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.