Borat In New Delhi

I know it's been a while since I posted anything, and it's been, oh, nine months since this happened, but I still figured a few of you might want to hear about India.

I flew into New Delhi (it doesn't look very new, trust me) from Amman, Jordan. I knew enough about India that, after my late night flight, I thought I better hang out in the airport a while until it at least got light outside. While I was waiting I met Borat. Not Sacha Baron Cohen, but a guy who was a shockingly like him. I've never met a more enthusiastic, (and dramatically bipolar) person. He was in his mid 30's, wore a three-piece grey suit, and had a LARGE silver eagle medallion on a chain around his neck. Physically, he looked kind of like a young Ahmadinejad, which was fitting, as he was from Iran. He explained that he didn't have a place picked out to stay, so asked if he could tag along with me to my hostel. We eventually somehow managed our way into the subway after going through what is awfully reminiscent of airport security and past the heavily armed security guys. (A quick aside here - the New Delhi subway is amazing. It's brand-spanking new and almost supports the 14 million people living there. But at rush time you can't even lift you arm to scratch your nose it's so packed.)

Back out onto the street again it's me and Borat picking our way past the cows, the garbage, the smell of diesel and feces (human and other), the dust, the rickshaws, the bicycles, the shoe-shine guys, and all 14 million residents. This is especially difficult if you have a roller bag, as Borat did. And to find an address is almost impossible. We were in the right "sector", but even people a few streets away had no idea where the hostel was. Eventually, a nice guy in a turban stopped his old 100cc motorcycle and called the hostel for us. They asked him to deliver me to a known street corner where they would pick me up. Obviously, there wasn't room for the turbaned driver, me, and Borat, so I told him to stay at the nearby temple until I could come back and get him. Long story short - he didn't. Luckily, he really stood out, so the hardest part of the brief manhunt involved one of the hostel staff trying to get him to stop long enough to explain that I had sent him.

Once he was safely delivered, I decided to take a nap. I was almost asleep when I felt Borat tucking me in. (I think I may have gotten a little short with him then.) He was always trying to help with everything and inevitably making it worse. One incident involved a group from the hostel. They were coming back from sight-seeing, and on the subway Borat decided that one of the locals was a little too close to one of the young ladies. (I guess it almost ended in a brawl.)

That night, I tried to explain what I did for a living. With lots of gesticulation I got replies of: "What is this - this "archaeology?"." "Artifacts...artifacts... I do not know." "Pyramids?! What is this?!" Finally, I used what I thought was the lowest common denominator. "Indiana Jones? What is this Indiana Jones? I do not know!" Eventually, he understood I did something involving history. In return, he tried to explain a little bit about the history of Iran. He told me about Ibn Sīnā and was a little shocked I didn't know him. With a snap of his fingers he asked (kind of demanded, really) that one of the young ladies get the girl who was studying to be a nurse. Reluctantly, she came upstairs. "YOU know Ibn Sīnā!!' You'd have though someone had shot his dog when she confessed she didn't. "How can you not know Ibn Sīnā!!" "Everybody know Ibn Sīnā!!" Eventually, we found Avicenna through a google search. (Well, if he had only said that to begin with.) I asked him about Ahmadinejad. With a frown and a big dismissive wave of his hand he spat out: "He nothing! A stupid man! Ahmadinejad, he just a donkey!" (I understand that's a pretty common sentiment there, actually.)

Luckily, I managed to ditch my new buddy whenever I went out sight seeing. I felt a little guilty about this, but not enough to do anything about it. I saw all the typical stuff- the Red Fort, the Lotus Temple,the Qutub Minar and, last but not least - Akshardham. Like India in general, Akshardham is both wonderful and bizarre at the same time. It is the largest Hindu temple complex in India (Which must mean the world, I would guess.) and is really stunning. It's not only ridiculously massive, but every stone surface is carved with animals, figures, deities, elephants, flowers, etc. But to get in you have to go through security that is unlike anything I've ever seen. The thing is, you can't have any technology with you when you visit it. No flashlights, no USB drives, certainly no cameras or cell phones. (I wonder how they feel about pacemakers?) And they check everywhere. The second time I went (I'll explain why in a bit.) they not only scanned my wallets (I carry two - a dummy one for muggers, just in case.) they actually looked through them. This was a little embarrassing when the guard pulled out a condom I had forgotten about in my mugger wallet. He gave me a disapproving shake of the head and threw it in the trash. (It's not like I was going to be using it inside the temple, but whatever.)

So, why did I spend an extra day in Delhi just to go back to Akshardham? It wasn't for the awesome super-hot Chai the little street-vendor girl sold out front. No, I went back because a guy on the subway told me "Oh! You didn't see the exhibits?! You will learn SO much about the history of India in the river cruise! There's also an IMAX movie about India. You can't leave the country without seeing it!"

You think I'd know better by now, but I went anyway. What I first saw was the IMAX propaganda film promoting Swaminarayan Hinduism. That's fine, it is a Swaminarayan temple after all, but it was pretty lean on "Magnificent views of India". Next, was a fairly impressive animatronic show about Sahajanand Swami, the founder of the religion. Basically, what I learned from all the different robotic Swamis was that we shouldn't kill other animals. Again, that's fine, it's a nice message, but it was the creepy Stepford Wives way it was presented that bothered me a bit. (Maybe that comes with the message being delivered by human-looking robots.) Lastly, was my much anticipated Disney-esque river-boat cruise. It's sort of supposed to be a journey-through-time concept, but on a boat and with more animatronics. As we went along I learned all sorts of things I didn't know. First brain surgery? India, thousands of years ago. First university? India. First hospital? You guessed it. First spaceship? Yep -thousands of years ago. (Really seems that the Apollo program should have known something about this, but in all fairness, Akshardham and the river boat ride didn't open until 2005.)

Well, it was now finally time to leave Delhi. I said goodbye to Borat and he insisted that I visit him in Iran. I suggested that it might be a little tough for an American. With a big smile he said: "No! No, no, no... it is easy! You just come through east Turkey. No problem!!" He explained he didn't have email, but gave me his phone number instead.
And if I ever go to Iran, I'm sure I'll call him.

Well, pretty sure.

 

But, he was off to see Kashmir, while I had decided to take a three-day train journey to the very southern end of the country.

If everyone jumped off a cliff...

The train into Belgrade took forever. At least it felt that way - the heat wasn't helping since the trains in this region were the best 1968 had to offer and this one didn't have A/C. Belgrade is not the most impressive city in Europe. It's not a bad city. It's a little worn around the edges, especially where we bombed it...

About that. In 1999, mostly Muslim Kosovo decided they wanted to break away from Serbia. This probably shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone, since unrest in Kosovo was what started the Yugoslav War a few years before. Serbia, whose relationship with Kosovo can only be described as "It's complicated", started to move troops in there to,well... probably not to party. (Serbia doesn't have the best track record with things like human rights or relations with the Muslims - more on that later. ) SO... many of the Muslims living there started to flee into neighboring Albania. The UN told Serbia to knock it off. They didn't, so... NATO bombed them. 

Since the US led the UN's bombing of Serbian forces a few years before that in order to helped the Bosnians, the US still isn't very popular in Serbia. They don't seem to hold it personally against anyone (me, for example) but I'm guessing there won't be a Bill Clinton Boulevard there anytime soon the way there is in Kosovo. In fact, in the military museum, and very proudly displayed, are pieces of the US stealth bomber they shot down. (Now, I'm no huge patriot, but I have to admit that did bug me a bit, seeing kids posing for photos of the display along with captured US army fatigues.) 

The museum likes to point out that we dropped cluster bombs on the city, killing 15 civilians. I  would like to point out that technically the USA doesn't subscribe to the convention that bans them, so... 

Besides, it was technically NATO that conducted the strikes. The US didn't accidentally blow up that refugee column, or those hospitals, or that market, or the Chinese Embassy, or that passenger train. Blame NATO. It's all a part of what those in the business call "Collateral Damage". Sometimes, to make an omelette, you gotta break a few eggs. Or kill 500 civilians, plus or minus. Anyway, Kosovo got a country out of it, and it's beautiful. (Actually, it's really not. Pristina, the capitol, was one of the saddest capitol cities I've ever been to. One of the funniest postcards I ever sent was from there - it's basically a photo of a nondescript street showing dilapidated concrete buildings lined with old cars. I'm not sure if the photographer saw the irony, but I did.) 

Anyway, back to Belgrade. The city has other things of note, including one remaining mosque and, of course, a fortress on a hill overlooking the city. (Another fortress - you can't swing a dead cat around here...) My favorite, though, was the Tesla museum. (Sorry, about this - I'm going to go on a slight nerd tangent here and unless you want to learn about Tesla (Yes, the cars are named after him.) you can skip on down to my party experience in Belgrade, marked with an **.)

Nikola Tesla was a Serb born in what is now Croatia. He was an inventor and contemporary of Thomas Edison - he even worked for Edison for a while. In fact, Edison apparently offered him $50,000 to fix a few designs, and when Tesla came to collect, Edison essentially said "Oh, sorry - I was joking. But thanks, anyway." Then, when Tesla didn't get his requested raise to $25/ week, he quit. (Can you really blame him? Edison was, by all accounts, kind of a prick.)

Bad luck seemed to follow the man - he developed radio a year before Marconi, but his equipment was destroyed in a fire. A year later Marconi then used some of Tesla's inventions to transmit the first radio transmission. But of all the things Tesla is noted for, including his eccentric personality, and the invention of radio control, the thing that he should be most famous for is something that you are using to read this blog. Something that I'm using to write it. Something that has allowed Edison's light bulb to be in almost every home on the planet. Two words: Alternating Current. (A/C for short.) Today, this is the method by which electricity is effectively and safely transmitted all over the globe. Previously, Edison had insisted that D/C was the way to go, perhaps, in no small part, because delivering D/C would have made Edison a considerable amount of money. Meanwhile, Tesla gave up his patents for A/C in order to benefit humanity. 

Later, after many failed attempts to prove that energy could be transmitted without wires, and predicting the internet, Tesla died poor, and alone, in an apartment in New York.

No good deed(s) go unpunished, I suppose.

** Belgrade has a reputation as a party town, so my first night there I decided to hit up a few bars. The first one recommended by Lonely Planet was out of business. The second, too, was locked up. The third closed just as I got there. I asked around, and the theory I was told was that since all public transport had shut down at about 11:30, everyone had already gone home. Of course what this meant was that not only would I be going to bed completely sober, I also now had a three mile walk back to the hostel. 

The next day I went to the largest Orthodox church in the world. After 100 years, it's still not finished being built, and judging by the inside, it might take another 100. (It was at this very point that, after having been away from home for over seven months, that I decided it was time to return to the States. My site-seeing was no longer fun and I realized I was simply filling time and going through the motions. On any given day back home this church might have been fascinating, but today my reaction was: This is it?) 

Josip Broz Tito's grave was next, along with his famous baton collection. Every year on Tito's birthday, youth from around Yugoslavia  participated in a relay bringing the leader a hand-made baton. Since he was President-For-Life, and lived a good long while, there are now thousands of these things, and many are on display next to his tomb.

That night I ate a dinner of Karadjordje's steak (Which looks like a giant deep-fried slug, or worse, but tastes alright -it's filled with gooey cheese!) and talked to a young man and his friends about how they felt concerning Serbia's history. It was a shot-gun conversation, with one friend dropping in conflicting information and opinions, so I got a rather confusing review of the history I sort-of knew: 700,000 Serbs killed in concentration camps by the Nazis and Croats, Tito's rise to power, etc. But there were a couple things said that stood out about the Yugoslav war: "It was like, "We're neighbors, friends, relatives, but now... I'm going to kill you." because it didn't fit in with their idea of how their country should be." They pointed out that Bosnia being declared a "Muslim" country was also a dividing point. "Muslim isn't a country, it's a religion." I then asked about Kosovo...
Friend 1: "In 1998, when Kosovo broke away, we did not, I swear, try to ethnically cleanse the Albanians."
Friend 2: "But we did a pretty good job in Bosnia, so...."
Friend 1: "Look, yes, we committed war atrocities..."
Friend 2: "You keep saying that."
Friend 1: "But everyone did! Somehow, we are the only ones that keep getting blamed and that people remember."
Me: "So, what about the future?"
Friend 1: "I think it has settled down, but it's going to take time. I'm only in my early 20's, but I'm still angry. I spent three months in a bomb shelter when I was a kid."

After that, I decided it was time to make another attempt at the famous Belgrade nightlife. So, I tried to find the renowned barge bars on the Sava river. I learned that yes, there were buses that ran after midnight, but they only came once an hour. I caught one of these buses and was deposited, alone, on the opposite side of a bridge facing the city. Below were dimly lit walking paths leading out to what looked to be buildings, partially open air, built on the water. (I guess I was expecting actual ships?) The first barge I went to was filed with about half a dozen very goth-looking young people not inclined to talk to someone who looked, admittedly, more like a narc. So I moved on to the next barge, where there was a group of friends chatting quietly around a table on the deck, and no one else. Again, they didn't look like they wanted to spend the rest of their evening trying to practice their English with a stranger. I moved on to the third where I wouldn't have had to worry about an awkward conversation as there was no one there. Back out on the walkway I passed a few that were closed. The next one that was open also had about half a dozen people, but I was no longer in the mood now anyway so went in, had a shot of rakia (Rakia is the local spirit made out of any variety of fruits. I can attest to the fact that mistletoe flavor is disgusting.) and quickly left.

Belgrade nightlife. Nuts to that. Ritchfield, Utah is more exciting after midnight. (OK, that's an exaggeration,  but not by much.)

Leaving Belgrade the next day, I thought I'd visit an outdoor ethnographic museum, but on the train met a Canadian Serb who told me about a music festival nearby. "You have to go. If you want to see what Serbia really is about, this is the way to do it."

Why not? A few short bus rides later, I stepped off into the crowded streets of a small town nestled in the mountains. It was absolutely crazy. Groups of musicians, mainly Roma (Gypsies) were wandering the streets playing trumpets. Every street was lined with small stalls hawking trinkets, beer, hats, camo, smoked meats, beer, army surplus, sweaters, and beer. On the curb, there was a gypsy breast-feeding. A few minutes later, another one, straight from central casting and wearing a suit coat four sizes to large for him, tried to charge me for the port-a-potties. It looked and sounded like Tijuana - not that I've ever been, but it's how I imagine it. I went to the main concert which started with trumpet bands playing traditional music, but ended with the typical pop hits. I had a good time dancing with a group of lovely young local women who all wanted to have their picture taken with me. (I think it must have been the hat.) After they left, I wandered back past the vendors and stopped for some sauerkraut stew, cooked over open fires in huge black iron cauldrons. 

As the night was winding down and the wee hours of the morning approached I ran into a group of drunk young men, and after giving me a beer, they also tried to explain Serbia's history: "Yes - we did terrible things, but everyone did! But we're the only ones that get blamed." (Hmmmm... this sounded familiar.) It was nearly dawn, so I excused myself, and with a bunch of handshakes and a request to tell people the truth about Serbia and it's people, left them to their drunken revelry.

In the end, I liked Serbia well enough. The people were actually quite nice to me, when they really had no reason to be. Boring Belgrade ended with a blow-out in Gucha. As for the politics, and it's bloody history, well... a young woman I talked to in Belgrade summed it up pretty well: "About half the people still feel that we're the victims, and being judged unfairly. The other half acknowledge what we did, hope we've learned from it, and can move on."

Half and half. I don't know that those are great odds when it comes to peace, but with luck, they'll be good enough.

The Land of Neckties and 1000+ Islands

The first few days I was in Croatia I spent with my friend Jasna who I had met in Egypt. As a tour guide, she was able to link me up with a few local activities, like a visit to KrK island. Krk is pretty - the valleys are wooded and the hillsides are covered in pine, but overall the island is quite dry and notably barren higher up, and almost moon-like as it is described due to the rock exposures. Sort-of reminded me of Utah, minus the crowded beaches. (But if Utah did have beaches... I've never thought to ask what the fundamentalist Mormons do about swim wear. Is one spiritually vulnerable while swimming without the garments? Are there blessed bikinis? Two years in Utah, and I still have questions.)

 

But I digress. I got to watch a bunch of teens in one of Jasna's group make numerous attempts as water skiing. It made me feel better about my own experience with it - until you get the hang of it, you spend a lot of time skipping face-first off the water.

 

Plitvice National Park was the next stop, tagging along with another youth group from Belgium. They all seemed interested in what I was doing there, being one of only three people over the age of 30. Nice kids, but I spent most my time talking to the ex-army tour guide, Allen. (AKA, according to the kids, "the Bulldog".) It's a very pretty national park, very lush and green, filled with many waterfalls, emptying into turquoise colored lakes. (No, I did not try fishing in a National Park. (Besides, they looked like they were mostly carp, which can be good if prepared right, but..))

 

Starting to feel a little poor, and sick of hostels, I decided to camp out that night in Zagreb, the capital. Until it started raining about 1:00AM. I found a nice, dry, pub and wound up I spening the rest of the night with a couple locals who insisted on buying me beers until dawn.  Needless to say, the next day was a bit rough. Zagreb is cool, though, with a few nice large architecturally impressive squares, a good tram system where the conductors never check for tickets, a pretty National Opera House and Cathedral. The highlight, though, was meeting Elija. He's young local who invited me to stay at his place, took me around the city to show me the sites and talk about his country, and then, and then, invited me to stay at his place over the weekend while he went to visit his girlfriend in the North. Me, a perfect stranger.

 

One of my favorite museums so far is in Zagreb - the Museum of Broken Relationships. People from all over the world have donated items with personal meaning from past relationships. Some are tragic, some are funny, and many are some combination of both. One was a Frisbee a young woman got from her boyfriend on their anniversary. (Note to self - never give a girlfriend a Frisbee on an anniversary.)

 

I also met Irena, another lovely young woman who took a few hours out of her day to have a drink and show me around the city. One interesting thing I've learned from talking to people here is how upset most people are with the privatization of things since the fall of Yugoslavia. Tito is not as unpopular as I expected he would be - most people seem to have the attitude that yes, he did some nasty things, but his break from Stalin sort-of made him the father of a unified country that saw peace until after his death and the eventual fall of communism, which lead to all the conflict in the Balkans. And now, because these countries have no institutions in place to regulate development, many businesses that belonged to the country and profited everyone, are now making a very few people very wealthy; The same industries that belonged to, and where built by, the people. It was interesting to hear, anyway, coming from a country where it's assumed that every socialist/ communist (There's a difference?) leader is evil and despised.

Here's a bit of trivia for you: Did you know that the necktie (cravat) was invented in Croatia? Now you do. How about that the stone from the White House comes from an island off the coast? No? Did you know Nikola Tesla was born near Zagreb? Did you know he moved to Colorado Springs? Neither did I. Do you know who Tesla is? If not, then never mind.

 

The next day I went to the Contemporary Art Museum for a laugh. There were a few cool light/ sound pieces that I thought were clever, but the rest seemed to me to be pointless scrap-booking and trash collected by people with no real discernible talent, other than to bullshit other people into believing that their dumpster diving has some deep, profound societal meaning. There - I've said it. If you draw a single line on a white piece of paper, and spend the next hour explaining to me that it's "anti-art", or some other equally nonsensical term, you are not an artist, you are a fraud, and a lazy one at that. I always leave these places feeling like I should ask for a refund at the end, and might have except for the stainless-steel tunnel-slide at the end of the museum, which deposits you outside and deters you from doing so. (Even the slide was crappy- I slowed down, and stopped, about half way through and had to wiggle out the rest of the way.) Psshh....contemporary art.

As for food - strukli is nice - sort of a cream cheese filled ravioli/ strudel hybrid. Ustpici, though... cold, unsweetened fried doughnut balls. They are especially painful if they have a $6.00 price tag, as mine did.
They serve fried trout in the supermarket here - heads, eyeballs, and all. (My friends thought I was demented for cooking them that way. Cultural elitists that the are. You know who you are.)

I took an overnight train to Zadar. The night trains here are not so fun. They have the old style cabins where three people sit on a bench facing the other three. This is great for socializing, but terrible for sleeping, with twelve legs all competing for a spot to stretch out. In Spain once, I found myself in a cabin with five lovely young women. Great, right? Well, try to fall asleep with those other ten legs everywhere not come of as a pervert. I didn't sleep much either night.

Zadar is cool, starting with it's name. (Sounds like someplace Flash Gordon would visit, doesn't it?) But it's largely known for two recent inventions by an modern artist (one with actual talent) who designed a large, circular glass-covered... thing, called the Sun-Sphere. The way it works is that it solar-charges during the day, and gives off a multi-colored disco-floor type light show throughout the night. The entire time I watched it, I never once saw it repeat the same pattern. Nearby he also installed a Sea Organ, that plays notes based on the movement of the waves underneath. This has the effect of someone tuning a pan flute, so there's no real melody or tune, but that never stopped Led Zeppelin. It's still pretty amazing, none-the less. There's an old city and some Roman ruins, too. Blah, blah, blah.. whatever. These are a dime a dozen around here. But there's only one place in the world with a Sun Sphere and Sea Organ!

Then there was Split. Ah... Spilt. I met a woman there, that I will always remember warmly. Let me tell you about her. I had just arrived, and using my Indian bartering skills, tried to convince the apartment touts waiting at the train station that I could find a place to stay for 100 Kuna. This, it turns out, was not true. Even the hostels charge 120+. But, these all seemed to be full, so I went back to the station to dicker when a woman who remembered my 100 Kuna budget directed me to Marica (Maritza). Maritza is 75, has one arm, and speaks only Croatian. But she sat me down and we waited for something, I'm still not sure what. But as we sat there, a man passed, and winked. I couldn't tell who the wink was directed at, but for a brief moment my past experiences made me wonder if this wasn't all part of an elaborate kidney-thieving scheme, with the old woman as a front. I was too tired to care. On the way to the bus stop she offered to carry my bag for me, with her good arm (I refused.). The bus dropped us nearby and she took me to a downstairs apartment that was simple, and mostly clean. She asked if I was going out, I said no, she wished me good night and then locked the door from the outside. (Kidney thief that she was.)

In the morning, I still had my kidneys, and was awakened when she came in, unannounced, with coffee and cookies. This happened a few times while I was getting out of bed, and dressed, until she had supplied me with local grapes, and a small flask of very sweet home-made wine which was all too familiar. It was at that point unmistakeable - she was just like my grandma. She even made the same wine.

The old town of Split is great. Diocletian had his palace here and it hasn't changed too much over the centuries. Stone walls, cobblestone streets, Corinthian pillars fronting Roman temples - it all still there and in use even today. One thing I didn't expect, however, was the number of seedy strip-club flyers around the place. Some of these are quite explicit, featuring dildo shows, snake acts, and something called sado-mazo. If this had once been Caligula's palace, I might understand, but...

I visited the old Roman (of course) city of Salona nearby. Ruins, pillars, theater and colosseum remnants... blah, blah, blah... There was an actor performing a monolog in the ruins nearby that was well attended. It was called "Do You Speak Croatian?" I don't, so left pretty early on.

When I left Marica made me a sandwhich for the road, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I promised to send her a postcard or two (Not that she understood that.) and went down the coast towards Dubrovnik. I tried hitching, which was a mistake - no one was stopping. Well, one guy did, and took me past the little sea-side village of Omis, where he told me about a large, annual Pirate battle that they do every year happening that very night! Apparently, Omis has a long history of piracy, and now that they can't make money of of that anymore, they have cleverly designed a way to get people to part with their money freely. Pirate shows! Pirate ship rides! Pirate days! Pirate souvenirs by the truck full! So, when I couldn't get a ride any further to Dubrovnik, I took a bus back to check it out. Despite asking numerous people about it, everyone knew about it, but no one knew if it was actually that night. Even the official Omis website didn't list it, nor the current Pirate Days that were already taking place. Turns out, the battle was in August, probably the 18th. But tonight there were pirate games! And a pirate parade! And... I went to sleep early that night. (I later looked up the battle online - there's a youtube video of it, and I think I might have been disappointed anyway. Lets just say that it is neither large, nor historically accurate. Good fun for the kids, though, I bet.)


Dubrovnik itself is beautiful... not unlike Split in some ways. Beautiful fortified walls overlooking the ocean, towers, churches, cobblestone streets. And about ten billion tourists who offload there from those massive-monstrosity cruise ships. The one in the harbor allegedly held 3/4 of the population of my home city - 10,000 people! Madness! And they were all bumping into each other down those quaint little streets in the blazing sun until I started to have flashbacks of Dehli. (Minus the cows, cow shit, garbage, dogs, etc. So not like India at all, actually.) They did, eventually, cruise away, leaving the town a little more peaceful. The area is known for it's oysters - raw of course, and I tried a few. I debated for a very short time whether the little wiggly parasitic-looking worm on my plate should distract me from enjoying my meal, but decided that it looked pretty healthy, so they must be good, quality, fresh oysters and slurped them down anyway. (I pointed it out to the waitress afterward, hoping to maybe get a discount, but she just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. I played my hand too early, I suppose, by eating them before complaining.

One of the last things I did in Croatia was to eat a gelato called "American Dream". It was nice, but indistinct, and overpriced. Huh.

Not-so-slovenly Slovenia

I'm afraid that I've been dropping the ball lately in keeping people up to date as to where I am and what I've been doing. There's a few excuses for this - expensive internet fees being one, and a lack of exciting stories to tell being the other. So, instead of a "literary" piece, I'm going to give you a quick-and dirty rundown of Slovenia, with Croatia soon to follow.

Slovenia - who knew? I was expecting some poor, back-water place with donkey carts in the streets, but no...

It's gorgeous - a perfect blend of Italy and Europe. (Not that Italy isn't Europe, but you get my gist.) The only downside is that it's as expensive as either. My first stop there was Koper - nice, but unremarkable.

Next was the capital (Can you guess? I bet not.) of Ljubljana (sounds like Loobleeahna). It is a gorgeous city, with plenty of old neo-classic architecture, including cobblestone streets, and even a picturesque castle on a hill. My favorite, though, is the dragon bridge, with the four coolest dragon sculptures I've ever seen sitting on the corners.

From there I took a day trip to Postanja (The j's are pronounced as a y.) where there is an old castle (Are there any other kind, really?) tucked away in a cave. There's a interesting story attached to it, as well. The one-time owner of the castle, a knight by the name of Erasmus, was under siege for months(?), and liked to taunt his attackers by showing that he was quite well provisioned and could hold out a long time. In what seems to me an unwise display, he went so far as to eat fresh cherries where they could see him. Now, you would think the invaders would get the hint, and realize he was using the cave to go out some back entrance for supplies, then try to find it, but instead they used a more direct approach. They bribed a servant, who lit a candle when he the went to the john, and blew it up with a with a cannon while he was on it. Not such a romantic ending for our hero, Erasmus, is it?

That night back in Ljubljana I met a guy who asked me if I knew whether Jean Claude Van Damme's son was OK. Figured I might know him. He was curious because he (himself, not Van Damme) once kicked Mike Tyson's ass. (Not the boxer, but the mixed martial arts guy.)
Why do I always attract the crazy people?

The following day I lost the hat I had made in India to replace my precious ratty hat. Good thing I made two, I guess.

On a side note - Did you know this part of Europe still has wolves? They never were without them, apparently. They also don't have deer jumping through windshield so often as back home. I wonder if there is a connection?

I then went to Bled - a very cool little town with another picturesque castle on a hill, and an equally quaint church in the middle of a turquoise-colored lake. Being filled with fish, I had to try my luck. Using my Indian fishing rig (line with a hook, wrapped around a small plastic bottle) and a little brown bread as bait, I caught a huge 14" trout within about three minutes. Not sure about the legality of my catch (though I saw plenty of other people fishing) I stuffed the still-wiggling fish into my satchel and tried to look casual as I walked back to my place to fry him up for dinner. Later I found out the reason why there are so many fish - a one day permit costs about 100 Euro. ($140!) Yes, I poached a fish in Slovenia. Sorry. (But it was SO tasty!)

The next day I went for a paddle around the lake in the only boat that wasn't already rented - a wooden, swan shaped one usually used by couples. (The owner told me he's had guys rent them together, and they always make a point of saying they are not gay.) That evening I visited the castle, and listed to a local play country music on the terrace of the attached restaurant. Country Roads, Take me Home, sounds a little funny in Slovenian, but not so bad.

There's a pretty and somewhat dramatic gorge nearby as well, also perfect for fishing, but I only caught one. I threw it back. (Actually, it slipped back in as I tried to do the humanitarian thing and step on it's head to put it out of it's misery before going into the satchel. In my haste to keep from being caught, I only accomplished breaking the line. I then got caught in a violent rain/ hail storm on the way back. That's karma for you.)

Next was the Skocjanske (No idea how you say this.) caves where, allegedly, Dante Alighieri, of Dante's Inferno fame (I still don't understand why it's not Alighieri's Inferno, but whatever.) got the idea for his different levels of Hell. I was disappointed a bit to discover, half-way through the tour, he never actually went in - he only saw the mouth of the cave. If only he had ventured into it's depths - then, what a vision of Hell would he have had! The weird, fantastic, massive formations were quite impressive, but I believe I've seen their equals, or better, in the States. Though the main cavern, the largest accessible one in Europe, is pretty spectacular and has few rivals anywhere in the world, I imagine.

Piran is nice - an old town on the coast, though I think most people go for the beaches. Some are clothing-optional. (Oh, you have to love European sensibilities.) I tried to even out my  tan a bit, but was unsuccessful. (Lucky I didn't burn my butt, or worse...) That night was neat, though, as I went for a swim as saw for the first time the famous glowing plankton. I was expecting that they actually glowed for a while after being disturbed by motion, but they don't. They just flash briefly, so the effect is more of a sparkle as you move through the water. Isn't nature grand?

I'd been doing a little hitch-hiking since Bled, and, remarkably, caught a ride with the same old gentleman who got me to the Dante cave. Svato was great - he let me stay at his place, we drank home made wine, talked politics, and he showed me how to make a proper goulash. The next day he dropped me off so I could catch a ride to Croatia, which I will tell you about shortly.

Quest for the Ratty Hat pt. II

That evening/ morning was miserable. I spent hours being sent from one counter, desk, and office to another to try to change my flight, contact the embassy, etc., but nothing went right: the internet was down, and everyone sent me to someone else to talk to, just to have that person send me back. One man finally explained that what I had to do was go to the Indian High Consulate in Colombo and get a special stamp in my paasport that would allow me to get back into the country. I went through security so many times that night (some of the offices were outside the secure area, some were inside) that they got to know me and would just wave me through. I started to think about Tom Hanks in The Terminal.

Later that morning I finally got back to Columbo and the airline office where I was able to bump my flight back about five days. The Indian High Consulate wasn't open for another hour, so I gave up and caught a train back to Kandy. There, I spent some time making lost and found posters with pictures and a description of my hat. I included a Sri Lankan translation explaining the reward, as well as the phone number of my friend Roshini in Columbo. I then had 100 copies made. Why so many? I could have lost the bloody thing anywhere between Ella, Kandy, and the top of Adam's Peak. Still, I thought I'd at least try. I pasted a few up in Kandy, then got on the train to Delhousie/ Adam's Peak. And I got off the train at the next stop, running out with a pre-glued piece of paper to slap up in a visible spot, before running back and jumping on the train. I did this, oh, about two dozen times, maybe, frantically running past people, pasting a poster and running back. (Did I mention I had only about 8 hours sleep for the three nights previous? That might explain a few things.)  I'm pretty sure everyone thought I was crazy, (I did.) but they were also very helpful. People on the train started asking for posters and one guy even offered to put it up on a local TV channel.

The next day I started climbing the mountain, again, leaving posters at tea stands along the way. I made it about half way, when a hotel said, yes, they had a cap. (They don't really use the word "hat" - everything is a "cap".) That brief hope was quickly extinguished when they brought out an ugly, cheap, red thing. And then, looking at the poster, they noticed that I had left a number out of the Roshini's phone number. All those posters I had put up? Maybe 50? Yep, they were all wrong.  (My email address was right, but few people actually use email there.)

F*ck.

So, resigned and partially defeated, I headed back down. I spent the evening down in town, fixing the remaining posters. After about three hours sleep, I got up, and started climbing back up the damn mountain - again. After fixing all the posters I had left before, I came back down, and was asleep by 2:00AM.

The next day while waiting for the train to Ella, I bought a hat. It was kind of like the red one I was shown the previous day - beige, and with a brim that was stiff from the plastic insert. It was pretty crappy. In Ella I checked back into the hotel I stayed at before, but I weren't  able to find it. The thing that amazed me, though, was how kind everyone was. Instead of looking at me as the semi-obsessed, crazy gringo that I was, they took the cause on almost as if it were there own. The hotel called others. A rickshaw driver took me to a nearby rural village, explaining that "It's not a hat a Sri Lankan person would keep or wear - maybe a Tamil." and asked the farmers there if they had seen it. Back in town someone told me to ask Telakasheeny (Tela, for short) - a local homeless guy who wore a similar hat. (Hmmmmm....) When I found Tela, and asked him to keep an eye out for it, he looked at me with the utmost sincerity, and said "I will do my very best, sir." as though I had just asked him to storm a machine gun nest.

The best though, was that night before I went to bed. A young guy in his late teens who worked at the hotel came to me and in broken english tried to explain he had looked all over the hotel without any luck. I thanked him for trying, and he said, as the tears started to well up in his eyes: "I'm sorry... it's just... you come all the way from America... and now... this happen... your grandma's cap... I just... in here (pointing to his heart) I feel so..." shaking and dropping his head, wiping away the tears. Great - now, I'm getting all weepy- eyed. "Oh, hey...no... it's OK." I tell him. He looks up at me and points to my chest: "Are you sure you OK... in here?" (Oh god, the kids killing me here.) "Yeah, yes, of course. It's OK." I reply, and give him a smile. He smiles back and I give him as manly a one-armed man hug as I can before saying goodnight.

The next morning I saw Tela. Still no hat, but I gave him my old sleeping bag in grattitude, and because I really didn't have much use or room for it anymore. The rest of the day was spent traveling back to Kandy, repeating the running around like a headless chicken routine to fix phone numbers on the posters along the way. I met a train conductor from before who was very Buddhist about the whole thing, explaining that loss is a natural part of life. He later explained that he had lost his wife and daughter in the tsunami that ravaged the coast in 2004. He was on a train at the time, so wasn't at home when it happened. Talk about putting things into perspective.

In Kandy that night I bought another hat, better than the previous one, though still pretty cheap and crappy. The next day I was able to get my passport stamped by the Indian High Consulate saying that I was going to be allowed back to India becasue of  "Humanitarian Consideration". And that same night, after having put a "lost" ad in two of the Sri Lankan newspapers, one in English and the other Singalese, I realized that I had lost the hat I had just bought. The situation was going from sad to pathetic. Somehow, over nearly 10 years, and maybe tens of thousands of miles, I had managed keep a hold of one hat. Now, I was unable to keep from loosing one after 24 hrs.

Maybe the Indian High Commision was trying to tell me something.

Quest for the Ratty Hat pt. I

So, after my jungle adventures I did a few normal tourist activities, like visit the Pinnewalla Elephant orphanage, one of Sri Lanka's top attractions. There's fun stuff like watching the baby elephants drink two quarts of milk in about two seconds, and not-so-fun stuff like seeing the elephant whose foot was blown off by a land mine. Definitely a downer, that. I also bought an elephant leather satchel there to replace my worn-out backpack, "The Albatross." (I talked the guy down to $25 for a used one, as opposed to $65 for a new one. Aren't I clever?) (PS - just kidding about the elephant leather part.)

I then went to Anaradhapura, an archaeological site with plenty of ruins and large dagobas. (Also known as stupas or pagodas - they're those big, domed temples.) I also visited Dambulla, where a bunch of large Buddha statues lay around in caves looking wise and peaceful. Buddhism seemed pretty boring compared to other religions until I saw some of the paintings there depicting his life. It could have been Homer's Odyssey, starring  Mr. Siddhartha Gautama. (I'd learn later that there are lots of different types of Buddhism. The Nepalese ones get pretty wild by incorporating some of the Hindu stuff - multi-armed, tusked, monster-gods and such.) From there I also visited Sigiriya - my favorite. It was a impenetrable fortress created high on top of a steep rock mesa, also famous for its vibrant frescoes of some rather busty, actually really busty, women. Do a Google search and you'll see what I mean.

Another attraction everyone kept telling me about was the climb to the top of Adam's Peak. It's where two rather significant things are supposed to have taken place. For the Christians, it's where Adam descended to earth from heaven, and for Buddhists it is where Buddha ascended into Heaven. The guide books mention a visible footprint on the highest rock, though they don't specify who left it. After Israel and the dawning realization that pretty much everywhere in India was a Hindu pilgrimage site, I was burned-out on such places and intentionally avoiding it. Then I heard it was also the highest point of Sri Lanka, and also an unusual climb that most people do at night in order to watch the sun rise, so I changed my mind. (Later research confirmed my suspicion that it is not the tallest peak. But you can't climb that one because it's topped with a government radio tower.)

The morning before I decided to climb it, I got on the train in the small tourist town of Ella. Since I had most of the day to kill, I decided I wanted to take the train the entire way to Kandy to enjoy the scenery. And it is a beautiful ride, on a classic 1940's style train (Not retro - just never updated.) through the mountains, past waterfalls, over old iron rail trestles, and around tea plantations, with the rows of bright green tea bushes lined up in some cool geometric designs. The only bad part was at the end when I missed my stop. (I almost made it, but someone was blocking the doorway - jumping from a moving train is quite possible in this part of the world, and seen as an "At your own risk." endeavor.)

I had to take the bus back to Kandy, where I took another train returning from the direction I had just come. After that, another bus took me into the mountains. Finally, after all that travel, I left my satchel, now filled with all the stuff I wasn't going to take on the climb, at a hostel. It was already almost 8:00PM. To get to the top you climb 5,000 steps - it took me about 3 1/2 hours. The hike is a little surreal - The entire way there are lights and speakers playing traditional music and you can stop almost anywhere to buy goodies or tea. And not only is there a temple at the top, there's a teahouse with a TV right below it. (Makes our mountains back home seem positively primitive by comparison.)  I even had a climbing partner about half of the way - a little dog who, I think, would have gone the entire way had he not fallen asleep when I took a break. (I couldn't bring myself to wake him - why have an animal do something so silly only a human would choose to do it for a reason other than there might be food at the top?)

The guys with the TV teahouse let me sleep on their floor. In the morning they even came over and put a cap on my head to keep me warm (It was surprisingly chilly.) and it was shortly after that that I realized something horrible had happened. I had lost my hat. It was the hat that my recently deceased grandmother had given me nearly ten years ago. The one that had "Made in New Zealand" on the tag - the very first foreign country I had ever visited. It was the hat I had with me my very first day of archaeology survey and every field day since, hiking over thousands of miles throughout the west. It had been to over 40 countries, on my very first train ride, inside the Great pyramid at Giza... the list goes on. And now, it was gone. I had lost Grandma's hat.

At first I was in denial. I had probably left it in my leather satchel below. So, after watching the sunrise, (Yeah, yeah, it was a nice sunrise -whatever. You can't even see the bloody Adam/ Buddha "footprint" - it's covered by the temple.) I practically ran back down the mountain. It wasn't in my bag. I quickly made up a lost and found poster that I posted on the trail, and then grabbed the first bus to the train station. I kept telling myself I didn't really care; it was just an old hat, after all - pretty beat up, the edges were a little frayed. The sweatband had come apart a long time ago. It was sweat-stained and even smelled a little funny. Either way, I didn’t have time to go looking for it - I was supposed to fly back to India the next day and still wanted to see the Colonial Portuguese port city of Galle. I made it there that night just in time to watch Sri Lanka loose the World Cup to India. (Soccer is a HUGE deal here -  I wasn't the only one to go to bed upset that night.)

The next day before leaving for the airport I saw a small tin globe with the following cities on it for the USA: NY; DC; Atlanta; Dallas; LA; San Francisco; and Billings. That's it. Not Chicago or Seattle. Not even Salt Lake City or Denver, but Billings, MT. A town I know well, as it is about 2 hrs from where I grew up. It has a population of about 100,000 people. Go Billings, I guess, for somehow making an impression in Asia.

That night at the airport I said farewell to the hat and went to get on the plane. With flashbacks of the Denver incident, I quickly realized there was something wrong. There was a lot of discussion behind the counter about my passport - a lot more than there should have been. I was hoping it was just because of me now having two bags, but I knew what was happening because I had been warned by another traveler in Sri Lanka. They weren't going to let me go back for two months because of a recent law designed to, somehow, keep terrorists with a tourist visa out of India.

It looked like I was now going to have plenty of time to go find my hat.

Return to the Temple of Doom, pt. II

Laying there, I guess my first thought was "Wow - that was really stupid." But, the ankle still worked, so I got up and looked at the branch, thinking "What if it had split, and impaled my leg?" (I always have these thoughts after it too late to do any good with them.)

But, since I was still able to walk, (Though that ankle would still bother me a bit for another six weeks.) I continued down the hill. After another 15 minutes or so I was really close, but I ran into a similar obstacle - a large rock on my right, and the razor-wire fence on the left, but I was just barely able to squeeze through the gap in between, with only minor damage to my shirt because of the wire. Down some more, now that shirt is almost completely soaked through with sweat, and I'm completely covered in, I don't know - grass seeds? Jungle detritus? Sticky, itchy, plant crap. 

But now I'm so close I can even see the faux decoration on the faux pillars. I stumble a bit farther, and stop to try to figure out how to get the rest of the way, since the stupid things are, naturally, on the other side of the fence. Good thing, too, as a few feet farther would have probably taken me over the edge of the cliff, which was hidden in the undergrowth.

Now, a reasonable individual might have decided that it was a good idea not to try and cross the fence into the security zone, but I hadn't put myself through all that for nothing, and, after all, it was only a little ways over. And I'm sure that if I could ask the guards, they would let me through, I mean, what's the harm, right? So... looking around I did find a spot where I could snake my way underneath, with only a little more damage to the cut-up shirt. And there, in all their artificial magnificence, where the concrete supports made to look like stone and the remnants of the steel cables that supported the bridge. I took a bunch of photos, making sure not to get any of the dam in case I got stopped later. (Seriously, who cares? If you really want, you can even get  lat. and long. coordinates and print images off of Google Earth. (That's what I did, anyway.)) I only ducked back into the jungle once when I heard a truck approaching on the other side, discretion being the better part of valor, after all.

Time to go back up. I can tell you that even in 112 degree heat, hiking with a pack in the deserts of WY, (Yes, it did happen once on an arch. survey.) I have never been so hot in my entire life. Even the Turkish sauna in Amman (That was a slightly bizarre experience that I'll share later.) seemed pleasant in comparison. Maybe it was not having any water, or maybe it was the humidity, but the slog back was exceedingly miserable. Never mind having to go under, around, and over all the obstacles from before. (The tree branch held together enough I could use it to climb back up the rock.) It got to the point where I would walk ten steps, lay down in a shady spot, or just the grass, rest, then do it again. I started to wonder what heat stroke was like. Probably like hypothermia - irrational thinking. But at what point in this venture was there any? The thing that kept me going, besides not wanting to lay down and die, was remembering a little stream that formed a beautiful little pool under a bridge I had seen earlier. (Beautiful may be an exaggeration, but you'll remember my heat-induced delusional thinking.)

Finally, after about ten years, I made it to the top. I was half expecting armed guards to be there waiting on the road for me, so I was pleasantly surprised to find there weren't any. A quick hike up the road brought me to the bridge, and a short crawl through one of the concrete culverts underneath brought me to my swimming-hole. It took about three seconds and I was naked as a jay-bird, splashing around in the cool, refreshing water. I briefly considered that the black wiggly things in the water with me might be leeches, but they were actually only tadpoles. And tadpoles are cool - they don't hurt anything. I spent as long as I could there, wishing I could drink the water (I wasn't that delusional.) and rinsing out my clothes.

When I was done, I got back on the road feeling like a new man, which probably helped my cause when a couple young army guys on a motorcycle stopped and asked me where I had been. I told them the truth: "In the jungle - it's too bloody hot! But there's some very pretty butterfly's over by the stream there. I don't imagine you could give me a ride?" They gave me a slightly puzzled look, then an apologetic look, and continued down the road.

Eventually, I found a tuk-tuk that drove me back into town past the first security gate, without stopping there. It was for the best - I wanted the guard to see me, which I think he did, so he didn't think I was still inside, but I also didn't want to have to answer questions about what had taken me so long. ("Well, after crawling  under the fence and taking a bunch of photos I was really hot, so I went skinny-dipping...." )

Return to the Temple of Doom

So... I wasn't planning on going to Sri Lanka. I don't think it even occurred to me until I took that three-day train trip from Delhi to the South of India.  (It really wasn't as bad as it sounds - I had a coach with A/C and a sleeping bunk. Plus, it gave me a chance to read my guide book and figure out what I actually wanted to see besides the Taj Mahal, and the oh-so-polluted Ganges where all the cremated bodies get dumped. (Turns out they don't all get cremated - more on that, later.)) And with a chance to look a little more closely the map it became a pretty obvious side-trip.  I mean, when would I ever be this close again?

And, there was actually another reason, that I hate to admit. Growing up, my knowledge about India didn't come from Rudyard Kipling or even Richard Attenborough's Gandhi, it came from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. (Sorry, India.)  At some point I started wondering where they had filmed it. A quick google search revealed they didn't film it in India at all - the government wouldn't let them because of the script. (The whole British saving the day at the end probably didn't go over so well - that and the eating of chilled monkey brains. Seriously, Lucas?) So, instead, they went to Sri Lanka, and that sealed the deal in terms of me wanting to visit there. Who wouldn't want to see where Harrison Ford muttered the classic line: "Prepare to me Kali - in Hell!"
(Again, India, sorry.)

So I tried finding a ferry. There were rumors about one starting up again after a 30 year hiatus because of the war. (Yes, if you haven't been paying attention, the country had been having a civil war until just a couple of years ago.) Theoretically, it should have started about the exact same time I was wanting to go, but it got delayed, again, indefinitely, as the ship that was going to be used was sent to Libya to transport refugees out of the country. (Stupid refugees, interfering with my travel plans.) So, I bought a 1:30 AM flight from Chennai (Madras) to Colombo, instead.

My first impression of the country wasn't a good one. I stuck my head out the door of the airport shuttle bus to call over a couple other backpackers and a woman scolded me for not paying close enough attention to my bag. So I wondered -were there really people who would board a crowded bus in the pre-dawn hours, grab my 40 lb. backpack, and run off into the jungle as I stood three feet away and we all watched? I was doubtful, but still...a little disconcerting. The bus took an eternity to get to the city, and after the bus dropped me off, I remembered I never got my 200 Rupees in change for the fare.

But my second impression was even worse - downtown Colombo is about as bad as any city in India. (Well, maybe not that bad.) Crowded, polluted, hectic, and ugly in only the way that modern third-world sprawl can achieve. I was ready to get the heck out of Dodge when a motherly woman who I'd have guessed was from Hawaii, stopped me on the street and offered to help. 99% of the time this leads to the offering individual A) providing terrible help and b) wanting money for it. But her smile seemed genuine, and her calm demeanor seemed to lack the desperation that you often find with most touts. Plus, her slow, precise way of explaining things made me think she actually knew what she was talking about. And for once, I was right. She took me to her house, fed me, did my laundry, found a cheap place for me to stay nearby, and arranged a trip to the zoo. ( I got to see meerkats and dancing elephants -not bad!) She also fed me a snack when I got back, and then dinner later after a walk along the beach that night. (Maybe she was concerned about my weight?)

There was one thing she was off the mark about, though - Sri Lankan busses are NOT any better than the ones in India. Of course, I could have paid the extra $1.00 for the bus with A/C like she recommended, but nooo... I wanted to take pictures out of the open window on my way to Kandy. Because of that, I was treated to an interminable ride past what looked like one long, run-down, strip-mall lining the crowded, diesel-fume-choked, two-lane "highway" in the jungle with stops every 100 ft. for about 5 hours.

My first tourist activity once I got there, finally, was to visit holy Temple of the Tooth. My unsolicited guide explained that it's importance was that the only mortal remains of Buddha were housed there. They consist of, obviously, a tooth. This tooth, all that remained after Lord Buddahs' cremation, is locked behind a door which gets opened every evening about 5:00 to reveal... a big gold cup which covers... another gold cup, and then... five others. But under that final cup is, well, maybe a replica of the tooth according to some conspiracy theorists. Still a big deal, though, and a lot of people come to check it out.

The nest day was off the tourist trail. I was in search of the former "Indian" village set that Indiana Jones and crew visit in the film. On the way I met a very nice young banker who was up in the hills visiting a plot of land he was farming. He offered to help me find the right spot, which he might not have if he'd have known how long it would take. It wasn't easy to find - the jungle has overgrown everything. I could tell he was getting a bit impatient, so I was glad when I found the niche carved in a rock where the "sacred Shiva Lingam" was kept. He got into it then, and thought that was pretty cool. (He even paid for the rickshaw - what a guy!)

The following day was a bit... er... crazy. Maybe stupid is the word I'm looking for - you be the judge. I went to the gorge where the infamous rope-bridge sequence was filmed. And here's an interesting bit of trivia - just upstream from that spot a dam was being built, so the filmmakers had the British firm that was building the dam also build the "rope" (steel cable) bridge. The upshot of all this is that the area is a bit of a high-security zone now. Because of that I had to go past a guard at a check-point, who said I could go into the area, then got stopped at a second one where they said I couldn't go any farther. (Actually, they didn't speak English, but I got the point.) Back up the road I found a way down to the canyon edge and could just make out what was left of the rope-bridge, but it was quite a long way off, so I went back down and asked again at the guard post about how to get down to the spot. They knew what I was trying to do, apparently, as I could make out "Spielberg" in the conversation, but were, again, not too helpful. Good natured, though, as I could hear them laughing as I left.

So I went as close as I could, which was along the 10-foot-tall razor wire covered fence, and started slogging my way through the jungle down to the canyon edge. The grass was about five foot tall, and at some point I started thinking about what might be lurking there. Now, unlike Indy, I'm not especially afraid of snakes, but I certainly wouldn't want to get bitten by a cobra in the middle of nowhere, especially when no one knew where I was. And then I saw it - far down below, the top of one of the bridge support pillars. Down, down, down, I went until I reached a ten-foot tall drop off the edge of a smooth boulder. To the left - razor wire. To the right - impenetrable jungle trees. So I thought to myself - is this really worth it? It was hot and humid, I was nearly out of water, and I would still have to climb all the way back up. All this because of a really crappy movie from 30 years ago. I'd have to be insane to continue.

But wait... what's this? A broken tree limb, with a fork, leaning conveniently half-way up the rock? All I'd have to do is drop five feet, land one foot in the Y of the branch, and that would slow my fall enough to make it the rest of the way. Sure - why not?

The last thing I heard was a loud pop from my ankle as I fell into the thick, snake-infested undergrowth below.

(You know I lived, so it's not so suspenseful, but I really need to get off of the computer for a while, so I'll tell you the rest later.)

I Ain't Afraid of No Ghosts

Do you believe in ghosts?" asks Shine, a slightly plump young lady of 21 years, late at night on my train to Ahmedabad.
"No.", I say shaking my head. (I don't know that this really translates - in India you'll often ask a question and get in response a sort-of bobble-headed side-to-side gesture which means, I think, "OK." The problem is that often times this is the response to questions like "Is there a bathroom? Toilet? Water Closet?!")


"I do." she continues. "Maybe I'm old-fashioned. But I watch all the ghost programs on T.V. Have you seen Ghost Hunters? The Exorcism of Emily Rose? I watch them all. My mother yells at me because I get scared, then don't want to sleep alone! "Why do you watch these silly movies?" she says. In my village we have a ghost. There is this bungalow and this woman was killed there years ago..."


At this point I start to fade out. I keep wondering if anyone has the top bunk above me, so that I can lay down, since my spot has been usurped by a very persistent middle-aged, gruff-looking Indian who knows I'm not going to start a fight at 12:00AM to get my spot back.


"....so about 20 people have been murdered there and no one can explain it."
That, of course, grabs my attention. "What? How long ago was this?"
"She was killed in 1987."
That really grabs my attention.


I ask her to start over, along with a lot of other questions along the way. She explains that there was this woman who worked at the house. She was pregnant. She slipped and fell, was knocked out, and the other people working and living there were afraid to call the police for fear of being implicated. So, naturally, they dug a hole in the basement and buried her. Alive. (They didn't know that of course. Well, maybe they did, and just didn't care for her all that much.) 


"As she lay there she kept wishing: "Please let me live so that I can have my baby!"" (Again, how one knows the final thoughts of an unconscious woman under six feet of soil... (And, it was probably only one foot. I've seen Indian construction standards.)) She continues to tell me that everyone involved was eventually killed - they were all found in the yard with "mysterious injuries to the neck". And, everyone who has stayed there since has befallen the same foul fate at the hands of "the witch". Apparently, even the "T.V. shows" have gone there, but wouldn't enter the house because it was so foreboding. The State Government called for an investigation, but "The police couldn't find any explanation." (Police investigation is, I'm sure, of the same high level as construction.) 


"The entire village is terrified. No one will go into the house anymore."


This really gets me thinking. The anthropologist in me is coming up with titles for a paper: "Modern Superstition and Urban Legend in Central India - a Case Study." (Scientific papers have to to have ponderous titles like that, or they're just not scientific.) Also, I figure that if I go inside, and come out alive, then perhaps the "curse" will be broken, and people will no longer be "terrified." (I could be a local hero!)
So, I decide that, considering I got screwed into paying far more for the ticket than I should have, I will oversleep my 4:30 AM stop and go on with her to the small town of Parbhani. I was lucky the new conductor we got in the morning sympathized with me getting taken for a ride (no pun intended) by his predecessor, and didn't fine me.


Me, Shine, and her mother, who speaks no English at all, get a motor-rickshaw from the station to their house. The town itself is small, rural, dusty. People stare at me with more than passing interest - they don't get too many tourists here, I'm sure. We pass kids playing cricket in the empty dirt lots. (Man, how they love cricket here.) Their place is a very nice, little white house with a courtyard in front, the deceased fathers small white sedan sitting on blocks,  partially covered with a canvas tarp. The living room is a fairly standard affair with pictures of various Gods on the walls, no-where to sit but the carpeted floor, and a TV in the corner. They're a middle class family with a few servants/ tenants living with them, who serve us chai (tea) and breakfast while the Rickshaw driver arranges, I am told, permission to go inside the house.


Did it occur to me to be worried at all? Only after I asked her if she actually knew anyone who had been killed...
"Yes. My fathers friend that he went to school with. He stayed there a few nights and was found dead, too."
Hmmmm. That was a little disconcerting, actually.
"Are you sure? I mean, it seems like the kind of thing that would be in the news."
"Oh yes, you can look it up in the newspapers."
Discounting that the local Indian journalism is likely on par with Rush Limbaugh's own "Excellence in Broadcasting" (Maybe not that bad, but still...)  I start thinking... What if...? OK, if  I learned anything from watching Scooby Doo, it's that the idea of a murderous witch from beyond the grave killing people is, in a word, absurd. BUT... what else could cause this? Is there a murderous monkey living in the house? No - somebody would see it. Cobra? No - different injuries. What about.... hantavirus? Is that even a thing in India? What about carbon monoxide? Is there mining in the area. Methane gas, maybe?
Now Shine is getting into it. "Oh - maybe! There was one lady who stayed there, who said she wanted to prove there was no ghost, and she burst into flames and died!"


Not really where I was going with that, but it was a nice bit of information to have.


So, just to be on the safe side, I pack up a few things to be sent home with brief notes explaining that I was killed by a ghost witch in central India. I mean, if you have to go, you might as well do it with flair. I bring a handkerchief, just for Hanta virus.


Finally, the two of us get into the rickshaw and go to the house. It was remarkably un-spooky. Just a plain one-story house fenced off of the main street with barred and shuttered windows, and a large padlock on the door. We stop at the all-purpose shop next door and a lengthy discussion takes place, the shop owner looking slightly more irritated than concerned. Cell phones are called, and conversations I don't understand take place. (Everyone in India has a cell phone. They pay about $1.00 a month for service. Try to tell me we're not getting screwed in the US.)
The rickshaw driver explains: "The owner says it's OK to go inside. He'll bring the key later."


Back outside the house a small crowd is starting to gather. Not wanting to wait for the rest of the town to arrive, I tell them: "Well, if it's OK, then I'll just take a look around." Without objections, I hop the fence and head toward the stairway off to the right, leading to the roof. At the back of the house is a small private, walled-in patio with two back doors leading into the house. Neither have padlocks. Hopping down onto a crumbly brick wall, I am able to then jump onto some stairs leading down to the patio. The first door seems to be unlocked, but a very heavy, 50 gallon metal barrel only moves a bit from my shoving before getting lodged on something. The next door is completely covered in Hollywood-horror-movie-style cobwebs, which I brush aside with my hat. The door handle turns, but it's latched from inside.


Like the front of the house, there are two boarded-up windows to the side of the doors, so I decide to climb up onto the window sills and look through the open upper transoms. Inside the first is a nightmarish scene. Pink paint, the the color of which would embarrass a 1959 Cadillac, covers the walls. And that was it. A few cobwebs and an empty water bottle. Really a boring room, minus the pink paint.
The second is a dingy, cobweb covered white room so boring it's painful. No blood spattering the walls. No axe with hair and dried gore clinging to it.
"William! Are you OK?!! William!!!"
I yell back: "Yeah! I'm fine! Just a minute!"
I climb back on the roof.  For a brief moment I consider screaming like a banshee as I wave my arms running to the edge of the roof, but decide it wasn't a very professional thing for an anthropologist to do.


By now, a large crowd has gathered and they want to see the photos I took of the rooms. There's a few laughs from the younger people in the crowd. The rickshaw guys says something to Shine. She tells me: "We should go before the press arrives. I'm serious - they'll come." (Secretly, I'm a little disappointed. Getting my picture in an Indian newspaper wearing my Indiana Jones hat would be kind of cool.)


Back at her house we have lunch. Time passes. I try to nap. I inquire about the key again. "Oh, we have to wait, the driver's brother will bring the key." Shine and I spend a few hours chit-chatting. I take a bucket water shower in the squat-toilet bathroom. I ask Shine, again, about the key, as I've now missed the first train leaving town and will have to catch the 5:30. She's a bit evasive and makes a  comment, half to herself. "If my mother finds I'm delaying you, she'll kill me!"
Hmmm. "Delaying" me?


After more tea (It's a wonder I'm ever able to sleep, with all the tea I drink here.) the conversation eventually turns to language. I explain I speak some Spanish, and we write down expressions and phrases for each other. For me, the Hindi for: "How much is it?" "That's far too expensive." "Thank you." "Excuse me." "I don't speak Hindi." "Where is the Train station?"
I write these down in Spanish for Shine. She adds a few to her list she wants translated: "I like you." "I love you." "I can't live without you."


Now, I'm finally starting to get genuinely worried.


My relief comes when the rickshaw driver arrives. He talks in a subdued tone to Shine. I ask: "Is this about the key?"
"Yes"
"Well? Does he have it?"
"Uh... It's complicated."


Complicated. Great. I ask her to explain and in a quiet voice she tells me. "Wait a minute. I don't want the workers to hear." (Not that the guys working on the electricity spoke English, but, whatever.) After they leave she tells me. "His brother was bringing the key on his motorbike. But he crashed. They are saying it's because the witch is mad you went into the house."


Oh oh. That's not good. This is usually the point in the endeavour when the guys in the pith helmets end up in a large boiling pot for bringing harm to one of the villagers.


"Is he OK?"
"Yes, he just hurt his leg."
Well, so much for that. "No key, then, I bet."
"You still desire to go into the house?" She asks, surprised.
"Well... no.... I don't care. I mean, I just wanted to help, but it looks like I'm just causing trouble, so I guess I better not."


Between the amorous Shine and a potentially pissed off village, I decide I really don't want to spend the night, so I get myself packed up. About a half hour before the train was to leave we get in the rickshaw. As we pass the house, Shine jokes: "Maybe you want to say goodbye to the witch?" I lean out the open door, and waving my hat at the passing house I yell: "Goodbye witch! Goodbye!!"


Scariest of all was the train station. The entire town had shown up to buy a train ticket. All 5,000 of them were gathered in the station. There was no way I'd be able to get a ticket in time.


The rickshaw guy muscles us through to the back of the building where he talks to a station guard, pointing at me. The guard disappears into the building, then comes out a few minutes later, with a ticket in hand. I pay the guard and shake his hand. Relief mixed with gratitude just as quickly fades at what I hear next from Shine, as the train pulls into the station: "The driver wants 500 rupees."
"What?!"
"For the day."
"He wasn't even with us most of the day!"
"For helping to get the key"
"He didn't get the key."
"But his brother got hurt."
Uhg. "I'll give him 200."
"I can give him 300, too."
"No... OK, fine, I'll give him.. uhg.. 400, but that's it!"
She translates. "He says OK."


I hand over the cash and get on board. As the train pulls away, Shine waves and yells to me: "Goodbye, William!! Goodbye! Call me!!"
The rickshaw driver, with a devilish smile and a wave, also yells up at me, in a slightly disconcerting way: "Yes! Goodbye, William! Goodbye!"


The train that night was so packed, and hot, I joined the locals and stood in the open doorway. It occurred to me that my demise would most likely come that night, not from a ghost, but from someone accidentally pushing me out the door.


But I held on extra-tight to the hand-rails, just to prove the old witch wrong.