Beyond The Penultimate

Dear Distinguished Reader,

Allow me to be the first to congratulate you for making it this far.

I know, I know. Right now you're saying: what is he talking about? How far have I made it? Why am I due to be praised for having checked this website today? What makes this day stand out from any other? All I did was navigate here to avoid working for a few minutes!

Fret not. The answer is simple, and since it pains me to have to be the bearer of bad news, I'll come right out and say it. So without further ado, let me bring down the hammer: this will be the very last blog post on this website. Ever.

But Mike, why oh why? You've entertained us for so long! I even cancelled my subscription to both the New York Times and Mensa Weekly since I had forsaken them in favour of reading your blog! What do you mean it's over?

I'm sorry, Reader. I wish I could find some way to perpetuate our little arrangement, but I simply cannot. You see, Round the Bend is a website dedicated to my travel (mis)adventures, and in order to facilitate the creation of further posts, I would need to continue traveling. To do otherwise would be a cruel ruse.

Oh. Did I fail to mention something? Well, it seems I've one more bomb to drop. Fine. Here it is: come May 28, my epoch of solo travel will be coming to an end. That evening, I shall touch down at the airport in Edmonton, and at that instant this journey will conclude. Perhaps you'd still be interested in reading about my life there? I can't blame you. After all, I'm definitely worthy of your constant attention. However, it wouldn't fit the marquee you see written at the top of this page. Because while Edmonton is a lot of things, it is definitely not situated round the bend. In fact, it's very much on this side of the bend.

So back to Canada. Back home. Back to competing with my mom for cookery rights in the kitchen. Back to sipping scotch with dad in copious quantities. Back to the house I grew up in. Back to thinking +23C is pretty hot. Back to BBQing on the back porch. Back to hearing expressions like “you hoser!” and “frickin right, eh?” on a daily basis. Back to talking to my grandmothers on the telephone more often than once every six months. Back to Don Cherry and Ron MacLean. Back to using money with hockey players printed on it. Back to clean showers. Back to visiting Jackson and writing a hilarious song about some guy we hated in high school and haven't even seen for 10 years. He still deserves it. Back to sneezing from the poplar fluff that falls every June. Back to mosquitoes the size of pterodactyls. Back to making a hamburger from a buffalo. Back to wheat kings and pretty things. Back to “Clark, Audrey's eyes are frozen... well that's all part of the experience honey.” Back to driving on the correct-hand side of the road. Back to driving, period. Back to standing in lines instead of queues. Back to not offending anyone with the term “homo milk”. Back to eating poutine topped with Montreal smoked meat and perogies, all served on a bagel. Back to bacon being a food group. Back to the start of deer season being a national holiday. Back to having a Prime Minister who doesn't speak French. Or English. Back to a great country... one that will always be there when I need it.

Before I go, I'd like to thank the following people: Mom, Dad, Leigh, Nan & Mo, Grandma, Matt Hud, Ding, Jacko (and Sarah), Iain, Andrew, Brett, Carina, Chris “Big Man” James, Jess, Lou, Nate and Gloves, Pia, Froot Loop, Octavio and Consuelo, Julie, and all the other people who've read my blog and made comments. Your continued interest has made the blog great, although let's face it, I deserve most of the credit.

And it should come as no surprise to any of you that my special thank you goes out to Isis. This trip would simply not have been as amazing had I not met you at the beginning. After all, in the end, you helped shape it by being so awesome as to make me change direction every few months. Words cannot express how great I think you are.


Which is why I want to see you again.

“Little darling of mine
I can't for the life of me
Remember a sadder day
I know they say let it be
But it just don't work out that way.” -Paul Simon

As my last words (on this blog, not in life), I'd like to offer the following bit of wisdom to anyone who cares to hear it:

The world is an amazing place. Go out and see it someday.

I Mock The Modern

Dear Reader: In my continued effort to keep this blog interesting, I have decided to write today's post in the form of a lyrical poem. The topic of discussion is my recent visit to The Tate Modern museum in London. I've made reference to four works of art in the text. Links go to images of those works.

And, in the spirit of nonsensical art, I have entitled this poem "A Mockery of the Justice Hitherto Five Neurons of Fluffy Elephant Pants".

There once was a place called The Tate
A museum they all claimed was great
So one day last week
I went for a peek
And now I've a tale to relate

The art that they house there is 'modern'
Which I've always found a bit odd and
Totally shit
Well there, I've said it
So now I will beg all your pardons

But I'm not of the ignorant sort
Who makes statements he cannot support
So here's some examples
That is to say samples
Of why I feel this stuff falls short

Take this composition by Judd
It's a box pinned together with studs!
It could have been made
By a kid in 4th grade
Which is why I think Judd is a dud

Or consider Bueys' Felt Suit
For which I do not give a hoot
How long did it take?
A minute to make?
You could buy that at Wal Mart, you coot!

This painting by Bart van der Leck
Makes me want to go break by own neck
This is art? No it aint!
Could this guy even paint?
It looks like it was drawn by Shrek

And then there are pieces like this
The point of which I must have missed
If you ask me the artist
Is simply retarded
And literally taking the piss

To summarize: modern art's crazy
The artists – genuis or lazy?
Well if you ask me
Then it's easy to see
That their sense of perception is hazy

But if you're the type who would say
That convention has had its day
Then it's prob'ly true
That The Tate is for you
(Admission is free anyway)

But don't ask me if we can meet
For a date at The Tate, my sweet
You'll be there alone
Since I'll likely go home
Or perhaps to the pub down the street

Bodyrock Now

What do you get when you combine a few hundred Brazilian expats, a huge indoor location, some live accordion and zabumba music, thousands of liters of Cachaca, a pungent smell of sweat and cologne, and the city of London?

You get forró night at the Guanabara Restaurant and Nightclub.


Forró is a traditional dance that originated in the Northeast region of Brazil, but later took the rest of the country by storm. Less furious than samba but far more romantic than the polka, forró is danced in pairs to the tune of music that touches on feelings of sadness, longing, passion and jealousy. Choreographically speaking, the man and woman hold each other close, the man's right hand on his partner's back and her right arm around his neck, with the other two hands joined at the side as in waltz. Hips are hugged and harmonically move together, such that any slip of the feet will usually result in a sore toe issued to one's companion. As for the movement itself, it's no matter of complication: there is a basic step that is sexy enough to stand on its own, and a series of swings and twirling motions that can be added for effect.

Nobody really knows where the name forró came from. The most likely explanation is that the word derives from the term forrobodó, meaning commotion, but a second school of thought exists which credits the name to a bastardization of the English number 40 (four-oh), which was emblazoned on a railway car that used to run the tracks in Northeastern Brazil. Whatever the root of the word, it's almost impossible to pronounce phonetically in English, thanks mostly to the accented 'o'. My best advice is to say foh-HOE, but let the 'e' drop a bit such that the end result is halfway between HOE and HAW.

Background aside, I had a little bit of a problem when I arrived at Guanabara and stepped up to the dance floor to watch the throng of Latin boys spin their girls around like whirligig beetles in a veritable ballet of sensual fervor. The problem is not that I ain't Brazilian – there were plenty of other gringos out there doing just fine. The issue is that I am male, and that as male, I am expected to lead. How, pray tell, does one lead a female in a dance that one is not familiar with? How, furthermore, does one even get started when the dance floor is already going at full throttle?

Easy. You get your girlfriend to teach you. And to assume the male role for the night. Isis, who swears with her hand on the bible that she doesn't know the dance well enough to instruct it, got me started, and after a few stumbles and several trips to the hospital (just kidding), I was beginning to get the job done. Like many Latin dance styles, forró can be as simple or as complicated as you make it, and there's no rule that coerces you to deviate from the simple step if you don't wish to. For the beginner, this is life-saving. One look at some of the arm swings kept me in check - you could really take an eye out if you didn't know your stuff properly.

I'm pleased to say that it was a successful evening enjoyed by all. Isis' teaching left nothing to be desired, I had seven caipirinhas to inhibit my inhibitors and add swagger to my step, and by the end of the night we were looking like two people who had forró'd before. Or at least, she was... and I was managing to keep up just enough.
But it's not over yet. Guanabara opens its doors every Sunday night, and next weekend I will be returning, this time with my sister in tow. If you arrive early enough, around 7pm, then you can take a brief lesson to prepare you for the fury of the later hours. I figure it'll be enough for Leigh and I to get our footwork down, so that later I can sit back and watch her get invited to dance by dozens woman-thirsty, pheromone-oozing Brazilian men. Dad, I'm about to throw your daughter to the lions.

Don't worry though, I'm pretty sure she prefers French guys anyway.

KLassy Eating

It's day's end in Kuala Lumpur. The sun has nearly completed its celestial diminuendo, basking the city in an eerie orange afterglow. The Petronas Towers, a pair of monster twin skyscrapers that stand guard over the downtown like indomitable sentinels, become iridescent in the final moments of their solar bath. From afar, they appear to be rockets, poised to launch on a mission to a faraway galaxy.

As you sit in your hostel garden, feeling the heat dissipate with the oncoming nightfall, your stomach rumbles. It's been a long, stifling day, so hot and so humid that your appetite was suppressed to a mere afterthought, which has left you without any energy at all. But it's cool now. The temperature has dropped, and your lungs open to full bore, sucking in the fresh evening air and bringing you instantly to life. You peer at your belly. You need food. You need it now.

But where? KL is a massive metropolis, stuffed to the gills with restaurants, and searching through the travel guidebook for a place to eat leaves your head doing revolutions. How does one find the right spot amongst so many? Is there a diamond in the rough that really defines Malaysian cuisine, yet doesn't put a dent in your bank account the size of a large coconut? There's no possible way you can try every place out in the limited time you have, so it's imperative that you make the right choice immediately. How to decide?

Fortunately, I can make it easy for you. For I, The Thirsty Traveler Who Is Also Sometimes Hungry, have taken it upon myself to solve the KL culinary conundrum, and after countless laksas, myriad stir frys and several midnight trips to the toilet, all is well. The secret is no longer a secret. The reports are no longer classified. The cat is out of the bag.

Want to stuff your face? Then Jalan Alor Road the place.

THE APPETIZER: Food on the Jalan Alor is pricey by Malaysian standards, so it's best not to dive in with a completely empty gas tank. I suggest a warm-up: a plate of mixed vegetables with rice to cleanse the palette and ease your stomach into the game, much like an athlete stretching his legs before taking on any serious training. For this I propose you try a walk-up eatery with a buffet such as Restoran Cheow Kee, where the friendly owners will be happy to fill a plate for you from the two dozen fresh, piping hot offerings behind the counter. Thai-style red curry bean curd, fast-fried baby bok choy with garlic and steamed oyster mushrooms with hoisin sauce are all worth a nibble, as are the Portuguese veggie stew and the agadashi tofu. But be careful – don't eat too much, or you'll be out of commission long before the real eating begins.

THE MAIN COURSE: With the ocean just a few miles away, fish is the magic word on Jalan Alor Road. Every restaurant serves it, but selecting the right fish at the right restaurant can be a headache, inasmuch as touts stand out in front of each eatery, waving their menus and beckoning you inside. It's hit and miss, so allow me to point you in the right direction. If it's Thai-style you're looking for, then the Ah Noi Thai Food Restoran is the superlative destination. The woks are glowing hot, and blue swimmer crab, scallops on the half-shell and jumbo prawns all glisten in the ice trays near the seating area. Choose a selection of seafood, then sit back over a Tiger beer while the portly chef cooks everything up in a veritable conflagration in the kitchen. The oysters come lightly steamed with ginger and coriander, and the seabass is deep-fried to perfection and drizzled with a spicy melange of hot chili paste, garlic and lemongrass. If you like the spice then you'll be pleased; this stuff leaves you gasping for breath.
Looking to enjoy the local flavours without charring the insides of your mouth? Then go Malaysian style. At the Kedan Makanan Sedap Charn Kee Tasty Corner and its sister restaurant, the Restoran Meng Kee Grill Fish (I'm not making these up), the fish is barbequed and served plain, bringing the true essence of the sea to your tastebuds without rendering your tongue in need of a graft. Malaysia has hundreds of indigenous fish species, but to eat like the locals do you'll have to order a chickenfish. Fat, snow-white and nearly boneless, the chickenfish is the most popular item of the lot, even if the name is suspect. I refuse to believe it is called that, but the Malaysians insist and I won't argue. I guess it does settle the old 'chicken or fish' debate on airplanes. And as a side note, the Monty Python guys would like to remind you that ravenfish, partridgefish and peregrinfalconfish are also excellent choices. But if you're like me, then as accompaniment to your chickenfish you should ask for grilled sting ray and salt-and-pepper calamari instead.

THE DESSERT: By now you'll be ready to explode, so sit back, take a walk, do whatever you need to do to recover quickly, because dessert is still to come. Proceed directly to the ABC Special Restoran, and order up a couple of bowls of langan ice. This little symphony of tastes is comprised of a mountain of crushed ice covered in a fruity syrup that comes in flavours like blueberry, strawberry, kiwi and sea coconut. As a garnish, the whole shebang is sprinkled with fresh lychees, home-made gelatin, and little jellies that explode in your mouth like pop-rocks. At about $1.50 per bowl, it's not to be missed.
Though there is one thing that is definitely to be missed, and that's the Berkamulang. I'm not sure who decided to combine coconut, sweetcorn, jelly and beans in a dessert, but the end result is worse than some of the monstrosities being concocted in first year Potions class at Hogwarts. Stay away!

Satisfied now? Good. Then my job is done. I recommend you head back home and allow your body to begin the digestion process, because tomorrow is a new day. With the onset of another dawn, more delicacies will flood in from the local markets, and tomorrow will be a brand new opportunity to tickle your soul with Malaysian culinary delights. And if you do end up finding out the real name for chickenfish, I'd surely like to know.

Many thanks go out to Andrea and Erica, my Italian amicos who braved the wild and wacky world on Jalan Alor Road for six consecutive nights with me, making my time in Kuala Lumpur an absolute pleasure. Salut to you guys!

Anyway, that's a wrap on Southeast Asia. It's been grand. But now, it's once again come time to take to the road, to leave what's done behind, to move on to other things.

Flight EY011, now leaving Kuala Lumpur to...

...doesn't matter. As long as she's there to pick me up.



"I pack my case
I check my face
I look a little bit older
I look a little bit colder." -The Killers

"Every monkey want to be
In my place instead of me
'Cause I'm the King of Bongo, baby
I'm the King of Bongo Bong." -Manu Chao

Scenes From a Rickshaw

A rickshaw ride is a looking glass into India. Sitting in the back seat while the driver navigates the streets at Mach 0.8, the entire country seems to pass you by in an instant. Please enjoy these photographs taken exclusively from the passenger carriage of rickshaws in both Ahmedabad and Junagadh. If it's blurry, it's because we were moving. The first is a self-portrait, and I'm particularly proud of the shot of the guy relieving himself.

Mama don't take my kodachrome
Mama don't take my kodachrome
Mama don't take my kodachrome away!
-Paul Simon

Isis: Estou sentindo a falta de voce.

Photo Amazingness Vol. III

Please sink your bi-cuspids into the following delicious visual images of India. Captions are listed at the top. Also stay tuned, because I will soon be presenting a string of photographs that I have collectively titled 'Scenes From a Rickshaw'. Bon appetit.

1. Dominic and I unwinding after a hard day of camel riding, Thar Desert.
2. Myself and my two Canadian snow bunnies Sara and Julia, posing in our ridiculous ski outfits. Manali, Himachal Pradesh.
3. The India-Pakistan border after closure, Attari, Punjab.
4. Colourful saris on sale at this stall in Pushkar, Rajasthan.
5. Morning scene from the Ganges River, Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh.
6. A Sikh couple in quiet reflection at the Golden Temple, Amritsar, Punjab.
7. A kite-collecting tree, Ahmedabad, Gujarat.
8. Prayag Ghat at dawn, where people come to wash. Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh.
9. An aerial view of Jodhpur, India's 'blue city'. Rajasthan.
10. Yaks on display - 100 rupees a ride. Manali, Himachal Pradesh.
11. The Taj Mahal, looking iridescent in the late-day gloom. Agra, Uttar Pradesh.
12. A camel-wallah tends to Charlie, my faithful steed. Jaisalmer, Rajasthan.
13. The Lake Palace, complete with silly hippie. Udaipur, Rajasthan.

My Fellow Traveler

Now I'm not the type of person who likes to be judgme... nope, sorry, I can't even say it with a straight face. Perhaps a different approach.

(Ahem) Now I don't think that judging people before we get to know them is the right thing to do, but sometimes we cannot help ourselves. We all have a tendency to formulate opinions about each other right off the bat, even though we're acutely aware that the relevance of such opinions is likely to lessen with the passage of time. Remember the guy you met at the bar who seemed like a nice person, but then gave you VD? Or that short, scrawny kid with the stutter who you thought was a total wuss, but then ended up dropping you with a roundhouse kick to the head when you tried to steal his milk money?

In a perfect world, first impressions would be ignored, and everyone would exercise patience when it came to drawing conclusions about new acquaintances. We'd all allow ample time when forging relationships, and no one would be castigated or celebrated without merit.

But the fact of the matter is that we rarely have enough time to understand someone before we are forced to make a decision about them. And this is especially true in the backpacking world. Take a hostel for example. Hostels are an arena for fast-forward friendships, where people from different backgrounds hang out with each other for one or two nights only before going their separate ways. In order to maximize enjoyment, each traveler must identify which other residents will be the most congenial with his or her personality, and mingle amongst them accordingly before the hourglass runs out. This is no easy task.

Fortunately, I have a system. I put people into categories. Each category is reasonably ambiguous, such that nationality, gender, level of education, travel experience and age are not factors in the equation. Basically, to fall into a particular category, you must only answer this one simple question: Why are you here?

Once I've put you in the category, I've determined whether or not I'll invest any time trying to be your buddy. In a category I like? Then let's be friends! In one I don't? I'll steer clear.

Here are a few categories of traveler that I tend to avoid:

THE SPICE GIRL
This little tart is easy to identify because her backpack contains at least eight pairs of shoes, six of which are high-heeled. Makeup is also an essential travel item, and chances are she'll have a selection of products to rival the Lancome counter at Macy's. The Spice Girl's travel itinerary is a predictable one: she only visits foreign countries that have beaches and dance clubs, because hers is a vapid existence where appearances are the most important consideration, and there's no better place to flaunt your stuff than on an island full of drunken revelers. She prides herself on how beautiful she is, and makes a point of strutting around the hostel in the shortest skirt possible, such that all the resident men can ogle her cute little toosh while she fusses with her eyelash curler. At the end of her trip (read: when all Daddy's money has been spent), she goes home and tells her parents about how amazing the temples in Thailand were, even though she never actually set foot in one.

THE CARD-CARRYING HIPPIE
Inasmuch as these annoying individuals wouldn't know a real job if it smacked them across the face, they have no money and are therefore only likely to be spotted in cheap countries such as India and Peru. Looking like a hippie is a simple procedure; simply steal a few dust rags from your mother's linen closet and sew them together to make a shirt, then select a pair of pants big enough to provide shelter for a family of fifteen. But to be a hippie is more – it's about the attitude, man. It's about being different, and, like, unique. Yep, thousands of you walking around with the same obnoxious hairstyle (and for the girls, that means on their legs), all of you different and unique. Gimme a break.

THE WALKING PETRI DISH
For this Man's Man, travel isn't about what countries you've visited, but what countries you've managed to get laid in. That's why he likes to travel to places where the local girls don't really care what you look like, providing that you're white and you have money. The Petri Dish is not a solo animal, but prefers to hunt in packs with friends from his male gymnastics team at home. That way, if he has difficulty finding a girl to contaminate with his body fluids on his own accord, he can leech one off his slightly better looking cohort. As a rule, he must give detailed accounts of all his sexual endeavours to anyone willing to listen, and any successful rounds of making rumpty have to be followed up with lots of high-fiving.

THE WHINY BOOKWORM
This guy or girl is a good-natured creature and the ideal hostel roommate. They are neat, quiet, unassuming, always sweet and never a nuisance. That is, until you make a noise after 10PM. Then it's “How dare you turn the light on in the middle of the night! Have you no respect for anyone else in this room? Just because you're staying up all night doesn't mean everyone else is!” Now I'm not saying that I tolerate disco dance parties in a hostel room at 5AM either, but the expectations of the Bookworm types are extreme. Apparently, they've not come to the hostel to socialize but instead to spend an evening reading Virginia Woolf novels and going to bed early, and they feel that everyone else should do the same. It's a hostel. It's noisy. Deal with it or go sleep in the library.

THE SOLDIER OF VIRTUE
This rather pious specimen has touched down in the country for one reason only: to save it. Starving people! Inadequate hygienic standards! Shortages of water and medicine! Won't somebody think of the children? How could the rest of you jerks come here and not care about this? Don't you want to make a difference? All I have to say to these people is 'shut it'. Yes, what you are doing here is probably worthy of a pat on the back. It's not every day that people from the first world care enough to fly across the planet to some backwater nation and dedicate themselves to improving the lives of the unfortunate souls who weren't lucky enough to be born in Canada or Norway. But that doesn't mean that they should feel obliged to come down on the rest of us with vicious attacks of righteousness. Just because I didn't come to Africa to poison people with Jesus talk and build a water pump doesn't mean I don't give a hoot about the Africans' plight.

THE ARROGANT GUY WHO JUDGES EVERYONE
There's nothing I hate more than the dude who thinks he knows a thing or two about the world, that's he's better than everyone else because of all his travel experience, and even has the nerve to write a blog expose slandering everyone else who isn't exactly like him and... uh, wait. Maybe I'd better move on to the types of travelers I do like.

THE NICE AMERICAN
God Bless America? Oh, I think He's got better things to do than that. Time and time again, Americans have tried to show us that a government administration headed by simians is a perfectly acceptable arrangement, and that a mandate for taking over the world in the name of democracy is in the best interest of everyone. Maybe that's why most of us like to paint Americans black. Fortunately, there are diamonds in the rough: intelligent, well-traveled, peace-loving Americans who seem to have figured out what a 'passport' is, and that with it you can go see the world for what it is: not America. So many times in my travels, I've met wonderful people from south of the 49th, and it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy knowing that there are actually individuals living in that country who don't have their heads completely jammed up their [edited for content]. God Bless YOU, friendly Americans! YOU represent hope for the whole world.

THE NUCLEAR FAMILY
I'm not talking about leptons and bosons here. I'm talking about parents who decide to take their children on vacations to countries that don't have Disneyworlds, Holiday Inns or Club Med. By allowing your child to witness one of the many diverse cultures that exist outside of their normal surroundings, you will instill in them a sense of adventure that will last a lifetime. Kids soak experiences up osmotically, sometimes subconsciously, so that even though they can't really appreciate everything about a foreign country at such a tender age, they'll still gain an appreciation for travel and, especially, tolerance. I have to hand it to parents who have the courage to take their brood of youngsters to places like Ecuador and Botswana, where all the usual sources of kiddy entertainment like Six Flags and the ball room at McDonalds are not available. It must be tough, but ultimately the children will be much richer for the experience – even if it takes years for them to realize it.

THE HOT SWEDISH CHICK
Well, duh.

THE SOLO FEMALE
Granted there are plenty of girls in this world who could kick my butt six ways from Sunday. However, in general, statistically, according to the numbers, however you want to put it, girls are put through the ringer far more than their male equivalents when traveling solo, being that they are regarded as easier targets for abuse. I've had my fair share of scary situations on the road, ones where I've been unsure of my personal safety, so I can only imagine that it would have been worse had I been a porcelain-skinned blond girl with pretty eyes. To be a girl and travel on your own in places like Africa, India and South America is commendable, and any girl brave enough to do it should be immensely proud of herself. I'm trying not to sound sexist – I obviously don't think that girls aren't able to do anything guys can – but at least, when I travel, I don't have to contend with thousands of slimy men who would stop at nothing to grab my rear.

Well, that's about it. Been fun writing this one. Now feel free to make comments saying that I'm a complete and utter meany. But don't forget: I'm just telling it as I see it. You want something less edgy? Go read Virginia Woolf.

Impossible Dreams of Uluwatu

As part of my retirement plan, I've been doing very little in the way of moving around. I'm a bit ashamed to admit this, but since arriving in Bali over three weeks ago I've not ventured farther than the local grocery store, which is no more than 2km from the front steps of my hotel room. Call me lazy if you must.
Not all has been lost, however, because I've made up for my lack of locomotion by spending an ample amount of time in the water. I can't say for certain, but I'd hazard it's even possible that I've swum a greater distance than I've walked, which is truly uncharacteristic of my explorative nature.

So finally, after 20+ days of roosting in the rather diminutive ecosystem I've carved out consisting of my room, the beach and a handful of nearby restaurants, I decided to take a road trip. Jackson, Sarah and I hired a cab for the day, strapped our surfboards to the roof and headed out, Southeast along the coast towards Bali's most famous and formidable ocean break: Uluwatu.
Once we were underway I immediately felt the thrill of doing something new and exciting. I felt as a dog must when he gets a rare car ride, and I had to fight a strong desire to stick my head out the window and let my tongue flap around in the slipstream. Bali is beautiful, so green that it must look like a giant teardrop-shaped emerald from above. It's a short hop skip and a jump from Kuta to Uluwatu but the roads are narrow and curvy and go through a smattering of tiny villages, where life is traditional and no one is trying to woo you with their enormous selection of fake-ass Billabong t-shirts.

A five minute descent down some steps takes you from the parking lot at Uluwatu to the cliffs overlooking the breaks below. We left our surfboards in the care of our cab driver, a precaution that would ensure we'd live to see another day. The reason for this is that ULUWATU IS INSANE. And to surf there, you'd have to be, too. The waves start at around 10ft high but can often surge to more than 20. The currents are violent and actually getting to the break requires a 20 minute paddle against the flow. And of course let's not forget the sea floor: it's shallow and littered with jagged rocks that wait with a geological patience to turn your spine into an accordion should you crash.
It should be apparent then that our decision to stay dry was a no-brainer. But I wasn't disappointed. For hours we sat in the relative safety of a viewing area, watching the prostars do their thing. It's quite a sensation to see someone paddle into a 13ft wave, catch it on the vertical (which on waves of that magnitude means a momentary freefall), turn on a dime, disappear behind a barrel and reappear 100m further on, then exit the wavecrest with a 360 degree spin courtesy of the air you get from a perfectly-timed dismount. It's beautiful. It got all emotional.

After an hour or so of this, we began to get antsy. We needed to catch a few of our own waves - ones that wouldn't leave us in the infirmary - so we hopped back in the cab and headed to another hotspot called Dreamland. Our timing wasn't good, though. In surfing you're always at the mercy of the tides, and there was no action whatsoever when we arrived. No apparent bother, because we saw a few heads in the water at another spot a mile down the beach, and paddled over to take a look.
Immediately I knew I was over my head. Literally, because the first thing I did was get introduced to the art of underwater gymnastics by a 9-footer that broke before I was able to dive under it. Then I spent the next hour falling off my board in what had become my most fruitless attempt at surfing since the first day I got on a board. Jackson fared better - he caught a couple of nice ones and rode them all the way to shore, though in one instance his board pearled (that's when the nose goes under the surface as you attempt to stand up, meaning you're toast) and he was deposited ass-first onto the rocks. Don't worry girls, he's still bootylicious. Either way, we were a tad out of our league in this spot - and it's hardly a surprise considering the name of the break: Impossibles.
One last try. We headed back to Dreamland, which by this point had picked up, and spent our last remaining microjoules of energy trying to catch just about anything. Not to be outdone by Jackson's respectable crash, I decided that my right arm had too much skin on it and took several layers of it off using the rocky sea floor as an abrasive. All this at 30km/hr. Exhausted, beat down, sunburned and choking on sea water, we emerged from the ocean, took a good deep breath, and agreed that it had been an excellent surf day. One for the history books. Satisfied, we headed back to Kuta, already looking forward to surfing on its gentle sandbars the following day.

That's all, but before I go, I'd like to make the following service announcement. Ladies! Listen up.

Now I know that many of you have expressed your extreme heartfelt disappointment that you've been unable to get any love from THIS GUY, but please, please do not despair, for though I may be a one-woman man I still can't help but want each and every one of you to be happy. And so in accordance with that, I recommend that you turn your lovely eyes to my cousin. Ladies, let me introduce you to Matt Hudson.
He's not tall, he certainly isn't dark, but (inasmuch as he's a dead ringer for me) he's devilishly handsome, not to mention chalk full of Winnipeggy goodness! Now I ain't sayin you a golddigger, but this boy is soon to be minted, courtesy of his fledgling career with top accounting firm Ernst & Young. He's calm, cool and collected, always respected, uninfected, fully inspected, fuel-injected and never, ever rejected! So don't be a skeptic. Give him a call, and all your dreams will come true. The number is 1-204-555-HUNK. He's a Hudson, ladies, so ye shall not regret it. (Must have full set of teeth to apply).

Thank you and
"Goodnight, sweet ladies
Ladies, goodnight.
It's time to say bye-bye. Bye-bye!" -Lou Reed

A Date with Mr. Lama

It's not so often you get to be right up close with one of the most famous people in the world.

My 'List of Famous People I've Interacted With So Far' is good supporting evidence of this fact:

1. Wayne Gretzky (at golf course in Edmonton)
2. Nelly Furtado (at Los Angeles International Airport)
3. Queen Elizabeth (at Glasgow Cathedral)

Pretty crappy list, eh? Well, the good news is that I recently was able to add another name to the illustrious roster. But before we talk about that, let's open our history books to the year 1959.

Tibet.
A landlocked country of dusty deserts and misty mountains where 633,000 people reside, nearly all of them Buddhist. For Tibetans, life is simple, bucolic, family-oriented and centered around a deeply ingrained collective sense of spirituality. Their leader, both politically and religiously, is a man chosen not by democracy but by prophecy, a man who is said to be the reflection of the Buddha himself in human form - a man we all know as the Dalai Lama.

At any given time, there is only one Dalai Lama, but the interesting fact is that according to Tibetans, he is the 'same guy' over and over. Each time one Dalai Lama passes on, Tibetan political leaders and their oracles undertake a massive nationwide search in order to find the child who has been chosen as his replacement - by reincarnation. The child must prove his worth by undergoing a series of tests, one of which is to correctly identify sacred objects owned by previous Dalai Lamas. Once the child is found, he is immediately spirited to Lhasa and trained to be the leader of Tibet. A man known as the Regent fills in the gap until the child is ready. It doesn't take long - by age 12, he's pretty much running the country.

The current Dalai Lama (born Tenzin Gyatso) is the 14th in his line. The chain remained unbroken so long as Tibet was a peaceful country, which it has been in accordance with Buddhist philosophy for quite some time. Unfortunately, in 1959, things changed.

Enter Mao Tse Tung. Mao was a bit of a prick, and felt that since Tibetans were a bunch of reactionary farmers, he had a right to move in and industrialize them. The Tibetans, unsurprisingly, weren't too keen on having their religion abolished and their lives managed by people in Peking, and so they staged massive protests. Mao played ball for a little while and attempted to make the Tibetans' transition into China a peaceful one, but soon he got fed up with the level of dissent in the ranks of his new subjects, and decided to release the hounds. Troops and tanks entered Tibet and began to lay waste to sacred monasteries, murder monks and jail anyone thought to oppose the new regime. The Dalai Lama, who was only fifteen at the time but had already ruled Tibet for several years, was powerless to do anything. Tibet had no army and no way to fight back. And so, at the bequest of his political advisers, the Dalai Lama eventually fled his palace in Lhasa under cover of night, and marched himself into exile in neighbouring India.

Enough of the past. I sometimes wonder if you guys don't get annoyed with my frequent historical annotations. The point is that it's now 49 years later, and the Dalai Lama is still in India, living in the remote Himalayan outpost of McLeod Ganj. China has changed hands a few times, but the Dalai Lama has never returned to his beloved Tibet, which is now an occupied territory. Fortunately, the man has never abated in his quest to raise awareness worldwide for the atrocities committed by the Chinese, nor has he ever doubted the fact that someday he would return to his palace in Lhasa and be with his people.

For now, he lives in a temple, perched on the side of a slope in the snowy mountains, where he runs his operation remotely. McLeod Ganj has become a strange place in his presence, one half filled with monks and the other half with curious tourists. It's a bit of a singular experience to walk around a town and have monks everywhere you look, be it sitting next to you in an internet cafe, shouting into a cell phone on the streets, or getting their heads shaved in a barber shop. One monk came by our hotel every night, lit a fire in the courtyard, and proceeded to dry his white underwear over the flames. There are even quite a few Caucasian monks.

Seeing the Dalai Lama is usually a tall order. He is an extremely busy man and travels widely, so to just show up in McLeod Ganj and have him there is a low-probability occurrence. Much lower when you show up just in time to hear him talk at the palace, which he does 9 days out of each year. During this time, people come from all over the world to hear the man read from his texts, so that the palace is full to the gills with both monks and tourists alike.

To get in, Dominic and I staked out the temple for a few days, until one morning we finally were granted an audience. We sat down on a cold, hard concrete floor, and along with hundreds of other pilgrims (and a lot of dredlocked poseurs who think sitting cross-legged, saying OM and not showering is cool), we waited. Soon, people began to stir, and sure enough the gates opened a moment later and in he strolled.

He was not what I expected. I'd imagined a stoic, serious man, seeing as he's supposed to be the Buddha and all, but in fact he was quite jovial. He wore traditional orange robes, big round glasses and had an enormous grin on his face. Everyone bowed in reverence, and through his compassionate smile I could see that he didn't really think all the pretense was necessary... it was as if he was saying "Ok, let's dispense with the formalities. I am just a man."

The teaching lasted three hours. It was done in Tibetan, but foreigners could listen to the English interpretation in real-time on an FM radio. I zoned out for most of the duration, inasmuch as my ass was asleep and I had no idea what he was talking about. There was a lot of mention of an elephant and some trees and babbling brooks and snowy peaks and monkeys and quiet pontification, but it was all too complicated. Who cares. I quickly dispensed with the earpiece and just watched the man as he sat on his throne, calmly turning the pages of his giant book, and preaching to people about how they can attain inner harmony.

I'm not a spiritual person by any means. You all already know that. Still, this is a man who has gone through a half-century long personal struggle, a man whom the whole world should be rallying behind, and I felt honoured to be in his presence.

Mao Tse Tung was an anus.

Borderline Lunacy

India and Pakistan.

Nuclear neighbours? Yes.
Cricketing collosi? Uh huh.
God-fearing governments? Pretty much.
Political powerhouses? You betcha.

Friends?
Not on your life.

They may be adjacent nations who share a great deal in common, but one thing that India and Pakistan certainly do not share is a mutual love and respect for one another. Nor has it ever been that way; right back to the summer of 1947, when the two English protectorates gained their independence - Pakistan first, then India 24 hours later - tensions have been running a little high.

Not that England helped get things off to a good start. The wizened bureaucrats back in London tried their damnedest to draw the new frontier between the two countries in such a way that all the Muslims would end up on the West side (Pakistan) and all the Hindus and Sikhs on the East (India), but this wasn't quite as easy as anticipated. Many people suddenly found themselves on the wrong side of the border the day the flags of independence were raised. Living in hostile territory, surrounded by enemies and unprotected by a new government that didn't care about them, they were forced to flee across the newly-drawn lines.
And so began a massive exodus in both directions. Muslims left their villages in the Indian Punjab and boarded trains leading West towards Lahore. Non-Muslims in Pakistan, meanwhile, jumped on truck convoys going in the opposite direction. It all started off peacefully, and cooler heads should have prevailed, but things soon took a nasty turn. Consumed with spiritual fire and riding on the crest of a wave of newfound power, the Indian Sikhs began stopping the Westbound trains and murdering any Muslims aboard. Muslims, who've never met a jihad they didn't like, retaliated with equal fervour, slaughtering any infidels they caught on the Pakistani side. It was an extremely bloody conflict that caused much of the resentment that continues to be harboured today, and has since precipitated other battles in the interim.
The situation has eased in the little in the last few years, but pride runs deep and the two countries do little more than tolerate each other now. Disputes over Kashmir boil over once in a while, diplomatic relations are shaky at best, and the border - which stretches over 1000km - can only be breached at one place: Attari, on the main road linking Lahore and the Indian city of Amritsar.

Now one could imagine that given the animosity the Indians and Pakistanis share for one another, the border at Attari would be a scary place. Guard towers full of Kalashnikov-toting sentries. Tanks patrolling each side of the fence like junkyard dogs. Signs posted everywhere, warning of landmines and exploded ordinance.
Ironically, it's not like that at all. In fact, what you'll see there isn't forbidding in the least. There's a double-doored gate, one door bearing the logo of the crescent moon and the other a silk wheel. There's a taxi rank on either side, where taxi-wallahs wait in the shade of trees to offer transport to new arrivals. And finally, there's a massive grandstand. Not a cricketing one, mind you, but one that gets stuffed by Indians, Pakistanis and foreigners alike, who congregate every day at 5pm to watch one of the most civilized - and loony tunes - border closing ceremonies on Earth.

This is one of those spectacles that must be seen to be truly appreciated. It's also a testament to the good nature of people, and how a sense of humour can easily bridge the gap created by a 60-year-old political rift. 'Fans' start arriving at 4pm and begin to fill the grandstand. No one is permitted to cross the border, and so each grandstand is filled only with its own respective nationals. The exception is the Indian side, which gets the added luxury of foreign tourists. Vacationing in Pakistan is a dicey prospect at present, and so the scales get tipped in favour of India when it comes to fan base. Hopefully, when Pakistan ends its own internal struggles and begins issuing tourist visas again, you'll be able to find white faces in the sea of brown, bearded ones that currently occupy all the seats on the West side of the border.

For the first hour, the gates remain open (though heavily guarded) and a massive party ensues on either side. Music blares, people chant patriotic slogans and everyone runs amok. The Indian side becomes a dance party, whereby big, burly Sikhs in turbans and their sari-clad wives throw their hands up in the air, and wave them like they just don't care. No one dances on the Pakistani side, though the crowd gets riled up in their seats by a throng of flag-waving mascots in green capes that are adorned with the crescent moon insignia.
Around 5, everyone takes to their seats and the actual ceremony starts. A sextet of soldiers appears on either side. These guys are the elite - the pride of both armies, selected for their height, their fitness, their dashing good looks and their high-quality mustaches. They are cheered like rock stars.
The soldiers form a line 50m on either side of the gate, and take turns strutting towards the border - legs kicking higher than their heads a la John Cleese - in the face of a soldier mimicking the same movement on the other side. When each pair reaches the gate, they stop dead and give each other the steeliest glare imaginable (and if you've ever had an Indian or Pakistani stare at you, you know how well they do that). Once all the soldiers are stationed at the border, a group-staring session ensues and the crowds go wild.
Next, the flags of the two nations are lowered in unison. This is where I really started to laugh. Each flag bearer attempts to lower his flag slower than the other guy, so that for a just a moment his flag is higher. The Indian crowd jeered in protest evertime the Pakistani flag appeared to be a shred of a millimeter higher. The process took a good 10 minutes.
Finally, the gates are closed and the ceremony ends. The stands clear out, everybody goes home and the border remains shut until 8am the following day, at which point cars and commercial traffic will once again be allowed through.

Seeing this ceremony was a true highlight. The dancing, cheering and ridiculous marches of the soldiers were side-splittingly funny. It's a good thing - laughter - to have on the frontier between two nations that haven't shared a good joke for a really, really long time.

Endless Summer

If this backpacking trip was a career, or, perhaps more metaphorically, a life, then I have reached the twilight years. Since the birthday of my adventures on January 12th of last year, I've seen quite a lot.
I've seen many roads pass me by, going in the opposite direction. I've seen many moons rise into the night, and then crash into the dawn's promising new beginnings. I've seen many smiles, set in white against the backdrop of many coloured faces, with each joyful expression transcending any language barrier that could have been in place.
Suffice to say, I've seen what I intended to. And when you've accomplished that, and your heart is filled to the brim with elation, and your mind with wisdom and your soul with excitement, then perhaps it's time to do what many people choose to do in the twilight years of their lives: retire. Go to someplace warm. Relax. Buy a sweater vest.

There was a long list of finalists for the epicentre of my retirement, but in the end I chose Kuta Beach, on the island of Bali in Indonesia. Here, I have everything I need. I've got a room, large and spacious with a fan and fridge and outdoor shower, where I've been able to empty out every last thing from my pack. My main man Jackson The Main Man is my nextdoor neighbour, and he keeps me company. I've got access to shopping and fine dining, and a beach I could hit with a stone from my front stoop. And I've got my very own surfboard.

Some people, in their retirement, decide to take up Bridge or crocheting. I've taken up surfing. Surfing is an extremely pleasant way to spend your day, and perhaps the most pleasant thing about it is that I've become pretty good. Jackson, too. Now I'm not saying we're Edmonton's answer to Mick Fanning and Kelly Slater, but for our part we're out there every day with the rest of the big boys, waging battle against a neverending series of blue-and-white monsters. It ain't easy; it requires strength, stamina, and most of all a passive acceptance that Mother Nature is going to put you in the spin cycle of her washing machine whenever she sees fit. But when the buzzer goes DING! we'll be paddling right back out there, and soon after that you'll see us, gliding down the slope of a 10ft wall of surging water, our faces fixed in a look of intense determination. It's funny. Those waves are so loud, you can't hear a damn thing, and yet despite all the decibels, I've a hard time imagining a more peaceful place that right inside one.

Now despite the fact that I've retired, Indonesia is still a foreign country and as such I'm still obligated to contend with a few of the traveler trials. Like touts. Touts are the malignant tumors of the backpacking world, and the longer you're away, the more you hate them. Bali has lots, but a special mention must go out to one tout who lured me into his clothing shop the other day while I was wandering about town in search of surf shorts. He had a smile as big as a child's biggest wish and a shop with some decent stuff, but as soon as I'd entered the barometer hit the roof with an intense pressure to buy. Entire racks of clothing were pulled from their positions and set in front of me, free necklaces were offered as incentive, and very soon I became fed up and made to leave. But the tout wasn't having that. He put an arm in front of my to block my way, and his smile suddenly evaporated and recondensed into a malevolent scowl. I looked him straight in his black eyes.
"Let me out."
He didn't move, so I calmly grabbed his wrist and placed it at his side, creating an escape route.
"F$%k you," he sneered through clenched teeth as I passed him.
"Uh huh," I said in full-blown arrogant nonchalance. I exited the front door and wheeled about.
"Fine way to run a business."
Something must have snapped in his peanut-sized brain as a result of my diplomacy, because two seconds later he was running towards me in a rage, wielding a broomstick. He was going to beat me with a broomstick! I probably should have fled, but I was frozen in surprise, so instead I stayed put and leered at him in outright defiance. He stopped dead about two feet from me, letting the stick fall to his side. I walked away, and although I'd like to credit my own tiger-like tenacity as the catalyst of his decision to suspend the attack, it was likely because he'd realized that many other tourists were in the vicinity and that one of them was liable to witness his bad behaviour. Smart decision for a mental-midget. Either way, by choosing to cross me he sealed his own fate, because someday soon I'll be sending my Nan to whoop his ass with her walking stick as retribution. Hear that, Tout? My Nan may be an innocent-looking octogenarian, but she still runs a protection racket that would make the Medicis beam with pride. Start making your funeral plans, because you're due for a fatal comeuppance!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...

Retirement.

This is the life. Just me, Jacko (and his lovely girlfriend), a beach, some surfing, and about 23 million Australians.

Lotta Australians in Bali. And with that in mind, I'll turn things over to my Aussie friend Bruce, who has volunteered to bring this post home.

OI, MATE! Thought Ah'd chyme inta sayy thit Bali's senn-sayy-shonal! By crikey those wyves are gnahley! Tunnza nyce lookin' Sheilas on the buych as will! Puhrfikt playce for yer re-tiiiire-mint!

Singapura

I checked the international weather forecast the other day.

In Singapore, the temperature was +33C.
In Edmonton it was -1C.
In Winnipeg it was 0C.
In Halifax it was -4C and in Paris it was +2C.
In Norway, America, England, Japan and all the other countries that host a member of my readership, there were differing temperatures, but all of them had one thing in common: they were colder than Singapore.

I WIN!!!!

But wait! Before you go buying that plane ticket to come visit me here, consider this: Singapore has a number of diabolical laws that restrict your basic rights and freedoms, such that the temperature change might not be worth all the hassle.

For instance, those of you in Edmonton may spit freely onto the roadside, whereas I may not.
Those of you in Winnipeg are free to smoke cigarettes, whereas I am not free to do so.
Those of you in Halifax are welcome to masticate a bit of chewing gum, whereas I am quite unwelcome to masticate said gum.
Those of you in Paris are at liberty to curb your dog on the streetside, whereas I may claim no such liberty.
And finally, those of you in Norway, America, England and Japan are invited to take long, hot showers of any chosen duration, whereas no equivalent invitation has been extended to myself, on the grounds that water wastage, like spitting, smoking, gum-chewing and animal-poop-permitting, are fineable offences in Singapore.

But I digress. The thing is, Singapore IS worth a cursory visit, even if you can't do as you normally would do back home.

When you get here, you might notice what I did immediately: that the city is religiously kept spic-and-span. There is no litter on the sidewalks, no pollution caused by congested traffic, no gang of homeless people snoozing on the grates and, without exception, no cows.

So what is there, then? A bunch of Asian people puttering about in an oasis of electronics shops, highrise buildings, palm-lined avenues and overpriced restaurants, from what I could tell. Doesn't sound overly arresting, though for me it all represented the polar opposite of India, and I was tickled pink to bask in the benignity of the place.

Which is not to say I accomplished much during my time here. You can attribute that to two things. First, Singapore's "attractions" are all a bit naff: they have a botanical garden, some temples, a zoo, a cable car that takes you to a theme park on a man-made island, and a swath of pricey shopping centres. Second, I met some great people at the hostel, most of them guys from England, which meant that I routinely commenced quaffing the beers at around noon everyday, thus rendering myself useless when it came to exploring. I regret nothing.

I did manage to fill my hollow legs with some decent food, however. Singapore has a well-deserved reputation for serving some fantastic cuisine, from tangy scallop laksas to Szechuan-style roast duck to ramen noodles simmering in fragrant dashi. After having poisoned my body with oily curries for the previous two months, I felt like I'd discovered the gastronomical fountain of youth. My love of food was once again restored!

So. Singapore. Strange place, very clean, cost-prohibitive, bit boring, tasty lunches, lotta shopping, been dere done dat.

Didn't buy the t-shirt. Too expensive.

........46........47........48......eh, Dad?

Death! Burning! Celebration!

Do you happen to know how long it takes to fully cremate a human body?

Forget those high-efficiency furnaces they use for the ritual at home. I'm talking old school; campfire-style, with logs and a lit torch.

The answer is around 4 hours. Didn't know that? Neither did I, until I alighted in Varanasi. But then, it's fair to say I was ignorant of many things before setting foot in the place.

Varanasi is India in a microcosm; it's as if someone took the entire country, put it in a blender and poured the contents out in the centre of town, allowing the perfumed mush to flow into every nook and cranny like lava gushing from a sputtering volcano. Nearly every memory I've made in India seemed to stalk me in Varanasi, where all the different castes, cultures, smells and noises of an entire subcontinent swirl around with the force of a strong gale.

Varanasi has been one of India's most sacred places since before time had a meaning. It is here where you can stand on the banks of the Ganga (Ganges), the sacred river that is said to flow directly from the Lord Shiva's hair. For the Hindu faithful, the city is an ashram, a pilgrimmage site where you can purify your sins with a bath in the holy waters or burn your deceased relatives, the latter being a process which expedites the souls of the dead into the next life. This can be seen at any of the 50-some ghats (stairs leading down from a temple to a landing on the river's edge) which constitute Varanasi's waterfront.

I wasted no time in seeing what I'd come to see. My hotel was a stone's throw from the Hanumann ghat, one of a pair of principal burning sites. I spent an afternoon watching, transfixed in silent reverence, as the traditional cremation ceremonies took place right in front of me: bodies, wrapped in white muslin and sheathed in gold foil, are carried from the temple steps to the river bank by members of one of India's lowest castes. The corpse is given one final cleansing dip in the black waters before being placed in a wood lattice on the shore, and the pile is sprinkled with ghee (clarified butter), before a man with a torch circumambulates the pyre five times, then lights the fire just under the human head. The male relatives of the dearly departed will then linger until the fire is finally extinguished and only ash remains. The females are banished from attending the site, though their absense is perhaps made up for by the many attendant goats, cows, stray dogs, buffaloes and peacocks.

A walk through Varanasi's labrynth of alleyways is nothing short of a sensory overload. There isn't much room and so everyone - rickshah wallahs, tea merchants, hippie tourists, beggars, motorcyclists, sadhus, school children, army officials, fat women in their saris and many, many more - are condensed into a massive human blob that pulsates back and forth as people fight to get to where they are going. The streets are flanked with an infinite number of shops, some large and glitzy, others so tiny that they are nothing more than miniature hovels etched out under the stairway to a temple, where an Indian man might sit still as a buddha with his legs crossed, selling packages of betel nut and bidis (Indian tobacco wrapped in a leaf). Once in a while an aggressive bull will come charging down the lane, stirring the people into a frenzy as they scurry into any available hiding place. Those who can't seek refuge in a shop threshold get caught in the tidal flow of human bodies that empties into the adjacent square in front of the bull's advances, much like the Ganges crashing through the Sunderbans river delta on its way to the Bay of Bengal.

Each evening at 7PM, a puja is held at the main ghat. Light is offered to the Goddess Lakshmi by seven young priests who wave smoking urns and peacock feathers in concentric circles from raised platforms near the water. Brahmins ring their bells, drums drum and beggars pick their way through the throng of onlookers. It is a golden opportunity for the street urchins of Varanasi, inasmuch as the Hindus believe that giving alms while in the presence of their pantheon of Gods will bring good karma.

After witnessing a puja one evening, myself and two friends purchased offerings for the Goddess Ganga and placed them into her flowing waters. Our little cups of lotus flower and lit candles floated away, joining a colony of other identical little boats that had been released by the hands of others, until suddenly the whole river seemed to light up like a starry night. Sitting on the stairs shortly thereafter, an old man dressed in orange rags approached us.

"Good evening", he said as if it took all his strength to speak, "I think I'll just sit right here."

"No problem, Sir," I replied as I watched him set down his cane.

"Oh yes. Good good. Very nice. Thank you," he said. Then a pause before he continued. "Seventy-two. I am SEV-EN-TY TWO!" He smiled as he uttered these words, as if by dissociating and extending the syllables he would make his age seem all the more venerable. I grinned inwardly as I realized he reminded me of my Grandfather Floyd, whose slow-but-sure movements and compassionate voice made him radiate a form of wisdom and altruism that only seems to have manifested itself in people of past generations.

I feel as though at this point I must step out of the realm of the poetic and lay down a serious fact: the Ganges is the most disgusting body of water that I have ever seen (or smelled) in my life. If you ask me, it should not be celebrated as a sacred source of purifying water, but instead reviled as evidence of what happens to nature when no environmental laws are in place to protect it. A spider's web of metal pipes carry raw sewage from Varanasi's myriad sidestreets directly to the river bank. Garbage, ranging from old underwear to glass bottles to drowned rats gets caught in eddies in the river's centre, forming an island of refuse that sometimes climbes to several feet in height. I even saw a dead body floating by, bloated and snow-white from a few days' saturation. And meanwhile, you have Hindus swimming and washing their clothes in there. Ick.

In careful retrospect, I'd say that Varanasi was a perfect departure point for my exodus from India. Everything that had happened to me happened again, and everything I'd seen I was able to see once more. But leaving a place is never easy, whether due to a forlorn desire to remain just a bit longer, or perhaps in my case because I nearly missed my train. I'd booked a berth on the 6PM express to Kolkata, and at 5PM I descended the steps of my hotel and into the streets in search of a rickshaw. This is not a taxing process - usually 500 of them will find you. However, as bad luck would have it, India's head of state was due to arrive in Varanasi the next day, and the police had cleared all rickshaws, taxis and bicycles from a 5km radius around the ghats in order to accomodate the Presidental motorcade. Pack on my back, I had to run for nearly 40 minutes in order to find public transport, an ordeal that nearly pushed me to the brink of exhaustion. The ironic thing was that I made the discovery while in the throes of my trial; I realized, at one point, that I was walking on a road in India that was completely devoid of noise: there were no trucks with diesel engines, no cabs with honking horns, no touts with angry voices and no cows with their mournful moos. I had left India altogether... or, more metaphorically, I'd entered into the eye of the Indian hurricane. It was amazing to have a few minutes of silence for a change. More amazing? The fact that I missed the clamour.

Did you hear that India? That's right. I will miss you. You, with your fanatical touts and your ferral livestock and your lack of adequate plumbing. Despite the fact that you turned me into a moster, I will be back, and next time I'll be prepared for whatever you have to throw my way. Oh yeah. I'll come at you like a spider monkey.

In the meantime, I have escaped to Southeast Asia, and in a few days I'll be arriving in Bali for a little sunshine, lollypops and surfing all the time (and everything is wonderful when... you leave In-dia).

Snow Day

And now for something completely different!
(A blog post with no gutter-talk and a lot more candy sweetness).

I had a most excellent ski day not too long ago. You know ski days... throw on your warm gear, ride the gondola, hit a few mogul runs, fall down a couple of times, sip hot chocolate for lunch and then retire to the warm confines of your swanky lodge at night while wearing a turtleneck?

Well in India they do things a little differently. Let's talk about the hill first.

The resort, if you can call it that, is called Solang Nala and is situated in the Himalaya range just North of Manali. When you think Himalayas you envision Everest and K2, so I'm sure you're all imagining an imposing mountain with hundreds of challenging slopes. Not so much. In fact, this resort has one run, maybe 500m in length. No moguls, no trees, no rocky ledges, and no lift. That's right, no lift. You have to walk up the hill in order to ski down.

Seven of us - all Canadians, all experienced skiers - decided to go up together. Lift tickets, ski and boot rental and all the necessary warm clothing were to be provided as part of the $15 fee we paid at a travel agent in town. As usual, when we arrived at the office for our taxi to the hill on the day of, things began to unravel. But this time it was in a delightfully funny way.

Our warm clothing: one-piece ski suits, straight out of the 80s, in a variety of colours that didn't fail to include neon pink and electric green. I myself was clad in a bronze-toned number that made me look a little like a statue, though perhaps not one of David or Atlas - more like Ronald McDonald. The outfitter also had a wide selection of yak-fur coats for rent, but the guy working there didn't seem too keen on letting us have them. Perhaps they're for Indians only.

Our ski equipment: my Lord, it could hardly have been worse. I got boots that were at least 3 sizes too big for me, and when I put them on I discovered that they were pre-packed with snow. The skis were a bit short, but that was a Godsend considering that some of the others received mis-matched pairs of skis of differing lengths. One guy even got a pair of boots that had no interlock mechanism to attach to the bindings. Needless to say he didn't stay on his feet too long.

So... clad in our Nordic astronaut suits, with completely overused and unsafe equipment slung over our shoulders, we hiked up the hill. When we got to the top we realized that this was probably the only run we would do for the day, so we sat taking pictures and enjoying the sunshine for nearly 45 minutes. Then those of us who were able to skied down. The guy with the boot/binding problem walked.

Was this disappointing? Not really. After our one and only run things just got funnier. We tried to access the bunny hill adjacent to the principal one, since it had a small tow rope that seemed to be operating, but we were kicked out by the Indian military who were using it as a training ground. Back at the bottom of the main bowl, a few of us were nearly decapitated by a parachuter who was crashing into the melee of people who were milling about. There was a paragliding school running from the top of a nearby slope, and they would pretty much just land wherever the Hell they wanted - usually on top of a few innocent bystanders.

There were also yaks! Real yaks, and for a few hundred rupees you could climb on the back of one of them and be led around in a giant circle for 15 minutes. The resort is popular with many Indian honeymooners, and quite a few elected to give it a go. But not me. The yaks smelled terrible. So later in the day I bought a yak-wool blanket back in the town. The yak experience without the odiferousness.

Even though we only did one run, we managed to spend nearly 5 hours at the hill. We sipped chai tea, threw a lot of snowballs (the Indians were astonished at how quickly and accurately we could all do this), ran up the side of the mountain and slid down on our butts, and climbed to a nearby peak to watch the sun crash down over the Himalayas. Late in the afternoon it began to get cold, so we jumped back in our jeep, returned our zany outfits and retired to the confines of our swanky lodge.

Er, sorry. Dingy hostel.

Skiing the Himalayas: all the fun of skiing back home, without the skiing.

The Doldrums

I'm going to assume that many of you have read my last post by now. Didn't it suck? I mean, here I am in India - Incredible India!!! - and instead of regaling you all with an exciting summary of my adventures in this vibrant country, I'm dedicating hundreds of words to describe some American guy getting booted in the toosh.

It's not that there aren't plenty of things to discuss. Oh no. Why, in only the past 10 days I've amassed a long list of riveting and memorable experiences that are well worth a mention on this page. Just last week, while in McLeod Ganj, I had occasion to visit a hilltop temple to witness the Dalai Lama giving a sermon in Buddhist philosophy, live and in the pink. Not long before that, I danced and partied with a large group of fun-loving Indians at the wild and wacky India/Pakistan border-closing ceremony in Attari. And let's not forget my visit to the Golden Temple in Amritsar - Sikhism's holiest shrine - which is a structure so beautiful and captivating that even the Taj Mahal could get a run for its money.

But the sad reality is that I simply don't feel like sharing any of this. And the reason for that is that I'm tired.

Tired of traveling.

I started this trip on January 11, 2007. Look at your calendars. That's nearly 14 months ago.
14 months of incessantly moving about.
14 months of living out of a bag.
14 months of eating sketchy food, drinking contaminated water and sleeping in questionably-sanitary beds.
14 months of having to make new friends when all I want is to see my old ones.
14 months of being called names like Gringo or Mzungu or Gorri.
14 months of being typecast by locals as having so much money that I should just give it away to anyone who sticks their hands out.
14 months without a Tim Horton's bagel.

Here's the important bit. What happens when you take a jaded Canadian traveler, and put him in India, land of 1 billion people and constant humdrum noise?

You get a nasty motherfucker.

I apologize for my foul language, but sometimes it's necessary in order to convey your point. And my point is that India is driving me bonkers. The people here are in your face constantly, and I'm simply not in the mood to put up with it anymore. I don't want to have any more arguments with rickshaw drivers over what amounts to a 10 cent overcharge. I'm tired of being told that my shower is hot, when it is in fact icier than Lake Louise in February. I can no longer stand the smell of the nefarious liquids that flow through the open sewers running adjacent to every street. And I sure as Hell could do without another steaming pot of curry.

Bit sad, isn't it? I'm completely missing the point of being here. Normally I'm pretty resilient when it comes to dealing with the trials and tribulations of immersing oneself in another culture, even one so different as that in India. If you put India under the microscope, it is nothing short of fantastic. The people are incredibly friendly, and most often their desire to pester you simply stems from their curiosity about Western cultures. India is cheap - for $10 a day you can live in luxury, which is more than most Indians ever get to experience. And talk about diversity - India is huge! There are sunny beaches here, mountains, jungles, wild animals, hundreds of different languages, a multitude of types of cuisine, and much much more. India is like the whole world, condensed into one insane place.

Or one place that makes you insane, I'm not certain. What I am certain of is that I don't like the type of traveler I have become on account of spending time here after Africa wore me down. Too many times I've overheard conversations by other travelers in cafes or hostels, whereby someone is bitching about the dirty bedsheets or the local music or whatever it is they don't like about the country they're in. My question is always "SO WHY THE HELL DON'T YOU GO HOME THEN, YOU TROGLODYTE?"

Well it appears that I, Mike Hudson, the Thirsty Traveler, have become the troglodyte. Or perhaps that would be true if I elected to stay here. But I won't. I'm making a change. My India visa ends March 14, and I had planned to continue traveling overland into Nepal for a month. Nepal isn't India, but it's close, so for the time being I'm going to stay away. I'm sure the Nepalese don't need a grouchy Canadian in their country, one who has taken to outright physically assaulting the touts who climb on his back at the bus stations. Nepal will see me some day, and I promise that when I go, I'll be in a good mood.

I've paid my dues, I've seen some crazy things and done some even crazier ones (much to the chagrin of my dear Mother and my lovely girlfriend) , and now it's time to relax. To relax, and to behave myself.

So here's the plan. March 14, I am flying to Singapore, followed by a second flight to Bali a few days later. Bali's got two things to keep me settled: a lot of beaches, and one of my best friends on Earth: Jackson (or is it Jelly, or Jackfruit or Jingoism?). That ought to calm my nerves and prepare me for whatever may follow.

Put away your sympathy. Feel free to accuse me of being an ass. I certainly am thinking and behaving like one. But I'm trying to fix the problem.

As for accounts of my travels (the good bits, anyway), I'll get that back on track in the next few days. I'd also like to formally announce that I will be spending some time this summer compling and expanding my Africa stories into a book. A possibility that is worth exploring.

Just like India. When you're in the right mindset.

Superdave? No, Stupiddave!

Some people are just plain stupid. Others, only part of the time. I like to think that I fall into the latter category, although I've certainly committed my fair share of tactical and academic blunders. How does one account for this occasional display of ineptitude, this infrequent but nevertheless inevitable tendency to abandon one's better judgment? Is it possible that our brains simply emit a huge sigh of neural relief, jettisoning all good reason and allowing recklessness and feeblemindedness a spot in the limelight? Or do we all simply just have a stupid gene that flexes its muscles every now and then? Whatever the explanation, those of us who only act the fool on occasion should be thankful. Thankful because we're not predisposed to being stupid for every waking moment of our lives.

Like Dave, for example. Dave is an American from Seattle, traveling on his own in India, whom Dom and I met on the bus to McLeod Ganj. Upon arrival we were solicited for a hotel room, and Dave elected to check it out with us. We looked at the facilities and Dom and I selected a double, but Dave found the price of his single room too high and decided to look elsewhere. Later, he said, because he wanted to come for dinner with us, so he asked to keep his things in our room for a while such that he could retrieve them later and continue his search. We obliged.

At the restaurant we ran into a pair of Canadian girls we'd met in Udaipur, and the four of us decided we'd head to the girls' place for a while to hang out. It was 9PM, so I told Dave I'd walk back to our hotel with him so that he could collect his gear. Dave replied that he'd rather join the party and get the beg later; I winced at this because, by this point, I'd already pegged Dave as a complete and utter dork. But he insisted, so off we went to visit the girls.

1AM. Dom and I are walking home, and Dave, completely drunk, tags along. At the hotel we gave him his bag and said goodnight to him, and I let out a massive "Ahhhhhhh!" for finally having rid myself of the bugger.

8AM. I awake to a commotion in the hallway. I press my ear to the bedroom door and instantly realize that I'm listening to an argument between Dave and the hotel owner. It seems that Dave, looking to set the dumbass bar to a new height, had decided to sleep in the empty room that he'd refused to occupy the night before, and was now trying to sneak out without paying. The owner quizzed Dave on where he'd slept, and Dave told him that Dominic and I had given him refuge in our room for the night.

Jackass! A capillary blew in my brain and I opened the door in a flash, denying this allegation to the owner before he even had a chance to ask if Dave's story was true. The owner whirls back to Dave, calls him a liar and demands payment. Dave says no, that the price of the room was too expensive and that he won't pay. The owner, not a small man, steps towards Dave and fixes him with a steely glare and Dave, his head pointed up to meet the owner's eyes, returns the look as best he can.

Then - SMACK!!!! - the hotel owner's right hand meets Dave's cheek like a whip cracking. A clap of thunder echoes down the corridor. Dave's face goes whiter than snow, save for the freshly-slapped side, where the outline of a hand was now developing like a red photograph on flesh. Dave is in shock, and the owner takes advantage by shoving Dave back into the contraband bedroom and locking the door from the outside. He then goes to call the police.

Now Dave, with the instincts of a trapped animal, decides to turn himself into a fugitive by jumping out the window. Good move, except that the silly boy forgot that you can only leave the hotel complex via a set of stairs that begin adjacent to the owner's office. Dave crept around the building, but the owner had detected his plan to flee and was waiting for Dave at the steps.

A second confrontation takes place. The owner, who'd calmed down a bit, explained to Dave that he'd trespassed and should be arrested, but that the whole debacle could be forgotten if Dave would just pay the room fees. Dave, embarrassed by being bitch-slapped and intent on not giving up a cent (sorry, rupee), refused and made to leave. The owner stepped aside, and for a moment I thought Dave might emancipate himself without further incident. But that was not to be.

WHUMP! The owner kicks Dave square in the ass, black shoe meeting blue jean in a combination of colours that would soon surface as an enormous bruise on Dave's buttock. Dave let out a howl, but instead of turning to face his foe, he made perhaps one of his rare smart decisions and ran: up the stairs, out of the hotel, out of sight.

Maybe you think I should be sorry for Dave, and that I should refrain from badmouthing somebody in this forum? I don't feel bad one bit. Dave had every opportunity to find a room earlier in the evening, and in the morning he tried to run. He also attempted to bring me into the lie by telling the owner I'd let him stay (illegal in India). Nuts to you Dave. Twit. Bozo. Nincompoop. I hope you can't sit down for a week.

Oh, and don't ever mess with Indian hotel proprietors. Doing so would be just plain stupid.