Lost in Warsaw, Poland

I should first point out that I was not lost. I knew where I was at all times. It was Alicja's place that was lost.

At the beginning of the year, I made the decision to visit Morocco in either February or March. And I almost did. I reserved a plane ticket, but I couldn't get myself to pay for it, so the reservation expired. At the same time, my friend Alicja, whom I met in Turkey in 2009, was strongly suggesting, but without pressuring, that I come to visit her in Poland. So... why not. After verifying that I was not misinterpreting her invitation, I purchased the ticket and headed out.

Why on earth would someone leave the warm, beautiful Virgin Islands to visit Poland in the middle of winter? I ordered some thermal underwear and a bomber jacket from JC Penny and waited nervously for 2 weeks for them to arrive. When it finally arrived, the package was busted open, but the contents were safe. I also picked up a pair of boots from K-mart. These along with my wool scarf from India and a knitted cap, and I was ready.

As much as people complain about the hassles at airports, I really didn't have any issues. I checked my backpack thru to Poland so I wouldn't have to deal with it in Miami nor in London. And it didn't get lost. I had to go thru security two times. First in St. Croix, then again in London. Heathrow airport is so big, I had to take a bus to get from one terminal to another. But security checks are easy. Take off your shoes and belt, remove contents from pockets, put everything in the bins and you're ok.

Airline food, however, is another story. I knew they would be selling snacks at ridiculous prices on the flight to Miami, but I forgot to pack my sandwich. So I was really looking forward to dinner on the flight to London. I was seated in the second to last row of the 777, in the smaller, more cramped seats. There was no one in the seat next to me, so it was ok. However, from there I could hear the flight attendants yap, yap, yap, complain, complain, complain. I was getting a headache.

Whatever thoughts I had of them changed when they served me dinner. They were really nice. They offered a choice of beef with potatoes or Thai fried rice with vegetables. They said I could have both. Have as many as I wanted. So I took one of each and felt quite satisfied.

In the morning, just about when we landed in London, I started to feel the need to use the toilet. No problem, I'll disembark, find my next gate, then use the toilet. I soon realized that this could not wait. This was diarrhea. And since they had already shut off the engines, the ventilation system was not working. Well... The flight attendants had to spray the cabin. I should have known something was wrong with the food, that they were so generous with it.

Anyway, I arrived safely in Warsaw, and Alicja was there on time. It was good to see her again. She said I looked alot different. I had gained some weight, and my hair was now braided. We took the bus back to her place. On the way she pointed out various landmarks. We walked from the bus stop to her place, and it seemed like a short easy walk.

That night we went over some maps. She pointed out where her place was in relation to where I would catch the tram to get into town. She said I should always retrace my steps, so I don't get lost. She also said I would need to know her address, but forgot to give it to me, and I forgot to ask for it.

I slept till really late. Alicja was able to work at home, so she was still there. I had breakfast, and we talked. Sometime later, she got a call from work and needed to go in immediately. So we scrambled out of the house; I to the center of town, she to work.

I did quite a bit of walking, ducking into stores, just to get out of the cold for a few minutes. It is a nice city, but there are no old historic buildings, as the Nazis destroyed just about everything. I eventually got to a shopping mall with a really cool curvy glass roof.

As I was sitting eating lunch, I started thinking about retracing my steps. But I did not know what bus we had taken or even on which street we had caught the bus. I would have to take the tram. After eating, I caught the tram, so I would be back before dark. I recognized the area from the day before, so I got off the tram and started walking. But then nothing looked familiar. That's when I realized I did not know the address nor the telephone number!

I walked around and around until it started to get dark, then I took the tram back into the city center to the shopping mall, the only place I knew of with overpriced internet. I sent Alicja a message, that I could not find her place and I was at the shopping mall waiting. And I waited. And I waited. She doesn't check her messages everyday. What if she just assumed that I was out having fun?

While I was waiting, a girl tried to pick me up. I suspected that she might be a prostitute. As I was telling Alicja about this, she asked if the girl was really young, like 16. I couldn't tell how old she was, but she did look young and was wearing glitter lipstick. It turns out there is a phenomenon sweeping Poland where young girls from normal homes are having sex with older men in exchange for things from the mall. But they don't see themselves as prostitutes.

So I kept waiting. I found out that the mall closes at 10pm, so around 9:30, I sent another message and started worrying what to do when the mall closes. Around 10, I decided to take the tram and look for her place again. Still no luck. Now I did not know that the guidebook described this part of the city as being rough and advised taking a taxi in and out, but I knew that wandering around the streets alone late at night is not a good thing.

Time to look for the nearest police station. Of course it is inevitable that anyone you ask for directions will also be a visitor and not know. I was pointed in the general direction and started walking. Did I mention that it was winter?

I could not find the police station. I stopped and asked a guy on the street. He told me to go back about 300 meters and to the left a couple hundred meters was the police station. Well, I found a fire station with no recognizable entrance. I saw a BP gas station and went there. Maybe they would have a phone book. They did not. There was one guy there who spoke English, so I asked him where the police station was. It was right there, just past the VW dealership. But when I got there, I saw nothing. There were some people standing there. I asked them. They pointed at the nothing I was looking at!

There were no police cars in front. There was light in one window and a little sign over the door. I rang the doorbell. An officer came to the window. I told him I could not find my friend's house. Then he came to the door, but he did not speak English. Only Polish and Czech. Oh boy... I would have to try speaking in Russian and hope he was old enough to have studied Russian as a child. I was able to communicate my problem to him, and he was able to communicate back to me, that without an address or telephone number, he can't help me.

I ask if he knew the location of an internet cafe. He pointed west and said something. I asked if it was 24hr. He didn't know. Or more accurately, I have no idea what he said. So I asked him for the location of a bigger police station. He pointed in the same direction and said something. I thanked him and walked back to the tram stop. At this point, I was thinking about taking the tram back into the city center and sleeping in the train station. I didn't know where any hostels were located, so that was not an option.

I saw two guys on the street and asked them if they knew where the police station was. Of course they were not from Warsaw, but one spoke English. They pointed me to the same station I had visited. No, no, I want a big police station. They were going into the city center, and they knew where the main police station was located. So I went with them.

The one that didn't speak English was from Belarus. The other one didn't really want to say where he was from. They might have been up to no good. They were riding the buses and trams without tickets. At one point they discussed, in Russian, that if they got caught, they would say they were helping me find the police station.

But they didn't think the police station would be a good place to go. They suggested the US embassy. Then they asked if I could send my friend a message on facebook. They knew the location of a 24hr internet cafe, a few blocks from the city center. In fact that is where the Belarusian guy was going. I went with him. Had I known about this place, I would have gone there instead of the shopping mall.

Alicja had sent several messages. Don't move! I'm coming to get you! She had gotten home late and was quite concerned that I was not there. She searched the mall, went to the police station, enlisted the help of her friends, finally giving up and going home. She had sent her address and phone number, and hoped I had found a place to spend the night, and wouldn't pack up my things and leave the next day.

I called her using the Belarusian's phone to let her know where I was. It was really late, so I had to take a taxi. But with the address and a GPS system in the cab, I was delivered right to the building. After I got inside, Alicja asked if I was angry at her. I said no, why should I be angry. I knew she had intended to give me the address. It was because she was summoned to the office so suddenly that we both forgot about little important details.

Besides, now I had a story to tell. She made some tea, and I told her all about my day. Thus began my new travels.

Since this is the only thing I will post about Warsaw, I should state that I enjoyed my time there and look forward to visiting again sometime when it is warm.

Struggling to learn Arabic

Why am I struggling to learn Arabic? No, no, no. Not why it is a struggle, but why do I even bother in the first place? Well, it is fun to study languages, but this one is really tough. It would be nice to know the language when I visit a place, to get a better feel for what's really going on.

But today, I came across this article from the BBC, Campaign to save the Arabic language in Lebanon. What?! So I read the article. Turns out that most people in Lebanon speak French, because it was a French colony. And the younger generation tend to speak English. While hardly anyone can string together a decent Arabic sentence!

The article goes on to say that this is also an issue in North Africa, Egypt, Jordan & the UAE. So I ask myself, "Why am I struggling to learn Arabic?" I don't have a good answer as yet.

Speaking Arabic

I am still here on St. Croix. My travels have been suspended for the time being. I have been studying Spanish and plan to spend some time in Puerto Rico, maybe during the summer. I've also been studying Arabic, as I plan to spend time in North Africa and the Middle East once I get moving again.

This morning, I had an Arabic conversation at the gas station. Remember, all or most the gas stations on the island are owned by Arabs. The conversation went like this.

Me:صباح الخير (Good morning)

The attendant:صباح النور. كيف حالكم يا صديقي؟ (Good morning. How are you my friend?)

pause

Me: Crap!

The attendant: I asked how you're doing?

Me: I know! I know! I just don't remember what to say! الحمد لله (Praise God)

The attendant: Yes! الحمد لله، شكرا (Praise God, thank you)

I gave him my money.

Me: عشرين على اثنين (twenty on two)

The attendant: شكرا. مع السلامة (Thanks. Goodbye)

Me: مع السلامة (Goodbye)

I will try again the next time I go to buy gas. Hopefully by the time I get to North Africa, the conversation can progress to ما اسمك؟ (What's your name?) أنا اسمي جميل (My name is Jamile.)

Verona Euritta Henry Smith

Verona Euritta Henry Smith, 6/23/1939 to 11/07/2009, known to many as Miss Smith, the tough math teacher. Known to me simply as Mammy.

My mother loved flowers. For many years, she was exclusively a rose person. I remember when I was in high school, at one point she had around 100 rose bushes. Then she started rooting new ones by the dozen.

Over the years, her focus shifted from roses to carnations to orchids. I decided to give her a surprise. I told her that I would take her somewhere but would not tell her where. After a 4-hour drive, she found out that I had taken her to an orchid farm. Acres and acres of orchids. She was like a child in a toy store.

It was interesting to watch her pack the orchids in her suitcase. But then she was no stranger to packing unusual objects in her suitcase. One year, there was the marble table top. Another year, there was the chain saw.

I last saw my mother in September 2007 before I set off on my travels. She was the first person to know of my plans to go traveling. And she said that if she were younger, she would have gone with me. I had hoped that next year she could join me for a couple weeks to experience some of the adventure.

I knew when I left, that there was the possibility that someone in the family, maybe me, that someone could pass away before I return. But when I spoke with my mother last Wednesday, just three days before...

Many of her orchids had died. And she talked about going back to the orchid farm to buy replacements. She had just fixed the leaking tank that had caused the cistern to run dry...

We didn't know we were having our last conversation. I wish I had told her I love her. I wish I had said the words “I love you” many more times in the last 37 years.

Last Saturday night, I was at a friend's home in Istanbul, Turkey. At the time, I was unaware of the news. My friend wanted to hear me play my flute. Of all the songs I could have played, I played:

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
A long way from home
A long way from home

The next day, I discovered how true that was. I miss her already.

My mother was a strong woman. In 1989, just a few weeks after we lost my father, my mother and I survived Hurricane Hugo, huddled under a table while the roof of the house was blown off. But she didn't just survive. She prospered – for 20 more years!

She often quoted Psalm 90:10. The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. She was 70.

Today I had a Turkish Bath

After dilly dallying in India for almost a year, I finally moved on. Today I flew from Delhi to Istanbul, Turkey. I had hoped to travel overland through Pakistan and Iran to Turkey. However, the Iranian embassy in Delhi told me flat out, that they would not issue me a visa. And the US embassy was strongly warning against traveling to Pakistan. So I figured I may as well just fly to Turkey.

Istanbul is expensive! I think. Or maybe I just got used to paying $5 for a nice private room with bath and cable TV in India. Here, the cheapest I could find is a 12-bed dorm room for $13. At least breakfast is included, and they have free wifi.

In India, I almost never had to pay more than $3 for a big filling meal – including a soft drink. Here, the restaurants seem to charge at least $10, plus another $3 for a soft drink. I had to start cooking again. Back to my standby bland chicken, pasta and vegetable. I will, one day, splurge and go to a restaurant, because Turkish cuisine is supposed to be very good.

I planned that my first day in Turkey, I would have a Turkish bath. But then I had a bad case of sticker shock. A bath could cost up to $65. I found one that charged $23, TARİHİ ŞİFA HAMAMI, which was built in 1777. I was the only person there, and after lying on a hot marble table for a while thinking they had forgotten me, a guy came in and gave me a Kese. Kese literally means “bath glove”. It was a good scrubbing with a rough mitt.. The kese was followed up with a Köpük Masaj. Köpük means foam or suds. Fifteen minutes, and it was over. This is the great Turkish bath? Later, I was speaking with some local guys, who go to that same hamam. They would spend 3 hours at a time there. They go with friends. It is a social activity.

I have not done any sightseeing as yet, but I am staying in the area where the two biggest attractions are. The famous Hagia Sofia doesn't look so impressive in person, but I need to see the inside before passing judgment. $13 is the entrance fee. Just across the street, the Blue Mosque looks really impressive. Entrance is free.

I Look to You

Today, I did what some Whitney fans said they'd do when they finally receive this highly anticipated album. I shut myself in my room, turned off the lights, and listened, again and again, each time trying to determine the order of my favorites. Since the critics are mentioning it, I'll say it: This is not the same voice we heard singing I Will Always Love You in 1992. Now that that is out of the way...

For me the best song on the album is Nothin' But Love. I love the 80's sound, maybe because I started listening to popular music in the 80's. For the first 37 seconds, it sounds like something she could have done on one of the earlier albums. But then in the 38th second, Whitney does urban like she's never done it before. “For my family that raised me...” And the fiery “for myself for sticking with me” at 2:31.... This song is on fire. Throw some water on me!

Akon and Whitnay: Like I Never Left. Now, I don't particularly care for Akon's electronic voice, and when I heard this song, way back when it leaked, I thought it was crap. At that time, I listened to it only once. So I was quite surprised to find that after listening to the stream on http://www.whitneyhouston.com/, I could not get the chorus out of my head on the 11 hour train ride from Shimla to Delhi. Now after listening to the album several times, I consider this to be the second best song.

I have trouble placing the next four songs. Each time I listen, I put them in a different order. Million Dollar Bill, Worth It, For the Lovers, & Call You Tonight. If they dropped the first 16 seconds of Million Dollar Bill, it would be solidly in third place. Worth It, which is really For the Lovers Part 1, sounds like an R&B song from the 90's, but it is well done. I like the beat of For the Lovers. I could see myself dancing to it, and I can't dance. When she sings “throw your hands up”, I throw my hands up, then feel a little embarrassed. I like the overall sound of Call You Tonight, but the verse and build meanders a little too much on the way to the chorus.

Seventh & eighth places go to Salute & I Look to You. I like the raw sound of Salute and would have placed it higher, but “shit” should not be allowed in a song. I Look to You is the last of the listenable songs. While it is commendable that it lets us hear Whitney's voice as it is, without trying to cover it up, R. Kelly could have done a better production.

The worst song is I Didn't Know My Own Strength. The way Clive Davis was hyping this song, I think he has a different song playing in his 8-track. This is just a bad song. It can't be helped. The second worst is I Got You. It didn't get me at all. Lyrically, it is not bad, but I had to speed it up to 1.5 times to get it moving. I'm not too familiar with previous versions of A Song for You, but I'm sure others will enjoy this one. Me, not really.

How do I rate the album? To me it is better than her Christmas album One Wish, better than Just Whitney, better than the new songs on the Greatest Hits, better than My Love is Your Love, and better than The Preacher's Wife soundtrack. You'd have to go back to Waiting to Exhale to get better than this. That's my opinion. Yours may differ.

Update: October 25, 2009
I finally get I Got You. I really like it now. Although the line "I'll make you fly when you think that you can" might raise a few eyebrows.

I edited I Didn't Know My Own Strength to remove that parts I didn't like. Now the length is 3:11 instead of 3:42, and it flows much better. It is a great song.

Angkor Wat

I wrote this a year ago when I was in Cambodia and never got around to posting it until now.

My visit to Angkor Wat, you can say, began with my visits to Borobudur and Prambanan, in Indonesia. My guide book said that Borobudur ranks with Angkor Wat as one of the great Southeast Asian monuments. My impression of Borobudur was that it was big, no huge, and had lots of carvings on the walls, but I didn't really find it to be that interesting. Prambanan, “the grandest and most evocative Hindu temple complex in Java,” was to me lots of piles of rocks. Truth is, I'm not really into temples. Big temples, small temples, new temples, old temples...ho hum... But no one visits Cambodia without visiting Angkor Wat. It is one of those things you must do.

While in Vientiane, Laos, I visited the Cambodian Embassy to apply for a visa. I had walked 45 minutes in the heat, only to arrive during their 3-hour lunch break. I sat outside for two hours, until they re-opened. But then I was told that they accept applications in the morning. I would have to return the next morning. Then it started to rain, the heavy downpour that is common in this area. So I sat in the embassy for an hour waiting for the rain to stop. Not the best way to spend one's birthday!

In the embassy, there is a large aerial photo of Angkor Wat hanging on the wall. One look at this photo and I was thinking that this will be Borobudur all over again. I started to consider not going to Cambodia, going back to Thailand or staying longer in Laos. But the next morning I rented a bicycle and headed for the embassy early in the morning.

After spending one week in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, I got on a bus to Siem Reap, the city closest to Angkor Wat, armed with a plan: to visit Angkor Wat every day for a week, until I understand what was so special about it. That plan was quickly thrown out as I learned a few things. First, the passes cost more than I expected. A one-day pass is $20. A 3-day pass is $40. A 6-day pass is $60. Also, there is far more than just Angkor Wat. It is the Angkor Archaeological Park, with more than 45 temples. I needed a real plan of attack.

A week passed, and I still didn't have a plan. Finally, one morning, I jumped on the bike and rode out to the park, not knowing which pass I would get. I bought the 3-day pass. I looked at the park map and quickly decided to do a loop that covered most of the major temples - except Angkor Wat & Bayon, the two “must see” temples in the park. I would do Bayon on day 2 and Angkor Wat on day 3.

In a very full day, I visited 9 temples and 2 sites of interest. By midday, while at Preah Khan, a huge monastic complex with carvings on the walls, I began to appreciate these temples. I imagined what it must have been like for the European explorers who re-discovered these temples deep inside the jungles. Here is evidence that back in the 10th - 13th centuries, there was a great civilization here. And they had a thing for building large stone temples.

At every temple, there were people aggressively selling food, drinks, t-shirts, bracelets, etc. To them, the word “no” has a completely different meaning. It means maybe he wants something else or maybe a lower price. And there were the kids. They try to guilt you into buying something. "If you don't buy, it means you don't like Cambodia," one girl told me. But I don't need a bracelet, much less 10 bracelets – even if they cost just $1. She forced me to take a bracelet by putting it in the bike's basket and refusing to take it back. When I left without buying anything, she put on her sad, nearly crying face. Later, after I had finished with the temples, I returned to buy a can of pop from her. But she pulled a fast one on me. She said didn't have enough money to make change, so I had to buy 2 cans at twice what they cost in town.

The next day, I was exhausted. I got up late and didn't get to the park until midday. On this day I would visit three temples, including the must see Bayon. Before I got to Bayon, I felt good about my approach to the temples. I had heard a few people grumbling because they had seen Angkor Wat & Bayon first, and everything after that was just piles of rocks. I had seen the other temples first, enjoyed them and was ready to be dazzled.

But first I had to eat. Before I could think where I would eat, a woman came running out of her restaurant, with a menu, to meet me in the road before anyone else could get me. "I give you good discount because you handsome." It didn't really matter. I was hungry and would eat at the first place I saw. She did give me a discount, and I gave her a tip, by paying the full amount.

The great feeling I had in anticipation of Bayon, soon vanished as I approached. It looked like a large pile of rocks. This was because of the color of the stones. As I got closer, the structure started to reveal itself. Then the huge stone faces, for which it is known, became visible. I decided to take my time and see every part of this temple.

What is amazing about Bayon, isn't the huge stone faces, but the bas relief found on the walls. This temple had far more than all the other temples I had visited. How many years did it take to do this? And how many people were working on it? And how did they keep the story straight? You could spend a lot of time here if you want to understand the significance of what's carved on the walls. That would be too much for me. I was amazed enough without understanding.

I had not planned to visit Angkor Wat on this day, but I had to pass by it on the way back to town. So why not? Besides the guide book said that because Angkor Wat faces west, it is best to have your first view in the afternoon. So I crossed the moat and went through the west gate. The first thing I saw was the scaffolding on the main tower that would ruin any photograph. I thought back to the time I had visited Frank Lloyd Wright's Falling Water and couldn't get any good photos because of scaffolding.

Never mind that... For several minutes, I stood on the walkway between the west gate and the temple, where I could see the full width of the temple unobstructed by the two libraries. What will I find inside this colossal structure - besides tourists? Far more tourists were here than at any of the other temples. So many that they were signs to guide the masses orderly through the temple.

I headed straight for the main tower, intent on climbing the steep stairs. I had become fond of climbing temple stairs. They were typically very steep and made for tiny feet. Usually, there was a “climb at your own risk” sign. But the stairs were closed. The stairs to all the towers were closed. The entire central portion of the temple was closed to visitors. I left with thoughts of “Angkor Wat the hell was that?” and “Angkor Wat a disappointment.”

But I was determined to appreciate this temple, so I'd be back the next day. Because the temple faces the west, the sun rises behind, and it makes a beautiful picture with a silhouette of the temple. When my alarm sounded at 3:30am, I really didn't want to get up. But suddenly, at 3:45, there were fireworks going off in town. So I got up. No one seemed to know why there were fireworks this early in the morning. I needed to leave by 4:30, since I was riding a bicycle, in the dark, with no lights.

I arrived and staked out a spot on the steps of the south library, where I could get a good shot. There were lots of people out for the sunrise. I eavesdropped on the tour guides to hear what good information others were getting. And I waited for this spectacular sunrise. Unfortunately, it was a cloudy morning. So instead of brilliant color, the sky just gradually went from black to light gray, and it was day.

But I pressed on. Angkor Wat was more than just a temple. It was a city surrounded by a wall and a moat. While the temple covers an area of some 40,000 square meters, the outer wall encloses an area of about 820,000 square meters. And the surrounding moat is 190 m wide. I jumped back on the bike, and rode clockwise along a path on the outer perimeter of the moat, then I walked around the outside of the wall, then the inside of the wall, stopping to look at each of the four gates. Then I circled the temple. I continued in this way, one layer at a time, like I was peeling an onion.

Apart from its size the bas relief was really amazing. The best part was being repaired, but what I could see was even better than that at Bayon. I still wished the central part of the temple was not closed, but it was worth taking the time to view it in the way I did. If you chose to visit, remember to leave Angkor Wat for last and peel it like an onion. Perhaps, if I returned to Borobudur now, I would appreciate it more. Prambanan, however, will still be piles of rocks.

I wore the bracelet everyday, until it disappeared a few months ago. Now that I have seen many Hindu temples in India, I may appreciate Prambanan as more than just piles of rocks.

The Obligatory Story about Asian Toilets

I first started writing this story more than a year ago, but it just was not turning out the way I wanted, so I abandoned it. I have decided to give it another try and completely re-write it.

What we call the “bathroom”, is generally referred to as the “toilet”. So the toilet is the place where you go to expel waste and take a bath. It is one room. In one corner, there is the actual toilet, which may be a squat toilet or a sit-down toilet. On one wall, there will be a tap; 2 if you have hot water; 3 if you have a shower. The bathing area is not separate. The entire room is the bathing area. There is a drain in the middle of the room or in a corner. A bucket and cup are standard. There may or may not be a sink. If there is one, it drains onto the floor, so your feet might get wet. All this is generally true of the dirtiest toilets and the cleanest, and throughout Southeast Asia and India – but not Singapore.

Taking a bath is pretty straight forward. If you have a shower, and if it works, you just take a shower. If there is no shower or if it is too cold and hot water is provided in a bucket, then you learn to use the cup to pour water over yourself. This is not so bad, and it saves water. My mother still does this, even though she has showers in her house. I prefer the shower, but I don't really care which I get.

Using the actual toilet, however, is not as straight forward. If you have a sit-down toilet, with a seat, then you do as usual. But too often, they neglect to install the seat. I think you know what that is like. I prefer using a squat toilet rather than a sit-down toilet – with or without a seat – because my skin does not have to touch anything.

I remember the first time I had to use a squat toilet, the 5th of February, 2008, about 1:00am, on the Indonesian island of Sumbawa. I was traveling by bus across Sumbawa, and we stopped at a restaurant for a break. I immediately headed for the toilet, because I suspected that I might have diarrhea. Before I started traveling, I had read the book Going Abroad, by Eva Newman. This book details the various kinds of toilets one can find around the world and how to use them. So I knew how to use a squat toilet.

I rolled up my pant legs to just below my knees, pushed the waist down to just above my knees, placed my feet where they should go, squat … and … I missed. I was mortified. The attendant who collects the money or the next person to come in after me would know that it was I who deposited this liquid mess on the floor behind the toilet! I did my best to wash it all into an open drain which ran along the front of the stalls and left quietly.

The next thing which complicates toilet use is cleaning up afterward. In Asia, people do not use toilet paper. In tourist areas, you can purchase toilet paper in stores or at the hotel reception, but the drain is not meant to take paper, so you'd have to put the used paper in a basket or trash bin next to the toilet. I decided I would do it like the natives.

From my first day in Indonesia, I set out to perfect my washing technique, in the privacy of my own toilet. I should have read a book written by a man, because Eva's instructions seemed very much for a woman. So I came up with my own technique, which I will not detail for you. The last time I told someone, a friend in Malaysia, he laughed and said that's not how it is done. When he described how it is done, I said well that's not going to clean anything. All I will say is that I became very proficient at cleaning myself without getting water everywhere, and my hand doesn't stink afterward.

The cup, is held in the right hand, and the left hand is used for cleaning. That's why it is culturally unacceptable to eat with your left hand or greet people with your left hand. Some places will have a sprayer. If the spray is strong, it will clean you really well, but then you'll be wet all over and come out of the toilet with wet pants.

Recently, I was in a situation where there was no water. On my overnight bus ride from Leh to Srinagar, we stopped at a restaurant. I used the toilet, assuming that the presence of a tap, a bucket, a cup, and water on the floor, meant that there was running water. I opened the tap, and no water came. What to do? I reached into my pocket and pulled out a business card, tore it into 4 pieces and used those. If I didn't have that, I would have used money. But many people go outside, in the open, with no water or paper. They just pull up their pants when they're done. That, I am not yet willing to try.

I have become accustomed to the toilet setup here and may even install a squat toilet when I return to the states. The only problem is that they tend to stink, even when they are clean. I would need to find a solution to that first.

So, there you have it, my obligatory story about the Asian toilet.

Real Money Trouble

I have been pretty lucky, that with nearly two years of traveling, I have not had any major crisis, requiring me to sell my things to avoid imprisonment or anything like that. I had brought along a gold chain for that purpose, but then I forgot it in a hotel room in Varanasi. That was like losing $100. I have had a few slight scares, however.

The first came the day I flew to Melbourne, Australia. I had been used to using my credit card for all transactions while I was in New Zealand. I tried make an online booking of a room at the YHA, but my credit card was denied. Then I received an email from the bank, stating that they had deactivated my card because of fraudulent activity.

I spent the rest of the day on the phone trying to clear things up with the bank. Apparently, someone in Atlanta, was attempting to use my credit card number, to make purchases at Walmart. They agreed to send me a new card, to my YHA address in Melbourne. And I switched to cash only transactions from that point onward.

For cash only transactions, I would have to rely on ATM's to withdraw money from my account. While there are ATM's almost everywhere, not every ATM works with every card. I told the story of my experience in Indonesia in Stuck in Labuan Bajo and Leaving Labuan Bajo.

Before I crossed the border from Thailand into Laos, I read in my guide book that there was only one ATM in Laos, and it was located in the capital city Vientiane. So, I stocked up on Thai Bahts, only to find a brand new ATM as I crossed the border. Laos then became the only country where I had to regularly utilize money changers.

In Cambodia, the US dollar is the main currency. The Cambodian currency is used as change for amounts less than $1. There, I exhausted my stash of US dollars, and it did not occur to me to restock before leaving the country, even though I knew the ATM's dispensed US dollars.

During my first week in India, the world economic crisis captured the headlines with the failed US banks. One of the banks that failed was Washington Mutual or WaMu, for short. That was my bank. A slight panic set in. What was going to happen to my money? A couple days later, Chase bought them out. My money was safe. But what about my ATM card?

WaMu's website indicated that there will be a smooth transition. Account numbers will be the same. ATM cards will continue to work. No need to panic. But a few weeks later, I had cause to panic in Ernakulam. I was frantically running from one ATM to another and getting error messages like, “Card not valid” and “Transaction canceled, contact issuing branch”. Eventually, I found an ATM that worked. The State Band of India, SBI, turned out to be the only bank, in India, I could reliably count on to give me money when I wanted it.

In Nepal, I had to delay my departure from Katmandu by one day, because I was once again getting those error messages, and I didn't have enough money to pay for my hotel room. There is an SBI branch in Katmandu, but it accepts only VISA cards. Mine was Mastercard. But the next day, one of the other ATM's worked. It must have been a temporary disruption of service. Katmandu, after all, gets just 4 – 8 hours of electricity a day.

I continued my travels without a care in the world until June 30th, in Chamba. There are two ATM's in Chamba, and they are both at the same SBI location. One said “Card not valid”, the other “Transaction canceled, contact issuing branch”. Same thing the next day. The bank insisted there was nothing wrong with the machines or the communications. Other people had no trouble.

I spent the day in the manager's office trying to get money. “If I show you my bank statement, can I write a check?” “No, we are not authorized to accept personal checks.” “Can I apply for a loan?” “No, we can not give you a loan. You have to be a resident.” “What are my options? Do I have to go out on the streets and beg for money?” “We're sorry, there is really nothing we can do to help you.” For the first time, SBI failed me.

I eventually asked my brother to send me money via Western Union, so I could get out of Chamba. But the question remained. Was it the ATM or was it my card? I decided to go to Dharamsala. This is where the Dalai Lama lives, and lots of tourists visit, so I figured it would be a better place to be to fix whatever was wrong.

On the 4th of July, after checking into a guesthouse, in McLeod Ganj, the “busy little traveler town”, according to my guide book, just north of Dharamsala, I went in search of the SBI ATM. “Card not valid.” So, I asked my brother to check if, by chance, Chase had sent me a new card. He checked and replied that they had, and that my old card would stop working at the end of June. Now, I can't be angry with my brother. It would be unreasonable for me to expect him to check my mail everyday to let me know when something important comes. I couldn't keep up with it, myself, when I was back in Indiana.

That night, I called the bank and explained my situation. They agreed to send me a new card, at my address in McLeod Ganj. I should receive it in 3 – 4 days. 3 – 4 days later, I asked the monks if they had received a package for me. (My guesthouse is run by a Tibetan Buddhist monastery.) After a week, it still had not arrived. I logged into my account and found a message saying they were sorry for the inconvenience, but they could not issue a card to an address outside the US. What?!

I called the bank again. I was told, by the lady on the line, that the card had not yet been sent, but would be sent a a few days to the address on file. No, no no. I explained about my call the previous week. I was put on hold. She came back and said it will be sent to the address in India. I asked her how it will be sent. She said by regular mail. I said no, that will take four weeks, I need it to be expressed. I was put on hold again. A manager came on the phone and said that it had already been sent via FedEx, it was already in India, and she gave me the tracking number.

I felt better. The package was in Chandigargh. I should get it within 2 days. But then I started to wonder, why is it sitting in Chandigargh for 2 days? It was sent on July 6th, arrived in Delhi on the 8th, arrived in Chandigargh on the 9th. It was now the 11th. It does not take 2 – 4 days to travel from Chandigargh to Dharamsala!

I tried contacting FedEx. Finally on the morning of 13th, I got an answer from them. Dharamsala is not on a regular delivery route. I should expect to receive it on the 17th. They will try for the 16th, but definitely by the 17th. So, Dharamsala was not a better place to be. A few hours later, while I was in the shower, there was a knock on the door. It was FedEx delivering my package, 9 days after I requested it. FedEx is not express everywhere, but I had received my card, it worked, and all was well with the world – my world, that is.

Millionaire Beggar

When I first came to India, my hosts, Dilip & Krishna, advised me to never give to beggars. Beggars, they said, made lots of money, were part of an organized racket, complete with doctors who specialized in maiming, so they could fetch more money.

Should I believe this? Should I just ignore the beggars? Well, that's a difficult thing to do. There are beggars everywhere in India. In every tourist area, at every temple, at every bus or train station, outside every restaurant, and at every ATM, you will find outstretched arms, maimed limbs waving at you, little old ladies pleading for chapati (a type of bread), women with babies, children, or the family, from some far away city, in need of a few thousand rupees to get home.

You may, to ease your conscience, set aside a small sum of money to give everyday. But this does not make you feel any better for two reasons. First, you still have to ignore most of the beggars you see each day, and second, the ones you do give to, look at the money and at you with an expression that says “What's this? Is this all? I can't buy anything with this.”

So I decided, I'm not giving anything. But then I meet a different kind of beggar. “Hi! My friend, where from?” “USA” “Ah! USA, capital, Washington DC.” “Yes, that's correct.” “President Obama – great man, isn't he?” “Yes, indeed.” “Can you buy me dinner. I'm hungry.” “What?” Once they get you talking, it is difficult to shake them. Some ask for money to buy food, but they just hang around tourist areas and beg in this way.

When I was in Malaysia, I met another traveler, who said he had lost his soul in India. He was referring to the callousness he had to develop to ignore begging. I now know what he meant. But then today, while eating in a restaurant, I was flipping thru the newspaper and came across an article about a millionaire beggar. I felt much better after reading it.

This is not the same article. It is from a different news paper, but about the same beggar. Beggar nets Rs 13 lakh in a 30-year "career", from the Hindustan Times.

Abdul Ghali, the 70-year-old ailing beggar who usually wore dirty clothes, has Rs 13 lakh worth deposits besides Rs 80,000 in cash.
Hailing from Tuticorin in Tamil Nadu, Ghali's riches came to light when some locals in Kozhikode ventured to examine his dirty baggage following some suspicion and later handed him over to police early this week.
Following media reports, his son, a software engineer in Chennai, got in touch with the authorities in Kerala and Ghali was handed over to his relatives yesterday, police said.

If my Indian math is correct, 1 lakh is 100,000. So, Rs 13 lakh would be Rs 1,300,000 or about $26,000 USD. Not bad for a beggar. I left the restaurant and saw a man sitting on the side of the street. His legs were cut off below the knees. He was waving the stump at people passing by. I pretended not to see him.

One Last Word and I let it go...

If you thought I was being bit harsh when I said the people of Kashmir "are very willing to believe in any report about police violence against the people", here is an example that happened not long after I left. Read this news report, 13 injured in clashes, grenade attack in Kashmir, from the Times of India.

Pitched battles between a stone-pelting mob and police were witnessed in some localities that left seven persons, including a policeman injured. Trouble started when residents of Maisuma locality blocked the main road after the disappearance of Asrar Mushtaq Dar, a 2nd year student of Islamia College, since Friday.

Then read this report, Attack on cafe exposes vulnerability of ‘posh’ Srinagar, from the Indian Express.

A stunned silence now inhabits Coffea Arabica, Srinagar’s most famous cafe, after a furious mob vandalised it on Wednesday.
The mob’s immediate provocation was the murder of a 19-year-old youth, Asrar Mushtaq, from Maisuma by still unidentified persons. His body was recovered from a graveyard in the downtown city.

Then this report, Passion crime killed Asrar, from the Hindustan Times.

The curious case of Asrar Mushtaq, 20, who went missing on July 3 and was found with his throat slit four days later, was cracked on Tuesday night.
Police informed he was killed by two jealous rivals, who resented his growing friendship with a local girl on the social networking site Orkut.
Mushtaq’s disappearance sparked furious anti government protests in Srinagar, which reached their peak when his body was discovered. The People’s Democratic Party called a three-day bandh as speculation ran rife about his having been illegally
detained and tortured to death by the security forces.

UPDATE: To finally put this topic to rest, here is the Chief Minister in a report in the Times of India.

CM Omar Abdullah on Friday said those who raise a hue and cry whenever something wrong is done by security forces are maintaining a ‘‘stoic silence’’ on
Thursday’s killing of a child and his father by terrorists.

‘‘They prominently organize marches and give ‘chalo calls’ to highlight violation of human rights,’’ he said. And, fairness, morality and respect for human rights demand these elements should raise same voice whenever terrorists kill civilians, he said.

Not Kashmir Again!

Previously on Welcome to Kashmir, I had left Srinagar in a huff, for Leh, the Buddhist city in the Ladakh region of Jammu & Kashmir. Two week later, instead of heading on to Manali, as would be logical, I was back in Srinagar. No, I am not a glutton for punishment. In my haste to leave, I didn't get a chance to return the sim card that my friend Arshad had lent me.

Because of terrorism or the threat of terrorism in the state of Jammu & Kashmir, prepaid sim cards from outside the sate will not work inside the state and vice versa. My sim card from Bangalore, was useless. And Arshad's sim card did not even work in the Ladakh region.

Now, Arshad is a good guy, really, he is...I think... But he did want to take me on a week long shikara ride for the discounted price of 30,000 Rs, about $600. This was something he had planned and was looking forward to ever since we met in Varkala Beach. He and his boss were a bit disappointed when I told them that at more than $80 a day, this was way outside my budget, and I would not do it.

From Arshad's perspective, he thought this was something I would want to do; something we could do together; and it just happened to be what he does for a living in the summer, and he could charge me less than any other shikara operator. From my perspective, I saw a seven-month sales strategy for an activity, which I'm not sure I would want to do even if the price was right. But I would have done it, if it was reasonably close to my budget.

So anyway, I took the overnight bus from Leh back to Srinagar. When I arrived at the bus station, Shabir was there hustling for guests, so I decided to stay at his place again, rather than haggle with someone else over price. He suggested that I might want to stay in his houseboat instead, so I went to take a look at it. It was a creaky little thing, access to which was through a barbed wire maze and a police check post. I preferred to stay in the guest house, even though they had not yet fixed the sewer problem in the alley.

It was Friday, and my plan for the day was to visit Jamia Masjid to see a little of Islam-in-action, i.e. violence after the midday prayers. When I told Shabir that I wanted to visit the mosque, he said “No! Don't go into the old city, not on a Friday.” I said that I wanted to go because it was Friday. He said “It will be dangerous for you. They will be throwing stones.” I said I knew. That was why I wanted to go.

He was literally begging me not to go. Eventually, he conceded that he could not stop me from going, but he suggested that I dress like them and let everyone know my name is Jamile. (Jamile is a Muslim name, usually spelled Jamil, Jameel or جميل in the Arabic.)

I did not go. It was already nearly midday, and I was really tired, as I did not get any sleep on the bus. I went to bed instead. Having missed my chance to visit the mosque on a Friday, and with nothing more of particular interest to me, I left the next morning for Jammu. At the entrance to the tunnel, it says, “Thank you. Please visit the Kashmir valley again.” I smiled and thought, “not likely.”

To be fair, there are better guest houses and houseboats in Srinagar, but they tend to move out of the budget category. Indeed, Indian tourist go to Srinagar and spend lots of money to live in luxury on a houseboat for a day or two. Also there are other places I did not particularly like, and I don't say anything about them. But because Kashmir is touted as this amazing paradise, I thought I'd let you know, it didn't seem like it to me.

Welcome to Kashmir

I had decided to breakup the trip from the city of Jammu to Srinagar, the main city in Kashmir, with a stop in Patnitop. Patnitop is a nice green hill station, in the Jammu region, with some nice hikes. When I arrived I went in search of the tourist office for information about hiking trails. On the way, I met a guy from Kashmir. He could not believe that I was from America, because, as he said, people from the US are usually beautiful, but I am black. He claimed it was a slip, that he meant to say “white”. But that did nothing to improve my increasingly negative view of people from Kashmir.

You see, there is no such thing as friendship with someone from Kashmir. You think you have a friend. He thinks he has a customer. His underlying goal is to sell you a product or a service. And that is what he calls friendship. When I first met people from Kashmir, in Varkala, I thought they were the nicest people in the world. But as I met more and more of them throughout India, my opinion changed. I never did get any information about hiking trails, so I continued my journey into Kashmir the next day.

For several months, I had been hearing the non-stop praise about how beautiful Kashmir is (usually from people from Kashmir trying to sell a package tour to Kashmir). And while I had reservations about the people, I was expecting to be wowed when the bus exited the 3km tunnel from Jammu into the Kashmir Valley. I almost took out my video camera for this moment. What I saw instead was an overwhelming military presence. It seemed that every 100 meters, there was a military post. Not quite what I was expecting.

About one hour before Srinagar, the bus stopped for a break. There I was met by a guy who was offering rooms in a guest house or a houseboat in Srinagar. He wanted to get onto the bus and go with me to Srinagar to show me the rooms. I told him, I would prefer to wait until I arrive in Srinagar to start looking for a room. I took his card, with his and his brother's numbers.

I had forgotten all about him, when I arrived in Srinagar and was greeted by his brother, Shabir. Ok, why not? I'll go see the guest house. At the same time, there was another guy telling me that I needed to first register with the tourist police. There was an argument back and forth about this. But Srinagar has a very heavy military presence, complete with lots of razor wire, so if someone tells me I need to go register, I go register.

I thought everything was going fine, until I was asked where I would be staying. I told them that I met a guy at the bus station, and I was going to take a look at his guest house. This was obviously the wrong thing to say. Suddenly, the room was full, and they were all standing around me in an agitated state. Then an officer, who seemed to be the senior officer, came in. He asked me why I came here. I thought he wanted to know why I came to Srinagar, but to my surprise, he wanted to know why I came to office of the tourist police!

He sat down at the desk and went through a battery of questions. In answer to the question of where I would be staying, I told him that I didn't know as yet, but I would look at a guest house, and the owner, Shabir, was standing just outside the door. In a raised and more agitated voice, he asked “How did you come to know this person?” I explained about meeting the two brothers and gave him the card.

Next thing, he was yelling at me. “Why do you trust this person? You do not know him! Why did you take his card?” I responded, “What am I supposed to do when people approach me? Push them aside and tell them not to speak to me? And how am I to find a place to stay, if I can't speak with the people who have guest houses?”

“You verify first! Do not go with someone you don't know who they are!” “And how do I verify his identity? Is there a list of approved guest houses?” “You come here to verify...” “Well, this is the first place I've come to after getting off the bus! And why are you yelling at me?” “I am not yelling at you!” “Yes, you are yelling at me.”

All this time, Shabir was standing in the doorway shaking his head with disbelief. Then the officer must have decided that he had satisfactorily exercised his authority, and said “He is a good guy. You can go with him.” And it was all over.

I went with Shabir to his guest house, down a narrow sewer filled alley. The guest house was nice enough, and for just 200 Rs, I wouldn't complain. I did mention the alley to Shabir, a few days later. He admitted that he loses a lot of potential business because of it. Shabir was a nice guy. As long as I had no illusions of friendship, but kept in mind that he was the guest house owner, and I was a paying guest, things were fine.

While I was there, two girls had been raped and killed, and the people accused the military of the crimes. As a result, there was a general strike, with all the businesses closed. If you were to ask the people of Kashmir, they would tell you that there are no terrorists in Kashmir; there are no problems with the people of Kashmir; it is the news media and the government who makeup stories about problems in Kashmir. But they are very willing to believe in any report about police violence against the people.

I never came to like Srinagar and eventually left after I got fed up. One day, after hiking 1.5 hours, without eating, up the hill to Shankaracharya Mandi, a temple that predates the invasion of Islam by 1000 years, I was not allowed to visit the temple, because I had cameras and other electronic devices, which were prohibited. That was the last straw for me. I left the next day.

As a visitor to Kashmir, I was constantly asked the questions, “How do you like Kashmir? How long are you staying? a month? a year? forever?” It was as though they needed external verification and assurance that Kashmir was the most beautiful place in the world. My usual answer was that I had just arrived or had not been there long enough to form an opinion. As I was walking toward the bus station, a guy, who obviously knew who I was, stopped to ask where I was going, how I liked Kashmir, and if I would come back. This time my answers were, “I didn't really like it,” and “no, I probably won't come back.”

The Great Himalayan Hoax

I am not much into conspiracy theories, although some are fun to read. But here is one that I believed. The great snow capped Himalayan mountain ranges do not exist. It is a big hoax, and millions of people are in on it, fooling the rest of us who have not gone there to see for ourselves. Now, how could I of all people come to such a conclusion? Because I went there to see for myself.

My first foray into “Himalayas” was to Darjeeling, a hill station in West Bengal, India. According to my guide book, Darjeeling is “backed by a splendid Himalayan panorama” and “the skyline is dominated by Khangchendzonga,...the world's third-highest mountain.” Yeah, uh-huh. It was so foggy, I could hardly see down the street, let alone at some panorama. If it was not for the nauseating jeep ride up to Darjeeling, (at one point I had to stop the jeep so I wouldn't throw up) I could think I was still back in Kolkata. Well, not quite. The people looked more like Tibetan, and it was cold. They said that January was not the best time to visit. So I went back to Kolkata.

Later, I went to Rishikesh, yoga capital of the world, located in the Himalayan foothills, in the Indian state Uttarakhand. From here you can't see anything beyond the immediate foothills. So I decided I would take the 12 hour mountain bus ride to Gangotri, then the 3 day hike to the Gaumukh Glacier. This glacier is the first source of the Ganga River. I wanted to drink from the river, although technically, it is called the Bhagirathi at the point, not the Ganga. But they told me, oh no, you can't go there now. The roads are closed until April. There is no bus. I asked about the villages and the people who live there. They said that those people leave during the winter. Yeah, uh-huh. What was I to do?

I went to Nepal, to Pokhara. Pokhara is in a valley, at less than 1000m, and according to the photographs, has a spectacular backdrop of over 20 snowcapped mountain peaks. I arrived in Pokhara at about 3am, got a couple hours sleep and got up really excited about seeing the Himalayas. I should know better. There were no mountains. Just haze. I looked the amazing photographs, then up in the direction the photos were taken....nothing.

They told me there had been no rain for 5 months, so there are dust particles in the air. If only it would rain, then you will see the mountains. It rained that night. I got up early the next morning, hopeful...nothing. But if you go trekking in the mountains, they you'll definitely see the mountains. The sky is clear up there. Uh-huh... I went to Kathmandu and saw nothing but haze on the way there and back.

I had been in Nepal for two weeks already, still no proof that the highest mountains in the world existed. After much internal debate, I finally decided to go on a 5 to 7-day trek in the Annapurna Sanctuary, without a guide or porter, despite the warnings that you should never go trekking alone. I figured that every few hours, there are a few guest houses and restaurants, so it is not as scary as it sounds. The highlight of the trip would be an early morning hike to Poon Hill for a clear view of the alleged mountains.

On the first day, I was not expecting anything on the trail from Birethanti to Ghandruk, and I wasn't disappointed. It was like a tourist highway, with so many trekkers. Nothing to see, just dried crops. It was a rough trek up the very long stone steps to Ghandruk. They just went on and on, from 1200m to 2000m. I spent the night in Ghandruk and saw photos of what they said I would see in the morning. I wasn't getting my hopes up.

The guest house was typical of buildings in the mountains. The walls are made of stone, about 18 inches thick. It was finished on the inside with mud, probably mixed with dung, and painted. It looked nice. I was on the 2nd floor. It had wood plank flooring and simple woven bamboo ceiling. I could see some daylight thru the stone shingles. Although the temperature dropped at night, and there was no heat, I was warm and slept well.

On the morning of the second day, I woke up early....cloudy. I went back to bed for a couple hours. Later, I got up, packed my bag, ordered breakfast, photographed the flowers around the building and sat down to eat. I looked up. But wait, that's not all clouds. Some of that is snow. And it is like right there. If the clouds went away, it would be really impressive. But that was as good as it got. Time to move on.

The trek from Ghandruk to Jhinu Danda was much different. There were no other tourists and only a few local people. Apparently, I took the road less traveled. I one point I lost my way in a barley field. Some women pointed me in the right direction. I was really exhausted when I arrived in Jhinu Danda because there were no restaurants on the trail I took, and I ran out of water. So I decided to stay there, even though it was only 1:30.

Near to Jhinu Danda, there is a hot spring, with two bathing pools. It is a 20 minute hike down and 40 minutes back up. At least that's how long it took me, on average. I saw on average, because I went four times. I stayed in Jhinu Danda for two nights, because I kept going back to the hot springs. The water was not very hot, but it was relaxing. I especially liked taking a dip in the Modi Khola, the river that flows directly from the South Annapurna glacier, then dip back in the hot pool. This could be the highlight of my trip.

On the morning of the third day, the sky was clear. The first day with clear skies in Nepal, but Jhinu Danda is not the place to be if you want a good view of the mountains. My first real proof that the snowcapped mountains exist, and it is not a very good view.

On the morning of the fourth day, I left Jhinu Danda and headed up the very steep trail toward Chhomrong. They said it would take 2 hours, but I did it in 1 hour and 10 minutes and felt great! So I kept going on my way toward Tadapani. But I went one village too far without eating and without drinking enough water. When I stopped in Chuile, I had a massive headache. I stopped there and rested in bed all afternoon and night and drank 2 liters of water. The boiled water, provided by the guest house, tasted like whatever they happened to be cooking at the time. As late as 3am, I still had a headache.

On the morning of the fifth day, I awoke without a headache, but it was cloudy. I, very slowly, cautiously and drinking much water, made my way to Tadapani. Many people passed me on the way, but I had learned my lesson. In Tadapani, I rested for 1 hour before moving on. I would eat lunch in Ban Thanti, then proceed to Deurali. If I arrive in Deurali before 3pm, I would continue to Ghorapani, so I could go to Poon Hill in the morning. If I arrive in Deurali after 3 pm, I would stay.

On the way to Deurali, I had the pleasure, really the pleasure, of following a group of yaks up the trail. Their pace was perfect for me. When they walked, I walked. When they stopped to catch their breath. I stopped also. We were made for each other. I did almost get run over by one, though. When I first came up to them, they were just standing in the trail. I stopped at a distance to see what they would do. I didn't realize that they were waiting for one more, who was coming at full speed down the little trail to my left. Had I been standing a few feet forward, he might have run me over before I realized he was coming.

I arrived in Deurali at 3pm. What should I do? A storm came. I decided to stay. The storm passed. I decided to go. The trail from Deurali to Ghorapani was really beautiful and a tad bid scary. It is mostly jungle, and there are tigers and other big cats in these mountains. That is one of the reasons you should not go trekking alone. A group of people makes noise, and the cat runs away as you approach. A solitary person makes no noise and gets attacked because he surprises the cat. And there were large mosses that looked like cats hanging on the tree branches. I was singing out loud, mostly about whether or not I had lost my mind.

I got to a clearing on a ridge at about 3000 m, but I was met with another storm, a hail storm. I took shelter in a lone shack, with two guys who were selling water and other refreshments. They had a fire inside, and they invited me to warm up near the fire. The storm passed just when one of the guys started to roll a joint. They told me it was just one half hour to Ghorapani. It took me one hour, but I arrived before sunset.

All my hopes were now pinned on Poon Hill in the morning. When I was in Pokhara, everyone said I would definitely see the mountains from Poon Hill. But now, I was being told, if I'm lucky and the sky is clear, then I'll see the mountains. The owner of the guest house told me if I could see the stars before sunrise, the views will be good. If I can't see the stars, go back to bed. I decided I would not get up for sunrise. If the sky is clear, it would be clear all morning.

On the morning of the sixth day, as I lay in bed, I could hear others starting their trek up to Poon Hill in the dark. I took a quick peek at the sky. I could see the stars. Yes! I went back to bed. I got up later and started my trek when it was bright enough that a flashlight was not needed. Finally Annapurna South came into view, and with each step up, more was revealed.

At the top of Poon Hill (3200m), I could finally see a Himalayan panorama. Spectacular. The Great Himalayan Hoax debunked. Was it worth hiking for six days? I don't know, but after everyone else left, I stayed on Poon Hill for a couple hours and enjoyed the view all by myself. It is strange that even after looking at the mountains for hours, I still don't have the words to describe them. I slowly walked down the hill, savoring every moment that I could see the mountains.

The trail down from Ghorapani to Tikhedhungga started out beautifully, but became torturous once I came to the stone steps after Ban Thanti (different place from yesterday). You know you're getting old when going down steps makes your legs wobbly. And when you're going down steps for a couple hours, it is not fun.

On the morning of the seventh day, I left Tikhedhungga. I was a little sad because I knew I would not see the mountains again, at least not on this trip. And I would not see pristine rivers again, at least not in India. Near Birethanti, I stopped at a waterfall and swam for half an hour. Swimming in a mountain stream is one of the most refreshing things you can do.

I rode back to Pokhara on the top of a bus and spent the next few days recuperating. The last two days in Pokhara, early in the morning, I could see a very faint outline of Annapurna South and Machhapuchhre. Nothing like the photographs. It was almost as if I was imagining it. If I did not have the photos from Poon Hill, which I took myself, I would still think it was a hoax, and I had dreamed about the views from Poon Hill.

Barefoot in Kathmandu

I went to Kathmandu for one reason only – to get a new Indian visa. I thought I would just pop over to Kathmandu for a couple days, get my visa and pop back over to Pokhara to go trekking in the Annapurna Sanctuary.

I had been told, by a taxi driver, that I must go to the embassy for 5:00 in the morning, or the line would be too long, and I would have to return the next day. But I had ATM issues and did not arrive at the embassy until 10:00.

The Indian embassy is surrounded by a wall, as are all embassies. You enter the gates and get checked for weapons. Then you are issued a ticket with a number, based on why you're visiting and if this was your first, second or third time. From there you proceed to a building with no definite front, but which has windows on the side and an exterior waiting area with a shed roof. I got my ticket and waited for my number to be called.

And I waited. Eventually, I learned that I needed to fill out a Telex form, a fax form, with my name, address & passport number. Apparently, they would fax this form to the Indian embassy in Chicago to get an ok to issue a visa. At 11:55, I noticed a sign that said they did not accept Telex forms after 12:00. I stood in front of the window waving my Telex form and ticket. It was no use. After 12:00, they would initial your ticket, and when you return the next day, you would be served first.

At 12:05, my number was called. They took my Telex form, sent me to the next window, where I paid 300 rupees and was told to come back in 6 days? What? Wait, wait... When do I fill out the visa application form? When you come back. And when do I get the visa? On the same day – if we get approval from the embassy in your country.

So I had to stay in Kathmandu for a week. I had no interest in see anymore temples. I would go white water rafting. I inquired about the cost of rafting trips at an adventure company. The guy told me $65 for a 1-day trip. And I don't remember how much he said for the 2-day trip, because I knew I would not pay that much. After getting all the details of what's included and what's not included, I told him I would pay $45 for a 2-day trip. He quickly said ok. Whoa...wait, I should have said $25. He laughed.

I packed really lightly for this trip. During the day, I'd wear a shirt, a pair of shorts and flip flops. At night, sweat pants and a fleece top. Add my cameras, and that's all. I got picked up from my hotel and joined a boisterous group of Nepalese, who were probably all in their 20's. Interestingly, they all had to lie to their parents about where they were going. In their culture, even when you are an adult, you must ask your parents for permission to do anything. It is just respect. But rafting is considered a dangerous activity, so their parents would not approve.

For me, rafting is most fun when the raft flips over or when I fall out of the raft in a rapid. Now I do not deliberately jump out of the raft into a rapid, but oftentimes the rapid reaches in and pulls me out of the raft. This day was like that. Suddenly I found myself gasping for breath, as I was being swept down the Trishuli River.

I was quickly rescued, no damage done, but I had lost my flip flops in the river. We continued on, and I managed to stay in the raft. Another guy in my raft fell out in another rapid and lost his glasses. Somehow I managed to save my glasses. Previously, I never raft with my glasses. But for some reason I did today. A few others fell out of their rafts. We all had a good time, and no one was hurt.

After everyone had left, it was just me and the guys from the company. They asked if I enjoyed it. Yes, I did. Then they told me I would be rafting the same section of river again the next day. What? I am supposed to raft a different section, specifically because that's where I was told the big rapids are. Yes, but it is not possible with just one person.

We made a phone call to the guy who signed me up in Kathmandu. He insisted that I was to raft a new section the next day. The guys who actually do the rafting said it could not be done. I set up camp on the banks of the river and went to sleep.

In the morning, they gave me the choice of a new section with just me and the guide, or the same section with a new group of people. But they now insisted that the new section did not have any rapids and is very boring. I asked who would be the guide. One of the grumpy ones, who was insisting that I should do the same section of the river. Which would be better? Rafting a new section of the river with a guide, who does not want to do it? Or rafting the same section with a new group of people? I chose to do the same section.

After breakfast, the guide told me that actually, they don't have any people coming today, and they can't do it with just one person. So he turns me over to another company and disappears. While waiting for the other people to arrive, the new guide informs me that today's rafting will be shorter than yesterday's. Why? Because it would be too late to catch a bus back to Kathmandu. What do you mean, catch a bus? You're supposed to drop me back at my hotel. No, we just pay for your bus ticket. But that would mean I have to pay another 200 rupees for a taxi to take me to my hotel. That's just the way it is for everyone.... This is not going to end well.

I was joined by an English couple and an Iranian couple. I learned an interesting thing about the Iranian people's view of their leader, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. His name means “of the people of Ahmad.” But if you pronounce it a little differently, and I could not hear the difference, it means “of the people of stupid.” That's what they call him in Iran. Anyway, they insisted that Iran is a great place to visit, and I would have no problems visiting as an American. These were obviously very liberal Iranians.

We had a good time rafting and the rapids kept their hands out of the raft. They put me on a bus, and I was headed back to Kathmandu. Up to this point, the fact that I was barefoot was not an issue. When the bus arrived to Ring Rd, I asked about a city bus to Thamel, the area where my hotel was located, rather than taking a taxi. I was told to just get off here and take one of those buses.

I got off and carefully walked to the first bus. Does this bus go to Thamel? No. I went to the second bus. Does this bus go to Thamel? Yes. I got on. To be sure, I showed the guy, who was sitting next to me, the hotel card, with map, and asked if this bus went to Thamel. He said yes. After a while, he got off the bus. And the bus kept going and going. It was now dark.

I went back to the ticket guy and asked, does this bus go to Thamel? No. But you told me it did. Then I realized that he does not speak English. And I had forgotten that the standard response when you do not understand someone, is yes. I could have asked him if the bus was made of cheese, and he would have said yes.

Soon the bus stopped, and everyone got off, so I got off too. So there I was walking up and down Ring Rd., at night, barefoot, trying not to step in poop or on broken glass, looking for a bus that would take me to Thamel. Eventually, I found someone who told me if took this bus to a certain corner, then I could catch a mini van to Thamel. So I got there, then walked about half a kilometer back to my hotel. It was now about 9:00pm. On the way to the hotel, I decided to stop and have dinner at a restaurant where I usually ate. The guys there are really nice. They lent me a pair of slippers. I was so embarrassed.

I went back to the Indian embassy and got my visa without any problems. On a side note, US citizens are charged 1000 rupees more than other nationals. I was now ready to go back to Pokhara and start my trekking.

Welcome to Nepal

Welcome to Nepal. It looks just like India, but they are on strike. And there is no bus to take you from the border to anywhere. Welcome to Nepal.

After an exhausting overnight train in 2nd class seating from Haridwar to Gorakhpur and bus from Gorakhpur to Sunauli, I crossed to border from India into Nepal. I was not surprised by the strike. A few days earlier, while I was in Rishikesh, I met a Nepalese guy, who told me about the strike. And in Gorakhpur they told me about it also. But my Indian visa was about to expire, so I had to go.

One bus, only one bus today, at 5:00. This bus is going to Kathmandu, with a stop in Pokhara. 1500 rupees, same price if you're going to Pokhara or Kathmandu. Ordinarily, a tourist bus to Pokhara would not cost more than 500 Rs. I heard some people considering the option of paying a cycle rickshaw 800 Rs to go 26 km or so to Butwal to catch a bus from there. I decided to get a room and deal with it in the morning.

Next day. One bus, only one bus today, at 5:00. 1500 rupees. Great. Around 1 pm, a travel agent, Amar, who just absolutely loves hiphop and dreams of one day moving to the US so he could live the hiphop lifestyle, approached me with an offer. 1000 Rs for a cycle rickshaw to Butwal and a bus ticket from Buwal to Pokhara. And I leave now rather than at 5. There were also two Eastern European women who were being charged 1200 Rs, but they were going to Kathmandu.

First a quick word about Amar. He wanted to know what he needed to change about his look, to fit in, if he went to the states. I told him “Your hair is a little funny, but you look just fine. You'll fit right in.” Nepal has many different ethnic groups, and except for his straight hair, he looked just like a dark skinned brother, right down to the nose. But he doesn't understand the lingo. He was listening to a rap song “I'm a hustler, hustler”, but did not know what hustler meant. Not knowing what it meant in the context of that song, I had to explain the various meanings that it could have.

Time to go. In addition to the two women and I, there were also an Indian guy and a Nepalese guy. We would be going in 3 rickshaws. They decided that the women should in separate rickshaws to decrease the chances of being stopped at a road block, because rickshaws carrying tourists are let thru without any problems. What? You mean I'm paying 1000 Rs and I might not get there? For reference, 1000 Rs was about $12. Ok, the Estonian woman sat with me, and the Ukrainian woman sat with the Indian. The Nepalese guy sat alone.

In each rickshaw was an innocent looking 18 inch diameter bundle of something. They told us it was for us to rest or feet on for our comfort. Whatever, off we go. A cycle rickshaw is a pedal powered carriage on 3 wheels, essentially. This is hard work, for 26 km. We had to take detours to try to avoid roadblocks. Eventually we could not avoid the roadblocks. And the contents of the bundles were revealed.

Gladiolas. The Nepalese guy was trying to smuggle goods thru. During the strike, no commercial vehicles were being allowed thru. If you tried to go thru, they would set your truck on fire. And they had big sticks ready to destroy these rickshaws. After much argument, which we tourists did not understand, we were allowed thru the first roadblock. Then they told us, that we were to pretend that those were our gladiolas. We were being used as cover!

After 4 hours in the sun, with no shade, and several potentially violent roadblocks, we finally made it to Butwal, where there was a march with people brandishing sticks. We waited on the side for the march to pass, then proceeded to the bus station. The Nepalese guy bought our bus tickets, and we went our separate ways. Welcome to Nepal.

I learned later, that the strike was lifted that night. Had I waited one more day, I would not have had that adventure. Nepal has lots of political problems. Strikes are common, as well and riots and political killings. But it is still a great place to visit.

Happy New Year

I spent New Year's Eve watching Pirate of the Caribbean: At World's End. The movie ended a few minutes before midnight, then I went up to the rooftop to watch the fireworks. I decided to stay away from any parties, just in case something happened - like the fire in a club in Bangkok. 2009 will be a very interesting year for me, as I plan to venture further into the more unstable parts of the world. I may or may not keep you up-to-date. :-) And now for something completely different.

My Naïve Take on the Israeli Palestinian Conflict

You know, sh*t happens. And has always happened throughout history. People overthrowing other people. People occupying other's land. And in this case, the international community displaced the Palestinians to give the Jewish people their historic homeland. Right or wrong, it happened.

When a people have been conquered, occupied or just pushed aside, they have one of two choices. They can accept their new fate or they can fight to overthrow their conquerors and expel their occupiers. So the Palestinians could accept the new State of Israel, or they could fight. And fight they did. And they continue to fight. But they can never win. Israel has superior military power and the backing of most of the most of the international community. But they continue to fight, never accepting Israel.

But why would they continue to fight, knowing they can not win? Islamic countries, from North Africa to South East Asia, all (except Egypt & Jordan) do not acknowledge the State of Israel. In this way, they act as instigators, egging on the Palestinians in their continued resistance. Not helping the Palestinians in their fight against Israel, just ensuring that there never will be peace. Mahmud Ahmadinejad came the closest in talking about wiping Israel of the earth, but he was just talk. They know that for every attack by the Palestinians, Israel will react with overwhelming force, stopping whatever peace plan was being worked on.

Israel is to blame also, for allowing herself to be caught in that trap. By reacting disproportionately to attacks, Israel gives reason to side with the oppressed Palestinians, making it difficult to see the role of the world Islamic community in preventing peace. Now Israel is out of control, killing hundreds, determined to stamp out all resistance, once and for all. But unless all the Palestinians are killed, there will always be resistance.

In my opinion, the only hope for peace between Israel and the Palestinians, is for the Islamic countries, starting with Saudi Arabia, the home of Mecca, to make a good faith effort and officially recognize the State of Israel and establish regular diplomatic relations. If they are not willing to do this, then they must join, all of them, with the Palestinians in overthrowing Israel. Not a weak replay of the failed Arab-Israeli wars, but a real war with all the Islamic countries contributing. Or maybe, they hope Israel will eventually exceed the tolerance of the international community, and be overthrown by a US led force.

Trials in Hampi

Before I plunge head first into another story, which probably will be perceived as negative, let me get something clear. Of all the countries I have visited so far, India is the place I feel most at home. Sure, the guys spit and pee everywhere, and no one has any concept of waiting their turn in a line, and the food is too spicy, and there is garbage everywhere, and.....but I could live here.

Dishonest travel agent
I had been in Hampi for a few days and was chatting with Raj, one of the many shop owners who go where ever there are tourists, to sell stuff, that apparently tourist want, but I can't figure out why. Anyway, we were talking about where I am going next and how I will get there. He suggested that I purchase a reserve ticket in advance, because it will be a long trip, and I would be better off in sleeper class rather than 2nd class seating. I had to agree with him, because I had a potentially inconveniencing experience with 2nd class on my way to Hampi.

Usually, when I want to go somewhere, I just show up at the bus or train station and take the next available bus or train. I get packed in with the local people and consider it “experiencing India.” I wanted to travel from Margao to Hospet to get to Hampi. I packed up my bag and headed to the train station early in the morning, only to discover that that train does not run on Saturdays. I only runs on Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday. So I went back to Colva Beach, spent a few days, and returned to the train station on Tuesday.

Because I do not like to arrive at my destination at night, I decided to break up the trip and stop in Hubli, then continue the next day. I purchased my ticket and waited for the train. At this time, I still had not figured out how train stations worked. I knew which platform to wait on, but I had no idea if I should be at the front or the back of the train. And there was only a two minute window to get onto the train before it starts moving. I just jumped onto the nearest car.

Turns out, I was on the reserve sleeper car, but there were many other people who didn't belong there, so I didn't worry about it. Eventually, someone came around to check tickets. I was booted out of the seat and told to get off the car at the next stop and go to the 2nd class car. Ok, that's fair, no problem. At the next stop, I walked to the 2nd class cars, but they were all full. Not just full, but bulging with people. People were hanging out the doors. I tried, but carrying my backpack in my hand, I could not get onto the train. And the train started to move.

Oh no. I had no idea where this tiny train station in the middle of nowhere was. And the train passes only three times a week? I must get onto this train. I jumped onto the AC car. I figured they won't kick me off until the next station. They just sent me back to the reserve sleeper car, where I was before, and I sat next to the toilet.

So I was receptive to the idea of buying a reserve ticket. I picked a travel agent close to my guesthouse and settled on a Saturday night train, the earliest available, to Hyderabad. She told me this was the earliest train with available seats. And the only seats available were Tatkal. What? She explained to me that they set aside a few seats for taxes, so they cost more. Ok? How much. 630 rupees I said that seemed really high, but she said she was taking only 50 rupees commission. The price is high because it is Tatkal. I paid for the ticket, and she told me I'd get it the next day.

Late the next day, I received the ticket. I looked the ticket over very carefully because I wanted to be sure I knew exactly where on the train I was supposed to go, and how much time I had to board the train before it started moving. I noticed the ticket said T.CASH Rs. 431 and Rs. FOUR THREE ONE ONLY. I pointed this out and said I think you're taking much more than 50 rupees. She insisted that in fact, she was taking only 49 rupees, that Rs 150 Tatkal is added to the total shown on the ticket. I said this doesn't sound right. Why isn't the Tatkal shown on the ticket. She said that's the way it is done. Ask anyone. You can even go to the train station in Hospet, and if I'm lying I'll give you back all your money.

A round trip rickshaw ride to the train station costs about Rs 200. The bus costs just Rs 24, but stops at the bus station and you either have to take a rickshaw to the train station or walk 1.5 km. No one is going to go to the trouble over Rs 150, roughly $3. I'll just let it go. But then I spoke with Raj again, and he told me that Tatkal means emergency. Tatkal tickets are reserved for people who need to travel at short notice. Nothing to do with “tax.”

Saturday morning, I checked out of my room and took the bus to Hospet. I walked to the train station and just for the hell of it, I went to the ticket counter to inquire about the cost of my ticket. The lady at the counter told me that the price paid for the ticket is the price shown on the ticket. But maybe she didn't realize that it was Tatkal. So I asked her if Tatkal affects the price in any way. She said yes, but it is included in the total price shown on the ticket.

Now I was getting mad. That travel agent lied to me, then lied to me further when I pointed out that she was lying to me. I went back to Hampi to ask her for a refund. She refused to admit that I had caught her lying. She insisted that Tatkal is added to the price and she is only taking 49 rupees. She said the woman at the train station lied to me! You can ask any travel agent, they will tell you the same. I said call the train station. She refused to dial the real number and dialed some bogus number that was switched off instead.

She asked what I wanted her to do. I said give me back 150 rupees. She insisted that she was not lying and I could go to the police if I wanted to. So....that's what I did. On the way, I stopped at another travel agent, and he said Tatkal is included in the total price, that she took 200 rupees profit. At this time in Hampi, there was a festival that happens once every 12 years. The place was filled with Hindu pilgrims who came to bathe in the sacred river. At least 3 persons drowned in the river one day. I'm sure someone drowns everyday. Surely the police have their hands full with more important things.

But they listened to me and agreed that she was dishonest and had charged an excessive commission. They told me to wait a while, and after about 20 minutes, they returned with a guy from the travel agency, and we went in to see the police chief. The guy tried to explain, but the chief just waved him off and made him return 150 rupees to me. Then the chief told him to close down the shop. It turned out that they were operating illegally. Oops.

I felt kinda bad. I didn't mean for them to go out of business – especially over $3. But when you are caught lying in business, just own up to it and move on.

Tuna sandwich
My first night in Hampi, I was approached by a few guys, who worked at a restaurant. They were trying to entice me to come to their restaurant by offering special drug laced dishes. Apparently, this is a big hit with tourist. I just wanted meat. Because Hampi is a very important Hindu site, the restaurants are not supposed to serve meat. So I asked them if they had chicken. They did, so I went back to eat there later.

But I did not order a chicken dish. Instead I opted for a tuna sandwich. It took 45 minutes – after I realized that they were taking an awfully long time. I opened up the sandwich and looked inside. And for the first time in my travels, I took my food back. Where is the tuna? It is in there. No, I'm looking at the sandwich, and I don't see the tuna. That's because it is mixed in with the mayonnaise. No, if I can't see the tuna, it is not a tuna sandwich.

He took the sandwich and threw some tuna on it. Fine. Still not a proper tuna sandwich, but at least now it has tuna. I begin to wonder if I'm becoming an irritable traveler who needs to take a break? But really, do not give me a tomato and cucumber sandwich and tell me it is a tuna sandwich!

Tiny Wandering Hands
I was sitting on the steps to the Tungabhadra River, watching the pilgrims bathe in the river, when some kids spotted me. Now, if you know me, you know I don't like having kids around me because I don't want anyone to ever accuse me of molesting their child.

These kids, 3 boys and 1 girl, all probably less than 10 years old, wanted me to take their pictures, pictures of lots of things in the area, including their parents who were down by the river. Then they would climb all over me to see the picture in the viewer.

At first I was concerned that they would try to pick my pockets or my bag, but then they started to talk about sex and if I wanted. I tried to pretend that I didn't know what they were talking about, because surely these kids were not trying to pick me up. I was finally convinced when I realized that one of the boys' hands was slowly moving up my inner thigh. At that point, a white couple passed by, and they ran off to meet them.

Later, I was thinking about this. They probably have a regular scam running. If they succeed with some inappropriate touching, they could ask for money and threaten to tell if the victim does not pay up. And who wouldn't pay up, if the alternative is being accused of pedophilia - in a foreign country?

Before I continue, I must say that Hampi is a really amazing place. It is the ruin of an ancient metropolis in Southern India and is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. If ever you have the opportunity, you should visit.

Sunset with a Scam Artist
I met Vicky, or whatever his name is, at the same shop where it was suggested that I purchase my ticket in advance. It was four of us sitting in the shop talking. They told me about how the Kashmiris had been kicked out of Hampi, because some of them were terrorists with stockpiles of weapons. How they are sometimes mistaken for Kashimiris and get hassled by the police. They are from Punjab, a state that borders Jammu & Kashmir.

Vicky asked me if I wanted to go have some tea. Sure. We went to one of the rooftop restaurants and talked. He, it turned out, does not work in any of the shops. He's just traveling around, and had been in Hampi for about a month. Actually, he and his uncle were staying in Hospet, in a nice AC hotel room. And everyday he rode his motor bike into Hampi. I felt comfortable enough that I had no problem with him coming to my room to see pictures from my travels on my computer.

He told me about a sunset point where lots of tourist go to watch the sunset. I had been there, but not for sunset. We agreed to meet there at 5. Before going to sunset point, I stopped in to see Abbas, an Iranian shop keeper. Abbas is convinced that I am Muslim, and nothing I say or do would change his mind. Earlier, we had been talking about a Muslim festival that would take place the following day, and I had agreed to go with him to the mosque.

Abbas had seen me speaking with Vicky, and told me to be careful, that he was a bad man and would take my money. What? This guy was in my room. What did he take while I was right there watching?! I ran back to the room to do a quick check before heading up to sunset point. Everything was fine.

The first thing Vicky wanted to know was what Abbas and I were talking about! The Muslim festival and going to the mosque. But now he seemed different. Shifty. He was constantly looking around. Being at sunset point was not what he really wanted. Eventually he suggested that I go with him to Hospet for dinner, because the restaurants there serve real Indian food, whereas the restaurants in Hampi serve western food. That would not have worked on me, even if I had not been warned about him. I had just come off a week of really bad diarrhea and was really happy to eat western food! When I told him I would not go to Hospet with him, he pretty much got up to leave. But when I told him I would go swimming with Raj, the guy from the shop, his interest returned. He would come too.

I didn't go to the mosque with Abbas, nor swimming with Raj. I spent the day riding a bicycle around visiting many of the temple ruins. I did not return until near sunset. The following day, Vicky spotted me while I was eating. He and a friend came in and joined me. What were they doing? Oh, just hanging around. They suggested that I come to Hospet with them to see a movie. When I told them I had seen just one movie in the past year, they realize that wasn't going to work. Then they said they were leaving for Mumbai the next day and I should come with them. I would like to be spontaneous, but no, I will not up and go with anyone to Mumbai. I asked for his mobile number and said I'll call him and let him know. When they left, the restaurant owner asked how I knew them and told me to be careful with them.

I went to see Raj. I asked him why his friend wants me to go to Hospet so badly? He replied, he is not my friend. His name is not even Vicky. He just comes and hangs out here, but he won't be coming back. I kicked him out last night. I heard all about him from Abbas. I don't know what they do in Hospet. They just get the tourists and take them to Hospet. Their boss is there. Somehow they get money. And as for the swimming - Vicky had told Raj, not to go swimming with me, that he would go instead!

My wonderful travel agent, when she and I were on speaking terms, thought maybe they were doing an insurance scam. There is a government insurance that covers medical expenses for injured tourists. They would file a fake claim for you and split the money. But since she turned out to be a lier, I don't know if there is really any government insurance to be scammed.

I never saw Vicky again, nor did I call him. Unless his scheme involved physical violence, I don't think he had any chance of getting money out of me. I am really tight with my money, something I got from my mother. But it made me uneasy. I had gotten used to meeting really nice people here in India. Now, I go back to thinking that everyone I meet just wants my money in some way.