Home again , home again jiggety jig

It has been a very busy month. The complications started in Srinagar. I had to make a last trip to Puttaparthi to pick up my huge bags and ferry them to Delhi. I planned to fly to Bangalore, take the bus to Puttaparthi and then train it back up to Delhi again. The air tickets were easy but the train tickets something else. Late in May I tried to book a train berth online. No luck, the site is down for maintenance until June 1st. June 1st you cannot book a seat online because there are only wait listed seats available. So I emailed my friend in Edmonton and asked if his Dad could go down to the train station, (in India) and buy me a berth. Then his Dad sent me the train ticket and some other stuff they wanted to send back to Edmonton to my hotel in Bangalore. I was 25th on a wait list at this point, but everybody seemed quite confident that I would get it confirmed. A friend in Srinagar had told me that travel agents buy up blocks of tickets for their customers every day and then roll them over shortly before the train leaves. Crazy system.

Anyways despite the worries about train tickets everything went very well. Landed in Delhi just before a heatwave, but I only had to hang out for two hours on the hot pavement (40), before they would let me in to catch my Bangalore connection. Bangalore was cool and overcast, (around 30), the monsoon was starting, and I got my rail ticket and care package without problems. Then off to Puttaparti. No problems there either, cool and overcast, swept up the desiccated cockroach corpses in my apartment and sealed everything I was leaving in plastic bags and got my big bags down to the train station to find out if I had a confirmed reservation yet. I did! Wow! Very happy to not to have to pay those overweight air charges all the way back to Delhi. Weighed my bags in the Puttaparthi station and found out I was at least 10 kilos overweight on each of them for Singapore Air, so I had to make plans to do something about that. Luckily I would have three and a half days in Delhi to get that sorted out.

Arrived in Delhi just as the heatwave ended, it had been over 50 degrees the day before I got off the train. A friend in Srinagar got his nephew to put me up in his Delhi apartment. That was a life saver. Had a look at his brother-in-law's shawl warehouse, that's definitely where I am buying shawls from now on, great selection and amazing prices. And had a small taste of monsoon weather in Delhi. It started raining about noon on the day after I arrived. The mornings were best. Around seven thirty eight o'clock these deep black clouds would start lashing the trees about and slowly march across the city. When they arrived overhead the skies would open and a solid wall of water would fall out of the sky. Then the sun would come out and the puddles would steam away in the streets and life would resume. But it never did get as hot again after that first day I got there. Very interesting thing to see.

Took the overweight stuff out of my bags, sent them off on a sea voyage and got myself down to the airport in good time. I was so much nicer to spend the time a some one's house than to try to operate out of a hotel. And my host's estimates on the weight of my bags worked out. I was allowed no more than 32 kilos per bag. One of them came out at 30K and the other at 31K. Of course my carry-on was grossly overloaded, but isn't every body's?

Anyhow, the flight was the usual ordeal, my back gets so sore from all that sitting and I can't sleep sitting up either. Then another bus and ferry trip to Victoria. Met my daughter and brand new grandson for the first time. And then up the Island to catch up with my sleep deficit at my brother's. My apartment sitters won't be into their own place before July 3rd, so I'm just hanging out on the coast for a while.

Got a bunch of photos I haven't processed yet, will post them when I can get on my own box. Looking forward to getting out there and flogging some Indian trinkets. Picked up some painted balls I'm going to try to sell in volume to some of the Christmas stores in Western Canada. Definitely politically correct, unbreakable, made from recycled material, unique hand painted craft and inexpensive enough to sell at wholesale prices and still make a bit of profit.

All in all a great trip, learned a lot, fell in love with Kashmir. Can't wait to get back.

I'm a Grandmother!

May 28

Ayoub's wedding ceremonies continued on the next day. A big meal of course, and then everybody into cars and a school bus for a tour around the lake visiting shrines for the groom to pray for the success of the marriage. I dropped out and made my own way home as all the groomsmen headed off in a long cavalcade to pick up the bride at her families home and bring her back to her bridegrooms house. Auyoub was relaxed and loose during the first part of the day, despite the disaster of his heena night, but as zero hour approached and his family began to robe him for the event he had stiffened up into a wooden statue. Very involved proccess for the groom. Don't know what the bride does waiting for him to get there.

That blast of wind the night before turned out to be very destructive. It overturned shikaras all over the lake and lifted the roofs right off houses and ripped off brickwork from exposed upper stories. Many houses use the top floor of the houses for food storage for the winter and that floor is ofter left with large uncovered areas in the walls. The attic is basically just a steeply sloped roof perched on posts. The wind got underneath five of these structures just in the small area Ayoub lives in, including Ayoub's parents house and popped the roofs off and dropped them back down on the house. A real mess.

I'm getting ready to pull out of Shrinegar, packed up a bunch of extra clothing to mail home. I have two very large suitcases to shepherd to Delhi on the train so I don't want a whole bunch of little ones as well. I'm planning on taking a shakira ride over to see some of those floating gardens with something growing in them. I'm going to be flying out in ten more days.

THis is so annoying, I don't know why pictures sometimes come up with colours inverted. By the way, you can click on images and get a larger version.


May 18

Was supposed to go to a wedding party, a Heena Night for the groom before he goes over and claims his bride. I got out to the neighborhood shopping centre near his house, there are a couple of blocks you have to do on foot because the road bed hasn't been surfaced yet and I need a guide to get there. Anyway, while I am waiting for the ride to come, a strong wind blows up, lots of lightning, scatter of rain. I'm waiting and waiting, nobody shows so I phone again. The wind has blown the roof off the shelter where they were preparing food. Everybody is crying, everything is a mess. So I say it doesn't sound like a good time for guests. I'll just get a rickshaw back to Dallgate and try to hook up tomorrow. Branches of chinar trees down all over the road and many signs hanging by one nail. Nasty little gust.

Maybe some nice photos tomorrow.

By the way, I'm a grandmother now. My daughter had a big baby boy, no name yet but mother and babe home and doing well.

May 17th

I have only a voice to undo the folded lie.
The lie of authority whose buildings grope the sky
The lie of the sensual man in the street.
Hunger allows no choice to the citizen or police.
We must love one another or die.

In the days after 9/11 I searched for that scrap of Auden to comfort myself. In Srinagar I found myself reaching for that scrap of comfort again. People have been telling me about their experiences of living in Kashmir through 3 wars and a never ending guerrillas assaults by independent jihadic militants over the last 18 years. Pretty wrenching stuff.

I wrote a long post for Indiamike.com (Reflections on Kashmir, if anyone is interested.) India Mike is a forum for travelers in India. People responded that my views were one sided because I had only talked to one group in Kashmir. Actually human pain is pretty universal and no respecter of any person. I suspect those others I have not had the opportunity to speak to would tell me almost the same thing. A lot of pain here in Kashmir. A lot of war wounds.

As far as Kashmiris are concerned, militants and the army are equally bad news. To the army there's no way to tell the difference between Kashmiris and militants, and strong suspicions that all Kashmiris are militants. Most of the Hindu population got the hell out one way or another. They are mostly in Jammu.

So it's a pretty tough little town. The war that is going on is actually far more psychological than physical despite all the bullets rattling around. The soldiers want some sort of dominance, you can see it in their attitudes toward even tourists. It's been going on for eighteen year and the Kashmiris have not backed down an inch. They don't argue with men with guns but they don't necessarily respect a man just because he has the gun either.

I experienced a little of that fear everybody around here lives with. I walked into a friends shop for our evening ritual glass of tea and there was a whole patrol of soldiers on the stairs leading up to and in his shop. Just a happy little chat with the captain of the group charged with making sure that no incidents happened anywhere in the tourist zone. Showed me his scar too. This is the evening after I had posted on India Mike. Could actually feel beads of sweat break out on my forehead. These guys are fast or God bless Google. Anyway he spent some time trying to convince me what bad guys Pakistanis are and left when I didn't appear to be all that convinced. Have never been to Pakistan. Don't know anything about them.

Of course that big army, a lot more men than the Americans have in Iraq, is not there to deal with the handful of raggedy assed Afghanis looking for somewhere to punch their ticket to paradise. They are there to deal with that armoured column that Pakistan may send down the pike someday. Meanwhile India has the same problem that Rome always had. Where do you park an army when you are not using it? Well in Gaul or Spain of course. What else can India do, put them in Anantapur to chase Naxelites? Back in Dehradun for more combat training? Not many Indian cities would want that lot on their doorstep. Why not in Kashmir? India owns it now after all..

Anyway, that's what I've been up to lately. Read a great book Ghosts of Kashmir by Shanka Vedantam.

Gulmarg

April 22

Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!

I woke up this morning in serious pain. Went for a day trip on Sunday up to Gulmarg, the local ski resort and forgot my sunblock. Got the worst sunburn I have had for years all across my forehead, nose and cheeks. Even the place where my hair parts on my scalp hurts. The cool mountain air was very deceptive, should have brought my umbrella.

We had another misty day to be going up to another hight in the hills above Kashmir. However it was clear enough as we wound our way higher and higher up the mountain's base slopes to see that the ridges surrounding the valley on three sides are the smaller petals of the rose. Beyond them great snowcapped peaks rear impossibly high into the blue distances, with just a tantalizing glimpse through blue haze every now and then of a splash of sunlight reflecting off a distant slope.

The entire mountainside is forest preserve, with many soldier guarded check stops. You can see as you drive up that the tall straight pines and spruces have been very carefully logged, between the trees are the stumps of other trees individually harvested one by one. All the slopes we saw were fully covered with healthy looking trees, no clearcut slopes anywhere. The under story is very clean and grassy. We saw groups of women carrying out bundles of branches and the odd dead fall log segment balanced on their heads, a few cows balancing on steeply angled pasturage and a large flock pf sheep with many young lambs grazing under the forest canopy. There is almost no dead fall at all on the whole mountainside the road switchbacks up. It was almost uncanny, a whole mountainside groomed like a zen garden.

The resort is built on a high saddle about 6000 meters above the floor of the vale of Kashmir directly below a snow covered mountain ridge. It's off season now, the snow is gone except for a few patches underneath the trees. But there were hoards of Indian youngsters gleefully rolling about in them. We got there early in the morning which was a good idea, because by noon the parking lots were filling up with tour buses and private cars and taxis. Hundreds of Indian families were taking advantage of that intoxicating combination of warm sunshine and cool mountain air to have pick nicks on the new grass of the run out areas of the bunny and beginner slopes and going off for trail rides on the hundreds of Kashmir mountain ponies gathered for that employment.

There is a chairlift that continues up past the brushed out ski run all the way up to the snow covered top of the ridge. We didn't want to go up because it was rather expensive, about $20 to get all the way to the top, but I would sure like to get up there some day when visibility is a little better and take some photos. It's still spring here and melting snow on the upper slopes means there is almost always a blue mist in the air. Maybe before I leave we will get some clearer days.

The ponies were the best part of the experience for me. Hardy little beasts, they are left out to forage for themselves in winter. Some looked like they could have used a little better feeding during the winter. They were thin and boney and still shaggy. They hadn't been able to shed their winter coat due to poor condition. Many however were in top shape, muscular and glossy with good health. This local breed is a beautiful dainty animal with fine boned legs and hooves, lovely shapely heads and a very spirited disposition. They are quiet and obedient enough when being led along with large heavily garbed tourists aboard, but I saw a lot of curveting and horseplay with their handlers as they cantered back to the starting place.

New house, new neighbourhood

We have moved into new accomadations, a little guest house in the warren of tiny streets behind Dall Market. I'm a bit of a curiosity to the women of the house, especially since I have spent most of the last three days processing photos and catching up with my blog. They want to know a lot of stuff about the west, centering as usual on the eternal Indian question, why are you not at home with your children?

Remi told one Kashmiri man that meeting Kashmiri women was the best part of the trip for him. The guy looked a little sceptical but I know what Remi meant. Most of the ladies we have met have been well educated, open, friendly and very straightforward and forthright. They speak their minds quite openly and eloquently.

The guys are cool too, the familiar Kashmiri charm. I'd love to import a little of that to sell some of my goods. These are photos of a couple of merchants down at our favorite internet corner.

John's house

One of the first things I did when we reached Srinagar was phone up the contact number a friend of mine in Puttaparthi had given me to reach his relatives. After a few frustrating conversations with people who only knew enough English to tell me they did not understand English, I finally go a hold of John, still sweltering in Puttaparthi and told him what was happening. Later that evening his brother and the guy who works in his store, Ayoub came over and took us out to the far end of town to introduce us around John and Ayoub's extended family. I took some photos from the function room on the top floor of the house.That is John's brother with the deer in the headlights look..

April 4

We went up to a shrine on the top of hill that rises from the shores of Dall Lake. Remi calls it Solomon's Tomb, the locals have a different story. You can see the geography of the area very clearly. Legend has it that Shrinegar was once a lake, I can believe it. It lies perfectly flat on the floor of a large valley, threaded by waterways, some of which look like big meandering oxbows some are the die straight rulers of canals. It was an overcast day so it was hard to get good photos. I'll go up again on a clearer day and try again.

The most entertaining part of the trip were the guards. The whole mountain is in the Indian Forestry Preserve so the entrance is guarded by a sand banked machine gun emplacement and sentries to check your id. Big signs at the entrance saying no inflammables such as cigarette lighters so I offered the guy at the bottom mine to hold until I got back down, he waved it off. At the top just before the steps up to the shrine, more soldiers and machine gun and a ladies check room. You cannot take a camera up there. The army ladies fondled my tits, crotch and butt, searched my purse, camera bag and pockets and confiscated my camera, cigarettes, lighter and extra camera chip. When I got back down from the shrine there were only four cigarettes left in my almost full package.

Hmmm! Interesting. So the gals in the Indian Army are cigarette smoking dykes. Guess sex with the guys might be a little dangerous. Or it might have been my clothing. I was wearing khaki coloured cargo pants, a tan coloured bush shirt, a dark burgundy long sleeved man's shirt, carrying a black trench coat and wearing my cheap as dirt Amritsar machine woven shawl. Maybe they were trying to figure out if I was a man or a woman.

Remi's entertainment for the afternoon was arguing with the rickshaw driver. We had used this guy before, he had overcharged me for a run across town and back to deliver Manzoor's package so I would not have hired him again, but Remi called him over. He agreed to take us up and back down the mountain for 150 rs, our hotel keeper had said that 100rs was the standard. When we got back down we gave him 200rs but he demanded 400rs. Followed us right into a restaurant and cried the blues to the restaurant staff, had a waiter coming over to the table to tell us we should give him 50rs more. Very loud and embarrassing event. Remi loves this tussle with rickshaw drivers everywhere he goes.

April 3
New Shrinegar is a stone city. We went to visit the family workshop of one of the merchants Remi knows from Puttaparthi. He recognized him on the street. Remi is much happier today. Mustafa's family lives in an area of the city where every house and yard is surrounded by a high stone fence. Block after block of gray stone bordering seriously potholed lanes. Only the cemeteries have low walls you can see over. There are a lot of them.

The young merchant from Puttaparthi gave us tea and cookies and told us about all the work involved in creating a fine shawl. His brother takes almost a day to weave a cloud soft pashm wool on a hand loom, then his father, a master embroiderer spends three months painstakingly embroidering the delicate all over patterns that has been drawn on the fabric by another craftsman. I have seen these shawls selling for 10,000 rs in Puttaparthi, that's about $275 Canadian. He showed us one masterpiece of solid embroidery that looked like it should really be in a museum. Three years work The family also owns machine looms,100 shawls a day, any thickness or quality of wool you care to specify on about about eight or so looms that look like they came from eighteenth century Manchester. This is what I came to Kashmir to see.

I even held in my very own hands a shantoosh shawl, the queen of wool. They start at $1000 American before embroidery. I would never buy one though even if I had that kind of money. They are made from the belly and neck hair of a wild mountain antelope. People used to just collect the fiber that pulled off the animal on bushes during the shedding season in the spring. It is priced in grams. But there is so much money in the wool that greedy people are shooting the animal and driving it over the brink into extinction. I'll stick with wool. Now if I can only find people willing to pay more than twenty dollars for a piece of weavers art back home.

April 2

We went for a shakira ride today and I saw why the TourPolice were so hard nosed about us getting accommodation on a houseboat. These floating dwellings do not have roadway connections to the land. The only way off one of them is by a set of stairs going down to the water to board a shakira, and the owner controls which shakira approaches. They comprise a virtual tourist ghetto. All the landing spots on the shore for shakira are guarded by men with rifles. It's a very effective way of keeping possibly disruptive foreign elements away from the metropolis proper. Very neat. I was glad we had managed to avoid that particular box. Probably would have been pretty boring too, it's very early days for the tourist season, hardly any of them looked occupied yet.

The waterborne salesmen were out, though probably not as many now as there will be when it gets warmer, peddling jewelry, shawls and eatables on the waterway. All the houseboats look pretty worn, no new varnish on the elaborate carved walnut friezes for quite some time, though I am sure they are quite magnificent inside.
Remi was in crybaby mode the whole trip. He was cold, he was leaving almost immediately, he wasn't going to adapt again to a new environment, he was going to Dharmashala where at least he knew where to buy toilet paper. As far as I was concerned, he could leave anytime he wanted, just quit telling me about it and do it. I was reveling in the sounds and smells of springtime freshness, relishing the delicious warmth of the sun after the chill of the night. The temperature was just about what it is at the beginning of April on the coast, with less rain. The fruit trees are in bloom everywhere and birds are singing their hearts out. I just love it here right now.

The food is great too, wonderful cooks these munghals.
I had a small delivery to make for a friend from Goa which took us on a long rickshaw ride across the city away from the tourist section into a neighborhood of small twisty alleyways. On the way I saw that there are many many channels traversing the whole city. No part of Shrinegar is very far from water. I want to hire a shakira to take me for a ride through some of those old canals in the heart of the old city. Old Shrinegar is a wooden city, two and thee story buildings with steeply pitched roofs of weather worn wood raise straight up from the water. It made me think of some of the sets of Ghormangast. I want to do a little more prowling off the beaten path and take some photos.

April 1

Srinegar
Both Remi and I were fairly groggy from lack of sleep when we dove down into the mountains and landed at Srinegar. We were not ready for the Tourist Police. They were charming but very determined to put us on a houseboat. They even found some houseboat owners who were willing to rent for the 200 rupees a night we were willing to pay. They surrounded us on the bus and ushered us into the Tourist Police Station in town. One guy was very hard nosed about it, but I just kept telling them there was no way I was going on a boat, I was afraid of water, I wanted solid earth underneath me. We insisted on a hotel. Finally after many hard stares the guy gave up and one of his men escorted us to a land based lodge. Pretty basic accommodation, no central heating or hot water, but at least we had the freedom of the city. I had been warned by Kashmiri's to stay away from those houseboat owners, they even scare Kashmiri's they are so rapacious, and there are stories about houseboat owners refusing to let tourists off the boats until they accede to whatever demands the owners want to make. I don't like that kind of situation.

March 30-31

Delhi
If the trip to Goa and my stay there was stress free and uneventful the trip to Delhi certainly balanced it in the other direction. For starters the plane took off half an hour late, so my friend who had been waiting for me at the airport had already taken off by the time I got out of the departure area. I had to get some money from a Citi Bank ATM machine so I took off in a rickshaw to find one. Just outside of the airport the driver made me transfer to a cab. I guess a way to get past licensing arrangements at the airport. I wanted to get my money and find a 400 rupee room, I've found them before at Paragangi down by the railroad but he talked me into trying a hotel five minutes from the airport that he claimed cost 1200 rupees. By this time we had been through so many twisting Delhi streets I was getting seriously paranoid and just wanted out of this vehicle. Turns out the hotel will not rent anything for less than 2800 rs, and the taxi driver wants 1500 rs. Got the hotel bill down by 800 by simply not registering or getting a receipt, it was pretty late and got a few bucks off the taxi by showing him I didn't have any more money in my purse. Still cost me almost a hundred dollars for the night. Meanwhile my friend has gone over to the departure terminal and checked into a 500 rs retiring room I didn't know anything about. My Internet connection worked in the hotel so I left him an email saying I would meet him on the plane in the morning.

When I got there in the morning I learned my flight to Srinagar had been canceled. I got a new reservation for the next day and decided to just settle in for a twenty hour wait at the airport, I certainly couldn't afford another hundred dollar night in Delhi. It was not a comfortable wait. Delhi Domestic terminals do not have an air conditioned public concourse like Canadian airports. Once off the sidewalk and inside you are in a security area and cannot leave the building again. No smoking inside of course so I just settled down to wait in whatever shade I could find outside. It was hot, but not as hot as Puttaparthi and dry so at least I could dry out every now and then, unlike Goa. All day long I hung about outside until as evening approached the security people began to ask what I was doing. Waiting for a plane I told them. The airport manager decided to fire up the scanning machine and run my bags through that and let me stay inside for the night. Just then Remi shows up. He had left his luggage in the retiring room and headed off into town to do some sightseeing and was just returning. So we spent a restless couple of hours inside being eaten by mosquitoes. I managed to talk the guards at the door outside to let me out and back in again for the odd cigarette. There were as many people flaked out on the concourse waiting for flights as there were stretched out on the benches inside.

It was very interesting watching the daily operation of this airport. It's not a large terminal, something you might find in a small Canadian city like Abbotsford, but it pumps more people through in an hour than Abbotsford would see in a month. Very efficient. The last flights leave about 1:30 am and start departing again about 3:00 am. I looked out on to the loading area behind the building, it was like a parking lot for planes, hundreds of them sitting wingtip to wingtip as far as a person could see.

Then they started loading up and taking off. They must have been leaving that runway every thirty seconds or so. There was about ten minutes to get on the plane before it was rolling into the takeoff queue. The pilot announced that there were 27 planes ahead of us. It didn't matter to me. There were no mosquitoes in the plane. I was sound asleep.

Layover in Goa

We had to shut the windows of the car as we drove out of Puttaparthi to Bangalore. The wind coming in was so hot it was like a blast furnace. I left behind a town that was already three quarters shuttered down. Baba was rumoured to be leaving in just two days so all the Kasmiri merchants in particular were champing at the bit to race off to Kashmir despite numerous phone calls from home telling them that the massive late season snow dump of the week before had people paddling boats in the streets of Shrinegar.

Bangalore was much cooler, my little thermometer only got up to 30 while I was there. I had to go in on the Friday to get the crowns installed on my back molars, so that left me with nothing to do after I found a post office and mailed a parcel but lounge in my large, comfortably airy and cool hotel room reading "The Last Mohgul" by William Darymple for most of Saturday and Sunday. First time I have ever actually had a relaxing visit to Bangalore. Stayed at the Race View Hotel, my favorite Kashmiri shopkeeper sugested it. Great value for 600 rupees, butI woke up too late both days to see the horses excercising in the morning.

Anyways, did a very short flight to Goa, arrived early evening as the sea breeze was banishing the heat of the day. Ah what a delight. Lots of people still enjoying the balmy evening air, shops and restaurants and even computer shops open till 11 oclock. Felt like a grown up again after Puttaparthi's 9pm lock down. That place is getting more cultish and treating people more like children every year.

I spent a lot of time talking to Kashmiris while I was in P. They have a very nervous existance in town. The local Telagu speaking Hindus who run the small convience, home furnishing and repair shops and man pushcarts out on the streets are pretty hostile to the mutton and chicken eating Muslim shop owners who occupy the prime real estate directly outside the Ashram walls and sell expensive luxury goods like clothing and jewelry. Muslim merchants go directly from their shops to home, no walking around on the streets alone after dark for them. The Kashmiris like to stay up late and eat and watch television till after midnight. The Hindus like to be asleep by 9 and start singing bajans at 4 am. The Baba devotees from all over the world are getting more and more insistant that the whole town, not just the Ashram toe the line in matters ranging from diet; pressure from the Sai Trust got rid of the only two non-veg restaurants in town and decorum; the police told one shopkeeper to get out of town because a German lady accused him of fooling around with some Russian women. As I said, it's all getting pretty cultish. Too bad it's a so much more economical place for a lengthy stay than Goa.

The Darymple book was interesting in that it described very much the same sort of differences in daily routines between the Mughal courtiers in the Red Fort and the Hindu merchants in Delhi at the turn of the century. And there again you had a third group, Christian Britishers taking administrative control with a totally different time table and agenda again. In Puttaparthi the foreigners are not quite so overwhelminly British, but there is a very strong Northern European presence and public morality emerging. Interesting to see that these dynamics are not new in India. The Russians don't seem to be toeing the line though. My friend Manzoor in Calangute tells me that some Russians have just arrived in Goa complaining about their stay in P. Wonder if they are the same bunch rumoured to be caught in naughty activities with the Kashmiri who was told to get out of town?

Three billion people and small town politics can still cross the width of the continent at the speed of an airliner.

I'm heading up to Delhi on Friday, suposed to meet my friend Remi there and continue on to Shrinegar the next day. He invited himself on my Kashmir trip last year and insisted on when we had to go this year. (I would have prefered to hang out another week or two in Goa to let the late winter early spring stuff blow itself out, but he had to get out of P before Baba, didn't want the expense of a layover in Goa and Delhi is also sweltering right now, so he doesn't want to stay there any longer than necessary). Now he tells me that he may not be able to make it to Delhi because there was a bad derailment on the mainline from Bangalore to Delhi that he is suposed to take in two days. I think the stories of people boating in flooded Shrinegar are spooking him.

I don't care, I have my winter boots and coat from my January arrival from Canada. Arrived in Canada during the last of the winter downpour in BC this time last year, by the last week in April it was beautiful, so I'm not worried about a little early spring mountain weather in Kashmir. I may indeed be going up there alone after all. That's ok. Got an invitation to a wedding in May and recomendations of good cheap guest houses rather than houseboats so I'm looking forward to the experience alone or with company. Meanwhile Goa is beautiful, a little bit hot during the middle part of the day, but beautifully cool and fresh morning and evening, especially out on the beach. And the food, as always, absolutely wonderful. Those Goans sure know how to cook.

Winding down in Puttaparthi

The dying season has begun. Three times in the last three days the thrum of flat hand held skin drums. Twice a flower mounded body with tiny wizened face poking out of the flowers paraded past on the way to the Hauneman Temple. It's getting hot. Up around 38 C to 40 C every day. Old people are dying. I feel very sorry for those impoverished oldsters, sweltering in tiny dark places with no electricity. Two and a half more months of heat to go for them.

My flat isn't too bad. Put up foil coated mylar sheets, sold as "space blankets" to Canadian drivers in the winter for emergency protection, on my south and west windows. Switch on my ceiling fan before the lights when I get home. Keeps the place around 34 C. Jump into the bathroom every time I get home. The warm water in the shower around noon that was such a delight two months ago comes out of the tap too hot to stand under any more. I fill a bucket with cold water every evening and mix the hot into my pouring cup for a nice tepid sluice and a dry off under the ceiling fan. The walls stay slightly warm all night now.

I've got two more weeks to go. Getting on a plane for a five day visit to Goa the Sunday after next, then on to meet Remi in Delhi and the flight to Shrinegar up in the mountains of Kashmir. Looking forward to some cool mountain air.

Puttaparthi is emptying out. The once crowded restaurants are almost deserted at night now. Many close early. During the daytime the streets are quiet and dusty.

Baba is supposed to be going to Whitefield on the 22nd, the whole town will shut down then, shopkeepers are packing goods away, getting ready to roll down their shutters for the two months or so Baba is expected to be away. I'm going up to Bangalore on the 23rd to finish off my dental work and catch a plane. Remi isn't booked out till the 28th, it will be an interesting experience for him to be in a completely quiet Puttaparthi. His friends Denis and Sherrie will be around all summer so he will have a place to hang out until the train leaves.

I'm getting my business sorted out, organizing receipts for customs, indexing, pricing and cateloguing goods I picked up during my stay.

Had a hilarious day, (in retrospect, wasn't all that much fun while I was in it) in Bangalore on Friday. I went in on the early train for a dental appointment and had with me a claim form I am sending back to Canada that needed to be notarized. Things started to go bad at the train station. The train was three quarters of an hour late. Got into Bangalore an hour late at the beginning of the afternoon rush hour. Fidgeted all through the crawl across town. Arrived an hour and a half late for my appointment. The dentist had just gone home. She was very nice about it, I apologized profusely, her resident poked at my tooth, no pain anymore, filled up the hole with a temp dressing, made me another appointment. No more trying to do this same day thing. Next time I'll come in on the Friday and get to the dentist early Saturday morning before the streets fill up.

On my way to my second assignment. I have to find a notary to stamp this document. Someone in Puttaparthi had suggested going to a police station and asking there. Police have a lot to do with lawyers, seemed logical. Got a rickshaw, the driver looked scared when I asked to go to a police station, any police station. Around and around and around we go, must have passed the same damn park three times, asking, asking, asking for directions. Maybe the driver was just trying to find a station where no body knew him by sight. Eventually we found one, and after many false attempts I finally connected with someone who could tell me where the lawyers hang out. Mayo Hall looks like an old courthouse out of a forties movie. But the halls were lined with desks with signs saying "Notary" So and So. Ah ha, just what I have been looking for. A short wait and I have what I came for, half a page of brightly coloured stamps and an impressive big red seal. These Indians know how to do it up right. Had to laugh when the notary told me that he was going to charge me 150 rupees but he was only going to put 15 rupees on the receipt. The guy who is verifying that I have sworn to tell the truth is lying himself. So India.

Anyways, back into the traffic, mad dash to the railway station in hundred yard bursts between jam ups. It's almost train time and I still have to stand in line for a ticket. One short angry burst at the taxi driver who is trying to gouge me for another 300 rupees. I've already given him twice what shows on the meter to pay for wait time. That train is getting ready to go, I have no time for this. I push a hundred rupees into his face and say, "take 100 rupees or take nothing, I'm leaving." He took the hundred rupees. So back on the train again with seconds to spare before the station starts to roll past. I realize I'm becoming an Indian. Other people are running across the platform to leap for the handrails of the slowly moving train. Beginning to understand how this happens. I have no small bills, I haven't eaten all day or stopped for a minute. I can't get a snack from any of the vendors because I know none of them can change a 500 rupee note.

Then the conductor comes for the rest of my fare. He doesn't have change for 500 either. A nice young man sitting beside me offers to change my bill and shares a spicy omelet wrapped up in a chappati with me. Also so India. Turns out he has a very English name to go with that unusual accent. What do you know, another Anglo Indian. They seem to like letting westerners know that they share some heritage. My Great grandfather served in India, didn't marry anybody over there though. Interesting encounter, neat to know that the descendants of those few marriages still value the western side of their heritage also.

Catching up

Feb 6

Lands of fire, Lands of water.

Ram's wedding celebration got back on track early last week. His e-mail came to late for me to get a train reservation so I took the only bus going that direction, the High Tech bus from Puttaparthi to Vijayawada. I wondered at the name. Turns out High Tech means the bus has a TV screen on which to show movies. I would certainly have traded that for a decent suspension.

Thanks to my trip of the previous week I knew that it was just a short local run from there to Tenali, scene of the function. We left at dusk and headed straight north up the centre of India towards Anantapur the state capital. The air was very murky, more smoke and pollution than usual, and I soon found out why. We passed an entire mountainside ablaze, shedding great clouds of black soot into the air. I had always wondered why the Norse called dragons worms. Worms have always suggested more water than fire to me, till I saw this entire mountain infested with crawling fire worms. In the gathering gloom and heat the dry Andhra Pradesh landscape was like something a medieval painter might have used to suggest the environs of hell.

I dozed off and when I woke again, we were climbing and climbing, steep switchback turns on a narrow track where the bus had to slow right down to negotiate a passage with every other goods truck and bus on the road. We were hemmed in on both sides by deep impenetrable forest and from what little I could see by the light of the full moon long forested ridges stretched out as far as I could see. Soon we were over this escarpment and as dawn lightened the sky I could see the land had flattened out. Mile after mile of deep green lush paddy fields interspersed with coconut palms. We are in the wet, rich part of Andrha Pradesh.

I realized later we must have crossed the Eastern Ghats and that these cast a long rain shadow across the centre of India and the western part of Andrha Pradesh in particular. Going east toward Bangalore from Puttaparthi there is a substantial rise in elevation that lowers the temperature by measurable degrees but not these craggy bluffs. I'd like to find a way to get there in daylight sometime, both bus and train go through at night.


Feb 8

Tieing the string.

Ram's wedding was scheduled by the local Pandit who determined that 1:14 AM was the most auspicious moment to begin the ceremony. First there was a short Bride's pooga where the brides family presented Ram with gifts and anointed him with perfume in the grooms preparation chambers. Then the whole company went outside onto the patio and had dinner. Attendants decorated a three sided structure like a large puppet theater stage with strings of blossoms. Ram and Jostnah sat in this structure and people brought them presents.

As the appointed time approached, tables were cleared away and people moved their chairs in front of the stage. The bride and the Pandit and his associate seated themselves in the theater. First the brides relatives came with a big box filled with jewelers cases and hung strand after strand of gold chain, necklaces, rings and golden bangles on the bride. They filled her lap with every agricultural product the region produces and gave her clothing and other presents. Then when she went off. Ram came onto the stage and the brides parents held a loop of string which Ram slipped over his head and arm. Ram's father passed up another silver string and Ram slipped that on too. The bride came back in another magnificent sari and the gift giving and chanting of prayers continued. Both Ram and Jostnah had a thick paste of turmeric pressed down on the top of their heads. Then both left the stage again and after a short while, to a fanfare of trumpets Ram arrived back, looking like a mogul princeling in his gold striped caftan and Jostnah soon afterwards in another amazing sari of white cotton.

The first part of the ceremony appeared to have more to do with the relationships the two families were negotiating with each other. The second part was about the bride and groom. They poured buckets of rice and flower petals over each others heads and then plates of different kinds and colours of foil confetti and light plastic balls until the stage must have been at least an inch deep in all this colorful melange. Wedding guests tossed handfuls of rice on the newly wedded pair. Then they were both adorned with the large traditional bridal garlands. After many photos and prayers a fire was lit in a shallow metal basin and Ram lead his bride in the traditional seven steps around the fire. It was a very moving moment. Space was so tight in that little puppet stage that Ram had to bend far forward to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling and Jostnah had to keep her sari skirts very tightly gathered to avoid dragging them into the fire in the tight confines of the stage. You could see how tightly they were holding on to each other as the flimsy floor of the structure flexed under their weight. Seemed the very metaphor of the perils of modern marriage to me. Young people do have to hang on very tight to each other in these times. All this took until after four in the morning. I considered it a great privilege and honor to have been invited. I began to sense something of the depth and age of Indian culture. Any one of these rituals could have been "the" ceremony at one time, but like everything in India the present is constantly layered over the past and all exist in the present in complex and subtle interrelationships.

The next day the company met again for another papoose with the grooms parents and the newly wedded pair, breakfast and farewells. Many of the overseas guests who had originally come for Ram's wedding had run out of time off from their jobs when Ram's wedding had been preopted for Grandmothers funeral, so Ram and his family had canceled the formal reception and opted for some simple family time at the family home in Tiruputi, before Ram and Jostnah had to go to Delhi to finalize Jostnah's Canadian immigration application.

Feb 9

Journey home

I contemplated taking the local train to Gunter that evening and seeing if I could catch the high tech bus I came on, on it's run back to Puttaparthi, but I liked my hotel room in Tenali so I decided just to get an early start instead. I asked for a five o'clock morning call so I could catch the 5:30 train to Gunter. Bad call. Seven o'clock I wake up. No wake up call at five. Oh, well, I'd go down to Gunter anyway and hang around. There would be some bus leaving in the evening, to Anantapur if not to Puttaparthi. It would be easy to get local transportation from Anantapur. So down to the station, quick stop for chai at the tea stall I had scoped out the previous evening, and on to the train station. Then things get weird.

I plunk down my seven rupees and ask for a ticket to Gunter. The guy behind the glass says it costs 21 rupees because this one is express. He directs me to track four. The train will be there at 8:00. I wait by track four and sure enough a train comes along. Sardine time, morning rush hour, barely room to breath, but that's ok, this is an express and its a short run. Only, it is stopping at every two bit local railway shack, and there seem to be a lot more of them than I expected. Can't see much, I'm standing and the view from the window doesn't show much more than a bit of gravel. Then the view from the window shows me water through rail trestles. Water for a long, long way. This is not Gunter. This is Krishna Canal just outside of Vijayawada! Asshole ticket seller and his crummy practical jokes. Oh well Vijayawada will work too. Just get a bus to Anantapur from here. So that's what I do, reserve a ticket with one of the independent companies running luxury Volvo buses, because after my trip up here I have a real craving for Air Suspension, hold the movie. I get lunch and hole up in a cheap but seedy hotel room for a couple hours of sleep because I know I won't be able to sleep on the bus. Then back through what I am beginning to think of as the enchanted forest in the cool dark night. At least on this bus the window doesn't rattle open with the vibration. I don't have too jam a folded up magazine between the panes to keep it closed. The air is quite cold out there. By morning we are out of the hills and stop to unload most of the passengers and the several tons of stuff the bus is carrying on it's roof in the only major town between Anantapur and the forest.

As I expected the local bus to Puttaparthi from Anantapur is easy, the guy behind the counter sees my white face and cheerily chirps "Puttaparthi, right?" Right. The bus is leaving in an hour. I'm surprised by how ramshackle all of Anantapur I have been able to see is. State Capital, you would expect some impressive public buildings at least, some paved streets maybe.But not here. This dusty place reminds me of something out of an old western film, a broken down collection of buildings at the end of a long dusty road. Even little Tenali was more impressive than this. I am in the fire lands of Andrah Pradesh again.

The day before I left to go north the first time all the merchants in Puttaparthi had staged a general strike and rolled their steel shutters down for the morning, turning the town into a ghost town. When I asked what was happening I was told that there is a lot of pressure in Andhra Pradesh to split apart. Rich Andhra wants to shed it's responsibility to poor cousins in the rain shadow. I can understand why now. Sai Babba spoke out against partition. Some people were quite incensed at his temerity in involving himself in politics. Putaparthi is an anomaly in this part of India. It is India Disneyland, a frothy pink theme park perched in a semi desert of dry arroyos; an oasis of wealth and plenty in the middle of the poorest part of the most poverty stricken state of India; or perhaps it is quintessentially Indian, an Indian wedding in a ruinous old temple, bright silks against broken stone. Twenty years ago it didn't exist. Baba is eighty two. How long will it last when Babba isn't in residence at the Ashram?

Nevertheless I am very happy to get back to my cool clean bare apartment again, such a relief to just stop vibrating at last.

When all hell breaks loose

No sooner do I get back to Puttaparthi and get my Internet connection re-established than I find that CIBC bank account has been raided. I don't like doing banking on other peoples machines so I hadn't checked any of my accounts for the time I was away. Very unpleasant surprise.

Anyways, I only had current income in that account, I keep my investment and savings in other banks so they only got one month's income and I've got the necessary processes underway to direct my income to other banks and set up other ways to access funds in India. Amazing what you can do on line these days, both good and bad. Luckily I had sent money to Remi for my trip so they didn't get that. The only real problem other than loosing the money is; that was the only Canadian ATM card I had found worked in any Indian ATM, sometimes, otherwise I would have closed that account long ago, CIBC is the pits when it comes to customer service..

So it's been a busy time slaving over the old Internet and firing off frantic e-mails to my son to go over to my apartment and give the super some cash because the rent cheque was about to bounce. Worst possible time for it to happen. Ram is in India too or I could have had him sort it out. Anyways, done the necessary to cauterize the wound. Now I just have to figure out how to get some cash into India for this month. State Bank is probably going to be slow, India doesn't do Internet banking yet and it takes a long time to get bits of paper across the ocean. Hate to do it but I'll probably have to get my son to send me some money by Western Union. Remi got a little warning that they are going after his account also, his son Mark had some really good suggestions for things that you can do on the Internet. The guy is quite the resource. Remi is a lot more vulnerable than me, he doesn't have very much income even by Indian standards.

So his paranoia has substantial grounds in fact. I still think it's a waste of good energy to grouse about it all the time.

Anyways, despite the money hassle it's been good to get back, hang out with friends, go to the library. Been trying to find venues in my home town where I can sell my stuff for the summer, a couple of music fairs will do, instead of just relying on word of mouth, e-bay and home sales. Want to pick up the pace a bit. Found some lovely soft and warm wool shawls in lovely pastel shades at a reasonable price for my Canadian customers who are not in the least impressed with super thin pashminas, not even if they are very nicely embroidered. Even in summer evenings get cool.

Home again, home again, jigitty jig

Feb 1

It's dark. Something has changed. The train has stopped moving. What time is it? I peer groggily at my clock. 6 AM. Oh my God, it's Preshanthi Nilayam or maybe not, maybe its Anantapor. I struggle my bags down the passageway and peer out into the darkness. There is a sign there, but I can't read it. My glasses, under the pillow, rush back, try to locate my compartment, if this is Puttaparthi it's a very short stop. Find the glasses, rush back, still can't read the sign, it's all in Hindi and Telegu so I call out to a guy on the platform, is this Preshanti Nilayam? Yes, it's the conductor, good, the train won't move off until he gives the all clear. I can get my bags off without breaking an arm. Of course there are no porters, they are all up at the entrance gossiping with the taxi drivers. The little wheelie is fine but that big bag won't steer worth a damn, I make my wavering way up to the entrance and all the porters and taxi drivers wake up and mob me at once. I'm back.

Good to have my own apartment to come to and not have to get off the train all buzzed out and groggy and try to find a hotel.

Well, that was interesting, not at all what I expected. And I still have to get up to Goa and do some business in the near future but I'll do it the easy way and just fly out of Bangelore. Meanwhile, back to work here in Puttaparthi. I have to get a bed and mattress to put my new sheets on.

My internet connection works again. Have to go down to the shop and ask why it would not on the road. Suposed to have a roaming feature. Have yo find out why that is not working for me.

Train time

Jan 31

I head down to the railway station two and a half hours early determined that if that wait list ticket can't be confirmed I am going to head out to the Volvo bus stand and book on to the next bus to Bangelore even if it doesn't leave until evening and I have to rent a hotel room for the day. I need some sleep. People were partying, loud voices, feminine squeals, loud TV until after four in the morning. I just wish they had been doing that the night before when police came waking me out of a deep sleep to check if I had a man in my room. Get it all over at once. Not a great hotel.

Anyways, enough said, I am in a foul mood. I guess it shows, even the guy at the ticket desk looks first abashed when I ask if I am going to be taking this train or getting my money back and then relieved when he checks his terminal and finds there is a berth for me. Glad I'm there early, have to wait for the train doors to be unlocked, but I am first on the carriage and have space and time to haul the little wheelie out of the big bag when it turns out it is too fat to fit under the seat.

I'm alone for a while, then while I am eating lunch the conductor puts a young couple with a baby into the compartment. Works out great. I finish lunch, baby finishes bottle, I crawl up into my berth and sleep, baby sleeps, parents sleep. Turns out they had a late night too. They are a young NRI couple in Visag for the lady's sister's wedding. They live in California. So odd to hear that soft American accent in India. Such a nice little baby, so quiet and content, five months old. The baby in the next compartment is the exact opposite, the journey is punctuated by frequent shrieks of childhood outrage. When the father brings her for a visit I can see why, bouncy bouncy, push her face up into strangers faces, squeak squeak with the toys, this poor kid is so overstimulated she doesn't know whether she is coming or going. Can't be still for a second, wiggles and squirms like a eel non-stop. She even falls off the seat onto the floor in the next compartment. I wince. Serious wails when she finally gets her breath back from that one. Meanwhile the little boy just smiles and gurgles, waves his legs about and snoozes through everything.

Chance Encounters

One way or another it is my last evening in Visag. Went down to the Train station the morning to check the status of my ticket. Still waitlist 1, no one has dropped out yet so I have to start thinking of alternate strategies. If I'm still waitlisted an hour before train time tomorrow I'll just get my money back and go book on one of the Volvo busses, I'm tired of waiting around.

Kind of frustrating day today. Got a lift down to the beach, far end near that sub parked on the beach, wanted to do a tour of that. No chance, the exhibit doesn't open until two. Then lunch at the Dolphin, another five star I like to stop into for a beer, a bite and some serious air conditioning at noon. Waiter asks me if I am free tomorrow evening. He's starting a new hobby, taking people on tours of Visaskhapatnums local attractions. Would have done it anytime this week end but I'm going to be on a train or bus tomorrow. I'll look him up next time I'm in Visag.

Did have a couple of interesting conversations down on the beach. A young man came by with a group and approached me. He told me he was a Christian minister and was coming down to the sea to do some baptisms asked if he could come back and talk to me afterwards. I said sure and soon he came back to tell me his tale. He used to be a Hindu, worshipped false idols, hung around this Christian church and criticized the music. Eventually he went into the church became a convert and started his own ministry. I told him I'm not religious; I believe it creates disunity by focusing on differences instead of what is common to all humanity. I was however impressed by his quiet, simplicity and obviously joyous involvement with his local community so I gave him 500 Rs just because I liked his aura.

A little further down the beach another man approached me. He had a scrap book of photos and text documenting his involvement with several gurus in the Himalayas and asked me if I wanted to become his family friend. I wondered if his wife would be quite as enthusiastic about dragging a beer drinking, cigarette smoking foreign woman in as a family friend without a little discussion first so I graciously declined, but promised if I knew any groups in Canada who needed workshops in meditation and yoga techniques I would recommend him. Two faces of Indian spirituality, the contradictions are always in your face here.

I'm getting myself a decent bed made as soon as I get back to Puttaparthi, I'm always afraid I'm going to fall off that skimpy little cot I'm using now. So when I noticed a big household linen supply place I went in and bought some sheets. The salesman tried to talk me into a poly/cotton blend because they don't need ironing but with dobie fees at 3 rupees an item I feel quite all right about indulging my love for the feel of crisp freshly ironed white cotton sheets, just like when I was a kid. $30.00 for four double bed size sheets and two single sized sheets, 100 % pure cotton, solid and substantial. Cut them right off the bolt, the in-house tailor ran up the hems while I waited. I like the way some things are done in India. Visnakhaputnam may not be well known for cotton but you can sure get some nice stuff here.

Out of the woods (I hope)

Railway station again today. Got down there about 11:15 and experienced this sinking feeling as I saw the line to the token counter snaking away across the parking lot, a feeling not enhanced by the big sign over the door saying the ticket office closes at 14:00 hours on Sundays and holidays. Surprise, ripped through the token line with minutes to spare before they shut down that window at twelve. Indian officials can be such sadists. Ten minutes before twelve I was the second in line when the lady behind the counter took off to enter a lot of stuff on a computer, leaving us all to wonder if she was going to come back before shift end. Indians cannot handle this sort of stuff. The ones behind me became frightened and started cramming their arms and fistfulls of paper under the glass, waving them at her frantically. Luckily I was one of the few others she gave numbers to before slamming down the wicket.

And luck it was, only forty people in front of me this time and a whole two hours to go before they shut the place down. Piece of cake. Took waitlisted ticket one, I felt it was pretty good odds at least one person would bail before traintime. Now I can figure out how this business of changing a waitlist ticket to a confirmed ticket works.

And I have finished the newspaper. Gives me two days off to do tourist things and go hang out on the beach in the morning, take some photos.

I suspect the whole railway station scramble had a lot to do with the celebration of Republic Day on Friday. Probably a lot of people using the stat to grab a long weekend with relatives.

Now I have my own India train booking story

So far I have been lucky. When I want a train ticket I just go down to the station and buy one. Today I had one of those experiences other people talk about traveling in India.

Went down to the station to get my ticket. Stood in a very long line to get a token to go up to the window and submit my requisition. Waited watching little green numbers flicker on a television monitor while the guys behind the counter chewed through the 350, (I'm not kidding) people ahead of me, over lunch hour and into the afternoon. I already had found out that I had to travel down the coast and catch the train to Vasco de Gamma at Vijidawada. I was quite loking forward to a cross continent drive behind that salt encrusted behemoth. Alas, it was not to be. After much to and froing between three different counters it was finally established that the only ticket I could have was waitlisted with eleven people ahead of me, or I could wait until the fourteenth. Didn't want either, will fly from Bangelore, but might as well go all the way to Puttaparthi and drop off my very large new Indian style suitcase first. (It's got my snazzy little airline wheelie inside it.)

Left the hotel at 10 am, reached a bar and downed a Kingfisher by four thirty. I needed that, buying train tickets is thirsty work. Tomorrow, something simple, one train, already know the name and number or else I take a bus. I like Visag fine but I don't have any relationships going here so it's not someplace I want to stay for a really long time.

One good thing, decided to get serious about the ATM issue. Wrote down a list of all the different bank ATM's I have used in India and told the rickshaw driver,

"I want to visit every ATM in town till I find one that works."

Disapointed him terribly that I hit paydirt on the first try, and found a new brand of ATM that works, and in Vishakaputnam, bonus. So my card is ok, it's just the Syndicate Bank machine in Puttaparthi that is wonky. That's good to know.

Onward!!!!!!!!!!!

Onward to Visag

Jan26

Bit of a panic this morning. I could not get on the train I wanted at Gunter Junction, had to catch it one more stop up the line which meant catching another train at Gunter to go intercept it. Buying the ticket was easy enough, 13 rupees, and the directions were simple enough. Show up at 4:30 am. That was where simple ended. Got there at 4:30 and the helpful guy at information looked non-plussed when I asked what track to go to to catch a train to this one stop up the line. He said that the express to Vishakaputnam had gone by at 3:30. I pointed out where my ticket instructed me to board at Vijayawada at 6:55.

A by-stander suggested track three and he agreed. I went to track three. There was a completely dead train sitting there all locked and dark with numerous Indians attempting to gain entrance through every possible door and window. Finally a group did find an open door and got on to sit in the dark. This seemed like an odd way to do business. I guess I looked non-plussed enough that a guy asked me if I knew where I was going. I told him Vijayawada Junction, to intercept the Presanthi Express. He said this is the Golkerna Express, the train you need is on track four. So off I go to track four, where a train coming all the way from Vasco de Gama over on the other coast in Goa is just pulling into the station. Indian rail officials are like cops, thick as theives when I am trying to sneak a cigarette but never there when you need one. Finally I went way down the train to the reserved section and asked a guy hanging about catching a quick puff if this train was going to Vijawada Junction. He said, that's one stop up the line, just grab the porters seat and come along. A few other guys with brief cases got on and stood in the passage and off we went. Nobody to check tickets or anything. Got to the stop 20 minutes before the Preshanti Express pulled in. The Golkerna train came in ten minutes later, so the dead train would have worked as well. There was a notice by the door that a special train had come through at 3:30, express to Visag, but not the one I was catching so I guess that was what the confusion was about. I did a little praying that the train would come in on track one so I wouldn't have to haul my luggage up and down more steps, and merciful heavans, my prayers were answered. After that it was a pretty uneventful journey. Nice chat with an Indian real estate mogul in Houstan Texas. 150 apartment buildings, can you imagine? Then caught a few hours of catch up sleep before Vishakapatnam.

I like Visag. 250 rupee rooms are easy to find and it is an interesting town to go for a walk in. It's situated on both sides of a rocky hump sticking out into the sea. One shore line is naval base and container ship port and the other is public beach. The city streets run up and down and over this promontory.I always get lost. You can go do a little beach time if you want. It's a city beach, not a resort beach, no swimming because of the rocks and undertow and the beachside ammenities run to lots of statues of famous Indian's and some odd fantasy creatures rather than beach shacks and restaurants. They even have a submarine beached on the waterfront you can tour. Not a lot of lounging about on the sand slurping down beer on this side of India. But the sea air is still lovely and it's wonderfully cool at this time of year. No, I didn't take all those photos today, I'm not that much of an overachiever. Those are from last year.

There is an emporium there that has the most wonderful hand woven and hand printed cottons. This is the only place I have seen selling them, bought a whole bunch of huge bedsheets for 350 for the doubles and 150 for the singles. The guy remembered me from last year, gave me his card if I ever want him to ship me some. Got some wonderfully embroidered cotton dress goods and short and long men's kurtas in that wonderful cotten. I has so much character and texture in the hand. I love it. Then I went down and splurged 550 rs on a meal at the Taj, one of India's five star chains. They have amazing food and world class service. Even their coffee is wonderful, wish I could afford to check in one day.

Wanted to find out what it would cost to fly to Goa, guy at Air India told me, forget it, the airport has been closed for seven days because of fog with no end in sight. So I guess it's the train again for me.

And so, back to my cubical to work some more on the newspaper.

Tomorrow I am going to grab a rickshaw and hit every ATM in town and see if any of them will give me money after I figure out the train stuff. I'd love to buy more cotton, and the huge Indian suitcase I'm going to need now to carry my prizes, but I don't want to arrive broke in Goa, still have to get back to Puttaparthi.

In Transit

Jan 25

This morning I went to get tickets onward from Gunter. Glad I was not trying to do it in a hurry or with luggage. They have an odd but effective booking system. The local booking and information system is on the east side of the tracks. It is an incredible zoo with hundreds of people pushing and shoving to get their tickets for the local comuter services.To get bookings for the long haul trains you have to cross the tracks via the underground concourse, up out and way down the street, past the post raj palatial splendor of the Section chiefs quarters and to the other booking office on the western edge, of the station property. It is effective, if you are not carrying luggage, because that booking office is quiet without much in the way of lineups, unlike the scrum on the local platform.

So, I can get a train tomorrow, same one I got off yesterday, but that berth isn't vacated until the train reaches another station about an hour down the line. Back all the way across the tracks and buy a twelve rupee ticket on the same train I took up to Repalle leaving at 4:30 am tomorrow. I booked A/C 2 tier even though it is just an eight hour ride during the day and I could do it in a chair car or bus because in A/C 2 tier there is a pretty good chance I can lie down and get some of the stress off the old coccux for part of the journey, (and catch a little snooze to get over that 4am wake up call before the whole train switches into day mode.) If I had known how this was going to play out beforehand I would have been able to do the whole stop over on a break-of-journey ticket for much less money.

I find that the local people have as much trouble understanding my accent as I do their's, so am writing my questions down, makes for much faster comprehension. Everybody, even railway people are very patient and helpful. That is unusual, they always seem pretty stressed out.

Well, off for my day of exploring Gunter.

Did my usual random walking tour. Ended up circumnavigating the railway station instead of bisecting it as I did earlier this morning. Very strong Christian presence here. Big Cathedral, lots of different Christian themed institutes. Looks like they have been around for a while, an old building reminiscent of Goan churches now houses another institute. tried to take a photo of some roadside dhabbas and had the usual street urchins pop up and demand to be in the photo.

I was looking for a restaurant where I could sit down under a fan. Found two but I was half an hour to early for them, lunch at twelve. Decided when I got to a familiar corner just to send room service out to get me something and eat it under the fan in my hotel room.

I think I will spend the afternoon working on Edmonton Street News, take a nap, and head out for dinner when it gets a little cooler.