Scott Weller's Blog

Eid al-Adha in Pakistan

2011-11-09T20:09:00.000+05:00

Pakistan Karakoram

2011-09-12T23:17:00.000+05:00

Balti boy in Askoli

Piaiju peak profiled at sunset


approaching the Trango series and Cathedrals

legendary Baltoro shoes

Goro I campsite near Masherbrum (K1)

our runaway horse at Concordia

the stately Hassan

Broad Peak from Concordia

the elusive Gasherbrum IV

Concordia village life

the mighty K2 at dusk... a sight to behold

Baltoro candy


the Deosai high plateau

Karakoram traffic jam

2011-08-14T22:02:00.000+05:00

2011-04-24T10:29:00.000+05:00

Greg Mortenson

2011-04-22T00:30:00.003+05:00

The recent revelations of Greg Mortenson have been gnawing away at me the past few days as I attempt to digest the significance of it all. Like millions more, I found Mortenson’s story inspiring. Before reading Three Cups of Tea, the fate of my own adventures brought me to a remote village in Pakistan’s Karakoram Range where I lived with a family while volunteering at their community school. There are several parallels between my experience and Mortenson’s story, which led me to both revere and criticize the depiction of Three Cups of Tea.

Coincidentally, the village I lived in, known as Misgar, is located in the valley adjacent to Zuudkhan, which plays a pivotal role in Mortenson’s story (particularly in Stones into Schools) as the venue for the promise he makes to build a school for the Kyrgyz nomads of the nearby Wakhan Corridor in Afghanistan. More importantly, it was a non-profit foundation that funded the construction of Misgar’s community school, which was subsequently left to its own devices to source teachers, develop curriculum, and improve student performance. In every regard that directly impacted the quality of education being delivered, Misgar’s school was in dire straits.

After returning home and reading Three Cups of Tea, my primary objection was the relationship that Mortenson claimed to exist between constructing schools and educating thousands of children. When discussing Mortenson’s story with others, it was puzzling to me how few people took issue with this extrapolation, which should have been obvious to any discerning reader.

Regardless of what faults Mortenson’s readers may have identified in him, it was the cult of personality that elevated him to heroism (with myself included). The story of Three Cups of Tea is so extraordinary that, with the benefit of hindsight, it’s not difficult to imagine that elements were embellished. Nor should it come as a surprise that a 35 year-old nurse and climbing bum would become a dysfunctional executive.

What’s most devastating about Mortenson’s apparent demise is the implication of intent. That he pathologically misled his supporters is far more egregious than had he done wrong while meaning to do well. The projection of Mortenson’s character, which he worked so hard to craft in his books, has been irreparably damaged.

Mortenson was supposed to be the real deal – a man of genuine motivations who had made great sacrifices for the noble cause of education. To know that he existed was uplifting, and to now discover that he is a fraud is crushing. Did Mortenson become corrupted along the way by the temptation of selling his story to the world? Or did Mortenson, out of desperation from the very beginning, do what he had to do to make a living? We’ll probably never know, not that it really matters.

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Regal Chowk

2011-04-17T13:03:00.005+05:00

Part I

The White Mosque’s call to prayer nudged me awake as it echoed through the empty bazaars splaying from Regal Chowk like bent spokes. There could be no more fitting way to begin the day. The sound of the call to prayer embodied everything I didn’t know or understand about this exotic place, and the thrill that I experienced in that brief moment of reflection was the very thing that brought me all this way to Pakistan.

I stumbled out of bed and across the roof deck to the “sky bath”, filled a bucket with water and paused, to reconsider, before dumping the first scoop over my head. The cold water jolted my body awake and left me tingling with warmth from within. I threw on a tan shalwar kameez and cinched the baggy trousers with a cotton waist string.

Downstairs, I always felt a pinch of guilt waking up Azir to let me out, and would hesitate for a moment before rousing him with a heavy whisper. If I caught him in the middle of a dream, he would thrust out of his bed in a state of disorientation, requiring several minutes to collect himself. There were many intriguing characters at the Regal hotel, but it was my friendship with Azir that I valued most. Belonging to the small Kalash tribe of northern Pakistan, Azir was a long way from home, and his struggle resonated with me. But the resentment of Islamic culture that festered in Azir, while amusing, was tragically ironic. As he removed the padlock from the door and I departed toward the street, he offered commentary on my own irony:
“Mr. Peter, you are looking like Muslim man in shalwar kameez, why you are not looking strong like English man with pant-shirt? And the beard should be full shaving, Peter, not looking like mullah –”
“OK, Azir, we will talk about that later, I have to get to work now.”

Outside the hotel, past the chai-wallah, the men at the flower stall had begun cutting their bouquets of roses, so I proceeded on with confidence. Being one of Lahore’s landmark intersections, Regal Chowk is a popular venue for demonstrations and political rallies. If anything disagreeable were in the forecast, the flower stall would shut down and serve as my cue to stay inside.

Along Mall Road, Lahore’s most prominent avenue of stately British architecture and urban greenery, I made my way to the rickshaw stand adjacent to the White Mosque. Approaching the yellow rickshaw at the head of the queue, I introduced myself to Dawood Sb (“Mr. Dawood”) who, in the coming weeks, would become a trusted friend and host. Hailing from Peshawar in northwest Pakistan, Dawood Sb is a Pashtun man whose brethren spawned the Taliban movement across the border in Afghanistan. Dawood Sb and I didn’t have any formal agreement for my morning commute, yet he never missed a single day delivering me to work.

The rickshaw rides to and from work were the highlight of my day. From Regal Chowk we drove south down Temple Road, which is one of the busiest neighborhoods in Lahore where people, vehicles and livestock converge on narrow streets in absolute chaos. The diversity of obstacles and near collisions you encounter racing through these bazaars could easily double as the set of an action film. As a foreigner it’s tempting to deduce that Pakistan lacks driving rules altogether, but this is not the case. There is a hierarchy on the road, whereby the larger your vehicle, the more dominance you assert over others. As a pedestrian, it is critical to understand that you have no rights, and no vehicle will ever yield to you, not even a donkey.

In Dawood Sb’s rickshaw, there was no mistaking that you were in his custody as a guest, and he took personally any attempted breach of his hospitality. At traffic lights, beggars with filthy infants slung over their shoulder would frequently approach us. I have no idea what Dawood Sb would say to these people on my behalf, but he did so in a very calculated tone with his arm placed across the door, and never had to repeat himself. As a veteran rickshaw driver of 30 years, Dawood Sb also employed the hobby of chastising other motorists for their incompetence. These exchanges took an aggressive posture, but were harmless and became an ongoing source of entertainment.

I’ve often questioned the substance of such relationships, where you spend an hour every day with someone, know basic facts about them, but don’t share a common language. Without the benefit of conversation, other forms of communication assume greater importance, and Dawood Sb and I got to know each other through our actions and body language. Central to our relationship was my investment of faith with Dawood Sb, and his supervision of my wellbeing, which required no explanation.

Temple Road terminates at its southern end by joining Jail Road at Quartaba Chowk, which recently became known as the sight of the dramatic shooting of two ISI agents by “Raymond Davis”, a contract security officer for the CIA. In the annals of espionage blunders, this one was the stuff of movies. The climax of tension during Davis’s custody occurred during my first two weeks in Pakistan, and to drive past the scene of the shooting on my way to work was a daily reminder of my delicate existence.

The day after Davis was released, word spread of a demonstration planned after Friday prayer on Mall Road at Regal Chowk, just steps from my hotel. Steeped in anticipation, this was the event I had dreaded. Several journalists arrived at the hotel to cover the event for international news agencies. There was a German writer, a Spanish photojournalist, a French videographer, and a Dutch reporter. That morning we were hanging out on the roof deck and one of the reporters began to rehears a “fake-live” dispatch on the “inflammatory situation in Lahore”. Once ready, he climbed onto the roof of the sky bath with his video camera on a tripod, and delivered his speech while standing in a collared shirt and underwear.

The protest was peaceful and consisted of only a few hundred people. As the journalists returned to the hotel in the afternoon, they made no effort to hide their disappointment at the lack of action.
“Hey guys, you’re back! How were the protests?”
“Terrible day. Nothing happening here so we’re heading back to Islamabad.”
Alas, the last story any newspaper editor wanted to run was a nonviolent demonstration of free speech in Pakistan.

Part II

After a long day at work, returning to a crowd of friendly faces at the hotel felt like a college dorm. On this particular day, we had planned a falcon feeding so Phillip and I went on a quick run down Temple Road to buy a half-kilo of diced chicken. Phillip and his wife were Swiss travelers who recently overlanded through Iran into Baluchistan, where they made national headlines after being arrested for lacking the requisite paperwork. As it is, few tourists visit Pakistan these days, and it’s an even scarcer number that make it to Quetta, the capital of Baluchistan and headquarters of the Afghan Taliban. When I first heard this story I asked Phillip if he thought traveling through Baluchistan was a good idea:
“Beautiful place, Baluchistan! Definitely worth a visit... Yeah, no problems really, the police are very friendly.”

Back on the roof deck, we lured the falcons with a few warm-up throws. In short order they gathered into a swarm of several hundred birds, and the aerial acrobatics that ensued were a terrific sight. The falcons would accelerate towards the roof at alarming speeds, arresting their dive at the last moment and often brushing their wing tips against the walls of the building. In local lore, feeding the birds was a way to deliver sacrifice to God, but for us it was purely childish entertainment.

On nights when a good crowd had amassed at the Regal hotel, the owner would arrange for his favorite Sufi bands to play on the roof deck. Nadeem Sb was somewhat of a legend among travelers who had come through Lahore over the past decade, as pretty much all of them stay at the Regal. Having lived with Benazir Bhutto for several years and served as her media advisor while she was Prime Minister, Nadeem Sb was never short for a good story. Perhaps it was his disillusionment following Benazir’s assassination that led him to open the Regal, which provides a distraction from the quandary of politics in Pakistan.

It was a full house that night with the two Swiss, the two Japanese, a Belgian couple, two German NGO workers, and a French couple. The acoustics of unamplified live music makes everything else pale in comparison. For me, there have been few times when I have truly let go of my self-awareness and lived in the moment, and this was one of them. The style of Sufi music was very unusual to me, but the drum beats, the accordion, and the lead singer’s powerful voice owned everyone’s attention, and we danced for several hours beneath a smattering of Punjabi stars.

That night I learned an important lesson about Pakistani hospitality. After the band finished we were sprawled out on the roof deck when I complimented one of the band members on the wool vest he wore over his shalwar kameez. The vest turned out to be an article of considerable personal sentiment, but my complimenting it in public meant that he felt obliged to offer it to me as a gift. To convey respect, I had to accept his gift, but felt very uncomfortable doing so. What I did was, I graciously accepted the gift, and the next day I thanked him for letting me borrow his vest, and returned it – which presented an honorable exit for us both.

Mornings after a big night at the Regal, Azir and I would head out to get yoghurt for everyone. Crossing Mall Road we passed the electronics bazaar and turned down Ice Cream Street, whose namesake was the handful of milkshake parlors at its entrance. The yoghurt stall was at the edge of the lamps bazaar where it met the hardware bazaar, and there were also fruit vendors, men selling goats, and other food stalls. I also needed a shave and Azir brought me to a barber down one of the alleyways.

The two kids running the place were jovial and flamboyant. They didn’t speak English but I was pretty sure one of them was referring to me as a “beautiful man”. I leaned over to Azir and asked if these men were gay. Azir responded, “No, no, Mr. Peter, nothing like this. These are Muslim boys, their fathers are Muslim too. They are not being gay or something, they are just talking too much. They are very nice boys.”

As if on queue, less than a minute later, a third man walked in and one of the barbers declared this man to be his “wife”. I retorted that it was impossible for a man to be someone’s wife, and the barber, to illustrate his point, reached his arm around the man and they proceeded to make out in front of all of us. At first I was in a state of shock but then burst out laughing along with Azir and the other barber. It was the last thing I expected to see in Pakistan, and reminded me how little I really understood this place.

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from camels to Range Rovers in 40 years

2011-04-03T23:05:00.000+05:00

Boarding a Friday morning flight to Dubai in my Pakistani costume – a beard and bleach-white shalwar kameez – I pondered what identity I might employ for the weekend. After all, this was the first time I would be arriving in another country in the guise of a Pakistani. What I learned about Dubai was that it really didn’t matter where I was from – I would feel equally at home as a Pathan from Pakistan’s tribal areas or a businessman from New York.

Descending the escalator towards passport control at the Dubai airport was one of the strangest assortments of people I’ve ever observed: two Emirati men in dishdashas, checkered head scarves and headropes, accompanied by their wives in black burqas; two Tamils in lungis; a handful of Pakistanis in shalwar kameez; an African couple in elegant tribal dress; and three Russian tourists in cutoff jeans and tanktops. Considering the conservative Islamic orientation of the Emiratis, it’s tempting to think of such diversity as a contradiction, but rather it is the very essence of Dubai.

For every Emirati in Dubai there are four migrant workers from south Asia or Africa whose labor inputs make this master-planned city state spin. Without its army of expatriates, Dubai would not be the two-tiered food chain that it is. At the top are the citizens who enjoy, in lieu of the right to vote, a standard of living and carbon footprint exceeding those of the average American, coupled with social perks like free health care and education. As for the worker bees, the carrot of financial arbitrage is achieved through minimizing one’s living expenses in an otherwise terribly expensive city. Thus, many laborers are said to reside in “subhuman” living conditions, all for the dream of sending some money home.

Despite its ongoing embroilment with the real estate and financial implosions, the Emirates are an Arab success story. While it was oil that propelled this desert outpost onto the global economic stage, the wisdom to invest their resources in infrastructure, social institutions, and diversification has paid dividends: oil and gas now account for only 25% of the Emirates’ GDP, or 5% in Dubai. Throughout its history, Dubai has made its stake in trade by luring merchants with free trade zones and subsidized tariffs. From pearling and gold to re-exports and tourism, the accommodation of foreigners has always been central to Dubai’s existence.

The four meals I ate out in Dubai were south Indian, Persian, Afghani, and Syrian. After my last dinner out, I rode back to the hotel in a taxi and shared the final minutes leading up to India’s cricket World Cup victory with a taxi driver from Kerala. He asked me if I was Pakistani and I replied that I was an American living in Lahore and spending the weekend in Dubai. His response was “Yes, of course.”

onions and toothpicks

2011-03-27T19:32:00.000+05:00

The weekend in fotos...

First Impressions

2011-03-09T07:50:00.000+05:00

It’s interesting to reflect on the range of emotions over the past few weeks. My departure for Pakistan was overshadowed by controversy among friends and family who expressed unsolicited concern, confusion, and even anger at my travel plans. One of the very things that attracted me to Pakistan – that it is a largely misunderstood country by Western perspectives – made coming here an intimidating prospect. I have to admit that reading the news reel and security reports back home inspired some sobering introspection on my part as well. This emotionally charged mental projection of Pakistan culminated on Saturday when I stamped out of India, walked through the Wagah ceremony grounds, and sped towards Lahore in a rusting taxi. It was then that I began to experience a great sense of relief and remembered why it was that I came.

As expected, the Pakistani people are famously gracious and create an atmosphere that sparsely resembles the one painted by Western media. Pakistan is a fascinating country that lies today at the crossroads of Asia and the Middle East, as it has for millennia. I’m overwhelmed by the amount I stand to learn from living here and feel distinctly fortunate for the opportunity.

Several people described Lahore to me as the cultural and intellectual capital of Pakistan; a place of progressive orientation, universities, and tree-lined avenues; and of course a reservoir of history and architecture spanning several empires. In particular the part about the “tree-lined avenues” I found hard to believe but was pleasantly surprised to find it the case indeed. In contrast to India, the streets are swept clean, cows are not sacred and roaming freely, and public urination is frowned upon. The beautiful rooftop sunsets have been accompanied by a hanging crescent moon the past few days, a sight whose symbolism has not escaped me.

Hindustan

2011-03-05T08:51:00.002+05:00

It’s been nearly a year since I was last in India, which is long enough to relish the novelty of it once again. Minutes after clearing immigration I was bound for New Delhi Station in a black-and-yellow Ambassador and not much traffic to contend with at 1:00am. I could smell that it had just rained and the balmy wind in my face set me adrift in nostalgia. That very moment and nothing more captivated me and I was overcome with content.

It’s great to be back on the subcontinent and I shall reiterate my love for India, which strikes a lovely balance between progressiveness and integrity, which is another way of saying that India has its own style (a diminishing commodity among its peer group). It’s the little things that make me smile: men holding hands, the chai-wallah tune, beedis in the air, unguarded curiosity, head wagging, etc.

My friend Nivi was late to lunch, citing rain and traffic, which I found to be preposterous for someone who lives in Delhi. The next day I read the breaking news in the Hindustan Times: “Rain Lashes Capital, harasses commuters”. The whopping 2.1mm of rain recorded in Delhi that day made great press for the traffic police: “‘We had deployed personnel in different areas of the city. We managed to bring the situation back to normal by late afternoon,’ said a senior police officer.” Whenever I think of Indian police I picture WWI-era rifles and a group of men sitting around sipping chai.

India is wonderful, but India is easy. To spice things up, today I plan to ride the Grand Trunk Highway to the Pakistan border, and walk across into the Land of the Pure, and thus commence the next chapter of adventure and discovery.
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FCIC: The Shatterer of Glass-Steagall

2011-02-23T11:43:00.000+05:00

In November 1999, Congress passed and President Clinton signed the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act (GLBA), which lifted most of the remaining Glass-Steagall-era restrictions. The new law embodied many of the measures Treasury had previously advocated. The New York Times reported that Citigroup CEO Sandy Weill hung in his office “a hunk of wood—at least 4 feet wide—etched with his portrait and the words ‘The Shatterer of Glass-Steagall.’”

Now, as long as bank holding companies satisfied certain safety and soundness conditions, they could underwrite and sell banking, securities, and insurance products and services. Their securities affiliates were no longer bound by the Fed’s 25% limit—their primary regulator, the SEC, set their only boundaries. Supporters of the legislation argued that the new holding companies would be more profitable (due to economies of scale and scope), safer (through a broader diversification of risks), more useful to consumers (thanks to the convenience of one-stop shopping for financial services), and more competitive with large foreign banks, which already offered loans, securities, and insurance products.

The legislation’s opponents warned that allowing banks to combine with securities firms would promote excessive speculation and could trigger a crisis like the crash of 1929…

FCIC: Chapter 4: Deregulation Redux
FCIC: Home
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FP: How Obama Lost Karzai

2011-02-23T10:34:00.000+05:00

MARVIN JOSEPH/The Washington Post

Here's a fascinating and relevant follow-up to Steve Coll's article on the U.S.-Taliban talks:

"Over the course of the last decade, the few U.S. officials whom Karzai trusted have one by one moved on, leaving the Afghan president alone with his conspiracy theories. Of late, he is convinced that the Americans want to get rid of him, even as he stubbornly refuses to reckon with the aspects of his rule that might make them wish to do so: his own administrative failures, growing corruption in the top ranks of his government and family, the rigged presidential election that won him a second term, and above all his failure to articulate a vision for the future of his country. Last fall he reportedly told top U.S. officials that of the three "main enemies" he faced -- the United States, the international community, and the Taliban -- he would side first with the Taliban."

READ ON: How Obama Lost Karzai - By Ahmed Rashid | Foreign Policy

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Quantitative Easing Explained

2011-02-22T09:47:00.000+05:00

I just can't get tired of this. The Ben Bernanke and The Goldman Sachs...

The New Yorker: U.S.-Taliban Talks

2011-02-22T01:05:00.000+05:00

ILLUSTRATION: TOM BACHTELL

There's no shame in diplomatic discourse but I can't imagine what sort of mutually agreeable terms could be reached with the Afghan Taliban. Particularly with these talks being led by President Karzai, the durability of any outcome should be questioned - recall the fate of Soviet puppet Dr. Najibullah? And what substance would a deal with the Taliban contain with the exclusion of other pertinent groups like the Haqqani network, who are less likely to participate?

Read the article: The Obama Administration and the Taliban

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Tajikistan

2011-02-19T05:01:00.001+05:00

It wasn't that I felt compelled to write about my trip and chose the Pamiri people. It was that I felt compelled by the Pamiri people and chose to write about them. Afterall, the Pamir Highway was the most rewarding chapter of my trip around the world. On top of everything else Central Asia has going for it, it's fair to add obscurity as well. And this is particularly true for the Ismaili people - I don't think I've met a single person in the United States who's even heard of the Ismailis (except a recent acquaintance whose father happens to be Ismaili), so their fascinating story needs to be told. Thus, the article I wrote for Marin Magazine this month is the first step in said direction. Feel free to check it out and let me know what you think:

Tajikistan: A Central Asian Gem

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the New Light of Myanmar

2010-09-03T23:00:00.000+05:00

To illustrate the absurdity of Myanmar’s reclusive military leadership, consider a recent propaganda statement from Senior General Than Shwe on Union Day 2010: “[The people] are all under a duty to tackle any possible attempts by colonialists to break up the Union, aiding and abetting their minions… National races have showed their massive support for the State Constitution of the Union of Myanmar to build a new nation. Now, according to the State’s seven-step Road Map, a free and fair election will take place soon. That means national people will have the rights to elect representatives, and stand for election” - unless, of course, said representatives are associated with the National League for Democracy, which is barred from participation.

The junta isn’t fooling anyone with their staged elections scheduled to occur this fall. Yet despite such illegitimate efforts to balance the military dictatorship with democratic processions, the elections may signal a glimmer of moderation on the part of Myanmar’s extraordinarily thuggish and xenophobic leaders. Decades of isolation from much of the world continue to levy their toll on an impoverished populace, evidenced by an ever-growing humanitarian crisis and a (near) vacuum of foreign financial participation in Myanmar’s development.

Myanmar’s alliance with China, their most meaningful confederate, has proved to be anything but altruistic, as China develops its surrogate economic foothold while displaying tepid interest in broader diplomatic alignment. Nor does the junta’s freakish fear of outsiders escape the Chinese, for whom they seek a hedge, be it with Russia, India, or maybe even the West. Indeed, what degree of thawing in diplomatic relations with the US would be sufficient to reintroduce Western involvement in Myanmar? As for Sino-American cooperation on Myanmar, I’m more than skeptical of China’s enthusiasm for the US meddling in its neighborly affairs.

China's fiscal pickle

2010-08-28T03:38:00.001+05:00

The Chinese Communist Party’s monetary policy revolves around maintaining domestic growth, of course; but beneath the pursuit of prosperity, is the need to subdue social unrest. To the extent the Chinese citizenry are occupied with economic progress, they’re not taking to the streets to demonstrate political and social grievances. The importance of evading an economic slump is therefore particularly critical for the CCP’s legitimacy at home. Meanwhile, the People’s Bank of China has quietly amassed the largest cache of foreign currency reserves in the world – US$2.5 trillion – which represents a formidable implement with which to shape monetary policy, but also a pickle between dollar dependence and growth sustainability.

Unlike the liberal institutions of the West, Asian banks were battered by financial storms prior to the Great Recession, thereby insulating themselves with tighter supervision and regulatory measures. Asian markets like Japan, China and India also contain intrinsic advantages, like high savings rates, that translate to robust deposits and sound capital ratios. These factors, reinforced by the CCP’s restrictions on private foreign investment, have contributed to the central bank’s impressive capitalization.

But the primary source of funds for China’s central bank originates in the arena of its trade surplus and currency manipulation. As Chinese exporters receive payments for their goods in dollars, the central bank buys those dollars by printing yuan, accumulating the dollars on its own balance sheet. By strictly managing the circulation of foreign currency, the central bank maintains its peg for the yuan. Furthermore, in theory, the central bank can use the dollar reserves to stabilize its yuan liabilities, the same way the Federal Reserve historically utilized gold reserves.

Why keep the dollars? No global currency’s circulation, other than the dollar, is substantial enough to absorb China’s massive trade surplus – nearly US$200 billion in 2009 - meaning it has no real alternative to the dollar for diversification. China’s marriage to the dollar is twofold, in that any harmful impact its monetary policy has on the dollar’s value will devastate not just the value of its foreign currency holdings, but also its export advantage vis-à-vis an appreciation of the artificially devalued yuan. For China to alter its pattern of Treasury bill consumption, for example, would prove as disruptive to China’s interests as to the Americans’.

All this amounts to a trajectory of negative feedback with few palatable remedies available to arrest the cycle: as China’s central bank accumulates more dollars to maintain exports and a cheap yuan, its dependence on the dollar also grows, rendering any reversal of policy increasingly troublesome. For now, China will continue to finance the U.S. account balance deficit - but that doesn’t make said deficit any less alarming.

Pakistan's Burusho

2010-08-22T22:00:00.000+05:00

Pakistan is often said to be more an idea, or a theoretical union, than a cohesive nation. Despite its 95% Muslim majority, Pakistan’s social structure is a highly diverse assemblage of ethnic groups representing over sixty spoken languages. The majorities consist of the eastern Indic groups (the Sindhi in the southeast and the Punjabis in the east) and the western Persian groups (the Baloch in the southwest and the Pashtuns in the west).

During my visit to Pakistan, I acquainted one of its more obscure minorities, the Burusho, who co-inhabit the Hunza Valley alongside Wakhi-speaking Tajiks in the Northern Areas. While both groups follow the Ismaili branch of Shiism, they are entirely unique linguistically. The Burusho language, Burushaski, is a genealogical isolate, meaning that it has no known ancestral relationship with any other language. Burushaski is one of about a dozen extant isolates in the world, still in use as a primary language among children.

Many Burushos uphold the legend of their Macedonian descent, whereby legacy soldiers of Alexander the Great gave rise through inter-marriage to new communities with a Greek linguistic influence, although the absence of genetic or linguistic evidence thereof suggests otherwise…

Ismailism

2010-08-15T04:06:00.000+05:00

In Rajasthan, India, I met a lovely French couple who had recently arrived in India by motorcycle, from Paris. I was fascinated to hear about the highlights of their journey through the Middle East and South Asia, but was instead confounded by their clever remark: ‘It is impossible to choose a favorite, because each place is so different; it is like asking, “whom do you like better, your mother or your father?”’

traveling light!

On the other hand, I have few misgivings about scaling my experiences abroad. If I had to choose an apogee, it would favor the Ismaili Muslims of Tajikistan, with whom I discovered the paradigm of progressive Muslim society. In my experience, the grace and hospitality of these people is unparalleled, despite their circumstance of isolation and hardship.

That the Ismailis have escaped the attention of the West is beyond perplexing. Estimates of their global community total 20 million, meaning there are 50% more Ismailis than Jews worldwide. The bulk of Ismailis are concentrated in contiguous regions of Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Tajikistan, and their communities constitute a pillar of stability in the epicenter of perhaps the most polarized region in the world.

While neighboring Muslim communities struggle with radicalism and sectarian conflict, the Ismailis embrace education, women’s rights, and technology, and have successfully rejected the perversions of Islam so malignant elsewhere. To this, they invariably assign credit to their visionary spiritual leader, the Aga Khan. At the very least, Westerners’ perception of Islam would be enlightened by a greater awareness of the Ismailis and their inspiring fortitude.

Sierra 2010

2010-07-29T07:49:00.001+05:00

No California summer is complete without at least a week of climbing on the east side. This trip was action-packed, not only with some of the best 5.10 crack routes in the high Sierra (3rd Pillar of Dana, Red Dihedral on Incredible Hulk, and OZ on Drug Dome), but with ferocious electrical storms, hot springing rest days, and bloody battles with unprecedented mosquitoes at the zenith of alpine spring.

3rd Pillar as viewed from the base - perfect white alpine granite

Adam cranking the summit move on the 3rd Pillar, 600 feet airborne

The Red Dihedral route - 1,200 feet of blissful backcountry crack climbing

the End of a Dream

2010-06-30T10:00:00.000+05:00

To reflect back on my trip, upon its conclusion, is a surreal exercise. What commenced as a momentary departure from the currents of everyday life, has taken its own course and shape, and emerged as a life in itself. The journey, spanning 11 months, has taken me to 16 countries in Africa and Asia, wherein I’ve logged over 25,000 miles of overland travel on local buses and trains. As travel does, it has bestowed upon me an enriched perspective of the world, in vivid colors and three dimensions, to accompany me in all future endeavors that life may entail. In receipt of this extraordinary gift, which few people in the world have the chance to experience, I’m overcome with gratitude for my good fortune.

Shanghai

2010-06-30T09:55:00.000+05:00

If Beijing can be likened to Washington, then Shanghai is New York, rather like an epicenter of global commerce than ancient history, to which Beijing lays its claim. The pitch of activity in Shanghai, not to mention its confluence of colonial and post-modern architecture, resonates a story of capitalism, not imperialism. With a bitter aftertaste, this tale summons a sad chapter in history when, content to its own devices, China was forcibly disrobed and placed upon a disagreeable global stage. But the Shanghai of today is a thriving masterpiece of Chinese advancement, and can hold its own in any short list of the world’s greatest urban civilizations.

Exploring the periphery of Shanghai uncovered a beaming ray of hope in my quest for embers of tradition in China, in Xīdì, Anhui province – an ancient city having preserved its heritage in an unusual degree of authenticity. Aside from minority establishments such as the ancient city of Lìjiāng in Yúnnán, there are few surviving outposts of old China among the Han. In Xīdì, peasant life perseveres along with its Song Dynasty architecture – nearly 1,000 years old – in a remarkable display of style and detail. What a shame that more places like Xīdì have not survived in China.

Here's a map of my final route through China:

View China route in a larger map

Beijing

2010-06-21T20:15:00.001+05:00

Here's my mini photo essay from Beijing, less the essay.

Forbidden City

Tiananmen Square

Untitled

China's Silk Road

2010-06-18T18:41:00.001+05:00

At last, my trip comes to a close as I inch eastward across China, in a longitudinal traverse from Kashgar to Shanghai, via Beijing. The bulk of my 4,300-mile overland route follows branches of the ancient Silk Road to Xī'ān, before continuing on to the eastern seaboard.

Kashgar is a culinary oasis of lamb kebabs, plov bowls, lagman noodles, and vibrant desert produce: melons, mangos, apples, bananas, apricots, plums, and pears. Returning to western China from the isolation of northern Pakistan, I relished this rehabilitation with a reluctance to leave. Continuing along the Southern Silk Road, the Uighur towns are culturally segregated, the Uighur side with its mosques and dusty bazaars, the bustling Chinese side with its steel reinforced, concrete mid-rises.

From the fringe outpost of Hotan, I veer north, crossing the heart of the Taklimakan Desert via the newly completed cross-desert toll road - six hours of rolling sand dunes and glittering tarmac. Flanking the road are grids of grass installed to keep the migrant dunes at bay, and the journey is effortless for an air conditioned sleeper bus with flatscreen TV's. In this manner, the Chinese have tamed their wildest desert, a place historically revered by trade caravans for its severity.

Ürümqi's cultural contrast

Back in Ürümqi – the world's most inland city - I boarded a 36-hour train to the ancient Chinese capital of Xī'ān, the Silk Road's terminus. Xī'ān, despite its growth and modernization, retains a charming character through historical features. The city's new, outer rings are a sprawl of flyovers, smokestacks, and construction cranes; but the old city is one of the few in China with a surviving city wall, along with its traditional sentry buildings and gate towers. Xī'ān is also home to the Qin Dynasty's Terracotta Army, whose significance for Chinese history eclipses the sight of the soldiers themselves, although the extent of their detail and individuality is astounding.

Not far from Xī'ān, I made a day trip to Hua Shan, one of China's five sacred Taoist mountains, and perhaps China's most precipitous set of peaks. Their impressive granite headwalls, bathed in orange smog at golden hour, are a geologic anomaly amidst indistinct surroundings. Of course, Chinese legend has it that Hua Shan ("flower mountain") consists of subdivided petals of a lotus flower. Climbing the mountain (i.e. riding up the gondola) is said to deliver wealth and happiness.

On China

2010-06-15T21:02:00.001+05:00

Comparing China and India is a silly exercise, but insightful. On virtually any measure of development, China exceeds India: infrastructure, infant mortality, life expectancy, income, literacy, etc. In short, China has flushing toilets and Indians are still defecating in the street. But to make up for it, India is perhaps the richest cultural reservoir in the world, a place where traditional life thrives despite globalization and colonial history. Indian culture is unique and authentic, while China, tragically, has abandoned its ancient culture altogether. In China's headlong pursuit of modern greatness, creative thinking has been displaced by a generation of technicians trained not to question their ways. During my trip, this is the mainstream China that I've come to discover.

From the perspective of a tourist, 21st century China can be a rather sterile experience, and few places I've visited offer clues of its 5,000-year history, yet all embody the fervor of economic upheaval. The scope of transition in China is evident in its dazzling array of infrastructure, which has conquered even the country's most remote backwaters. What limited traditional culture remains, exists among its marginalized ethnic minorities, often in theme park fashion, showcased as artifacts of the past: STAND ON THE WHITE BOX, AND TAKE A PICTURE OF OUR CHINESE CULTURE.

China today, as in its imperial history, is a vast and diverse empire held in solution by an unchecked central government. In some respects, little has changed in China's modern political landscape. For much of China's recent history, its best and brightest have been harvested for service in the Communist Party, making it the most robust instrument of society. The Party's most devastating reign was during the Mao era, which oversaw the institutional demolition of China's cultural heritage and intellectual community. But while Mao's failed political campaigns, inspired by the illusion of communist utopia, were orchestrated by the Party, they were fortified by the Chinese masses, who provided the momentum for their own self-destruction.

China's Communist Party was elevated to fruition on the shoulders of the peasants, but today's peasants are growing largely disenfranchised by divergent socio-economics. Afterall, China's capitalist economic policies don't constitute a "free" market economy, but rather a two-tiered market economy, with the State having ownership, control, or otherwise material influence in every important industry. The central government's fixation on economic progress has made an afterthought of the basic social services it owes to its lower classes, who empowered the Party in the first place. If any potential exists for revolutionary political change in China, it lies in rural discontent, not in urban prosperity.

And finally, in fairness, I'll have to admit that the Han Chinese often remind me of my Western brethren - in their warm nature, their quest for prosperity, their dreams of a better life, and their mistakes along the way. Family, work, house, car…

Shipton's Arch

2010-06-08T20:12:00.001+05:00

As a short side trip from Kashgar, I went adventuring today with a German couple I met in Pakistan. We hired a Land Cruiser and set out for Shipton's Arch – a conglomerate desert feature rather reminiscent of southern Utah. Its namesake, Eric Shipton, was a British consulate to China in the 1940's, and a Himalayan mountaineer with an indomitable spirit of exploration. We rallied down fun dirt trails past Bactrian camel herds, and then scrambled up a tumbling riverbed to the arch, which soars 1,200 vertical feet. The rainy weather was ideal for trekking in the narrow, unstable slot canyon! Read more about Shipton's Arch in a National Geographic feature here .

Karakoram V

2010-06-07T11:41:00.001+05:00

The Passu Crisis

Back in the upstream sanctuary of Passu, I acquainted myself with the local state of affairs, which became increasingly clear as being dire. What first baffled me was the inactivity – empty fields, no livestock, abandoned hotels, unemployed locals. Having just visited vibrant Pamiri villages in Tajikistan, nearly identical in their culture, landscape, climate, and resources, I struggled to reconcile this idleness.

What I discovered was a failed economic shift from subsistence to diversification. In the early 1980's, with the newly completed Karakoram Highway, tourism thrived in the Northern Areas, accompanied by unprecedented access to China and the rest of Pakistan. Locals opened guest houses, became trekking guides, and farmers began to plant cash crops like potatoes, electing to import their wheat, vegetables, and meat from Punjab. For a time, this transition delivered positive changes.

Following 9/11, tourism in Pakistan cratered, forcing much of the tourism industry to pursue alternatives. Seemingly half the locals I've met allude to their former occupations as tourist guides. The second blow came with the Hunza landslide in 2010, which has severed vehicular access to the upper Karakoram. This year's planting season has passed; tourism has all but ceased; there's no mutton, no wheat, no produce, and no petrol; government support has proven inept – the local economy has completely collapsed. Will Passu's current plight inspire lasting changes (e.g. a reversion to subsistence), or simply a perpetual struggle with isolation and embitterment?

A peripheral local industry is the maintenance of the Karakoram Highway, the responsibility for which primarily rests upon the Chinese, who befit the task considering their substantial investment in its original construction. Two years ago, the upper Karakoram boasted tarmac, but the Chinese are beginning anew, with visions of an expressway, and endeavor to reclaim the highway's rank as the world's 8th wonder. As at home, they approach their work with a dogged allegiance, and are culturally and economically insoluble with the local Pakistanis. The Chinese camps import their provisions (i.e. rice, noodles, wine, cigarettes, pornography), and export their earnings. But Pakistan's margin for grievance is limited since they lack the engineering expertise to tackle such an ambitious feat as the Karakoram. And for China, the motive is clear: to pave their way to the Arabian Sea.

Karakoram IV

2010-06-07T11:34:00.000+05:00

Gilgit is a transition town where the religions, cultures, and rivers of Pakistan's Northern Areas converge. Sunni-Shiite sectarian tensions are taut here, and frequently ignite violent uprisings. The discrete jamaat khanas of the northern Ismailis are overshadowed by conventional mosques, and Muslims converging to the muezzin's call for prayer. Police and military convoys parade the streets, along with political demonstrations, qualified with the occasional DOWN WITH U.S.A. graffiti art. Despite its froth, Gilgit is an accommodating town with a well-stocked bazaar, whose roots draw from every corner of Pakistan.

Without deferral, I bade Gilgit adieu and pointed back north, hoping to clear the landslide again by helicopter. Locals contend that the dam's bursting is imminent, considering the fate of two similar events in Hunza Valley in prior times. Some 30 villages downstream have been evacuated, schools closed indefinitely to accommodate refugees, and Army helicopters are busy shuttling supplies. Although the Pakistani government declined assistance from China, understandably, many locals declare their relief effort as being insufficient and overdue, particularly those living upstream.

Hunza locals receive emergency first aid from the Pakistan Red Crescent

Regarding safety in northern Pakistan, I shall relate my impressions. To be sure, Pakistan is not a place where the blemishes of American foreign policy are glazed over. Many Pakistanis perceive America to have waged war on the Muslim world, whose activities have inflamed terrorism and insecurity in Pakistan. Furthermore, American drone operations in western Pakistan, along with their civilian collateral, are probably indistinguishable from terrorism to those affected. But hospitality is an overriding feature of the Pakistani moral constitution, unwavering even for an American recipient. In short, the Americans are not well-regarded in Pakistan, but hospitality trumps politics, at least in the north.

Friendly graffiti in northern Pakistan ("Long live Benazir")

Karakoram III

2010-05-23T19:06:00.001+05:00

The backdrop of my timely visit to the Karakoram Highway involves a major landslide triggered earlier this year, which welded a complete blockage of the Hunza River gorge. Since then, a reservoir of water has gradually accumulated behind the natural dam, submerging villages along with the Karakoram Highway itself. As it stands now, the Karakoram is indefinitely closed to thru traffic. Until a few days ago, the government was operating a boat shuttle across the lake, now spanning seven miles; but with the water level at imminent risk of breaching the crest of the dam, the boat service has been canceled, replaced by an air service for the purpose of evacuating local villages.

Today I lucked out and hitched a ride with a Pakistani Army cargo helicopter, making for a thrilling ride through the disaster zone of the lake and the surrounding Karakoram scenery. Shortly thereafter, I arrived by minibus in the hub town of Gilgit, for the purpose of buying a pashmina shawl and gorging on yogurt. Now the only trick will be getting back up the valley by helicopter before the dam bursts, and ultimately making my way back to China.

Karakoram II

2010-05-23T19:04:00.000+05:00

Prior to coming to Pakistan, I gathered intelligence on the security situation from a variety of sources, including travelers and government officials from the U.S., China, and Pakistan. The story was consistent: north of Gilgit is calm, south of Gilgit is a roll of the dice. But in a country experiencing regional warfare and, generally, on the brink of state failure, all roads lead to uncertainty. Entering Pakistan as an independent traveler lacking any form of sponsorship, this was a reality of which I was acutely aware.

My first afternoon in Pakistan, in the northernmost town of Sost, the number of occasions in which I was expressly cautioned against revealing my nationality was disconcerting. These warnings were consistently corroborated by disconsolate reactions in locals who queried my nationality. It was a chilling theme. But I rationalized these observations, perhaps optimistically, as a function of systemic views of America among Pakistanis, with the corollary that, at least in the Northern Areas, popular hatred of America is rather benign.

Pakistanis north of Gilgit are by majority Tajik Ismaili Muslims, also known as the “modern Muslims”. Spiritually led by their progressive Aga Khan in Switzerland, Ismailis embrace globalism, technology, education, and women’s rights. In Tajikistan, northern Afghanistan, and northern Pakistan, the Ismailis have effectively resisted Islamic extremism, which generally accounts for the stability in these areas.

To what extent the peaceful nature of Ismaili Muslims collides with their Pakistani national identity, in a place deeply resentful of America, was at the forefront of my interests. In one conversation, a Pakistani man explained to me that the killing of innocent civilians by suicide bombers in Pakistan is only proximately attributed to the Taliban, and ultimately attributed to their government’s cooperation with the United States, for which terrorism is simply a retribution.

Karakoram I

2010-05-23T18:59:00.000+05:00

In the world’s register of adventurous road trips, Pamir and Karakoram are familiar names at the top of any list. As it occurred to me, there seemed no better plan than to tackle both, in succession. The first leg of the Karakoram Highway was conveniently seamless with (my version of) the Pamir Highway, which terminated in Kashgar, China. Driving southwest from Kashgar delivered more wild Xīnjiāng landscapes: parabolic alpine valleys, shaggy Bactrian camels, and icy summits splayed into tantalizing panoramas. (I’m beginning to feel jaded, if not snobbish, in light of such remarkable, unrelenting scenery, of late).

After a night in Tashkurgan, the final Chinese outpost on the trajectory to Pakistan, I piled into a minivan with three Pakistanis and their profuse assemblage of Chinese merchandise. Khunjerab Pass is decidedly the loneliest border post I’ve ever visited – after clearing Chinese immigration in Tashkurgan, we drove two hours by military escort to the actual border, and another three hours beyond to Sost, where Pakistani immigration procedures were conducted, for a total of five hours in no man’s land.

Immediately after taking Khunjerab Pass (4,800 meters) and leaving China behind, we spiraled into the constricting gorge of the Karakoram; ourselves steadily descending, its governing peaks precipitously rising skyward. Within Khunjerab National Park, we spotted several herds of Himalayan Ibex, each of several dozen individuals, including stately bucks with meter-long, arcing racks. To watch these creatures sail up such impossibly steep, crumbling slopes, with equal measure of strength and finesse, was a sight I’ll not soon forget. Meanwhile, my Pakistani co-passengers employed a vigorous habit of discarding various articles out the window (music cassettes, cardboard boxes, plastic bags, water bottles, etc.), allegedly undeterred by (yet) unspoiled surroundings.

Pamir Highway VI

2010-05-19T18:10:00.000+05:00

Sary Tash – Irkeshtam - Kashgar; 300 km, 14 hours

The final leg of my magnificent journey along the Pamir Highway began with two fried eggs and a view of winter wonderland in Sary Tash. I pondered the fate of a long day ahead, paid my tab, and bundled up. Standing at the road junction amidst a swirling blizzard, I hailed the first commercial truck to pass through, and its Uzbec driver gladly took me aboard. What a ride! It was whiteout nearly the whole way to the Chinese border, and the truck cab took to the icy ruts like a bucking pony. After six rounds of Kyrgyz military inspections, we queued up for the Chinese side, with over a hundred rigs ahead of us. Thus, I engaged my two feet and bid farewell to my trusty friend, embarking on foot for China.

There being no evidence of passenger traffic at the border but myself, the Chinese authorities spared no exertion in their due diligence of my situation, which culminated in a 10-minute immigration interview. Of particular interest to them was a souvenir newspaper from Myanmar,
which they scrutinized as if to understand English, and my Lonely Planet guide for China, which I noted as being for sale in the PRC itself.

Leaving the border behind, I hopped on a bus, and we dived into exciting Xīnjiāng scenery: contortions of corrugated desert, flaming river gorges rising into snowy ridges, and a winding river basin peppered with herds of Bactrian camels. And lots of second-hand smoke, as if to welcome me back to China. So, with that, I've arrived at last in Kashgar, to marinate for a few days and reflect on an amazing Pamiri adventure, and memories for a lifetime.

Roof of the World (Pamir Highway V)

2010-05-19T18:07:00.001+05:00

Khorog – Murgab – Sary Tash; 565 km, 14 hours

Although modern historians debate the exact route Marco Polo took through Central Asia, he is said to have traversed the 'Pamier' Range, as noted in The Travels of Marco Polo: "The region is so lofty and cold that you do not even see any birds flying. And I must notice also that because of this great cold, fire does not burn so brightly, nor give out so much heat as usual, nor does it cook food so effectually."

The eastern Pamir Range is a world unto itself, bearing little resemblance to its western half. The high plateau hovers around 4,000 meters, its scenery altogether desolate, not unlike the Tibetan plateau. Heading east from Khorog, I rode a jeep to the grim outpost of Murgab, whose most prominent feature is a dilapidated Soviet military base. Relics from Murgab's more prosperous communist days amount to a living museum, the rusting tanks, hangars, and training yards having been adapted as playground fixtures by the town's youth. The former main street, once improved with a landscaped median and decorative iron fencing, is totally deserted; instead, the bazaar of today's Murgab occupies a somber row of reclaimed steel shipping containers laid out on a pitch of dirt.

This region of eastern Tajikistan is inhabited by yurt-dwelling Kyrgyz nomads, and its bleak towns have more fluid economic ties with China and Kyrgyzstan than with the balance of Tajikistan. In the wake of ongoing political turmoil in Kyrgyzstan, the eastern Pamir Highway is
discouragingly quiet, and experiencing a petrol shortage. Upon completing a brief survey of Murgab, I elected to exploit the earliest opportunity for departure. The next day, I chartered a jeep with four other travelers – an American, a German, a Singaporean, a South Korean – and we passed but one other vehicle en route 240 km to Sary Tash, Kyrgyzstan.

Pamir Highway IV

2010-05-13T17:31:00.000+05:00

Basid – Bardara – Khorog; 182 km, 6 hours

During a side trip to the hamlet of Bardara, the western Pamir Range cemented its impression upon me, whose raw grandeur alone rivals any place I’ve seen. The loftiest snow caps, surpassing 19,000 feet, seem a world away, yet exert themselves as torrents of glacial whitewater far below in twisting river gorges. Otherwise, the landscape is an eruption of unyielding desert, lifeless but for legends of Marco Polo sheep and overwintering wolves.

Bardara is a place of indescribable beauty, in all respects, but, most notably, regarding its gracious inhabitants. Upon my arriving here, the village mobilized in rare form, amassing a throng of over 40 to usher me through its maze of turf pathways, freestone streams, and bursting apple blossoms. To accept each household’s invitation for tea would consume weeks; at last, I surrendered to their hospitality, staying five days with one family, and having tea with the others, so as to initiate myself in degrees.

Few things invigorate a Pamiri family like accommodating a foreign guest, for whom the great room is invariably honored, where all manner of Pamiri culture is cultivated. For the men, this involves spirited communions of screaming on matters of village politics; the women’s role is well defined, and seldom concerns such exchanges, but rather the domestic affairs of knitting socks, kneading dough, and tending the wood stove. As to the great room itself, each one features a vaulted skylight of concentric squares, framed with five pillars underneath, as in the Five Pillars of Islam, and the five members of Ali's family: Muhammad, Fatima, Ali, Hassan, and Hussein. And one of the pillars, according to the family’s preference, boasts a framed picture of Aga Khan, the fourth, and current, imam of the Ismaili Muslims.

Pamir Highway III

2010-05-13T17:00:00.001+05:00

Khorog – Basid; 150 km, 10 hours

Before continuing east to the high plateau of the eastern Pamirs, I decided to backtrack from Khorog to the Bartang Valley and indulge in more of the rugged terrain of the west. I asked around, and was passed around, finally landing with three old timers in a “Soviet Union jeep” (actually it was a ’92, so technically a Russian jeep). After greasing the drive shaft, filling the radiator, and inflating the bald tires, they fired it up – with a manual crank, just like you would a lawnmower. It was the perfect rig: simple, and easy to repair when it breaks down (that’s when, not if).

The Pamiris are hearty folks accustomed to adventurous cross-country driving. About midway up the Bartang we approached an unstable slope of scree, where two landslides had impaired the road. The first slide deposited an impassable layer of sludge, and there were soon several vehicles gathered at the bottleneck. No need for a tractor - four Pamiris with shovels can do a better job, it was explained to me. The men were busy clearing the road as the women sat in their respective vehicles, scratching their arms, in a kaleidoscope of scarves and dresses. The first vehicle to make it through was an Aga Khan Land Cruiser, followed by a Russian minibus, the Russian jeep, and finally a Chinese minibus – dead on arrival, but an easy recovery job for the jeep.

The Bartang Valley is a dramatic river canyon, supervised aloft by a corridor of 5,000-meter peaks. From the river elevation of just over 2,000 meters, the canyon walls soar vertically 3,000 meters, uninterrupted, creating a topographical relief matched by few other places. At the head of the valley teeters Sarez Lake, formed in 1911 when a 6.5+ magnitude earthquake triggered a massive landslide whose debris formed a natural dam of the Murgab River. The ensuing reservoir, which now measures 16 cubic kilometers of water, poses a potential catastrophe of epic proportions were the natural dam to fail.

The jeep driver’s brother invited me to stay with his family in Basid – 90km up the Bartang Valley - where flocks of sheep playfully hop over the village’s clever network of gravity-fed water canals, whose primary purpose is to irrigate their fields of potato, wheat, and alfalfa, and orchards of apricot, apple, and mulberry. The canals also power a hydroelectric generator and, to my amazement, a giant wheat mill driven underneath by a paddle wheel. But viewed from the steep ridges above, Basid is a mere patch of greenery, clinging to a sliver of river alluvion, and dwarfed by an expanse of surrounding inhospitality.

Life in the Pamir Range occurs on the margin, affording little in the way of culinary luxuries, for example, as I discovered during the course of my homestays. Each meal consists strictly of bread, potatoes, and scraps of mutton. I began to look for symptoms of scurvy among the villagers. On our drive in, I had asked an Aga Khan health worker what the most prevalent medical issues were in the region: ‘Very bad roads, is the problem.’
‘Any other health problems?’
‘Lots of farmers, and many times injuring their back from manual labor.’
‘Ahhh, I see. But what about diseases?’
He pointed to his appendix: ‘This problem sometimes, and many diarrhea. We deliver pharmaceuticals.’
One day a little girl asked me if I had a ‘cure’ for her uncle’s painful knee, for which I administered a tablet of acetaminophen. Thereafter, on a daily basis, neighbors trickled in to present me with their ailments, and I was gradually relieved of my limited medical provisions. If only I could have anticipated their needs and brought more with me…

Pamir Highway II

2010-05-02T11:18:00.001+05:00

Kalaikhum – Khorog: 272 km, 6 hours

In Kalaikhum I discovered the pace of independent travel on the Pamir Highway: instead of one night here, I spent three, waiting for a ride onward to Khorog. Unexpectedly, I maneuvered a ride with a group of foreign diplomats in their armored Land Cruiser. This was a terrific way to travel, and I soaked it up. Nor did I hesitate to leverage the captive attention of English speakers knowledgeable in Tajikistan’s current affairs. During the six-hour drive, I learned more about Tajikistan than I likely will during the remainder of my month-long visit, and therein illustrates the scarcity of intelligence while at the mercy of a language barrier.

Pamir Highway I

2010-04-29T11:05:00.000+05:00

Dushanbe – Kalaikhum: 284 km, 10 hours

Today was my first taste of the Pamir Range. Most striking were its exotic formations, often appearing to burst into massive headwalls and canyons without warning. Spring is at its height in the lower elevations, their hills an immodest green. Much of the dynamic landscape appears prone to landslides - chocolate rivers tell the story, swollen and turbulent, yet poised for their upcoming summer engorgement of snowmelt. The day’s climax was the 3,252-meter Sagirdasht Pass, beyond which a steep river gorge leads to the village of Kalaikhum, marking the southern border of Tajikistan. Here, the Pyanj River carves the landscape in half, the other side belonging to Afghanistan, just a brisk swim away.

Approaching Sagirdasht Pass

Observing life across the river reveals a remarkable contrast. On the Tajik side: paved roads, Russian jeeps, iron roofs, power lines, men in western wear, women in garish dresses. On the Afghan side: foot paths and mule trains, primitive construction, stone-walled grazing pens, men in traditional salwar kameez. Much more than a physical barrier, the river’s influence as a political feature is profound. The discrepancy reflects northern Afghanistan’s isolation from the legacies of Soviet communism, which include the Pamir Highway itself and much of Tajikistan’s basic infrastructure.

During the Soviet era and until recently, the river border was inaccessible, legally speaking. In the 1990’s, the Aga Khan Development Network began bridging the river to encourage cross-border trade and alleviate destitution on the Afghan side. One result is the Saturday Afghan bazaar, held in a confined arena on the Tajik side of each bridge. For sale here are hides, spices, and wool pakul hats. Of course, northern Afghanistan’s most robust industry continues to be its opiate trade, and the Pyanj river border serves as a major trafficking thoroughfare en route to Kyrgyzstan, and ultimately westward.

Left side: Afghanistan; right side: Tajikistan & Pamir Hwy

Dushanbe, Тоҷикистон

2010-04-26T12:42:00.000+05:00

Tajikistan is a place characterized by intersections: Central Asia, Persia, former SSR, Islam, Himalaya, etc. All this drew me to Tajikistan, along with the legendary Pamir Highway, which I plan to travel from Dushanbe through Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, east to Kashgar in Xīnjiāng, China. This epic route traverses some of the most remote, jaw-dropping scenery in the world, layered with the cultural wealth of the Pamiri Tajiks.

Dushanbe is foreign to me, and I’ve struggled to find a context in which to place it. The people are neither here nor there. Their indistinct features suggest a fusion of Asia, least of all the east. Busty women stride in tacky, full-length dresses, half-veiled in scarves, with the overall formality of sleepwear. Many of them are stunning, nonetheless. The swarthy men are handsome bastards, too, with chiseled features, green eyes, thick beards, and racks of gold and silver teeth. Dushanbe itself, spotless and quiet, is unexpectedly charming. Its broad streets are draped in a canopy of maples and command impressive views of the snow-capped Hissar mountains. The Soviet-era buildings are carefully maintained and intentionally obsolete. The city is frozen in time, stale like an elderly person’s home, caught between quaint and modern, but certainly pleasant.

Land-locked Tajikistan is the poorest of the 15 former Soviet republics. Its anemic economy, despite having weaned itself from foreign aid following five years of civil war in the 1990’s, still relies on remittances from abroad as its largest industry – that being cheap labor. Nearly 50% of Tajikistan’s labor pool works in Russia or Kazakhstan, posting money home to support their families. A staggering 60% of the population lives below the poverty line, with a national GDP per capita in 2009 of just $1,800. Despite its modest earnings, Tajikistan’s unemployment rate is a mere 2% and its literacy rate exceeds 99%. And speaking of literacy, written Tajik employs the Cyrillic alphabet, which appears Russian to the ignorant observer (yours truly), and is far more forgiving than Chinese characters…

Ürümqi

2010-04-25T11:33:00.000+05:00

In China’s far northwest, Ürümqi (“ooroom’chee”) is the capital of Xīnjiāng, China’s second largest province accounting for 17% of the country’s land mass. For many years this has been on my list to visit, on account of its extraordinary surroundings. Xīnjiāng itself contains the Taklamakan Desert and, skirting it, the various routes of the ancient silk road that once linked China with the Roman Empire. Converging on Xīnjiāng from the east are some formidable neighbors: Pakistan’s Karakoram Range and K2, the world’s second highest summit; Tajikistan’s Pamir Range; and a span of Asian borders including India, Pakistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Russia, and Mongolia. To me this is the most intriguing area of China.

In addition to Taiwan and Tibet, Xīnjiāng is one of three territories that Beijing struggles to contain. Thirteen ethnic minorities nearly constitute a majority in Xīnjiāng, the predominant one being the Uighers (“wee’ger”) who total eight million. Uigher-Han relations have a turbulent history and continue to be tenuous today. Following the most recent uprisings last year, the government has yet to restore internet access to the province. Tensions in Ürümqi are not so subtle, either, and its streets are patrolled by armed riot police.

Beijing is desperate to harness Xīnjiāng for its oil and gas reserves. Similar to Tibet, a twofold strategy is employed: inject Han immigrants in the workforce and communities, and install infrastructure bearing the Beijing thumbprint. The former strategy is particularly clever, as it establishes a cultural undermine: young ethnic minorities are learning Mandarin in school, and often perceive it to be their link to the outside world: movies, music, video games, work opportunities, etc.

Considering its history, it’s less difficult to imagine Xīnjiāng as an autonomous Central Asian republic, which it actually once was. For several years in the late 1940’s, Xīnjiāng gained a window of independence and was self-governed as the East Turkestan Republic. But in 1949, en route to a diplomatic meeting in Beijing, its leaders went mysteriously missing, and shortly thereafter Xīnjiāng was regained by the People’s Liberation Army.

Chéngdū

2010-04-20T10:43:00.001+05:00

Why preserve natural habitat for the Pandas when you can just put them in a zoo and generate a profit center?? My one goal for Chéngdū was to see these Panda bears everyone's talking about. I'll have to admit, they're mighty cute. Kawaii! Kawaii! the Japanese tour groups exclaimed... The Panda cubs are quite clumsy, and it was fun to watch them stumble around and fall from tree branches. Their hand dexterity is remarkable, and some of them even peel the bamboo stalks before eating them. Well worth the visit to see these amazing creatures...

Down the Hill

2010-04-16T17:00:00.001+05:00

My dreams of thru-traveling the STH from Sìchuān into Qīnghǎi and Xīnjiāng crumbled under Yùshù's devastating earthquake. As of yesterday, my plan was to be in Yùshù today (Friday the 16th), meaning I missed the earthquake's near-epicenter by two days. As an agnostic, I'm not sure whom, if anyone, I have to thank for this good fortune.

Today, from Dege, I made it as far as Manigange, cresting Tro La Pass at 5,050 meters (16,568 feet) en route - the scenery was stunning. In Manigange I sat at a highway intersection hoping to materialize a ride further on – anywhere, as it turned out. A steady stream of government vehicles hummed past at an urgent pace - in aggregate several hundred Land Cruisers, ambulances, and satellite telecom rigs. This route from Chengdu (the STH) is busy funneling police, medical, and rescue personnel, while supplies are being trucked in from Xīníng to the north. The spirited relief effort was uplifting and reminded me of home. At the same time, I cringed to consider how ill-prepared India would be in responding to such a crisis, God forbid. The Han, they get it done.

As the afternoon progressed, it was evident that my continuing upcountry to Yùshù was neither feasible nor appropriate. After four hours of lingering, I finally hitched a ride back to Gānsù in an empty supply truck, one of the relief vehicles sponsored by Bank of China. It was one of the few trucks heading back from Yùshù, to re-supply, and I got a roughly translated (and condensed) version of the driver's report: 'Yùshù is destroyed… no homes, no food, no water.'

2010-04-15T15:36:00.001+05:00

status

en route to Yùshù as planned, despite current events and assuming I can get there. I was fortunate to miss the earthquake.

Here's where I am (DegeXian):

View Larger Map

Dege

2010-04-15T15:32:00.001+05:00

The highlight of Dege (aka Derge) is its 280-year-old printing temple, the largest collection of Tibetan woodblocks in the world and a reservoir of Tibetan culture. The process remains traditional today and it was fun to observe the manual steps of block printing, authentication, and binding of the scripture. The temple stores an immense collection of Tibetan and Buddhist literature, some of which are the only remaining versions in the world.

Yak Herdsmen

2010-04-12T10:46:00.001+05:00

Mid-April is producing the earliest hints of spring, and the grasslands look to be a week or so from popping. One day I trekked into the hinterlands with a backpack of provisions, less food and water - go figure. A herd of yaks in the distance was skirting a steep hillside with a backdrop of frosted peaks. It took me an hour to reach the herd, which was driven by a welcoming couple. They were both around 70 years old, but you'd have no idea from the skip in their step at 13,000 feet. I subsequently spent two days with them, following the herd upriver to a grazing basin. The couple had their own provisions stashed in a small cave on a bluff, and they tended an open fire with yak dung to prepare flatbread and Tibetan tea. When it started snowing at 4:00pm, the old man invited me to stay the night in their home, but I opted to traverse the river valley to a road, from where I could try my luck at hitchhiking back to town.

Sìchuān-Tibet Highway

2010-04-12T10:43:00.001+05:00

The STH is a hair-raising adventure through the Chinese Himalaya and the eastern Tibetan Plateau. As one of the highest roads in the world, much of it clams in excess of 4,000 meters of elevation, and the section I traveled topped 5,000 meters. This remote corner of China is part of the Kham region of eastern Tibet, and home to some of the best-preserved Tibetan culture accessible to foreigners anywhere. Thus, Tibet, drama-free.

By bus the terrain is negotiated at a measured pace, crawling at times along a faint outline of road submerged in ice. Occasionally we'd take a bend in the tundra and the roof would lift off, unveiling jagged ribbons of 6,000-meter Himalayan canines. Elsewhere, the landscape was steppe-like with an impressive scale. It's big sky country, presented in a pallet of simple pastels.

When the pavement ended, the going got rough, and the road regressed to a denuded state of moonscape. The most precarious sections were deeply rutted, thawing mud, well suited for swallowing up rear axles. I witnessed half a dozen trucks fallen prey - laying sideways or capsized on the shoulder, the drivers asleep inside guarding their freight.

How do people live up here?? At 6:30am the quiet world was still asleep. Yak herds sat motionless, awaiting the sun's encouragement to begin nibbling at permafrost. Tibetan outposts were neatly laid out in boxes of stones, with colorfully decorated wooden window frames punched through. The Tibetans themselves, many of them cowboys in their own Wild West, could be mistaken for Native Americans insofar as their Mongoloid features and long, cinder-black hair. It's not an easy life they lead, but there's certainly no shortage of cultural and scenic wealth.

the k146

2010-04-07T14:21:00.001+05:00

Heading north into Sìchuān province, I rode the hard sleeper from Kūnmíng to Xīchāng. What a pleasure Chinese trains are. The worst trains I've ever ridden were in Bolivia and Myanmar. Bolivia takes last place because one of my trains actually derailed, but Burmese trains are equally poor otherwise. The best trains of course are in Japan, and nothing tops the shinkansen. China takes second place – they're smooth, professionally staffed, and clean as a whistle. Classical music chimes away in the background – the opening song after we pulled out of Kunming, to my amazement, was a rendition of the United States national anthem, if I've ever heard it. A public execution will likely be held in the near future concerning this not insignificant oversight on the part of a railway employee.

Smoke & Phlegm

2010-04-07T13:59:00.001+05:00

What puzzled me initially about the Chinese and their phlegm throwing was why such voluminous quantities of phlegm were manufactured in the first place. The explanation of course is chain smoking. The Chinese are passionate tobacco smokers, and society imposes little impediment on its connoisseurs. In fact, few men don't smoke, and everyone smokes second-hand, for no place is exempt – not the office, not restaurants, not even an aircon bus with inoperable windows. A few years ago I recall reading a funny article about smoking in China, the gist of which was that if you live in China, you may as well take up smoking, and the good stuff at that, because there's no escaping it. Now I get the point. (As pictured above, Hani men are commonly seen clutching their water bong, a clever innovation for enhancing the smoking experience.)

Yuányáng, Yúnnán

2010-04-05T08:13:00.001+05:00

The Hani of Yuányáng have carved vast networks of terraces into their hillsides in southern Yúnnán province, converting entire mountains into shimmering labyrinths. The terrace berms are just wide enough to walk across, and as tall as 15 feet on the downhill side. Their primary use is for rice cultivation, but they also stock fish, and some are filled in for buffalo grazing. At work in the maze are mostly Hani women, adorned with elaborate traditional dress despite their men sporting western wear.

Kūnmíng, Yúnnán

2010-04-02T13:07:00.001+05:00

To begin the China chapter I took a circuitous flight from Calcutta to Kūnmíng, via Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur, which saved me money but certainly not time. Kūnmíng is very much a first world city with its state-of-the-art infrastructure: elevated expressways, landscaped medians, glass curtain wall office and apartment towers, and sprawling suburban master-plans. (Who cares how many people died building the stuff; what's important is that it was completed ahead of schedule and below budget!) Despite the phlegm-throwing, Kūnmíng's streets are immaculate - an enormous relief following three months in India. In its progressive urban ambiance, Kūnmíng bears resemblance to Tokyo, or at least a blossoming version thereof. And the cool, overcast weather hinted at what awaits in western Sìchuān, but first a visit to Yuányáng in southern Yúnnán for some obligatory rice terrace scenery.

It's funny, in advance of coming to China, people continually inquired of my language skills, suggesting it may present an issue. No problem! Fulfilling your basic needs as a traveler is not rocket surgery. That being said... the few days I spent in Kūnmíng were terribly frustrating. Virtually nobody speaks English. What's more, there's typically no recognition of even the most elementary English words like 'bus' or 'yes'. Elsewhere in the world, people who "don't speak English" understand some English that they've absorbed through media or schooling. If Kūnmíng is any indication, getting along in China sans Mandarin proficiency will be a steep uphill battle.

!ncredible !ndia

2010-03-29T16:00:00.001+05:00

Here's a map of my route through India:

View Larger Map

During my second visit in India I completed an overland circumnavigation of the subcontinent in six weeks, covering over 4,700 miles on trains and buses. To complement my earlier visit focused on Sikkim and Rajasthan, this trip was about Kolkata, South India, Mumbai, Gujarat, Varanasi, and Bihar. My sense of India is beginning to feel well rounded, although in reality I’ve gained a mere taste of her astounding cultural diversity.

The thing I’ve come to appreciate most about India, not surprisingly, are the Indians. I’ve found Indians everywhere to be dependably jovial, often despite my impatience. Most impressively, the Indians are proud and industrious, and every bit of their achievements is deserved.

A few of the things I’ll miss from India:

Rickshaws.

Chai culture.

Saris. They knock me out.

Varanasi

2010-03-21T12:27:00.000+05:00

What could I possibly say about Varanasi that you haven't already heard? I only wish I had an extra week in this outrageous extravaganza of humanity.

Islamic Ahmadabad

2010-03-19T15:55:00.000+05:00

Islam captures my attention the same way other religions do as a force that shapes people’s lives. And Islam, in particular, given the fierce religious undercurrents in today’s contentious East-West relations. In India, interacting with Muslims has unexpectedly been a consistent theme throughout my trip. During a layover in Ahmadabad (Gujarat), I spent the day visiting a half dozen mosques and their surrounding communities and markets. Much of the time, I quite enjoy Muslims and find them to be warm people. But Muslims have proved themselves to be very protective people, too.

Most mosques I’ve attempted to visit in India have refused me entry; for those that don’t, someone is likely to ask me to leave once I’m inside. The sort of hostile treatment I’ve come to expect when visiting mosques would be strictly out of character at any Hindu, Buddhist, Jain, or Sikh holy site. It must be true that outsiders are viewed as a compromising influence on Muslim values. Is it a function of Western ideology and its liberal social customs? Or are all infidels treated equally? Either way, this friction has become a frustrating obstacle in my attempts to discover Islamic culture in India.

Diu

2010-03-15T21:28:00.000+05:00

Gujaratis wear their pride on their sleeves. True, they seem to be a step ahead of their Indian brethren, and the places I’ve visited in Gujarat have been quite pleasant. On the home stretch of my India circuit, I decided to post up in Diu for a few days and relax. This former Portuguese colony could pass for a quaint Mediterranean fishing village, with its colonial architecture, whitewashed homes, and winding urban alleyways. The locals subsist on fishing and drunk Indian tourists. Centrally governed from Delhi, Diu is exempt from Gujarat’s alcohol prohibition; by 10:00am, the Gujaratis are oiled up and wandering the streets with contagious enthusiasm.

The other side of town revolves around fish. Drying lines draped with gaping mouths, silos stuffed high, nylon nets hand-knitted and repaired, buckets of kerosene, outboard mechanics, net folding, lights and Styrofoam cubes, chai and card games in the shade, bucking bulls and cow sex on the beach, and a low-tide archive of the day’s excrements.

My single gripe with India is its shocking filth. Like Kerala, Gujarat’s tourist areas are suspiciously clean, but village life retains the charm of disorderly defecation. That India has a space program and nuclear weapons but has yet to address human waste disposal is pathetic. The Indians need to clean up their streets. Improving sanitation would impair not one of India’s myriad traditional cultures, but would improve the lives and health of everyone.

Gujarat

2010-03-14T21:22:00.001+05:00

I'm on a whirlwind tour of Gujarat. The first stop was Shatrunjaya, the holy Jain sight containing over 1,000 marble temples atop a hill gained by a meandering 3,300 stone steps. My calves are still sore; travel is making me soft!

Mumbai

2010-03-11T18:08:00.001+05:00

From Hampi I rode a night bus to Mumbai, and at 6:30am hopped off onto the shoulder of an offramp, set adrift into a frenzy of taxi drivers in an Indian jungle yet unknown to me. Two drivers distinguished themselves with ambition for the fare, and a quarrel ensued... It escalated to the point of a schoolyard grapple, both men boiling with anger but neither inclined to physically harm the other. Indians I’ve found to be rather harmless. They’re nosy bastards - don’t get me wrong – peering over your shoulder at the ATM, asking you where you’re staying and how much money you make. But all in benign inquisitiveness, nothing more…

Mumbai didn’t quite resonate, so my visit was relatively brief. What I did do is ride a few local buses and trains around and wander on foot for too many hours. The fish market at Sassoon Dock was the most repulsive place I’ve seen in India. The harbour water was as black as crude oil, and the smells were nearly unbearable. I followed a group of workers (women in lovely saris, graceful gait, and reeking of fish) leaving the dock back to their home, the infamous WTC slum from the book Shantaram. Your entrance to the slum is highlighted by the abundance of offers for drugs and hookers. I wasn’t terribly enamored with the idea of solo slum ambling, so my tour was superficial.

After sleeping through my morning train to Ahmadabad, I earned an extra day in Mumbai so did some other stuff, too. I had a helluva time mending my departure arrangements. Another morning train; no, an afternoon bus; no, an afternoon train; no, a sleeper train; and so on… The concept of now in India is met unresponsively; on Indian time, however, everything manages to spin in chaotic efficiency, like a colony of social insects.

Hampi

2010-03-08T11:15:00.001+05:00

Indians drive buses like bandits. It can be frightening, particularly when scenes of fresh wreckage are readily visible, as they were the other day. I’ve gotten to be remarkably level headed with these 20+ hour bus journeys. Hopefully someday I’ll put to good use the patience that traveling in the developing world demands of you.

My tour in South India has been spontaneous. All my home stays have been referrals, and all my destinations have been recommended by folks I’ve met along the way. It’s a fun way to travel, but foregoing research is a bit like rolling the dice. Missing Hampi, for instance, would have been a terrible mistake. Take the landscape of Joshua Tree National Park in California, and insert World Heritage archaeological ruins, and you have Hampi. It’s truly spectacular, and during odd hours you’ll have the whole place to yourself. Being due east of Goa, however, Hampi gets a spillover of drunk, stoned hippies - a demographic I don't appreciate. But like I said earlier, I’ve come to a certain peace about it, and I’m not quite stubborn enough to cut off my nose to spite my face.

Few activities enthuse Indians like bathing in a stagnant waterway. This morning I sat and watched a large Rajasthani family going at it. They were a long way from home. The old hens were quite a sight, splashing around in swarms of boobs and wet colors. Female modesty in India is a real hoot. They veil up and shield their shoulders, but little do they realize what they give away with exposed stomachs – a far sexier body part than the shoulder.

God's Own Country

2010-03-08T11:13:00.000+05:00

That’s Kerala's tourism motto. It’s been the most pleasant area of India I’ve visited, with a vibrant local culture lacking the noise and filth ubiquitous elsewhere. Keralan women adorn their braids with flowers, the streets are paved, and in place of cows there are churches. Keralans are doing well for themselves, if the nature of advertisements seen in towns is any indication: jewelers, silk vendors, optometrists, dentists, English teachers, etc. Keralan scenery is some of the best in all of India (which isn’t saying much) from the tea estates in the Western Ghats to the famous Keralan backwaters (far overrated in my opinion). But don’t mistake: the emerald of India is its cultural diversity, not its landscapes…

One of the families I stayed with in Kumarakom are direct descendants of a group of Iraqi Roman Catholics, 72 families, who emigrated to India following religious persecution in AD 352. Today the descendants exceed 200,000 individuals, many of whom still reside in South India. At least with this family, a strict adherence to arranged marriage within the lineage continues, and both husband and wife were passionate proponents of the custom.

the Western Ghats

2010-02-25T18:33:00.000+05:00

Two hours west of Madurai by bus we approached the switchbacks that score the eastern escarpment of the Western Ghats, spurring onto the 49 extension to Munnar. Awaiting us were 17 ‘hairpin bends’, each one endeared with a handwritten tombstone signpost: H.P.B. No. 1/17, etc., so drivers could pace themselves for the marathon ascent. The heat and labor of it was met with the concession of cooling air as we rose through the turns, finally cresting the divide and leaving behind the brittle scrubland of the rainshadow for the lush woodlands and tea estates of the western slopes. The weather was perfect, like a spring day in the California foothills, so I’ll stay here for a few days.

the 2665-Up

2010-02-25T18:31:00.000+05:00

The Kannyakumari Express carried me from Kolkata down the east coast of India to Madurai, consuming two nights and one day on the train (39 hours), and traversing some 2,200 km. Britain’s greatest legacy to India is the railway. Today, largely unmodified from its original version, Indian Railways does a respectable job running the network, which is fundamental to the Indian experience. In place of personal space on an Indian train is a sense of camaraderie among the passengers. Strangers with little in common but their destination cuddle up on short benches during the day, touching one another’s feet, and sharing music, newspapers, and food, and at night they snore each other to sleep. Snoring is an upsetting aspect of train travel, an almost recreational disturbance, similar to the belligerence of horn honking that characterizes Indian streets.

The Sri Meenakshi temple in Madurai was uneventful, so early on I declared it a portrait day. Portrait photography can be a great use of the mid-day, when zenith light is useful for little else. After working some folks around the temple, I took a rickshaw cruise to the flower market, the vegetable market, the silver market, and the banana market, none of which were proximate. I like to beat up the rickshaw guys on the front end and pay them some extra scrap at the end. Everybody wins: they feel like they earned a tip, which they always do, and I feel charitable.

Kolkata

2010-02-22T12:28:00.000+05:00

Kolkata embodies the trough of urban civilization. Wandering its streets conjures images of life in Europe in the Middle Ages, of a place ravaged by the bubonic plague, or some other devastating epidemic. Human activity revolves around the very basic elements of life, and there appears little in the way of ingenuity or progress. Seemingly every person is afflicted with some disease, parasite, or disfigurement, and blending into an entire population of victims. At the same time, Kolkata is one of the more exciting cities I’ve experienced, and amidst the struggle lies a degree of grace and beauty not found in the most developed of cities.

A little girl rifles through a drunk man's pockets at the Mallick Ghat flower market.

The Golden Land

2010-02-20T09:23:00.000+05:00

Burma or Myanmar? The debate concerning nomenclature is a phenomenon of the West. In accordance with the people themselves, it’s the country of Myanmar and the Burmese people.

Myanmar has been a terrific visit, surely one of the highlights of my trip so far. It’s at once a place with soaring potential, and one of frustration. The government encourages tourism, but only to certain ‘permitted’ regions. Roughly 25% of my time in Myanmar was spent trying to figure out which states, roads and villages were restricted to foreigners, 25% was spent figuring out how to get to the areas I was allowed to visit, and the other 50% was spent actually getting there. Overland travel in Myanmar requires a great deal of patience!

The sanctions imposed on Myanmar by the West have arguably been counterproductive by keeping industry, jobs, money, and products out of the country, reinforcing its isolation from the global marketplace. To a foreigner, the lack of western products in Myanmar is a charming novelty, and it’s one of the few places one can escape the Coca-Cola empire. Meanwhile, the junta thrives with its business interests in oil, timber, and gems, (no tax revenue), and a debilitated populace lacking the wherewithal to resist it. The keystone of the junta’s leverage is the trading partner and political ally they find in China, without which it’s hard to imagine status quo.

Buddhism

2010-02-20T09:22:00.000+05:00

‘Like one who plucks flowers in a garden, the man who plucks the flowers of sensual pleasure, whose mind is distracted, and whose desire is insatiable, is overpowered by the Destroyer.’
–Buddhist scripture

One of the pleasures of traveling in Myanmar is experiencing the religion and philosophy of Buddhism embedded in everyday life. Monks, in essence, are beggars sustained by their communities, whose charitable acts gain a reciprocal deed of goodwill in supporting a monk’s quest for enlightenment. So many Burmese participate in Buddhism at some point in their lives - as laypeople, novices, or monks - that the religion is truly a collaborative undertaking of society. Perhaps it’s Buddhism’s influence that inspires the peaceful nature of the Burmese, some 80-90% of whom claim its faith. How else would the Burmese derive the patience to withstand the rigors of their public transportation?

In Nepal, where Buddhists, as a minority, suffer from a mild inferiority complex, I recall a conversation with a Buddhist man who frowned upon Hindus for their caste structure and, until recently, dishonorable treatment of the Untouchables. But Buddhism has its shortcomings too – one contradiction being its disparaging treatment of women. Take, for example, this excerpt from ‘A Manual of Buddhism’, written by a Burmese monk: The evil effects of unchastity are: having many enemies, getting undesirable wives, birth as a woman or as a eunuch. Are women evil? Perhaps that explains the impaired fate of Buddhist nuns, whose highest rank is limited to Novice.

Inle Lake

2010-02-18T09:00:00.001+05:00

Back in Yangon, I thumbed through my cash, counting my remaining days in Myanmar. The task of cash management is a daily one in a country with complete financial isolation. In Myanmar there are absolutely no ATM’s, no credit cards, no banks to cash your traveler’s cheques. (The international banks scattered like stray cats following Bush's 2003 financial services embargo.) After booking a flight to Calcutta for the following week, I began the multimodal journey north to Inle Lake, beginning with an uneventful seven hour train ride to Taungoo. The next morning I boarded a local bus – a secondhand city bus from Japan, still bearing Japanese safety placards and window ads, and even a subway map of Nagoya. Across the isle was a man with a mole on his chin that sprouted three whiskers twirling all the way to the base of his sternum (otherwise he was beardless as a schoolboy). I pondered what his reaction might have been had I yanked one of them out.

At 3pm I hopped out at Meiktila, a transit town you don’t want to get caught staying the night in. My only option from here was a pickup truck over the mountains towards the lake. It was a 1987 diesel Hilux ("five on the tree") loaded beyond belief and probably on its third engine. The 16 year-old conductor rode the roof the whole way, hiking out to keep us from keeling over as we threaded sweeping curves. With the folks we had picked up, there were now 3 on the roof, 12 in the bed, and I rode shotgun with a monk in the middle. That Toyota was a little beast, and only broke down once in 10 hours. In the States, it would have been scrapped to Mexico years ago, but here it’s an immortal by necessity: foreign auto imports are illegal in Myanmar, as they have been for decades.

At 2am I made my long-awaited disembarkment at Shwenyaung junction. It was totally deserted, and I was totally out of luck. I stood next to a police post: a tarpaulin canopy with bamboo posts and four officers fast asleep inside. One of them awoke, only to confirm the reality I feared, that I’d be spending the night on the side of the road with them. I unfurled my sleeping bag and crashed on a wooden bench, with the strap of my camera pack slung around my neck. At 6am the sun began flirting with the jagged outline of mountains on the horizon, and I surfaced from an anxious sleep to the sight of a taxi driver. ‘Take me to a hotel, will ya?’ I haggled him down to half his starting price before getting out of my bag. I love this stuff, I thought to myself…

Inle Lake is an unexpected gem tucked into the blistering Shan mountains. My days here were characteristically aimless, cycling a Chinese single-speed, or trolling the lake in a longtail, where entire villages are propped above the water on toothpicks. Fishermen display a remarkable ballet act on their canoes, balancing with one leg on the stern, maneuvering the boat with the other leg coiled around a paddle, and managing nets, baskets, or spears with their hands. The underworld visible below is a tangle of aquatic plants reaching for the expanse of sky, reminiscent of an Amazonian river scene. Fringing the lake, rows of crops float in linear symmetry, pinned to the lake floor with bamboo stakes. All manner of life occurs on the lake, in an inventive symbiosis.

Mrauk-U

2010-02-11T17:20:00.001+05:00

The 80-minute flight from Yangon to Sittwe in western Myanmar touched down softer than any recent flight I can recall. In the air I had wondered if Myanmar’s domestic airline fleet was in a similar state of disrepair as its automobiles. Outside the airport lobby I was approached by a tout pushing seats for his boat to Mrauk-U the next day. I could either go with him, or wait three days for the government ferry that chugged upstream twice a week. My mouth watered in advance of the haggle, and the soft look in his eye was unguarded.
‘How much?’ I asked, letting on a smirk of anticipation.
‘Twenty five dollars. Nice boat, max five people.’
‘I’ll pay ten.’
‘For friend price, I can do it twenty for you brother, no less.’
‘Ten.’
‘Hmmm... Well, Fifteen. My final offer.’
‘Ten.’
‘Ahhhhhhaaa. OK, ten. But our secret, yes?’

We were to leave the jetty at 7am Sunday morning. Around 4am, I awoke to the call for prayer, but it was distant, the main mosque being about five blocks away. Then at 4:30, the Buddhist prayer music dialed up; it was across the street and tore into my brain like a power drill. The window rattled. There were cymbals, flutes, chimes, chanting, and a live monk who must’ve been on methamphetamine. The music paused; shrieking ensued, and another pause… then it came back, flooding into my room and twisting me in knots, and I wanted to cry. When I left the hotel at 6:30, the music was still going strong. It was outrageous to me, but it was me, afterall, who was not at home.

For six hours we puttered up the Lemro River, against the current and the wind, which was frigid considering the oppressive heat that would soon smother Myanmar (and it’s winter!). River life was emerging. Boats and canoes passed up and down, most oaring, and a few with collage sails quilted from nets, clothing, tarpaulins, etc. Children paced the shoreline with triangular trawl nets extended in front, holding the bamboo arms like wheelbarrow handles. Among water buffalo, men wearing conical basket hats trudged knee-deep in mud, fisting for mollusks. The river was tinted green, precisely the color of San Francisco Bay. And similarly, human life was abundant, but not wildlife, and I imagined what the delta might have been like in its natural state.

The behavior of children is a useful metric for gauging how impacted a place is by tourism, and, by this measure, Mrauk-U fails on account of its ‘bye-bye! bye-bye!’ screaming children. But this ancient town is a worthwhile visit, where village life is interspersed with 16^th century pagodas throughout the countryside. In the smoky mornings, villagers huddle around smoldering leaf piles to warm their fanned hands, and in the evening, cane ball matches inspire impressive acrobatics as players scissor-kick at the net.

The government ferry returning to Sittwe was a rusting shoebox with two decks, and a kitchen downstairs at the stern. There were lots of green jackets aboard, most of which being second-hand rags donated from America, brought to Myanmar from Bangladesh, and bearing novelty patches like ‘U.S. Air Force’. I boarded the brimming vessel late and was the only foreigner. A group of noisy women, like a gallery of squatting chickens, offered me a seat on their wood pallet, and I folded in with four of them lying, leaning, and drooling on me, and lost feeling in my left leg for three hours. It was early, but the crowd buzzed in animated bickering and laughter, cigars flinging through the air, cheeks bulging with quids of kun-ya. For each passenger there were two straw barrels of produce lining the ferry, mostly cauliflower, cabbage, squash, and foot-long string beans, en route to the market in Sittwe. Later in the morning, passengers revolved through the kitchen bench, kneading fistfuls of rice and fish curry with their right hand, and spooning soup with their left. And so another seven hours went, of good travel in true Burmese style.

Zingyalk junta

2010-02-09T09:18:00.000+05:00

On the way into Mawlamyine the train passed an attractive village, the station post reading Zingyalk in English. A few days later I arranged my local guy ‘Donel’ to take me, and he knew of a guesthouse where I could stay. It was a 90-minute motorcycle ride past enjoyable scenery of rural Myanmar, and we arrived at the guesthouse supervised by a teenage boy. He didn’t speak a word of English, and so yet another acquaintance of body language began. The room had a bed and fan, and the shared bathroom in the back consisted of a keyhole toilet and a water trough for taking cold bucket showers. It was $1.50 per night, payable every morning.

My first stop was a family shop across the street where I had a freshly pressed cane juice to quench the heat. Next I walked down a dirt path leading to the train station to get my bearings. There was a group of four men repairing a diesel engine on the tracks, and surrounding the station was a small rock quarry, where maybe 30 girls about 12 years old shuttled crushed rock from a mechanical grinder to a nearby pile in buckets balanced on their heads. Everyone in view was stupefied at the sight of me, and work at the quarry all but came to a halt.

Suddenly I heard a ‘Hey you!’ and spun around to see a chubby, round-faced man with black, neatly parted hair lumbering towards me with his finger outstretched. He clenched my arm above the elbow and led me into the train station, where he offered me a seat and a glass of iced tea. It was difficult to gauge the situation given his conflicting behavior, but obvious that he was a government official. He disappeared into an office with my passport, returning five minutes later with his index finger aimed between my eyes like a laser: ‘Hey you!

USA

? American?’
‘Yes, USA.’
‘You leave! Now! Back to Mawlamyine!’

I played dumb, pointing up the hill to a pagoda, trying to reinforce my role as a tourist. He handed my passport back, and lifted me out of the chair by my arm. He was escorting me to the main road, where he sat me down again and stood, lighting a cigar, waiting to flag a shared taxi. I tried several times to stand up, but he restrained me by the shoulder. There were petrified faces everywhere I looked and it was now a fully unsettling situation that I had no control of. Why was I being expelled? Perhaps the child labor I had observed, but who’s to know. My priority now was to depart this village safely, and ideally with all my belongings. The man walked towards me, again pointing, and demanded money: ‘Hey you! Dollar, for me.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘You give me dollar!’ I handed him a one-dollar bill, and he returned an evil smirk, stuffing it into his longyi. I was prepared to give him more, and was surprised at his contentment.

It was imperative that I get back to the guesthouse to retrieve my other bag before the shared taxi arrived; once it arrived, any feedback from me would be misinterpreted as resistance. I attempted to explain this to him to no avail, and finally produced a room key which he at once understood. He allowed me to gather my things and when the taxi arrived, grabbed my bag with one hand, my arm with the other, and shoved me onto the tailgate of the pickup truck, and I squished into the caged bed with a dozen others. As we pulled away, the kid from the guesthouse ran after the truck to return the money I had paid for the room.

In Zingyalk my impression of life under an autocratic government crystallized. Myanmar has courts, per se, but no rule of law. During my visit, many conversations with Burmese have included complaints of their overbearing government, but now, for the first time, I began to appreciate the nature of their frustration. (The Burmese are subdued in this regard however: the illegal act of conversing in political topics with foreigners is punishable with imprisonment.)

the 35-Up

2010-02-05T15:30:00.001+05:00

Burmese trains offer two classes of travel, and Ordinary Class is nothing short of a three-ring circus, but it rewards you with a fascinating cultural immersion. And so I went, the seven hours (or 12 as it turned out) from Bago to Mawlamyine.

The lady facing me in the opposite seat had the rabid look of an inmate, her hands inked with dark green tattoos, her teeth and lips stained crimson from betel juice, and she playfully quarreled with another woman over their seating arrangement. Upon resolving the dispute, she determined it an opportune time to change tops, and she proceeded to disrobe in the presence of the entire train, appearing to be high as a kite. There were fits of adolescent laughter intertwined with bouts of sobbing into cupped palms, followed by ravenous snacking and belches.

The train was a mobile market, and vendors filed past with boiled corn, curried rice balls wrapped in banana leaves, rice cakes, watermelon, etc., and an array of tobacco products, including kun-ya (Burmese paan), cheroots, and cigarettes. There was a boy with a rack of roasted ducks, still intact from web to bill but for their entrails and plucked feathers. Another man carried a basket of dried plums for sampling, and the instant he glanced across the train the stoned woman sneaked a whopping handful which she swiftly tucked into her shirt with a broad, mischievous grin.

The man across from me was sixty, with gleaming brown eyes that bulged from his smooth face, and he wore a green and red plaid longyi and a cotton jacket with several pens tucked into the breast pocket. As far as I could tell, his eyes were fixed on me the entire train ride, and he projected a glazed look of fondness and wonder, like a drunk grandfather. He staggered over to my window seat with a gurgling mouthful of betel juice, leaned over my lap and produced a scarlet jet, like blood spraying from a boxer’s mouth, leaving only a few drops on the sill. Then he craned his neck to within a few inches of my face: ‘Scoos me! Which country you come from?’ As he spoke, what was left of his mouthful rained down on me in mist, and a soggy chunk of betel leaf was loosened on his lip, and flung onto my arm. He was a nice old man though, and meant well, and later treated me to lunch as I was visibly offended by his introduction.

A woman in the next row nursed her naked boy. Suddenly he released himself, giggled, and began to urinate, which arced in spurts into the aisle. The mom chuckled into a proud, toothy smile, smearing the piss with the ball of her foot. Then she lit a cigar, and leaned over her infant to spit on the floor. Next to her was an old monk, who hardly said a word the entire day. The folds of his maroon shawl draped his stoic face. Around noon he ordered a rice ball which he ate with slow, deliberate hand strokes, as if he’d been anticipating the moment all morning. When finished, he borrowed some Chinese tea from his neighbor to wash off his hands out the window, and it sprayed onto the nun sitting behind him.

Halfway through the journey we endured a five-hour delay, stranded on the tracks at the mercy of stifling midday heat. The mobile market sprung to life, pouring through windows and doors onto the bank, women preparing noodles and rice on makeshift tables, children hurling stones at grazing cows, and men chewing kun-ya and puffing cheroots.

The train finally jerked onward near the start of golden hour, and we were rewarded with stunning views of neon green rice fields, circling flocks of egrets, palms swaying high above thatched roofs, hills pierced by gold pagoda spires, and a tangerine sun dipping into the delta. Given the delay, the final three hours of the ride took place at night, the rice fields now shimmering under the lopsided gibbous moon. The train was like a wind tunnel with all the windows raised, the afternoon heat had backed off, and everything was perfect – the temperature, the ambiance, the scenery…

Namaste, India

2010-01-05T12:37:00.000+05:00

Off to Southeast Asia now, but already looking forward to my next visit with India. Funny enough, the most civilized environment I experienced in India was the international departures terminal in Delhi, stocked with a multitude of complimentary amenities including RO drinking water, wi-fi, and foot massagers. The last familiar face I saw in India was that of Rajaji, which was fitting, and who played the role of our driver for several days in Delhi with distinction. Rajaji was an impressive man, the first ‘Sikh peoples’ (as he’d say it) that I’ve gotten to know in India, and possessing a great deal of conviction regarding his life and faith considering his tender age of 26. We spoke at length of his religion, particularly during his impassioned response to my self-proclaimed agnosticism. Perhaps the highlight of our interaction with Rajaji was the chaperoned visit to an evening prayer at his Sikh temple in Delhi, where we were well received as foreign visitors, in contrast to an earlier experience at the Jama Masjid mosque (although I’m trying my best to reserve judgment)…

The 2966 Gwalior Express to Agra

2009-12-31T14:09:00.000+05:00

Our train originated in Udaipur, meaning we could board early and, being the first passengers aboard, our sleeper car was not yet a mess. We pulled away at 10:21pm - close enough for government work (ex-Japan!). Soon the lights were off, and competing for my attention were snoring and farting passengers, and the rhythm of rattling windows, wheels clacking against their tracks. Late into the night, the chai-wallah tune lingered, submerging itself in my nocturnal thoughts. The upper berth in ‘sleeper class’ is like the padded, plastic bench in a doctor’s office, a windowless perch up among caged fans and flickering, fluorescent bulbs – not glamorous, but a cozy nook of personal space. At first light, the rail car metamorphosed, shawls drawing back, revealing children curled into their parents like marsupials. A sample of India came to life, through the window of my upper berth.

The sight of the Taj Mahal was humbling. It’s one of those wonders that imprints your life experience, your sense of what’s incredible. The Taj reminded me of Machu Picchu, although I found its detail and overall beauty far more exquisite. Above, a pre-dawn sweeper is bathed in twilight before the daily swarm of tourists arrives. (Liberal tourons have spoiled Agra, at least the bit within a 10km radius of the Taj. It was here, for the first time since Tanzania, that grown men and women, not the desperate ones, have tossed aside their pride to beg me for money, for which the only explanation can be careless charity on the part of foreigners. But escape the sphere of tourism, and India faithfully returns to its pleasant self.)

For some adventure on our last evening in Agra, Matt and I picked out a five-storey building near the mosque at Agra Fort Station to gain a favorable perspective of sunset. The standard strategy (‘waltz through like you own the place’) worked like a charm, and we took to the roof in less than two minutes, scrambling up a tattered bamboo ladder to the highest tier of concrete and exposed rebar. Such side trips are part of the fun of traveling, as there’s no way we could get away with such a shenanigan back home.

the Blue city

2009-12-22T23:30:00.001+05:00

Like other train stations in India, Bikaner’s was a microcosm of caste society, embedded with a certain bureaucratic flare, of British origin but gradually perverted over the years. Walking along a row of offices, handwritten signs, many of them misspelled, read: STN CHIEF; ASST. STN CHIEF; STN SUPERINTENDENT; ASST. STN SUPERINTENDENT; and then: VIP LOUNGE; 2^ND CLASS WAITING ROOM; USE-AND-PAY GENTS URINAL. Meanwhile, a boy of about 12 scurried down Platform 1, bent over his hand broom, methodically funneling trash onto the tracks with every fifth sweep, and plumes of dust rose, then settled, on unwary passengers. The Monday morning station was nearly empty, as was the 4887 Kalka-Barmer Express to Jodhpur, and soon after boarding we hijacked a sleeper berth in spite of our 3^rd Class tickets.

I initially thought of all Indian cities as filthy and chaotic. My presumption has proved correct, and Jodhpur (ahhh, Rajasthan’s ‘blue city’) was no different. Hotels, of course, offer a refuge from the madness outside. One night my hotel arranged a 30-minute Ayurvedic massage, for which I had heard mixed reviews but thought was worth a try. Next thing I know, I’m lying naked, face up, lights on, with an Indian man skimming my oiled body from head to toe with his hands, in quick figure eights. It was awkward, and my discomfort seized any effort at entertaining relaxing thoughts. Thirty minutes went by pretty quickly – then it was Matt’s turn, but I offered no hints of what lay in store (how cruel!). I didn’t want to spoil this special cultural experience for Matt. We had a good laugh of it.

Bikaner

2009-12-20T19:11:00.000+05:00

Bikaner is a sort of frontier-town in northern Rajasthan, and from here we arranged a night in the desert by camel safari. I was reluctant to partake in such a flagrant act of tourism, and felt a sense of self-disappointment in doing so, but during breakfast on the sand dunes the appeal of it became apparent - silence – and I savored this brief reprieve from India’s tormenting noise pollution.

Not far from Bikaner is one of the more bizarre sights I’ve witnessed (ever), Karni Mata Temple. It’s teeming with ‘holy rodents’ – thousands of them – believed to be reincarnated storytellers. Hindus flock here to pay respect and offer food to the rats, which blanket entire rooms and scurry from every corner and crevice. Just to observe this extravaganza was an exercise in self-control, to overcome one’s innate fear of swarming, disease-ridden rats.

Speaking of rats… At a guest house in Bikaner, we dined with a puzzling couple and their drunk driver. It was later agreed that the 24-year-old Kashmiri man was indeed romancing his travel companion, a rather homely Brazilian-American in her late-40’s. He spoke at length about his life in Kashmir: 'especially in winter, we eat very much, mostly non-veg. We’re Muslim, so we can take anything, not just veg like Hindus. I can eat three chickens, I have this courage!! That’s nothing! My brother, he weighs 150 kilograms, he can take 20, 22+ dishes! He’s dangerous man, nickname bulldog in our village. Once he took 25 men, one at a time, and after, they’re all lying feet in the air, bloody faces. He’s crazy man, I’m not like my brother, I’m peaceful man. But anyone talks to my sister, and she doesn’t like, I kill this man… I love my sister. Ten years , 15 years in jail, this is nothing, I would do this for my sister, I love her. One time a boy likes my sister, so I ask where he lives, and I meet with him and give him good beating, I spoiled his face, 25 stitches he gets… On my second trip to American embassy in Delhi, the man was a Jewish, what was his name… all Jewish hate Muslims, you know? And he ask me three question, then deny me tourist visa to America, because my passport is too fresh. I’m so angry, I say “You peoples think I’m terrorist! Because I’m Muslim and I’m born in Kashmir, it’s my only sin, that I’m born in Kashmir!” I wanted to kill every person in that entire building, I was so angry…’ It was about then that I excused myself, comforted by the fact that this promising young terrorist had not been granted a tourist visa to my beloved country.

dyeing and drying

2009-12-16T16:45:00.001+05:00

Jaipur has a thriving textile industry, and Matt and I visited some of the larger factories located south of the city near the airport. The factory pictured here was primarily used for dyeing, washing, and drying fabrics destined to be bed sheets, tablecloths, or saris. The acid/bleach baths (below) produced some pungent odors that didn't appear to irritate the gloveless washers. Even more impressive was the glistening rainbow of toxins discharged by the factory into the nearby fields.

reloading... for chapter II

2009-12-13T20:16:00.000+05:00

Rajasthan's Shekhawati is a marvelous region of havelis and lively human characters. After two weeks of acquainting, I part ways with her and head back to Jaipur to meet Mateo, to embark on another three weeks of amblings through northern India.

flipflops in the desert

2009-12-12T16:59:00.001+05:00

The other day was my birthday, yet I was afforded no leeway in my routine endeavors, for which I often toe the line of treading lightly. It was a hazy, yellow day and the winter sun cast seemingly premature shadows, as it was still around noon. Steep, barren ridges strung with 18th century forts and their crumbling walls encircled the small village plateau of Raghunathgarh, perched above a sweeping desert wash. Fences fashioned from thorny acacia-tree branches demarked one plot from another, contrasting the sand, forming a checkerboard pattern visible from above.

Regarding the women I patiently awaited, they wore red saris customary of the region, except for the child, and were returning with a wood harvest. At the sight of my camera, the eldest woman was enraged, spitting as she screamed at me in Hindi, unleashing her wrath with fierce slashes of her index finger through the air. Her response was disproportionately passionate for the occasion, but my defeat was uncontested and I quickly retreated, taking an alternate path back to the village. The road, my exit, was getting close, but the shrill pitch of her continued ranting was disconcerting. Villagers were appearing in every direction, and the woman came into view, running towards me, now waving a stick, which appeared substantial.

Moments later I was surrounded by over two dozen villagers of all ages, and I was overcome by lucid visions of a slow death by stoning in Raghunathgarh, on my birthday no less. Truthfully, I had taken a few photographs from afar, but was confident they didn’t see me, so I produced my second camera as evidence of my innocence, which successfully diffused the tension. The screaming continued, only now it was directed back at the old woman, who was seen to have wrongly accused me of a crime so heinous as to promptly summon the attention of this entire village. It was my break, and I discretely peeled off to refuge, feeling timid, but a bit clever…

Rajasthan ramblings

2009-12-07T21:54:00.000+05:00

I’m beginning to discover the exquisite culture of Rajasthan, one far more vibrant than my imagination had figured. Something about the experience here is highly fulfilling. Back when I first envisioned this grand trip, Rajasthan occupied a prominent component, and deservedly so. Life here is obtrusive, but wildly elegant and colorful. And there’s a lot to learn. On turbans, for example: the variety of colors, most corresponding to an individual’s caste (caste is another fascinating subject); the style of application, which differs between Hindus and Sikhs; cotton versus silk, and the length of cloth; generational trends, and the absence of turbans among young men; creative uses (e.g. neck scarf or whipping a child). Time has been flying by, typically with local bus excursions, meandering through farms and villages, and exploring forgotten forts overrun with monkeys, overgrown with mango trees…

Northern Rajasthan

2009-12-03T20:49:00.000+05:00

Two nights in Jaipur was two too many, and I headed north to a town I had picked out, not mentioned in Lonely Planet, which thus had inherent appeal. After a local ‘express/super deluxe’ bus, I whittled down a rickshaw driver to the standard range of about 60% of his starting price. The puzzled expressions offered by locals at the sight of me were clear indications of a well-chosen destination off the potato trail. One particular motorcyclist, after passing my rickshaw on the highway, slowed down to yell at me through the wind and over the noise, with a look of concern, ‘Where you are going sir??!’

At last I grabbed my things and watched with unease as the rickshaw drove away into the fading, dusty sunset, only to soon realize there was no accommodation to be had in this town of my choosing. For the next week, however, I returned in day trips from a nearby basecamp, where I stayed with a family on a small organic farm. The journey on dirt roads between the two villages consisted of constant entertainment, and the attractions en route often eclipsed the destination itself.

After several inquiries about local marigold production, my ‘host mom’ offered to arrange for me to stay with her friends on another farm, one of the largest in the region, and of course I cheerfully accepted. It was now 2:15pm, and their marigold harvest began at 3:30pm, so I quickly packed up and flagged a motorcycle. The 900-acre property contained plum and mango orchards, an equestrian facility, a plant nursery, and cut-flower, vegetable, and dairy operations. It’s run as a true family farm, a collaborative effort of the 25 family members and their hired help. Staying here as a fly on the wall was a special experience on many levels - to observe a rather large Indian family with four generations under one roof, to partake in the daily affairs of a Rajasthani farm, and of course to gain an intimacy with local people that’s difficult to come by as an independent, anonymous traveler.

Delhi > Jaipur

2009-11-26T09:12:00.000+05:00

The train’s vantage exposed the ‘other’ side of Delhi’s throbbing street life, not that things were otherwise civilized. Trash was everywhere - scattered, piled high in heaps, burning, or drifting, enveloping the banks of waterways – thick and overwhelming. A dozen goats, adorned with tinsel neckwear and pink-painted horns, sifted through waste as their owner stood in supervision, expressionless and unaffected by his circumstance. A feral pond attracted shore birds, pigs with piglets, and water buffalo, grazing up to their bowels in an anoxic sludge of human waste. The aroma of raw sewage lofted upwards and consumed the train, molesting my senses and lingering as it diffused with the gradual influx of fresher air. Strangely, it was becoming familiar, as if there were no hope for relief.

Then Delhi suddenly receded, and a pastoral India emerged as we drew southwest. Towering clumps of wild grass fluttered in the turbulence of the passing train, alongside small plots of mechanically tilled land. The day’s end was near. A woman strode on foot across a nearby field, effortlessly balancing a large basket of harvest on her head, and her striking pumpkin sari accentuated the afternoon sun which bathed the landscape with warm, golden light. Acacia trees appeared, draped with weaver nests drooping from their limbs, and for a moment I recollected the rolling savannah of Africa, which was distant to me in time and place.

The filth and beauty of India was sinking in…

the holy caves

2009-11-22T16:26:00.000+05:00

Our goal of escaping Lonely Planet’s formidable sphere of influence was beautifully executed. The pursuit of West Sikkim’s holy caves was more rewarding than the caves themselves. Scholars, monks, gurus, and ordinary folks are known to undertake pilgrimages to the caves, each with their own purpose and lore in mind (the first of which is said to be Lord Buddha himself).

Our own pilgrimage began with the name of a remote village scribbled on paper, from which we would set off. The breadth of information we received, much of it contradictory, created a sort of game, and we were left to sift through facts and advice offered in broken English, at best. Given our limited provisions and the absence of conventional accommodation, we depended on finding a village home stay - this we found with the Limboo family in a small village nestled at the junction of two tumbling, granitic rivers.

the Limboo matriarch

Reaching the caves took two days; we encountered no signs along the way, no positive reinforcement of our trajectory. The final section of trail ascended a 5,200-foot mountainside of switchbacks through dense forest with a ghostly bamboo understory. The caves were chock-full of spiritual offerings, and incense smoke wafted from the entrance. I was said to be the first American to visit the caves, and I’ll take this with a thick pinch of salt; nevertheless, it’s nice to forgo the potato trail, if only briefly.

Yuksam environs

2009-11-18T15:34:00.001+05:00

The appeal of Sikkim initially struck me while somewhere in Nepal. With its slices of India, Nepal, the Himalaya, Hinduism and Buddhism, I could visualize a rewarding journey. Reaching the small town of Yuksam, which marks the end of the road in western Sikkim, consumed nearly five days of transit from Kathmandu. To continue further north from there, it’s on your own two feet.

Tara & Bhim
Surrounding Yuksam, walking trails connect several hillside villages. While hiking around one day, we noticed ‘Home Stay’ sketched on the side of a home. We were invited in for tea, and decided to return the next day to stay a few days with Tara and Bhim, who welcomed us as if we were their own. The small farm had several houses and a stand-alone kitchen, whose bamboo walls and roof contained a beautiful earthen kiln for cooking over an open fire. The kitchen was decidedly Tara’s place; anyone else in the kitchen was simply a guest, including her husband Bhim. The cow also belonged to Tara. Bhim worked for Tara.

Tara fed us like princes. Each meal was a labor of love, always vegetarian and straight from the farm: lentil curries with chard, spinach, potatoes, chilies and radish; cilantro egg omelettes; warm glasses of whole milk; a host of spices, few of which I could properly identify; bowls of honeycomb drenched in honey for dessert. Everything Tara served was harvested within an hour of preparation - as fresh as food gets.

The standard of living here would be considered low by Western standards, but it’s light years beyond what I observed in East Africa. Here, children wear new shoes and neatly pressed school uniforms, nearly every home has a corrugated iron roof, and consistent rainfall yields abundant produce. Hospitality is a central value and you won’t be asked for money in exchange for tea or a meal; rather, it would be up to you to offer something you deem appropriate.

The other day I was hiking towards Dubdi Gompa on an obscure trail that led directly through a family’s home. There was a buzz of activity, and four generations sat together in a circle chanting a Hindu prayer. They insisted I join them and served me milk tea and a heaping plate of squash curry and soup. I later learned they were in the midst of a funeral ceremony for their recently passed great grandfather. Back home, it’s difficult to imagine such an act of welcoming being extended to a complete stranger, as I was to them.

Hilma & Maria

2009-11-14T16:35:00.000+05:00

After a short layover in Darjeeling, it was time to continue north into Sikkim, India’s tiny Himalayan state of a half million people that, until 1975, was ruled as an independent kingdom. A special permit is required to visit Sikkim, simply meaning that bureaucrats in three separate offices must handwrite your visa particulars into thick logbooks, the archives of which teeter behind them in tall, dusty stacks. Weaving down the steep mountain ridge north of Darjeeling was a laborious three hours of successive hairpin turns and exposed stunning scenery of the surrounding tea estates and hillside villages.

The ideal way to travel in this area is by hiring a Tata Sumo (India’s replica of the Jeep), and we were fortunate to meet an Estonian couple headed the same direction to share the expense. The first jeep would only take us as far as Jorethang (~3 hrs), so we had to arrange another vehicle for the second leg up to Pelling (~2 hrs). Sharing private transportation with random travelers, while cost effective, introduces an unwelcome element of disorder. I’ve found my travel style to lie on the conservative end of the spectrum, while many other travelers seem to take a less calculated approach to defensive posturing. Simply put, I strive to maintain control over the situations I get into, and the Estonian couple compromised such an approach.

Hilma was the moderating force in their relationship and would calmly temper Maria’s fiery nature. The carefree timetable that Lizzie and I employed was an early source of anxiety, and Maria was beginning to brew as we sat and enjoyed a late lunch in Jorethang. After lunch, following three failed attempts to organize a jeep to Pelling, we pursued our only alternative, a conventional van taxi. I made it very clear at the outset that I had no intention of paying any money until we had reached our destination.

On the outskirts of town, just short of heading into the hills, the driver pulled into a petrol station and demanded 600 rupees to fill his tank. While this was a textbook scenario, Maria went too far in principal, getting into the driver’s face and ranting “Where’s my guarantee??! Where’s my guarantee that you’ll get me to Pelling?!” The driver, offended by our distrust, retracted, suggesting that we organize another ride. In turn, Maria grew irate, then she stormed off down the road with Hilma trailing behind. This of course left us with little to do, for we had now tarnished our credibility at both the jeep and taxi parks. In this small town, word would travel fast of four hostile Westerners seeking a ride to Pelling.

To our good fortune, a lone taxi was pulled over down the road from the petrol station helping a broken down truck. Unaware of our fermenting reputation in town, he was easily swayed by a generous offer and off we went to Pelling at last. After taking a few minutes to collect herself, Maria offered, “Sorry about that, guys, I just can’t stand stupidity in such high concentrations.”

Darjeeling, West Bengal

2009-11-11T19:05:00.000+05:00

Steve remains in Nepal to trek the Annapurna Sanctuary, so I’m off to eastern India joined by Kiwi Lizzie, who Steve and I met while trekking in Gokyo. To ease the pain of the 17-hour local bus from Kathmandu to the Indian border, we both purchased two seats. As fate would have it, our bus lacked the two front seats flanking the driver that I had selected, so I was moved to the back row, which meant a long night without the advantage of a recliner. A local kid was quick to lie across the remaining seats on the rear bench, and I was left with enough room to stretch out like a licorice. The window directly above my head wouldn’t close, either - between the cold draft and the blaring Nepalese R&B music, I was resigned to a sleepless night on this bus relatively early on. And I had to laugh, for there were so many rookie mistakes for me to learn from…

We arrived in Darjeeling by Tata jeep after three hours of potholes and switchbacks up an impressive grade. The temperature dropped considerably as we ascended into hills blanketed with tea estates, and the town itself is perched atop a foggy ridge with narrow, windy streets and towering cedars. Not to mention Darjeeling’s backdrop, the 8,598m Khangchendzonga, ranking as the world’s third highest peak. Despite its scenery, the highlight of Darjeeling must be the Himalayan Zoological Park, which hosts Snow Leopards, Indian Tigers, Himalayan Wolves and Red Pandas.

Nepal Himalaya

2009-11-07T18:03:00.000+05:00

Steve and I spent the past two weeks 'leisure trekking' in Sagarmatha (Everest) National Park. How refreshing, after 10 weeks in Africa and a tedious overland transit from Delhi to Kathmandu, to be breathing such crisp, alpine air. We chose to focus on Nepal’s Everest region and, more specifically, Gokyo valley – while Kala Patthar and Everest Base Camp are all about Everest, Gokyo offers unobstructed views of four of the world’s 14 peaks exceeding 8,000 meters. The scenery in Gokyo valley is said to be unmatched, and after witnessing it myself I can understand why.

self portrait, bouldering near Gokyo

The far majority of trekking routes in the Everest region are fully-serviced potato trails. Lodges occur every hour or two and are faithfully stocked with beer, whiskey, Snickers, and a standard Himalayan menu. Prices are peculiar: a double room costs about $1.30 - less than a plain pancake ($2.00); a coke runs about $4.00, and a medevac airlift back to Kathmandu is priced reasonably at just $1,500.

the morning elementary school routine, Namche Bazar

Continuing up the Gokyo lakes series from Gokyo village, we reached the fifth lake after about two hours. We scurry atop the moraine separating the lake from Ngozumpa Glacier and find ourselves in awe at the humbling sight of countless 6,000- to 7,000-meter peaks in every direction. We’re standing in the heart of the Himalayan spine – less than 10km away lies Chakung at 7,029m, marking the Tibet-Nepal border. Southeast of Chakung, looking up the Gaunara Glacier, are Everest and Lhotse, wielding their dominance and churning off massive piles of white smoke.

golden hour magic from fifth lake: (l to r) Lhotse, Kangchung, Cholo

As the golden hour approaches, we lose the sun and a bone-stabbing cold descends in an instant. Jumping jacks barely suffice for the next 90 minutes, and my water bottle quickly turns to slush and ice despite my agitating it. The mere thought of the wind chill on Everest was… terrifying. After witnessing the most spectacular crepuscular light show imaginable, we pack up and eagerly begin the return hike to Gokyo village. A full moon produced sharp shadows and gracefully lit up the alpine skyline. Not a breath of air, not another soul on the trail, the Himalaya by moonlight – it was simply surreal…

generic, but obligatory: the west face of Everest at dusk

enter India

2009-10-23T19:02:00.000+06:00

Arriving in India was exciting and roughly how I imagined it – absolute chaos. Rajasthan is calling my name, but first a planned trekking detour in Nepal... Traveling overland from Delhi to Kathmandu begins with a 14-hr sleeper train from New Delhi Station to Gorakhpur, so we booked the first place we found in the Main Bazaar outside New Delhi Station for $7 – the only drain in the bathroom was the squat toilet itself. We wandered into a random curry joint around the corner; Steve orders vegetable fried rice and naan. The waiter promptly comes back with a look of bewilderment: “you order vegetable fry rice, with naan, and no curry?! How can you eat naan with no curry??” (He was genuinely confused and wanted an explanation.) Steve replies that he did it the other day and he’d figure it out. We joked that surely the waiter thought at least one of us was mentally retarded.

man exercising his pigeons in New Delhi

From Gorakhpur we skipped the local bus and shared a taxi with a German couple also headed for the Nepal border. After the usual quibbling over fifty cents in pricing, the most hair-raising auto ride I’ve ever experienced began to unfold. Steve observed that nearly every car on the road had rear-view mirrors either smashed or folded in. At one point we rear-ended a cow, clipping and injuring its hind leg. Just as I started to feel sorry for the cow, watching it limp off the road, its owner took a full swing with a baseball bat into the spine of the cow’s back. This way he added insult to injury, but I’m still trying to understand the sacred role that cows play in Indian culture.

Hakuna Matata

2009-10-15T18:32:00.000+06:00

Here's a map of my route through East Africa:

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As Africa comes to a close, at least for now, I reflect on my time here fondly but with mixed feelings. The wildlife has been phenomenal. Golden hour game drives, witnessing East Africa’s savannah amongst the world’s most spectacular mammals: a graceful leopard draped over an Acacia tree branch; an imminent zebra kill unfolding right before our eyes, spoiled by the impatience of a lion cub; a herd of 32 giraffes galloping in unison, seemingly in slow motion; a herd of over a thousand elephants migrating to drink and bathe in the Chobe River, all passing within a few meters of our Land Cruiser before returning to the bush. These moments are the magic of Africa.

But the darker side of Africa has been persistent. Scammers, beggars and thieves can be found in many undeveloped parts of the world, yet here they are too pervasive to dismiss as being customary. I’ve experienced the peacefulness of East Africa’s rural villages; simple lives and the independence offered by subsistence farming seem to bring about the best in people. East Africa’s cities, on the other hand, have grown tiresome – the horror stories from Nairobi, Dar, Kampala, and Jo’burg; indeed, the Italian woman attacked with a machete and robbed at Tiwi beach near Mombasa; the signs in Dar that read: Danger: it is NOT safe to leave the campground; the sickening darkness of Nairobi’s River Road at night, by myself, walking to the bus depot with all my luggage; the Brit bludgeoned in the head with a hammer in Kampala...

Botswana

2009-10-15T18:05:00.000+06:00

Leaving Livingstone we entered Zimbabwe and I bought a hard boiled egg before crossing the border bridge. A moment later I heard a truck horn followed by someone firmly yanking my hand downward. I whipped around to find a male baboon, as large as me, who had just failed in his attempt to steal my egg. In one reactionary moment I wound up and drilled the egg at him with everything I had, and with some luck it exploded square on his left eyebrow. He was stunned, sat back, and then proceeded to eat the bits of egg from his face. I suppose it was a happy ending for us both. The city of Victoria Falls was merely a jumping point, and we continued the next day to Botswana’s Chobe National Park.

Chobe
Game drive after game drive, I’ve found that it takes increasingly more to be impressed. This is how I felt entering Chobe – what could this place possibly produce that would upstage what we saw in the Crater or Mara? Maybe halfway through the drive, as we approached the Chobe River, we witnessed something truly special. A herd of elephants – too large to count and in excess of one thousand individuals – was approaching the river to drink and bathe. Each one walked right past our vehicle as we stared for over an hour, speechless, at this extraordinary spectacle.

Okavango
The Okavango Delta’s natural history is as impressive as Serengeti’s wildebeest migration. The Okavango River originates in Angola and flows 1,000 miles into Botswana, gradually evaporating in the Kalahari desert and forming the world’s largest inland delta in the process. The delta is so massive that its wildlife is best viewed from an airplane. In addition to flying over the delta, we spent two nights camping on an island about 3 hours canoe (or mokoro) ride from Maun. It was a bona fide bush experience: elephants trampling through the camp at all hours, hyenas whooping at night, a symphony of delta frogs and insects, and a star-lit southern sky to top it off.

Zambia

2009-10-10T17:30:00.000+06:00

Rather than cross the bridge to Zimbabwe and deal with a border crossing, I decided to view Victoria Falls from the Zambia side. After paying the entrance fee and getting hiking directions for the rim of the falls, I picked up a local guide – one of the illegal ones for about half the price, or $2 for 3 hours (I talked him down from $10 :- ). Shortly thereafter, we were turned around by a gentleman with an AK-47 who demanded an additional $40 to proceed all the way to the main channel of the falls. The falls were running very low anyways, and I figured my time was better spent elsewhere.

On my way out I swung into some street vendors for a soda and a few souvenir Zimbabwean dollar notes. The Zimbabwean dollar was suspended indefinitely in April, 2009 as a result of hyper inflation and devaluation. Their $100 trillion note can be bought for about US$1. “Dennis the Menace” seemed fairly genuine and offered to show me his village. It was only 15 minutes away so we crossed the railroad tracks and waited for a shared taxi to fill up.

Mukuni was a beautiful village of a few thousand people, with networks of rusty red trails connecting thatched huts and many large, mature trees. I found Mukuni intriguing so returned the next two days. On the last day I photographed this boy doing laps with his wheel toy. Afterwards, I treated him and his family to sodas and enjoyed observing the intense focus with which he and his sister drank their Sprite, which was clearly a novelty in their lives.

Malawiwawi

2009-10-05T20:16:00.001+06:00

I laughed out loud when I saw this at the Malawi border: “Don’t invest your time, invest your money and we will do the rest.” Tempting, isn’t it?

Just as we stamped out our passports in Tanzania, the Malawi border was arbitrarily closed as a result of alleged demonstrations. As we waited to confirm our fate, it was looking like a long night on the bus with food scraps and no beer. The good news is that such puzzling events seem to go as easily as they come; the road block of logs was soon cleared and we were on our way. Malawi’s immigration procedure is intriguing. Each entry is handwritten into a notebook, one passport at a time. The single immigration official was quite leisurely considering the large, antsy crowd awaiting his attention.

A morning stroll the next day quickly gained momentum when I met a local primary school teacher in Chilumba. He seemed excited at the suggestion of my attending his class, so I eagerly did so. Nearly 60 children, ages ranging from 10 to 15 years, sat side-by-side on the floor of the classroom, which was conspicuously devoid of furniture and fixtures – just a chalkboard and daylight filtering through the cinderblock walls. It was bleak, but also practical – nothing to maintain, nothing to steal.

Further south on Lake Malawi, it was fun to discover a fishing community in Mbamba village. Between midnight and 2:00am, the fishermen embark on their nightly paddle into the choppy lake waters to cast gill nets, which they collect early the next morning, returning to shore about 10:00am.

dusty trails

2009-10-05T20:05:00.000+06:00

The first leg of our southward journey took us 300km from Nairobi to Arusha, the jumping point to Tanzania’s Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater. These roads are growing familiar – brief patches of freshly laid asphalt followed by persistent stretches of rough dirt and relentless dust. Throughout Kenya and Tanzania, a widespread highway resurfacing project is underway, subcontracted to Chinese construction and engineering firms. The construction costs themselves are being funded by foreign aid monies, in return for natural resource entitlements.

It’s appropriate to point out such a fitting analogy for some of Africa’s shortcomings: business done for the benefit of a few politicians at the expense of local jobs and development; foreign engineers banking expat salaries; idle locals at a loss for skills and advancement. A particularly disturbing sight upon entering Tanzania was that of adult men ceasing their work to outstretch a hand for money. There is a powerful difference between adults begging for money versus children.

Ramadan in Dar

From Arusha we ticked another 650km to Dar Es Salaam - a large port city and Tanzania’s former capital. We were well prepared for the drive but happened to arrive on the evening of the last day of Ramadan. Celebrations were in full swing and thoroughly attended. As night fell we were stranded amongst standstill traffic and the unnerving chaos of street festivities. Masses of people in every direction, matatus blaring hip-hop from blown speakers, and a handful of unsuspecting potatoes peering into their new world through the superficial refuge of truck windows.

Zanzibar

Dar was followed by five days of beach volleyball and marination on Zanzibar. Some downtime in this island paradise was welcomed. The ferry ride back to the mainland on rough seas quickly turned “pear-shaped”, with hoards of men, women and children chucking their guts out inside the boat and all over the bow and stern. Rumors had forewarned of such a meltdown, but it was easier to appreciate after experiencing the sights, sounds and smells firsthand.

Ngorongoro Crater

2009-09-23T11:28:00.000+06:00

The crater was awesome. It boasts the highest density of lions in Africa.

Mara II

2009-09-17T15:26:00.000+06:00

Second trip to Kenya's remarkable Masai Mara reserve.

The magic always seems to happen when you least expect it. This time, we were on our way back to camp and most of the cameras had been put away as we were unlikely to see any more wildlife. Briefly, the sky seemed to open up and offer the most dramatic light we’d seen all day.

After we’d left MMNR and were on our way back to Nairobi, we stumbled upon a herd of 32 giraffes just off the road. At first just walking along, something startled them into a full gallop. They were equally graceful and awkward, with their long necks swaying back and forth as they floated along.

anything is possible; nothing is certain

2009-09-04T11:41:00.000+06:00

Unraveling an explanation for Africa’s state of affairs is no easy task – many problems, many perspectives, much effort, and little progress. How do the thousands of foreign aid workers in Africa view the likelihood that their efforts will lead to meaningful long-term change? It’s difficult to ignore the lengthy history of individuals and governments that have attempted to harness Africa, to no avail.

Despite its challenges, I’m quite enjoying my travels here. It took a few weeks to get back in the travel saddle. After a wonderful experience in Uganda, it’s time to head back to Nairobi to meet Steve and begin our epic trip south, overland, to Johannesburg.

Western Uganda

2009-09-01T19:41:00.000+06:00

Buses and matatus
In Kampala I stayed at a hotel overlooking the Owino street market, a chaotic sprawl of tarps, cardboard boxes, and just about any second-hand item from America you can imagine: shoes, shirts, radios, backpacks, batteries. Inside it was a muggy, claustrophobic sea of mud, splintered wooden planks, and vendors crouched next to their parcel of merchandise. Conveniently, the bus depot was only a block away, and I easily bought a ticket and boarded a rather civilized bus headed west for Fort Portal.

The 300km journey took only 7 hours, with the usual mysterious stops along the way, for which everyone had their own explanation. I’ve learned that questions such as when will we get there? or how long will it take? are futile in Africa. And the most challenging aspect of public transportation is not the inefficiency, but rather the pervasive, nauseating stench brewing among the passengers. Thus, window seats are imperative.

Many times the only means of public transport is the matatu (above): a rusted, squealing minivan brimming with up to 20 humans along with produce and livestock, driven by an overly aggressive teenager with nothing to lose. Speeding down highways and side streets on tiny bald tires, they whiz past cattle, bicyclists, and pedestrians like slalom poles. Fun for the whole family!

Mountains of the Moon

About an hour south of Fort Portal, I hopped out of a matatu at a lonely intersection, home to a dozen or so loitering young men and a chapatti stand. I quickly found a kid with a boda-boda (motorcycle) to give me a ride to Ruboni campground, 16km up a steep river canyon to the edge of the dense forests of Rwenzori National Park.

As I approached the park office later that day to inquire about trekking, I roused the two staff who were asleep on the benches outside the office. They informed me of the park regulation that a guide is required to enter the park. I asked, “Will I encounter poisonous snakes, leopards, or elephants?”
“No. Very rare.”
“Then why must I be accompanied by a guide carrying an assault rifle?”
“Ahhh- yes, the animals.”
In reality, I believe the purpose of the guide was to protect me from people, not animals. We were hiking less than 10km from the porous border with Congo, and it was not unheard of for guerrillas to enter Uganda from DRC and kidnap tourists. And, of course, it created a job for Eric.

Eric charged $5 per day as a guide. For a tip, I gave him a pair of Ray Bans that I found on the trail; he could sell them at Owino market in Kampala for nearly one month’s income. Eric’s physical fitness, English fluency, and knowledge of Rwenzori biology were rather mediocre. But he was a nice guy and I let him lead most of the way as a show of respect. After all, he was carrying an AK 47…

Lake Nkuruba

Stumbling upon Lake Nkuruba was a heartening improvement from the rigors of Kenya. A lush perch atop a hill with bandas (bungalows), hammocks, loads of monkeys, and several full-time cooks; a place you could easily waste away several days of doing nothing. The surrounding area is a dormant volcanic region beneath the Rwenzori Mountains, dotted with crater lakes among small villages and banana plantations.

Leo is surely one of the older men in the community, at age 62. A brick-maker, father of five, grandfather of perhaps a dozen, and a genuine statesman.

Kampala, Uganda

2009-08-24T14:16:00.000+06:00

Uganda was appealing because I knew nothing about it. It sounded a bit off the beaten path, so I decided to wing it in good style - no plans, no arrangements, totally clueless about practicalities such as currency, entry requirements, accommodation, and food. Where the heck is Kampala anyways?

The 14-hour, cross-border night bus from Nairobi could have been worse. It brought back memories... I sat in the far rear corner of the bus, sandwiched between the window and a huge woman, my backpack on my lap.

Uganda is much more pleasant than Kenya. The infrastructure is far better, and people are mellow ("lazier than Kenyans" as a cab driver put it). Less harassment on the streets, and lacking the anonymous Kenya engagements that go something like this:

"Hello! Mista! Where from? Which country?"
"States."
"Ahhh, the United States of America. Barack Obama! Los Angeles, Miami."
"Yes, that's right, President Obama..."
"There is much prejudice in the States?"
"Prejudice? Nope, not anymore. That's why we have Obama."
"You have time to talk with me? I want to ask you many question about your country."
"Sorry friend, have to be going."
" You are prejudice? Don't want to talk with African man?"

Kenya: let the haggling begin!

2009-08-20T18:09:00.000+06:00

Independent travel in Kenya has proven to be very difficult and, for all intents and purposes, not really an option. Dealing with safari operators is a protracted card game, and behind every poker face the same relentless, singular goal: milk every last dollar imaginable from the tourist!! In fact, the more effective you are at negotiating favorable terms and pricing, the more you simply drive operators to promise things they don’t intend to deliver. One thing is for sure: honesty is not a pillar of business ethic in Kenya.

As in many other places, Kenya has local prices and tourist prices. Kenya’s park fees are no exception: a staggering $60/person/day for gringos, versus $10 for locals. Add to that logistics and you’re deep at least $100/day to see some sights. To experience the real magic of Kenya (i.e. its national parks), be prepared to throw down a bit of scrap and play ball with the slippery safari guides.

dollars for Kenyans, not shillings!
The immigration officer at the Kenyan border demanded that I convert my shillings back to USD in order to pay the $25 visa fee. The Kenya Wildlife Service accepts park fees in dollars, and applies an arbitrary exchange rate for those paying in local currency (78 to the $, vs. current market rate of 76). Go figure… the other day, I was listening to a broadcast session of the Kenyan parliament, and there was lengthy discussion of the threat posed by excessive investments made by American firms in Kenya's energy sector: “mista speaka sir, these foreign investments are strategically dangerous and do not have the Kenyans’ best interests in mind…” It seems the Kenyans need to make up their minds about our dollars – had I been present, I would have kindly pointed out the nearly $600 million Kenya receives annually from the U.S. Agency for International Development.

Masai Mara National Reserve

Curiously spelled differently from its namesake (the Maasai people), Masai Mara is Kenya’s most popular and well-known reserve and occupies the northern reaches of the Serengeti ecosystem, the majority of which lies in Tanzania. The rolling grasslands of the African savannah, peppered with flattop acacia trees, are a site to behold! Not to mention close encounters with the big cats and endless masses of wildebeest and zebras. Mara is the Africa we’ve all seen on Animal Planet; witnessing it in person can by itself easily justify a trip to Kenya.

Lake Nakuru National Park
The joke in Lake Nakuru is on the tourists, and the baboons get the last laugh. These clever little beasts pounce on safari jeeps by the dozen, darting through windows and roofs with a keen eye for junk food. In uncanny, anthropomorphic form, the baboons playfully bounce antennas and examine themselves in side-view mirrors.

Meanwhile, pink flamingoes swarm the alkaline shores of Lake Nakuru, forming a dynamic mass that rings the lake’s entire circumference. The flock is alive with activity along its edge as birds shuffle and jockey from one spot to the next.

Amboseli National Park

Truth be told, Amboseli was a sad sight. Having not had proper rain for over a year and a half, the plains are conspicuously devoid of the grasses that support large mammals. Perished elephants and zebra abound, lying for weeks unperturbed by scavengers or predators. This is in sharp contrast to Masai Mara, where little remains of a fallen animal after a day or so, save some scattered bones. Amboseli is best known for the view of Mt. Kilimanjaro it offers as a backdrop to its myriad animal life; sadly, the weather permitted only a faint glimpse of Kili while I was visiting. Amboseli is also an amazing place to observe elephants, which have acclimated to the presence of people due to ongoing research there for many years.

2009-07-03T01:09:00.000+06:00

My first National Geographic publication, albeit not the proper magazine. Hopefully not the last! This special issue is on newsstands through September, 2009 (you can also order a copy online here). The photo I took in 2004 while in Bolivia, part of a longer trip through Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Brazil, Bolivia, and Peru.

Year of the Snake

2009-06-02T06:28:00.000+06:00

Scott on pitch 3 of Gripper at Arch Rock

Lots of snake encounters this year! It's been a blessed spring in the hills. In anticipation of our Half Dome climb, Adam and I have spent the past three months cragging in Yosemite Valley. I was also fortunate to improve my competency with chimneys and offwidth, thanks to Adam's patient instruction and masochistic tendencies which drive him to enjoy leading these dicey routes.

Among others this spring, we've ticked Catchy, Stone Groove, Lunatic Fringe, Royal Arches / S Face N Dome in-a-day, E Buttress El Cap, Beverly's Tower, Wheat Thin, Midterm, and Gripper.

East Side Skiing April '09

2009-03-02T06:28:00.001+05:00

Rabin changed my life this weekend by introducing me to the art of backcountry skiing.

Travel Pics

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(click image to enlarge)

Fitz Roy and Cerro Torre, Patagonia, Argentina

Torres del Paine, Patagonia, Chile

Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia

Village near Tupiza, Bolivia

Iguazu Falls, Brazil

Red Fork of the Powder River, Wyoming

Sierra Wave Lenticular over Mono Lake, California

Southwest China

2008-11-05T11:21:00.000+05:00

(see more pics)
My short trip to China was phenomenal and far exceeded expectations - the warm people, stunning landscapes, and depth of culture. Being my maiden trip to China, it was also an introduction to several Chinese staples (some unique to the region): rice noodles for breakfast; rice noodles for lunch; spitting; Chenglish; tour group megaphones; ubiquitous, blaring folk music; traffic laws (there are none); the hard sleeper train; and the morning tai chi / shouting routine.

Guângxī Province
The misty Li River winds its way through Guilin and Yangshuo amongst endless limestone cliffs and rice fields, offering otherworldly topography that trumps Rio de Janeiro's vistas on a meager day. Meandering through the surrounding villages on bicycle feels more like an interactive painting than planet Earth. Generally I was received by village folks with mixed reviews - some expressing curiosity while others impatience.

Guilin is a fun town with many markets, but is most useful as a jumping point to other places. Locals eagerly befriend Westerners to practice their English, and pitch any number of services offered by their cousin's friend's brother: "authentic" Chinese tea; massages (a loosely used term as elsewhere in Asia); river cruises; trips to Dragon's Back. The river cruise from Guilin to Yangshuo exposes awesome views of the myriad cliffs stacked on one another. I travelled here with four Chinese tourists from Kunming which was a rewarding insight into Chinese culture, albeit not the local one.

Yúnnán Province
Next we boarded a sleeper train from Guilin to Kunming, which was meant to be an 18-hour journey but, due to flooding from a rain storm, slowly grew to 22.5 hours. Luckily, TsingTao beers were sold on the train for 5 yuan, or about 75 cents. My Chinese friends were not keen to much drinking, but an Austrian fellow and a British couple were conveniently in company. In Kunming I joined Tony's wife and family for dinner, and some enjoyable bar-hopping ensued with Sky, Ray, Victor, and their respective wives.

From Kunming I flew to Lijiang and whiled away about a week. The thousand-year-old "old town", a World Heritage site, is home to the NaXi people (aka Nakhi), a Chinese ethnic group that originated in Tibet. Their native language (today the only living pictographic script), dress, and food were fun to discover. Water canals maze the city which once supplied drinking water and are utilized to flood and clean the city's cobblestone walkways. Towering above Lijiang is the 5,596-meter Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, regarded as one of the premier scenic sites in all of China. Its reflection in Black Dragon Pool is extraordinary.