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Asia: Week 18, in review.

2010, February 14 – February 20:
From silicon to rice.

Day 1: Mysore.

I spent the day being mock-productive, travel writing, as it is. Drinking lattes and iced lattes on the patio of Cafe Coffee Day, I ate up a surprising amount of the morning and afternoon.

I walked home along the shopping lanes, through the bazaar, back to the palace, lit from head to toe, and the hotel.

Andrea and I decided to salvage and mock-celebrate Valentine’s Day (surprisingly focused upon by the Indian press and youth, and derided by just as many others) by rickshawing to one of Mysore’s finer continental restaurants for a thoroughly mediocre dinner and a rubbish bottle of wine.

In pitch perfect fashion, they took our order only to tell us a good while later it wasn’t available, at all. It seems you can take India out of the restaurant but you can’t take the restaurant out of India – menus are always more suggestive than indicative.

Done, and done.

Days 2 to 4: White Tigers.

Andrea and I began our last morning in Mysore at Indra Cafe’s Pares: delicious, simple and crowded.

After nearly two weeks, we were parting ways. She was staying on in Mysore for an intensive yoga course, and I was leaving to Bangalore for a bit of bright lights, big Indian city.

Mysore’s train station presented a fairly ordered scene, which is to say manageable chaos. Soon enough I was standing on the platform, ticket in hand.

The train arrived and we boarded in the usual mad hustle for seats, then we were off.

The short trip set off through the beautiful south Karnatakan terrain: village people bathing in wide shallow rivers, dry cracked earth broken up by swathes of terraced fields of rice and palm forests.

The young boy sitting across from me ignored the passing landscape, choosing instead to stare at me the entire 3hrs without saying a word. He did buy me a small paper cup of what tasted like spicy corn pops from one of the many vendors hopping on and off at various stops, all without breaking his composure, simply a bobble of his head to the vendor, then to me.

As we approached Bangalore, the telltale signs of modernity began to creep upon the land: half-completed construction projects and slums extending in every direction.

Bangalore’s train station presented more cat herding, although on a much larger scale.

Before I could move on, I needed to arrange my onward travel to Hampi – my first overnighter, my first reservation – oh, the promise of paperwork sent chills through my sweating bones.

Struggling for a moment with the reservations computer, or more properly the hoard of men standing about me pushing buttons either they wanted to use or thought I might find useful, I determined both the train I wanted and that it was booked. Fantastic.

Taking my spot at the end of the long reservations line, paperwork dutifully if dodgily filled in, I was quickly ushered by security to a much smaller line for the disabled, elderly and foreign tourists.

Wait-listed ticket in hand, I walked to another building to file my “Foreign Tourist Emergency Quota” form. The Indians really don’t mess about with their paperwork, and this particular stack surmounted, I rickshawed to the heart of British Bangalore along MG Road.

Larger and busier than any other Indian city I’d visited, Bangalore’s streets teemed with traffic, a constant jostle for position, and god help you if everything was forced to stop, a suffocating blanket of exhaust fumes spread across everyone.

Arrived, still breathing, I wandered the neighborhood, an odd mishmash of construction (an ubiquitous element in India, though here it looked as if the projects might actually be underway, not half-forgotten) and Indian, Asian and western storefronts.

Most surprising though, faces from all over the world filled and filed along the sidewalks. Having only seen homogenous India, here was cosmopolitan India: the startups and outsourcing, the ITTs and persons of every stripe, money, spending, and foreigners from everywhere getting in on the action.

I continued to explore and after a few defunct hotels and with the aid of Parisienne Morgane, I located Tom’s, by far the best of the lot: comfortable modern rooms, free delicious breakfasts, and, most improbably, WiFi.

I’m not going to pretend, settled, the first things I did were run to the KFC I had passed, for a sandwich, fries and more Coke than is probably wise to drink, then to the sleek cafe Matteo for an evening latte and a long bout of connectivity.

I am a creature of habit.

I spent the next 2 days doing largely the same (sans KFC): wandering the busy streets before settling down to an afternoon of work. I suppose it’s fitting that Bangalore brought out the home in me – walk, write, coffee.

Rewarded for being foreign, I secured my overnighter to Hampi.

I arrived to the station far too early, the train arrived far too late, and I passed the time playing my favorite travel game – stare and be stared at.

When the train finally arrived, the usual mad hustle began – people assaulting the doors before they could open, a few especially industrious youths flinging open and climbing through windows – and I took my time, watching rather than wrestling. I had my bunk.

Anyways, I was mostly certain I had a bunk.

Climbing into my cubby hole, bags, shoes, bedding and body appropriately arranged, I settled into, and it’s amazing what takes on the semblance of, a goodnight’s rest.

The gentle sway of the train, the soft rattle of wheels to track. It’d do.

Days 5 and 6: Hampi.

Morning began with a shout, “Hospet!” and, with that, I flung out of bed, shoes on, bags in hand, and emerged clumsily into the light of day.

Another stop, another rickshaw, another hotel.

Only, waiting at the river crossing, watching the elephant bathed just down stream, the ancient temples towering behind, the landscape of balanced boulders and rice fields, Hampi – once a capital to half a million, now home to a few thousand – seemed like it might offer something unique.

Crossing from Hampi Bazaar from the south shore to the north, I followed Emma and Georgie, a pair of British gap years, to the Shanti, a small lot of thatched-roof bungalows at the far end of a dirt road butted up to the rice fields with unobstructed views of field, stream, mountain and sunset.

With ruins and rugged landscape to explore, I did what any smart traveler would do, I lingered the first two days in my hammock, venturing on occassion to the terraced patio. With fresh lime soda in hand, I read.

Day 7: Amongst the Dead.

Roused, and determined to explore beyond the patio, I set off back across the river to wander the ruins from Hampi Bazaar’s towering Virupaksha Temple up to Hemakuta Hill, further onto Achyutaraya Temple and Sule Bazaar, and finally north along the stoned path to Vittala Temple.

As I walked among the ruins, from the center of the village, bustling shops built into the carcasses of their ancestors, to the hill and down along the river, I struggled to imagine this place at the height of its power, a thriving capital and center of trade, religion and art before it was all razed to the ground and lost, to all but the small handful of villagers and a steady stream of tourists.

The ruins themselves ranged in character and condition.

The towering Virupaksha dominates the landscape, the larger and smaller towers standing defiant to all that has come and gone. Hemakuta Hill on the otherhand lays scattered, pieces. Achyutaraya and especially Vittale are in the best condition, the first thanks to obscurity, the second to protection, giving one a keen sense of the artistry and scope with which their creators built.

Having successfully navigated the past, and exhausted from the long hours under increasing heat, I retired to the comfort of Shanti, fresh lime soda and delicious kebobs (though the staff were insistent I not call them kebobs). Whatever they were, I was sated.

Asia: Week 17, in review.

2010, February 07 – February 13:
On the Keralan Bizarre.

Days 1 and 2: Ashram-ing.

Having decided to stay at the ashram for a few days, I spent the time walking the grounds, and watching: devotees and attendees working at all manner of task and upkeep, group meditations along the beach at sunset, and the entire congregation singing throughout the evening, Amma leading the chants to a feverish pitch.

Everything about the place buzzed with white robed activity, the global communion of men and women peacefully hustling this way and that, tapped into the undercurrent of spiritual energy, evident in their attitudes and actions.

I watched.

That evening, Kelly and I walked atop the lone foot bridge linking the canal’s shores, and joined a small group singing and playing instruments until the closing bell signaled the shuttering of gates, the end of another day.

The following morning, packs on our backs, Andrea and I stepped aboard the tourist cruise towards Alleppey. Kelly remained, standing behind us on the jetty, waving goodbye as our sluggish barge pulled away from the ashram, from Amma.

Laying atop the roof, the tranquil river scene drifting past, we met Shin (from Japan) and Gosia (from Poland).

Finally pulled into the “venice-like” Alleppey, we’d forged a new group. Shin would push on, but Gosia would stay and join us on the houseboat we hoped to hire.

As we stepped off the boat, we practically stepped into the arms of the man we hoped to find. Anzil and his brother ran a recommended guesthouse as well as a houseboat. They even sold beer at cost. I’m pretty sure they’d have found us anything we dared to request.

The next few days almost too easily sorted, we enjoyed dinner and settled into our guesthouse for drinks. As the night crept, Anzil’s older brother began to imitate animals, machinery and Bollywood stars none of us knew before finally turning up the music and belting out Keralan pop music.

Fantastic.

Day 3: The long boat to heaven.

By 9am, Anzil had prepared our houseboat and we were ready. Andrea and Gosia climbed into a rickshaw and I jumped on the back of Anzil’s bike. We flew down side streets, weaved through traffic, and raced for the jetty. Anzil leaned back as we picked up speed, “Scared?!” to which I felt no response was the best response.

Our boat was smaller but comfortably appointed. A single cabin and a large front deck on which to lounge, 2 able-bodied crew acted as pilot, cook and guide.

And, we drifted about for the next day and a half.

Similar to the cruise but altogether more enjoyable, we navigated away from the main channel, floating among the villages and islands that dot the backwaters, taking our delicious meals on the deck as locals went about their business and the serene landscape lulled us into a happy daze.

At night, we docked along a footpath and walked among the rice fields to the crews’ family home where the children raced shyly about the small yard and an angry looking turkey scratched at the red dirt.

We took dinner on the deck, drank and talked into the late evening as the odd person would happen past on foot or slowly pedaling along the dark footpath, until we retired.

If you happen through Kerala, don’t overlook exploring the backwaters by houseboat. A long weekend with a few friends (or strangers, for that matter) spent lazily drifting through such a lovely landscape is an opportunity well worth the cost.

Days 4 to 6: The short bus to hell.

We woke up to the puttering along the canal, beginning the journey back to Alleppey. Breakfast on the deck, other boats drifting past, we lounged discussing plans until we eventually and unfortunately pulled into dock just shy of noon.

Oh, how quickly the wheel turns…

We set our sights upon Waynard and its natural charms several hours northeast of Alleppey, but what seemed simple enough on paper proved (true to the nature of travel in India) a proper and unrelenting headache.

Bus #1 took us from Alleppey to Kochi in a couple hours, and it managed to do so relatively on-time and with little pain. Bus #2 took us further north to Calicut, but not before spending 6hrs stopping at everything that did or did not resemble a bus stop, a tree, a shovel left carelessly stuck in the ground. We passed up the first connecting bus, crowded to the point of overflow, and lingered near the station for an extra couple hours before taking Bus #3 to Sultan Battery and Waynard.

As we finally reached our destination, the day was gone. Past midnight, the small town was dark save the dodgey groups of men gathered about the dim light of a few scattered street stalls.

So… Never arrive someplace new after dark. Never arrive someplace new after dark with no reservation. Never spend th entire day on shitty bus after bus getting someplace new after dark without a reservation.

There we were, exhausted, homeless in a dead town, and we’d likely have stayed that way were it not for, as my old flatmate Silke would have put it, “the kind heart of Waynard” in the form of Sujith, geothermal engineer recently home from Oman after years away from his family. He and his brother walked with us from one end of town to the other until we’d found reasonably comfortable and affordable lodging, then extending his hand, as we settled into our room, he offered to bring us to his family’s ongoing 5-day celebration where he and his brother were presently headed. I wish I could say we accepted, but at 2am after a day of travel, we politely declined, choosing instead to dump several freezing buckets of water on ourselves before climbing atop our beds.

The morning began with more painfully cold water, then we made our way to the Waynard Wildlife Reservation.

Packed into a small jeep, we bumped along a poor dirt road for an underwhelming 90mins while our guide pointed out deer and squirrels. Having come from the American Midwest, I can throw a squirrel and hit 3 deer, so when we saw elephants roaming in the far distance, that signaled the lone highlight of our venture into nature.

If you find yourself in a similar situation, I recommend the morning over the afternoon and the hike over the jeep. We weren’t offered the hike, so go throught the Tholpetty entrance, not Muthanga.

Our final morning in the Battery and Waynard, we sought out the Edakal Caves, home to 3k- to 5k-yo carvings, at the far end of a steep and crowded mountain path. Making the company of Renish and his band of merry men, we made like the Indians and pushed scrambled climbed our way to the top, then back again. Entirely safe, I’m sure.

Much more contented with our second outing, we collected our packs and pushed on to Mysore, out of Kerala into Karnataka, aboard a bus hellbent on flying.

Before we knew it, the beautiful Mysore Palace rolled past our window and we pulled into the stop. Andrea and I wished Gosia well (she was off to locate friends at a yogashala), and we landed a purposefully comfortable room across from the palace.

At night, the Palace lit up with hundred thousand lights.

Day 7: Mysore.

Our first day in Mysore began with a fruitless quest – appropriately, down a long and dusty road – for ancient puppets.

I’ll blame and thank Annie (of MN) for this renewed interest in folk lore and art that led me in circles throughout the increasingly hot afternoon in vain search of the Jayalakshmi Museum.

After morning coffee with Andrea, I set off, deceivingly at first, along a well-maintained lane which quickly became a dirt path alongside a highway.

I pushed beyond the edge of my map, and from poor direction to poor direction delivered in tellingly less-than-confident tones, succeeded over the course of 2hrs in walking a full circle about the museum. Only the crazy, anachronistic directions of a young man – “let no derivation left or right arrest your path to the end of the lane” – landed me on the back steps of the museum.

I circled about to the front, where the guard politely informed me that the museum was both open but also closed because of the religious holiday. “It’s open?” “Yes.” “But, I can’t go in because it’s closed?” “Yes.”

I fell away defeated to town and the Palace, which droves of tourists buzzing about assured me was very open and open.

The Palace houses a few rooms of exquisite extravagence. The ballroom, in particular, its multiple stories of muraled walls and tall stained-glass ceiling of peacocks wad astonishing. Even pressed by the rushing national tourists, it was a calming and luxurious look at British-Indian aristocracy.

As I toured the grounds, I funnily came across a herd of elephants grazing in a far corner among cows and goats. Here I was, hours from Waynard, and feet from the elepants.

Regrouped with Andrea, we ate and drank and called it a day.

Asia: Week 16, in review.

2010, January 31 – February 06:
Between beach and god.

Days 1 to 5: Varkala-n Holiday.

My routine in Varkala suffered little disruption through most of the week. I caught up on work, both personal and professional, though tempermental connectivity and electricity did their best to throw wrenches.

I enjoyed fresh juice in the mornings, took decent coffee in the afternoon, and ate well, usually curry with fresh fish, just as the sun was setting – a mass of red melting into the low cloud bank upon the horizon.

Midweek, I met Chloe, Kelly, Andrea, Vlad and Naidel, all recently arrived from the Sivananda Yoga Ashram near Trivandrum.

Curious about the ashram scene, I was actually planning on joining Maria and Maya on their trip south when things were sent reeling by the the most bizarre night I’ve had in a long while (and hopefully for some time to come).

The night in question began normally enough, which I suppose is how nights begin just before they go fucking haywire.

The lot of us enjoyed a late coffee before sitting down to a long Thai dinner.

Roundly satisfied, Chloe, Vlad and I went to gather the firewood they had stashed along the southern beach, then north again to prepare the bonfire we’d planned.

The fire built and stoked, we sat about, tending the flames as the others slowly came down. Scott, a friend of Chloe’s appeared with welcome drinks and a civil-enough-looking street dog, Kelly and Naidel, Maya, and finally Andrea with more drinks. Only Maria (perhaps wisely) turned in.

The fire burning bright, the dark waters crashing, pale sounds of waning evening activity drifted down from the cliff above. We settled into the late night.

After a time passed, idle chatter of the sort gathered travelers seem willing and able to spin ad infinitum, we were joined by Akbar, a local and stranger to us but who seemed friendly enough. He took a seat near Scott.

Time passed, much as before, though our quiet local began talking to himself in a soft mutter.

Kelly and I discussed the wisdom of calling it a night, but our debate was cut short by another group of locals: 2 men, the first weirdly enthusiastic about interacting with us (his presence alone now more than enough reason to leave) and the second focused keenly upon Akbar.

A strained debate sprung up between Akbar and the second fellow, who was joined after a spell by the smiling first. The two were bound and determined to persuade Akbar to leave. Scott, who knew one of the two men, explained that Akbar had just been sitting quietly, but was told Akbar was a “problem”.

Vlad and Scott protested further, and were told to mind themselves. The two men claimed to be policemen.

Things soured quickly as a third fellow appeared, threw himself down next Chloe, grabbed her cigerette, jumped back to his feet, and joined the other two around Akbar.

The next few minutes raced.

Debate turned to a flurry of sudden punches, slaps and kicks as the 3 men fell upon Akbar. On his back, they continued to hit him.

At either side, Vlad and Scott, again looked ready to intervene when the smiling fellow no longer smilng made it threateningly clear that we should all be leaving.

From the opposite side of the fire, Andrea, Kelly and I had been gathering our things as the men appeared. The beating pushed us to our feet and several yards away.

In a moment of absurd humor, Chloe struggled to put out the fire, and the smiling fellow stopped kicking Akbar long enough to kick sand upon the flame to hurry Chloe along her way.

Our group scattered. We retreated to the steps. Scott ran up to the footpath, and located an indifferent policeman who told him plainly to go home. Vlad and Chloe followed shortly in our direction.

From a distance, the 3 men appeared to let Akbar go, and he could be seen running down the beach to the south.

Regrouped upon the footpath above, we discovered small crowds watching from the cliff, and the shadows of the men could be seen lingering below.

Shaken, we walked back to Chloe and my’s guestrooms before deciding no one was much interested in ending the night on such a tragic note, so we crashed in the only bar still open and ordered several rounds of beer then tea as a mixed group of locals and tourists smoked weed playing Beetles’ covers.

Such odd juxtapositions seemed to be on order.

Sorting through the events, both Akbar and the others walked by, thankfully from and toward different directions. Whatever had driven the confrontation had apparently dissipated as quickly as it had coalesced.

The “facts” of the incident slowly began to surface:

The bar owners told us Akbar was a local guesthouse owner, prone to starting arguements and fights. They suspected the 3 men were local mafia exacting punishment for one presumed slight or another.

I suddenly recalled where I had seen Akbar before – in front of this very bar hurling insults in English and Hindi at everyone with equal disdain. I’d failed to make the connection earlier at the fire.

The following morning, Scott corroborated and expanded upon the barmens’ suspicions.

Akbar had apparently stolen something, and these men were the reprimand.

It wasn’t the first incident. It seemed Akbar was mentally ill, prone to muttering and aggression, traumatized after having lost his family in the tsunami before moving to Varkala.

The community quite simply did not know how, or was otherwise disinclined, to help him aside from these periodic beatings.

A note on intervention: I know some of you reading this will take issue with our group, or me personally, for not intervening more forcibly on Akbar’s behalf.

I won’t defend whether my (in)action was right or wrong. It was habitual and expedient.

I’ve got a general rule when traveling well outside my norms: first, prioritize my safety and that of my friends, then seek help from authorities and/or locals.

Selfish, certainly, and sadly, as illustrated here, the authorities are often of little help, but that’s how I react in the moment, that’s how my experiences have taught me to react.

I find in circumstances I do not fully understand or appreciate, the weather turns quickly, often for reasons beyond me. As such, I can’t afford to be a blind samaritan, perhaps you can.

The next morning, with little sleep and the negative reverberations still very much in the air, I lacked the inclination to join Maria and Maya from bus to train to bus into the disciplined arms of the ashram.

I sat instead, drenched in sun, staring at the sea.

Days 6 and 7: Into the arms of Amma.

Andrea, Kelly and I stared at Chloe across the rail tracks. She was heading south to catch an overnighter north, we were heading just north to Kollam and the backwaters of Kerala.

Andrea and Kelly were heading to Amma’s Ashram, and I’d decided to tag along seeing as how my original plans had been violently derailed, and I remained curious about this particular aspect of Indian society.

The train picked up speed as we pulled away from Varkala, and it felt good to be moving again. We curled around forests, snaked over rivers, quickly findig ourselves in Kollam. Sadly, the town proved more Trivandrum than Varkala.

We settled into an affordable hotel without windows, a fact that would haunt us.

Kelly resting, Andrea and I took to the streets to discover Kollam’s charms.

They were few and far between – the Mukkada Bazaar, alone, offering an interesting glimpse at the agricultural livelihood most Indians still enjoyed. Along a few dirt roads, row after row of low slung warehouses stored hundreds of bags of dried peppers, grains and other goods brought in from the surrounding farmlands. Chalk boards listed available commodities and prices as the keeps held to the shadows awaiting customers, not tourists.

Returned to Kelly and our stuffy room, we ventured for dinner and strong coffee, returned yet again, and watched a few movies on the tiny TV before attempting sleep.

It didn’t work.

Around 1 o’clock, Kelly went a touch “mad”.

Our room, with its still, suffocating air was choking her, drawing her to the breaking point. She stood, fumbled – cursing – with the stubborn door lock, while I watched eyes half-open. Finally I stood, opened the door and let her run free into the dark hallways.

Having not returned for some time, I went looking. I found her on dark steps before an unlocked but latched door leading to roof. We slid it open, peering into the cool dark air. Andrea soon joined us.

Content, I returned to the room, while Kelly and Andrea continued to scout for greener pastures, eventually locating an open room with the semblance of a window in which to squat for the night.

Alone, less suffocated, I fell asleep.

The following morning, regrouped, it was apparent they had merely traded pitfalls. Andrea’s swollen eye lay testament to the drove of mosquitos that had invaded their new room through the window, though Kelly seemed recovered.

Packed, we rickshawed to the jetty just in time to board the tourist cruise north along the backwater canal to Alleppey.

The cruise, relaxing and beautiful, slowly chugged up the brackish waters, past fishing villages filled with children racing along the thin shore between bodies of water waving and yelling, alongside other boats plying the canals for seafood, and above the huffing-puffing near-translucent jellyfish floating everywhere.

A light breeze kept us cool, and the entire ride was welcome relief from our previous unrest in Kollam.

Finally, we came upon Amma’s Ashram, our midway layover, which at first glance from the jetty looked as much like a Floridian retirement facility, high-storied pink-hued buildings rising up, as a revered religious estate.

Decor aside, how to describe the ashram…

The compound sprawled between canal and sea, its ubiquitous and dominating feature Amma’s devotees, dressed in white, the lifeblood.

Run through volunteer effort, the ashram feeds, houses and educates hundreds. While Amma is the center upon which it all balances, rotates, it is through the combined efforts of her devotees, the enterprising cogs, that things hum.

An impressive effort, a frightening one.

You see, Amma is revered as a living guru, though saint might be a more accessible term to many reading this. Her devotees view her as an embodiment of god, and they, true to name, drip with devotion.

I likely seem too removed, too sceptical. I was a tourist, to be sure, not a pilgrim like so many, but a tourist prepared to respectfully observe the ashram’s practices. Amma’s message of love is admirable and her combined charitable works both in India and worldwide are simply astounding, but her devotees, many from America and Europe, yearning and indeed clamouring for her touch struck me as something else – lost or desperate, perhaps – and I found their cult of personality, which the ashram naturally cultivates, unsettling.

That said, take the assessment of an areligious, explicitly sceptical tourist with several grains of salt.

We spent the day acclimating to the ashram: wandering the grounds, finding accommodation and food, participating in meditation along the seashore, taking in a bit of seva (selfless labor – we washed dishes), listening all-the-while to the endless chanting accompanying Amma’s darshans, or the blessings she bestows in the form of hugs to any who come looking for one (and many many people come looking).

Finally (in what will probably seem more than a touch hypocritical), I, too, took my place near the end of the line to receive a darshan, and waited as the hours passed. It was nearly 1 o’clock in the morning and countless hymns later that Andrea, Kelly and I approached the final staging ground wherein Amma sat, for days at a time in some instances, among her closest associates and devotees. The hug was nearly upon us.

Closer, closer still, pushed to your knees, arms spread in preparation, the intimate mass ushering you along the parade, the factory line (take your pick).

Then – the hug.

Thrust into Amma’s bosom, she holds you as the intimate mass about is all aflutter with whisphers and subtle movement, and the moment extends. It is pleasant, the hug, and within her embrace, she does seem a genuinely compassionate woman. Perhaps not a god, but a profoundly empathic human being. So I hugged her back, and we lay there for a moment holding one another before she spoke softly to me alone and handed me quickly a small packet as her throng pulled me up and away.

The package? It contained a tasty bit of rock candy which I sucked as I walked from the circus and the woman stirring its fervor and ectasy, out into the cool night air, to my simple bed and sleep.

Asia: In transit to India and Nepal…

My proposed travel itinerary for the spring.

January
Hong Kong, China

February
Kerala, India
- Trivandrum
- Varkala
- Alleppey
- Kochi
Tamil Nadu, India
- Chennai
- Mamallapuram
- Pudacherry
- Madurai
- Kodakanal
Karnataka, India
- Mysore
- Bangalore
- Hampi
- Gokarna
Goa, India

March
Mumbai, India
Maharashtra, India
- Ajanta
- Ellora
Delhi, India
Rajasthan, India
- Jaipur
- Udaipur
- Pushkar
- Jodhpur
- Jaisalmer

April
Haryana & Punjab, India
- Amritsar
Himachal Pradesh, India
- Dharamsala
Uttarakhand, India
- Rishikesh
Uttar Pradesh, India
- Agra
- Varanasi
Nepal

May
Sikkim India
- Darjeeling
West Bengal, India
- Calcutta
France
England

Asia: Week 15, in review.

2010, January 24 – January 30:
En route to India.

Days 1 and 2: Exit the Dragon.

The week began slowly, without a great deal of surprise or variation. Having intended on departing for Macua, and having stuck rather closer to “home”, wandering the lanes and by-ways of Kowloon, the only reasonable achievements consisted of not getting run over and feeding myself – first with a savory bowl of ramen alongside dishe of fried chicken and dumplings with kiwi juice, and second (once more joined by Anna) at a small Vietnamese place for a plate of pan-fried pork over rice.

So it goes.

My last full day in Hong Kong, I spent almost entirely hunkered down, working in a cafe along Kowloon’s promenade. Productive, yes. Exciting or interesting to relate, perhaps but probably not. Best not to risk it.

Dinner, on the other hand, was delicious. Having returned to the Japanese noodle house for a last meal with Anna, we enjoyed bowls of ramen, katsu pork cutlet, fried spring rolls, potato cakes and vegetable dumplings.

And, that was that, my over long stay in Hong Kong was nearly at an end. I’m not sure why I lingered so long, though the city was an easy place to do so – arresting views, dynamic citylife and fantastic food.

I think a part of me was lingering in China, or as close to the mainland as I was allowing myself to get, entertaining the possibility of a return, but India was calling and it was past time to move on.

Days 3 and 4: Indian Bizarre.

I spent the morning retracing my all-too-familiar route from Mong Kok to the harbour. As I sat, enjoying my tea, watching the early tourist crowds file past, I admires the view – the skyline, mountains and sea – and guessed at when I might see it again.

I returned to the hostel, picked up my pack, and began the log journey to India. Little did I appreciate the full extent of the change being introduced.

From the Hong Kong airport, I had a leisurely, late lunch befor e catching my first 4hr flight to Kuala Lumpur. Things went smoothly as they often do in Hong Kong, and I landed in Malaysia, into the warm wet air, around midnight.

My flight to India wasn’t for another 6hr, so I ducked into a 24hr cafe, and made myself as comfortable as possible. The cafe was littered with halfway bodies slumped over tables, half-finished drinks and snacks scattered about. Half-awake, everyone sat in limbo, waiting to leave, waiting more to arrive somewhere real. The time passed, slowly, and I caught my second 4hr flight to Trivandrum, India, the provincial capital of the southern state of Kerala.

As we landed, the intensely bright sun illuminating the arid red earth below, the speck of an airport – a few runways gathered about a circa 1972 building – welcomed us into the suffocating heat. So, this was India.

Security and customs (and I’m being gracious with my labels) ushered me past their small desk with a minimum of questions, and suddenly there I was, standing outside the airport staring into a sea of rickshaw and taxi drivers, families eager and chattering, and I didn’t even have a rupee, let alone an idea of how to get into town or where I might sleep.

Fruitlessly circling the pavement in front of the terminal, past a collection of ramshackle shops and pestering would-be drivers, I arrived back at the front gate, still rupee-less, still mostly lost. By accident I discovered an American $20 I had tucked into my daypack, exchanged it for a relative wealth of rupees and had means again.

Over-tired and eager to settle, I took a taxi into Trivandrum’s center, which amounted to a slightly wider road, naturally more traffic, and somewhat less dilapidated buildings. I was going to have to acclimate quickly between what I’d come to expect of infrastructure in China, let alone America, and what I was finding in India.

Five hotels visited and rebuffed – no room – I almost hopped a train just to keep up emotional momentum as much as physical, but my growing sleeplessness persuaded me otherwise. Thankfully, the sixth hotel yielded results, a relatively comfortable, if stuffy, room. The manager seemed incapable of anything but smiles and the occassionally hearty shoulder slap, his seemingly unwarranted enthusiasm, amid the heat and dust, buoying my flagging spirits.

My bag unpacked, a cold refreshing shower, and I felt, daresay, refreshed. I decided to venture out, as sleep was still hanging in the distance.

I’d like to say my long walk down MG Road, to the public gardens, changed my opinion of Trivandrum. It did not.

The city was a construction zone, one seemingly abandoned. Though I was determined not to compare everything I saw to what I had seen in China, the contrast was glaring. Chinese towns of all sizes, but certainly provincial capitals, evoke an unmistakenable momentum.

Development is.

Here it seemed, development might be, but just as well might not.

Navigating the uneven dirt sidewalk to the rundown zoological gardens, past the intriguingly bizarre Connemara Market, and back again, I was exhausted. Buses, taxis and rickshaws raced along, nearly all in disrepair. If things began new in India, then the environment seemed damn well determined to obscure that fact as quickly as possible.

Hungry and increasingly eager to secure my escape route, I walked to the train station to inquire about onward tickets for the following morning. As I would be catching a local train, it was as simple as show up and hope to find space aboard.

Near the train station, my opinion of Trivandrum was slightly redeemed by a pair of eateries: First, the quirky Indian Coffee House, a huge brick spiraling tower, its winding interior ramp lined with benches as it rose to the top. Second, by the cool, spotless, thali joint Ariya Nivaas, serving up good cheap food, as much as you could eat.

Well fed, somewhat oriented, and the red sun hanging low in the sky, I retired to my hotel. The ceiling fan madly whirring, me below – naked, sweating, sweetly sleeping.

Day 5: The Great Train Escape.

I woke early, returned to Ariya Nivaas for a farewell meal, then dove into the surprisingly light crowd at the train station.

Ticket bought and train found, bodies poured out of the cars, men holding onto men like monkeys in a barrel. Everyone was hoping to leave, by whatever means necessary; ‘Such is the lure of Trivandrum,’ I thought. I ducked into the end of a sleeper car in a section of the carriages I was almost certain was not my own, but that seemed a minor point.

Sitting upon a large trunk with a quiet Indian fellow, the train sounded its horn and chugged slowly up to pace. The rugged, beautiful landscape – snaking rivers, towering palms, and that red red earth – began to roll past the open door. Quite like that, Trivandrum slipped into the distance, and something new began to take its place.

My first Indian train ride was a short one; little less than an hour, but, oh, the difference an hour can make.

I hopped off the train in Varkala Town, took on a rickshaw, and stated with calm certainty, “The beach.” After a short ride and a few sharp turns, the Arabian Sea appeared swallowing the horizon. White sand pushed up and down along the coast, lined by high cliffs fringed with palm and banyan trees.

Varkala was beautiful.

To be certain, it lacked infrastructure. It lacked even sidewalks, or really any sort of sidewalks at all. It lacked consistent electricity. But, when the smell of spice hangs in the air, when the rolling rhythm of waves crashing replaces the din of traffic, when the waft of delicious food served from cafe upon cafe lines the main footpath, infrastructure seems somewhat less essential.

Touring a few guesthouses, I chose a spacious room set back a short way from the cliff run by a pleasant fellow living next door.

Settled, showered, I wandered the footpath along the cliff, lined with cafes and shops, overlooking the beach and sea. As the formidable heat bore down, I ducked into a tiered cafe, its tables arrayed toward the water, and I tucked into a red curry with fresh fish for a late lunch.

Satisfied, the sun beginning to sink, I took tea further down the path, watching the evening procession of tourists emerge for dinner.

Finally, over-tired, still very much acclimatig to the heat, to the culture, to the energies of this new land, I went home and slept, soundly.

Days 6 and 7: Varkala, and the sea.

There isn’t a great deal to go on about regarding the end of my week in Varkala. I wake up, exercise. I grab a lite breakfast with fresh juice from Umeesh at the Juice Shack. I lay upon the beach or walk along the shore. Or, I sit in a cafe sipping masala tea, at long last catching up on the embarassing pile of unpublished travel documentation. I take dinner at any one of the fine restaurants. I watch the tourists and locals alike saunter past. I retire to my breezy room, and sleep.

One particular meal does stand out.

Saturday evenings, Umeesh prepares a buffet of traditional Keralan dishes. Bowls of all manner of vegetables, dips, sauces, curries and the like sit for the taking. I’m not ashamed to say I went back for 3 helpings and ate the flat bread ’til it was gone.

It was also at the buffet where I met Maya, an American woman studying in Paris, and Maria, an English woman long living in Nice.

Varkala, to be sure, is touristy, but uncrowded, laidback, the accidental arrangement of low houses and winding paths arresting one’s hurried pace, the sounds of drums and chanting rolling along the lanes, men and women walking to and from their Ayurvedic and yoga clinics – it was calming, easy, beautiful.

Asia: Week 14, in review.

2010, January 17 – January 23:
Down and Out in Hong Kong.

Day 1: Tea at the Peninsula.

The day began in the park.

Sundays constitute the only weekend many Hong Kong-ers have (in particular, the legion of Filipino domestic workers), and they flood the parks for a little green (what little is available), a little breathing space (ironically absent given the droves) and some welcome community. I was there to watch everyone else enjoy their freedom.

In actuality, Kowloon Park is less park than human zoo. Molded concrete frames the various activity areas: tree groves, swimming pools, sport courts, and the like.

I suppose I’m being picky in my definition of park; I’m simply used to larger swathes of unconstrained green. By Hong Kong standards, the park was quite naturally entirely constructed, like nearly every other inch of the city.

By that measure, it was a pleasant open space, reasonably free of buildings.

I spent the late afternoon with Johanna, who I’d met at the Ah Shan Hostel, takin tea at the Peninsula Hotel.

Amusingly, for non-guests such as we, one stands in a semi-obscured waiting line watching other non-guests enjoy their cakes, sandwiches and tea, hoping they won’t dally too long at the exercise.

Finally seated, we ordered a milk shake (Johanna) and tea (Me, as I buckled to tradition), and nary a cake.

The tea ceremony was sufficiently elaborate, involving a wide array of superfluous strainers, containers, pots and utensils, but I enjoyed the anachronistic appeal of putting so much effort into a few cups of tea.

Having successfully ignored the stares of our fellow non-guests for the better partf an hour, we made our way back into the busy streets of Tsim Sha Tsui in search of hot pot.

We found it at the Little Sheep.

Akin to the ceremony of tea, hot pot is a process, and one I enjoy. We ordered a wide ranging sample platter and fared well against the offerings, save the still-twitching prawns. I’m not a fan of prawns under pre- cut and cooked circumstances, and looking into their beady eyes, pale and delicate legs feebly clawing at the air, I managed only to dunk a few into the boiling broth, their skin shot a bright pink and the fidgetations ceased.

After cleaning our platter of the less objectionable ingredients, we made our way home.

Days 2 and 3: A room with a view.

I spent the following 2 days scouting fetching corners of the city to attempt work.

I took in the peak and its cafe with the spectacular view of the city and harbour. As I read and wrote into the evening, I was afforded the opportunity of watching the city’s slow transformation into cloumns of light.

I parked myself along the Avenue of Stars along the Kowloon promenade, Hong Kong’s tribute to its own cinematic history. On the upper wind-blown deck of a cafe, I watched the crowds pass and all manner of ships float on the harbour.

All in all, I succeeded in doing more watching than working.

Day 4: Cheung Chau.

I walked down Nathan Street to the Star Ferry, across to Central and the piers serving the outlying islands.

Cheung Chau, a small island near Lantau, shaped like a dumbbell with a small village at the center, offered conveniet hikes along both the northern and southern bells.

I took the southern route, walking along rugged cliffs, small hidden beaches, through the extensive cemetary, and along the boardwalk as I circles back into town, a long row of fishing boats strung together, others still coming in from sea with their daily haul.

As dark settled and I wandered the tight lanes of the village, I settled upon a popular restaurant at the northern end of town. Fried fish with eggplant, rice, vegetable dumplings, and a Tsing Tao: a delicious meal on which to end my island exploration.

Satisfied, I boarded the ferry and retraced my route home.

Days 5 to 7: Wandering Kowloon.

Cloud cover rolled in, obscuring the skyscrapers and mountain peaks as well as my plans for further island-ing. Instead, I dug a little deeper into Kowloon.

I wandered through a string of markets: the Ladies’ market, the Jade and Spice markets, the Temple market. I visited the Hong Kong Museum of History (twice), and took in the extensive and fascinating survey of Hong Kong – geologically, ecologically and historically – which occupies the whole of the museum.

I met Dora, a young woman explorer, delving into her own city before leaving it for Australia, and I stopped to think, comparatively, how little time and energy many of us put into discovering our homes versus those of strangers.

I also met Anna, a fellow American teaching English in Guangzhou, hurriedly sorting out visa problems. Slowing down for a moment and exploiting the fact that we didn’t have to dine alone, we enjoyed dinner away from the street stalls at a proper restaurant. We even managed a bottle of wine.

I may not have lazed on beaches as planned, but below the carpet of clouds, I had quite a nice time.

Granted, my week was not without its downside.

I spent the latter half relocated to a dorm room without windows, barely wide enough for the two beds it contained. I crawled into my box each evening and out again as soon as I awoke, and thankfully with the help of the manager, relocated once again after 2 less-than-delightful evenings.

The sounds of traffic and smell of stalls below never seemed as sweet.

Asia: Week 13, in review.

2010, January 10 – January 16:
Return to Hong Kong and Asia.

Days 1, 2 and 3: Minnesota.

I spent the last few days hurriedly wrapping up the longish list of errands I’d set out for the trip home, but which I’d obviously let go ’til the 11th hour. Still, nothing essential suffered, and my bag (noticeably lighter) contained everything it must, and little it shouldn’t.

The days’ remainders were spent running between goodbye coffees, lunches, and dinners. I wonder, ‘How many times may a person come and go in a given year, and still receive a fuss for having done so?’

Days 4 and 5: Return to Hong Kong.

Final goodbyes, then precarious, periodic restlessness, hanging between here and there.

Landed in Hong Kong, too late, last subway to hostel, ubiquitous neon traffic roar, checked in and crashed.

First proper sleep in 24hrs.

Day 6: Hong Kong, a long walk.

8am. Began acclimating to Hong Kong with an early walk.

From Mong Kok along long Nathan Road to the shimmering, bustling Bay, along the boardwalk past the pink-tiled Museum of Modern Art to the Star Ferry, best budget cruise across the Bay to Central, through the IFCs, up Pottinger Street to Hollywood Road, over and over through SoHo, up steep Ladder Street to winding Bonham Road all the way to the University of Hong Kong, and back again.

Stopping once or twice to bite, sip and gander, I exhausted myself and 14hrs.

Returned to the hostel, I collapsed, the din of traffic below amidst the Ladies Market less a distraction than a purveyor of odd, rumbling dreams.

Day 7: Lamma Island.

Another early start (I needed to take temporary advantage of my confused body before, righted, it resumed noonish targets).

I walked again from Mong Kok to the Bay, crossing on the Star Ferry, then made my way to the piers for Outlying Islands and boarded the hydrofoil for Lamma Island.

Southwest of Hong Kong Island, smaller Lamma Island’s sparse population centers around northern Yung Shue Wan and southern Sok Kwu Wan. Linked by a well-maintained trail passing beaches and peaks, the hike between villages proved an ideal escape from the unrelenting cityscape of Hong Kong’s Central and Kowloon.

That is not to say Lamma Island is completely free of urban reminders. Aberdeen’s highrise apartments stare across the sea, gigantic cargo ships ply the waters, and, closer to home, a behemouth power plant silently rests upon the otherwise idyllic landscape. Strange bedfellows, the rolling green peaks and towering concrete stacks, against the backdrop of rolling waves and setting sun.

Power plant and cargo ships notwithstanding, Lamma Island was relaxing. Laying on the beach did as much to center me once more in Asia as my urban trek had the day before.

Away from the cold of Minnesota’s winter, without friends or family, resting on a beach staring out into the South China Sea, I was traveling again.

Sitting still, but traveling again.

A dinner of steamed fish and rice along the pier of Sok Kwu Wan. A chilly late night return ferry to Central, then again to Kowloon.

I reached the hostel and slept.

Asia: Week 12, in review.

2009, December 13 – December 19:
From Hong Kong to Home.

Day 1: One last bus ride.

Our last day in Yangshuo ventured along our well traveled path.

I began with a satisfying trip to the clay pot for a delicious lunch of stir-fried pork and eggplant over rice fired in a claypot so the bottom layer becomes crisp and chewy as well as a set of fried dumplings in soy sauce.

Following that, a walk along the river and a pot of ginger tea at my favorite cafe.

As evening set in, and Maria and I made preparations to depart, we said our goodbyes to those familiar faces still in residence, to Michael and JC for their hospitality, and finally, we made our way to the night bus.

It was time to go.

We boarded the packed sleeper bus, placed our shoes in plastic bags, and stowed our things in the cramped cubby, then climbed into our even more cramped beds, and settled in for the long drive. I prefer trains.

Day 2: Enter the Dragon.

We pulled into Shenzhen the next morning, and proceeded quickly to the border crossing. With the help of Lucy’s ridiculously helpful directions, we were crossing into Hong Kong before we knew it.

Like that, we’d left mainland China, the past 3 months suddenly history rather than ongoing adventure. If we weren’t so efficiently ushered into the territory, aboard the MTR, and into Hong Kong, we might have taken a moment to appreciate the dramatic transition.

As it were, in less than 90min, we went from night bus to HK hostel, and the final, short stage of my Chinese journey was under foot.

Temporarily settles in our tiny room, the universal quality of HK hostels being the lack of space, Maria and I rushed into the city in search of food.

Beginning in Central on Hong Kong Island, we scouted and found a decidedly European-style cafe and enjoyed soup and sndwiches. If you didn’t know otherwise, one might have assumed they’d surfaced in London or San Francisco. Hong Kong was proving a fusion in every respect.

Following our meal, we took the “world’s longest escalator” to it’s terminus above Central and SoHo, a journey which sounds every bit as exciting as it actually is.

Continuing with the theme of upward mobility, we took the Peak Tram to Victoria Peak, a far more rewarding journey and destination.

Our first proper view of the sprawling city, it was an array or urbanity, rising green mountains and rolling blue water – an impressive sight. Lingering atop the peak, we went for a short hike and enjoyed a coffee at a cafe with terrific views of Central, Kowloon and the harbour separating them. Finally, we bumbled our way back down to Central successfully avoiding any effective path of descent.

That evening, we were joined by our friend Daniel. We took the Star Ferry from Central to Kowloon, certainly one of the best and cheapest attractions available, and watched the lightshow from the boat, a necessary and underwhelming performance of light and sound, considering the natural skyline is already a concert of neon.

We then made off to meet Marco (from Xi’an) and a couple friends of his for dinner in Causeway Bay.

Reunited, we ducked down a backstreet and up a flight of stairs into a nondescript building that hid a bustling dinner hall. No English menu, and hardly any spoken, Ray ordered everything, and he did so excellently. From the clams to the deep-fried chicken knuckles, we lingered over our meals and conversation for hours before retiring to a highrise set of bars, one atop another, dozens in all. We started at the top and after another 2hrs had made it through 7 of them.

A short minibus ride later, I fell into bed exhausted.

Day 3: Art in Kowloon.

My final day in Hong Kong began early. I took the MTR to Central, caught the Star Ferry to Kowloon, and was quickly at the Museum of Modern Art. Maria met me there.

We wandered through the exhibits, particularly taken with the collection of traditional landscapes, the history of vases (the development of coloring techniques is wicked), and the top floor filled with a vibrant array of Hong Kong modern art demonstrating the astounding number of influences the territory fused.

We took in a Macau-styled lunch, and by chance, ran into Vy and Jonathan from Yangshuo. Together we went to the Temple Street Market, albeit too early, and only a few stalls were open.

Our group heading in directions, I bid them all goodbye, promising with Maria to reunite in India, and set off along Nathan Road back to Tsim Sha Tsui, the harbour and the Star Ferry, back to Central and a pleasant cafe to while away the final hours of my evening.

Day 4: Exit Hong Kong.

5am, and I was waiting along the street for the airport express bus. 24hrs of travel had begun.

First to the Hong Kong airport for a 3hr flight to Tokyo, then a 2hr layover, followed by a 13hr flight to Portland, another 2hr layover for good measure, and finally a 3hr flight to Minneapolis. The miracle of modern travel and time zones delivering me home only 3hrs after I took off.

Duration aside, the journey went surprisingly well from the aged American business man who was returning from his first visit to the future mother-in-law (it didn’t go well, but that hadn’t seemed to blunt his enthusiam for his young Chinese fiancé) to precocious 3yo Zenry who insisted (repeatedly) that I resume my role as the driver of the dump truck and space shuttle, that his race car might ram both off the tray table. You’d think a half day of that would have grown stall, it didn’t.

The best for last, I stepped into the arrivals area and caught sight of my Dad, wide smile, waiting to drive me home. No one else even knew I was in the country.

The drive home, through the frigid and snow-covered landscape, was a vivid reminder that I’d left southern China far behind.

We pulled into the garage and stepped into the house.

I hoped this folger’s moment wouldn’t give my Mom a heartache, and as I turned into her sight, I didn’t know. Her face red, she dropped the phone, and rushed to give me a hug.

I was home.

Days 5 to 7: Home for the Holidays.

I spent the next few days acclimating to the change – the business of surprising friends and family with my return, our family’s harried holiday schedule, and the excitement of picking up things where I’d left off (albeit temporarily) speeding along my adjustment.

All the while, I began to make sense of my time in China (and began to formulate how quickly I might return).

It had been an incomparable season abroad, and yet so much remained left to see and do.

I started to prepare for India…

Asia: Weeks 10 and 11, in review.

2009, November 29 – December 12:
Getting lost in Guangxi.

Days 1 to 14: Out and about in Yangshuo.

If my trip to Suzhou and return to Xi’an had shifted the focus of my travel from cultural to social exploration, then Yangshuo cemented that fact.

Maybe it was the better part of 9wks spent exploring the varied provinces of China but a fatigue had crept in, and the opportunity in Yangshuo to do little more than drink and eat good food, walk, hike and bike the stunning surroundings, and mix with a terrific group of strangers become friends proved a compellingly relaxing way to close out my first trip to China.

I flew into Guilin for a short stay before pushing on to Yangshuo. The town center was quite pleasant, but (and this is a poor criticism) it all felt a bit same-y, a sense many rapidly modernized Chinese cities evoke. I spent the night wandering the night markets, feeding from the street stalls, finally retiring to the comfort of the Backstreet Hostel’s common room.

The following day, and to their surprise, I met up with Kev and Lucy at the Guilin train station, and we made our way quickly to the bus station and onward to Yangshuo. After a short night bus ride, we were walking down lively neon-lit West Street toward our the Showbiz Inn, our extended home in Yangshuo.

Our routine was quick to set. The days were spent walking the town or biking the surrounding countryside, punctuated violently by karst peaks everywhere. We’d lunch at either the clay pot or bamboo basket, take in an afternoon tea, eat a slightly more extravagent dinner, perhaps a platter of beer fish, and as evening set in, we’d retire to the rooftop bars, often our own at the Showbiz, to see the late hours through.

The regular cast became too large to fully note, but to give some impression: Uncle Michael, JC, Kev, Lucy, Maria, Grant, Daniel, Cath, Ewuin, Marina, Jack, Momo, Coco, Justin, Shuang Fei, Pete, Yuqi, the Snack Lady, so on and so forth…

The routine was only occassionally interrupted by some more particular or peculiar happening.

I took in the Impressions water and light show, an outdoor mass performance set amid the karst peaks upon the waters of the Li river. Dozens of local boatman, dancers and singers paraded out onto the water in gracefully executed patterns. It was impressive to be sure, but I think I allowed myself to build up otherworldly expectations for this spectacle masterminded by the same gentleman responsible for the Olympics opening ceremony. It was, after all, a reasonably amazing performance, of this world.

On several occassions, we biked along the Yulong river.

We went to Moon Hill, a massive crescent-shaped gouge in a karst peak, atop which stood a devilishly clever old woman selling water and carried a book of (forged?) testemonials by all manner of previous traveler beseeching us, their future cohorts, to buy whatever we could. We did, but only a little, and we bargained her for that. We still admired that she, or some strapping grandchild, had carried the drinks so high. Well done.

We explored the river itself from south to north, tracing it’s winding path past boat jetties, small villages, wandering water buffalo and farmers tending their fields.

And, we rode to the Dragon (Yulong) Bridge, an ancient graceful structure, and watched the river people with their fishing birds cruise slowly down the river, the dramatic landscape reflected serenely in the clear water.

The reflective rides never failed to yield stunning vistas and friendly smiles as we pedaled by on our rickety bicycles.

Near the end of our time in Yangshuo, the fishing festival was celebrated.

The largest of the year for the local area, perhaps save the spring festival, the event signaled the end of the fishing season and the ceremonial departure of the boats.

Late at night, as they cleared the bend of the river, the latern-lit boats would set their fires asail, high into the air against the backdrop of shadowy karst peaks and raging bon fires along the opposite bank.

Then as the last boat disappeared, the last latern flew into the dark sky, fireworks exploded – vivid, seemingly unending, their crash richoting off the low mountains surrounding us, cacophonous destruction.

It was a fitting end to our two long weeks spent enjoying the easy charms of the town and the beautiful land.

Our final day, before Maria and I were to catch our bus to Hong Kong, Maria, Justin, Ewuin and I delved into the heart of a karst peak, touring the water caves south of town. The dark and twisting labrynth led through cracked, craggly passages barely wide enough to crawl through and into cavernous halls, the roofs obscured.

At the end of our tour, we slipped, with only minor hesitation, into the gritty slimey mud pools. Cool, thick ooze covered our bodies, and to wash, we jumped into even colder pools of dark underground water. I imagined something lost to time waiting there in the recess of water and rock, hungry. Luckily, I emerged reasonably clean and intact.

As reward, we next lingered in the natural hot springs, a task needing no persuasion. A series of small pools from hot to warm cascading down a small interior cliff into a large pool below, we sat, eyes closed, steaming, until our guide signaled it was unfortunately time to go. Reluctantly, we made our return to the hostel, and picked up as usual upon the rooftop bars.

Somehow, I’ve related the gist of my two weeks in Yangshuo, yet I’ve not touched upon late night snacks, that cornerstone of our daily routine.

Even as the bars shuttered and the neon lights of West Street went dim, the snack stalls toiled, and each evening our final ritual played itself out.

As a group we would walk down the dark lanes, growing as we came across stragglers and strangers alike, pulled into our gravity by the enthusiastic talk of snacks. Pilgrims, we’d seek out the Snack Lady and her stall of deep fried miracles. She and her partner (Snack Lady #2), offered everything you’d want and plenty you didn’t but would end up eating anyway.

From less delectable pig penis to the inimitable spicy doughballs that would set your mouth aflame, we’d eat our fill, often twice that, and finally over-stuffed, lumber back to our beds to dream of the next snacking.