Just when I thought humanity had nothing left to offer me, I find this:
The Ortlieb toilet paper dry bag. I so could have used this in India where I ported my own tp from the northern borders to the southern oceans and was always doting over my precious precious cargo. Sure I can use plastic or ziploc bags, but thanks to these geniuses it will forever have its very own PVC cocoon and it can hang from the nearest shrubbery.
I wrote to my coach, Kele, that I've returned from the other side of the world and that - not too surprisingly - I got my ass kicked on our team ride up Squak Mnt outside of Issaquah and around Lake Sammamish yesterday. Besides my ass not being on friendly terms with my Brooks, my legs had no muscle to push or pull the cranks around the hilly route. It took an enormous amount of fortitude to keep up with these chicks who have been training like mad the past 5 weeks. I finished with the team, but my body let me know how unhappy it was with me by relegating me to the couch for the rest of the day.
What Kele wrote back was music to my ears, "Yea, don't sweat the team ride...and don't push it too much....gradually build, my child, GRADUALLY!! I'm sounding the "Take it easy" alarm....REST and build..."
I was worried that I'd get a "Well what did you expect being gone for 5 weeks?" but she gave me the perfect mix of encouragement and humour. I know I'll get my legs back in a few weeks and will be able to rock that route with the other girls and then some.
But for now I took her words of rest to heart and celebrated with mass amounts of Belgian chocolate pudding that made the day even brighter. Hey it's only January....
4:27 a.m., 4:43 a.m., 4:00 a.m. Those have been the bright green numbers I've woken up to the past 3 mornings since getting back from the other side of the world. It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to wait 3 freakin' hours for the sun to come up or 2 hours for the newspaper to appear at my door. I remember waking up at a similar hour the first week or so in India, but there I had a better reason to go back to bed. Here, I make some coffee, read more of Shantaram, and wait for dawn to brighten the sky. I've been falling asleep around midnight so there's been an awful lot of darkness in my day, which I'm not particularly enjoying. I was hoping I'd be back to my normal routine by the end of the weekend, but that's looking doubtful. Rhi said it took her a week to get back to normal. Right now all I want is to wake up with the sun prying through my blinds and see my clock reading another hour other than 4 a.m.
Another birthday and no better way to feel old than to ride 35 miles after a month of no biking. Rigor mortis has set in my legs and tomorrow morning I do the team's first big hill ride of the season. They assure me that I'll be fine, there's only one big 30 minute climb and the pace will be slow, but anytime you put together 20 competitive girls there is no thing as slow. Maybe I'll get some advantage for being wide awake 4:30 a.m.
India did not let me go easily. For my last night in the country, Zack and I went to our favorite restaurant, a hole-in-the-wall, word of mouth kind of place where the food is a symphony of spice and flavor that leaves you in silent, gluttonous satisfaction. After walking the busy, vibrant streets of Mumbai we went back to his apartment to wait for our 1:30 a.m. cab that would take us to the airport for the last time. We filled the last hours with reminiscing through pictures and laughter, finally succumbing to a short catnap. I woke up to watch him sleep peacefully next to me one last time. I wanted those last minutes to stretch out forever, but my wishes fell silent as the earth's inertia kept the night moving towards morning.
The cab ride was quiet as we drove through the brightly lit city with the windows down and its stench filling my head for the last time. We pulled up to the airport terminal to find a bustling airport with people everywhere - sitting on the curb with their luggage, standing in one line or the other with their luggage, or lined up at the windows peering inside. It was obvious that this was going to take a while so I was glad we got there 2 hours early. We followed one line that appeared to be the one into the terminal. Moving nowhere, I took a short walk up ahead to see what was in store. I saw a sign and a booth that said "Visitors 60 rupees" and took that as Zack needing a visitor ticket to get inside, except there was no one in the booth to buy a ticket. I scanned the line of people going into the building, the Indian military guard waving people away at the door, aborted hugs and kisses and tears, and the mass of people pressed against the windows looking inside for their loved ones. It was easy to surmise that only ticketed passengers were allowed inside the terminal and that Zack and I only had about 2 minutes until we got to the entrance. Ever the optimist, he said "Well let's see what happens," but when it was our turn the guard saw that my ticket was only for one person so he said Zack could not enter the terminal and we begrudgingly stepped aside.
In the early morning hour surrounded by the confusion of thousands of people also trying to leave Mumbai we had no choice but to quickly rip off the band aid and say our goodbyes. I didn't want to let go because it would mean I'd have to break loose, walk into the terminal, and start my life for the next 3 months without him and the closeness we shared. Love that had grown even stronger over the past month would have to wait until the next reunion in the States in May. I didn't want to let go of all we'd experienced and learned together this past month, in many ways more special than the months in Seattle. Love could live anywhere, I found. It was ignorant of surroundings or geography. One of his colleagues is from France and at TIFR with his wife and 2 year old son. Where they live is irrelevant because they have their love for each other and can foster it anywhere, even as the sun sets over the Arabian Sea. I discovered that I could walk through any doorway in the world with Zack and be just as in love by his side.
Holding onto him one last time, part of me was scared like a little girl, but the rest of me knew I was strong and smart enough to carry through another 3 months apart like I had before. So I let go of his green t-shirt and made my way into the terminal, where I watched him follow my slow progression through the windows with hundreds of others who shared a similar longing to be near their loved ones for just a few minutes more.
After 30 minutes in the baggage screening line and sending each other waves and funny faces, it was time to head to the ticketing line deeper in the terminal. I blew him a kiss and waved goodbye and I saw his green shirt and huge smile for the last time before he turned back into the spice and warmth of the Indian night.
A picture is certainly worth a thousand words and I couldn't begin to adequately describe all we've seen and done, so I'm working more on my Flickr site and trying to comment on all the photos we've taken, almost 500! Mike has also done a great job posting his photos. He's done an amazing job of capturing the candid side of the culture. I was often too self-conscious to whip out my tiny camera and photograph what I saw, but Mike managed to do just that.
Sandakphu trek - Himalayan mountains and prayer flags
Various India pics - TIFR, Kolkata
Darjeeling - Monkeys and prayer flags, tea, and Tibetan fry bread
Kerala - Coconut trees and small bikes
Mike's - All that and more
For our last bit of traveling we spent a few days down in the tropical town of Allepuzha in the southwestern most state of Kerala. "Alleppey" is known for its houseboat tours, which we had a wonderful time doing and enjoying a few hours of idyllic luxury. But until that began we needed to kill a lot of time. So we managed to borrow some bikes from our guesthouse and decided to ride out to the beach. We weren't expecting much given the uniform brand of simple, black utilitarian bikes ridden all over India. But these were 2 of the sorriest bikes ever to have 2 wheels. Zack grabbed the more mtb type bike while I got the "Ladybird" lady's model. Each pushed the limit of just how far a bike can function while being completely consumed by rust. The rims, spokes, chain, frame, and brakes looked like they'd been dunked in salt water for a few years. Even my bell (and if you're ever in India you know that a bell is a requirement if you want to pedal in traffic) was so completely rusted that it was stone cold silent.
With a lot of humour we pedaled out of the guesthouse gate and out into traffic. By Mumbai standards, Alleppey was a piece of cake and we breezed along with the masses of scooters, buses, rickshaws, cars, and humanity baking in the sun. My tires were really low on pressure and my seat need to be raised, so we stopped by a bike shop/stall down the road for some help. We managed to pump up the tires (and break his precariously held together bike pump) and raise the seat 3 inches, so we were off to the beach.
There is a definate hierarchy in the traffic flow in India. Buses and transport trucks rule the top tier. They're big and fast and they don't stop. Cars are next, followed loosely by rickshaws, scooters, bikes, and pedestrians. Each has to look out for and yield to the higher tier. Pedestrians take their lives into their own hands. No one will stop for you, you have to look out for and stay out of the way of everyone else. Zoning out is not an option. There are no real crosswalks or any safety feature for navigating the roads. If you played Frogger in your youth and did well, you could be ok walking around India.
Finally jumping a tier and being on a bike, I could tell an instant difference in how much easier it was to get around. You got a tiny bit more respect than if you were on foot. You were more embedded into the symphonic flow, like a red blood cell charting its course through the veins. Even though my seat was about 20cm too low and I risked injury from having a mute bike, it was a joy to get out and expand our exploration of the town. We made it out to the beach and rode down a path to the local fishing village. Kids were estatic to see 2 westerners on bikes and they laughed and yelled "Hello!" and ran to tell their friends about the crazy sight. By now my seat had finally begun to self destruct. There were no bolts holding the plastic seat cover to the metal seat frame and the seat itself started to tilt backwards to an angle dumping me onto the rear wheel. It was almost like riding a low rider, but I'm sure they're more comfortable. One of the kids saw us fiddling with the seat and ran to find the village bike mechanic. He turned out to be this wonderful man, James, who could be the fishing village version of Charles from Wright Brothers. His small garage had an assortment of bikes and tires and a bench of tools and parts. He took one look at my seat and gave a hearty laugh. He immediately found some bolts and began putting the seat back together. He also fixed the seat angle so it wouldn't slip again. While we were waiting, more schoolkids stopped outside his gate to see the funny westerners. I playfully stuck my tongue out at a group of young boys and this put them into hysterics. Any time we said, "Hello", they would act surprised, then delighted and say Hello right back with a huge smile.
James finished fixing my bike, we took some photos, and we were off to another area of the beach. This time, we got surrounded by some very energetic 13 year old girls who decided we would be their new best friends and play in the sea and sand. For a few hours we took lots of photos, played dress up, drew pictures and words in the sand and anything else a bunch of 13 year olds would preoccupy themselves with. We were getting parched in the hot afternoon sun, so we said goodby to Meenu, Preya, and Jessy and took off on our bikes. We stopped by the Indian Coffee House by the beach for some snacks, water, and coffee, then rode back to Alleppey happy from such a fun-filled day thanks to our rusty but trusty Indian bikes.
We came down from Darjeeling expecting to spend our 3 remaining Bengalee days unwinding in another hill station, on a rhino safari, and visiting Bhutan for an afternoon. But travel in India being what it is, things didn't go our way. The so-called "gem of a hill station," Mirik, turned out to be an armpit, a mix between cold war landscaping and the crowded hills of Darjeeling so after 5 minutes we decided to have some tea and toast and catch the first taxi out of town. In Siliguri we thought luck was going our way as we just caught the last bus out to the town nearest the Jadalarpa wildlife reserve. The bus' puppet master was Zack's new best friend and insisted we take the front seats next to the driver with a full view of every catastrophic near miss over the next 3 hours while dodging other buses, goods carriers, cars, bikes, rickshaws, cows, and people. Finally after nightfall we arrived into town and even found the tourist lodge (!), got a room (!), and they signed us up for an elephant safari ride in the morning (!). Team Red, as we christened ourselves after our red puffy jackets, sat in the bar to kick back with some Kingfishers and gloat at our success. For a few hours at least.
We set out on the safari at 7 a.m. and were elephant bound by 7:30. Zack and I got the elephant all to ourselves and his rider felt that we were adventurist types and would enjoy a lot of bushwhacking on the back of an elephant. Yeah that's fun the first few times, but after a while you realize this elephant is going to barge through any tree regardless of what's on his back so we spent considerable time ducking and unwrangling ourselves from tree limbs and vines. However, we did come upon a one-horned rhino in the bush and photographed it, but not well enough
for it to come out clearly. Think of it as a rhino in the jungle done by Monet. Around the park a little more....monkeys, deer, peacocks...and it was back to the start only an hour after we'd begun. Fortunately there were 2 cute baby elephants huddling by their mamas so I could play with them and satisfy my craving for wildlife a little more. We felt shortchanged that there was no visitor's center or educational center or other place to learn more about the sanctuary's
wildlife or anything at all. For all thathubub and worry about getting into the sanctuary, we were left with not much at all.
Back at the tourist lodge at 9 a.m. we figured we could spend the rest the day visiting the Bhutanese border town that was reported to allow visitors into Bhutan for a day without a visa. The lodge's manager politely (with the ubiquitous Indian head bobble) squashed our idea when he said that was only for Indian visitors and that foreigners need a real visa to visit, even for the day. We poured over our Lonely Planet guides and found the small print in another area of the book - foreigners need a visa at least 15 days in advance. Crap! We were stuck in the urban equivalent of Fall City with nothing to do for 2 days until our train left for Kolkata. Like Zack said, it was like aliens coming to town after hearing about the Falls and thinking that would take up a day's time, then wondering what the heck else there is to do after only an hour. We tried wandering around, but this 2 street town didn't offer much but lots of stares and inquiries about where we were from. We retreated to the lodge which grew more and more repulsive as the minutes ticked by and resigned ourselves to reading for the next 2 days. At least it was free from mad taxi drivers, noise, and heavy pollution. Instead, filthy cows, goats, and dogs roamed below our balcony and ruffled through garbage and grass.
The next day afforded our escape and we made it safely back by mad bus to Siliguri where we waited for 5 hours for the overnight train to Kolkata. We were relieved to be ending this part of the trip and on our way back home. The mountains had been fortuitous, but outside of that cherished realm India was not our friend. The train was a quick night's sleep to Kolkata (highly recommend 2nd class) where we tried to cheat India one more time in the early morning. Our plane flight to Mumbai was scheduled to leave around 5pm, but having already done a long layover in Kolkata on the way up we had no desire to waste more time in this depressing city. So we gunned it by taxi to the airport to see if we could make an earlier flight. We made it in plenty of time, but the agent said the flight was full without batting an eye. Bullshit! No one in India is capable of knowing anything. I asked about a waiting list and he said there wasn't one. I asked other airlines, but theirs had already left for the morning. We were about to find a place to sit and read for the next 8 hours when the agent waved us over and said it would be an extra $90 for 2 seats on the early flight. Without hesitation I exercised my god-given American right to buy my way out of any situation and gave the guy 4500 rupees. Team Red was on the move and getting the hell out of Bengal. Zack and I toasted our resourcefulness and luck with some machine produced
cappuccinos and made our way back to the heat of Mumbai.
But bring your own toilet paper. Zack and I just returned from an amazing trek into the foothills of the Himalayas, along a ridge bordering Nepal and India where we had views from Everest to the east, all the way west to Chomolhari, the highest peak in Bhutan. Smack in the middle was Kanchenjunga, India's highest peak and the 3rd highest in the world. We watched the sun set over Nepal, Tibet, India, and Bhutan and it was still and utterly beautiful. At the top of every hill, however remote, we were greeted by an array of prayer flags fluttering in the wind. There is nothing like being met by colorful prayer flags when your body has had enough of this "going up" stuff to really lift your spirits and remember why you're up here. The guest houses we stayed at and tea houses in between abound with baby farm animals. Baby cows, goats, kittens, puppies, chickens made the visits much more enjoyable. The mama cows and goats provided us ample fresh milk for our tea and porrage. Zack, handsome in his new red puffy vest that he bargained on the streets of Darjeeling, professed his love for me by lugging a glass (!) jar of Nutella throughout the trek for me. Alas, we also discovered that the vegetable oil content of Nutella has a rather high freezing point so my jar of nectar could only be enjoyed after relentless scraping from my mini-Leatherman's pliers.
Never to do things the easy way, we set out on this trek in the middle of winter so the higher we climbed, the more the temps plunged. Our high point at Sandakphu was at 12k, at night dropping well into the teens and wind chill much lower. I've never in my life had to wear everything I owned to bed while wrapped in a double down sleeping bag with another human and still be cold. But it was pretty chilly up there and the locals aren't exactly privileged enough to heat or insulate their huts. So we huddled with hot mugs of tea and stared at the mountains straight from an Art Wolfe photo gallery and daydreamed how we could be up there forever.
Alas, we had to descend, back to the world of beeping taxis and garbage and population overload. Somehow having experienced the mountains like we did and the wonderful people up there, makes being down here in the modern world a tiny bit more tolerable because we know of a Shangri La that exists and that we will return some day.
