Beneath the Ibex Brigade

     If I were an old timey explorer and I stumbled into India I would probably call it the Land of 10,000 Patches or something to that effect. Broken Concrete. Trashcanlessville. I got here about two weeks ago, and having already logged about 35 hours of bus time, I've seen but a tiny sliver of a corner of the country, so I can't fairly characterize much because this place is so vast and colorful and dense. However, It's hard to miss the fact that litter is a way of life. 

     I'm in a mountain town called Shimla, north of Delhi. Here the macaques scrap with the dogs for street turf along the steep ridgeline that makes up the town. There's snow in the pine trees. Back in the early 1900s Shimla was designated the official summer town of the goverment (Delhi is too hot) by the British. European style wooden and stone buildings tuck themselves into the steeps. Like I mentioned, this place is much more popular in summer, and locals ask me what I'm doing here--in a friendly way.

     But first when I arrived in Delhi two weeks ago, I was welcomed with a classic hotel scam that I could sense was unfolding, but I went with it anyway. It cost me about $50 and silent fury for a few days. The ol' bait and switch. Over 16 million people live in Delhi. The roads are treated very much as public spaces, with construction projects spilling out into the centerline and food stands parked askance where a car might normally travel. The bicycle is the speed limit. Vehicles on the road for more than a couple years are scarred and pitted by relentless 10 mph collisions and butter-tight driving conditions. Oh, and the horns. Oh god the horns. Trendy rickshaw and taxi drivers trick out their horns for maximum decibels and use them like they are in the world's worse symphony. The horns don't even seem useful because all the vehicles are 8 inches from each other and moving at bicycle speed.

     Before I started my travels I was describing what I thought India would be like to my uncle.  He jokingly said "I just want to smell that." India loves their incense, and despite the roving cows wandering into restaurants and the thieving monkeys everywhere it always smells like sage and butter and pipe tobacco, with an apricot top note. 

     So I hopped a train out of Delhi to a place called Rishikesh. Rishikesh is considered the yoga capital of the world and yogis from the world over flock to meditate and do their stretching on the banks of the Ganges River, the holiest river in India. It's got a pretty laid back hippie type of feel set at the foothills of the Himalayas, accessible only by a pedestrian bridge. The power goes out about 10 times a day. I met a few westerners that live there half the year to get deep into the yoga. Kids fly kites all day.

     From Rishikesh I took a ten hour bus ride on a one lane goat path where land slides and erosion hollowed out the underside of the road on the nearly vertical cliffs. I was pretty certain--based on statistics alone--that we would plummet to our deaths, so within the first hour I already decided I'd yell "Figures!" when we started to roll. Miraculously I made it to my destination, Joshimath, with a mix of resigned fatalism and awe. Here the mountains don't mess around. Just around the corner lies(or rather sits up straight) Nanda Devi, the highest mountain in India. I didn't take off my down jacket for the three days I was in Joshimath. In the evening the townsfolk would start fires on the sidewalk and share chai tea to be social and I suspect more importantly, to stay warm. One day I went skiing up there. The skiing was pretty crappy, but hey, I went skiing in the Himalayas. They had a poma-lift that cost 75 cents a ride. But the views were amazing, where pine forests give way to shear cliffs for thousands of feet.

     On a very unrelated note, I developed a taste for Indian pop music. That shit is so catchy. Lots of percussion and singers performing impressive tonal diphthongs. The music videos are all dancing all the time. Treat yourself to one.

     Anyway, I endured the ten hour bus ride of doom back the way I came and stayed a couple nights in Moussorie, an Indian weekend hangout spot in the mountains. Other than a few conversations with locals (the Indian-English accent is one of my favorite. And they speak so elegantly "Hello sir, ahead on the road you will approach a bifurcation. Adhere to the left.") it was rather uneventful. The prominence of English here makes it a very inviting place, and I've talked politics and religion with ease.

     Back to where I am now, Shimla.  It's in a state where the state animal is the snow leopard. The snow leopard! I still want to go further north. I can see in the distance the mountains growing bigger. Supposedly there is some good rafting. I imagined I would have teamed up with another traveler by now to share some memories with, but I have yet to find anyone.

Peacocks and myna birds.

     So I've been in the land of Juicy Green for about three weeks now. I'm nursing a slightly damaged left leg as a result of taking a corner a little too fast. Apparently 125 CCs is just too much. Perhaps the pirate's life is not in fact for me.
     Before arriving in Thailand I spent 40 hours in airports and planes. My flight from LAX to Taipei was delayed an hour and a half, so I was stuck bored in Los Angeles longer than expected, but the delay resulted in a frantic push to connect to my flight going from Taipei to Bangkok. At the terminal in Taipei there was a corridor of staff escorting, nay, forcing us with commands from one landing jet to one about to take off. They were yelling run run run gogogogogo Bangkok hurry hurry. Little old ladies practically abandoned their canes in order to save weight for the sprint. It will probably be the closest thing to the tour de France I will experience. There was a farcical security check where the lady that was supposed to monitor the x-ray screen was too busy ripping off belts and backpacks of travelers to actually watch the screen the belts and backpacks passed by. They know how to move people in Asia.
     But I finally got to Bangkok in the wee hours. I've never been to find a truce with Bangkok. For one, there are almost no attractions for a city that 15 million people call home. Sure, there are huge outdoor markets, and massive modern shopping complexes and a Buddhist wat or two, but try as I might, I can't find anything to actually do in Bangkok. Bangkok's main attraction is Bangkok itself. How does it stay together? How does it hum with such a pitch? How can so many moving parts interact without tearing itself apart? And why, for shitssake?
     After sleeping off the jet lag and relearning (it's always relearned, never known) what heat and humidity is, I hopped a flight down to the islands and beaches area of Thailand. I didn't have a plan. At the little airport in Krabi I split a cab to town with a couple of strangers from Europe. We all quickly became friends, and with no real idea of what to do while I was in what many consider to be tropical paradise, I went with Sabine, a woman from Munich, to the island of Kho Phi Phi to learn how to scuba dive. Yeah, why not right?
     Kho Phi Phi is a small strange destination in the Andaman Sea. It's composed mostly of cats,  five inch millipedes, and reckless tourists. It's just a theory, but I think there is some kind of special island ecosystem wherein careless, reckless tourists leave garbage for the millipedes to eat, then the cats eat the millipedes, and then more tourists flock to the island to experience this deluge of cats. It cycles like that. Again, it's just a theory. The island got hit pretty hard in the tsunami years back but none of that is very obvious. It's been rebuilt with uncharacteristic speed, which is all the more impressive when you realize there are no roads or vehicles or heavy equipment on the island. Everything created (resorts, restaurants, docks, etc) is hand built....with hands. And without any roads or vehicles there is no need for space hogging things like parking lots or gas stations or mechanic shops. Despite having quite a lot of tourists and workers on the island, it'a all fairly contained and intimate. One of the beaches had a Vegas party feel to it, but if you went around the corner you'd find yourself in a classic honeymooner's cove. Oh, and there would definitely be a cat waiting there.
     I've never really had any desire to learn how to dive but the island's heat compelled me into the water. Plus, it was a gorgeous environment with five hundred foot limestone cliffs jutting straight from the water, where above, some kind of Thai eagles would circle. On the Roy G. Biv sprectrum, the water was the the horizontal dash that completes the G. Clearly this place was more about the ocean than the land. Anyway, Sabine and I signed up to for a 3-4 day certificate course. At the time, and still now, I felt like it was a scam to force a person to take an official course to go diving. I always assumed that doing something potentially dangerous pitted your ignorance, knowledge, and boldness in a three-way battle. So if you want to cross crevasse laden glaciers, you read some books and buy a rope. The dude at REI that sells the rope doesn't ask for your credentials. Why can't you just ask your buddy to teach you how to dive and get a no-questions-asked air tank fill up? I'm trying not to rant, but I thought this was America!
     Where was I? Ah, diving was a lot like I imagined it would be, but with the extra imagination dimension of  actually doing it. In other words, there is no substitute for really being 60 feet underwater and removing your regulator. Or spooking a big ray, Or being totally submersed in the non terrestrial world, in crystal clear bath temperature water for 45 minutes with all those crazy fishes. It wasn't at all zen, but it was....neat....? I remember thinking the very slow, surging, elementary thought of "huh, this ocean world sure is different from the one I'm used to." I felt silly down there, thinking that. Don't most people figure that out when they are five years old after watching a NOVA special?
     I like to combine activities. Which is why my life feels like a never ending picnic: I like to eat and I like to do other stuff. Doing a little diving made me wonder what activities could be combined with it. I've been dabbling in falconry the last couple years and it occurred to me that with just a little tweaking, you could combine diving with falconry and viola, using all the same principles of falconry you are now hunting underwater with a shark. Seriously. Birds and fishes are practically the same. Sharkonry. Trust me, it's only a matter of time.
     A complaint with what seems like a simple remedy: one aspect of diving that I didn't imagine before actually doing it was how preposterously loud it was. For the duration of the dive you get a ceaseless blubobublubblouboblubble that is magnified by the constant psychological reminder that you are underwater and that you have to breath. Why can't they put a muffler on the regulator? Or a couple of exhaust stacks that extend up beyond your ears? Any enterprising inventors want to partner up on this problem?
     After a week on Kho Phi Phi and four dives and some new friends, I flew up north to meet up with Steve and to check up on the farm. Last night Steve threw a little Christmas party for his friends in the village (they don't care about Christmas, but hey, let's be merry). It was great to see all the little kids, some of which I had met six years ago, getting bigger and less afraid of me. There is a major language barrier between me and most of the people I've gotten to know over here, but I've worked with a lot of them over the years, and the reunion is always exciting. This farm in this village feels a lot like a home away from home, and the relationships built here mean more to me than I previously realized.
     The time here up north on the farm has been pretty low key. I knocked the cobwebs off the hut. There is an almost eternally raged battle of strategy and malice against a deceptive, possibly immortal rat that I'd be cool with if it would just be quiet at night. It never ends. It is so goddamn smart and loud.
     After catching up with Steve I left for a five day bike trip through the overgrown mountains near the Laos border to the east, in Nan and Loei provinces. The scenery deserves much more attention than it receives from outsiders, but I'll keep that little secret to myself. The little towns I stayed in required that I speak Thai, lest I might not find a place to sleep for the night. But the roads were windy and steep (sorry, left leg...) and the guesthouses the right price ($8).
     On the 29th I zoom over to Delhi. The picnic continues.
   
   

Hi Everyone!
      I'm heading out for 4+ months of delightful unknowns, and some friends and family requested I set up a blog to help keep them informed about my whereabouts and whatimdoings. You should expect an update around every two weeks, maybe more often than that. The posts will be sent from Thailand, India, Nepal, and various eastern European countries, more or less in that order.
     I hope you enjoy both the prattle and the profound (more of the former) that these entries allow. Although I wish it were possible, I won't always be able to say I wish you were here, because spending days at a time within 50 feet of a toilet is not something I could wish upon the caring people willing to read this blog. Oh, and please, stay in touch!

Jordan