Before getting to Huntington, I stopped in Portsmouth, Ohio, where we lived for six years or so, pre-adolescence. A once bustling industrial city on the river, Portsmouth is now struggling under the dual curses of poverty and fundamentalist religion. I arrived feeling an exuberance for tracking down my old haunts; the baseball field, the river bank, the houses where we lived, the woods where we played. My sparkly excitement was met with large swaths of heavy, brown despair. Nihilism, broken minds, and cancer treatment ads covering giant billboards. Life was often difficult in Portsmouth where I spent some of the grayer years of my coming up. There is some nostalgia, and a few seriously fun memories of rolling down grassy hills, learning to ride a bike with no hands, and the neighborhoods where we lived, with whole societies of children that encompassed friends and enemies, where games of kick-the-can or red-rover were played with to-the-death ferocity.

Before Portsmouth I wandered around Granville, Ohio, where the blissful, idyllic parts of my early childhood reside, all sledding in deep snow, walks to the duck pond, the summer blackberry feast out back, naps curled up with my mom. Then to Athens, where I was born and later spent my first quarter of college. A quintessential college town with a gorgeous campus and all the important places within about a fifteen minute walk from the main quad. Brick streets and old buildings, front porches, a town warm and friendly, bursting at the seams with the creative and the curious.

My family moved to West Virginia when I was 12 and I left at age 22 for San Francisco. The last time I was in Huntington was spring of ’06, just about a year after my dad died. I came here to find him and see him again, to hear his voice and talk to his spirit that still inhabited the sidewalks and buildings and every tree and blade of grass on the campus of MU where he had taught for thirty-something years. He was easy to find, standing at the river, the mighty Ohio, sacred to all who have grown up along its banks. Spring is gorgeous here, and that trip aligned perfectly with the dogwood trees blooming like crazy, daffodils poking out of their cold hibernation, trees budding, winter coats getting left at home, smiles and warm hellos. Life emerging from cracks in the pavement, clear signs of hope and peace.

This time I’ve entered Huntington from the back door, the end car on the train. I see myself on so many corners, walking my paper route, riding endless hours on my bike. I see myself horny and alive, moving and playing, avoiding traps and bullies, seeking out the fun and adventurous. I see myself afraid, anxious about my place in the world I was growing into. I watch myself from behind, early twenties, loading my gear into an old bread delivery van and driving West. And I sit quietly and look, and stare, and listen, as the light softens and fades, and the frost takes over the cold ground and the naked trees. I don’t want to get close enough to touch or kiss or enter the places of my youth. I am watching from across the street, and that’s close enough.

I loved New York. I want to live there.

Last night I parked my car in the Bowery and was walking back toward the full-funk hostel where I was staying when I passed a small café. There was a slight chill in the air and it was drizzling rain. The café entrance was down a few steps and a handful of patrons were spilling out onto the small patio between the sidewalk and the door. There was talking and laughing and the place seemed warm and alive, an inviting contrast to the cold wet loneliness of the sidewalk. I stopped and looked. A beautiful woman in a shiny red dress was leaning out the door. She looked at me and said HI, and I said HI back. I asked if they were still open and she said, in a luscious accent, “Yes, well, it’s my birthday and we’re having a party, and you’re welcome to come in and have some cake.” I went in and sat at the bar and realized most people there were speaking Russian. The bartender, Tatiana (yes.. seriously) steered me toward one of their homemade infused vodkas and I sat and chatted with a guy sitting at the bar. (New Yorkers are so much friendlier than San Franciscans. What’s up with this?) As I was starting to leave, shiny red dress started dancing a tango with one of her suitors. I was mesmerized and tingling, watching and mentally inserting my own hands, my feet, my body into the mix.

I want to live there. In New York. And I want to live in that spontaneous tango.

Driving today from the edge of the East coast with Manhattan still buzzing at my back, toward West Virginia and Ohio, my home states, it felt like I was coming full circle. Looking at my past, from behind, in the light of the present. Or something like that. I feel like I’m sneaking up on myself. When I look at the drawing I’ve made of the trajectory of my life on the map in my head, I’m standing at the Ohio river facing the West coast. It’s very late on a very rainy night in West Virginia, and I’m staring at the back of my own head.

Tomorrow I’m meeting family in Ohio for Thanksgiving. I can smell them pies from here.

There are rats above my room, living in the ceiling above the bathroom. They rustle and fight and argue and screech at each other all night. There’s a herd of them, and sometimes it sounds like one or more are being slammed against the wall, getting the shit beat out of them. Thud, thud, screech, scramble. The noise from their rat wars is so loud that it sounds like parts of the ceiling are breaking under the strain. They don’t bother me too much since I don’t have to look at them.

The cutest of all the critters I’m sharing my room with is a small green lizard. Counting tail, he’s maybe six inches long, but he’s never fully stretched out. He climbs along the wall in a scriggly “S” motion, skittering two or three feet at a time. He comes in through a crack where the broken air conditioner sits in the wall and meanders around, looking for the hole above the door where a power cable sticks out. He pokes his head in and then slowly enters the hole, his tail sometimes sticking out for a bit.

A few days ago I found him on my bed, just sitting there, next to my pillow. He hung out there for a while, maybe asleep, but I doubt it. I moved closer and he jetted up the headboard and hung out there long enough for me to get a good picture of him. He’s cute, with a lean and efficient body, a tapered tail and mottled green skin. I’m sure his coloring serves as camouflage outside on a tree, but against the pink walls of this room he ain’t hidin’ from nobody.

I think that’s pretty much it for the menagerie; a cockroach, a cricket, mouse, rats and little green lizard, all sharing a small room with a tall bald man from USA.

It took me three stomps to kill the first one. He was also big, and thick, and really crunchy. When I finished him off, my roommate yelled “you didn’t kill it, did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why? He wasn’t hurting you. He was a harmless living thing.”

Ross has some kind of respect for these creatures, something having to do with them being able to survive a nuclear holocaust. As I flushed the guy down the toilet, I felt a pang of guilt. Ross was right. The bug had no ill intent. He was just looking for some dead skin or some mold from which to fashion a nice dinner.

This cockroach is still alive, the beneficiary of tenuous Buddhist generosity gingerly visiting upon my conscience. He slowly walks around the edge of the tub, sniffing with those gigantic feelers. I swear he’s looking for his friend. When I first decided to let him live and wondered if he was missing his pal, I muttered under my breath “Too bad. Let that be a lesson to you sewer sucking bastards.” Now I’m really trying to see him as just another of God’s noble creatures. Some mama cockroach’s son. Maybe someone’s lost pet.

Spiritual practice with a cockroach.

Just stay out of my bed, you fucker.

What sounds a little sad is that, after half an hour or so, the cricketing becomes irregular until, a few minutes later, it stops altogether. What’s going on? Is he tired? He waits all day long until it’s dark so he can sing his legs off, and then he poops out after half an hour. Cricket? Did you sing yourself to sleep?

The man in the small makeshift stall took two betel leaves out of a bowl of water, patting them once with a rag. First good reason to not put this mess in my mouth. On the leaves he spread some kind of white paste, then some brown paste. Then a sprinkling of nuts, a spoonful of fennel seed, a finger glop of what looked like dark red preserved fruit, then he folded it up and handed it to me.

“What do I do? Eat it, or just chew it?”
“Eat.” said Pravhdeep, as he waited for his.

I looked back at the jeep.

“If this goes wrong, will you guys take me to the hospital?” I yelled, half serious.
“You gonna eat that thing? You’re in trouble.” Ross called from the front seat.

Something mostly clear was dripping out from inside the leafy wad and I kind of froze.

“Put in!” Pravhdeep demanded.

I took a breath and stuck the thing in my mouth but couldn’t quite get it all in. Pravhdeep reached over and shoved it fully in my mouth with his fingers. I started to chew and laugh at the same time and first noticed that some of the nuts were not giving in to the pressure of my teeth. Those were the first to come out, dropping to the ground. I kept chewing and my attention wandered to all the different flavors; sweet, sour, tangy, earthy, green, rich, brown and red. My salivary glands kicked in and soon my mouth was full of watery, leafy, nutty, fruity something. Rather strong aromas worked their way up the back of my sinuses, which was pleasant and somewhat comforting. I was kind of enjoying it. I chewed for a long time to try to get the pieces, mostly the leaf, into bits small enough to swallow.

This was one of several stops along the busy road back to Derha Dun. We had done a morning workshop in a small public school in the village of Vikas Nagar, 40km from Derha Dun. The workshop had gone well, although the number of students was much smaller than previous mornings and the timing was off, so there was less time for art. The students in this tiny rural school were incredibly shy and at first seemed to not believe that they were actually allowed to have fun at this. I’m traveling with my good friend Ross as he does the Peace Exchange part of his Create Peace Project. This was my fourth workshop and I’m enthralled and totally in love with this project. There are always several moments that steal my heart, usually somewhere around the time the kids ‘get’ that they are going to make art on a card and send a message of peace to kids in the US, all the way on the other side of the planet. In exchange for their efforts they will receive a card with art and a message from their unseen contemporaries in California. Their eyes get big and they get excited and my little heart melts. I love this.

The chewing continued, but the mouthful of chunky mush never got to the place where I wanted to actually swallow. I couldn’t stop thinking about that bowl of water and the dirty rag, not to mention that I was not at all sure about swallowing those leaves. I crossed the road and spit out as much as I could, hacking my way back to the jeep and continuing to let fly pieces of leaf and fennel out the back window as we drove.

“Your tongue is red!” Pravhdeep shouted as the jeep rumbled down the road. OK, I tried paan. Sort of. Close enough.

The first time I went to Dalat I was in a van full of nuns. We started driving from their convent in Ho Chi Minh City early in the morning and filled every seat in that thing. With all our luggage and food for the trip we were packed pretty tightly. On the road we had a breakfast of soft cheese and baguettes. Parisian style bread is one of the nicer legacies from the French occupation and you can find it all over Ho Chi Minh City (the new name for Saigon). That, and clean ice, which is great considering the heat in southern Vietnam. Iced jasmine tea and incredibly delicious fruit shakes keep the body cool and the tongue happy. I have at least two a day. Every day. We made several stops along the way, mostly for more food. The sisters have several friends who operate farms and orchards and I had four different types of fruit that day that I had never seen. I don’t remember the names, except for one. Jack fruit. A jack fruit is a huge thing, about the size of a bloated football. It’s got a thick green skin with little points all over it and it grows in clusters, hanging like bizarre growths from the armpits of the jack fruit tree. Inside are chewy melon colored segments that are sort of like not very juicy mango. Tasty, if a little odd.

We were heading to Dalat to visit one of the five schools for blind children that the sisters operate. If you want to know love let a three year old blind kid who can’t speak English crawl into your lap and decide he wants to move in. This little one wanted to touch everything and when he found my camera hanging from my neck he wouldn’t let go of it, caressing and clutching every surface, “seeing” it with his fingers. Later in the day it took me quite a while to get all the grimy jack fruit out of all the nooks and crannies.

At one point in the drive the sisters started singing. Lovely, sweet, harmonious voices lilting through the rumbling vehicle. The singing turned into chanting which I surmised were prayers. Not understanding a word of Vietnamese I could still feel the devotion and the love they were expressing. I felt warm and accepted in their company. Completely comfortable and very well cared for. We stopped for lunch and feasted on tangy soup, grilled chicken, savory BBQ fish and piles of steaming rice. Before lunch arrived there were small bowls of Spanish peanuts, the kind with the red skin left on. The sisters would meticulously peel the skins off and let them fall to the floor, creating a swirling little forest of red.

My reason for being on that bus was an invitation I had received from Sister Thoa. She is a friend of a friend of mine at work and I had contacted her to see about visiting the school that’s located in HCMC. She was very happy to show me around and I spent an entire afternoon at the school that day. I got to see how blind kids learn to write in brail and heard them play music. I got a tour of some of the software they use on the computer that reads text for them and can also read commands and messages. The kids can become quite proficient on the computer because they perceive it differently from sighted people and are able to memorize commands and keystrokes much faster. Many of the kids are able to go to regular high school after a few years with Sister Thoa and the teachers there. Some are disabled in other ways but might still be able to learn a craft or skill. Some go on to massage school as blind masseurs are quite in demand. The ones with multiple disabilities will have to go to other schools or institutions when they reach a certain age.

The absolute highlight of my day there, and one of the highlights of the last few years of my life, was that I got to sit in on a music class. There were two girls playing the Koto, the Japanese stringed instrument where one hand does the plucking and the other bends the notes. One boy on keyboard and another girl on a beautiful instrument with one string, the name of which I could not understand but translated into something having to do with the moon. There was a wall with mandolins hanging all over it and when I mentioned that I played, that was all they needed to hear. I was in. The teacher sang the song to me and I eventually picked it up. A sweet Vietnamese melody that the kids had become quite good at. Playing in that little impromptu ensemble was sweeter than I can describe. To communicate musically with those blind children was as intimate as if I had touched their souls. It transcended everything; sight or no sight, Vietnamese or English, young or old… nothing mattered but that song. We made music and it felt like a moment of heaven on earth. We were all happy little musicians when we finally got it right.

The nuns and volunteers who run these schools are made of pure love. They give and give from a seemingly endless supply of kindness and patience. The schools are very modest and don’t get any support from the government or the church at large, instead relying on donations and income from selling the crafts the students make. The kids live onsite and the parents don’t have to pay for their children to attend the school.

When we arrived in Dalat we visited the second school of the day. I was invited to join them for dinner and again we feasted. This time it was a soup that was cooked on a small propane burner in the center of our table. A boiling pot of broth, fresh seafood, raw greens, all mixed on the spot and ladled out fresh and yummy over rice noodles.

I had neglected to read in my guidebook that Dalat is considerably cooler than Saigon. I had only sandals and thin pants with no jacket or hat. It was a tad uncomfortable. I stayed in a nice hotel and then next day took a walk to the lake in the center of town. As I was walking to the market before catching my bus back to Saigon a young man stopped on his motorbike and started talking to me. This has been a common occurrence throughout my trip. People are just that friendly. Often they want to sell you something, like a ride on the motorbike, but just as often they’re simply curious as to what a bald white man is doing in their town. Hinh was the young man’s name and we quickly started talking about the war. His father had worked for the Americans during the war and was upset when we left the country to be overtaken by the communists. He spent two years in prison and another two years in a “re-education” camp. Since he had been working for the Americans he was lucky to still be alive. He was still alive and is doing well.

Hinh belongs to a loose knit group of moto-guides called the Easy Riders. They are almost legendary as guides, taking folks for day trips or often for much longer journeys. Next Monday, Hinh will pick me up in Hoi An and we’ll head into the Central Highlands for a few days to see the Ho Chi Minh Trail and visit some small ethnic minority villages in the hills. He’ll then drop me at a beach town and I’ll make my way up north.

So, tonight is my last night in Saigon. I arrived here on the ninth of April and have totally fallen in love with this city. Vietnam is exploding. Since following the example of China and moving towards Capitalism, their potentially overheating economy is going nuts, projected to grow by nearly 8% this year. Blah blah… but what that means is that things are changing quickly and everyone is aware of it. Hinh mentioned to me in our brief talk that he’s very excited about Vietnam joining the World Trade Organization. I cautioned that this might have as much negative impact as positive.

This city buzzes with motorbikes and at rush hour they converge at intersections in teaming masses of chaos. You can see everything on a motorbike, from families of five to merchants transporting goods. If it’s not on a motorbike it’s on a bicycle, or a cart. If it’s not on wheels, it’s being carried by a woman on two baskets suspended by a pole on her shoulder. Yeah, like you’ve seen in the movies, complete with the conical straw hat. The piont is, everything is moving.

So much of life happens on the street here. Small stands or carts with all types of food being cooked on the sidewalk with a handful of plastic chairs setup for patrons. Folks do their work on the sidewalk, they cook dinner, raise their kids, eat, talk, laugh, argue, and if it’s hot enough, pull out a lounge chair and sleep on the sidewalk.

Things I’ve seen sold from bicycles, carts or carried by hand: stacks of books and videos that must weigh 35lbs., taller than the seller and held together with a strip of material; dried fish hanging from a rack on the back of a bicycle with a small platform and tiny coal oven for heating the sauce; old men with lottery tickets; cigarettes, sunglasses, lighters, toys, fingernail clippers and other items for personal grooming; kids with flowers, kids with packages of gum, mothers with babies selling sugar-free Dentyne; women with two small baskets, one with a small charcoal oven and the other with batter and molds for making fresh waffles; a man on a bike with a loudspeaker playing a recording of a woman’s voice saying the same thing over and over, apparently advertising the large box of baguettes on the back; and… get this… corn. CORN Y’ALL! Corn hanging from a small rack over a little table that contains a small charcoal grill on which to grill said corn, all on a bicycle!

Did you get that? Grilled corn. On a bike! Rolling right up to you with all it’s grilled yummy goodness. Can life get any better than that?!! I say no. No, it cannot.

I have been so warmly received here, especially when folks find out I’m American. I’m a bit surprised by that. Not one note of animosity or resentment. Not a sneer or frown or bad word coming my way. Just warm handshakes, big smiles and welcome to Vietnam. The Vietnamese people have seen so many foreigners invade their country that they’re very happy to have it back and fiercely intent on remaining independant. They don’t live in the past and they just want to get on with the business of living their lives and growing their country. The dynamism is infectious.

And it’s so easy to travel here. Surprisingly so. Vietnam is an easier country to travel in than the United States . Well, actually most countries are better suited for foreign travel than the US, so that’s not really saying much. Let me try again. Vietnam is as easy to travel in as any country I’ve ever visited. So… if you’re thinking of heading out of the country for a vacation, come to Vietnam. The people are awesome, the scenery is beautiful, and the food will leave you smiling and begging for more.

Oh… the second time I will visit Dalat? At the end of this motorbike trip.

This is my first post in a long time and there’s an awful lot I’ve left out; Nepal, Thailand, Cambodia. Some of the most intense experiences of my life. They’ll have to wait for later posts.

Varanasi was one of the most challenging places I visited in India, and one of the most peaceful. There is more poverty here than I have seen so far. Lots of folks living in tiny hovels, wearing little more than shreds. The touts from those selling everything from taxi rides to spiritual healing is nearly relentless. I did completely succumb, however, to the cutest little girl at one of the ghats. She was probably seven years old and approached me with total confidence, asking if I wanted to buy one of the little bowls she had laid out in the basket she was carrying. Each bowl was made of woven leaves and held rose petals and one small candle. I said “no” as politely as I could, several times, but she took my hand and led me down the stone steps to the river’s edge to show me how it’s done. She set down her basket and deftly struck a match. She lit the candle and told me to put it in the water. I asked her if she would do it for me and she did. I saw a wise sage in that little girl, worldly way beyond her years. Her soul could have spent a hundred trips through this life. She could have been the collected spirit of the entire city of Varanasi before it was plundered and burned by the Mughals. She held that moment in the palm of her hand and commanded my attention with the softest of little girl voices. In that moment, she owned me. She placed the bowl in the water and gave it a push. It moved out into the slow-moving Ganges to join the dozen or so other flickering lights.

There are over eighty ghats in Varanasi, all on the West side of the river as it makes a bend to the East. The asymmetry of the buildings only being on one side works perfectly for the purpose of pilgrimage. Some sixty thousand a day come to wash their souls, or their hair, or their cows. They approach the water with towering temples behind them, atop steep stairs of varying pitch and depth. Before them, their holiest of rivers. And on the other side, emptiness. Brown grass, blue sky, and a gentle breeze. There is on this river bank, literally and spiritually, this side and the other side. On the human side, suffering. On the other side, redemption. Heaven. Peace.

Indians also bring their dead to be cremated at two of the ghats. Outcasts from the lowest castes build funeral pyres with just the right amount of wood to cremate a person. There are about a dozen fires going at once.

My father was cremated less than two years ago. The last time we saw him was in his hospital bed. After we left the hospital, his body was removed, prepared, and cremated. We then took his ashes to Huntington to be sprinkled in the Ohio, our own holy river. At Varanasi, families prepare the body. They then drape it with layers of shimmering gold fabric and carry it down to the water’s edge. They give the body a quick dip, remove the layers of fabric and lay it on the pyre, wrapped only in a tight, gauzy white shroud. The fire is started with bundles of dry grass and the flames build quickly. Huge billows of smoke are illuminated by one large floodlight on top of the ghat. The smells of the river, cow dung, stale water and mud and the smoke from wood, fabric and flesh penetrate me.

This business is carried out twenty four hours a day, every day. It’s quite the enterprise, with a small market at the top of the ghat for purchasing the gold fabric, for paying the burning fee, purchasing the wood for burning and sandalwood powder that’s thrown in the fire, and a barber for the male members of the family to have their faces and heads shaved. The fire builders never stop working. Carrying and stacking large bundles of wood, tending to the fires, making sure the bodies are properly consumed, their labor both sacred and mundane. After about three hours the fire dies to a point where it can be dowsed with water. The ashes are then put into the river.

I spent about three hours at the burning ghats that night. I had a lot of apprehension about watching the ritual burning. I was afraid that it would be more difficult because of my own father’s cremation. I was surprised to find it quite peaceful. There seemed to be a connection that the families had to the process that perhaps I did not. So, that night I got to participate in some small way with freeing a soul. It’s amazing to think that this has been going on for thousands of years. I sat there on the concrete steps, feeling the warm air, smelling the smells, feeling so completely out of time and out of place and at the same time absolutely accepted. I was held in this ancient moment of transcendence where families send their loved one’s bodies back to the five elements of space, water, fire, wind and earth, and their spirits to God. Someone once said that human knowledge of our own death causes us to die just a little every day. We’re not long on this quick spin around the mortal coil and sitting watching the fires helped me just a little to let go of my own fear of dying.

The entire day was filled with the sacred and the profane, often in the same breath. I felt quite privileged to be on those ghats, at that river and to be alive.

I flew back to Delhi the next day, my third entrance to that blissful chaos. Today I left India and flew to Katmandu. Nepal is similar to India in some ways, but there is a bit more space here. Thinner air, more room, less garbage, no cow shit, horrible air pollution, and many more smiles. The Nepalese seem at first glance to be happier, lighter than their Indian neighbors. Perhaps Buddhism has cast a layer of calm over this Shangri-La. And there is a buzz here that is no doubt aided by the trekking industry. I’m not physically prepared for a serious trek through the Himalayas, but I bought a book and tomorrow I’ll investigate some low impact hikes that will get me closer to the mountains. Everest base camp will have to wait for another trip, but I do want to go smell that crisp mountain air.

I’ve decided to take a break from this blog. I have an obsessive-compulsive mind and I have noticed myself “spectatoring”, observing my experience as I’m in it and then narrating it in my head in preparation for writing it here. That’s not working for me and I want to drop down into a more immediate experience. This has been fun, but the only way I can see right now to dive deeper into this journey is to stop writing about it. I’m hoping I can find a way to be really present and still post from time to time, but right now I need to give it a rest.

Thanks for reading.

Peace.

It’s been quite a few days.

One thing that has become quite obvious is that I am trying to do too much. In the way that travel reveals much about my regular life, this element reminds me of how I cram too much into a day, trying to take in everything I possibly can. I’m doing that over here. There is so much to this life and I want to swallow every taste. I am way too attached to this experience of being alive but I don’t see it dampening any time soon.

The disilluionment I felt in Pushkar has melted and I’ve softened in areas I wasn’t aware were stiff. I suppose it’s not a bad thing to have your illusions broken down, but it’s not fun while it’s happening.

I am quite aware of a longing in me that drives much of my life. In India, it is quite pronounced. I just want to take this entire country into my mouth and savor it. Even things that bothered me so much early on have embedded themselves in my desires. A couple days ago I realized that I was finding the smell of a trash fire to be comforting, where for most of my time here I resisted the acrid smell of burning plastic and other garbage that burns morning and night. It’s amazing to see how something like that can become familiar and homey. I guess that’s how it happens that people take on practices that would drive crazy those unfamiliar.

I had a crazy experience two days ago. I had hired a car and driver for three days, a very common practice here, especially among Indians since few of them own cars. The driver had been annoying because he was fairly erratic, even for an Indian driver. After lunch on Friday, his driving became really bad, swerving from side to side and barely missing oncoming trucks. I tried to relax but it kept getting worse. The thought finally occured to me that he might be intoxicated. As the fear washed over me, I decided that, if it didn’t get better quickly, I was going to demand he let me out on the side of the road. We were halfway between Jaipur and Agra, with very little going on except scattered farms and occasional roadside stands, but I figured I would be much better off hitching a ride than staying with this guy. As the driving got worse, I began to yell at him to stay on our side of the road. Just as I was about to tell him to pull over, a large tour bus gradually pushed us off to the side of the road. The driver tried to back up to continue driving and I began to yell at him to stop the car. A second tour bus pulled over and blocked us in. At that point the driver of the first tour bus came over, grabbed the keys from the ignition of our car, and began screaming at the driver and slapping his face. I bolted out of the car, grabbed my bags and then tried to stop the one driver from slapping the other. A crowd had gathered and the slapping subsided but the yelling continued. I saw a tear flow from my drivers eye and felt sorry for him. But I was also angry, and terribly relieved to have been rescued.

I was then whisked into the tour bus, filled with surprised and sympathetic Dutch tourists. They could not have been nicer. I rode with them to their hotel, had some lunch, and then some folks from the hotel drove me the rest of the way into Agra.

I hesitated writing this because I didn’t want my mom to read it. She’s fairly anxious about this trip and I don’t want to add to her anxiety, but… well, mom. Shit happens. And, amazingly, sometimes the universe steps in and rescues us.

I’ve had a fantastic few days since then, my cancelled train to Varanasi last night notwithstanding. It seems that the best way to get there now is to take a train back to Delhi and then fly to Varanasi tomorrow.

Too many things. But, Varanasi is a must-do-hell-or-high-water for me.

I wish I had more time to write, about the warm encounters I had at the Taj Mahal with some teachers from Delhi, or the couple hours I just spent in a new shopping mall watching folks trying to navigate an escalator (many, apparantly for the first time) or the terribly sweet openings I felt at Vrindavan yesterday. Vrindavan is definitely a place I want to return to. It just tenderized me. I got to see the hundreds of widows chanting at one of the temples (look up “widows of Vrindavan” for more info.) I could have sat there listening for hours.

India has layed me open. It’s breaking my heart and I’m falling in love. I can see why people return here over and over again. There have been times when I have thought about spending my entire trip here.

There’s an autorickshaw waiting to take me to the train station. There, I’ll see if I can catch the Shitabdi Express to Delhi.

I’m having an amazing time and I also miss my family and friends. Be well, all of you.

I’ve noticed pretty much from the beginning that the voice that comes out in these posts is a fairly narrow one. It goes about as deep as my senses and pretty much stops there. My experience is changing as I go, and I think that, in order for me to continue getting anything out of this, I’m going to have to sink down into a different place when I write. Thing is, I’ve never done that in public.

I only have a few minutes in this Internet/copy/printing house. So, I’ll probably stick with the observations for now.

Rajasthan is the desert part of India. Camels on sand dunes and stone forts rising out of nowhere. Intense colors punctuating a brown and green landscape. Men in white shirts and sarong-type skirt things with brilliantly colored turbans. Camels put to work pulling carts from the marble quarries. Trucks everywhere. Big, loud, brightly painted trucks with intricate designs and dangly things and baubles hanging all over the cockpit. Trucks with sacks of stuff and men riding on top of the stuff, blasting down the road, black smoke pouring from the tailpipe. They almost all have something painted on the back like “Horn Please”, or “Blow Horn”, “Sound Horn OK”. Since everyone wants to drive in the middle of the road, blaring your horn is the preferred way to let the driver know that you need to get by.

Yesterday, on the way to Pushkar, there was a traffic jam caused by about fifty monkeys. Sitting. In the road.

Watched the sun set over the lake in Pushkar, while sitting at one of the fifty-six ghats. So beautiful, as the evening turned cool and incense wafted through the air. There was chanting and singing and holy men praying and families tossing rose petals into the holy water. The flowers, rice, coconuts, and color are offered to God in hopes that prayers will be answered. Then the holy man asks for a donation and everyone is happy, except for the skeptic. At some point, maybe I’ll write about how I navigate this terrain, If I can come to a place of understanding for myself.

The ghats circle the lake, with buildings circling the ghats. They’ve been there for hundreds of years and were built by the Rajahs who each had their own special ghat. It’s disconcerting to me and not a little annoying that, behind the ghats, ringing the lake as well, one layer back, are shops of all kinds and the same annoying taunts that interrupt every step at every other touristed site. While I fully appreciate that this is a very poor country and people need to make a living where they can, I would love to be able to visit a beautiful place like Pushkar without constantly having to say “no”. I don’t like walking down the street not making eye contact or responding when someone says “hello”. I need room in brain for something other than responding to sales pitches.

I’m finding my frustrations with India to be on the increase. There are so many things that folks do that just isn’t in anyone’s interest. I know we all do that, but, folks… turn your lights on when you drive at night! When you see an entire family of five on a scooter on the highway, maybe give them more than three inches of room. Stop complaining about the mess as you drop your cup on the ground. Think about maybe NOT taking a shit right next to the ancient temple. Maybe move down the road just a bit. It’s confounding and maddening at times.

I have to run and I feel rather disconnected to this process right now. I need to evaluate how and where this site is fitting into my intentions for this trip. It’s been a lot of fun and I so appreciate the positive responses, but I’m finding myself distracted by it.

Hmm… we’ll see where it leads.

Peace, y’all.