Gotcha! Today (April 1) does, however, mark our completion of six months abroad. So long, gone by so quickly, or vice versa; I ain't sure which. The adventures; the misadventures, detours and turnarounds; the good friends old and new we've been so blessed to travel and rest with; the challenges met and obstacles overcome; the unforeseen made manifest before us; every person, smell, place, taste melts into the mottled, amorphous, now dim and now alive again tapestry of memory. But there is not the sole repository of this great and varied time abroad. Its mark lay etched in our bones, on our faces and bodies, upon our very souls, those core essences within molded by such broad experience, and we're better for it. Deeper, wiser, more fully human. Many modes of living have filled this brief yet significant period of our lives. We've been students and teachers; volunteers and paid workers; campers; hikers; bikers; surfers and beach bums; mountain climbers; honored guests and proud hosts; penny pinching tramps and lavish splurgers; friends; lovers; clever navigators of the unknown and marks for the unscrupulous. No single m.o. has characterized any two consecutive episodes for us. We sought and found repeatedly the variety and sense of discovery we felt escaped us too often back home. And now we turn our eyes and hearts once more in that direction, imagining with piqued anticipation all the freshness restored to a homecoming. We are excited to reunite with you all in due time. We'll start that happy chapter one month from today. Love to all from Bali,

DnfnR

Would you, gentle reader, consider my cyber silence of late deprivation or reprieve? One way or the other it's over, so git ready!

The comparatively frantic pace of our earlier travels has given way this past month to a very even, relaxed, down-right lazy Balinese experience. (Yogini Rosie is likely to take umbrage with the "lazy" designation, practicing near every dern day, so I'd best limit that to my own modus operandi.) Though an unsettling round of musical accommodations occupied much of our time and energy over the last two weeks (a shite situation now mercifully resolved), the experience here has been, on the whole, precisely what I was looking for in coming to Indonesia: a sublime symphony of recreation, relaxation, routine, reading and writing. It is ironic considering my travels of late but I'm a home body, and the past month and a half has slaked this innate inclination of mine. Bali is a truly remarkable little corner of the world, graced with mindbogglingly magnificent land- and seascapes and a culture that's as warm as the summer winds which sweep through these lush forest villages, situated snug amidst rice terraces, gentle hills and dense jungle. We are fully aware of how fortunate we are to be in Bali and are looking forward to spending the rest of our southeast Asian time here, required to be nowhere until our flight to New Zealand in late March. We're merely some ticket-switching and visa extending away from this being set in stone.

The one casualty of my aforementioned program, actually, has been the writing, as evidenced by my prolonged absence from this space. Most recent attempts have resulted in rusty rigmarole, sap-drenched drivel unfit for print, though important nonetheless in getting back on track. What's vexed me however is where's gone the inspiration? I have a theory on this which goes as such: I need some grit in my gears. This easy livin' shit offers little up front of the dark fodder necessary for a good long loud rant. Sinclair, in Hess' Demian, said, "It was not my lot to breathe fullness and comfort, I needed the spur of tormented haste." My tone has always followed my eye and my heart toward the tensions that sully our societies, the dense unspoken that shapes our days, our lives, our interrelations, our minds. Outside of Eden one need not probe deep to unveil evidence thereof, nor obvious (if not radical) solutions thereto. But here's the paradox: I'm in heaven and my art is suffering, my expression stifled.

 

This intellectual torpitude has likely arisen from how I'm going about this paradisaical perseity. Thus far the leisure has far outweighed the adventure, our time here spent more in books and varied bodies of water than on bikes. With the latter I presume comes exposure, which of course offers insight; hard-won angles at the scenarios surrounding. My chosen m.o. of late has afforded none of this: long lazy brunches; odd runs to the beach or the hills; poolside lounging; endless reading. What has accompanied it, however, is a social life. But I've never been the least bit compelled to chronicle cliquish tos and fros, and there's no need to start now; I'll spare you the yawns. But it's an element not present in most early, more personally creative phases of this journey. 

 

Long winded admission of shiftless etiolation. Working on it and, now, moving on...

 

My good friend Mark Henry O'Connor came and spent a few weeks with Rosie and me, recently returning to Bao Dong, China, where he is teaching English for a year. Mark and I met in freshman English, way back in 1991, and have been fast friends ever since. A biology teacher at the elementary and high school levels back home, Merko (as his sister and I call him) decided one day out of the blue to go to China shortly after returning from a visit to our home in Olympia. I'm not sure what possessed him; it'd been a while since he'd traveled before coming to Washington (one year ago now) and upon returning to Maine he realized that the whole world was out there awaiting his eager exploration. A week after he headed back east I got an email from him with the subject line "Ching Chang Chong CHINA!!!!!!" and he was off.

 

Mark wasn't sure if he'd be able to make it here, with amorphous vacation dates and ambiguous communication from his project managers. But perseverance and dogged determination got him here in one piece, if not frazzled, chilled to the bone and more ready than ever for some Balinesian leisure. You see, Merko was in the midst of that Sino-rail debacle surrounding the lunar new year. He braved seas of humanity, queues running hundreds if not thousands of heads back, ice storms, food shortages and gods know what else en route. His train ride from Beijing to Hong Kong was supposed to last 26 hours. Seventy-two hours and several authority-quelled passenger mutinies later his train limped frozen and famished into Hong Kong. While back home in the PRC, battling record-low temperatures without benefit of a heater (in neither his school nor his lodgings) he'd taken to sleeping in two pair of thermals, pants, socks, jacket, hat and gloves. Needless to say, when he arrived a day late and bewildered he was more than ready for Bali's warm, laid-back ways. Three weeks later he departed tanned, rested and, understandably, hesitant. Back home now he's looking forward to the end of his service and to like opportunities thereafter. He spends his summer months, those blessed benefits of his trade, working at a world-class trout fishing camp in Maine. Rosie and I are eager to pay him a visit upon our return.

 

Wow. How 'bout them Giants? Sheeeit. Rosie, Mark, Jonny Woo and I all rolled down to Kuta first thing Super Bowl "Monday" to represent the chowdahead gang, to wave the flag, to watch my team cement their place in history as the undisputed greatest team in the history of the NFL, but ultimately to be shocked along with the rest of the sporting world. Un-freakin'-believable is really all I can say. What a finish. I'm still not over it. Only a successful Sox campaign this spring will begin to salve this pain, to fill the gaping void in my stomach where my team pride used to be. OK, perhaps this is a touch dramatic but Jesus. How did this happen? Arrgh....go Sox!

 

Rosie is great folks. She's doing her practice daily, spicing her more demanding, self-lead Ashtanga practice with a couple of gentler Hatha classes every week, and with satisfying results. Between our departure from Mysore and our arrival here in Ubud, she's not had a community with whom to nurture her skills, from whom to draw inspiration. It is important, apparently. For Rosie sanga, or a community of fellow students, has been a welcome benefit of our establishing roots here in Bali. This, the friends that we've made, Merko's visit, the peaceful ease with which we pass our days here have all made our time in Bali simply fantastic.

 

That's all for now. I'll try to shake off this writer's block and post more often. Wish me luck and take care.

Howdy Pardners. Since arriving in Ubud Rosie and I have shaped ourselves a bit of a social life, the likes of which we've not enjoyed since our time in Mysore. With just sooooo many pressing social obligations, barely squeezed between hammock sessions, poolside novel reading marithons and scooter jaunts to the bathwater sea, we we're talked in to getting a cell phone. And so we did. Calls from the US are free to us, so feel free any time. We are 12 hours ahead of the east coast, 15 ahead of the west. Can't wait to hear from one and all.

 

62 (Indo. code) 85857096611

Had it up to Here with Uploading PHOTOS!

 

I'm in trouble. I've already been here for about three hours, cleaning up, rearranging and captioning 2.5 month's worth of photos and the upload manager says I've only got five per cent done, 29 of 457 photos (AND IT'S PAUSED for some reason!). The last time I did this (Goa) it took some five hours, the blessed conclusion of which saw Rosemary appear at the cafe door in tears, relieved to find me alive where she'd left me that morning. There's got to be a better way! I just hope she's not freaking out right now...

 

Is today Friday? Wow, a week in Bali flew by. We've been in Ubud the entire time, ensconced in the warm embrace of this inland Balinesian folk-art hub. Bikes? no; surfing? no. Havn't even seen the beach yet and ain't stressing it one bit. Rosemary and I are in paradise, plain and simple. Bali's beauty is truly the stuff of tropical cliche. The jungle is dense with deep river gorges, high palms, flora so lush it's meaty, snakes, lizards, monkeys, you name it. Outside our door grow bananas, papaya and avocados, all lining the stepped rice fields which surround our new home. Ducks slop and waddle through the shallow paddy mud, gorging themselves on the weedy, watery tops. Nightfall brings the frogs' call, an all-night symphony that fills our open-air abode, lulling us off as would a babbling brook. We've got one of those too, but the croakers drown it out. Birds of every hue awe us at every turn, flitting from branch to leaf to frond, availing themselves of the mind-boggling array of insects. Ants, flies, mosquitoes, scorpions, mottle-winged moths and butterflies adeptly dodge your every swipe, and surely have those winged ones somewhere in mind. Coy fish fill the little waterways that grace our little lawn and greet you with hungry mouths above the surface when you crouch to check them out. Having stayed in this one place, I'm getting excited at the prospect of seeing more. But not yet. No, we've just landed our rather splendid little spot for the next two weeks, perhaps after which we'll actually get to the shore. Surf season is low right now, but our two full months here (and the very real possibility of more...) will surely see us out there. So Ubud for now. We're loving it.

 

This place is not off the map by any means. Western tourists flock here for the shopping and natural beauty, and a significant segment of the local population makes their living catering to our needs. Yet unlike in Thailand or Goa, they seem to have largely succeeded in preserving their culture, holding sacred their ancient customs, at peace with the medium they've arranged with the grateful, curious visitors. We anticipate leaving for less trodden locales, but the west/east dynamic here is the most pleasant we've yet experienced.

 

Twenty six per cent uploaded...

 

This place we've got for the next two weeks is incredible. I am still stunned that it's within our means. Germans own it, so the decor is a bit, um, weird. But the house itself, the yard, the pool and the kitchen are all that really matter. We're very excited to be able to cook for ourselves again and celebrated the fact with a dinner party last evening. Jonny and Jenny have been a blessing for us here, introducing us to their people and their temporarily adopted town. They brought us house-hunting and so deserved to be paid back. So Rosie and I whipped up some grub, J & J brought the music, a box o' wine (pretty damn good actually), their little boy Jacob and some buddies and we all made a night of it. Concocted my first pesto ever...mmmmmmmm, pesto. So we've got a social life. Pretty cool. Two weeks from today we'll greet my ole buddy Mark O'Connor, on leave from an icy-cold teaching assignment in China. By then the surf will be calling loud and persistent and, naturally, we'll abide. Can't wait to see the boy's reaction to Eden. The prospect has him hopping.

 

Reading has been more prevailent than writing of late. Finally wrapping up 5000 years and 524 pages of Indian dynastic turmoil and moving on to a Hesse novella called Demian, a must read according to my man Timothy Robinson and to Rosemary who recently ripped through it. I spice the history with the occasional Lao Tzu, Whitman and Neruda, the poetry we've happily been lugging 'round Asia. From there I've got my eyes on Duncan's The Brother's K and another biggie by Umberto Ecco that Matt left with us. Never had this much time to indulge and I figure it's almost as beneficial to the writing as actual writing. You be the judge. Ahh, that's bullshit. Writers write and I've got to get back into the flow. That's my aim for my time in Bali, or one of the four or five: cook, surf, read, hike, write. Motorcycles can wait for New Zealand.

 

Fifty two per cent...jeesh!

 

Rosie came in and found me...no tears, just restrained suggestions for better ways to do this. Problem has been that until this computer, every one that I've attempted to download Picassa onto has done so in the native tongue. Hence, pictures from Goa, Rajasthan, Rishikesh, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore and Bali. Never again!

 

Well as you can see folks, I've not been priming the creative pump of late and I'm flush out of babble (no doubt some of you find this a relief!). I don't know what it is. Perhaps paradise just isn't contentious enough to whet my authorial appetite. I'll have to peer beneath this lush and glimmering surface and dredge something, anything up so's I can get back to my strong suit: ranting. Until then, all's well with us here. Hoping the same for you where ever you've tuned in from. We're both sending love, Bali style.

 

Oh yeah. By the way here's the loooooong awaited link:

 

http://picasaweb.google.com/canunpa/LongOverdue

 

check 'em all out at once at:

 

http://picasaweb.google.com/canunpa

Ubud ain't a small place necessarily, though I imagine after some time it would start to feel so. I say this to highlight just how freakin' perfect this has worked.

My brother, you got (or are using) the wrong email for Jonny Woo, so attempts to get him (that way) bore no fruit. But who needs direct communication when we all got the other kind at our immediate if not obvious disposal?

Rosie and I got into Denpasar two nights back after 10pm and walked out the door to an Indianesque gaggle of touts all spouting what I soon realized were outrageous rates for transport to Kuta.  Concerning our accommodational fate that night I knew one thing and one thing only: it damn sure didn't lie in freakin' Kuta, that debaucherous (so I hear) hub of spring break minded ferong marked for extermination by the jihadis. That scene is precisely what we're trying to avoid. But really, we had no idea where we wanted to go. We had your incredibly insightful and enticing email printed out, a useless fucking Lonely Planet "SEA Shoestring" edition, our wits and that's it. Concerning the currency here I was equally as clueless. I bought a bottle of water to garner some sense, checked the exchange rate at a window, did some bad then better math (Christ, we're dealing in hundreds of thousands here?), and threw a dart at the map or, more precisely, at your email: Ubud. We didn't have any idea if your people were here or in any of the other places you'd mentioned and had pretty much given up on making that connection. No worries; no friends have awaited our previous arrivals thus far. But Ubud it was. Got a good price too for the ride, mustering months-worth of India and beyond experience and getting a kick your feet up van ride for 160,000. Does your boy have game or what?

Settled on a place that night after warily leaving Rosie on a corner with the bags ("Here's the knife. Don't use it."). Best for the budget not to show up looking too desperate, bag laden and sweaty and it being midnight and all. After a few offers too silly to mention I got a spot at Ubud View, on the road parallel to the main drag, for 90,000/night. Again, not too bad. Told the man I'd be back and went to get my girl, not a three minute walk from our new digs. But she wasn't there...

Shock and fear (a good four seconds worth) gave way to big-sigh-heaving relief as I looked into an open-front restaurant where the owner was chatting up Rosie after doing the chivalrous thing and inviting her in off the street. This kid was awesome. He'd just opened up his new place, now closed for the night and empty, and we spent the next two and a half hours taking him up on his offer of free food and beer and listening to his "welcome to Bali" rap. Couldn't have landed more easily? Or could we...

Next morning we made the always financially unsound decision to forgo the included-with-our-room breakfast, something we usually settle for, and headed out to see the town. Hanuman Road. Hmmm, right or left? Right. Where to eat? Walking. How about here? Mmmmm, nah. Over there? Eh...A bit further up we saw and smelled what seemed to be our place: Kafe. The joint was packed wall to wall and sharing a table was gonna have to do. We chose one occupied by a woman occupied with her paper. The angles struck me as awkward and I thought I'd try another. Excuse me, may we join you? Thanks. Um, excuse me, are you Jenny Queally?

Bingo.

Thanks for everything brother and again, you're here with us in spirit and missed in body. Be well, Daniel.

Obviously we're in Bali! So's ya know Jen Queally is the sweetheart sister of an old high school lacrosse rival. Rosemary and I had the pleasure of meeting her for the first time two summers back at our mutual friend Bobcat's wedding in Shasta, California and until yesterday had yet to meet her again. Her man is Jonny Woodman, a North Shore Mass. brother of Bobcat's whom I've had the pleasure of meeting now a number of times, beginning way back in '99. Jenny grew up in the same small town that I did, one of those synchronisities that make life so damn (blessedly rather?) fun and mysterious. Now, some don't like the notion of fate, preferring a subscription to the unidimensional self-determination thing. As for that it seems to me that something else is at play (just don't ask me for a definition; I try with varying degrees of success to avoid things silly and futile, save for rooting for the Bruins). Rosie and I certainly feel this to be the case and choose simply to shake our heads in awe and reap the benefits of letting go the reins. As Bobby says, "Use the Force, Just Don't Force It!" Sage advice.

Balinesian impressions forthcoming. Until then best wishes to all.

So, we're on our way. Those ducks still ain't lined up but we're identifying each of them and chasing them 'round the yard as we "speak". It's tough getting the visa/return ticket thing together but we're on it. Bali or bust. Thanks, folks, for all of the love and support from afar. Know that we feel it, indeed at times depend upon it. So keep it coming.

 

We're in Bangkok, our last afternoon in Thailand before departing on an all night train for Malaysia. Freakin' Malaysia...who knew? We will soon enough and we'll let you know how it goes. Be well all,

 

DnfnR

Daniel and I want to send you ALL our love during this time of gathering in celebration of the hoilday season. This day, Christmas, seems like any other here in warm and sunny Thailand; the only sign that it is Christmas is bad music. Being in this removed, Buddhist country has solidfied for both of us that what we miss is not the commerce of the day but spending it surrounded by the friends and family that we love so very much. Throughout this trip we have found the most meaning in moments when our hearts are engaged and connected with a place or people, and today our hearts are filled with thoughts of you all. We hope you all enjoy your holidays and a happy happy new year.

We've been having a hell of a time getting a computer and our camera to cooperate. Came damn close the other day and screwed it up. The end result, a truncated (yet tantalizingly tropical) taste of our early November. We'll get it together soon if our heads don't explode first.

 

http://picasaweb.google.com/canunpa/ATouchOfGoa

14 December
Our second morning here in Rishikesh. The sun is high and warm, a welcome contrast to the cool breeze that fills the valley over which our cottage is situated. Yesterday, after landing our bike Rosie and I explored the town and had a late brunch before mounting the Bird and flying a winding, narrow path deep into the labrynthine gorge the Ganga's ground out, giggling our elated little asses off all the while. These twisty, steep-valley, cliff-hanging roadways are what I always imagined riding to be about. "Fun" just don't do it justice.

So we're leaving on a jet plane soon, out of India for now. Don't know as we did it best we could--good marks for first-timers I'd venture to say. As for knowledge of self, inner peace, a deeper understanding of the meaning of life, consciousness and the lot, I ain't so sure. I think I'll leave here more puzzled than I arrived. India, from a visitor's perspective, seems as fucked and beautiful as any place I suppose...well, perhaps a wee bit more of both. It's just old, really old, meaning all of its shit and wonder are firmly engrained, deeply embedded in the human experiment's hard-packed detritus. And of course it simultaneously looks ahead, it grows, mounting unsentimentally upon all that's come before. It seeks on a grand scale to reach and better the achievements of the West while seasoning the feats with its own distinct flavors. And it just might do so if the Earth doesn't rot and collapse from 'neath their ascendant course. We'll be back; we'll see...

18 December

Wowza! Second to last day in India. Wrapping my mind 'round notions both Indic and Thai. Exciting times for ole' DnfnR, the latter of whom is doing her quickly (now) recovering practice in high winter sun, 'neath favored green-leaf tree, 'fore blue blue Ganges whilst the former, your's truly, pens stoned run-on sentence, awaiting all the while the imminant arrival of a young Israeli South African (who knew?) so's we can all ride off into yon' hills. Lovely day really. India...

Rosemary and I are both glad for having made the call to come to Rishikesh. It's been a blessing; thanks of course indirectly due to saleem's second fuck-up for that one. We've had ample opportunity here to relax, to read, to recover to a degree from The Great Rajasthani Roadtrip with (in addition to its beauty, joy and epic dream-come-true-ness) its tight scheduel, hassles and go-go-go-ness. Though woefully underdressed for this chilliest of Rishikeshi seasons, we've enjoyed tasting a bit of late autumn, reminiscent of home amongst these deciduous yet still-green, windswept hills. The bike has afforded us thrills and views sublime and doubtless will again before its grudging thought satisfied return this evening. That is, of course, if Gul the African Jew ever shows. I'm giving him twenty more minutes then WE'RE OUT! (What's that convert to in metric?)

Ring up the tab! Stash the knife and hash! Ready me a Bullet 'cause Thai hills here we come!!!

20 December

Alright, that was a bit cheesy. But the mere notion of getting out of this place we'd been wrestling/become enamored with was tough and left me excited, saddened and clearly lacking the eloquence to convey as much. Anyway, we're out of India. Sitting now in a Bangkok guesthouse lobby...open muggy air, decent java, freakin' Christmas tree and carols seemingly as out of place as I would at a meeting of the John Birch Society. Man, what a whirlwind departure and arrival. No more India. Rosie and I are eager to impliment our imminant return--no choice in the matter really. When an echo in your bones (initially rung before leaving the tarmac) grows only louder and more maddening with distance and time, the one thing left to do is abide and shimmy them bones on back, ASAP. And abide we shall. We loved India, far more than we hated it. Were it not for our hot and sexy new environs our leaving would've been positively depressing.

22 December

Chiang Mai tomorrow. A two-night respite in Bangkok's ferong (real name never sunk in) district has afforded us the break from "travel" we so needed before getting back to it. This place seems, well, clean. No one is trying to sell us anything. No one is staring. So far I've yet to step in any sort of poo, be it bovine, simien, feline or homo sapian, just a few of the flavors that spice your average Indian alley way. Strangely I miss it. Not the poo so much as the place. India was a flat out mind trip. Rosie's likened it to a tattoo: you get all excited at the notion, you get there, there's discomfort, pain sets in, you wonder if it's ever going to stop, it doesn't, on come the nausea & cold sweats, then it's gone and you want to do it all over again. Digestion of such an experience will take time and this, by no means, is an update on that front but rather a relay of our whereabouts. So here we are. Leg one done. Our plan is to ride bikes in the hills of northern Thailand for a week or so before exploring its southern beachs on our way to Indonesia. Ideally, we'll spend a solid month and a half or two in Bali; we're working on making that happen. Travel is cool but we're both discovering that our best growth and development happen in a single locale as opposed to on the move. Bali should do, no? Reading, writing, surfing and yoga; them's the aims for our pre-NZ time. Sound luxuriously indulgent? Good; it will be. And, oh yes, a motorcycling we will go all the while. But we ain't there yet. We've got a month to get there (or however damn long we please) and plenty of places to go go go in between.

Man it feels good to return to the warmer reaches, back where the climate suites our clothes. What's oft said feels true: Thailand is bliss. The people, the land, the temps all feel conducive to comfort and ease. Not exactly the renunciate, ascetic rout I imagined for myself in my youth.

 

Let's explore this, shall we?

When I ask of myself what became of such aspirations, I realize that I'm a real sucker for all that's to be renounced: love of a beautiful woman; family; food and drink; acceptance and praise from peers and the larger public; an adventuresome, wandering spirit and the drive to be engulfed by the mystery and varied flavors of life and humanity in all of its maddening beauty. I'm Siddhartha in his darkest hour...I might as well venture out to conquer the world of commerce in all of its depravity while I'm at it. Indeed, with regard to writing and its niche therein, I feel as if I'm on the precipice of doing so. Is soul-peace possible in the world of the worldly? Does enlightenment reside in the conscious pursuit of love with a woman? Fuck it. I'm gonna find out, assuming we make right effort. And, if indeed it doesn't, eternal peace will have to wait at least another lifetime in my case, assuming quite brazenly there'll remain an earth to which to return. I renounce (for now) the renunciate rout, if that makes an iota of sense. Love reign o'er me and my world surrounding! Religion is for the birds anyway.

23 December

Um, I was a bit drunk for that last one. Gotta stop with the boozy rants. Anyway, morning on the train. Slept fantastic. Peeks through our condensation-clouded window reveal gorgeous hills 'bove lush emerald valleys, whetting our appetites for adventures forthcoming. Mmmmmmmmmotorcycle!

Rosemary and I are well. God love 'er she's a feeler, true heart people tailor-made for my mama's baby boy. We spent our night on the rock-a-bye rails downing Changs and waxing existential, figuring on our place and purpose in this wacky world of ours, both as individuals and in tandem. Not so sure anything was resolved, meerly confirmed: we're pardners and we'll take it all on together!

Wishing all a very happy holiday season.

7 December

Back in Jodhpur. Before getting that last word out (and before getting this sentence out) I've had to fend off an ear cleaner and a drunk, all sloppy and grabby and get the hell off of me; both interested, in that distinctly Indian way, in interrupting my obviously futile attempt at interaction with no one and nothing but pen and paper. Another sub-continental afternoon. All that's changed is the setting.

                                        

Ahh, the Blue City, with it's magnificent fort and bustling, metropolitan feel. We like it here. A bit of anonymity is possible, the tourist traps a bit fewer and farther between. We made it from Jaisalmer, though Matt's final leg (as we've come to expect) was on four wheels, not two. Saleem rented him a lemon, plain and simple. This time, however, it truly shit the bed (more on this theme to come), the final bust, finito. The engine is shot, new brass sleeve, piston, valve and all. What a gyp. Instead of making it here, pushing on to Pushkar today and into Jaipur tomorrow, we're reduced to waiting for Matt's train and making one painful, Pushkar-free, too long burn to Jaipur starting at 6 am. Bastard Saleem. (Three more ear cleaners, three more "fuck off"s)

 

Still, I wouldn't trade it. The experience, as unpredictable as predicted, has been invaluable. There remains principle to fight for and fight we will. But in the grand scheme we're out a couple hundred bucks and worlds wiser for it. My bike, save for a few inexpensive tweaks, has been solid thus far and tons of fun to boot. I'm just mad Matt's journey's been marred. He's a big boy though, well traveled and still laughing, if not through gritted teeth. It's gonna be cold in the morning...

 

Matt just told me that I get angry too easily, which is old news, and that a new flawed dimension has arisen: cocksureness, though certainly that wasn't his word for it.

 

8 December

Well it was cold alright. Left the city at 7 am, one hour before sunrise, and froze our asses, legs and hands off for the next three hours. It's 11 am now and we're about half way to Jaipur, dining for the first time today in a little city called Baewar. Apparently I'm being angry and irrational again, just ask Rosemary.

 

9 December

Jodhpur to Jaipur, 380 kliks. After a 7 am departure and many chai/mental health stops along the way, we arrived here at 4:30 pm. It was a long, hard ride on heavily trafficked byways. Between gaining a semblance of warmth and the occasion of my last entry I started to have fun. We had yet to reach the heart of LorryLand (which tortured my engine and Rosemary's nerves for a good 180 km), the topography had recently become more interesting (with formerly straight stretches seductively curling into tightwound ascents and drops) and I began to relish the notion of exactly what it was we were up to: ticking off our longest haul yet on a beautiful Royal Enfield across the arid expanse of the Great Thar Desert. My body and soul were heating up with the day.

 

Rosie, on the other hand, was freezing and unable to shake it. For the third time that morning she turned down the vest I'd offered, preferring instead to stand in the sun, well away from our table. (Warning: relationship stuff follows. Tim, Matt, Jesse and the rest of you boys feel free to tune out for the remainder of the paragraph...) This refusal, as it hadn't all morning, made no sense to me. It seemed to me a refusal to make the best of a situation I was trying my damndest to enjoy and, indeed, had begun to. I got pissed, threw a bit of a tantrum (why are you ruining my good time with your coldness!?, or something like that), didn't help alleviate her distress in the least and cast a pall over much of the remainder of the journey. Way to go dude.

 

The Lorries were crazy. Might makes right is the rule 'round here and yesterday was a drive it home lesson in this. We ain't talking four-lane road with nice wide shoulders here. No, try two lanes, no shoulders, unmarked speed bumps (more punitive in nature than preventative), cows, camels, cops, cabs, kids and crap providing the spice, and huge, overloaded, roadfilling lorries all passing and horn blowing and giving a shit about some little bike claiming right of way. These maniacs would sometimes try to pass another lorry that was passing another lorry! 65 kph 'round a bend and whamo! triple-wide wall of speed coming from the other direction! Blind bend passes and high-fourth-gear-to-dead-stops were par for the course. While Rosie rode on the back, negotiating the terms of her mortality, I engineered our way 'round endless mindless freight carriers. By the time we reached the six-lane freeway, with 106 kliks left to Jaipur, our wits were frayed and our muscles burned. 95 kph (fast for India) got us there, barely able to withstand more. Now all we had to do was deal with Saleem. What a day.

 

We fought for principle which, along with us, suffered (in my unaccompanied opinion) a crushing defeat. Matthew thinks different, calling it compromise. As with everything in India and beyond, it is what it is. Of the 1000 INR/day and 4565 in repairs and transportation, we're seeing back a mere (again my view) 3000 rupees. I'm disappointed, but worse, setting myself up for more of the same by (get this...) actually renting two more bikes from him. Talk about the death of principle. Hopefully we'll take two of his finest, incident-free, to Agra and back, with a World Heritage-listed bird sanctuary smack in between. We'll see. In the mean time my ego and battered sense of right will both convalesce. A (good) Bullet will salve what's sore.

 

Jaipur is insano. There's no off switch, none that I've discovered, though our present accommodations stand in stark relief from the Hotel Hardick Palace, the mere recollection of which first induces wincing, then awestruck disbelief in the actual existence of such a place, forget about our paying them our scarce legal tender for the experience. But I digress. Today Rosemary and I practiced walking in blissful aloofness, our theoretical new technique for navigating such a relentless onslaught on our all-American notions of decency and respect. A teenager on a Suzuki nearly mowed my girl down; a couple dozen rickshaw touts wouldn't take no for an answer; neither the "hello" spouting beggars (each good for at least a block and a half of "hello"-peppered hassle); we actually shopped, an activity I already find detestable made all the more so by the pain of the white folk in India at market experience. Almost back to the guesthouse, one last rickshaw guy had a go at me, inadvertently offering us the clear, "a-ha" revelation we were wrestling with for the length of our perambulation.

Rickshaw sir?...shake of my head, wave of my hand...same question...look of exasperation...Your goodname sir?...Horace...Which country do you belong to sir?...Antarctica...Very nice country sir...Mmm yes, particularly this time of year. Do you have the time?...Um, 12 o'clock sir (me knowing damn well it was 'twixt one and two)...(in hushed tone) Do you need something sir? Something to smoke perhaps? I have finest charas (hashish)...No, I'm straight edge. Never touch the stuff. It's the clean life for me...

Then, to my shock, he ended our mutual little lie fest with an Ok, good day, a development I'd welcome like a desert oasis in the far less entertaining majority of such interactions. Yes, I lied to him, providing myself some fun and him no harmful misinformation. He, if you'll notice, lied to me throughout as well, thereby revealing to me nude the nature of the game, i.e. anything goes short of straight theft.

 

Our walk through the pink, narrow, nagging bazaars of the Old City, grimy yet grand in that faded glory way, revealed much to us, revelations that we needed every moment and every day's experience thus far to recognize, indeed to be able to walk in peace. Not every city has been as tough as Jaipur, and thank goodness for it. There's no better place to practice one's patience. As much as we Westerners feel entitled to at least a modicum of personal space, say three to six inches surrounding the physical body, your average Indian male feels just as entitled to fill it, not only to make his presence known to you but to wield it antagonistically, to be, frankly, in your face. This is something we've felt the length and breadth of our journey, but nowhere as strongly, as repulsively as in Jaipur.

 

11 December

Perhaps a different sort of native hospitality awaits us in the Rishikeshi foothills of the Himalaya. We'll find out, 'cause starting a ten to one this morning we're on our way. Fortune's flicked her finger, flinging us north unexpectedly. My it's fun when things change on you, obliterating itineraries, wiping whole cities from the map while simultaneously allowing others to come strutting into the vast realm of possibility. What 24 hours ago was a shit disappointment of a situation has turned (in true adventure spirit) into what promises to be a glorious coda to our time here in India. Saleem dropped the ball for us again, failing to provide two bikes for Agra as he said he could and would. In doing so he spared us what looks like would have been more hassle, disappointment and bullshit. For that I should be grateful. Our hopes to spend our last days with Matthew go unsatisfied and we've had to change it up. No longer is Agra a possibility as we've shifted our gaze to the north. The Taj Mahal, that "teardrop on the cheek of eternity" is just that, eternal, and will doubtless await without grudge our next sub-continental drift. As for Sebonia, he'd be on his way there now were he not laid-up with a nasty bout of the Delhi Belly. Too much mutton. He'll get there though. Rosie and I, on the other hand, aim to spend our last days in and about Rishikesh. And get this...we've already got the bike booked!

 

12 December

(some of you have expressed appreciation to me for the honesty I've shown in this blog. Try this on for honesty...)

En rout to Rishikesh via Haridwar. Been onboard now for 14 hours with (I'm told with broken English and suspect comprehension) less than two hours to go. I left Jaipur as some stomach shit started up, my classically visceral reaction to the notion of locomotive travel in India. Rolled into Delhi at first light hanging out the door of our carriage booting my stomach contents onto the garbage, piss and shit strewn tracks below. Glamorous arrival into the nation's capitol, no? I've been pretty weenie about the squat toilet over my time here in country, preferring wads of tissue down our more familiar models. But not even the most hardened sub-continental drifter could steel him- or herself completely against the train's funky 14 hour-old offerings. What's in, I told myself, stays in 'till I'm clear of this rolling outhouse. I figured I puked, I'm good. Or so I thought.

 

Exhausted, sick, devoid of nourishment and the will to make it right, I passed out. A couple of train and stomach rumbles roused me. Each time I'd squeeze, fighting the urge, and pass out again. The last time I awoke however something twern't right. I'd shit myself. Really. No joke. I, Daniel Edmund Lovett, 31 years of age and supposedly of sound mind and body, shit (pause) my pants.

 

I popped up shocked. No, I said aloud. Yep, my brain shot back. Down from my top berth with what I imagine to be horror and confusion plastered to my face, hell with the Indian stares which follow our every move, and on to the dread lieu. First three occupied by people, the next only by a massive dookie, inhuman looking in origin, curled right in the middle of the funky-assed floor. My gyod. Fuck it...it ain't like I was looking to go daisy picking. In I went, down with the drawers though not to the floor, all smeared and nasty and no way in hell. Ugh. The whole thing seemed only slightly worse than it must upon reading. What to do? Out with my knife, sliced off the undies, which I'd have sooner eaten than stowed, and back to my miserable bunk, wondering whether to tell the woman I'd prefer remain attracted to me (and all of you for that matter) what exactly I'd been up to. And there it is.

 

I want to like the train. As such journeys go this one (believe it or not) ain't as bad as they've gotten over our brief and closing time here, though I'm pretty sure this is the first one I've shit myself on. Yep, first one. I'll take my intestinal misfortunes and a relatively empty train over the former and a crowd, as Rosemary had to suffer on our first ride. But I just don't jive with it. Maybe I'm too American, preferring the pollution and self-determination of a motorcycle to the efficiency and community of the train. Perhaps more experience and better pre-departure meal selections will lighten the experience for me. I certainly hope so. I think this time, however, we'll take the bus back to Delhi.

 

13 December

Well here we are. Rishikesh. Banks of the mighty Ganga. Foothills of the Himalaya, which any Mainer would tell you look a damn sight like mountains...Ayuh! Today marks our entry into our final week in India, as we fly out of Delhi in the wee hours of the 20th. It's hard to believe really, two and a half months sunk forever into our bones, hearts and souls in the blink of an eye. We couldn't have picked a better spot from which to bid Bharat adiu. New agey, vibrant, the (other) yoga center of the universe, surrounded by mountains cut by the lazy, glacial-blue and sacred flow of the Ganges, Rishikesh will do. We arrived late last evening and have just spent our first morning securing wheels. We've got a 2005 Royal Enfield Thunderbird, the brands answer to the US-style cruiser, with its front wheel kicked out on a longer fork, its saddle dropped and its tank at a sharper angle. On first look some months ago I thought it cheesy. But I love the geometry above the waist; feels less likely to burn you on a long haul. Can't wait to see how it does in these hills.

 

Later...

 

It does real well in these hills. This place, this river, these mountains and this bike are amazing! We're loving life here people and hope the same for you all wherever you are. Namaste,

 

DnfnR

 

 

1 December

Repairs to Matthew's bike necessitate a trial run before the long haul to Jaisalmer. We're headed west in the morning so we needed to prime the bike today. We picked Osiyan, an easy 65 kliks north of Jodhpur and a pilgrimage site for Jains and Hindus the world over. This trip however (as with most on this stretch) was for us more about the journey than the destination. 130 of the first 500 k necessary for the repairs to take (much like the acquisition of a new kidney or liver) are done, and that was our goal. In the mean time we saw two 9th century temples, each housing idols dating back to the first millennium BCE. Pretty, majestic, but still far from the fulfillment of getting there hitch-free on Bullets.

 

I'm finding, to my surprise, that the temples don't do it for me. Perhaps its the implausibility of the tenants they honor, the blind fundamentalism of their adherents or the commerce permeating the experience. Maybe its the throngs of photo-snapping, bindi-sporting, bus tour white folk gawking and paying and fine with getting fucked over by the natives. But maybe not. What is this trip about? It's opened my eyes to (and to a degree disparaged my heart over) the radical cultural crevasse we gringos must negotiate while East. Long ago I dispelled (most) romantic notions of spiritual direction or fulfillment to be gained from a journey of this sort. Salvation lie within, not on a bike in India. Or, on a bike in India as much as in serving food in Oly or being paid to write or working for social upliftment. I just need to allow it to wash over me; find the low place like water, be still like mountain, serene like sea or some shit.

 

We spent the bulk of November's last offering exploring Jodhpur's magnificent Mehrangarh fort, a 15th century citadel athrone a southwest US-style butte that looms over the blue hue of the city surrounding as Tahoma does Puget Sound. This joint is truly the stuff of fairy tales and fantasy, too magnificent, ornate, brilliant in its design and efficacy to succumb to my tourist-trodden cynicism, never mind an invading army. Never once in its epic, embattled history were its cannon ball pocked ramparts breached and a single glimpse will tell you why. It's huge, it's high, it's too too for anything but 20th century firepower to topple, that or an earthquake, a notion not far from my frontal lobe for the duration of our visit. "Wow" is what I've got to say. It's got me excited to see the fort in Jaisalmer, 300 years older and considerably more grand in scale I understand. So there it is--forts = cool, temples = eh. Profound, penetrating, illuminating introspection fills these pages, nothing but.

 

A cool, late autumn breeze and Jodhpur's wedding season pulse through our open window, a cacophony of the paradox that is India. Hindi trance beats meld with The Call, with temple bells and Vedic chants, as well as with the ubiquitous car horns, fireworks, petroleum combustion and the conversation/confrontation next door. Fucking India--Earth--humanity in this year so quickly closing, 2007....

 

My parents want to come hear it for themselves and are in the infancy of actually making it happen! Amazing. Even more amazing, they want to do it on bikes! Gods help us all!

 

Jaisalmer or bust!

 

4 December

Namaste good people. Hope that all is well with each and every one of you. It's December (as you may have noticed), a notion somewhat difficult to wrap my mind around as the noon-high Thar Desert sun browns our shoulders and warms our bones from the chill of the evenings hereabouts. We've loved seeing and hearing about the climatic state of affairs back home. Snow it seems is blanketing our ancestral and elective homes both, and that bit of nostalgia, residual from the most recent holiday past, is roused again, not leaving us wanting but reminiscing. We hope that you all enjoy the lovely change of seasons.

 

We're in Jaisalmer, India's western-most concentration of population before the border with dread Pakistan, the estranged, irritable yet still blood-tied brother to the west who's expanse picks up the Thar where India's leaves off. The center of this modestly scaled city of 800,000 houses a fort of narrow, labyrinthine lanes, high-walled havellis, ornate jallis and eves, and touts, tons and tons of touts all begging for my now patented "fuck off!". I've told myself that my on-again off-again love for this country is the result of a) its unrivaled beauty and majesty b) my decided lack of patience and c) the incessant bombardment on one's senses and space that commences here from the moment one's dreams give way to consciousness. I've yet to strike a balance and come close to striking several Indians. Gods grant me cool headedness.

 

Still, I'm not ready to leave. I want to continue to seek and ultimately strike that balance. I'll be a better man for finding and maintaining it. India will try you, push you to the edge of your beliefs and short-comings, stomp upon and flip your notions of couth, convention and reason. Indian logic is a mystery to me and, no matter how many times over the course of my life I return, is likely to remain so. But like the traffic, which jams the narrow streets and mucks its skies and gutters, there is a logic, a flow, a way. It need not be understood I've found to be joined and successfully navigated. Every day here is a lesson in other. I need force myself to quell my frustration, to listen.

 

Our bikes made it, though this has turned into a tour of Rajasthani bike mechanics as much as that of cultural and historical centers; not the theme I've had in mind all these years. Imagine that--someone comes to India full of fantastical notions and visions of romance and peace only to have them scattered and spun 'till unrecognizable. Don't cry for me lord Brahma. So be it. With Enfields, repairs tend to be easy as one finds out quite often. Thus far, we've shelled out for two new air filters complete with gaskets and rods, a new electrical mount for my bike, two rear wheel bearings for Matthew's and, the biggie, a new piston, valve and copper cylinder sleeve for Matt, the latter slowing our progression to 60 kph for the first 500 kliks. Bullshit. Buy a ticket, take the ride I suppose.

 

The fort here is less impressive than that of Jodhpur but fascinating nonetheless. We'll repair souls and machines here for another day or two before reversing our trajectory toward Jaipur, that funky Gotham which so got our goat before. With a return visit perhaps she'll be kinder and, of course, we'll let you know.

We hope all of our friends and family had a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday. Turkey Day's the best, ain't it? There are you Christmas folk out there, all excited to give and receive and celbrate the birth of Santa. But for me, I'll take a triptafan nap and sandwichs and Barry and Bret and booing the Cowboys and the whole damn family getting together twice before taking Christmas.  We had yet to pine for home before now, though we're reminded on a daily basis of friends whom at the time we feel would particularly love what it is we're seeing, tasting, climbing, riding or gazing upon with awe. Thanksgiving is special and we certainly hope that it was for each of you back Stateside. Somebody better have saved a leg for me...

 

Well now. We've covered too much ground and had too many adventures to not have kept our voracious readers sated. In an attempt to do so this communique will be backdated, a sampling of journal entries and impressions from our time in Goa until now. Ready?

 

(note: Bullet = the Indian-made Royal Enfield Bullet, a classic motorcycle available in 350 and 500cc models. Ever since my boy Pig [aka Bobby Gwin, aka Gwinny Pig, aka Piglet, aka Bobcat] returned from the Himalaya some 8 years back with tales of crossing 18,000 foot passes on 500cc Bullets, I've been unable to shake the image from my mind. This is a dream come true, the first time in my life thus far I've been able to say so sincerely, though MLB, NBA and NFL championships for Boston in a single year would certainly make for a second!)

 

20 November

Leaving Goa. All's lined up: tabs paid, passage booked, belongings stowed, Valium purchased (over the counter mind you). Twelve hours to Mumbai (Bombay) then twelve to Jaipur. Rajasthan--land of kings, castles, camels and clear, long, arid stretches of road perfect for burning 'neath Bullets. Goa has been my first tropical exposure in too long and I'm a bit sad to be fleeing the sea, though the serenity of the sun, sand and surf awaits us elsewhere.  So be it. It's time to see India, perhaps for the first time ever. Rajasthan....

 

Who knows where we'll venture thereafter? Our fancy is/was to hit Nepal, a fantasy likely to remain in that realm. Not feasible considering time and space. So we'll rent bikes, take our time in the Thar and perhaps get into the Indian Himalaya through Dharamshala before our regretful departure through Delhi. Fucking bus to Mumbai tonight, fucking train to Jaipur tomorrow. Ugh. No problem I guess; Valium and vodka are key to surviving such evil environs and we got 'em both!

 

22 November

Well pardon my prior French. Our journey was rather pain-free. We booked sleeper passage for both bus and train and, with the aid of drugs, we got through with relatively little hassle, though traveling with your girl (like I am) ensures you need not share a sleeper bus compartment with some random Indian (like Matthew did...hah!). Considering our first Indian train experience this was a cake walk. The only real hassle came with our approach to Mumbai. We were jostled from our pharma-induced doze by shouting Indians we didn't recognize in the least. Boom-awake-shouting-your stop! your stop!-get down from bunk-ok!ok!ok!-Rosie check the birth for our shit, I'll get the bags!-running-more shouting-bus moving-yanking bags from rear of bus-bus moving faster-no Rosie-no Matt-still on bus-shouting (mine now, at the bus to produce my friends, at the touts surrounding me like they would a man bleeding money to get the fuck back; these also turned out to be the bastards who woke us in the first place!) Quite a scene. One of the bags that was in the pile I eventually compiled wasn't ours, though all three of ours I'd surely (if not safely) retained. Seems one of the touts decided to "help" me get the bags. None of our's did he get however, just that of someone else with no intention of getting off at our stop. Some poor bugger on board came one hard-of-hearing driver away from unwittingly leaving his shit on a Bombay curb side.

 

Everything here is a negotiation, even the space you and yours occupy. I told everyone to get away, to give me a freakin' minute to wake up, light a smoke and realize what the hell had just happened. No, they stood two feet back and in 10 seconds were naming prices. Alright, how much to Colaba? 300? Too much. 200 INR later we were in southern Mumbai looking for a place to park our bags until our evening train departure.

 

Mumbai was a surprise. As India's most populace city I was shocked to find myself reminded of the somewhat quiet, leafy, residential streets of the Village or Brooklyn. Colaba is, apparantly, a well-off neighborhood in this burgeoning Bollywood-crazed burg and played host to our layover. We walked the waterfront, suffered the Indians demanding to shoot photos with us (clearly a hangover from the inferiority-inducing colonial period. You should see the skin bleaching commercials...nauseating), drank chai, ate well and geared up for the train. And, oh yes, turned down an opportunity to be extras in a film as we'd been warned might happen. The whole thing would have been flattering had the scout not first propositioned the frumpy looking couple next to us! Oh well, stardom must wait. For now there's travel to get to. And travel we did. The train was fine. When the Jamaican/American woman in our berth made talkative I shamelessly made for the top bunk with my new book, popped a couple Valium, left Rosie to fend for herself and, next thing I knew, we were in Rajasthan. Sweet! Or so I thought...

 

23 November

Alright. We made it to Jaipur. Impressions...hmmm. Right now I'm inclined to chronicle the filth that immediately surrounds me. We were not well prepped to land in Rajasthan and our present accommodations reflect the sad reality like a pigs ass in a still puddle on a windless, moonlit night. Early morning smoke on rooftop. "Restaurant" being patronized by two decidedly pissed off looking Germans with the previous night's detritus (spilled bottles, overflowing ashtrays, unidentified shmutz caked to every surface) providing the ambiance. I lean over the edge and peer three stories to the alley below. Apparently we're staying in the automotive repair section of town. Men crouch next to oilslick gutters, rebuilding engines 'neath hand-painted, low-rise-building-sized adverts for Shell, Chevron, Bosch and Indian Oil, the very shit streaming the sides of the narrow lane we now call home. Two children, one of three, the other two, neither wearing a stitch below the waist, tease and play and join in the rising morning cacophony. Something in the flowing funk catches their attention. As they crouch, toes perilously close to the black muck, I think to myself this can't get any worse. In true India fashion, it gets worse. The younger of the two tumbles in. Ho-ly-shit. Old man, chillum in hands, snow white mustache from ear to ear, springs from his hazy perch to holler at the as yet unseen woman upstairs. Alarmed, she appears atop the exterior steps, adorned to my immediate shock in bangles, rings and a glorious, rainbow-hued sari, and rushes to her screaming boys aid.

 

24 November

This time my vantage is from two stories. I lean out my window for the third time in 45 minutes to confirm that some ruckus in the asepticly moonlit alley below (poweroutage) ain't a dirtbag fucking with my gorgeus new Bullet, parked in repose before the front steps of this shithole of a guesthouse. It's been a good day in all, thougha knife was held to my throat, however playfully, by a maniac pimp fronting as a motel owner (our motel by the way). A Bullet will cure what ails ya (ironic, no?). We spent a second day in a busy alley within the patchy pink walls of the Old City watching a band of brothers (five in all, ages seven thru 20) and their kindly father, Saleem, tear down then repiece our sexy new bikes. For two weeks beginning tomorrow we'll ride off into Rajasthan.

 

The mere notion, and the logistics of making it real, have consumed us. Hell with securing proper lodging or seeing the sights. Jaipur is a launch pad, that and that only. Until now we've been living in (to a degree), not traveling, India. Even our time in Goa, less than half that of Mysore, saw us for an extended stay in a single locale, and a lovely if not tourist trashed one at that. But now we're on the move and Jaipur's gems, no where near the surface as far as I can tell, will have to wait.

 

(note: I've yet to chronicle the true feel of our Jaipur experience. This place deserves more. You won't believe it. Soon come.)

 

28 November

And that brings us up to the present, as far as my prepped work goes. I needed to put something up so here it is. We'll see if I can't get you an impression of how happy and rested we now find ourselves, and in a timely fashion. For now, I gotta get outta this place (cyber cafe). Again, I'm living a dream. Matt and Rosie are well, very well. We hope that you are too. Namaste,

 

Daniel

I'm in my fourth hour now of trying to upload pictures on dial-up. If it ever happens (of which there is no guarentee at this point) I hope, to say the least, that the pics satisfy. This may just be a wasted day in Goa, and not one of the "I'm raging on extasy at a beach party" variety. Out the window of this temple to snail-paced technology it is beautiful. We've not experienced a moment of bad weather here, our accomodations and surroundings are amazing, the scene (hippy extravagance that you might think begs bashing by likes of me) is actually quite pleasant. Nevertheless, we're plotting our escape. Rajastahn is next on the itinerary. Rosie and Matt, who hours ago left me here and are doubtless now basking in the rays-so-tempting beyond my flourescent-lit hell, have secured our passage, to begin two days from now. May the gods be merciful.

 

So I come to this entry not out of desperation to pontificate but to fill time, lots and lots of time. If I quit now, I'll have wasted many hours but still may salvage some of the day. Quandry...I'll type on.

 

Sitting around the dinner table yesterday, I asked my pardners in adventure to indulge me. I suggested a brainstorming session regarding my number one goal in life: to get paid to write. This forum, along with several other developments of late, have filled me with confidence but not with ideas as to how to proceed. So I'd like to open it up to you good people, if I might be so bold. If anyone has ideas/connections/suggestions, please pass them on.

 

One of the suggestions proffered at dinner was to submit some material to The Stranger, Seattle's weekly which just might be interested in my tone and penchant for lashing words and observations together. Another idea was just to write, to build a portfolio over these wayward months abroad that, with an eye to cohesion, might be moulded into a readable, enjoyable, fucking profitable whole. Not a bad idea, and one that need not preclude attempting other more immediate schemes to get published. But I need some help. Give me your best shots and thanks in advance. (Does this seem desperate? 'Cause if it doesn't it should!)

We're in Goa, Arambol to be precise. Arrived on Saturday after our first Indian train odyssey, a truly hellish, 20 hour slog which saw us brave sardine-like crowding, awful food, nosey natives, sickness, emotional breakdown, chainsaw snoring and monotony to make your brain bleed. Not a hint, shadow, whiff nor modicum of romance to the dred ordeal. But it's all good. It's over and the whole of the magnificent Arabian Sea is our prize. The water is warm if not clear, the beaches thinly populated, long, sandy and palm-lined with hills behind and lava-rock outcroppings aside. Arambol is the northern most tourist stop in the state, a bit removed from (though certainly not untouched by) the in-/famous Goa beach-party scene. It's crammed its narrow road to the sand with money changers, travel agents, internet joints, package stores, stall after stall of beachware and paraphernalia, tee shirts, sandals, dresses, bags, sun glasses, art, jewelry and dozens of other (sometimes beautiful but mostly tacky) tourist trinkets all relentlessly touted by, often, entire families, other times by a single member, sometimes by a kid of just eight or ten years of age. So no, untouched ain't the word. Near as I can tell, this place has no real Indian feel to it. We might as well be in Thailand, Bali, Florida or St. Barts. Everyone here is either a tourist or a seasonal transplant doing their damndest to separate the gathered throng from their rupees.

 

But it is gorgeous. I now sit on our little balcony, 20 feet above the gently rising tide. The sand, sun, water and land are all amazing, filling our tanks left dry by the shite Oly summer (too wet for our tastes). Our skins are browned, our souls at ease.

 

Well, not quite.

 

Since leaving Gokulam it's been a bit of a struggle. Rosie got sick on the train, a dosa and a funky coconut chutney conspiring to turn a bad situation worse. Her cramping and nausea subsided within a day of our arrival, just in time for mine to begin. After righting that grumpy situation I've fallen victim to a freaking head cold (nothing strikes me as more cruel than getting a cold in 92 degree weather). But two days ago another (and decidedly more) unfortunate incident befell us.

 

Let me start by saying that SHE'S OK. In fact she's great. But, Rosemary dumped her scooter on a dark and sandy corner the other morning on her way to yoga. I was with her (on my bike) and we got her cleaned up, first by me then (once the sun had risen) by a proper doctor that we visited strictly as precaution for her cuts, none of which require more than some neosporin and a bandaid. The most serious injury she sustained was a strained shoulder, the only one that is keeping her from yoga this week. Aside from that (which we expect to fully heal within a week or so and has already improved quickly) she has some scrapes on her arm and leg. She is, admittedly, inexperienced on the thing, having had only a single lesson from me the day prior (hence my joining her for this 6 am trip south). Hundreds if not thousands of scooters zip along these narrow roads connecting the beach villages, the populations of which consist mainly of white tourists, and often some of them go down. Rosie's did too. Lesson learned: practice before braving the street, with all it's Indian obstacles. Moms, I repeat: SHE'S OK! Yoga is the only casualty of the thing, save perhaps for a bruised ego or two (mine amongst them). In all honesty we didn't mention our first scooter crash (yes, that's two now) for fear of making our mom's fearful. But we figured this time that it had to be mentioned considering Rosemary's missing yoga. It happened in our first week in Mysore, again a dusty, poorly lit corner, inexperience and badly timed acceleration combining to bruise (that time) nothing beyond my ego alone. You see I was at the helm for that one with my beloved riding passenger. We called it a learning experience, one we clearly didn't learn quite enough from. But driving is different from riding, and now Rosie's earned her Goa tattoo, a distinction worn by many in these parts. We'll be careful, more careful and, as always, we'll be wearing helmets when we do so.

 

But let's try something different. In an attempt at balance, I'll take a little time to accentuate the positive. Heeeeeere we go...

 

Matthew Sebonia is here! The morning after Rosie's and my arrival in Arambol I was exchanging traveller's checques at a spot in the village a windey, dusty, ascending klik or two up from the water when something inside told me to look out the door. We expected Matt that morning but our communications with him had been limited to email; few, brief and not too laden with details. He could be anywhere, we were thinking, and we'd best be on the lookout. Well not a second after heeding my own intuitive advice but finding nothing in my gaze beyond the expected scooter traffic and hippy-native commercial tango, a voice all too familiar called "yo" through the door!

 

It's great to have our boy with us, my excitement and appreciation surpassed perhaps only by Rosie's. The kid's an adventurer, a thinker, compassionate and kind. Our ventures are sure to be epic. Rosie and I both are hard pressed to name another we'd rather have join.

 

We went on that morning to rent bikes which we've, with a single glaring exception, put to good use. The road to Anjuna (20-odd kliks down the coast) is a patchwork of varied surfaces, widths, ditches and traffic. We've run it in each direction twice, first a few evenings back, simply for the hell of it, and yesterday to attend the weekly market, an odd move one might say for a man grown weary of the touts and crap-vendors that line the lanes, road, shore and paths of this tiny tourist trap. But this foray yesterday, as opposed to the walk from my door to the village, was a premeditated, intentional, self-inflicted shopping experience. So off we went, more to consume the scene than any dry goods. The market is vast by Goa standards, acres of tents pushing a slightly more diverse, certainly more overwhelming version of what's hawked here in Arambol. With varying degrees of success we tried our hands at the ancient and amusing game of haggling. We then had a bite to eat and a cool drink in the elevated shade of a market kitchen, watching bewildered the redistribution of wealth unfolding before us before jumping on the bikes, filtering (successfully!) through the mayhem of market traffic, burning north and catching the day's last rays from the warm surf of the Arabian. A good day all in all.

 

Prior to that our only bike trip has been to the Tiracol Fort, a Portugese instalation of seventeenth century vintage which stands on the far bank where the river of the same name meets the sea, eleven twisting, bejungled kilometers north of Arambol. A ten minute ferry ride (the return-rout of which I piloted personally at the invite of the captain, himself a jolly 20 year veteran of his Tiracol post) landed us, bikes 'n all, on yonder shore. A two klik climb to the fort afforded us arguably the most stunning scene of our journey thus far, rivaled only by the beauty and relief of Tamil Nadu's Nilgiri Hills.

 

More to come...

Hello to you all.
I wanted to post some summative thoughts as we reach the end of our time here in Mysore and, for me, at the shala. As I close my eyes sitting on my rented roof, with the first rays of the rising sun touching my face, I hear the chorus of India awakening. Gokulam is building up to its morning crescendo:ladies sweeping, slapping their laundry clean, birds responding to the sounds of fire crackers going off, celebrating the most recent festival. The rickshaws are starting their two-stroke engines and a man’s voice can be herd yelling “papay…papaya”. Conversations in the street are beginning, trains are sounding, dogs are barking. I woke before dawn and came up here for my practice, the slimmest sliver of a Cheshire moon smiling at me and a few planets and stars remaining in the lightening sky. It is a beautiful day and a wonderful way to start it.

Daniel and I have created a life for ourselves here over these past five or six weeks and we are currently in the process of checking off a list of closing duties. Included are having dinner at our favorite hotel (with its ‘70s, shining décor and its obsessive theme of octagons, octagons, everywhere octagons) with a group of fantastic people that we have met and call friends. As I said in my first entry the world is full of wonderful people, and that has only been confirmed in our time here. 
 
Over to Goa in the morning where we will rendezvous with our friend Matthew as well as with our friend Mez. I have been blessed, I must say, to be surrounded by inspiring women throughout my life, beginning with my mother and sisters and continuing on from there. Mez is one of those inspiring woman. She is Persian and grew up in both India and the UK. She is currently designing really quite 'fabulous' clothes here in Mysore and in Goa. She reminds me to let life unfold before me and to allow to come what may. Mez is part of the bike crew and currently lives with Tim and John Mark, two very cool, and in John Mark’s case, a bit crazy, guys from London. We all took off for Ooty last weekend and had a truly magical time. Daniel and I our currently scheming with the boys to stay for a June bike trip into the Himalayas (on Enfields, of course). We'll see over time how feasible that will be and will keep you up to date.
 
My time at the shala has been good. The shala is clearly going through a tremendous transition, with Guruji sick and Sharath out of town. Presently Saraswathi seems to be carrying the weight of maintaining both the shala and the household. She is doing what so many Indian women do--holding it all together. Ah, gender roles…I have a lot to say about the way the woman are treated and viewed in this culture, but I will save that until a later date.

 

I am leaving Mysore feeling strong in my practice, having completed each posture of first series and entered the gate of second with my new posture poshasina.
 
Well the morning duties call with, of course, the requisite stop at the coconut stand on the way. So enjoy your day and love to you all.

 

fnR

We're in Tamil Nadu and it's freaking brillient (we're hanging out with Brits so get used to it)! I've yet to locate ourselves on a map, and who needs to. We're south of the Bandipur Wildlife Refuge, the last bit of Karnataka State we were in before crossing the border. This is our second night at Wildhaven, our buddy Tim's friend John's guesthouse on the Mysore-Ooty road. We were planning on one night but, with few to no obligations back in the city, the easy decision to stay was made by the end of breakfast this morning. We're on bikes which, I'm not sure if I've mentioned, are soooooo much fun. We're amidst ancient mountains, the Nilgiri Hills in the Western Ghats range, which date back to when the subcontinent was still attached to Africa (or so I'm told). Amazing wilderness and landscapes surround us in every direction. As I stepped from our room onto the porch just now I was greeted by a wide, meandering river of chital (spotted deer) flowing through the dim glow of my lamp. We've seen wild boar, peacocks and hens, monkeys, bison and insect hatches that you wouldn't believe. But get this: before spotting any of the aforementioned blessed beasts we saw elephants, wild and free, foraging in the forest. A calf and several adults paid us no mind as we idled the bikes, awestruck, on the side of the road. Absolutely incredible. The feeling was indescribable. Everybody has seen them along the way, functional familiarity with the anatomy and basic behaviors through media or perhaps a circus. But to see them where they belong, doing roughly what they've done since time immemorial, well before we started fucking with them, well, its a treat. This place is amazing.

 

Did I mention we're on bikes? Amazing rides both yesterday and today. After breakfast this morning we humped it on up up up to Ooty, a former British hill station, dusty and windblown, of winding lanes, cliff-hanging tea plantations, foreign high school students and hill folk. The ride up was the prize: narrow two-lane, winding curves, dips, fierce climbs, hairpin switchbacks, giant lories, tour busses, suicide cabs, amazing views. Having a bike has been simply fantastic. There's no better way to see the country. We've been careful--you have to be out here. But there's nothing like it. We're both smitten, so it's leather for Christmas for the two of us this year, make note.

 

Lotsa love folks, DnfnR

 

 

So much happening since our last real communiqué. Let's getcha caught up, eh? The Boston Red Sox, of course, are World Series champions once again, I've taught myself to ride a motorcycle (in India at that!), Rosemary and I fasted/cleansed for three days with surprising results and I'm now, for the first time ever (if you don't count crash papers for desperate sophomores at $10 per page), being paid to write, albeit for peanuts! All told it's been a pretty fantastic week here in India. The sun even decided to make an appearance these last couple of days; these last couple of weeks have been decidedly dreary, the remains of a reluctantly departing monsoon. All is well on this side of the world folks, "well" at least for your intrepid travelers. As our time in Mysore enters its final week, Rosemary and I are scurrying to ready ourselves for the next leg if this journey. On the ninth we're off to the state of Goa, a wee speck of a thing -- a sun-splashed, beach-lined beauty where we'll rendezvous with our brother from Western Washington, Matthew Sebonia. We're really excited and blessed to greet this first of hopefully many others, near and dear, who will join us for a leg of our adventure. Matthew will travel with us for our final month on the subcontinent, a fantastically extended ode to unemployment and a willing vagabond spirit. See you soon buddy! Thailand, Bali or New Zealand anyone?

 

And now in sports....

As the Red Sox made actual the improbable, charging back from a 3-1 deficit in the AL Championship Series, I was freaking out, trying to figure how on (this side of the) Earth I was going to see the Series. Despite the whole Revolution thing, it was a kindly Brit named Andy who came to my emotional rescue.  Andy's place has cable TV, an ESPN international feed which, blessedly, was showing the World Series LIVE! Side benefit: Dave O'Brien and Rick Sutcliff (sps?) called the games for the international audience, sparing me the idiotic, inane, unabashedly Yankee-biased broadcast the FOX network slapped on you good people tuning in...I think I'll plan on being abroad for every Fall Classic from here on out after discovering this invaluable piece of information. But I digress. One of many good things about these yogis is their schedule--rising before the sun to get in their practice. Andy returned from his practice and rang me each morning at about 7am, each morning greeting me with grace and, more importantly, tolerance, along with a nice hot cupajoe. I can't thank him enough for his hospitality. He's a good guy who genuinely enjoyed, I think, making Rosie and me happy in this way. And lucky for him they won it in four, for now mornings are his once again.

 

For all but Beantown's faithful, this Series was likely a snooze, our nine simply throttling the lesser league's offering. What fun though. Now we (who care to) get to watch the Pats do the same to their league..."watch"; I mean read about. No luck finding football Americano 'round here). To a great season boys--I could get used to this....

 

 

I've realized, to some degree anyhow, a long-held fantasy of mine -- riding a motorcycle in India. Since first conceiving this vision some eight years back or so (when my boy Bobcat first returned with tales of such adventures), I've drooled over plenty of gorgeous bikes as well as planned and ultimately scrapped several Indo-travel schemes. But here and now, as in the original concept, I've finally wed the two. All that drooling and never a single ride. Two weeks back I rode my first bike ever -- a beautiful 350cc Royal Enfield Bullet. It was love at first ride I must say, with apologies to my mother. After my senses returned I turned down the standing offer to buy, but immediately went about procuring a bike of my own. It's hardly a Bullet, but our little 100cc Bajaj is just the thing for cruising the mellow streets of Gokulam, melding into the madness of Mysore and just getting used to half the wheels and none of the constraint (read, protection!). Wonder which bike now awaits us back in the States....

 

Last weekend, on the one sunny day wedged 'twixt many days of rain, Rosemary and I strapped on our helmets and joined a jolly crew of Brits and Ausies for our real inauguration into the fold: road trip. It was awesome, the destination, amazing though it was, a mere footnote on this glorious and revealing occasion. After a hearty breakfast we all set off on our adventure, three Enfields, a suped-up Vespa and our little mule. The excitement was peculiar, akin to that familiar rush of adrenaline reserved for trying new things and realizing old dreams.  (We'd better be ready for more of the same -- May is a long way and many such elations from now.)

 

Sravenabelagola is north of Mysore, an 80 kilometer drive on good roads. It took us roughly two fantastic hours of travel. This little place in the middle of nowhere is a pilgrimage site for Jains scattered far and wide. Two hills of solid granite embrace the tiny town below, the larger of which was our destination. For there is home to the world's tallest free-standing monolithic statue, or so we've been told. Leaving our shoes at the bottom (for a nominal fee, of course) we climbed the 600-some steps to the summit where small temples, elaborate carvings and ancient petroglyphs awaited our awed inspection. A series of passages and stairways lead us in a serpentine rout to the giant carving of a revered Jain saint. Tallest or not it is an impressive site to behold. Fifty-some feet high, over 1000 years old and perfectly preserved in detail, it is a marvel. I have no idea how this thing has survived a millennium of monsoons and remained in such perfect condition. Nowhere to be found was any of the crazy commercialization that's characterized the few Hindu temples we've visited. It was quiet, the views long and pleasant, the art engaging and beautiful, a scene serene in all. Then, back on the bikes!

 

Rosemary and I did a cleanse a couple of weeks ago, and have begun one anew today (11-5). This thing is pretty easy: don't eat, drink lots of water, do a salt flush every morning, repeat. Our first go at it was great. Without feeling hungry at all, my energy and spirits were high the whole time. As much as for cleansing purposes, we do this as a form of meditation. It allows us time and circumstance to really consider the role that food plays in our lives. What, when, how and how much we eat all become clear and scrutinized when you take a few days off. And it's just remarkable to feel how good you can feel with out it. That said, a parade of culinary images floods my brain, tempting me to break what my body knows it can do with out. But this too is fascinating and gratifying to overcome. We'll let you know how this one turns out.

 

I've started working with a man named A.C. Lakshmana, editing preliminary notes for his memoirs. Though for very little money I can say that I'm now being paid to write. He is a kind, humorous, sharp man of 70, a retired government official in the forestry division. His tenure was unusual as these things go. He combined progressive policies with a graciousness which won him many friends in the very highest and lowest segments of society. His book will include his life, from beginning to present, his stories of the remarkable people and places his career crossed paths with, and his analyses of forest policy and the global warming crisis. For me, it is an easy foray into the world of writing and editing, one long overdue and promising of things to come. Again, I'll keep you informed as to how this project is panning out.

 

That's it for now folks. Hope that fall is good to each of you. We'll return soon with our tales of adventure and cycling madness in the Bandipur National Wildlife Preserve.