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.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Fun with Beef
If you are a cow, and you live in Canada, then I'm sorry to inform you that your life is going to suck. Your fate has already been chosen for you, and it will take you along one of two preordained paths:
If you are a dairy cow, then the duration of your existence will be spent living in an enclosure. Each morning a haggard old man will wake you up before dawn, place his hands precariously close to your private parts, and proceed to thieve all the milk that you spent the night producing for your calves. Said milk will be spirited away in a bucket, and for your donation you will receive not one word of thanks.
Perhaps you are a beef cow? In that case, you're going to live out the rest of your days cooped up in a pen - not in a pasture, since excercise will give your muscles striations that humans do not find particularly toothsome - until one day your owner will come along, slit your throat, hang you upside-down to bleed out, cut you into many pieces and ship you to a local butcher. Like your cousin the dairy cow, you will not be shown any gratitude, though perhaps someone sitting in an expensive restaurant in Toronto will congratulate the resident chef for his delicate preparation of your chateaubriand.
On the other hand, if you are a cow, and you live in India, then I would suggest that you stop reading this post immediately and take a moment to count your lucky stars - because you, my steaky friend, are on Easy Street.
Cows are sacred in India. It is written in Hindu doctrines that the Lord Shiva, one of the Holy Trinity of gods, had cows in his care and even rode around on a bull who was also a god. As such, cows are revered by all Hindu people, and it is forbidden to eat them, harm them, or restrict their movement in any way. India is therefore a country full of cows who do whatever they Damn well feel like.
Picture this: you are a Canadian (person, not cow). You get up in the morning, open your curtains, and find three cows asleep on your lawn, with two more eating the petunias in your flower garden. You get ready for work, hop in your car and head out. Not far from home, there is a sizable traffic jam, not caused by an accident or black ice but by a group of cows who have congregated in the middle of the intersection and aren't moving.
Further up the road you pass a row of parked cars, one of which is being used by a cow as a makeshift scratching post. You notice that, in relieving her painful itch, the cow has knocked off the rearview mirror and is scratching the paint job with her horns.
You stop at Starbucks for a latte. In the parking lot there are two cows fornicating, one eating cardboard coffee cups from the garbage, and a dozen-or-so more loitering about the entrance, making it difficult for customers to enter and exit the establishment. You grab your coffee and go.
You arrive at work on time, but there is a cow in your parking space, and though you try to urge it away with your horn it remains still, chewing its cud and completely ignoring you. Relegated to finding another spot, you drive to the opposite end of the lot, park, get out of the car and SPLAT! You step into a Himalayan pile of fresh cow shit.
Get the idea? This is what India is actually like! Cows are a ubiquitous presence here, and no matter how annoying or destructive they are, Indians can't do a thing about them. Causing bodily harm to a cow would be heretical (hence why potating them is out of the question), and many locals even feed the animals. It is a ceremonial event, wherein the person administers the food directly into the cow's mouth, rubs the cow's head, then gestures to the Heavens in search of a blessing.
These cows are living in the matrix - and believe me, they are taking full advantage. Last week in Pushkar I watched a shopowner look on helplessly as a cow ransacked his showroom full of precious wood carvings. Earlier that morning there had been a wedding procession through town, and any cows absorbed by the parade were being adorned with necklaces and sprinkled with flower petals.
But hands down, the "Most Benevolent" award goes to a particular cow that I have named Darius Kasparitis. I saw Darius at the Jaipur Ghat in Pushkar, where people assemble at dusk to watch the sun descend over the temples surrounding the sacred lake. There was a group of Swedish girls sitting close to us, and they were being pestered relentlessly by a 7-year-old beggar girl who had ensconced herself in their presence and was demanding rupees. The Swedes were becoming agitated and made signs to leave, when all of the sudden a cow, appearing out of nowhere, passed by and absolutely steamrolled the little girl. Stuck in the back by the cow's skull, the bite-sized rapscallion flew through the air in a massive arc, landing a few feet away amidst a pile of other tourists. For a second my heart sank, but the kid got up, dusted herself off and began to laugh uproariously. The cow just continued on its merry was as if nothing had happened. Watch out for Darius! I warn you!
Yep, Holy Cows. In India, the expression comes to life. I do think it's rather cool, allowing an animal to more or less have the run of the world, but in the end, I'll stick with Canadian cows. Alberta beef, baby. Props. One love. Respect. And don't forget to pass the BBQ sauce.
If you are a dairy cow, then the duration of your existence will be spent living in an enclosure. Each morning a haggard old man will wake you up before dawn, place his hands precariously close to your private parts, and proceed to thieve all the milk that you spent the night producing for your calves. Said milk will be spirited away in a bucket, and for your donation you will receive not one word of thanks.
Perhaps you are a beef cow? In that case, you're going to live out the rest of your days cooped up in a pen - not in a pasture, since excercise will give your muscles striations that humans do not find particularly toothsome - until one day your owner will come along, slit your throat, hang you upside-down to bleed out, cut you into many pieces and ship you to a local butcher. Like your cousin the dairy cow, you will not be shown any gratitude, though perhaps someone sitting in an expensive restaurant in Toronto will congratulate the resident chef for his delicate preparation of your chateaubriand.
On the other hand, if you are a cow, and you live in India, then I would suggest that you stop reading this post immediately and take a moment to count your lucky stars - because you, my steaky friend, are on Easy Street.
Cows are sacred in India. It is written in Hindu doctrines that the Lord Shiva, one of the Holy Trinity of gods, had cows in his care and even rode around on a bull who was also a god. As such, cows are revered by all Hindu people, and it is forbidden to eat them, harm them, or restrict their movement in any way. India is therefore a country full of cows who do whatever they Damn well feel like.
Picture this: you are a Canadian (person, not cow). You get up in the morning, open your curtains, and find three cows asleep on your lawn, with two more eating the petunias in your flower garden. You get ready for work, hop in your car and head out. Not far from home, there is a sizable traffic jam, not caused by an accident or black ice but by a group of cows who have congregated in the middle of the intersection and aren't moving.
Further up the road you pass a row of parked cars, one of which is being used by a cow as a makeshift scratching post. You notice that, in relieving her painful itch, the cow has knocked off the rearview mirror and is scratching the paint job with her horns.
You stop at Starbucks for a latte. In the parking lot there are two cows fornicating, one eating cardboard coffee cups from the garbage, and a dozen-or-so more loitering about the entrance, making it difficult for customers to enter and exit the establishment. You grab your coffee and go.
You arrive at work on time, but there is a cow in your parking space, and though you try to urge it away with your horn it remains still, chewing its cud and completely ignoring you. Relegated to finding another spot, you drive to the opposite end of the lot, park, get out of the car and SPLAT! You step into a Himalayan pile of fresh cow shit.
Get the idea? This is what India is actually like! Cows are a ubiquitous presence here, and no matter how annoying or destructive they are, Indians can't do a thing about them. Causing bodily harm to a cow would be heretical (hence why potating them is out of the question), and many locals even feed the animals. It is a ceremonial event, wherein the person administers the food directly into the cow's mouth, rubs the cow's head, then gestures to the Heavens in search of a blessing.
These cows are living in the matrix - and believe me, they are taking full advantage. Last week in Pushkar I watched a shopowner look on helplessly as a cow ransacked his showroom full of precious wood carvings. Earlier that morning there had been a wedding procession through town, and any cows absorbed by the parade were being adorned with necklaces and sprinkled with flower petals.
But hands down, the "Most Benevolent" award goes to a particular cow that I have named Darius Kasparitis. I saw Darius at the Jaipur Ghat in Pushkar, where people assemble at dusk to watch the sun descend over the temples surrounding the sacred lake. There was a group of Swedish girls sitting close to us, and they were being pestered relentlessly by a 7-year-old beggar girl who had ensconced herself in their presence and was demanding rupees. The Swedes were becoming agitated and made signs to leave, when all of the sudden a cow, appearing out of nowhere, passed by and absolutely steamrolled the little girl. Stuck in the back by the cow's skull, the bite-sized rapscallion flew through the air in a massive arc, landing a few feet away amidst a pile of other tourists. For a second my heart sank, but the kid got up, dusted herself off and began to laugh uproariously. The cow just continued on its merry was as if nothing had happened. Watch out for Darius! I warn you!
Yep, Holy Cows. In India, the expression comes to life. I do think it's rather cool, allowing an animal to more or less have the run of the world, but in the end, I'll stick with Canadian cows. Alberta beef, baby. Props. One love. Respect. And don't forget to pass the BBQ sauce.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)