afterwards I talked with her a bit about the best way to handle a situation like that. I imparted my newfound wisdom from my India experience and told her that giving away that amount of money was probably doing more harm than good. Most likely, the kid would have to give up that money to a parent or older sibling and would in no direct way benefit from the donation. Also, it reinforced a culture of begging that is a systematic problem in tourist heavy areas all over the world. I suggested to her that next time she use her money to buy the children something to eat or offer a "sorry" and not to feel like she is being assaulted. I reminded her that these were just kids and that she needn't be afraid, but rather confident, compassionate and firm. Her mood improved after she realized that she wouldn't have to give up her compassionate heart to conquer her fear of these types of interactions) at various temple complexes and on a boat trip to the Tonle Sap lake (where we met the "bucket boys", the aquatic version of the street begging children. These kids' strategy was to wait until the tour boats stopped, then assault the waiting boat under a "two if by sea" approach. They hopped out of their mother ship into metallic buckets equipped with paddle and bailer and made their way over to our boat. These particular kids were met with starbursts and jolly ranchers to go along with the plastic water bottle that soon joined forces with the paddle to form a makeshift bat and ball game. They sucked the candies as they whacked the bottle and wrestled each other into the water. Submerged buckets would reappear and they would deftly hop into them and bail frantically before paddling off to the next boat. It was one of those hilarious travel moments that won't soon be forgetten) The floating village made for an interesting glimpse into the lives of people who lived their lives on water, in houseboats comlpete with battery operated televisions.

But mostly the days were about the mural. I did my best to trace those country lines (the kit which the Peace Corps endorses ought to say "painting the world for Dummies" because it is stupid easy to do, even for yours truly) and paint the borders of each of the countries while staying inside the lines. My myopic focus resulted in the passing of three sweaty hours in the blink of an eye and on the third day, we completed the mural and took congratulatory photos of our hard work with the children of the orphanage. Not only did I enhance some geography skills concerning the "stan" countries (Turkmenistan borders Uzbekistan), but also I felt like I had been a part of a tangible, positive force that could somehow push further back some of the gruesome history of the previous generation. I know we can't save the world in three days, but I do feel like we can really impact individual lives in a hurry if we impart positivity and care for those around us.

I know that as long as I know how to love I'll stay alive (especially in the luxury of five star accomodation), but I hope that I will be able to pass on enough love to help others do the same. It may not be an entire orphanage, an entire group of high school students or even an entire personal journey, but I know that I will continue to strive to regain the feeling that I get when I give a student an opportunity to learn where Turkmenistan is or how to add to the bright blue hue of their own country...

"Life is suffering. Suffering is caused by selfish wanting and attachment. Suffering will end when selfish desires end. The way to end selfish wanting is by following the eight fold path."
-The Four Noble Truths as delivered by the newly awakened Buddha

Each religion is a reflection of the culture in which it exists. Alot of times those terms are synonynous. Religion and culture. Hinduism is a reflection of India. It is visceral, with loud bells ringing, incense burning, perambluation and prostration during puja. It is public, individual (though aided by Brahmins and participated in groups, oftentimes families) and able to handle any sort of prayer. There is a god of good fortune (Ganesha), a god of wealth (Laksmi) a god for rebirth (Shiva) and a goddess of destruction (Kali) to name a few. Each human desire is catered to by the pantheon of gods and goddesses and the culture of India is as tied to Hinduism as sunrise to sunset.

So then, I guess I shouldn't have been suprised to see that in Bodhgaya, the place where Siddhartha had reached enlightenment, there were a ton of Hindus. After all, I was in India. On the train ride from Varanasi, I had been excited to leave behind the crowded, noisy incense filled alleyways for the peaceful serenity of what I imagined Bodhgaya to be. My arrival in the city of Gaya was auspicious enough as I easily found an autorickshaw willing to take me to Bodhgaya (about 10 km away) for a rate which was reasonable. As we rode towards Bodhgaya (in the fastest, cleanest rickshaw I'd been in by far), I looked back to see the pinkred sun setting on the horizon. I smiled as I thought of the tranquility that awaited me in the place of the Buddha's birth. When we got to the city, however, I was quickly brought back to time and place. The hostel which I was planning on staying at for the first few nights was under obvious construction (as alot of places are in India right now. Not exactly peak tourist season.) and was ill attended as I had to hunt around for the "manager" for a few minutes before finding him playing cards with some friends next door. He showed me a room, which was poorly ventilated, had no windows and a somewhat functioning toilet. I took it as it was now dark and I was exhausted and I fell asleep to the soothing sounds of a full Hindu wedding, replete with bells, techno music and, well, shouting. This was not the peaceful spot I imagined it might be.

The next morning at 6:30 (my natural biorythms have been completely exposed on this trip. I usually go to bed between 9 and 10 and wake up sometime between 4:30 and 6. I guess it's no wonder I'm a teacher.) I ventured out to see if there were any Buddhists or serenity in this remote Indian locale. After wandering down the road in the wrong direction for about a half an hour (I'd left the Lonely Planet behind this time), I doubled back and saw the sign for the 80 foot Buddha statue. Sweet. Here was a place which would hold serenity and at least have some Buddhists walking around it. I followed a crowd of Hindu tourists into a few temples (in Bodhgaya there are many temples and monastaries from various Buddhist countries Thailand, Burma, Vietnam etc) before I made it to the statue. Upon arrival, I was met by the same young boys that had guarded every historical monument I'd been to in India, armed with the discolored, out of focus postcards of the very thing that I was looking at in front of me. After buying a set of particuarly out of focus cards from a really cool kid, (he didn't harrass me so much as ask me questions about America, which I always appreciate) I walked to the statue. It was impressive from a size standpoint alone and I read on the placard that the Dalai Lama himself had been at its unveiling ceremony (though I must admit I tried to look up his nose. I don't know what I expected to find, but I had to look). I was the only one there and I had yet to see a Buddhist, other than a few passing ones on bicycle on my walk over. I had to say that I was a bit discouraged as I headed back to my oppresively hot room and sat on the bed. This was not the place to find the "enlightenment" that I'd so arrogantly put on my itinerary.

Siddhartha Gautama underwent a similar dissapointment in his life (artistic liscense here people) upon leaving his palace for the first time. He had been raised in a contained world by his overprotective father, a place where no one was sick, food and revelry was plentiful, and he knew no pain. At the tender age of 20, he had demanded to his father that he be allowed outside the palace walls to see what the world had to offer. Dutifully, his father granted him his wish as he sent the palace guards to the city to clear away the old, sick and dying from Siddhartha's intended route through the city. The plan did not work and its failure planted in Siddhartha the seeds that would become Buddhism. Upon seeing sickness, old age and death, he decided to renounce his city life and attempt to find a way to end the suffering that he had seen in the world. While outside the city, he had also seen an ascetic (one who gives up all worldly things to seek spiritual gain) so he resolved to emulate his new hero. Some six years after he had begun his quest, he was given some rice by a Sujati herd girl (after hearing that famous string analogy) and he sat under the Bo tree and resolved not to move from that spot until he had found the end to suffering. The rest, as they say, is history.

How then was I to find my own Bo tree? After walking around and finding a new, much brighter (windows!) hostel room and downing my third liter of water of the morning, I decided to go to the Bo tree (very convenient) in the center of the Madhobi temple comlpex. This was not the tree that Siddhartha sat under so many years ago, but is said to be a descendant of a tree in Sri Lanka that is said to be a descendant of the Bo tree that Siddhartha sat under as he achieved enlightenment. This was as good a place as any to start my personal quest for enlightenment in earnest. It was midafternoon when I arrived and the tiles were so hot in the complex (you have to take your shoes off for everything here, which I actually kind of like) that I quickly walked around the edge of the complex, stopping briefly to see the lotus pond (muddy water infested with a zillion catfish), the outer temples and a brief jaunt inside to an airconditioned worship area full of, yup, Hindu tourists. I finally walked back out and around the temple to the other side. It was there that I caught my first glimpse of the Bo tree. There were a few scattered monks gathered around, some reading, some deep in contemplative prayer. I sat down, felt the wind and heard the rustling of leaves and began to slow my breathing in an attempt to meditate (I'd been experimenting a bit throughout the trip to be ready for this moment). To my suprise, it worked. I really did start to relax, to enjoy the environment around me and to feel some of the peace that I'd been looking for. I sat for probably 45 minutes, sometimes in meditation, sometimes just watching other monks and mostly just kind of daydreaming. I realized that though my initial success in meditation was encouraging, there was no way that on this trip (or any time in the forseeable future) would I achieve enlightenment. The path that the Buddha had laid out took a lifetime of dedication to achieve and one afternoon's worth of relaxation techniques wasn't going to get me there.

So, I went back. Four times over the next two days. The first time I went back was that evening and I realized that I hadn't seen nothing yet. The place was abuzz when I returned in the early evening darkness (there are no time zones in India so as I moved East, it kept getting darker earlier. In Calcutta it gets dark at about 6, while in Delhi it was 8:30 or so. Gotta love India). There were monks inside the temple area chanting rythmically where before there had been only tourists. There were people doing full body prostrations facing the direction of the spot of Siddhartha's enlightenment. There was a group from Thailand that had brought along a temple length golden cloth that they were wrapping around the entire temple as they chanted and walked. The place still possessed a kind of peace, but it was also alive. I sat for a long time just soaking it in and met a couple of British guys who were experiencing the same sort of pleasant vibe. We talked about it for awhile, they left, and I headed back to my hostel room for some more meditation exercises.

The rest of the time in Bodhgaya was spent in the pursuit of finding that elusive tranquility. I didn't have the six years to spend that Siddhartha had, but I tried to capture as much as his spirit as I could in that time. I did have some great encounters with the local Hindu people of Bodhgaya (including a 4 hour trek across the farmlands near Bodhgaya with a rickshaw guy to the mountains where Siddhartha had been during those six years. I left at 5:30 in the morning, ran out of water by 7, saw the amazing view from the top of the mountain by 8, started maybe hallucinating a bit on the walk back, saw a guy who weighed about ninety pounds carrying a hundred pound bundle of sticks on his head across a sandy river bed at 9 and made it back to town by 10, dehydrated and out of it. I also had the pleasure of meeting a 10 year old boy from the village who invited me into his house, showed me his school card which attested to the fact that he attended an English school in town, met his family, spent about an hour there talking, looking at his social studies books with him, laughing with his irresistably cute 5 year old sister who just kept looking at me then laughing, and giving him a few rupees so he could buy a dictionary for school.), but it was the spirit of peace at the Bo tree that I will remember best.

Buddhism seeks to end the suffering of all living creatures, yet is a sometimes very individual pursuit. How can one who spends a majority of his time in a semi conscious state of awakeness help his fellow beings? Of course, there is alot more to Buddhism than that (their humanitarian efforts are renowned), but the goal of achieving an awakeness about the reality of the suffering that is around them and striving to change that, is the tennent of Buddhism that drove Siddhartha away from his caste oriented culture. So, maybe we can create a new culture through religious ideals, or maybe we can find a more positive way to insure that our actions help to end suffering, rather than create it. I think all religions try to answer this question. They just have different ways of doing it. See, religion and culture are inextricably linked, like the twisting branches of the Bo tree. They will never be comletely separate and their combination makes up the very life force that is the world around us. So, we need to continue to acknowledge the power and presence of religion in the lives of humans in order to continue to seek our own awakenings. My time in Bodhgaya will help me to understand the best way for me to endeavor to end suffering in my own culture, in my own way...

"You can't never get to Tundla..." --adapted from the title of an Eastern Shore literary classic

"Tundla?" a headshake first to the left, then the right. "Tundla?" Again, a shake to the left, then right. "Tundla?" A headshake up and down, then left and right. So marked the absolutely baffling ordeal of finding the appropriate bus from Agra to Tundla, where my new Spanish friend Rafa and I were to catch the overnight train to Varanasi. There was no schedule for the buses, no numbers on the buses and certainly no one who had any idea which of the buses was actually going to the seeminlgy mythical land of Tundla. Finally, we did get a positive response to our repeated questions and sat down on what we hoped was the bus to Tundla. Sweating profusely, Rafa and I took our seats next to the window of two adjacent benches on the bus and got ready for the voyage. My row on the bus contained me, my backback and one other guy as we headed off. By the time we arrived at Tundla (which was miracuously where the bus was headed), I was sitting with three other people in the row on top of my backpack and with one leg directly over the other. Personal space does not exist in India and a seat for two becomes a seat for four in a pinch, or always. After sprinting from the rickshaw wallah to the train station (Rafa's train was set to depart in 5 minutes), we caught our breath as we waited the necessary two hours for the actual train to arrive. We passed the time merrliy, alternating between deflecting the repeated queries for rupees from the assortment of poor, crippled beggars (the truth of the matter is that there is a kind of poverty and destitution here unlike any place I've ever seen. At every train station, street corner and temple around, there are usually beggars with any number of physical deformities that are hard to look at. I've seen people with one arm, small unusable legs, no legs, and everything else in between in my travels. The problem is that you see the look of anguish in their eyes, but know that you giving them a rupee is not going to change their strife. I've personally resolved to find a way of making a donation of some sort to a relief group in India, particuarly for the children, who are the worst sufferers) and shouting to each other "Tundla?" and laughing.

Upon arriving in Varanasi, I headed out of the train station to find a ride to the hotel that we had heard about from some of Rafa's Spanish friends. I got an auto rickshaw outside (the process of getting a ride anywhere in India is exhausting. You have to bargain for each ride, knowing full well that you'll probably overpay or be taken to any number of shops or hotels of the driver's choosing before getting to your destination. The guy in Varanasi was the worst. He agreed to the fare, and about a hundred yards from the station, stopped and told me that he could take me to this great hotel where he'd get me a super low rate, and just wouldn't listen to me as I told him which area I wanted to go to. He took me to one hotel near where I wanted to go, then insisted on taking me to "his" hotel before he would take me to my desired location. After I went, saw the room, and told them no, he told me that he wouldn't take me back to where I wanted to go. I had to start shouting at him to get him to take me back, and when he dropped me off, I had to get another ride to get to my actual hotel, which was a considerable distance from where he dropped me off. I can chalk alot of this up to an interesting "experience", but plain and simple, that guy was just a jerk) and after much rigamarole ended up at the hotel Ganpati, a beautiful spot with a balcony overlooking the holy Ganges river. I met up with Rafa, who had had quite a travel experience of his own, and we took our breakfast at a table overlooking the fast flowing river (the Ganges reminded me alot of the Mississippi, fast flowing and brown as chochalate milk). That's when I saw the dead cow floating down the river. Eww. Not the best for the early morning appetite. After eating and a rest (on a bed that turns out to have had bedbugs. You can see the rows of bites on my back still as I write this blog some six days later), I decided to head out to the city.

The old city of Varanasi, where I was staying, is known for its narrow, labyrinthal (is that a word?) streets which contain an equal amount of people, animals, trash, and food for sale. I walked around, again overwhelmed by the smells and proximity of life that is India, until I heard for the tenth time "hello" and, for whatever reason, turned to look at the person who had spoken. (Everyone here says hello, most of the time to get your attention so that they can sell you something, so your instinct is to turn and see where the person is. As soon as you turn to look, you're immediatley innundated with the special du'jour of whatever it is that's being sold. Alot of times kids who are trying to sell you drugs. nice.) The guy, a nineteen year old who told me that his father had passed away and he needed to support his family, offered to show me around some temples and sights of Varanasi. I had had success in the past (Jaipur) sort of just going with it, so I decided to head of with him (one name I can't remember) to see the sights.

We first went to a Shiva temple near Kedar Ghat (a ghat is a kind of stairwell that leads to the river where people go to bathe. That's the way you can tell where you are in Varanasi, by which ghat you're near) where my guide took me inside, and helped me to perform part of a puja. It mostly consisted of putting a small amount of what looked like flour on my chest and forehead. Thus adorned, I next headed to meet a Guru friend of his. Turns out he is a palm reader and astrologer who had read the palm of one Goldie Hawn! (I saw the picture to prove it.) For a mere thirty dollars (aha! here was the sell), he would do a comprehensive analysis of my life and future fate. After a bit of persuading, I agreed to take the thirty dollar one life palm reading (as opposed to the fifty dollar two life palm reading) and he proceeded to take down my birthdate and place of birth. Then, amazingly, he pulled out a book that had the lattitude and longitude of the United States and lo and behold, for the Maryland section, Easton was listed! Here I was in Varanasi, India on some side alley street and they had the name of my hometown in a book. I was sold. We had to give the guru some time to work his...well, I guess it isn't magic... so we went to check out some other temples. We went to the Durga temple, where I was given a garland of flowers and a Shiva bracelet (Varanasi is the city of Shiva, so even other temples have Shiva related items in them) and a mark on my forehead. I came out looking quite Hindu, though I don't know if the other people in the temple were quite as amused at how I looked as I was. I sort of got the sense that they weren't too happy about my intrusion (I wasn't allowed in alot of temples and I think the only reason I got in this one was because my guide took me). Then, we headed to Tulsi Manas temple, which had a Disneyworld type area where scenes from important Hindu epics, the Ramayana, Mahabharata and Bhagavad Gita were acted out with puppets. It was a hoot and I nearly lost it thinking about how eerily similar it was to the It's a Small World Afterall ride at Epcot. With a smile on my face, we headed back to see how my life was going to turn out. Turns out, my life seems pretty good. I was informed that I was to have a hard period of work up until age 32 (it sure seems like I've been working hard at 'ol ACDS), marriage after 28 (whew!), a period of financial success after age 42 due to some sort of publishing (blog inspired??) and a period of rest and reflection in some remote natural setting until I kick the bucket sometime around 90. As the guru (who was at least seventy) told me all of this, he held my hand, called me dear and made me feel pretty darn special (I'm sure Goldie felt special as well!). So, with a warm fuzzy kind of feeling, my guide took me back through the pitch black (we actually tripped over a cow when we left the guru), scary looking alley streets and deposited me back at the Ganpati.

The next day I was planning a day trip to Sarnath, the place of the Buddha's first sermon, the sermon in deer park. Rafa, who I had missed the day before due to poor communication (his English was passable and my Spanish was adequate, though we sometimes missed the exact meaning of what was being said) had decided to come along and another Spanish speaker, Pablo from Mexico City (who thankfully spoke perfect English as well making Rafa and my communication both less vital and more enjoyable), made it a trio heading to Sarnath. After an unbelievably bumpy autorickshaw ride, we arrived at Sarnath and headed to Deer Park. The Buddha, upon enlightenment in Bodhgaya (another story for another blog) headed to Sarnath to begin speaking his message to his followers. Only five actually made it, but it was there that they heard the Dhammachackapavattna Sutta, or the laying out of the tennets of Buddhism, the four noble truths and the eightfold path. When we got to the Deer Park, the main temple was closed (set to open in an hour) so we wandered around for a bit. While meandering, we caught our first glimpse of the main attraction of Sarnath, the Dhamekh stupa (a stupa is a mound of dirt surrounded by a structure, often of brick or stone, that is said to house the ashes or relics of the Buddha. Not all stupas do have relics, but that was their original purpose), a 34 meter high brick mound with ornate decorations on the outside. Since there was a giant fence in the way, we realized we'd have to go around to get there and on our way back to the road we saw, you guessed it, deer. These deer, for which the area is named I guess, looked more like reindeer than the kind we see it the Eastern US. The deer were kept in this side area, like a zoo, and you could buy fruit from a lady to feed to the deer. After feeding the deer (Pablo couldn't resist), we headed to get a closer look at the Stupa. While it was impressive to look at and think about from an historical perspective, the thing that I'll remember best is the kids who were trying to sell stuff there. They had the usual postcards as well as some other useless crap, and they were resentless little salesmen. Poor Rafa just couldn't say no, and before we knew it he had two statues of the Buddha, a set of postcards and a kit for putting dyed stars on your forehead. I personally bought one of the little statues, but when they persisted about other things, I emphatically said NO. One of the kids smiled at me and said NO back to me, to which I responded with a louder NOO. He then screamed NOOOO and we both cracked up laughing. Though the constant harrassment of these kids is tiresome, sometimes you remember that they are just kids and it's easy enough to get them laughing by just being goofy (the reason I am in my current profession) It was with a smile that we headed back to Varanasi that evening.

One last note about Varanasi before I end this lengthy entry. That evening we headed to one of the burning ghats. The Ganges is the holy river for Hindus and people bathe in its waters as a part of a pilgrimmage. People also come to the Ganges to die. It is believed that if you die in Varanasi and are put into the Ganges you will have a better chance to be reincarnated into a better life. So, we headed to the burning ghat to see what the deal was. It was an odd scene. There were people milling about like anywhere else in the city, but one hundred feet away there was this platform that had a few lit pyres. You could see that they were burned down almost to the end and that the people who had been there, were no longer identifiable. After the end of the cremation, their bodies are placed in the Ganges and left to float down the river. (In the past if a man died, his widow was required to throw herself onto the funeral pyre to burn along with her dead husband. There was a famous story in the paper from like 1983 about a woman who refused to do this. It garnered national attention and since then the practice has been outlawed, though it still persists in some of the smaller villages in India) Thus the cycle of life can begin again as the body leaves this world and the spirit is reborn anew. Death is very much a public thing in Varanasi (I saw a number of covered bodies being carried down the street), but also not as seemingly final as in our culture. It is seen as a part of life and Varanasi had the feel of a place that would continue to be around long after the lives of generations of inhabitants. We checked out a little puja on the way home and went back to our rooms to chat, reflect and wax philisophical about life, death, laughter and everything in between.

The next morning, I headed to the train station and a mere four hours after the expected departure time of my train, I was on my way to Bodhgaya to seek enlightenment...

"What the world needs now is love, sweet love..." Mr. Burt Bacharach as sung (quite nicely) by my new travelling companion from Madrid.

So, you've heard the story before. Guy meets girl. Guy falls madly in love with girl. They marry. Girl asks guy to build $60 million (circa 1631 C.E.) masoleum to their love upon her death. Well, maybe that last part is a bit different from the standard version. There are alot of ways to express love in this world, and for Shah Jahan, the Taj Mahal was one.

Before I can begin to describe what the Taj Mahal looks like at 6am on a Wednesday morning, I need to talk about a place that embodies a different kind of love. The Golden Palace at Amritsar. Kelley Cantrell and I left the Delhi train station at the crack of dawn (7:30, half an hour after I'm usually at work. Think Bill Bryson here...) and headed towards the Punjabi capital of Amritsar.

** A historical note here**

During the struggle for independence in India (most famouslly embodied by Mohandas Ghandi, later to be renamed "Mohatma" which means great soul), one of the biggest stumbling blocks was how to divide the Hindu and Muslim communities of India. Beginning with the raids of Mahmud of Ghanzi in the 11th century, the Muslim and Hindu communities of India had difficulty coexisting peacably. (BTW, I am lifting material generously from Lonely Planet. All copyrights, etc. Is there anything that book doesn't do??) Muslim rulers came in from Arabia and established various dynasties in India over the next seven or eight centuries, most notably during the Mughal dynasty (of which Shah Jahan was number five). Long story short, during the plans for a more stable political climate in post British India, there was a pressing need for the creation of a Muslim state (actually, they made two. Pakistan to the West, and Bangledesh to the East). Though the political boundaries were neatly drawn up on the map, the actual division of people created much bloodshed as each side,Hindu and Muslim, fled to their new homeland, killing each other along the way. The area of Kashmir, north of Punjab and Amristar where I was currently headed, is still a much disputed territory. The border between Pakistan and India had effectively divided the two most prominent cities of the Punjab area, Lahore and Amritsar, into two different countries. Problems ensued.

Anyhoo, we were headed to the Indian side of the former Punjab, Amritsar. On the train ride up, you could see the agricultural prowess that makes the Punjab the richest region in all of India prominently displayed in the passing fields. It actually reminded me of images I had seen of Vietnam or Thailand, rather than Northern India. Upon arriving at the most holy city for Sikhs (oh cripes, here we go again... The Sikh religion was founded by Guru Nanak in the 15th century as a way of protesting against the social rigidity of the caste system, much like Buddhism had done 2000 years previous. Sikhs fled from Lahore along with the Hindus and did just as much killing and dying as the Hindus along the way. Sikhs are known for their soldier-saints called khalsas. Since Lahore was now a part of the Muslim state of Pakistan, they headed en masse to Amritstar.) we headed to our accomodation, the mostly appropriately named Hotel Grand. Our plan was to head to the Golden Palace (the gurudwara of the Sikhs) early the next morning. Before that, however we had some important business to attend to. We were going to the circus!

Well, not the real circus, but you could have used that term synonymously with what we witnessed that steamy evening. As if the history of the Muslim/Hindu conflict coupled with the present day threat of nuclear warfare wasn't enough to incite further division, the border guards from the opposing sides saw it as their obligation to push it to a new level of competition. See, every evening at about seven o'clock, the border guards from each side perform a ritual that both reminds them of the real tension between the countries and serves as a acknowledgment of the armistice that currently exists between these two nuclear powers. The basic premise is to briefly open the gates to the border between India and Pakistan (which, incidentally, is open from 8am till 4pm so that people can actually cross the border) long enough to shake hands and lower the respective country's flag. The spectacle it has become only points to the competitive nature of all human beings and the unwavering pride that is associated with one's home team (in this case their actual homes). Basically, before this ceremony takes place, each country allows visitors to the border to fill the large ampitheatre that has been constructed to accomodate this event. Thousands of Indians push their way like cattle (that is one down side of living in a country with a billion people. Everyone is always pushing. I guess when you have to struggle for everything you have, unlike those of us who are reading and writing this here blog, the pushing is a logical side effect of that desire to get yours.) through a narrow fenced area like they have in amusement parks, in order to secure the best seating for displaying their country's pride. The Indian side has the atmoshpere of a Sunday afternoon football game, while the Pakistani side is divided by gender and the cries tend to be more of the ullulluing variety. The fervor of the cheering that ensues from both sides, however, is reminiscent of a Duke-Carolina baketball game. Which event is more fanatical you ask? It's a push. Then, after the crowd has been whipped into an appropriate frenzy by each sides border guards, they march out to the freshly opened gate, and two of the lucky border guards participate in the lamest millisecond handshake you've ever seen. Their overwhelming lack of sincerity is trumped only by the absolute absurdity of their uniforms. The Indian side has brown unis with a Red peacock-looking? feather extending from their hats, while the Pakastani side has blue unis with a red sash and feather piece. I couldn't decide whether to laugh or fear for my life if something went wrong in the course of the rehearsed pleasantries. The show was a great success as each side retreated to their country, confident that their way of life was superior. I was just happy to get the hell away from the crowds and the fervor.

After a much needed meal and rest (we watched most of the women's Wimbeldon final that evening which I hear was epic, though I missed the latter half cosily asleep on the couch. Hey, I'm in India. They watch tennis here too!), we struck off the next morning to the Golden Temple of Amritsar. The temple comlpex is framed by beautiful white marble and a running stream which you need to bathe your feet in before entering. The place had a spiritual feeling to say the least, and, bandana firmly on head, we headed to the inside to see the actual temple. The Golden Temple sits on a peninsula in the middle of a sacred watering hole. Siks from all over the world travel to Amritsar and bathe in the waters before heading into the temple. We were there on a Sunday morning and I had to smile as I compared it to the limited church going experiences of my youth. My image of a holy Sunday morning consisted of dressing in jacket in tie and trudging down to the chapel at my boarding school. There we would fight off sleep as we listened to the sermon and anxiously awaited the post chapel bruch complete with a choice of Eggs Benedict or pancakes, or both. (Don't get me wrong, there were times when I felt the spirituality of that place as much as any I've been to. It's just a stark contrast to the bathing, circling, interactive feel of the gurudwara.) We headed into the Temple and were privy to the reverent recitation of the Guru Granth Sahib, their holy book, by the four gurus who read and played accompanying music. Afterwards, we headed to the dining hall, where we were served a free meal of dhal and naan as we sat in rows on the floor and communed with the other pilgrims. One of the intentions of the founders of the Temple was to have a free meal for all pilgrims who arrived at the Temple after their journey. We decided to take them up on their offer and the communal gnoshing was quite pleasant.

On the way back from the temple and towards the train station to pick up a return ticket which someone (me) had not been able to secure in advance, we struck up a conversation with a Sikh who was purchasing tickets as well. Jaskirat, in turns out, is a graduate student, set to begin his studies in NYC at the beginning of August. We got to talking and he promptly invited us into his grandmother's house where we talked for about two hours. He answered some of my questions about his religion (why they wore those turbans? as a way to distinguish themselves from others in battle. The colors are of a personal preference not religious significance.) the politics of India and Pakistan (see above notes on history, which I recieved some instruction from Jaskirat as well) and the globalization of the world and the inequity of payment for services in India (he can do the same work in India as the US and get paid a quarter of the amount). It was an all around pleasant encounter and I gladly offered him the immediate friendship of any and all people I'd ever talked to in New York. I'm hoping to see him at the end of the summer...

So, a few train rides and one shower later, I found myself in Agra and subsequently outside the Taj Mahal at 6am on a Wednesday. I was a little worried that the build up of arguably the most famous building in the world might put me off upon an actual viewing, but that was not the case. I was struck by the sheer size, beauty and symmetry of that most famous monument to love in the world. After the requisite shots of the image of the Taj reflected in the pool, I walked up to and then around the magnificent building. Shah Jahan had begun its construction in 1631 and with the help of 20,000 slaves and the taxes collected from the poor, completed the masoleum in 22 years. Mumtaz had been his favorite wife who had died during the childbirth of their fourteenth child. Before her death, she had given him a model for the Taj Mahal saying, build me one of these when I go. (so much for a subtle hint for a diamond) He did as a tribute to his love and was slated to begin construction of an oppposing black marble version on the opposite bank of the Yamuna river, when he was thrown in prison by his son (his son, who was very religious, didn't think his pops should be taking all the money from the poor to build a monument to himself. Go figure...) He lived out the remaining years of his life miles down the road from the Taj with his only opportunity for viewing his epic creations was through a diamond pointed in its direction (he had lost his near sighted vision and could only see the Taj through the prism of the diamond. All of this I learned, as well as the history of Agra Fort, from a master teacher in the form of a tour guide inside the fort. This guy knew his stuff.)

So, we come back to the concept of love; love for a woman, love of a holy place, love for country, love of self. See, there's alot of different kinds of love out there and we can only hope that Burt can see that there are many places for our world to get the love it needs...

I'm hoping to find some in Varanasi and beyond...

"Oh, the places you'll go!" --Theodore Guisseul aka Dr. Seuss

Weaving through the traffic near the city palace of Jaipur on the back of a motorcycle, I clung to Harish's right shoulder and thought to myself, "we're going to hit that cow." We did brush up against the front wheel of a rickshaw wallah's (bike with seats on the back to carry people) front tire, but the cow was untouched. When travelling through India, you learn that the cow is truly viewed as the mother and that image resonated in my mind.

Perhaps I should backtrack a bit. Jaipur was to be my first solo travelling experience within India. I was taking the 7:15 express Shatabi train to Jaipur and was to arrive around 1pm. With Clayton's sound advice ringing in my ears (ears that were now much cleaner than I could ever imagine. See, the night before in the park off Connaught place I had decided to test my newfound confidence in Delhi by hanging in the park as the sunlight faded. While sitting and enjoying the hodgepodge collection of families, young children, and sleeping men, I was met by a man who asked me where I was from. I responded, "America" and we chatted for a bit. He then pulled out a tattered book from his pcoket and showed me a message from a fellow American. It said and I paraphrase here, "Come on you wus, let this man do his work. It is truly remarkable and you will not believe what he pulls out of your ears! Go ahead and do it!" Perplexed, I read on as he showed me about 20 other messages like this in English (there were many, many others in an assortment of laguages) and said that his job was to clean out people's ears. I had new confidence, sure, but this was a little much. While we talked, a cohort of his came beside me and started asking similar questions about where I was from, how I liked Delhi etc. During his inquisition, I felt a cotton swab enter my ear. The other guy pulled out some yellow gunk from my ear and proudly showed me. He then explained that his ear cleaning was better than any doctor's and that I should trust his "soft and gentle touch" (Irish guy's words). Before I knew it I had a tool in my ear and was periodically being showed some of the most disgusting brown gunk that I had ever seen coming from inside my quite clean (I thought) head. While he worked his magic, his compatriot took off my shoes and began to shine them. Since they were hiking boots, I protested, but to no avail. Before I knew it, I was being worked over a la the Hilton Spa and just laughing to myself. "Only in India" is an expression that I was rapidly getting familiar with.) I boarded the train. As I sat down by my window seat, prepared to look upon the beauty that would be the Indian countryside, I was promptly informed that I was in the wrong seat. The guy at the Foreign Tourist Office had apparently not gotten me the window seat that he had promised. I moved to my aisle seat and saw that I was seated next to a white, travelling, friendly looking couple a few years older than me. As the train pulled away, I looked out the window to catch my first view of the Indian countryside, and what I was met with was a side alright; it just so happened to be the backside of a man who was doing his morning business on the rail next to us. As I continued to look, I noticed that he was not alone. There were about twenty other guys out there initiating their day in the same way. The guy (Brent it turns out and his wife Elena) turned to me and said, " I've heard that alot of people use the rails as a toilet". Uh, yeah. This pleasant conversation starter was all the fuel we needed to begin a conversation that would last most of the five hour trip to Jaipur. I found out that they'd been traveling around the world for eight months and were on the last four days of their trip. We talked about travel, surfing, and what a steak would taste like at that exact moment, among many other topics. When we arrrived in Jaipur, I aked if I could tag along to see how they handled the onslaught of willing auto rickshaw drivers (whenever you arrive by train, there is an army of drivers willing to take you anywhere in the city for "very cheap". The problem is that when you arrive at the hotel you want, the rates for the rooms have doubled so that the hotels can pay these drivers a comission). After negotiating for a bit and upsetting at least 5 rickshaw drivers, we headed for a neutral street corner near the hotel we wanted to stay at. After checking out a few different options and asking to see the rooms before taking them (an unheard of practice in the US), we settled on a nice hotel with a lawn and patio. It was the most they had paid for a room since their trip started, but they were near the end and it turned out to be well worth the extra cost. Settled nicely in our tourist friendly hotel, I got ready to check out the sights of Jaipur with my trusty Lonely Planet in hand (actually these books are awesome, but it does certainly make you feel like a tourist).

How then, do you ask, did I end up on the back of Harish's motorcycle dodging cows. Well, I'll tell you. (Btw, if you haven't started a blog yourself, I highly recommend it. It's addictive and it makes you feel like you're writing to someone other than your own convoluded journal mind. At least I know my family is reading it.)

I started walking towards where I thought the city palace was, item number one on the Lonely Planet to do list. As I walked I got lost, then loster, then a bit panicked and then befuddled. How had my impeccable sense of direction let me down? I asked someone which way it was and they kindly pointed in the opposite direction from where I was headed. Nice. So, back in the other direction I went and entered into the marketplace outside the City Palace. As I was walking, I noticed a few boys stirring some large cauldrons with some yellow and red dyes, respectively. I asked them if they were making those for the saris and they said, "Yes". I asked for a picture and they readily complied (as all of the people I've met do. They love the digital camera with an instant image of themselves!) One of the guys wrote down his address for me and asked me to send him one. I'm planning on doing it. I then asked him if they made the saris there and he took me to his shop. The owner showed me one, which was beautiful, and then proceeded to pull down just about every piece of clothing in the shop for me to see and feel. I mean there were literally 100 different saris on the bed when he was done. I really liked them, so I picked out a few for a lucky couple of folks back home (to remain anonymous for the time being) and headed back down the street feelin good about the personal nature of the transaction that had jsut taken place.

That was when I almost walked into a giant hole. As I stepped forward, a guy grabbed my arm and said, "Look out for the hole!" Little did I know that this was to begin my friendship with Harish. I thanked him and we started chatting a bit. One of the first questions he asked me after he found out that I was an American was why so many Americans were rude to Indians. He was the third person from Jaipur to ask me that question that day. I told him that I thought it was because the rickshaw drivers and market sellers were so often so in your face, that they probably supposed that everyone had an agenda. (I have found that in my travels, Americans can be some of the worst interactive participants out there. We are all so comfortable in our own worlds that we seem reluctant to break out and talk to people openly and in a friendly manner. Everyone here wants to say hello and alot of times, I feel as though I have an almost celebrity status. Children and men will come up just to say hello and shake my hand. It's quite nice and I'm always eager to comply. Could you imagine doing that to a foreigner in the US? Think about that..) He seemed to see where I was coming from and we talked a bit more. I found out that he had studied at University in Jaipur, learning English and French so that he coudl pursue his dream of becoming a fashion designer. With my Logan Circle bias in mind, I thought that maybe he was trying to pick me up, but soon realized that this was far from the case. He had a true passion for his work and a spirit that was immediatley apparent. To say we hit it off is an understatement.

He took me across the street to see his factory. (He was a Rajput. Rajupt warriors had once dominated the Rajasthan region, protecting the vast wealth of the Maharajas from various invaders. The pride that he and his family took in this history was evident, though not arrogant) From the rooftop, I could see the marketplace, the minaret and...there was that damn city palace! We continued our talk for about an hour or so, past the time of the closing of the city palace and into the late afternoon. He took time to answer all of my questions about Hinduism and then asked me if I wanted to see the Birla Lakshmi Narayan Temple outstide the city. We were to take his motorcylce. As we walked down to the street, a voice called out to him and he stopped. It was his friend Daniesh. Daniesh as it turns out was a Brahmin, a member of the highest class in Hindu society. (The caste system was outlawed at the time of independence, but it is most definitley still there in practice). Daniesh asked me what I did and I explained. He told me that he had studied all about the chakras, the ancient energy fields of the Hindu mystics. What happened next, I cannot explain in words. I will gadly offer to tell any and all of you of this experience at a later time over a beer, cup of coffee or a liter of bottled water (my new fav), but I cannot do it justice in this format. Suffice to say, it had a powerful impact on how I percieve the world around me and involved bananas, 10 rupees and some monkeys for starters...

I finally did get on the back of Harish's motorcycle and he skillfully weaved me out to the temple. I had a few of those "my God if my Mom knew what I was doing she'd freak out" kind of moments, but it also brought me a great sense of peace. Here I was in India, being given a private tour of Jaipur with a guy with rajput blood in him and I am completely happy. This was NOT in the Lonely Planet. We watched sunset over the temple in alternating converstaion about the different statues and artwork and comfortable silence. He drove me back to the hotel and said he'd see me in the morning (we had decided to get a Rajastani breakfast of Lassi and naan and I also had to see Daniesh again. See above note.) I tried to explain to the Canadians what my day had been like, but it was too hard. After all, that experience had been for me, not them, and there was no way to describe it. I fell asleep happy.

The next day Harish showed me some sights, we had our breakfast, I met with Daniesh, we shopped at some of his friends shops and we continued our conversations. As he dropped me off at the train station that evening, I realized that the end of a chapter in my life was coming to an end. But, what a chapter it had been. Harish has offered to have me come back whenever and stay with his family and also said that if I need anything in India ever, to give him a call. I've had alot of friends in my life, but I doubt any initial experience will ever match that one.

As I said before, India feels like home now. Instead of being one of those Americans who walks by too busy to engage in conversation, I will remember my experience with Harish and stop to talk. The places we'll go indeed...