My world, it spins.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Italian Opera

Not lingering over Mike's departure, mom and I made haste on an afternoon train to Agra. We toured the be all and end of all Mahals, the Taj, as the sun struggled to cast its red rising glow through a hazy morning. Undeterred, the building and its environs emanated a glow all their own. The town of Agra, sparing a few very high end craft emporia, was much akin to a garbage dump in my eyes.

By the rails, Mike and I had been travelling in sleeper class. In short: persistent noise, astonishing filth and bodies numbering sufficiently for one to be rid of his memory of personal space. Mom and I, disappointed by 3AC (one class up from sleeper) booked a 2AC ticket to Agra. Over our 24 hour journey, the floors were swept and mopped (with disinfectant) no less than 4 times. Food and snack services from the stewards were almost as frequent as their visits to pick up our trash. The bathrooms (don't ask about sleeper class) were spotless AND stocked with toilet paper. Ready for our settlement, each independently illuminated bunk was boasting a stack of clean sheets, a blanket and a clean slipped pillow. Finally and most favourably, each sleeping quarter of four people (instead of 6, 8, 12 or some otherwise numbered bent capacity) was enclosed by a set of curtains offering to me a yet unseen standard of personal space and placidity.

Apart from a trip to the Taj Hotel bar, Mumbai came and went uneventfully. We backtracked by train to visit Nashik. My dear friend Nilesh (turns out Carnival Cruises is good for something) offered a bed and endless hospitality to mom and me for our three day visit to this lesser visited town of 1.6 million. Escaping the hotel/tourist arena for a genuine Indian family stay proved one of the most enjoyable parts of my trip.

I've come up with a simple sum equation. Here goes: Miami Beach + India = Goa. It's just that simple! Equipped with no certain expectations, our visit to India's beach bum mecca was surprising and yet totally familiar at the same time. America's urban oceanside grace has taken up roots quite flawlessly at India's west coast.

Just 16 hours to the south by train, Kerala sings an aria with little semblance to Goa's rebel yell. Kerala's endless aqua pura highways were nearly as serene as a paddly meander through the lakes of Algonquin Park (my home and native land).

A lot can happen in two weeks. Mom, probably well sick of the Hindu hustle, made her way back to Canada after a night's stay in Fort Kochin where Portugal seemed to be not so far away as I'd thought. I'm now inland, frolicking about the tea-green hills of Munnar, Kerala. Big things are coming...

Sunday, November 8, 2009

And then there were teen

Chitwan National Park in the south of Nepal was once a prime destination for nearly all touring visitors to the country. Crippled by political strife in recent years, the regional tourism industry is left with a number of beds that well exceeds the number of visitors. I felt quite fortunate to spend a few nights in our yet most luxurious accommodations for a price at par with the cheapest. Despite the rural location, our cottage evenings were sones from silent thanks to the raucous chorus of crickets and birds.

In spite of a truly debilitating stowaway in my stomach, my visit to the park was fairly enjoyable. A guided tour by dugout canoe and return by hike through the jungle gave us some close-ups of menacing amphibians and throngs of tropical birds, insects and trees. Seeing rhinos, wild hogs and deer from the back of an elephant was a novel experience. In reality, the most compelling sight was the posse of fifteen other elephants each diligently schlepping around four passengers and a jockey.

From the thick of the jungle, we bussed to Kathmandu. Ranked in the top ten least livable cities worldwide by the Economist magazine; it did not disappoint. We spent a few days in Thamel amidst an unnavigable maze of pirated DVDs, counterfeit climbing gear, and yes, more German bakeries. We took to the "trail" (loosest definition applies) by mountain bikes. We ascended 500m to overlook to Kathmandu valley and gaze upon a surreal backdrop of some of the tallest peaks in the world; Everest not excluded. Eluded us, did a Himalayan sunrise as we biked through mountain morning fog down unquestionably the worst road I've ever seen in my life (forget Nicaragua). After a day more akin to demolition than exercise, we returned to Thamel for a night before taking to the skies with Buddha Air in a country with one of the world's patchiest aviation safety records.

Not yet ready for shorts and t-shirts, Mike, Poppy and I soaked up the fog in Darjeeling. Surrounded by endless tea plantations strewn about sub-Himalayan topography, Darjeeling brandished yet another interesting component of the Indian populous smorgasbord. Local crafts, snacks and music hybridising Nepali and Bhutanese cultures was rampant in the stone town of steep roads and staircases. The cultural highlite was almost certainly our trip the the sticky-floored Inox cinema for a screening of Michael Jackson's 'This Is It'.

Missing a train was no problem for three high profile western tourists such as ourselves. We subtly hopped aboard the next oversold rickety convoy and slept soundly without interuption for the full overnight to Kolkata. Quite curiously, no bribe was necessary. Kolkata was a veritable festival of absurdity, boisterousness, chaos, and deluxe tourism smashed together into a cultural fruit smoothie. Endless markets of all descriptions of goods (and bads), the finest and filthiest tastes of Bengal, and even a really good rock n roll cover band - there was something remarkable about hearing Zepellin's homage to India's far North as performed by Indians.

With much less white-knuckling, Mike and I made flight aboard India's SpiceJet for an astonishing bargain of a flight to Delhi just in time for his departure to Australia and my mom's arrival from Canada - baggage excluded. The journey continues...