Barbershop
Angelo:

Every male who ever travels in India is missing something if they fail to visit an Indian barber.

My hair had long since passed the manageable stage -- I was finding that the less I washed it the better it looked -- and my beard had passed the point where I could successfully shave with the plastic disposable Gillettes that I'd brought along, when I decided it was time for a trip to the barber.

The male barber tradition is still alive and well in India, and the daily shave is something a majority of Indian men still leave to the professionals. In a given afternoon's walk you'll pass as many as thirty barber shops, stalls, stands or just chaps barbering right on the sidewalk.

I had passed several seedy looking shops when Esther pointed out a rather tidy looking establishment, roughly the size of a shoe box, with four chairs and the morning sunlight pouring through the open doors. There were three barbers working, and the youngest of the three invited me to take a chair.

"How much for a shave and a haircut?" I asked.

"Thirty Rupees," came the reply, (just under $1 CAN).

I took a seat in one of the four ancient barber chairs and waited to see which barber would finish first and continue down the line to me. I had hoped for the younger guy, thinking that my modern hairstyle would confuse the old man. However, it was the old fellow I got.

This, however, turned out to be a blessing, as the old fellow decided to take it upon himself to give me the full, old-fashioned treatment. I was initially frightened at how fast he cut, his scissors never stopped snapping, even when they were hovering above my head whilst he combed, reminiscent of Edward Scissorhands. Because I'm head-and-shoulders taller than most Indian men, and because the chairs aren't gas-lift, I kept having to scrunch down in the chair so the old fellow could reach the hair on the top of my head. I calmed myself thinking that I still have six weeks for my hair to grow out before I have to be seen by friends and relatives upon my arrival in Vancouver.

My hairstyle confounded the old man, and he continually asked the younger dudes to come over to his chair to discuss how the job was progressing. In the end they got it right, more or less, and what followed was the first of several scalp/head-and-shoulders/face massages.

Then came the shave. The barber, who seemed to be enjoying himself at this point -- I had attracted a bit of a crowd of passers-by -- lathered up my beard with a horsehair brush. With great panache he whipped out the straight razor, slipped in a new blade, showing me: "See? New blade..." and commenced sloughing off the three-week's growth. A second lather followed and a closer second shave, pulling, pinching and tugging my skin to achieve the best results.

The next several finishing treatments were kind of a blur as my face and scalp were bombarded with various tonics, lotions and salves, punctuated by several different types of massage -- including a frightening, ancient electronic vibrator -- spritzes and vigorous towelings.

When it was all over I'd been in the chair for close to an hour. My face felt like farm-fresh butter, though my hair was a little shorter than reasonable. The old barber managed a passable facsimile of my hairstyle, but still refused to let me leave the shop with the tousled look. He parted my hair and combed it flat against my head, making me look like Dennis the Menace on picture day.


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Cancellation ticket
Esther:

I have this cancellation train ticket pasted in my journal that I have recently dubbed the physical proof of 'The Illusion of Control'. I feel that I am learning what it is like to understand this principle upon our departure from Jaipur.

We had an evening train departure from Jaipur, Feb.25th of 11:50pm destined for Jaisalmer, the small city on the edge of the Thar Desert. We kept our room in Jaipur for the evening, as wasting time from 10am on wasn't the best option in this city that is an 'assault' on the senses. ( I had an unfortunate incident that literally inhabited the word, but not enough gumption to divulge it at this time. I'm okay, just grrrrr...) We checked out at 10:15pm and headed happily to the train station and appropriate platform #2.

Platform #2 turned out to be our new home, as our train was delayed until 1:35am in the morning. I thought, well, it's India and what can we do? You know that feeling, when you are at the airport, in plenty of time for your flight and then you are promptly informed that it is delayed? It's that feeling, except that there are no lovely facilities to lounge in and no yummy automatic operated bathrooms, rather a bleak light from the chai stall and smelly tracks and not so clean atmosphere altogether. We landed a decent spot to hang at until 1:35am. As we were the only whiteys in this area of the platform, we got a good audience huddled around us, watching our every very boring move and listening to our very drawl conversation. Whatever.

Another posting, our train will be arriving at 2:35am. So, we figure, 3:00am, latest. Tired and bored and bum-sore, we heard the sound of the train arriving, at 3:05am. Not on platform #2 though - that would be all too convenient. Rather on platform #4, which is a good distance up stairs and down stairs with the rest of the bogged-down bleary-eyed travellers. Grrr! We rounded up our gear and revved up our heart-rate to climb the stairs up and down to platform #4, where our very tardy train slowly edged it's way in. The sleeper car was quite a ways, but we made it on and were happy to know, soon, sleep was imminent (2 gravol please) and most welcome. Our train blew its whistle at 3:35am, indicating departure East.

Drafty windows and cool evening air permeated our sleeps, waking to bright sun a mere 5 1/2 hours later. At Jodhpur, we were fully awake. Jodhpur marks the mid-point of the journey to Jaisalmer. Jodhpur junction brought on the announcement from the train porters that the journey is officially cancelled. No more train on this route for the day - train cancelled! What? The grunts from travellers, Indian and whitey alike, was in unison. I was strangely relieved to be getting off the train, but certainly not under these circumstances.

Angelo and I got ourselves to a chai stand pronto and deliberated our options. Jodhpur was where we had intended to come after our Jaisalmer bout, we had even bought the ticket for it. Would now be an appropriate time to stop in Jodhpur and decide on Jaisalmer at a more coherent time? Yep.

So, we headed to Wicket 11 for our remaining ticket refund for this trip and for our train ticket we purchased the day before from Jaisalmer to Jodhpur. This queue was quite animated, but not out of control. People were too tired to really get edgy about the lineup. I asked an Indian gentleman if this cancellation of journey at mid-point was a common thing. He said he has never, in all his years of train travel, experienced it. I proclaimed to many Indian's glee that this was my first time and it was his first time! They thought that was pretty funny. The man in Wicket 11 reminded me that grace and patience is essential in India and all of life. He smiled and nodded and answered questions in the most admirable way. He encouraged me deeply.

In the meantime of me queuing, Angelo made arrangements for pick-up at the station with a wonderful, peaceful man who runs Shivam Paying Guesthouse. He graciously waited for us to get a second refund on the trip from Jaisalmer to Jodhpur. We got in the fancy auto-rickshaw and headed to the hotel.

Jodhpur is a decent place to end up. The formidable fortress above the skyline is incredible to take in. It's titled the Blue City and it is much like Udaipur, though not as hilly in it streets. We have a room with cable TV and are really excited about it. I find it a stellar respite from the recent storm.

My cancellation ticket will be a reminder of the illusion of control - a lesson in adaptability and grace. Jaisalmer be damned!
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Harry Potter
Esther:

I have truly been enjoying the escapism entertainment of the Harry Potter series the past few weeks. We picked up the first one in Pune, pending whether or not we would enjoy it and subsequently traded some other books for the next two in the series shortly thereafter. The books provide an easy read with a wonderful ride of whimsical, imaginary things that I highly recommend. I've been laughing out loud at the character of Ron Weasley as he hands-down has the best dialouge of a very typical 12 year old boy in a very atypical world of Hogwarts School of Wizardry.

It's funny, we read books about India in the beginning of the trip, and since the first few weeks in Goa, we decided, "We're in India, so we need books to escape it". Weird?!

Now that I am finished the third HP book, I forced myself to read a 'real' book and read Douglas Coupland's "All Families are Psychotic". Fabulous totally wrecked pages of a well, bizarro family. Funny how a Canuck writer can make one homesick by writing about North Vancouver.
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Iffy Stomachs
Angelo:

Well, it's finally happened. Esther and I woke up with iffy stomachs this morning. Not really sick, but not really well either. Which is amazing when you think about it -- seven weeks of eating nothing but extremely spicy Indian food for breakfast (Masala Dosa), lunch, (pakora, samosa) and dinner, (Malai Kofta, Paneer Tikka Masala, Aloo Gobi et cetera). We've felt like we're on borrowed time for a while now.

We each had a Thali last night, and the suspect dish is raitha, (a cold dish with a yogurt base and swimming with various vegetables and spices depending on the region that produced it). A Thali is a kind of all-you-can-eat meal served on an enormous stainless steel plate. Depending on what you order and where, you'll get one or more breads, (roti, naan, chapatti, papad), anywhere from three to six or more small stainless steel bowls filled with different curries, some hot others sweet, and a bowl of rice, (often plain but sometimes mixed with cloves and cardamom). Usually you get a raitha as well, (though I don't think we'll be partaking of any more yoghurt-based dishes any time soon).

We shame-facedly ducked into a Pizza Hut this afternoon, wanting something bland and simple to put in our bellies. We stopped in front of the local McDonald's, (where you could get a Big McVeggie Mac -- in fact there were more vegetarian options than non on the menu board), but couldn't bring ourselves to cross the threshold.

It was bizarre to step into the quiet confines of the Pizza Hut, feeling for all the world like suburban Americana. I had garlic bread while Esther had a small personal-pan pizza. Tasted just like Pizza Hut in St. Vital, or South Fraser Way, and we half expected to see our car parked out front when we stepped back out into the mayhem of late afternoon traffic...in Jaipur, Rajasthan, India.
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Jaipur
Esther:

Angelo and I left Udaipur for Jaipur two days ago via meter-gauge train. It's a bit of a wobbly ride, but the pace leaves one with very little to worry about. Leaving Udaipur was a little bit of a mushy one, because we simply never got tired of the Lake Pichola view and the innumerable roof-top terrace restaurants.

Jaipur is one of the biggest cities in the state of Rajasthan, with a concentrated population of two million plus. Ironically, here is where we have encountered more of the basics in transportation than the past few destinations - specifically cycle-rickshaws, ox-carts, horse-drawn carriages and bicycles commuting in a mesh of the usual caustic traffic. Jaipur is also referred to as the Pink City. It has a gigantic fort wall of deep pink colour and within the heart of the walled city, most, if not all buildings are the same hue. The city within the wall is bustling, a market atmosphere, but strangely civilized. It is replete with shops of shoes, clothing, fabric and loads of gems and silver. Angelo and I toured the City Palace of the current and past Maharajas which was honey colored with intricate trellised walls, making one wonder what beauty once haunted these lavish rooms. The weapons portion of the museum within was incredible, barbaric and ornate at the same time.

Jaipur is our stop en route to Jaisalmer. Jaisalmer is a golden town on the edge of the Thar Desert. We may do a camel safari from there, depending on the tours and guides available. I'm a little hesitant now, considering I've seen a number of camels up close and they don't look all too inviting. They are also known for constant flatulence, so we'll have to see.
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Noise
Esther:

There has been a cumulative effect on Angelo and I over the past few days of the amount of noise our ears take in a day. We have been walking through the bazaars, narrow streets, riding trains and unfortunately, even in the comfort of our own room making sign language to continue the conversation we attempted to start momentarily.

The noise factor can include any number of the following:

First, there are the machines: autorickshaws, the three wheel taxi with revving motor and the horn pitch wavering with the rise and fall of the RPM's, the jeeps, buses, motorcycles and bells on bicycles are monstrous in their noise effect with motor, exhaust (entirely different sense, I know) and horns. Oh the horns.

Secondly, the noise of 'request' that follows travellers and locals alike: "Hello!" (variations of this can be greetings of the daypart, stern attention-getters in bellowing calls and physical touch to get us to look at what they want to sell) 'Rickshaw!', 'One pen' (kids always request this), 'One rupee', and the classic 'Come look, my shop, cheap price'. Hello is rarely a greeting out of friendliness, though they do occur that way most often in Hindi, which is "Namaste".

Then the accruing noise of all other items: As Angelo referred to in the last blog, the Bollywood soundtracks ravaging the street at maxed out volumes, often having one or more Indians gladly joining into it heartily. The call to prayer from the local mosque is regularly heard, though yesterday's call included a coughing fit and a sneezing close to the call to prayer, to which we laughed heartily. The sound of the dhobi-wallahs beating their laundry clean with a decent sized wood paddle upon the concrete community ghat (stairs to the water). Dogs often fight in the streets with one another until a losing whine is heard. Temple bells ring incessantly as this is what every Hindu must do to call the gods to their presence within. Children playing all over, often laughing and making crazy whoops in glee. Indians talking or 'debating' over some issue in loud and exaggerated conversations (initially this was something that I worried about as the talks could seem overly heated, but I have figured out that this is perfectly normal since). And workers calling donkeys with noises that come out of the mouth in bizarre cheeky calls to redirect their path.

Last, but not least in it's weight of noise, is the Retch. This comes as a most unwelcome wake-up call for us when riding the train on an overnight tour (though not limited to this venue, unfortunately). The retch is made into quite an art in India. Men are particularly acquainted with it as they make part of their morning routine replete with the retch. We think of it as totally ridiculous and over the top, though we seem to be on our own here. The retch is a series of ,well, loud grunts or bursts of trying to pull whatever is in the throat, lungs or stomach in some cases to the mouth and retch it out. It's totally rank and drives me crazy when one man after another is doing his thang! But, it's common. I hope that it's due to the nasty pollution that they are acting in such a way. Though my instinct (and Angelo's as well) is that it is percieved as spiritual and physically encouraged to do it.

India, a test of the senses! India, Wah!
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Bollywood
Angelo:

Hollywood produces anywhere from 250 to 400 films a year, while India (aka: Bollywood) produces ten times as many. Most, however, are similar in plot and content and low very low budget. It's amazing to see the riotous crowds outside a local cinema scrapping to procure tickets in the hours before a show.

We've suffered through more than enough Hindi cinema, in buses, (even some of the cheapest, shoddy buses manage a television screen up front and a pirated VCDs), in cafes, or on the street, their grating soundtracks blaring through beleaguered speakers. Most of it is pretty formulaic, and all that we've witnessed are musicals, their over-serious characters bursting into lip-sinc song and poorly choreographed dance at a moment's notice.

Last night, over dinner, the owner of the restaurant treated us to a national treasure: Lagaan, which was nominated for a Best foreign Film Oscar in 2001.

Though its four-hour running time proved to be a bit much four our taste, Lagaan (which refers to the tribute in grain forced upon Indian villagers by the British during their occupation) was head-and-shoulders above any of the other Bollywood fare we've had the misfortune of witnessing.

The central story is about a village, led by a handsome young man, who takes on the British Empire in a game of cricket. If they win they're freed from Lagaan for three years, but if they lose they pay triple the Lagaan, facing sure death and starvation.

High drama.
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Street scenes
Esther:

Udaipur is turning out to be a party every day. Today we stumbled upon a parade marking the birthday of Hindu god, Shiva, whose birthday isn't until tomorrow, but cause for celebration nonetheless. The procession included an elephant flanked by columns of brilliantly orange-turbanned men. Camels and uniformed marching band men followed the elephant, singing and dancing their way through the street. There was also a group of men doing some sort of ceremonial coconut breaking with steel and wood bars in the midst of the moving crowd. It was loud and colourful and in typical Indian fashion, overwhelming.

Yesterday Angelo and I followed the sound of music and happened upon a marriage procession. There were huge crowds of saried ladies and children in exaggerated make-up dancing before the groom. The groom was mounted on an heavily bejewelled horse, and was himself laden with flower wreaths completely covering his face from public view. The music is live, lead by a charasmatic vocalist and an entourage of uniformed band members.

These activities keep falling into our laps and thankfully onto my film rolls. I am finding the camera is getting more action here than any place previous to this and the shots are invigorating to snap.
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The Food!
Angelo:

We've written about the Indian cuisine before but I have to say, (especially being a vegetarian), India is a culinary carnival.

Esther and I spent Valentine's Day sitting on a rooftop cafe overlooking Lake Pichola and the evening in Shiv Niwas Palace, former haunt of some maharaja or another, but which now hosts a five-star hotel and restaurant. We're becoming more adept at ordering, a task made adventure when one can point at any of the hundred or more items on a menu knowing that the entire lot is pure vegetarian, and always good, (at least in our experience thus far).

Last night at the Shiv Niwas Palace Restaurant we had the meal by which all others will hereby be measured. We ordered Malay Kofta, a potato-cashew dumpling in what locals call a 'sweet sauce' but which is undeniably spicy. We've had Malay Kofta in other parts of India, but this particular one was far superior, likely owing to the extended preparation time allotted in a five-star restaurant.

Our second dish was called Mango Chutneywaley, and can best be described as a riot of flavour. Like Malay Kofta, the Mango Chutneywaley consisted of potato-based dumplings stuffed with mango-mint chutney slathered in a thick spicy-sweet russet sauce. Remarkable.

All this over a bed of fluffy Indian rice with a side of mango pickle and paratha, (an unleavened flat bread similar to naan, but usually stuffed with some form of spice and/or vegetable), and washed down with fresh lime soda.

Also, I hate to keep mentioning prices, (it seems so Mennonite, however, the badge of honour of the traveler, no matter his/her origin, seems to be who can get the most experience for the lowest price), but our entire five-star Valentine's Day feast was had for under $20 CAN.




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Octopussy
Esther:

Angelo, Matt and I arrived in Udaipur (Oo-dye-per) early yesterday morning via train. It was a decent trip here, considering the 1 meter gage tracks and the odd shaped carriage we were assigned to. In order to get to Udaipur, this type of train was our only choice. This makes for a violent rocking back and forth while in transit as well as the mock speed of no more than 40 kms per hour. Funny though, once we got used to the rocking, the three of us slept the best yet, like babies.

Angelo and I find Udaipur to fit our bill exactly. It is magical in its landscape and architechture. It is very characteristic of the Rajasthani culture and arts which I read about in anticipation before our departure from Vancouver. The streets are very narrow, whitewashed buildings climbing in every direction, traffic is primarily autorickshaw and motorbike or scooters. The streets climb high and dive drastically within the city, which make navigating fun while dodging innumerable cows, bulls, and today even an elephant. The real feature here in Udaipur is the view of Lake Pichola. It is cause for innumerable restaurants and hotels claiming "Best view in all of Udaipur".

After settling in and taking in two rooftops already, Angelo and I headed out to the Ganguar Hotel/Restaurant for a rooftop terrace evening video showing of "Octopussy" with dinner. Why Octopussy? Well, Octopussy was filmed primarily in Udaipur. This is something that all Udaipur residents are extremely proud of and there is a viewing of the James Bond film every night at a number of restaurants in town. We chose to take the film in overlooking the exact Lake Palace, Monsoon Palace and Lake Pichola depicted in the film. It was fanastic, amusing and extremely magical to watch the film unravel while Udaipur was revealing itself surrounding our terrace. Quite fabulous!

James Bond (Roger Moore) has an autorickshaw chase, which is one of my great fears while in one dodging traffic. There is a scene within the chase where the autorickshaw does a pop-a-wheelie, which I don't think is physically possible, but very amusing nonetheless.

So, check out "Octopussy" if you care to take in Udaipur. Don't be fooled by the sari trick though, that is most definitely off limits here. Saris stay on and are not double for escape plans.

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Chai
Angelo:

One of the great things about India is that it's so diverse, politically, geographically, spiritually, politically, culinarily.

Like the food, there are subtle variations in the Chai tea from city to city and state to state, sometimes even from one end of the train platform to the other.

One afternoon earlier this week the owner of an internet joint in Jalgaon invited us to have tea with him, then promptly apologized for the tea, stating: "Commercial variety, not too good." I asked him what kind of tea he liked. "Spicy," was his reply." Come tomorrow. I will make good Chai for you."

When we returned the following day he quickly sent one of his employees to his home where his wife prepared some authentic Chai for us. Meanwhile he urged me onto the back of his scooter and took me to a wholesale tea shop.

At the tea shop I was introduced to several varieties of loose leaf tea, told about its origins and in which regions each tea was grown. I asked my host which variety he drank. "Only Asaam," he said, rather more seriously than the occasion warranted. Then he bought me a quarter pound of Asaam tea leaves and we were back on his scooter, threading through the frenetic mid-morning traffic, dodging hand-carts and errant goats on our way back to his shop.

When we arrived hot, spicy, homemade Chai was waiting, my favorite so far, made with tea leaves boiled in water, black pepper, crushed fresh ginger and thick milk. My love of Chai, and its ubiquity in India, have replaced my previously insatiable coffee habit. At least for the time being.
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Mr. Congeniality
Esther:

Since visiting Aurangabad and currently, Jalgaon, I have noticed a celebrity amongst us. It's funny, because being in such a non-touristy area (to our continuous surprise, considering the magnitude of these rock-cut caves), we are quite the novelty among the local Indians, particularly the children. We get out of our hotel door and immediately are met with, "Hello!", "What's your name!", and often a Marathi joke (another language in this region) that causes all inquiring parties to giggle unrestrained, from all directions.

The celebrity status requires a certain amount of humour and joy as it can be quite silly and even draining. But Angelo, Mr. Congeniality, is the best at covering all the bases. He seems to be the desired conversationalist anyway, particularly with boys and young men, eager to practice their English and shake hands. It's terribly cute and endearing, a common feeling that we have been priveleged to experience with the Indian people.
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Ajanta Caves
Esther:

Yesterday I swore that I wouldn't get back on the bus to go to the Ajanta Caves. It was a deliberate decision I made upon exiting the bus 'door'. I guess I thought, "Why risk crazed drivers, overloaded seats and pulling Dukes of Hazard moves on the shoulder to pass other weighted down vehicles of all kinds?" The truth is that I simply didn't feel like it. Riding on the back seat, which is where we tend to end up, six people deep mind you, makes for quite the bumpy ride. The price is right, but the 55 km distance takes over and hour and a half. Hmmm, does not compute!

Woke up this morning and got on the bus. Another Gravol ingested, we were safely and happily arrived at the Ajanta caves. This was worth the trip. Would have felt ridiculous staying in my pretty room with cable while skipping these caves, that is certain. (Though, you would not believe my craving for some films!)

We traveled to a viewtop area first, finding that the area we were about to explore is a horseshoe-shaped canyon. The season right now is quite dry, though ordinarily, this canyon would have several waterfalls flowing into the floor of the crevice below. It is a stunning panoramic portrait to take in. We enjoyed the view for a while before traversing the canyon to visit the caves.

The caves are all Buddhist, which simplifies the designs and brings a peaceful environment to the area. There were monks, Tibetan and Thai, who made the trip as part of the journey to enlightenment. At times, we were priveleged enough to take in their chanting, which created a distinct feeling that this moment would be what it was like so many years ago.

The Ajanta caves were wonderful, and really difficult to convey in words, except, well, definitely worth that damn bus ride! They are older than the Ellora caves we explored 2 days ago, dating back to as early as 200 BC to AD 650. They also have an odd way of unravelling themselves in history. The story of their rediscovery in 1819 was that a British hunting party stumbled upon the abandoned Ajanta caves. The caves isolation contributed to the state of preservation in which the remarkable paintings remain to this day. The paintings are difficult to decipher in the dark rooms, though they reflect story and legend that can put you in a dream world of escape and romance and adventure.

Then we got back on the bus. Magic can only last so long. Though getting back to our lovely hotel, with HBO, is a miracle in itself. I am happy to be moving on, confirmed ticket in hand, on the train. Sleeper style!

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Ellora
Angelo:

We've just arrived in Jalgaon, which is in northern Maharashtra, by way of a grueling four-hour bus ride that had the iron-stomached locals vomiting out the windows. Fortunately Esther and I had the presence of mind to share a Gravol early in the trip and were spared the gruesome effects of bad highway, crazed driver and rickety bus.

Yesterday we visited the awe-inspiring Ellora Caves which have been designated a World Heritage Site but which we'd never heard of before researching this trip. They are located about an hour northwest of Aurangabad.

We arrived to find the trees at the entrance bristling with monkeys, but we managed to pass beneath their watch unmolested. (Later one monkey acted as gatekeeper to a particular cave, menacing enough to urge us onward.)

As we approached the caves, which are strung out for six kilometers along a rocky cliff, Kailasa Temple dominated the landscape. Kailasa Temple was hewn from the cliff face over 150 years by 7,000 labourers who removed 200,000 tonnes of rock. To give you some perspective, Kailasa's footprint is twice that of the Parthenon in Greece and one and-a-half-times as high. Remember, this is all carved out of solid rock. Absolutely stunning.

We decided to leave Kailasa for last and explore some of the other thirty-four caves carved by Buddhists, Hindus and Jainists starting around A.D. 600. Apparently the Buddhist caves were built earlier than the Hindu or Jain caves, making the latter more ornate and delicate than the former as each subsequent group tried to outdo their predecessors.

Our favorite set of caves were high up on the ridge, a group of seven Hindu caves separated by a river with great deep pools carved deep into the rock leaving large reservoirs during the dry season. We had the entire site to ourselves, probably due to the wonderful hike up to the ridge overlooking the lower cave sites and the valley below. Our only company was a goatherd and his charges, though Esther kept hearing snakes slithering just off the side of the trail. (We later learned that the sound was generated by dried seed pods hanging from nearby trees. Esther: Hey, you have to admit, they sound like rattlesnakes!)

Sitting alone in the silence on the threshold of these ancient places, overlooking deep cauldrons of water, one could easily imagine the monks gathered around cooking fires, almost hear their supplications to chosen gods.

On the way to the Ellora caves we passed a ruined fort and for the rest of the day were walking ancient paths on an ancient ridge between ancient holy places. Esther was reminded again of Indiana Jones, we think of the films again and again as we ourselves experience the thrill of discovery.

So, to recap, (for those of you who might happen to look at a map of India), we've left Pune, stayed over in Aurangabad, and have moved on to Jalgaon. Why Jalgaon? An excellent question. We've booked passage on an overnight train, (fabulous to travel through the night on a train, but more on that another time), to Ahmedabad in Gujarat, then on to Udaipur in Rajasthan. We're moving pretty fast these last few days, but intend to be in Udaipur, "The Golden City," for Valentine's Day, then hang around in Rajasthan for most of February.
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Bhaja & Karla Caves
Angelo:

For the last couple of days we've been traveling with Matthew, a Brit we met in Benaulim. Yesterday we did a day trip out to Malavali to see the Bhaja and Karla Caves.

We decided to take a Local Train from Pune to Malavli Station, then walk the three kilometers to Bhaja, after which we would hire an auto-rickshaw to the Karla caves which we could see tucked into the mountainside ten kilometers across an arid valley.

We showed up at the Pune Station just around nine o'clock and bought return tickets to Malavli, twenty-eight Rupees ($0.75 CAN) for the one and-a-half hour journey. Cheap? Yes, but let me be the first to say, you get what you pay for.

The Local Train platform is not announced until the train is physically rolling into the station at which point the locals, who have beein milling about on the elevated causeway over the tracks, descend the perilous concrete staircase en masse to the appropriate platform.

Once on the platform everyone, their ridiculous luggage, produce, rice sacks children et cetera, jostles for position, attempting to approximate where the train will stop, and more specifically, to load the train from one of the two doors for each car.

We successfully managed to make our way to the head of the crowd on Platform #3, and were traveling light, but hadn't anticipated the crush of passengers disembarking at Pune Station. As the train rolled to a stop, we whispered prayers at the sight of bodies hanging out of the doors from hand rails. In the ensuing manic crossflow of human traffic we actually managed to get seats, which is a remarkable task.

The Bhaja and Karla caves were carved into solid rock by Buddhist monks between 200 B.C. and 80 B.C., and long before Hinduism became India's predominant religion.

We visited Bhaja first, climbing a steep winding staircase up to a magnificent view of the temple entrance and the arid valley below. Many of the caves were simple living quarters best described as cells -- a single bunk carved out of rock in a room the size of a closet. The more deluxe accommodations featured a shelf carved into the back wall with space enough for a candle or a cup of tea. The main temple had massive pillars (also carved out of solid rock, not built) with rather ornate scenes depicted near the vaulted ceiling. The main temple contained a single dagoba, but the Buddha who once rested upon it was long gone.

We rested from the sun in Bhaja Village and had a cold drink while entertaining local schoolboys with our presence, but denying them 'One pen?' After haggling with the rickshaw-wallah, we were on our way to Karla.

The caves at Bhaja were nearly deserted, but the staircase up to Karla was littered with buttermilk and cucumber sellers, as well as a rising slum of shops selling religious trinkets and Hindi dance music.

While the main temple at Karla is much larger and impressive than the temple at Bhaja it has been despoiled by the construction of a gaudy, shoddy concrete Hindu temple at the cave entrance. Once inside the temple, however, you can put that all behind you. The main chamber is shaped like a horseshoe with thirty-seven massive pillars, topped with kneeling elephants, rising up to a fifteen-meter vaulted ceiling. I was reminded of Tolkein's Moria.

Back outside we were badgered by a group of Indian young people making jokes at our expense in Hindi, and who followed us everywhere we went. At one point we stopped to let them get ahead of us on a narrow trail skirting the mountain. They came back quickly saying, "Nothing. Only shitting place." Esther and Matt were happy to turn back, but, ever curious, I had to follow the trail to see for myself. Sure enough, the trail ended in a rather scenic place to...well apparently to take a dump after a long religious pilgrimage. Absolutely disgusting.

On the way home we caught the train in the nick of time, only to wait stalled on the tracks for over an hour. The night before a petrol truck had collided head-on with a transport truck, the carnage still burning twelve hours later.
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Coffee anyone?
Esther:
Who else would be writing this one? Hahaha...

Well, upon leaving our lovely Benaulim, Angelo and I have found a good cuppa Java. MMmmmmmmm.... My tastebuds are now completely tantilized! (Although the Indian feast we ate yesterday evening after a difficult day caving and exploring in the country side really should have been 'maximum tastebud tantilizing' humanly possible.)

We are currently in the city of Pune (pronounced Poo-nah) and they have not one but thankfully two major coffee chains here.

One is called Barista, which is by far the superior cup of coffee and captures the North American culture. The other is called Cafe' Coffee Day, which is legendary, (that is for all you Starbuckians out there) and has a killer Cappuchillo (iced latte with purified ice cubes!). I have collected some pamphlets and even coffee news from each but here is a neat website on coffee information in India at this time:

http://www.indiacoffee.org/

My feeling about the industry is that it's on the move, in it's beginning stages really. The potential for growth is phenomenal, considering it's a country of over 1 billion people. The best part about each is the fact that it is great fresh brewed coffee, great tunes (even heard U2, happy me) and an upbeat atmosphere. We nearly felt normal.

No matter what I do, I am essentially a coffee geek. It's brewed into my nerves or something.

So, this espresso is raised in ode to you, my peer Starbuckians!
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Parting thoughts
Esther:

Angelo summed up much of what I feel about leaving Benaulim. I couldn't have asked for another greedy sighting of the dolphins, but we got a great encounter nonetheless. Some thoughts that I have had about Benaulim include a gentle build-up of the things to come starting with our 14 hour train trip today.

The song we know as "Happy Birthday" is frequently heard here as a pop hit. Really quite aggravating to hear 'Happy Birthday' incessantly from cell phones, vehicle back-up warning siren (song) and remixed versions of it on buses at high volumes. This can get to you.

The sound of firecrackers is also constant. We've heard them as early as 730am in the morning from our bed. I don't know what the celebration is. Come to think of it, I don't think there is need for one at all. It's like getting in your car to drive to work. That normal.

How many people can fit on one moped or scooter? It seems this is a theme for all hot country beach areas that we have visited. We have witnessed 5 units of people on one moped going at quite a speed. Units referring to 1 or 2 children and then a teen and 2 adults. Angelo saw 2 guys on a scooter carrying 5 foot square panes of glass. Another traveler reported seeing 6 people and a pig. I wished I had seen that.

All in all, India smells, sounds and feels, well, like India. I love it. India, wah! (We don't know what the 'wah' means, but it's a part of the current political campaign slogans. We'll let you know.)
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Moving On
Angelo:

Esther and I took a long last walk down the beach this morning, and were treated to a final sighting of the dolphin pod that regularly feeds about fifty meters offshore. I swam out to within ten meters of them.

Tomorrow afternoon we head Northeast to Pune (Poo-nah). From there we will head up to Aurangabad to visit the Ellora and Ajanta caves. The caves were carved by Buddhists, Hindus and Jainists over a period of five-hundred years starting in 250 BC or so. More on those later.

We've been in Goa for three weeks and have made some great friends, watched more than enough impromptu Cricket matches from the balcony of our room, eaten some truly great food, (under the stars on the beach next to the lapping Arabian Sea), and had sufficient time to relax and let the Western World slip out of our consciousness, (more or less).

Many people here say: "Goa is not India." And I'd have to disagree, but, to quote Esther: "Bring it on."


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Life is Cheap
Angelo:

Esther and I were on a bus back from Anjuna a couple of days ago, bouncing along the 'freeway' at the fastest speed possible, passing scooters and cows and ice-cream bicycles all vying for space, and Esther wondered aloud what I thought the bars on the back windows were for. She speculated that they were to protect the passengers (us) in the event of a rear-end collision. Which prompted me to say: "I think it's probably to protect the windows; glass is expensive, life is cheap."

With well over a billion people now, that seems to fit India in a most disconcerting way.

Another case in point: Reading the local English daily newspaper over breakfast this morning I read a story where a couple of men, disgruntled over non-payment of fodder provided for a farmer's cow, burned the farmer's wife to death. Set her on fire and watched her die for 340 Rupees, (about $10 CAN).

Esther and I vowed never again to read the paper over breakfast.

To be fair, there have been some amusing stories as well. The best headline thus far was: 'Drunken Elephants Go On A Rampage.' The story involved four mastodons who wandered into a small village where the locals had left barrels of rice wine open to ferment in the sun. The elephants partook more than their share and proceeded to rampage through the streets, trashing vending stalls and over-turning parked cars.

Only in India.

In a similar but unrelated incident, here in Benaulim, Goa, the local champion bull (they fight bull vs. bull here) went nuts one night and charged through the streets, busting up the several of the string of shops that sell nicknacks to tourists on the way to the beach. Unfortunately they were all set back up the following morning, offering us weary travelers no respite from: "Come look my shop; cheap price!"




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