Zachster

Riding the L east to Williamsburg, I wish I’d found a sushi place to grab a bite. I have three delis within spitting distance of my new apartment, but a desert of options beyond. I assume somewhere along my route I’ll pass something more appetizing. I still think of myself as an unpicky eater, despite a mountain of evidence.

I travel freely across the city and amongst the boroughs, but not out of a comfort with the area. Rather, my lack of familiarity allows me to treat each stop as just another stop, just as likely to sit at the heart of a culinary mecca as a barren beruit. So when I exit the Lorimer station and Yelp shows me nothing, I am not surprised, but also not pleased. On my way to Pete’s Candy Store (no candy, just liquor), I stop at a deli for some antipasti salads mixed into a to-go container.

I’m there for an installment of the OCD lecture series. It’s something about Open City. Maybe Drama. Maybe Diatribe. I’m early so I sit at the bar and order two vodka tonics while happy hour prices make me ambitious. I eat my salad and read my book. I get into a little chat with the fellow to my left about his recent expulsion from his part-time gallery job. Later I make a note to remember that anyone as early as I am is probably an organizer of the event I’m attending. This one turns out to be the MC. I don’t like breaking down that wall between performer and audience, especially before the show starts. I’m reminded of the time I chatted with Dave Couliet, not realizing he was about to get up on stage and bomb before my stunned company as part of an ill conceived corporate bonding event. It’s a wonder I talk to anyone in public anymore.

Halfway through my drinks, and fullway through my salad I stumble elegantly into the meeting room. The walls are lined with hipsters and I feel like I’m walking a gauntlet. I wish I still had my beard. During my time at the bar, I went from awkwardly early to embarrassingly late. I’m supposed to cop a squat on the floor, but find a stool hidden under a table at the front. I sit between a couple, maybe on a date.

Mitch Horowitz wrote the book Occult in America. He takes the stage and launches into a litany of exposition. He hooks me right away with tales of his childhood fascination for magic. He talks about how happy he is to have rediscovered one of the passions of his youth when he stumbled into a job with a small publishing house. It sounds like the opening to Foucault’s Pendulum when he describes the fringe manuscripts he’d review, connecting him back to days in the early eighties when he scoured libraries for books illustrated with pentagrams and archaic histories of early western settlers. Were the eighties a time for such things? Or do we all go through a phase where Mysteries of the Unknown put us on the trail of bigfoot and the loch ness monster, aliens and esp? As he recounts his early days of Ouija boards and séances, it dawns on me that through my youth and up until the last decade I’ve moved from one fantastical mythology to the next. Starting with the mythic beasts of cartoons; moving on to Herman Hesse’s western interpretation of eastern magic; then Robert Anton Wilson’s woven tales of conspiracy and chaos magic.

Mitch goes on to paint a history of the occult and it’s migration to America as a tale of our own unanswered questions and a longing for progress in the face of oppression. Brought to the new world by refugees of religious persecution, the occult grew out the conflict between what these immigrant revolutionaries felt was right, and what their society told them was appropriate. With no social context to promote things like equal rights, or free thought, they found their voice for these concepts in whispers from the spirit world. Mitch ties it all together in a long train of thought culminating in some broad who packs up and moves to India, and then on to London where she hosts a young Gandhi as he struggles through law school. There can be no better example of the occult leading us towards cultural liberalism than by inspiring Gandhi on his mission of Truth.

So the historical portion of the lecture was enlightening. But once Mitch started in on the modern trends in the occult it became clear he’d not only studied up on the past, but drunk the cool aid of the present. I don’t understand how someone can have such a clear understanding of the historical pressures that lead an isolated society to fantasize answers that added comfort to a confusing time, and then buy into the very same answers years later. Where did this idea come from that those who came before us had a more pure vision of truth than we have today? The history of the occult is one of a search for earlier and earlier answers; before Jesus, before Abraham, before Vishnu, before Adam. Today we know the further back we look for answers, the closer we get to caves and trees and oceans. To be sure there are answers to be found in our origins, but not by theologists. What questions have been answered in the last hundred years that have not been answered by science? And what can be more contrary to science than the occult?

So as I move from a deep appreciation for the research and history uncovered by this lecture to a discomfort with the conclusions being drawn, I look around and feel isolated. The questions being asked by the audience place me in a minority of doubters. Glazed eyed boys expound their views seeking affirmation on their theories. The man next to me unwraps a piece of gum from his pack, a wad already chewed sometime ago. The girl to my left shares with me her book on Sexual Magic, asking if I’ve read it.

Despite the brief dip into madness there at the end, I left the lecture with a nicely framed picture of the occult as a mechanism for social change. The catalog of myth and rumor I’ve carried around with me for decades has clearly informed my politics. What are bigfoot and the loch ness monster if not parables for a connection between man and beast closer than what society at large recognizes? What lesson do they teach if not that mankind must think of nature as magical and precious; something that at any moment can vanish into mystery? The city of Atlantis: a cautionary tale on the decline of a civilized world. UFOs and visitors: a treatise against xenophobia and a battle cry to race to the stars. ESP: a call for sensitivity and observance of the ways we connect to each other. In every case I can think of, these stories of magic tie back to some yearning for progress, or some fault found with the current world. And throughout the 1800s and 1900s, they were real agents of change. Stories from the spirit world swept the country, opening peoples’ eyes to the possibilities of a morality beyond any single religion. Not until the co-opting of these concepts by the commercialized mass media interests did the occult move from a grassroots network of free thinking into a self-help service industry preying on the curious. Those same questions that once fueled Gandhi to rage against centuries of oppression, now fuel more and more minutes on the line with telephone psychics. The infection of ancient myths into conservative religious groups once opened the door to new ideas, but now only teach us about Harry Potter and the Da Vinci Code.

Not a bad night for the price of a few happy hour drinks. On the train home I finish my book: Mao II by Don Delillo. The guy down the car from me is reading White Noise. Weird coincidence, or the Universe telling me something?

Reposted From Yelp

J recommended the place, citing the word ‘fish’ in the title as a measure of its suitability to my diet. She’d been before, but never seen it so packed, especially on a Wednesday night. We waited around the bar for thirty minutes before being seated. A few vodka cocktails kept us warmed and distracted from any second date awkwardness. She wore a cute snow bunny style jacket that reminded me of third grade. But it’s stark whiteness blended oddly with the culty group that arrived dressed in matching white dashikis.

Round two: at the table. I stuck with my vodka tonic while she opted for a Greenhouse, or something, that came in a martini glass and tasted like candy covered sunshine. A warm loaf of bread arrived, cut like a pizza and soaked through with a garlic butter sauce. I’m not made of stone. It’s good stuff.

We ordered the lobster bisque and put together an a la carte combination from the raw bar. The soup was very good, with a kind of masala chai spiced quality to it. There wasn’t much lobster, but it was tasty and the whole thing had a nice flavor. I’m trying to slow down my eating and not rush through meals. I enjoyed savoring it, but J still had half of hers left when I’d finished.

Of the three pairs of oysters we got, the standard Blue Points and Kumamotos were nice, if a little briney. I was very happy with the Witch Ducks that I picked entirely on their bizarre name. They reminded me of the Virginicas I used to get in Seattle. The internet tells me Witch Ducks are raised in Virginia, so I wonder if there’s a connection? The rest was your standard raw bar fare: shrimp, crab and lobster. It was all fresh and tasty. I’ve been a lobster loyalist for a long time and had given up on experimenting with its preparation. If it wasn’t steamed, I didn’t want it. But I’ve had so much great steamed lobster in Seattle and Moncton that I might be looking for a little more these days. I remember a white wine grilled tail I had at one of my brother’s cook outs, and the miso glazed I had at Park Ave Winter. Suddenly my raw bar lobster with lemon doesn’t seem so delectable.

But my own ennui with fish shack standards should not be held against them. I knew just what I was getting and was not disappointed. Next time I’ll be more adventurous and see where that gets me.

About twenty four hours ago, I sat in a plane that, from a standing start, headed west and leapt into the sky. At this point I should be clear: I did not rough it in India. Yes, for two weeks I worked harder than I ever have before. I dug and mixed and hauled. But I had a bed and hot water, and when I left for my tour I lived in nothing but the lap of luxury while traveling a land of squalor. So don’t feel it’s out of character for me to admit I upgraded to business class on my way back to the US. For double the price of my economy ticket, I got a row to myself with more legroom than I could use. I got incessant food service catered to my taste. I got a seat that reclined back flat where I could roll over and cuddle with a slew of pillows. Worth. Every. Penny.

I finished my Gandhi biography. I didn’t like it. I know. I’m the devil. But Gandhi was a whack job. Sure, the man bested the British Empire without violence, but that doesn’t make him someone I’d want to hang out with. The book was mostly about his eating habits with a bit about defecation thrown in for excitement. How can you live a life bent on securing freedom for hundreds of millions of people and write such a boring book? Granted, he didn’t have time to keep it up to date before he was assassinated. This is a warning to us all. Keep our biographies and tell-alls current. We don’t want our murderers to go undocumented, o we?

But reading it, along with awesome camel ride, made me crave reading Lawrence of Arabia. I looked in every Indian bookstore I could find, but their English book sections are devoted to second hand copies of Sue Grafton novels. So I boarded the plane with nothing but the Paul Auster I gave up on (my Habitat group leader recommended I give it another try, so I was considering it). But I was thrilled to find Lawrence of Arabia as one of the ten English movies Air India stocked on my video unit. If you haven’t seen it, it’s three hours of epic bliss. It makes me want to bury myself in the sand and bake for eternity. I should have toughed it out through another film or two, but I couldn’t stay away. I slept for seven hours. That meant that today, for me, began at 3am. I watched some more movies, listened to some music, and landed in JFK feeling refreshed, but like I’d been up for most of the day already. Yes, Air India lost one of my bags. A bag filled with gifts, so don’t be impatient if you feel you’re due. But they think they’ve located it back in Bombay so stay tuned.

Landing in New York, I was greeted by the shining sun reflecting off wide, clean streets. The western world is a fantasy of industrialism compared to India. It’s impossible to imagine the spanning of the gap between where this ancient civilization got stuck, and where we sprung to from out of nowhere. It must be our lack of history, our freedom from mistakes of the past, that’s enabled us to come so far so fast. Fueled by our rich surplus of resources, we are the epitome of the eighteenth century ideal of a nation. And that’s great. But what will fuel the twenty-first century’s vision, and where will it be fulfilled? Not here. We’re all used up and searching for answers to last centuries problems. Not India. They’re abandoning their current problems and hoping they’ll die off while a first world nation is born. By my count, there are too few frontiers left to support the founding of a new world. No doubt there are those with vision eclipsing mine. I hope someone’s listening to them. I hope they have an Isabel to give them a few ships and a crew to get where they’re going.

Tomorrow brings the second decade of the third millennium since this guy was nailed to a piece of wood. Maybe it’s the fifteenth millennium since we dropped from the trees. More importantly it’s the fourth decade I’ve walked the earth. I’m closer to forty than I am to thirteen. Only the fact that’s more depressing to my father than it is to me keeps me going (sorry dad). I figure I’ve got about fifty or sixty years left. I gotta get moving.

Goa was a good break from my travels, but it would have been better right after Habitat. I could have cocooned myself on the beach for a few days and emerged ready to conquer the rest of my travels. Having it at the end of my trip was just a relaxing postponement of my return. Not that I minded. I hit the spa for one last massage before taking the long and winding road back to the airport. They sent me off with a box lunch of prawn curry and lentils. They sent me off right.

We drive by house after house nestled in the dense tropical foliage. Tourists trek too and from the little restaurants scattered around. Children play in the parks. Goa is lovely, but it’s not easy. The yearly monsoons drown the city without reprieve. Houses must be repainted every year. Those that are not bare the stain of mildew, black bags under the eyes of the house’s windows. Some are so bad the stain becomes a patina adding a depth of grime to the texture of the facade. But most are painted. Some with a new paint meant to resist the flooding. My driver is skeptical it will work. He says nature is more persistent than we are. We pass the ruins of the Muslim palace. It’s a few walls, and a few columns. Eventually, everything built gets unbuilt.

My flight to Mumbai has been delayed an hour. I consider my time left in the country and talk my way onto another airline’s flight. But this means I have to pickup my bags and recheck them in Mumbai. It’s probably a wash. By the time I get out of the airport, I’ve got five hours left to see one of the biggest cities in the world. And I’m stopped. Stopped dead in traffic. I think I spent about four of those five hours in traffic. In between, I saw glamorous Bombay versions of the strip malls that line every street in Delhi. I saw the same handicraft markets, and the same five-star hotels with their long driveways and imposing security. I saw the people kept at bay on the street, begging for money.

I did not see the slums. I did not see the world’s largest public laundry. I did not see the Parsi burial pit, nor the giant crows that live there. Bombay is a big city, but it’s clogged arteries make it tough to get around. I think I could have walked faster than I traveled today. Eventually I gave up and went to a five-star for dinner. Chinese. Maybe I hit my lentil limit.

The best thing I saw, stuck in traffic, a fish market on the side of the road. Like the one in Goa they had fresh fish being sacrificed to the flies. For the first time I see too many fish living in too small a bowl, filled with sea water; a small net stretched across the top to keep them from leaping off each others’ backs and onto the pavement. They still try. They try really hard. The water boils with their effort.

So in India, when I sit on the floor in the airport and I look out at the long, long lines in security and sense all that raw water rolling in one unbelievable huge bulge over to America, and all those planes going, all those people fleeing from the immensity of it, and in India I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that god is Vishnu? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old…

Sincere apologies to JK, but when you write something like “folds the final shore in,” how am I supposed to not think about it at the end of a long, long travel across a strange land where I don’t find what I’m looking for.

Goodnight India. Good luck with everything.

Goa sits on the Western edge of India, pretty far down the coast to the South. Unlike Rajasthan which was under the rule of the Mugul emperors, Southern India was under the control of Bijapur kings. There must have been some dissatisfaction with this arrangement, because in the early 1500s the Goan people invited the Portuguese to come in and replace the Islamic Bijapuris. I guess the Hindus figured they’d get a better deal from the Catholics. The Portuguese come in with their ships and soldiers and take the region. This foretells the decline of the Bijapuris in the region. They officially kick the bucket in the 1600s when Aurangzeb conquered the rest of their region. We remember him from that time when he killed his brothers and locked his father up in the Red Fort where he could stare at the Taj Mahal until the day he died. So in this instance, Goa was ahead of the rest of India in falling under European rule. But when India gained its independence from Britain in 1950, Goa was still under the rule of Portugal. It took a brief military action from the Indian government in 1961 before Goa was united with the rest of its newly self-governing people.

Basically, Goa had a much earlier, and slightly more recent connection to Europe compared with Northern India. The effects of this can be seen everywhere. The buildings are an interesting combination of Spanish style adobes with islamix/hindu design elements. Like northern India, it seems like most of the modern buildings were constructed in the 50s, but in Goa that means charming bungalows and sprawling estates. I get the sense that the Indian people have really taken advantage of the infrastructure left behind by the Portuguese. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I feel like the Goan were lucky to be subjugated by Europeans instead of the Muslims. Granted, the Europeans were invited, but the Hindus still had to contend with the Inquisition, destruction of their temples, and forced conversion under threat of expulsion or death. So it’s not like it was a cakewalk.

We drive into central parts of the city, up in the mountains, and visit old churches. I’m shocked at how many there are. It seems like every sect is represented, most within shouting distance of each other. There are facilities for the Franciscans, the Dominicans, and a bunch I cannot remember. They’re beautiful and imposing; gilded with gold and dense with statues and murals. Bom Jesus Basilica houses the body of St. Francis Xavier. He lived and taught in Goa. When he died, his body was returned as per his wishes. Now he’s in a glass coffin atop a large base. If you fight the crowd of people vying for a view, you see him from the side through the glass wall. Creepy.

These are pretty standard churches and cathedrals, but they were built by the same workers who built the Islamic/Hindu structures before. There’s definitely a local influence, especially in the decorative murals covering the walls and pillars. Many of these were white-washed away, so I wonder if they weren’t more explicitly Hindu in some places.

Later we visit a couple Hindu temples and I’m struck by how beautiful they are. I’ve written before about the gaudiness of the others I’ve seen, but these are built from wood with a tasteful use of marble. No doubt this is my cultural bias coming through, but the merging of the Hindu with the European style is more pleasing to me. Next to the temples stand beautiful lamp towers. They’re at least ten meters high with as many platforms for lighting lamps. Each level is a ring of windows letting the light shine out. I don’t see any of the historical ones lit, but they built new ones for the launch of the Goa Film Festival four years ago and the effect is striking.

For lunch I take a tour of a spice plantation. I see all the staples in their natural environment. It’s kind of boring. The food is good, but not particularly spiced. The best part is the giant Banana Spider I see between the trees.

We drive around Panaji, the capital of Goa, and I feel like I’m in the south of France. The roads wind between market streets and parks, and official looking buildings. My guide points out where all the public officials live and where the children go to school. We take off on foot and look through some shops. When I buy some gifts from a spice merchant he says to me, “That man was my student.” He taught physics for 30 years at the high school. We get back onto the street and now every few men he passes, he tells me was a former pupil as well. It’s a small town, and having lived and worked here so long, he seems to know everyone. It makes me feel welcome, and on tour with a town elder rather than a paid guide.

We stop at a lookout point and he shows me a tamarind tree. I look for pods but can’t seen any within reach. Our driver sees what we’re up to and goes and gets some medium sized rocks from the road. He’s amazingly good at throwing the rocks up into the clusters and knocking down a few. There’s a broad variety of flavors to the tamarind based on how mature they are. The fresh ones are soft and sour and the skin is bound tight to the meat. I eat this first one with a permanent pucker. The dried ones taste like the candy I’ve had from the Chinese grocer. The best are the ones right in the middle where the meat has shrunk a bit and pulled away from the skin, but it’s still moist. These I can bite and chew until the meat is gone and just the dark smooth seed remains. The driver goes nuts and I leave with a bag full of pods. Good for digestion, my guide says. Anytime I ask what something is in India, I get “good for digestion”.

One the way back into town we stop at the beach and I hike out to the water. It’s a deep beach and I’m surrounded by other tourists making the same pilgrimage. The sun is setting, but the beach is crowded and children splash about in the water. There’s a big contingent of nuns in simple habits. They’re having fun taking pictures with tourists and laughing along with us at the children. I knew Goa was popular with tourists, but I didn’t realize that most of them would be from other Indian states. At least on the sites I’ve seen there have been few westerners. That’s been a theme of my trip. I think a result of using a local tour company for my itinerary. That served me well in most cities, but in Goa, I would have preferred to be with the other foreigners. Part of it’s charm is status as a Mecca for expatriated hippies and I would have liked to see that.

But it’s on to my river cruise where again I am the only westerner on the boat. At my guide’s recommendation I sit near the back. I was well to heed him as the music is thumping and riotous. After every few songs, they’ll break the DJ set and bring on a team of Goan folk dancers. I really enjoyed the Rajasthani dancing. It had all the rhythm and exoticism of belling dancing, without the creepy stripper-like quality you sometimes see in the US. So I was excited to see the Goan version. The troupe comes out in island wear, with the men in kurtas and wrap skirts and the women in tropical saris. They dance in line and hold hands, forming a circle that they rush in and out of. It’s childish and reminds me of the stilted dancing in the Spare Me My Life video. Very odd. But it’s always nice to be out on the water. Our boat is flanked by others lit at every corner with bright white bulbs. Many are floating casinos with neon marquees naming them Casino Royale or King’s Casino. Deck side they’re having similar performances to mine. We come back to the docks, get back into the car and head home.

This was my longest day of sight seeing since leaving Delhi and I’m exhausted. I start my journey home tomorrow, but have a nine hour layover in Bombay. I’ll try to finish strong and see as much as possible, but nothing right now seems more inviting to me than an aisle seat and an ambien.

At one of my other cities in Rajasthan I ran into some of the people I’d been in Ranthambore with for the tiger safari. They broke the sad news that the very day I left, they saw a tiger that afternoon. They showed me a picture they snapped and then admitted they only saw the tiger’s butt as it walked off into the trees. So that’s the question. Is it better to let the tiger remain a mysterious beast, tucked away in its dwindling habitat? Or better to see it’s ass walking away from you? Having gone on a dolphin safari, and seen only dolphin butt, I think I prefer the mystery. At first I thought I’d go zero for two and get stood up by the dolphins also. We’d been out on the water for a good thirty minutes and they’d yet to make an appearance. But my guide pointed back towards the beach and there were a pair dipping back into the water. I saw them a few more times, but just their fins and backsides. I’ve got mixed luck with animals these days. There was that squirrel that jumped my foot before. And today I saw a pretty big lizard on the beach. He camped out in the shade of my chair for a while and did this awesome thing where he puffed up his throat. But the tigers and dolphins have been pretty standoffish.

Tomorrow I’ve got a fuller day of sight-seeing in Goa. It’s been mostly resort living for the past two days, so I welcome a change of scenery. I didn’t need to come this far to sit on a beach, and I don’t want my trip to just peter out lounging by a pool.

I did take an archery lesson and a yoga class today. But both were these lightweight, self-esteem building seminars where the instructors were concerned with making me feel good than teaching me anything. The yoga was more like naptime than exercise. I wish I’d seen a real yoga ashram to an authentic taste of Indian yoga. All I really got were a few spa-style classes that focused mostly on rhythmic breathing and relaxation.

Regardless of what happens here in Goa, I know I’ll see some stuff in Bombay. A business associate from the area recommended a number of places that sound interesting. Like an open pit for the disposal of dead bodies? Something about the cultural beliefs of the Parsis. Sounds great, right? Stay tuned.

Stepping into the Udaipur airport, I leave the old world behind. Gone are the dusty roads, open sewers and sweatered goats. Once you get off the surface streets, transportation in India is rather efficient. From the trains to the planes, they have a clear system for herding people from one place to another. It’s not the same as ours and involves more papers and lots of luggage tags that get stamped here and there. But it works, and it’s orderly. After so long on cars and busses, it’s shocking that I can cross the country and land in Bombay in an hour.

I only have an hour layover on my way to Goa, but the view into the city alone is worth the flight. Coming in for landing we skim the surface of the world and pass within shouting distance of the largest slum I’ve ever seen. It’s not surprising considering how few I’ve seen, but when I got to know Bawana, I thought they’d be the same all over India. They’re not the same. Bawana was set on an ordered grid of streets, with each shack on it’s little plot. This is an explosion of tiny homes, built from repurposed wood and cardboard, pressed together over every inch of space between towering apartment and office buildings. There is no grid. The roofs of the houses overlap as scales on a snake, coiling this way and that into every vacant corner of the city. Granted, this is land near the airport, but it’s still an awesome sight to behold. There are no roads or paths visible from the sky. Everything’s land-locked, penned in, immobile. There must be passageways under the rooftops, but if we can’t see them, then they’re cast in permanent shadows. Likely hidden from the heat, but also the world outside.

When they say India is the land of contrast, they’re usually talking about the rift in wealth between the upper and lower classes. But it’s a broad country and landing in Goa, I see the notion of contrast applies to many other things. The land here is tropical. I regret having used the word ‘lush’ to describe anything in Rajasthan as this makes even the most manicured park there look like a barren dustbowl. There is a density of palm trees that makes me feel like I’m in the Caribbean. The drive to my hotel is along small roads between rolling hills. A former Portuguese colony, Goa is full of old churches and Spanish-style tile roofs. The windows are open and the warm, wet breeze clings to me. I realize I’ve been dusty for three weeks.

The hotel is lovely, but again I’m surrounded by newlyweds and families. A few retirees thrown in for good measure. I walk up the beach and browse some small shops setup in shacks. Fishing boats line the shore, grounded for the night, full of nets and tackle. The sun sets over the water, just as it’s rising in New York. I realize it’s me that’s setting, not the sun. I eat alone at the beach, with only my lobster and giant prawn for company. I think I enjoy it more than they do. I will be happy here for a few days, but I ache for home. I change my flight and cut my stay short. They don’t have to be, but the hotel is amazingly nice about it. I fly in a few days and my new flight gives me nine hours to explore Bombay. A few small changes cast the past in a different light.

  
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Desert Music

I didn’t get much sleep. The Jain Buddhists get up super early once every other week and have some massive chant-fest. There’s music and prayer and all kinds of nonsense. Yes, everything’s nonsense when it’s at 4:30am in the morning. Luckily Areya was up and kept me well entertained.

At 9:30am I met my guide for my horse safari. I wasn’t sure if this was a safari where I’d be looking for horses, or riding one, but I was game either way. What I did not anticipate was the guide first needing me to get on the back of his motorbike to make our way to the stables. Fine by me, I’ve seen a gang of guys get on these little bikes and putter around the city. But when his helper person got on the bike behind me, I did get a little uncomfortable. Why is it that all the three-ways I get are in India… with dudes. (As reference, see my last blog when I was in Delhi two years ago. Dark days.) The stables are about 10 km away, but it feels like 100. When we get there, we’re out in the middle of the farmlands. There are six or so horses and a bunch of cows. The horses are small as is common in India, but they’re well groomed and shine with luster in the sun. Mine is saddled up and I mount it off a low stone wall to make life easier. I like these small horses. They’re more comfortable and easier to control. We set out along a loose trail through the plains and make our way back to the hotel. My horse is a boy and seems particularly interested in the rear end of my guide’s horse. I pull ahead and lead the way to keep him focused.

It’s a joy being out on the open land. For all my appreciation of the hotels and spas and five star restaurants, the best parts of this trip have been on back roads, working hard, or playing with animals. I need to rethink my priorities for vacations in the future and not be lulled by the siren song of the sweet life.

Mostly the land is deserted. We pass field after field, but they’re dry and untilled. I’m not sure what that means. It could be due to the dry monsoon season, or that crops have been rotated to another location. We pass quite a few small herds of cattle, so maybe it’s used more for grazing these days. We’re trotting side by side when a bull up the path starts acting funny. He turns this way and that and lowers his head. I don’t see it, but my guide said he started stomping his front hoof in the sand. All I see is my guide raise the rains and pull a quick charge on the pull before reigning his horse in abruptly. He lets loose a loud yell and the bull crouches down like a dog ready to pounce, but then takes off down the path. The whole things over in an instant, but it was very exciting. He says the bulls are not too smart, but if you let them start a charge, there’s no stopping them. We continue on, but every time we pass a bull, I try to avoid eye contact and hold my breath a bit.

Most of the time we discuss modern Hindi literature. My guide has a PhD and teaches a few classes. But its his work with tourists that pays his bills. He recommends a few writers in the realist school. I’ll look for them at the airport tomorrow. He also introduces me to the Hindu myth on the origins of the horse (Churned up from the ocean when the gods and the devils we’re playing tug of war with a giant snake wrapped around Mt. Everest. Obviously.) He’s careful to mention that he doesn’t know if the myth is true or not…

The rest is just quiet walking. I listen to a little music. I take it all in. It’s a good morning.

Soon after we arrive at the hotel, I leave for Udaipur. This is the most exotic of the cities in Rajasthan. It’s palace, set on Lake Pichola was featured in the James Bond film Octopussy. It’s definitely better maintained than most of what we’ve seen, but it’s still feast or famine. The manicured parks, lush with greenery are surrounded by run down strip malls interchangeable with the rest of Rajasthan. Even the five-star hotels are bordered by the grit and grime we see elsewhere. I take a quick boat ride around the lake and the water looks green and filthy. I cringe as I see people walking down the steps of the seawall and splashing the water on their faces. The boat ride lets us off at a little palace on an island in the lake. It’s been converted into a restaurant and event space and is one of the few places I’ve been with seamless beauty. It’s a small island. There’s no room for neglect to take hold and make a mess of things.

We also visit the City Palace, but at this point I’m toured out. There are some beautiful courtyards and interesting displays of artwork from the 16th century, but I’m tired of these narrow corridors and throngs of people. I head back to the hotel early and take my dinner in my room. For the first time since I’ve been to India I turn on the TV. I watch Bruce Almighty and it gives me a headache.

Early tomorrow I take a plane to Goa. I’m ready to leave Rajasthan, but I don’t know that a beach resort is what I need right now. I’d just as soon come home but it’s all paid for and I want to see if the South is any cleaner than the North. I suspect I’ll last just a few days. I’m planning to come home to New York before the New Year.

As the sun rises, and the rooster crows, I walk from my tent onto the cold, cold sand. My plan is to walk south across the property to get a better view of the brightening horizon. But I’m stopped when what I first take to be a pile of blankets near the performance area turns into a massive german sheppard. Coincidentally, the instant the dog ceases to be a pile of blankets, he begins to ferociously bark at me. I am not scared of dogs (nor cobras anymore), but dogs in India are unlike those in the US. They’re mostly strays and take no notice of people (little of cars even). I’d earlier tried to call to me a golden retriever, but it was as if I wasn’t there. The fact that this one is wearing a caller and condescends not only to notice me, but to berate me suggests it’s capable of anything. So I retreat to my tent and get back under the covers. I later found out the dog, like the cobra, was not dangerous. There are two of them, the other being very friendly. He eagerly accepted my pettings. Seeing this, Barky came over to get his share too.

My wandering aborted, I nest in bed for a bit and enjoy the end of my stay in the tent. From the unzipped end, I look out over the dunes as the rising sun warms the sand from a dim gray to a deep orange. When the sky turns blue, I rise and unzip the rear of the tent where the marble bathroom sits. I’m nervous about the shower as I’d been warned the boiler was temperamental. But after a little fiddling with the taps, the water comes out strong and hot. I step down into the sandstone pit that forms a basin for the shower. The little bottle of shampoo looks recycled and it contains what is clearly Johnson & Johnson’s No More Tears Shampoo. While I probably used this throughout my childhood, there in that tent the smell brings back memories only of the outdoor shower on Nantucket.

After a simple breakfast, I bid goodbye to the proprietor and the girls from France, and meet Parminder at the entrance. I’m sad to leave. So far, Osian is my favorite stop along my journey. It’s simple charm makes me regret abandoning my idea of staying at an ashram. I suspect that would have suited me better than this continued hopping from one resort to the next.

Narlai was supposed to be three or four hours away, but we got lost for over an hour. Not to sound too western, but the fact that the hotel is on no map, nor has a phone struck me a bit frustrating. We knew it lay between Jodhpur and Udaipur so we drove down narrow state highways asking people here and there if they knew where it was. It wasn’t the fastest route, but we did make it, deducing it’s position between similar sounding villages that were on the map. When we got to within 10 km of it, we started seeing signs for it and were lead down ever narrowing streets, up ever steepening hills. The property is a former hunting lodge of the Maharajah of Jodhpur. It was gifted to his younger brother and converted into a hotel by his nephew. Again I’m in a tent. This one a cross between the luxury of Ranthambore and the simplicity of Osian. There’s a magical charm to a cloth ceiling. It’s undeniable.

Narlai may be the Indian version of Historical Williamsburg. But instead of recreating times bygone, it recreates rural village life. No doubt at one time the village was authentic, but as the hotel gained in popularity, the village prospered. It’s clear they were careful to direct their newfound funds towards enhancing the village without spoiling it’s value to tourists. There are cleaner streets, and nicer shops. Roads are being repaved and beggars are nowhere to be seen. I’m taken on a guided tour to get a real taste of village life. Having seen the uncensored version over the last three weeks, not much of this is new, but it’s nice to go out and meet the people.

Our first stop is a Hindu cave temple crafted into the natural side of a cliff. Steps lead up a crevice and on a few levels there are little altars where deities are worshipped. A rough hewn statue of a female got has been clothed in purple rags. I can’t tell if this is an offering or modesty. Against my guide’s recommendation, I duck under the railing on the way down the steps and walk out onto the smooth rock cascade. He told me on our approach that little boys slide down the rock into the sand below. The stone is slippery, and it’s polished to a high shine along the path they take down. They must have done this for decades, if not a century. I take it pretty slow, using my hands to keep steady, but I make it down with a modicum of grace.

We visit some shops and some farm houses. I take a few photos for the eager children. It’s a nice village and while I know it’s just subsidized by the hotel, it’s a relief to walk around in such a clean version of India. I buy some cloth and have some shirts made by a tailor. I don’t know if I’ll wear them back in the US, but they’re cheap and comfortable for this type of travel.

Back at the hotel, I have a snack of some lentils and rice. I read my book and enjoy the walled courtyard centered around the pool. Left untouched, the remnants of my rice attract the attention of a little squirrel. He hops up onto my lounge chair and crosses over my legs to perch on the edge of the bowl. I just love it when animals eat with there hands, and he delights my by picking up a few grains and quickly devouring them. I only have my phone on me, and I’m not happy with the pictures I’m able to snap. So I risk scaring him off by going back to my tent to get my camera. He’s still there when I return and I get some great close up of his cuteness. I go back to reading, trying not to scare him off. I know it’s bad to let him get comfortable with humans. Obviously the habit’s begun or he’d never be this close to begin with. It’s this type of behavior that lures animals closer and closer to people where they’re eventually struck down by a car or something. But I can’t help it. I’m weak. When the waiter clears my dishes, the squirrel comes back to hunt for his missing food. He looks all over, sitting on my leg for a moment. When he hops onto my bare foot and grabs me tight, I jump and scare him off into the trees.

At the proper time, I head to reception for my dinner at the Step Well. A Swiss couple I met earlier are milling about and we sit and chat while we wait for our ride. We have a glass of wine and someone comes up behind me and asks if I’d like a massage. I really need to think a bit before I speak. The couple sitting across from me look over my shoulder and both shake their heads, “no”. But by this time I’m already all, “sure I’d like a massage.” This trip has been chock full of awkward experiences, but trying to maintain a conversation with the Swiss while I get a rather vigorous, upright massage from this old dude in a turban has to rank up near the top of the list. The shoulders were acceptable. The arms got a bit weird. When he moved onto my scalp… and then my forehead and eyebrows, I really wished I would just disappear in a giant explosion of awkward. Poof.

The ride to dinner was on the back of a cow-driven cart. I’ve noticed these carts all over India. Mostly they’re used by camels to move cargo, but I guess cows work also. The odd thing is that they’ve only got two wheels and the bed slopes up from the ground at a thirty degree angle. A blanket’s been laid at the top of the incline. To sit at all comfortably I have to face away from the cow, which means I’m looking at where we’ve been, not where we’re going. Where we’re going is up the mountain. In the pitch dark. Backwards. My cart is last in line, which means the helpers following us are close behind my cart on foot. So I’m facing them as they’re chatting in Hindi. I’m sure they’re not talking about me, except that they keep laughing and pointing. That awkward list just gets longer and longer. Poof.

But dinner is quite good. Not the food. That’s not this place’s strong suit. But there’s folk music and dancing, and I’m sitting between the Swiss couple and a large group of German tourists. I’m trying to get over my German thing, so I mingle with both. I get into the Habitat story and I try to explain to the Germans about the swastika bricks, but it gets way awkward immediately. The Swiss try to help me, but their hands are tied… Okay, that didn’t happen. I did not bring up the swastika bricks to the Germans… The Swiss were very nice though and kept me from feeling too solitary.

The whole thing is set on the top of this mountain just at the edge of this well. It’s called the Step Well because from its edge descend about fifty steps, arranged in cascading staircases, down to the base of the well. It was built in the sixth century making it the oldest thing I’ve seen in India (except maybe for the dude who gave me the massage). The proportion of the steps and it’s ancient look give it a sort of Mayan vibe and reminds me of the sacrifice pit I saw in Chichen Itza. Just about every step down every staircase is lit with a little bowl of oil and a loose wick set aflame. I figure there are about three hundred lights going all the way down. The effect is striking. Against one side of the well, a lone sitar player sit’s with crossed legs on a raised platform halfway in back of the well. Lit by a few flames, he belts out some haunting lyrics and plucks at his strings. I walk down and then up a few staircases to reach him and give him a hundred rupee note. Mainly I just want to get out into the well. Feeling more confident, I venture down to the well’s base. From there I can see that there’s a low level of water below where the steps reach. The monsoon season was dry this year. It’s been three since the well’s been full.

The Swiss girl is even more adventurous and climbs into a passageway that leads back behind the well to a temple of Kali and Shiva. The idols sit in an alcove with a little window exposing them at the very back of the well. Her husband and I follow her and crouch as we crawl back there. It’s something out of Indiana Jones. I wish my guide from Jaipur was here to see this. He’d fit right in.

The ride back is in an open air jeep. I was dreading the cow cart, so this is a welcome relief. We make fast time down the mountain, taking the turns with abandon. A cow blocks the road and we skid to a halt before going up on the ‘curb’ and continuing on. It’s very much like the tiger safari in Ranthambore: it’s cold, bumpy, and we do not see any tigers.

Back at the hotel, I’m in my tent, and in my bed, a good thirty seconds before the power goes out. I’m in complete darkness. Poof.