"Human language can repeat only an infinitesimal part of what exists."
-Mary Baker Eddy

My trip to India marked a lot of firsts for me: first time I had to get a polio shot, first time anyone called me "ma'm," first time I ate lady fingers (and a lot of other things), first time I was told that I look Chinese, first time I wrapped a saree, first glimpse of the Himalayas, first time I feared monkeys...I could go on for hours. It was also the first time I'd ever kept a blog, but while my sporadic updates let my mother know I was still alive and saved us all from mass e-mail hell, I don't know if my words did this incredibly complex, eclectic, fascinating, frustrating, wonderful, chaotic country justice.

Right now I'm sitting at my parents' house in the guest room that has been converted into the holding cell for all my worldly possessions. I'm jetlagged and going through a bit of reverse culture shock, but it's good to be home. You just know when it's time for an experience to be over, when it's time to move forward and see how that experience has changed who you are, how you see the world and, possibly, the course of your life.

Lots of people asked me "Why India?" My stock answer was usually "why not," simply because I couldn't remember what inspired me to go to India. The more I researched and read about the country, the more my fascination grew to obsession with the Subcontinent-- its culture, its history, its religions, its politics, its problems, its contradictions. With each passing day, I somehow managed to simultaneously understand more and less about the country. There is no way to "sum up" a place like India in a neat, packaged description. It can only be experienced.

Why I chose India is no longer important. I'm just glad I did.

A Home Away from Home

Homestays are the current fad in accomodation in Kerala, and because of my story assignment, I spent most of my time in the state sleeping and eating at a family home. After almost three months of waking up in uninspiring hotel rooms, it was nice to be in a home and around a family again, even if it was someone else's.

The family who owned last home I visited in Wayanad, Ente Veedu, really took me in as one of their own. Seetha, the woman of the house who manages the homestay, was really excited to dress me up in the traditional Kerala dress, which looks like a saree, but is actually two pieces of fabric instead of one. Once I put it on and accessorized with a bindi, I totally blended in with the family, as you can see in the above photo, right? Right... As a side note, in the last two weeks I've had one man tell me that I look Indian and another tell me that I look Chinese. Considering that I'm your typical American mutt (English-Irish-German), I don't know why no one in India ever thinks I'm American, and I really don't know how anybody could think that I look Asian.

Anyway, Seetha had a photographer friend who shot her daughter's wedding photos come over to take a few snaps of me in my new digs. I think this photo will replace the Diwali photo as my 2006 holiday card:

A Series of Demotions

If a travel agent in Fort Cochin tells you that you do not need to reserve a seat on the train from Kochi to Calicut, he is lying. If a ticket agent at the Ernakulum (Kochi) train station tells you that you can upgrade to the chair car for a few Rupees once you get on the train, she is also wrong. And if you listen to both of them, you will end up sitting on the floor of the second-class unreserved train car with your feet dangling out of the door as you whiz past Kerala's coastline.

The bulk of the magazine article that I'm working on is about Wayanad, a more remote region in northeastern Kerala and getting there from Kochi requires a five hour train ride to Calicut and then a two hour bus ride into the hills. Rupert, who is photographing the story, and I got steadily demoted from the AC Chair Car to the Second Class Reserved car to the Second Class Unreserved car in a matter of minutes, and while we were able to sit comfortably near the door on our packs for the first two hours, I had to stand for the third hour and then sit wedged between one man's knees and the bathroom door for the last two.

At the end of the trip, one man turned to me and asked, "Ma'm, why do you ride second-class unreserved?" I shrugged my shoulders and said, "It's all that was available." He shook his head and said, "It's so crowded," then paused to think for a moment, "but I guess it's the same everywhere in India. Just one big crowd."

If I Were an Expat...

...I'd live in Fort Cochin. One local expat said that Fort Cochin, a neighborhood on one of Kochi's peninsulas, is like an emerging SoHo. I don't know if I'd go that far, but it is a charming, peaceful and beautiful place to explore.

The area's charm comes from its eclectic mix of religious and cultural history. One local told me that there was almost a perfect balance of Hindus, Muslims and Christians in Fort Cochin. There is even a Jewish Quarter established by Dutch settlers who mingled with colonials from Portugal and England. The fragrant, sinus-clearing area around "Jew Town" is the hub of the spice market.

The Chinese fishing nets are the signature sights of Fort Cochin. At sunset, the beach behind the nets is the place to be for locals (and tourists). Families and newlyweds eat ice cream, listen to music and wade out into the algae-infested water while the sun dips into the Arabian sea.

What I found most interesting about Fort Cochin, though, was its blossoming modern arts scene, its selection of fine restaurants and the hidden flagship shops for emerging fashion designers. Kashi Art Cafe is a great place to mingle with Fort Cochin's intellectuals and a visit to its gallery down the street, Kashi Art Gallery, is a great way to see some of India's best modern artists. My friend Rupert and I splurged for dinner at the trendy Malabar House, which is considered one of India's best boutique hotels. We put on the fanciest clothes we could dig out of our backpacks (well, the least wrinkled anyway) and felt like we were splurging on the experience, although in the end we spent less than $20 on a fine three-course meal and wine. The co-owner of the Kashi Art Gallery, who is an expat from Michigan, said that the growing scene of hip, modern culture in Fort Cochin is important for visitors to see and appreciate because so many travelers come to India to see ancient history, but it's equally important to see the forward momentum of the country as well.

Backwater Cruising

Every region of India has its tourist "must do": a boatride along the ghats in Varanasi, drinking tea in Darjeeling, and the Taj Mahal in Agra (this is a universal India "must do," actually). In Kerala, it is the backwater cruise.

From the coast on inland, many of Kerala's villages and towns are linked by a large network of backwaters. You could travel from the south all the way up to Kochi by boat, a much more relaxing and enjoyable mode of travel than the bus or train. You can choose from a wide range of boats for your trip from the public ferry to a houseboat designed like a traditional Kettuvallam, a rice barge (see photo) to the "made for tourists" tour boat. If you want to coast through the water in ultimate style, you could book a three-day trip on the ultra-luxe houseboat, the Discovery, from the Malabar House for 50,000 Rs (approx. $1,100 USD), which is more than my round-trip ticket to India cost. Someday...

Being the budget backpackers that we are, my friend Rupert and I opted for the public ferry to save a few rupees and get the local experience. We joined the Keralaites riding to work, school and to see family along the backwaters. Like the Ganga, these waterways are an instrinsic part of life for the locals. It's their mode of transport, where they bathe, brush their teeth, wash their dishes and play. There are boats acting as floating shops bringing locals their supplies, and fishermen looking for the catch of the day.

After having sampled just about every mode of transport available in this country, I think the boat is the way to go.

Kathakali performer in Varkala, Kerala

Happy Thanksgiving

In the spirit of the holiday season, I just wanted to make you all jealous about where I spent Thanksgiving soaking up the sun and eating fish curry instead of eating turkey and passing out on the couch. (I was in Varkala, a cliffside beach town in Kerala.)

I'm getting sappy as my time in India is quickly coming to an end, but I am eternally grateful that I took this trip and even more grateful that I had so much support and love from my family and friends (and all the random people I've met along the way in India).

Trading my Momos for Bananas

Here is the beauty of traveling in India (and the convenience of budget airlines like Air Deccan): you can go from watching the sunrise over Mt. Everest to swimming in the Arabian sea in the matter of a day and a very reasonable amount of Rupees.

On Tuesday, I turned my backpack upside down, put my fleece jacket, hiking shoes and wool socks at the bottom and dug out my mosquito net, my flip flops and my swimsuit. Instead of eating momos, dal bhat and chow mein, I'm eating seafood briyani, fish curry and plenty of bananas. I've covered myself in so much DEET that I'll probably grow a third eye or a tail.

Welcome to South India.

I arrived in Trivandrum, the capital of Kerala on Tuesday night. I stepped off the plane, my hair went limp, and I started sweating. It's quite the change from the cool Himalayan breezes, but I'm excited to be here. Kerala is an incredible part of India. It's beautiful with it's cliffside beachers, backwaters and spice and tea plantations. It's the most literate state in India (around 90 percent), boasts a progressive attitude toward women and was the first state to elect a Communist government. Like in the mountains, I feel more relaxed here too, sort of like when you travel to the southern U.S. Everyone is just so damn nice. Southern India is definitely more gentle than the north.

It's not without its problems though. Much of Kerala's male population has to leave the state to find work; many go to the Middle East and send back money. Also, Kerala has one of the highest rates of farmer suicide in the country, which is part of why I'm here.

In addition to lounging on the beach in Varkala, exploring the backwaters in Alleppey, and eating plentious amounts of seafood in Kochi, I'm researching a story about the growth of homestays and rural and eco-tourism in the state, particularly in the hardest hit rural areas as a way for farmers to supplement their income. Yes, it's a real assignment, paid and everything, for a national consumer magazine. I don't want to say much more, but I'll keep you all posted on when and where you can read this hopefully fabulous story.

As Mark Twain said, "The secret to success is to make your vocation your vacation." It's good work when you can get it.

When you fly in America, you basically have to show your photo ID just to buy an overpriced coffee at Starbucks or to go to the bathroom in the airport. Not so in India. I passed through two major international airports--Calcutta and Bangalore--and not once was I asked to present photo ID. Not to get my boarding pass and not to get on the plane.

Aside from that slight glitch in security, I found flying domestically in India to be quite convenient, comfortable and cheap. I'd heard a few horror stories from other travelers about flying Indian Airlines, the government-run airline. In recent years, however, several budget airlines a la Southwest and ATA have popped up in India thanks to a growing middle-class that loves to be tourists (once they get off the airplane, they squeeze into a jeep for a week).

I was quite comfortable on my Air Deccan flight, except for the fact that they can't check your luggage all the way through. To get from Calcutta to Trivandrum (Kerala), I had to piece together two one-way flights and claim my luggage in Bangalore and then re-check in several hours later, after lugging my backpack around the airport.

It was worth it though. For less money than a train ticket from Calcutta to Trivandrum (and significantly less time--12 hours of flying/waiting vs. two days), I was able to go from one end of the Subcontinent to another.

The Art of Travel

Traveling in India has provided wonderful lessons in letting go, being flexible and flying by the seat of my pants. My plans have changed and been altered dozens of times, and sometimes, I just have no plan. It usually works out better that way.

Sometimes I find myself second guessing my decisions, wondering if I should have stayed a day longer or less in one place, should have visited a place I've already passed and is now too far out of the way or if I'm missing something along the way. I've realized though that there is no right or wrong way to travel, and wherever you end up, it will be amazing.

A few days ago, I had just one day in Calcutta before catching a flight down to Kerala. What to do for one day in one of the world's most densely populated and polluted cities? I'd heard mixed reviews of Calcutta (Kolkata); some loved it, called it their favorite Indian city while others said "get out as soon as possible."

In one day you could go on one of those whirlwind bus tours the government puts on, but those are tiring and slightly embarassing as a herd of Westerners are marched on and off a bus around town. Instead, I opted to just wander the Maiden area, see the Victoria Memorial and walk down Park Street.

If you had only one day in New York City, what would you do? It's overwhelming. If it's a nice day, I would recommend meandering through Central Park because it represents the city at it's best. You see people from all walks of life, neighborhoods, socio-economic backgrounds lounging, exercising, kissing, reading, walking, playing baseball, sleeping, begging, selling and eating. I felt like a day in the Maiden was like this, excpet I've never seen a cow or a herd of goats interrupt a softball game in Central Park.

Park Street is home to some of the nicer shops and restaurants in the city. It's lined with trees and since eating seems to be the citywide pastime, it was a good place to go. I was enjoying myself so much that I was regretting only giving the city one day, not even 24 full hours. But then, when I returned to my hotel room to wash off the one-inch layer of grime and soot that had accumulated on my body, I knew it was time to board that plane and head south.

Darjeelingites are not Indians

India is less of a nation and more of a multi-lateral conglomeration. If you travel a half an hour, you feel as if you've entered a new world. The culture, the traditions, the food, the customs and behavior, and even the language changes a bit. There are, of course, a few constants, like the indecipherable side-head bob, the frustrating inefficiency and mouth burning cuisine.

I have found, however, that the Himalayan regions are very different from their counterparts in the plains. And apparently, the resent being part of Mother India. I had several lengthy conversations with two trekking guides and a few other locals, many of whom are of Nepali descent, about how much they resent being a part of India, don't consider themselves Indian (even though they were born and raised in the country) and don't even like Indians. Darjeeling used to be part of Sikkim, which used to be a small, independent nation, but has since been swallowed up by India. The cultures in Sikkim, Bhutan and Nepal have many more similarities to eachother than they do to greater India, and Darjeeling is a mix of all of these. Darjeeling is now part of West Bengal, although you notice a very thick line of demarcation as you leave the steamy and crowded plains of West Bengal and wind up the steep mountain road with cool breezes to the hill station. Many Darjeelingites try to avoid speaking Hindi at all costs, although they eagerly take in Hindi movies and music.

As a foreign traveler, I notice an immediate difference in the mountain regions. I feel more relaxed. I feel much more comfortable being on my own, especially after dark. No one questions my marital status. Their attitudes toward women are much more equitable and respectful. No one stares. In most of India, there is no taboo against staring. I've been on seven hour bus rides where I don't think the men blinked or turned away from me the entire time.

The trekking guides told me they only take foreigners and will not take Indians on trips, although they also said that it's usually not an issue. Indian tourists don't like walking. They like to squash ten people over capacity like sardines into a jeep to get anywhere. During my trek up to Sandakphu, the guide took me on a lot of tough short cuts and meandering trails in the backwoods to avoid walking on the road that the West Bengal government created that runs all the way to Sandakphu. While trekkers may resent seeing cars drive by during their nature adventure, it does make life easier for the villagers along the way. They have a steady stream of supplies this way. Personally, after seeing the signs along the road about the blood bank, I would rather walk than drive up that road.

Small World Coincidences, Part Two

Running into the same travlers becomes pretty common place since we all use the same guidebooks and tend to cluster around the same neighborhoods, but the other day in Darjeeling, I had not one, but two, small world encounters.

My trek finished in Rimbik, a small mountain village about four hours by jeep from Darjeeling. We were waiting for the jeep, supposedly coming at 7 a.m., which by Indian Standard Time, means more like 7:45 or 8, if at all. There was a German guy, about 20-years-old also waiting in the tea stall. We started chatting and did the mandatory "where are you from" questions. Ater I mentioned that I grew up in Illinois, he said he had spent a year in Illinois during high school on an exchange program. I asked where and he replied, "Have you ever heard of a town called Bloomington?"

I about choked on my chai. Turns out he was actually in Danvers, a small farming town just outside of Bloomington. As we chatted about my hometown, I started feeling kind of bad that he came all the way from Germany to see America and ended up in the middle of a cornfield for a year. He said that it was pretty common for foreign exchange students to end up in the Midwest because the families were the most open. This is true; some chemical in all that corn makes Midwesterners are some of the nicest people you'll ever meet. He also visited the University of Illinois last year to reconnect with his old buddies from Olympia High School. He was telling me about the frat houses he visited. Ah, the wonders of a shrinking global society that allow me to have a discussion about the U of I's Greek system in a remote Himalalyan village with a German.

The second experience that had me whistling Disney's "It's a small world after all" occurred when I returned to Darjeeling to check into the Hotel Dekeling. (I decided to upgrade from my $3 per night hotel with limited luke-warm water to the $15 per night Dekeling as a present to myself after finishing the trek.) On the door was a "Principia Panthers" sticker. Prin, for those of you who don't know, is the small Christian Science college near St. Louis that many of my AU buddies hail from. Turns out the Dekeling is where two professors, also AU people, bring their students each year for the Himalayan Abroad program. The hotel owners showed me letters from the students who stayed there, and as is common in the "four degrees of speparation" world of Christian Science, I knew most of them.

At this rate, I'm expecting to run into my Kindergarten teacher in Kerala.

Cross One Off the Life List

Most little girls obsess over ponies and princesses. Never one to follow the norm, I have been fascinated with mountains, specifically the Himalayas, for as long as I can remember. It's been one of my goals to go trekking through them for a long time, and last week, I completed a short, four-day trek along the Indian-Nepali border.



We started the trek in Mana Bhanjang, about an hour's jeep drive outside of Darjeeling. We crossed the border multiple times, actually staying one night in Nepal. The trek was the right level of challenging--not so hard that I thought more about my pain than the scenery, but not so easy that it felt like a waste of time. The Singalila Ridge offered stunning views of the lush green hills dotted with tiny farming villages. The villagers who opened their homes to trekkers for tea, food and lodging were so kind. The place we stayed at the first night was great, although I was a little thrown by the life-sized poster of Avril Lavigne in the main room.

The high point of the trek was Sandakphu (3620m). It was freezing cold, but I hauled myself out of the snug burrow I created out of my sleeping bag and five blankets to see the most spectacular sunrise of my life. The Sandakphu sunrise was a million times better than the view from Tiger Hill because you weren't witnessing it with hoardes of Indian tourists cheering and chattering away. Instead, there were only a handful of Indian tourists and about an equal number of foreign trekkers. My idea of enjoying a sunrise usually involves a meditative silence and quiet appreciation, but Indians cheer wildly as the sun starts to peek up over the horizon, growing exponentially louder as it rises. At first, I found this quite annoying, but now I find it sort of endearing. How great to be so excited for the dawning of a new day!

The other reason Sandakphu's sunrise top's Tiger Hill's is the excellent view of both the Kanchenjunga range and the Everest range, all at once. Like seeing the Taj Mahal, there was a surreal element to witnessing this view. It looked simply like a fake backdrop, a replica of photos I've seen dozens of times. I was having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that I was looking at these mystical mountains for real.

Second Greatest Road Sign Ever

They're so much more creative and graphic with their road signs here in Darjeeling than we are in the West. I wonder if that makes them more effective than the mere "Slow" and "Caution" signs we use in the States. I still think the blood bank sign is the best road sign, but this one is a close second:

"Speed has five letters. So does death. Slow has four letters. So does life."

Himalayan Sunrise

Early morning viewing of Kanchenjunga from Tiger Hill, Darjeeling

Greatest Road Sign Ever

Yesterday I arrived in Darjeeling, an amazing hill station located in northern West Bengal, nestled between Sikkim, Bhutan and Nepal. Like most mountain roads, the one from the train station in New Jalpaiguri up to the town resembles the scariest amusement park ride you've ever been on so it's dotted with signs advising caution.

My favorite: "Donate blood at the blood bank. Do not donate blood on this road."

Yes, I'm married and other white lies we tell

Just so you all know, since coming to India, I've decided that I'm married.

I was advised to avoid letting people know that I am traveling alone. Often, I find other travelers to spend time with, but other times, I'm very clearly alone. It's usually the first question people ask. "Are you alone?" This is often followed with questions like "Where is your husband?" and "Why aren't you married?" They say it like I've committed a horrible sin and ask in a tone I would probably reserve for "What? You killed someone?"

So to cut the questions short, I've come up with some stories, and they flow so naturally now that when I get back to America, I'm going to have to convince myself that I am not married. If get questioned about my husband's whereabouts while roaming around a city, I usually say, "oh, he doesn't feel well today. He's waiting back at the hotel." This clearly doesn't work while traveling on a bus or train, so one time when I was in a compartment with men who had been staring at me for three hours straight, I came up with the story of how I've been working in India and my husband just flew in to meet me, and we're meeting at the next train station.

I got questioned the most about my marital status in Varanasi. One teenage boy who had been following me for awhile said, "What? You are free?" I said, no, not really understanding what the comment meant. Then he said, "Yes you are. No husband." I said, yes, I have a husband. "Where is he then?" I told him I was on my way to meet him. A minute later, a Western man by himself was coming from the other direction. The teenager ran up to him and said, "Hey, I found your wife. She is here." The man gave me a puzzled look. I shrugged my shoulders and gave a faint smile. Then he played along and said, "Honey, where have you been? I've been waiting for an hour."

My Brother-in-Law's Uncle's Dog's Silk Factory is the Best in Varanasi

Varanasi isn't just about death, and its charm extends much further than the banks of the Ganga. It's also famous throughout India for classical music, silk and its beautiful sarees.

Everybody's brother, uncle and dog has a silk factory in Varanasi, and they're more than happy to give you a private tour. In fact, about twenty people supposedly own the same one, the "best in Benaras."

Upon the advice of my guidebook, the man at the foreign tourist bureau at the railway station and my incredibly helpful guesthouse owner, I decided to visit the Mehrotra Silk Factory. Because of the word "factory," I was expectly a large warehouse. I almost walked past it because instead it's a tiny shop on a random gravely side street near the railway station. The shopkeepers were incredibly kind and showed me a large segment of their inventory without pressuring me to buy, although I of course did and more than I had intended to (some people in my life are getting some very cool Christmas presents, by the way). The way to verify the authenticity of silk is to burn it. If it smells like burning hair and disintegrates into ash, then it's real. If it smells like burning plastic or just really bad and melts together, it's synthetic or at best, a blend. Varanasi's signature for silk shawls and sarees is brocade, intricate weaving of gold and silver threads into the fabric.

After I made my purchases and chatted for awhile, the shopkeepers even showed me their collection of sarees, even though I made it very clear that I wasn't going to buy. I think one saree is more than any Western woman needs.

Ganga is the Lifeline of Indian Culture

This tagline was written on the wall of one of the ghats along the Ganga, and I don't have any better words to describe how this river permeates the life of the city of Varanasi or India as a whole.

Varanasi (Benaras--like most cities in India, it has two names with several spelling options) is old, holy, historic, crumbling to bits and incredibly beautiful in its shabbiness. It has an atmosphere and aura unlike any other Indian city I've been to, perhaps because of the seamless blend of the energy of life and the acceptance of death. Saturday morning I took a boat ride at sunrise down the Ganga and watched the ghats come alive with men, women and children bathing, drinking, swimming, praying and washing their clothes in the Mother Ganga. The main ghat of the city is Dasashwadmedh and it's teeming with people and radiating with the dawning of life.

Shortly after passing by this ghat, the shift in energy is palpable as you approach Manikarnika ghat, the main burning ghat for cremation. Early morning chatter gives way to barking dogs and the crackling of burning wood. There wasn't a feeling of deep sadness, despair or morbidity, just an eerie quiet. You can sense the people who come there have a quiet acceptance of rather than resignation to the inevitable end of the mortal body. Ashrams and houses near the ghat are filled with people who came to Varanasi, the chosen home of Lord Shiva, to die. Those who die in Varanasi are guaranteed moksha, liberation from the cycle of death and life. Some are prepared with enough money for the cremation ceremony. Others are scraping together rupees while they wait to pass on. Those who cannot afford the cremation ceremony are wrappend in white sheets and dumped whole into the river. Several of these dead bodies can be seen floating nearby and bobbing in the water. My boat actually collided with one, merely eliciting a smile and a shrug from my boatman and a giggle from his ten-year-old son.

The coexistence of energy and inspiration with the acceptance and desire for death on the banks of the Ganga remind me of a passage I read in Gita Mehta's Karma Cola, a satirical look at the collison of the West and the East in India. She was talking to a Swiss national living in India about why he chose India over his home country. In part of his reply, he said, "It is here a noisy, dirty silence. So many millions being born, living, dying, without the fuss. This I appreciate. So little fuss. We Swiss are supposed to like order. Well, this is order because in India, you are always reminded of the significance and insignificance of life."