Headed Back (Turkey, Bulgaria)

I can't believe how much has happened in the last 3 1/2 months and how quickly they have gone by. I never in my wildest dreams thought I would be headed back to Boulder so soon, but I have to go with the flow and trust. I hope the next step brings me closer to a career. Right now I am just a jumble of feelings and a bit of a mess. I know I haven't been gone that long but returning to Boulder is always so strange. There is a very different feeling to it than I had returning from Asia, or more recently, from Africa.
I still feel lot with where I want to go or how to get to the next stage of my life, but happy with the feeling that I am loving my life so much and living it to the fullest. But mostly I'm sad at how quickly this time is going by. It doesn't feel real. It's strange and a bit sad when I can't imagine how I want my life to be. It's sad that travel can't last forever when it is the best and most important part of my life. In my last couple days I find myself trying to soak up every moment. I try to squeeze out every last contrast of the places I'm in, one last glimmer of light, scent, or foreign word. One of my favorite quotes is, "Every place has its own hidden room, it's up to you to find it."
Istanbul, especially is full of hidden rooms. I keep finding them in fishermen under the bridge, a delicate painting under the curl of a roof in an old building. I love the unexpected moments that come with travel. They are like air to me, a person who gets tremendously stressed by routine, I will miss life on the road. I could go anywhere. I never know who I will meet. I feel like this tiny speck on a huge globe and nobody knows who I am or where I am. I feel utterly alone, but strong in myself. The adrenaline, freedom, learning, new people and places, unexpectedness, adventure and contrasts of travel are what I thrive on. It's hard to go home and not meet friendly people from all over the world all the time or see things I've only ever read about in books. Riding on the train through the Bulgarian countryside today, I felt happy and for no reason but my own, having noting to do with anyone else. That's the best kind of happy. I will miss the generosity and curiosity I encounter every day as I explore this strange world we walk in. It's the simple things, like the boy I met waiting for a train in Turkey who wanted to practice his few years of English on me and was just curious about what I was doing. After a simple exchange and I had to be on my way, he gave me his bookmark as a gift.
I may have gotten lost looking for hidden rooms in Plodiv, Bulgaria, but that's the best things about not knowing where I am supposed to be going, I suppose I can't really get lost in the end, only found.
Recently I've realized how little I actually have to lose at this point in my life and there is something incredibly freeing in that. I am having the time of my lie and wouldn't' change a thing. There are more and more moments when I catch myself and think that there is nowhere else I would rather be than in this very moment.
So I am scared about how I will make a living and a life in this world, but I am so grateful for the life I've had so far. I have seen so much. I may not have a lot, but what I do have, the memories of the places I have been and things I have seen and people i have met, those can't be taken away. They are building a lifetime. I can only hope that in the next step of my travels things will become more clear and remember there is more to his journey. If I am still unclear next time I'm headed home then I can (and probably will) have a nervous breakdown. But for now, I'm happy to be here, sad this part is ending, but I trust that the next will be even better. As for life now, I really can't complain!

A Wonderful Day in Istanbul (Turkey)

I love the unexpectedness of travel and have reaffirmed how much I want to try to make it as an international journalist, somehow. I wanted to get out of the touristy old city part of Istanbul, Turkey, so I headed across the bridge to Taksim Square, where the locals are supposed to hang. I may not be the most observant person in the world (when I was home for the summer half way through the visit my mom moved a big palm tree plant I used to have at my old house into the guest room where I was staying and it took me over a week to notice and I only did in the end because she said something) but there did seem to be an awful lot of police with riot gear around. As I got closer to the square, there were even more, it looked like they were prepared for a full-out war. It seemed the rest of Istanbul could be raided by the Chinese and nobody would notice because all the police were here.
I got to the square which was covered in Turkish flags, which all have the Muslim moon on them. There were police tanks (yes, tanks) and I counted 11 bus loads of police in full riot gear. There was a mound of press squirming around with their cameras, microphones and gas masks. Unable to find anyone who spoke English to tell me what was going on and hating myself because I make it a habit wherever I am to try to track down an English paper if possible so that I can see if anything interesting to me journalistically is going on but I hadn't been able to do that yet in Turkey.
I sat down close to the action. A nice man bought me coffee but the only info I got out of him was a, "boom!" sound and him splaying his hands. The only bomb that looked like it had gone off in the square was one full of Turkish flags and also the ones with the wolf, the radical ones. More caffeinated but not any more enlightened, I continued on my quest for information, loving the chaos. Finally I talked to a Reuters reporter who told me there was supposed to be a pro-Kurdish demonstration and the police weren't allowing it. I asked him where the best place to watch the action would be and he said he wasn't sure protesters would be able to get in with all the blockades outside of the square and I should get out of the square anyways if I don't have a gas mask because Turkish police tend to be a bit gas-bomb happy.
Not one to pass up a good old fashioned riot, I parked myself at a restaurant on an open-air deck with the best view of the square. (It was actually at a Burger King!)
I wasn't the only one with that idea and soon struck up a conversation with at Turkish photographer who spoke a decent amount of English. He cracked me up because he is from Turkey but hates Turkish people. I felt bad for him because he feels really isolated in Turkey not being religious, but he said there is actually a large underground movement of Atheists but they keep quiet.
He filled me in that it was the DTP (sort of like a less-extreme, legal PKK that is a political party the government recognizes) that was supposed to come that afternoon. I asked about the police blockades, "Oh, they will find a way in." He said.
He told me that the last time there was a protest there a sniper shot 36 people and showed me the window he did it from. I couldn't understand if it was that protest or the one before it that a suicide bomber came and killed several people in the square because the police had blockaded it and weren't letting people out.
I obviously don't want anyone to get hurt, but if there is going to be action, I want to be there for it, I do have a career I want to start but this made me nervous, especially since there had been two suicide bombers in Turkey in the last 3 days. My new friend said he thought it was likely there would be bombs today. asked if we were safe and he said, "Well of course, that's why I am up here. The bombs are hardly ever big enough to reach up here and I don't think a sniper would aim in this direction."
Feeling more alive than ever, adrenaline coursing through my body and energized in a really interesting conversation about politics, I decided to wait it out. Suddenly there was a lot of commotion. My friend snapped some photos then zoomed in to show me the two main leaders of the DTP had come, a man and a woman, and were talking to the press. He said the protesters wouldn't come because police would obtain the video footage and identify as many people as they could and go to their houses in the night and beat them. I may complain about my country, but I felt a rush of privilege to be from the U.S. after hearing that.
He looked through my photos and told me that in a crowd shot I had was a PKK leader who was meant to be hiding in the mountains but was actually there in the crowd and I had his picture! That was exciting. Then, the tension seemed to fizzle out. The police were still there on roofs, all around the square, and the police helicopter continued to do rounds overhead, but the thrill in the air had evaporated.
"They won't come. The police get their cues from the media. It's the media who is in contact with the protest leaders so when the media begins to leave we know they got a phone call and it's over," he said.
So the most action I saw was the press jostling each other to get a better view of the interviewees, but still got that rush and reminder of what I am striving for. Imagine being on the phone with a PKK leader! Another wonderful day in Istanbul.

Adventures in Albania

After some time wandering around in Skopje, Macedonia, a gritty, communist-block like city that seems to be trying valiantly to redefine itself, I found myself stepping onto yet another bus into the night towards Albania. This was another country I was a bit nervous about, mostly because every single person I had spoken to told me not to go. To be fair, none of them had been there which is how I rationalized going despite the warnings.
Albania has long been a traveler's blacklisted country and it is only recently that it has opened up its borders. Like for Kosovo, I wanted to be one of the first let into a country with such a torrid reputation. I was a little apprehensive on the bus because it was just two men (the drivers) and me. But it turned out to be great. I was able to spread out and sleep in the isle, and the men were really nice and despite not speaking any English, their hospitality was impeccable. They tried to buy me coffee or food at every stop and just seemed to look out for me.
I got off the bus dazed at 5 a.m. in Tirana, the capital. I had no idea where I was. Like Macedonia, Albania is trying to give itself a face lift by painting every single building a different color. We are talking Easter egg colors here by the way. It was the full giant Crayola pack, not the small one. Knowing very little English would be spoken, I had armed myself with as many Albanian phrases as I could manage. I certainly attracted stares walking down the street with my backpack, but I felt very welcome.
Transportation in Albania is absurd. There are no bus stops, just plots of dirt throughout the city where buses sometimes stop. They leave haphazardly and just to make it a little more fun, they like to mix it up by constantly switching the plot from which certain destinations will depart from. I asked a girl in Albanian where the bus to Saranda would be. She laughed at my awful Albanian then dropped everything, got out of line for the bus she was waiting to board, took my hand, and led me along the street. She spoke maybe 10 words of English, to my 10 of Albanian but we babbled at each other. It should have been awkward but wasn't at all because of her warmth. Apparently the Saranda bus plot had changed recently. We got to where she thought it was and had to ask someone else. He promptly dropped everything to walk us to the new plot. Soon we had a whole crew of Albanians joining out team and detouring from their day on a mission to help me find the right bus. When we finally did they all shook my hand or hugged me goodbye. The bus driver took out his wallet to show me how much money I was to pay and he didn't even try to cheat me. I went across the street to get some coffee while we were waiting for the bus to fill. The waitress patiently held up each kind of coffee and milk for me to make sure I got just what I wanted with unending precision. On the bus the only other English speaker, a 10 year-old girl with great English sat next to me. We chatted about things you could talk about with a 10 year-old, sweet Albanian girl. Each time the bus stopped people would try to buy me food. I decided I never wanted to leave Albania.
There might not be much English spoken but that was the adventure of it. I got by through hand gestures and writing down numbers or showing money or just blindly guessing, it was all tremendous fun. I thought it would be frustrating but it never was. People could see I was a foreigner and wherever I was, they would buy me coffee and try to communicate in any way that we could, or just stop to say hello and shake my hand.
Sadly, for all the kindness of Albanians, the majority of the countryside I was was not nice. All the old cars that didn't make it to Kosovo wound up in Albania. The communist urban sprawl is appalling and even the rivers had the glazed sheen of oil coating them.
Also disturbing are the 700,000 concrete bunkers that are scattered everywhere. They are in front yards, fields, mountain sides, everywhere. Later, an Albanian that had lived in Canada so he spoke English told me that the government had convinced them that the entire world was against them so they built all the bunkers. He said that the cost of building one bunker is equivalent to the cost of building a one-bedroom apartment. That's a lot for a poor country.
The whole time I was in Albania, the hospitality was unending. Anyone who spoke any English at all wanted to come talk to me and seemed genuinely happy to share their country with me. Despite the challenge, or maybe because of it, Albania was one of the most rewarding places I have ever been.

Words from the Balkans

I had the honor of talking to several people, despite how fast I was moving on my travels in the Balkans. They have lived through things most of us have only read about, and hopefully will never experience ourselves. I asked them about freedom and democracy, the former Yugoslavia, the genocide, religion and communism. Here are some of their words.
On independence:

• "Before people didn't have to think for themselves, now they do and they are not ready."
• "Things were so much better with Tito and communism. My kids could go to school. We had medical care. Now we have nothing."
• "With communism we had health care and homes, we had bigger salaries. We were taken care of."
• "It's a difficult transition, but it always is, I am sure things will improve, we are adjusting."

On the genocide:

• "If you had told me 20 years ago that this would happen I would have laughed. You can't imagine. I can't imagine."
• "I left, I had to. I had to forget, but the people still living here, they aren't forgetting. They can't forget if they stay."
• "It happened so fast.I don't understand how it happened.It was never a problem before. I'm from Croatia. I married a Muslim from Mostar (Bosnia). Nobody cared. Then all of the sudden, people became like animals. So fast. It happened overnight, they became animals."
• "I can't forget. But there is nothing I can do. There is no justice. But like the Chinese saying, 'The stupid only look back. The smart look ahead.'"
• "I lived in a cellar with the Croatian army for 2 months. For 2 months, I didn't know if my husband and children were alive or dead. My husband was right there. All he had to do was cross the bridge to get to me, but he couldn't. It took him two months and he had to go all the way to Moscow first. He had to get fake papers to leave. We were lucky."
• "People just turned into animals. I saw neighbors looting stores, people I knew doing these terrible things. You couldn't imagine."
• "I never thought it would happen here. Never. It could happen anywhere. Nobody is immune."

On Albania

• "Of course things are better after independence. People have been learning. After 1997 it was hard, but we are rebuilding."
• "The bunkers were mistakes, there were a lot of mistakes made back then. But we must try to forget and look forward."
• "We used to think the whole world was against us. That is why we built the bunkers. We thought everyone wanted to attack."
• "They built them because my parents used to be afraid, but now they are not." (bunkers)

Wandering Through the Balkans

After spending a week in Western Europe I was looking forward to going somewhere more adventurous. The information I could get about parts of the Balkans where I wanted to go was extremely limited. I realized that this is going to be a complete shit show. I was right, but ti was one of the most amazing shit shows I could imagine and my only regret is I had way too little time there.
There was hardly any English spoken. It took half a day to figure out daylight savings was creating a time change. I know I am a little slow, but also imagine dealing with that and having to catch a bus but nobody was really sure about the time change or if the clocks went forwards or backwards all without English! There were some unique hand gestures in there for sure. Another good time was in Montenegro, trying to order food from a restaurant with a large menus, but with only a few times actually available and no English. Apparently the universal fish sign for a mackerel varies from that of a bass. I'm still not sure if that was what the waiter was trying to tell me, but I have to admire his enthusiasm. I went back to Croatia from Montenegro and then on to Bosnia and Herzegovina.
At this point in my travels, I didn't think I could really be shocked, but I was shocked in Bosnia. I think about the genocide in Rwanda and they were killing each other with axes. For some reason even after being there, it seemed so horrible that it was too far away to imagine, almost like the reality of it never hit me. And axes and those sorts of weapons don't leave lasting marks on a city. More buildings than not that I saw in Southern Bosnia and Herzegovina were either bullet-riddled or had been poorly patched. There were more burnt out shells of buildings than actual buildings themselves. And walking around Mostar, there were more bullet holes in buildings in that one city than I could comprehend there being bullets in the world. It was unbelievable. It was absolutely devastating, and to see it in a place that looks so much like home was really surreal. What happened there I can't make sense of. I don't think the people who were involved can either. It seems closer to home. It was incredible to speak with people about their experiences. I never pried, but people seemed to want to talk as if to try to make sense in their own heads. But at the same time, in a town like Mostar with the famous bridge, I had to question the idea of turning a genocide into a tourist attraction.
But despite such a history, everyone I met was incredibly warm and also thanked me for coming to their country. It made the damage everywhere seem all the more unfathomable. I could also see some wildness left in people. I was with another traveler for a few hours and we met a local Bosnian who offered to buy us coffee because he wanted to practice his English. One cup turned into three and soon he decided that we had to meet his cousin. We piled into his pick-up and he handed both of us a beer. He cracked one open for himself and put it in his lap. He had a huge joint in one hand and pulled out a gun and started waving it around in the other while he drove and sipped his beer and pulled on the joint. "Welcome to Bosnia!" He said. We careened around curves and he said, "Just kidding, we hate guns here." As he put it back under his seat.
My introduction into Serbia wasn't as nice. I boarded an overnight bus from Mostar to Belgrade. Luggage costs extra, so I was fishing through my purse and in one hand I had 50 euros and the other the requisite 10 euros. The driver snatched the 50 out of my hand. On the bus I did everything I could to get my change back or to get my 50 back so I could just give him the 10, but he just laughed. The bottom floor of the bus all tried to help me and soon the driver started yelling at them. The woman who was translating said he was angry and I don't speak his language so why should he bother to give me back his change, and she said she told him that I shouldn't have to speak his language and he almost kicked both of us off the bus. He wouldn't unlock the bathroom door either so I was quite pleased when a woman threw up just outside the locked door (not because she was sick but because I hoped the asshole driver would have to clean it up).
But it was late at night waiting for my bus in a sketchy Bosnian bus station that I realized how happy I was. Travel may sound glamorous, but most of your time is spent waiting for a bus or being on a bus or being lost in a city or trying to figure out how to do a simple task. But mostly lots and lots of waiting. It was a comfortable feeling. The last few months had been really hard on me, Western Europe was a rough transition from Africa and there have been a lot of rough changes in my life lately, but at that moment I felt free. I felt strong and independent. The waiting for a bus to carry me off into the dark unknown, alone with nobody knowing where I was or who I am has become the most familiar feeling to me. After having a rough time, I finally felt more like my self again, the girl who headed off to Asia and Central America and then Africa- alone.

Travels in the World's Newest Country (Kosovo)

I was scared shitless when I entered Kosovo. Well, first I was surprised I got in because I was coming from Serbia, but then I was scared because I realized what I was doing. There was no information about borders, visas, or really anything except warnings not to go, so I was surprised at how easily I was stamped into the world's newest country. The border guard spoke some English and asked me why I was there. He looked shocked then doubled over laughing when I told him I was a tourist. Then he shook my hand and thanked me genuinely for coming to his country.

That nice exchange aside, entering Kosovo is like entering a war-zone on pause. I go the feeling I did when I was the only person walking around and the only person without a gun in the D.R.C.. The border was surrounded by intimidating circular barbed wire and carefully watched by NATO and UN vehicles and a few choppers standing by for good measure. What they were guarding I am not sure because to put it bluntly, Kosovo is a bit of a shit-hole. It is mostly flat, a bit like Kansas, full of rusting oil drills and burnt out houses. It seemed to be the place that all the old cars in the world must be sent too. I don't know how they all get there, but believe me, they are there.

What really scared me was the approaching darkness. This is always a worry as a single woman traveling alone, but especially in a place where I had no idea what to expect. It seemed ominous and full of danger. Soon I couldn't see anything but silhouettes of houses. Kosovo is the darkest country I have ever been too. There were plenty of big houses, all in the middle of nowhere, but they were mostly uninhabited and scattered along the roadside. A couple had a light bulb shining, one for a two or three story house, but most were just dark. A few had open fires, but other than that just black. It was an intimidating entrance into an intimidating country.

But I loved Kosovo. I don't know why. There is nothing pretty about it. Pristina, the capital, is your typical socialist block city with added graffiti and plenty of signs looking for war criminals like we look for lost children on the back of milk cartons in the past. A few buildings have attempted to be creative, but the result is more shocking and garish than anything. I never thought I would say it, but they should stick to the block buildings. But what the city lacked in character, people made up for in warmth. Yes, many were confused as to why I was there, but because of NGO/UN presence, there was a little English spoken.

When the owner of the hotel I stayed at found out I was from the U.S. he smiled a huge smile and shook my hand enthusiastically. "America! You recognize my country! I give discount to you. Thank you."

People went out of their way to help me. When I was trying to leave, there was a problem with my bus. A janitor at the station saw me waiting and went in search for someone who could speak English and tell me the bus wasn't coming. When I went to use the bathroom, the station manager personally showed me where it was and made sure I didn't have to pay the fee they usually charge, then handed me a towel himself to dry my face after I had washed it. I was treated like an honored, albeit unexpected, guest. The people I met were proud of their country and fiercely optimistic about the future. It was one of the best experiences I have ever had. I have found that often, in the countries that scare me the most at first end up being the most rewarding.

Lessons from Western Europe

Once again, I don't have as much to say about Western Europe. But I will impart a little information gleaned from this stop instead of ignoring it completely:

• Everyone goes the the Colosseum and Vatican City in Rome while I will admit are must-sees, but after that, just as entertaining is to sit in a square and watch people in tourist groups get pooped on by pigeons. Roman pigeons seem to aim for the Japanese, though that could be a sheer numbers game, but it is quite a good day out if you are as easily amused as I am.
• If you are ever in Ireland in a pub reading Finnegan's Wake and it starts to actually make sense, you are officially too drunk and it's time to go home.
• Likewise, if you are ever in Dublin, dazed from just having arrived, carrying a huge backpack with nowhere to go and a group of wasted guys (still drunk from the night before because it's 10 a.m.) invite you to sit down and have a beer with them, despite your first reaction being to run away, do it. They will likely sing you Irish songs and rhymes and be hilarious to hang out with and a great welcome to Ireland.
• I'm going to go ahead and put Croatia in with Western Europe because it is so easy and touristy. If you ever go to Dubrovnik, it's a great afternoon to play hide and seek with kids in the old city.
• Do not go to Corfu, Greece if you are feeling independent and loving being the only tourist. If you are looking to get laid and wasted with a bunch of half-naked 18 year old Australians, then it is your place.

So that is a little bit of what I learned. I'm glad that I saw the things I did in Western Europe and feel lucky to have been there, but I also realized that's not the type of life-changing, challenging, brain-quenching, thought-defining, or adventurous travel that I am looking for at this stage in my life. But someday I will be back with money to have a good time!

I do not love India

I'm not quite sure how to approach a description of my last two weeks in India, but I suppose it could not be ignored. I don't want to be too mean, so I will focus on some highlights:

• Sleeping on the train and getting up in the night and finding a policeman asleep in our cabin using his AK as a pillow, luckily it wasn't really aiming at me. The same train ride spending most of the time squashing cockroaches that were running all over our seats with our Lonely Planet.


• Glasses of chai and amazing food at street side stands.


• Being asked constantly if I would be in a photograph with Indians. If I said yes they would arrange their families around me, or take at least a couple with just them. This happens all the time, everywhere.


• Going into a Hindu temple while several men were playing the haunting sitar, a rythum unknown to Western ears without any sort of regular downbeat. Watching others clap and sing along.


• A typical street in Rajhistan- constant honking of horns, cows, dogs, camels, elephants and more traffic than you could imagine, rickshaws and bicycles, tuk tuk and more honking. A man talking on a cell phone as he sits on a wooden cart pulled by a camel with a heavy load attached to it.


• Finding our Colombian boys to be bodyguards from awful Indian men and the four of us renting a car and driver to negotiate Rajhistan.


• Riding a camel named Mona in the desert.


• Riding the train with no windows, listening to it chug along the tracks, no filter to the outside world, nothing but wind and smells and pure sound. Watching the sun set over unfiltered India as the green rice paddies jostled by.


• Watching a Bollywood movie being filmed, then going to one in the theater, quite the Indian experience!


• The Colombians coming into my room to sing me happy birthday and bring me breakfast in bed.


• Later in the day, exploring an old fort, everyone singing happy birthday to me in the echoing "om" room.


• Seeing the beggars, most notably a man with Leprocy with his nose twisted inside out in a spiral so you could see what should have been on the inside of it.


• Watching Hare Krishna worshipers sing and walk around the lake in Pushkar as I was up at dawn watching the sun rise, hoping for a quiet moment in India.


• Walking through the tented camps of the untouchables, India's lowest caste, seeing how these people live in tiny tents with nothing, absolutely nothing, and the types of society they formed in the rubble.


• Getting our driver drunk the night of my birthday and having him read our palms.


• The Colombians on our last night, the four of us together, with this cute little skit, giving us our bracelets of the Colombian flag and helping us to memorize the Colombian pledge of allegiance, our ticket to visit them in Colombia.


• The rat temple- probably the coolest thing I saw in Rajhistan. The whole temple is dedicated to rats, and it is a virtual playground for them. They have free reign of the place and plenty of food and milk. They have all these little holes to run through and there are thousands of rats all over the temple that run over your feet as you walk through. The happiest rats in the world!

A word about India- I want to be kind, I really do. It is not in my nature to visit a country and dislike it. I don't expect a country I visit to conform to me or my cultural expectations and I think I am usually pretty easy going and accepting. I know that I am a visitor and should adapt to their customs, I am lucky to be able to visit their country and I have no right to complain. But India was hard. Part of the challenge of India is exhilarating. There is a feeling of chaos and that anything can happen. I love that, and the dirt and grime and assaults on reason. All of that is great, but the feeling was overshadowed by constantly feeling violated. This is a country where despite how conservatively you dress, men bump into you in the streets to cop a feel.

Colleen and I were constantly started at by Indian men. It is not a normal staring either. I was stared at a lot in Africa, but it had a feeling of curiosity to it, completely different. In India it is a horrible, creepy, violating, awful, uncomfortable leer that makes me ashamed to be a woman. It never goes away. We got it from old men, young men, boys, men in restauraunts, rickshaw drivers, vendors, taxi drivers, men on buses, men on trains, men in the street. I wrote earlier about the men crowding into our train compartment. This happened constantly. Men would try to force me into stares or corners, grab my crotch or boobs as I passed in the street.

I had a pharmacist completely violate me but I was naive and trusted him because he was a doctor. It was really bad, we are talking under the bra, bad groping. I could feel his disgusting hands for days and wanted to rip off my own skin. I can't convey how violated and horrible I felt all the time in India. The men look at you fully clothed as if you are naked and you want to crawl up inside your skin and die.

Aside from the men, India was hard for me not because of the general chaos or lack of development. It was hard because of the crowds and traffic. I had a hard time because people were always pushing and there is no such thing as a line. Walking down the street with every single car honking at me, coming within a couple centimeters of hitting me and getting hit a few times, was enough to push me over the edge of a nervous breakdown every time I walked on the street. I am a nervous driver to begin with, but I had to take Valium before getting in the car with our driver we came so close to accidents so many times. Not only am I the only person to take imodium in India, but I think I was the only one to wear a seat belt! But all of these things are laughable and part of the adventure. I suppose that is what makes them forgivable, but the men, were not. When it comes down to it, all the developing country stuff is the appeal of difficult travel. But the feeling of being violated should not be a part of that.

In case I sound too harsh without justification, I will end with my final experience in India, my trip to the airport, which I think about sums it all up. I had ordered a taxi because I had a 1am flight out of India. I confirmed this taxi 3 times, but of course it did not show up. My flight time was rapidly approaching, so I had to grab a rickshaw off the street. The Colombian boys helped me flag it down and made a big show of taking down the licence number and all since I was by myself and it was late at night. We had not been driving for 3 minutes when the driver pulled off down a dark ally and tried to force me to kiss him. I took out a pen to stab him in the ear if it because necessary and told him to get driving, loudly and aggressively. It was really scary though and so late at night I could have really been in trouble. He was barely paying attention to the road because he was spending all his time looking at me in the rear-view mirror. His look would change from this intense, probing, sexual, devouring, evil stare to this demented, creepy, violating smile. I was so unbelievably sickened and uncomfortable. I tightened my grip on my pen and wished I had more. I had told him to take me to the international airport over and over and made sure he knew, but of course, he took me to the domestic, despite me telling him where to turn, he would just ignore me. I arrived about 5 minutes before my flight was due to close and barely made it on.

I tried to like India, I really did.

Alien Baby (India)

Lets talk about poop. This is something we tend to shy away from at home, but when traveling, it is inevitable that it will come up (usually in detail and frequently) even with people you have just met. Now India is infamous for Delhi Belly, the runs, diareah, whatever you want to call it. You mention you are going to India and sage travelers tell of their horror stories. Everyone you meet in India has their own tales. It is just assumed that if you go to India, you get sick. It is considered a right of passage.

I am not a cautious when it comes to food. I eat from street vendors, use ice, brush my teeth with tap water, so I was fully prepared to get sick. In fact, I even counted on it to lose the weight I gained in Europe. Unfortunately my plan was foiled. I really do have a stomach of steel because despite my lackadasical nature regarding the sanitariness of my food, I am probably the only person ever to go to India and need laxatives.

Collen had her own battle with India when she first arrived. I met her a week later and was scared to hug her because I thought I might break her. I nicknamed her Skelator and looked at the bones protruding out of her skin with hopeful excitement.

I brushed my teeth with tap water. I ate more from the street than not, I ate at questionable restaurants. The stomach of steel prevailed. Colleen is an adventurous eater too. In Nepal we had our favorite restaurant that was maybe a little dodgy. There were bugs on the walls and the toilet might have been the worst toilet in the world (and I consider myself an expert on horrible toilets after travels in remote Asia and Africa). But the food was cheap and amazing and we ate there twice a day almost every day in Kathmandu.

One night we decided to bring out British boys to our gem of a restaurant. They, being on a bigger budget, had slightly more delicate constitutions. We found this out the next morning on the bus to go rafting. I looked over at one of the boys and he had turned green. Long story short, there was an unscheduled stop for the bus and I have never seen someone duck behind a building and run so quickly when he thought he was out of view. It struck the other boy about an hour down the road. We were already stopped and he got off and went to the nearest "bathroom." He came back, obviously shaken, pale from horror of what he had seen, proceeded to empty half a bottle of hand sanitizer in his palm and refused to talk about it or even joke about it which says a lot for him. I waited anxiously for my turn but nothing came.

It was after rafting that Colleen got sick again. We both got sick at the same time, but with opposite problems. We joked about the alien baby inside of me. If being pregnant feels like 9 months of that, forget it. I have never been so envious in my life as when I watched Colleen or the boys dash off to the toilet at meal times and frequently in between. It was uncanny to continue to be hungry and to eat and have nothing come out.

So I sucked it up and went to the pharmacy and told the pharmacist that I wanted laxatives.

"Imodium." He said wisely.

"No, laxatives." I countered.

"Travelers, diarrhea," the pharmacist nodded, "I know."

"No, no, the opposite. To make you go." Just to make sure there was no mistake I did this with a hand gestured that could be considered a bit lewd but stopped short of sound effects, for which I think the pharmacist was grateful. I took a moment to admire my own tact.

Doubtfully, the pharmacist handed over the laxatives. Apparently what goes in does not have to come out when you are growing an alien baby inside you.

Back in India, I began to tempt fate- homemade ice cream popsicals from the street, a sip of tap water here and there (I drank a lot of this in Kathmandu to no avail), really strange street food, unpeeled fruit, fresh salads, homemade juice. Guess what? Alien babies like that stuff, I think it makes them stay in. So moral of the story is, not everyone gets Delhi Belly, and for me, whether I want it or not, my stomach of steel (maybe refined after years of sketchy travel eating) prevails. Hopefully the alien baby will come out soon and not explode through my belly button as I continue to imagine on long bus rides when I am bored. It's not a pretty sight if it does.

Himalayas (Nepal)

There are some places in this world you are told about since you are young, whose reputations proceed them and create a legend that you build up in your mind that could not possibly compare to the reality of their place on the planet. The Himalayas are not one of them. For all the majestic and sweeping views, enormity and heights I had been imagining, the Himalayas were still more than I expected. They are one of the few places in my travels I'd return too as soon as possible.
After spending a couple of days relaxing in Kathmandu, Colleen and I were ready to head out on our Himalayan trek. I wanted to go to Everest Base camp, but the less-touristed Annapurna region won in the end. We decided not to hire a guide, being Colorado girls we figured we knew what we were doing and didn't need porters, we could carry our own packs. We were the exception, the vast majority of everyone we met had hired one or both, but that decision made all the difference. We were free to go where we wanted to go and stay where we wanted. Both being quick hikers, we had no one to hold us back.
It was rough going at times, easier than I expected at others. The Annapurna region was more populated than I had pictured, but it proved to be a great way to met locals and get a glimpse of village life. Everyone was friendly, saying "Namaste!" when we passed and surprised to see us on our own.
The foothills of the region we began hiking in are vast and green- full of rice paddies and waterfalls. We were constantly near rivers with the largest influx of waterfalls I have ever seen gushing in all sizes. The clouds float down in wisps below the peak zeniths, creating a mysterious and dark atmosphere, especially with the thunderheads ominously poised above us, and it did storm quite a lot on our trek.
As we climbed higher we saw sweeping views of snowy peaks. We crossed saddles where there was nothing but clouds disappearing off both sides of the trail so all we could see was the 1ft wide trail, a couple feet of grass and wildflowers on each side of the path, then a drop into cloud soup nothingness. Higher up we passed through mossy forests with gnarled and twisty trees out of a Tolkien novel. Water was pouring everywhere we went. Our trails were steep and up and down. It would have been amazing to go to base camp, but unfortunately time, Colleen's ankles and my neck didn't allow for it on this trip.
One of our best days was actually due to a huge storm. We had hiked quickly and arrived in a little village right at the onset of a downpour. It happened to be the coziest tea house of the trek and all of us bundled together next to the fireplace. We met a couple of hilarious English boys who quickly helped us pass time with an enormous amount of shit talking, card playing and laughing. The next day we were too socked in to go anywhere. The highlight of the trek is a hike up to the top of Poon Hill (3,193m) for a view of the Annapurna range, but we couldn't see a thing. While others with guides pressed on out into the storm we were able to wait out the miserable weather and the English guys persuaded their guide to wait it out too.
The day had an inauspicious start with lots of rain and us scrambling out the third story window sill when we thought a view might appear, but by late afternoon it had cleared up and we ascended Poon Hill.
The top of Poon Hill might have be the most impressive view I have ever seen. On one side, I only saw clouds. Turning my head, I got a view of the Himalayas like I have seen in the Everest I-max. The peaks are more imposing than I could imagine. The sun seemed to clip the tops and the longer I stayed the more the view changed; the sun highlighting various features of the snowy mountain face. The mountain range stretches on for most of the view until white peaks collide with blue mountains in the distance, rolling off into green at lower elevations, then the river of clouds shadowing over the valley.
Standing there in such intense beauty, I felt so lucky to be there but other than that I felt numb. I don't know what I was expecting- a glimpse of enlightenment or earth-shattering realization would have been nice, but all I could think were Saturday Night Live "Deep Thoughts." Nothing. Maybe in the events of the last year I really have just shut down.
We had a photo shoot at the top and made it down in the dark. That night the four of us laid out under the Himalaya stars in a village with no electricity. It was one of the most impressive starry skies I have ever seen. One of the English boys had it right when he said, "Today I have seen two of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen in my entire life."
An early start the next morning got us back up Poon Hill for sunrise. It was exciting to see a little blaze of pink erupt over the darkness, a sliver of the mountains lit up by the moon. We made to to the top as the sun struck the first peak face and pink and orange rippled down the mountain range. The valley was filled with purple and blue clouds. It looked exactly like I would imagine the ocean would if it was frozen. There was a sea of waves. For all the beauty I still felt quite numb.
It was only later as I was jostling back to the city of Pokara on the local bus that any emotion hit me. I'm a nostalgic person to begin with, but the sadness and aloneness of the mountains as I drove away was staggering. I didn't' want to leave the Himalayas in their absolute strength of loneliness, their inspiring solitude and magnificence. It reminded me of coming back from long-term travel or camping trips, how hard that readjustment can be, how nothing fits anymore. I was so sad it was over and struck by how fast this trip, life as a whole is reeling by, I could physically feel the nostalgia, urgency, pointlessness, wonder and sadness.

You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.
Rene Duamal

Whitewater Rafting (Nepal)

I've been sitting on my hotel rooftop in a semi-delirious feverish state, sick yet again, trying to do something productive. I thought I'd write about our rafting trip, but truth be told, I'm not sure it merits a whole blog space, and most of all, how do you really describe a white water rafting experience?
So I will keep it to the highlights and say it was one of the most fun things I have done and one of the most exciting rivers I have been on and I have been on quite a few.
The first day they gave us helmets and talked about rescue procedures. I thought it was all a little over the top, but it turned out to be rightfully necessary. Granted, I was in the more flimsy "adventurous" boat where we had a habit of hitting holes more than avoiding them to get our money's worth, but it was ridiculous fun.
Our first grade 4 rapid all four of us in the front of the boat spilled out. Tumbling through whitewater, I found the surface, then the boat, then was pulled back in.
Second time was in the most peaceful part of the river. Our little crew of Colleen and I plus two English boys we met trekking were all on the same boat (with the nickname of Team Short bus for the trip). The boys had threatened to push us in but I honestly and naively didn't think they would actually do it. I unhooked my feet from the raft and the next thing I knew I was in the river. Colleen fared better and got the guy that tried to push her in instead. I get pulled back into the boat and go on the offensive which only landed me back in the the water. Eventually with Collen from the raft, me from the water, we got the other guy in but how embarrassing.
Our next bit of excitement had everyone fall out except the guide and one clingy soul. The boat came extraordinarily close to flipping and sort of swished around in different directions in the hole. On the first swish, I had been tossed into the boat and then I see one of the English boy's eyes widen at what I can't see and I hear the horror in his voice, "Oh shit!" before a huge wall of water took us out Perfect Storm style. To be fair, I think I would have stayed in the boat had he not ripped me out with him. I got to float down much of that rapid then caught a rescue kayak to the other boat through more rapids, found everyone from my boat had migrated to the other and hitched a free ride through the remaining rapids.
The next day I think we succeeded in actually scaring our raft guide a bit because we all fell out, including him. Three of us managed to cling on to the boat through the rapids. I was surprised to be the only one to mantle my way back into the boat. A kayaker and I got the guide back in and fished the rest out of the river, navigating the rest of the rapid a bit short handed. After that people were pretty beat up.
Lets just say it was all I hoped for and more, rafting in Nepal is amazing. But oh, how much I love Nepal (this is a theme in case you haven't noticed).

The Bug Scream (Nepal)

I don't remember where I was but it was in some foreign country that I first had the conversation. I think it was with several people from different countries to confirm the theory and I know there were also several burly men to corroborate including some locals of that country as well. We spoke of the universality of the bug scream.
The bug scream is part of a universal language that eeks out with embarrassment on rare occasions for some, and is followed by a hard stop and sheepish silence. For others it is emitted more freely, sometimes repetitive and even proudly. But sooner or later, everyone in life will emit a bug scream and it is always recognizable in whatever country you may be in.
Colleen and I like to think that we are not girly-girls. We both think the greatest compliment we could give each other is that we are "hardcore." We can read a topography map better than mall floor plan and are hiking in the Himalayas with no guide or porter, passing guys in their 20s who have hired a porter to carry their pack. But we are guilty of the bug scream.
Colleen got it first on our second day of hiking. I was up ahead so I missed it. Nepal is infamous for leeches this time of year. Somehow she brushed up against a tree and got a bunch of them on her. She had mostly calmed down by the time I saw her and I disgustedly picked the remaining few off her back. Later in the shower, a few fell out of her hair and she about lost it.
Now, bugs are one of the things that I don't do well with, but the leches didn't seem so bad to me. They aren't nearly as big as I expected and it's not like they can hurt you. I thought I'd be OK. One of the side effects of not having a guide is that when the trail is gushing with water it looks like a creek bed so we took a slight detour, or scenic route shall we say, unintentionally on our fifth day.
As we were trekking through the forest our error became apparent and we stopped to regroup. Then I heard it; shrill and squeaky, the bug scream. "Oh my god, oh my god, they are everywhere!" Colleen was yelling in between screams and shaking her feet off. Then the bug scream got louder and I realized I had joined in and the scream was escaping me as well. I only had sneakers for the trek so the leches had made their way in. We pretty much did nothing but scream expletives about leeches and have a tizzy fit equivalent to a five year old who wants a candy bar as we kicked and picked them off.
Really, like I mentioned before, I didn't think they would be so bad, but its the way they inch along and how sticky they are. You try to pick them off, but their little sucker teeth thingies resist, then you do and they stick to your fingers. Or you get them off but have to squish them in the process and they explode with blood and you don't know if it is yours or someone else's. They are vile. Absolutely vile.
After our shudders of "eews" we started walking. Then Colleen said it, "oh my god, the leaves are covered in them." The leaves were a swarming mass of the blood suckers. I booked it to the river, pack and all, over the rocky step hill. We were feeling imaginary leeches for hours stopping to check for them, absolutely disgusted.
So you may think you are tough but the bug scream will always prevail.
To be fair, the leeches are the singular bad aspect of Nepal I have encountered. If that is the worst thing here, then I think I can handle it and its a pretty impressive thought really. I do love Nepal.

I Heart Nepal

I would just like to take a moment to say how much I love Nepal. It might be my favorite place. Coming to Nepal from India was like a breath of fresh air. After a typical train experience; delayed for 7 hours in India, the usual crowd of men staring at us, cockroaches, just an unpleasant experience, we arrived at the hotel near to the border. This room had a rat and 4 huge cockroaches so we switched to one that only had some sort of suspicious blood/puke/shit stain on the wall, a clogged toilet and sheets with pubic hair that had not been changed it weeks.
From there was the bus to the border. I have never been so happy to be 5 feet tall, for that bus ride it all seemed worth it because I was the only one who could remotely fut my knees in., and it was still really uncomfortable for me. But we could tell as soon as we got to the border that things were changing.
The border officials were nice, helpful and kind. It was the easiest border crossing ever. We got into a decent bus and 12 hours later made it to Kathmandu. When we got to our hotel we really were speechless and for anyone who knows Colleen and I that comment is awe striking. Then they gave us toilet paper and our room had a hot shower and bedding and we really almost cried.
Just as a side note, we were a little miffed at the 15 min time difference, bringing the total time difference from my home to 11hrs and 45min, but once we figured out what was going on, it only added to the charm of Nepal.
The guy at the front desk laughed when we told him we came from India and he said that India stands for Id Never Do It Again. Agreed. Our days in Kathmandu were great. The traffic was so much better. The locals were friendly, shop keepers weren't pushy. Everything was more laid back. But I realize it is all about perspective, the people we met that had flown straight to Kathmandu were all a little dazed and thought it was quite chaotic and terrible while all of us from India saw it as a sanctuary.
It was interesting to observe the 11pm curfew the Maoists set for Kathmandu after writing a paper about the situation in college. I love how traveling for me the last year has brought once-seemingly obscure issues to my daily life. I would be interested to learn more, but there is an unspoken rule that you don't talk politics in Nepal. But even hiking in the Himalayas there are the symbols for the Maoist party on buildings. I couldn't get much out of people but after talking for a while if it seemed appropriate I would ask as much as I could.
Granted, most of the people I have been able to talk to in Nepal are quite poor- porters, guides, local people in rural Himalayan villages, but they all seem to feel positive about the Maoist government. The idea is a 10 year plan to redistribute wealth, though how they plan to accomplish this is unclear. Right now they are in the first two year "trial period." The Maoists wan to abolish the caste system. I learned that there are over 80 castes in Nepal, but am conflicted about their rigidity. One man said he think they are becoming more mobile with the influx of technology and media, while another man I met was ostracized by his family for marrying below his caste.
Dhak, a 24 year old man who lives in a rural village in the Himalayas was amazing. I met him while I was hiking up a steep pass. He was carrying a huge load of grass up to his water buffalo. We chatted and since we were staying in his village for the night he invited me to his home later that evening. We got to meet his water buffalo, his mother, and see the crops they are growing on their small plot of land. We went and hung out in his closet-sized bedroom, simple with mud walls covered with newspapers and a few photos. There was nothing else but a radio and bed. He proudly showed me his passport, certificate of completion of a cooking course, his school report cards, and a photo of his beautiful 22 month old daughter.
Dhak was brave for marrying for love and not caste and it cost him dearly. He was beaten bloody by his brothers and told never to come back. A few years have gone by and now he has been allowed back to care for his sick mother. His life seems difficult but he is cheerful, intelligent and funny.
One of my favorite parts about Nepal has been how easy it is to meet locals. They have all been incredibly friendly, curious and intelligent. Everyone I have met has had sense of humor, sarcasm and biting wit that would rival even the most sarcastic Australians or English. Getting a chance to really talk to and see what life is life for some Nepalese has been a highlight of my trip, whether it be an invite home, a chat over a cup of tea, a homemade bottle of wine, or a rest on a steep mountain pass. I feel so lucky to be here.
Even the expats are welcoming. I went to the US embassy to register to vote and to get more pages in my passport again and there were no marines guarding it! Its too bad because in Africa the marines would be so excited to see a girl from the US that it was a guaranteed free dinner, but much less intimidating to enter an embassy without a gun pointing in close proximity to you. The man working there was so incredibly efficient and helpful and even gave us some grandfatherly advice.
I just can't say enough good things about Nepal. (Which is good because right now as I type this later, we are both too sick to leave and have officially overstayed our visas, lets hope they are still nice to us on the way out!) The views are stunning everywhere, the people are nice. It has that exotic feeling to it but also feels safe and familiar. The Himalayas really are all they are hyped up to be. Basically, just love Nepal.

Life and Death on the River (India)

Shiva, one of the main Hindu gods is especially revered in Varanasi. He symbolizes the destroyer, but whom without creation wouldn't be possible. Varanasi is considered the oldest city on earth that is still inhabited, the city of Shiva and one of the holiest cities in India. It is fitting then, that life and death are auspiciously thrust into your face in the city of Shiva.
It is a typical city in India- choked with bustling life, bursting from every inch of space. At times in this country it feels like the world puked every bit of humanity into a too-small space so everyone clamors around each other, swarming in a chaotic dance, filled like the Pillsbury Dough Boy trying on a baby's shirt. But as full of life as Varanasi is, it is equally full of death. Where I am staying is near the cremation Ghat, the smoke from the burning bodies is relentless, all day and night.
As I walk the narrow passageways, the tangle of the old city that makes navigation completely haphazard for visitors, everything is so out of place that I am surprised by nothing. The alleys are stuffed with waterbuffalo, bony children, cows, men that hassle me, samosas, goats, shrines, candles, flowers, and women in saris. Tarps cover the narrow streets that are lines with dilapidated buildings, nooks and crannies, coves and holes, creating a carnival-like atmosphere.
Approaching the burning ghat, I am confronted by fortresses of wood- imposing and harsh. Smoke fills my lungs. The fires are tended by the untouchables, the lowest caste who usually live in tarp tents staked down by rocks, owning nothing, some of the poorest people I have ever seen. These emaciated men are dwarfed by the logs as they strain with the heat, sheer weight, soot in the air and ferocity of the fire. In the open fire area itself cremations in all stages are taking place constantly. There were some with bodies waiting to be burned, others nothing recognizable but the skulls. I saw my first dead body- a woman with cloud-white hair, her face painted, mouth agape. I watched as she seemed to float above a halo of red coals, the halo engulfing a lifetime of work, wrinkles, tears, laughter, joy and suffering as men in white turning black with soot looked on. Flowers littered the wood and coals as they do in the Ganges river just feet away where other people are using the cleansing properties of the water for healing and renewal. There is no ailment the holy river cannot cure, the Indians believe, as they pray and dunk themselves downstream from where the bodies continually burn.
I went past a group of children in cheerful rags who were playing a game where they hold hands and run and try to kiss each other. Once one is kissed they join the chain and try to get more. Past the cows and baby goats, men sleeping on basic cots in dirt-floored homes, to one of the ubiquitous sweet shops.
I was looking through the glass at the alarmingly green and orange sweets, balls of fried dough and yellow cookies all lined up behind glass, neatly in a very un-Indian fashion when I was pushed to the side. Another funeral procession was winding its way through the streets. The body on a board, hoisted above the men, followed by a line of people. I wouldn't call them mourners, ringing bells and chanting. The body was a stillness above writhing life, a stillness not often found in India, a moment of rest. They passed, revealing a small girl, knobby knees and elbows digging through a pile of trash. The shop owner cleared his throat, wondering what I found so curious in the mundane, the city where life and death constantly meet, filled with everything in between.
In the morning, I went for a boat ride along the Ganges to watch the city wake up. We wandered along the streets in darkness, lit only by a flashlight, a rare glimpse of peace that lasted about 5 seconds until we began to bump into boatmen. Floating along the Ghats, the wooden boat oars being dipped into the water, drizzling drops behind us, we wanted the morning rituals. Pilgrims come from all over to pray, meditate, wash away disease, and dip themselves into the sacred river. The rituals are done in public, men in speedos of sorts, all shapes and sizes, lounging on the Ghat steps, surrounded by bells, chanting, women in a rainbow of saris, temples and colored flags that change hues as the sun rises.
I'm almost tempted to see if the river really is as healing as they believe, I like to do what the locals do, and lord knows I could use it, but the water is completely septic, meaning there is no dissolved oxygen in it. Not only that, but water that is safe for bathing should have no more than 500 fecal coliform bacteria per 100ml, while by Varanasi, there are 1.5 million per 100ml. This is hardly surprising as there are 30 large sewers that feed into the river and it is visited by around 60,000 people each day along a 7 kilometer stretch. I decided to leave the chocolate milk bath to the others and watch from the boat. As we rowed back after the sun hiked itself up into the sky, the Ghats began to flow with people. All around me were people being renewed by their holy river of life as I breathed in the smoke from the crematorium.

Impressions of India

I think that anyone who says they absolutely loved traveling in India is either full of shit, on a packaged tour or hid out in an ashram the whole time. I met one person on a previous trip who told me she hated it the whole time she was in India but after she left it was her favorite country. We shall see.
India is a country full of travel-lore. Myth seems to proceed it. People say India changes you, that it's mind boggling. Really, I think it's ironic that people come here for peace and quiet in ashrams when it is one of the busier places I have ever been or could even imagine.
I suppose I was prepared for it so maybe that's why it hasn't shocked me. The poverty of Africa and chaos of some African and Asian countries I have seen, as well as the dirt and garbage of places i have been has maybe decreased the shock value. But despite having survived those other places, I don't do well with the traffic, congestion, crowds and constant honking of horns. It frays on my nerves.
It's strange because India receives a fair share o9f travelers, but the novelty doesn't seem to wear off. People are constantly coming up to us to ask us where we are from, if we are married, why we aren't, what our money is called, what our national flower is (any clue?), our national animal. . . the list goes on. Then they want to introduce us to their family. Then they want to take photos with us.
Those are the friendly people. Others just stare. We took a train from Haridwar to Varanasi. It was supposed to be 18 hours, but of course stretched to 24. We were riding in the lower class sleeper which must be unusual because we were pretty much like animals in the zoo. A group of more than 20 men gathered in our compartment. They were hanging from top bunks, packed in, just staring at us. I thought it was all quite ridiculous so I went to see how full the train was, it was almost empty. We started to feel really violated when the men began sneaking photos of us with their camera phones.
The hassle is pretty relentless, the crowds insane, the streets dirty. But India has its charm. The friendly people help, so do the cows that wander the streets freely. The food is amazing but fattening. I love the little chai stands on the side of the road and the street food. I love the alters that interrupt buildings with gifts of candles and flowers around them. The monkeys that are everywhere are highly entertaining.
Its not an easy place to travel, that's for sure, but then nothing worthwhile seems to be.

Back in Africa (Morocco)

It scares me how some things in life can affect me so profoundly that I believe they give me strength or maybe show me the strength I have, but that strength can shake away from me in the face of other events. I felt like I learned a lot of key things about how to be in this world in Africa, but somehow I regressed when I left. But one thing I did learn when I was there is that my life is always falling apart, but I don't have to fall apart with it. Now this is easier said than done and usually I do fall apart with it, and I definitely did this summer in Europe. But Africa taught me that more quickly I return to that peace, even if I am lost sometimes. I faced a task this summer, I was prepared for it, and I failed. The peace has yet to return. But when I stepped on the ferry from Spain to Morocco, I swear I could feel a different wind blowing softly around the call to prayer that rolled over the water.
I think life has certain lessons to teach you and if you can learn gently, great, but if you don't then you get kicked in the ass. I felt like was given a second chance (after being kicked in the ass for failing when I had no reason to) to do what I should have done in the first place: go to Africa and not look back.
If I succeed or fail is yet to be determined, but right now my world has broken apart. I am not saying that is a bad thing, it leaves room for a lot of new things to enter it. I hope to eventually use this as an opportunity, not a setback. But for now, just being in Morocco I felt some of the Europe stress melt away.
The first night in Tangier was rough. I was in a familiarly skeezy hotel room with a parade of ants marching underneath my bed that had no sheets but was nicely decorated with some one's pubic hair. The overflowing squat toilet was three floors down and no shower. All of that I can take in stride, but many of the men I find in a Muslim country when I travel alone are more difficult to deal with. As they knocked on my door late at night I wished I had one of those door blocker thingies or a way to better lock my door.
The worst is how difficult it is to get anything done. Men elbow in front of me in ques, the person behind the desk only helping me after all the men have been served. But finally I was on my way to Chefchauen, a small mountain town.
As I looked out the window of the bus and saw the familiar African landscape of dusty people in dirty doorways just being, watching the world go by, others hard at work in the fields, cars brimming with people in every nook of space, donkeys being ridden or driven in carts on the highway and women with things on their heads, I began to relax. This is my style of traveling, not the hostel parties in Europe. I can do this, I thought, the familiar comfort of being on my own in such a foreign place began to take over and I was happy.
Chefchauen is stunning- the maze of the Medina is all in shades of blue, some of the passage ways are how i would imagine the inside of an ice burg to be. Blue fades into another hue of blue. Strikingly bright clothes line the streets waiting to be sold along with mounds of Moroccan bread, dates, nuts, bags of pastel powder I imagine is paint but I don't know why they have something other than blue, and spices. Many people wear these Berber cartoonish hats, conical and straw but personalized with tassels, beads or fabric balls.
I could walk the Medina nonstop if it wasn't for all the unwanted male attention a solo girl has to deal with. But at least it was better than Egypt!
Still, the more lost I got in the Medina, the more I was finding my way back to the familiar. The best part of the day happened every morning at 5am. I w as sleeping on the rooftop terrace and that is when the call to prayer would wake me up.
It called at that whisper of time before night turns into dawn, when the darkness of night is still hovering, thick and resistant before it crawls down past the mountains. The haunting call to prayer would go on and on and with it, the rare cool breeze seemed to swirl until the chanting, the flags blowing, the laundry on the lines, the birds and the last persistent stars all seemed to move in a dance that breathed- you're here- on a rooftop in Morocco.
Still empty, empty of everything, I would listen and add my own hope that this time I'd maybe absorbed more of the lessons life has taught me. I honestly have no idea if I have or have not.

European Highlights

I know this is long overdue. I never thought anyone read by blog until I got so many complaints for not writing in it, so thank you! And sorry! To be honest, I have felt very, very lost in Europe. I wasn't going to write anything at all because I didn't feel there was anything worth writing about. This is my last day in Europe as i write this and I thought I would at least hit on a highlight from each country I have visited. But I have felt more lost and alone and turned inside out in a different way than I have traveling in developing countries. I suppose my heart isn't here, it belongs in wilder places.
I started my trip traveling with someone else too, which was new for me and took away from my normal style of travel as well, so that could account for some of the difficulty. It's funny how sometimes you can feel so much more alone and isolated with other people than when you are completely alone! But I digress. I feel like i am returning back to myself again. It is good to be back to traveling alone. I went to Morocco which helped revive me, and I am about to leave Europe, so here are the highlights:

Holland: Hiring a cruiser bike and riding out along the countryside next to the new Dutch windmills which are hardly the romantic version you would picture, they are actually quite scary, like slender robots from an angry planet, but also riding in contrast, next to serene canals.

Belgium:Drinking some amazing beer with an old friend, a new one, and my best one in a little hidden tavern only locals knew about, escaping the tourists of Brussels.

Germany: A crazy club in Berlin that my friend from there who I was staying with took me too. It was covered, every inch of it, in graffiti, all 5 stories in this apologetically bright graffiti. Out in the back VIP area was beach sand. Beach chairs were scattered amongst fire twirlers and a fire-breathing dragon. Then, ducking into a cave like room, dirty and unpretentious, to find a world class salsa band with a packed room, every one's bodies helpless to stop moving with the rhythm.

Czech Republic: Spending a day by the river by myself in Prague, just breathing and watching the crowds go by. I had a picnic in the park and looked across the water at the postcard of a city in front of me.

Poland: Walking through a sketchy neighborhood complete with an accidental trespassing, but we were rescued by a guy that showed us the way out in a tangle of construction to find out way to a huge overpass. We walked down underneath the bridge and tied to each pillion was an end of a parachute. On it, some bohemian guys were projecting artsy Polish films. Keeping with the beach vibe like in Berlin, they had imported beach sad. Beach chairs were set up for people to kick back in and drink beer in. Above us was the rush of the overpass, in front of us the Polish movie I couldn't understand but still enjoyed, behind us was the river, to one side a group of pseudo punk kids taking out their rebellious Polish youth under the bridge, and to the other side was more trees and a moon. All around us there was not another tourist.

Hungary: One night in Budapest we climbed up to the top of the mountain. We took some very dark, very steep side paths and wound our way up through the blackness. I was joking and told the 2 people I was with that we didn't need to worry because according to the Lonely Planet only 6 people had been murdered on the trails this year. It wasn't until we were headed back down that I realized they thought I was serious, that must have added some adventure for them! We made it to the top and had a beer to celebrate and looked out at the city lights. It was one of those views that you can only gape at in awe and that reminds you of the few other times in your life you saw a view like that so when you look at the sea of lights you not only get the pleasure of that moment and view here and now, but also the concrete connection to the pleasure, longing and nostalgia for the other times you had a view like that before; who you were with and where in the world you were, so all you can do is smile but it is a bit worn because you know that all too soon you will go back down.

Italy: The food. All I can say is that it is orgasmic food and I am such a food tourist. Food might be one of my favorite things in the world, and lets just say Italy was good, oh my gosh it was good.

Andorra: I came to Andorra with the intention to hike across the country because I have never hiked all the way across a country before. Unfortunately it wasn't possible. Still, Andorra had a very good feeling to it, it wasn't what I expected. I wound up staying longer than expected though, even if it was a bit disconcerting how much it reminded me of Vail.

Spain: I was wandering by myself (actually I had a 103 degree fever so it was more like staggering in a feverish stupor, leave it to me to be fine in Africa but get really sick in Spain!) in a huge park in Madrid. It was Sunday afternoon so it was full of people. Manicured flowers were beautiful but I was drawn to the pseudo-wild woods. I started to hear drum beats. It was a magnetic pull for me to follow the sounds, I felt like my fever went away a bit as I got closer and closer. The drum beats were literally beseeching me to follow. They got louder until i found a group standing beneath the trees. These men were playing huge drums but they were dancing and the dance was what struck the drum and made the beat. They weren't the only ones, I don't think anyone was standing still. A group of women were flamenco dancing in their jeans and tee-shirts and their Sunday church dresses, their sweat pants, a whole mix of people from all walks of life. There were little girls, Gothic teenagers, a girl on crutches and a huge woman. There was a frail old woman that didn't look frail until she stopped dancing, hippie chicks, and a few men. One man had to be around 70, he moved to the front and started vibrating. The intensity bore on his fave as he started dancing and freezing and clapping. I think he even through in a little jiving. He eventually stole the show. It was a nice secret part of Madrid to find.

France: I was only in Paris for a day having been here once before in high school. I slept in the Madrid airport and will sleep in the Paris airport tonight after I write this. Mostly on this day I have been thinking about how much has happened between me being here when I was 18 and now. I never, ever could have predicted so much of it and if someone had told me what would happen, I never would have believed them. It makes me wonder what else is in store for me, for all of us in this crazy world.

Africa

I knew this would happen. I remember like it was just last week, sitting at the Med with my mom over drinks and tapas telling her I wanted to start in South America for my trip and end in Africa because I didn’t think I would be able to leave Africa. That intuition, like most intuitions, proved to be utterly true. Now I have a ticket out of here and every cell in my body wants to stay on the Dark Continent.
Africa is intoxicating. It is completely tantalizing and addicting.
Now, keep in mind when I say Africa, I have yet to see much of Central Africa and none of West Africa, just to clarify that before I continue, but I have seen a good deal of the rest now. In Africa there is a rawness and wildness you cannot find anywhere else. To be truthful, Africa is completely lawless. It really is. You see both the best and the worst of humanity and only get through most days and situations because of an invisible but cohesive web of basic humanity that threads through your interactions. That and luck.
It cannot be overstated that in Africa, absolutely anything can happen any day. That is why I love it, it’s the perfect place for someone like me who feels suffocated by routine.
I planned to go from Egypt to South Africa overland, but had to take two unexpected flights because of rebel attacks and civil war that sprung up unexpectedly. It feels like there is more life squeezed out of a single day in Africa than a month somewhere else.
I have experienced so many extremes in my 8 months here. I have seen inconceivable poverty and unrivaled opulence. I have been drenched by rain and scorched by the sun. I’ve crossed the equator several times and looked up at the starry skies in both hemispheres, unobstructed by urbanization’s glare. I have seen the sun the biggest and reddest I have ever found set behind an acacia tree in the Serengeti and sand dunes in the desert. I have seen explosive coastlines and towering sand dunes, churches, mosques and huts. I’ve seen the pyramids, I’ve seen lions and zebras. I have seen refugees right after their homes have been burned pleading with their eyes into mine for something I had no idea how to give.
I have seen political rallies full of false hope and seen them turn to violence. I have seen a once-thriving capital turn to a ghost-town of oppression. I’ve seen shepherds with their flocks, women with painted faces, turbans, tribesmen with tattooed faces and gaping earlobes, women who’s only exposure to the world was a small slit in the cloth that covered them over the eyes, colorful tribal clothes and blankets.
I have danced in a mud hut to a drumming that escapes no one’s pulse as the candlelight cast shadows that leapt with the yells that echoed around the walls. I have been absolutely positive that I was about to die. I felt baptized by the spray of Victoria Falls in the high season, hanging on for dear life so that they wouldn’t wash me over the rope bridge. I have sat in more churches in Africa than the rest of my life put together and listened to the prayers of some of the most impoverished people in the world. I have been grabbed and groped and stared at because of my skin color. I have been feared and a curiosity and spectacle for it as well. I have also been an honored guest and allowed to do things other people would never be able to do because of it.
I have felt real fear. I have been hassled more than I could ever imagine before coming here. I have learned to sit and do nothing. I have had more communication errors and lack of communication because of such a vast language barrier. I have laughed and laughed at this crazy life we find ourselves in and the incubation of our culture that affects us so much and blinds us to other possibilities in life. I have laughed because sometimes that was all I could do.
I have heard stories of so may that have stitched a fabric of other ways of life in my consciousness; stories of hope and courage as well as stories of bone-chilling evil that crushes my chest. I have been told things that I would never write down for fear that the atrocities are so massive they could almost come to life if put onto paper. Why did people speak so openly of their own private hells to a stranger like me? Maybe some things are so evil they must be released or they will choke the life out of you. I know I didn’t want to hear them and I still wish I never had.
I have met people that it is inconceivable to me how they go on. Things I have learned about in Africa have challenged everything I have ever thought about and known. It has made me realize that I don’t understand anything,
I look back on what I have done and see that I was completely alone while at the same time never alone. It was only by the good grace and compassion of the local people I met along the way that I could get through each day much less survive on the whole.
Nothing is easy in Africa. It tests you. Things that should be simple never are. Noting is what it seems. The psyche and culture here is completely different from other places in the world. It is a place of extremes, a place of thriving markets, breathtaking scenery, violence, chaos, traffic, passionate music and blood-red soil.
Every African I met said they would never leave this place permanently. The white South Africans I met said if their land was taken away they would go with it because to leave Africa would mean to die. There is so much mystery and rawness on this continent. I think it would be fair to say that Africa is the true embodiment of passion in its purest sense, for better or worse.
T.I.A. (This Is Africa) has become a cliché now, but for anyone who has ever been here, they know that sometimes that is all you can say much of the time. How this place has changed me, I haven’t even began to look at that landscape. I feel the same, but can you really tell when you are leaving a place, and places seem to have hidden lessons you don’t encounter until years down the road. If anything it has made me more confident in who I am but more unsure about everything else in life. But I know it has gotten under my skin. The thought of leaving makes me feel like I am dying a small death myself. I can’t explain it, these last 8 months. Their meaning is poignant but at the same time hidden even to me. Part of me feels that because I did this I can do anything, part of me just wants to cry for both what I’ve seen and what I’m leaving.
I’ll be back. That’s for sure. But now, it’s time to leap and to trust. That’s all I can do as I leave this behind for what I have no idea. I thought I would be more certain of something after leaving but nothing is clear. How can time go so fast? How many lifetimes exist in one life? I don’t know where I’m going but at the same time, I’m always there.

I hope for nothing
I fear nothing
I am free

Training Horses (South Africa)

I have experienced more extremes on this trip than throughout the rest of my life in its entirety. I started my time in Africa in a mud hut in Zimbabwe with no electricity eating sadza. I finish in a mansion of a farmhouse in rural South Africa (though often with no electricity because of South Africa's current power crisis) drinking some of the finest wine and whiskey I ever have.
I have spent 2 1/2 weeks training horses on a remote farm and it has been an incredible window into life for some South Africans. The family I lived with are some of the richest of the rich in the whole world. It was pretty spectacular to get a glimpse into that sort of lifestyle; private planes, yatch clubs, golf clubs, many many full-time staff, tea served on silver platters, multiple vacation homes, the best private schools, more silverware than I could figure out what to do with. These people have a life of privilege most would never even think to imagine. I met a guy who told me he has never cooked a single meal for himself (he's 27).
Many of the white, wealthy South African farmers are waited on hand and foot, yet this is Africa so the wealth is different. Another guy I met may not know how to do his laundry, but he does know how to birth a calf. For most, these massive ranches are hobbies, though they are multi-million dollar ventures, it's not so much about the money, more the lifestyle and tradition.
I would never consider myself to be a city girl, but they certainly did here. The people I met are adept at hunting, fixing fences and making their own sausage. It is completely counter-intuitive to that kind of wealth, but hey, T.I.A.
Working on the farm with the horses allowed me to get an inside view into a community that few non-members would ever see. I met all sorts of people at the golf club, tennis club, luncheons, etc. They were very welcoming on the surface and I had to tell them that yes, I am here training horses, but no, I am not a horse trainer. There is a big difference! But I think that if I ever wanted to come back to train horses it wouldn't be a problem. It is a tiny community of very affluent farmers. Racial tensions are strong and everyone is racist or a realist, as they explain, in their own way. Yet almost all the kids grow up speaking Xhousa (a clicking language) as their first language because their nanny taught it to them before English. It is incredible to see. The men and boys are a different breed here. They still seem to be in a "Gone with the Wind" era where they are chivalrous beyond belief. I never once had to open a door or buy a drink and their whole "ladies first" mentality was funny because I would lead but not being from the area I didn't know where I was going!
Because town is so small people of all generations socialize together. There is that sense that everyone knows everyone. But another pulse throbs below the surface of this wholesome fresh milk, fresh bread and a lot of whisky veneer.
One night, bored of the blandness of the local pub (all white of course), I went with a couple of local guys to a nearby township of sorts. Their plan was to have me wait in hte car because it would be "far too dangerous" for me to go in, while they bought some booze at the township bar and we would take it back to the farm. Well, there was no way I was staying in the car, we had found the party that was definitely not going on at the all white pub. The bar was bumping music and full of energy. We, the only white people, were all cheered and hugged when we entered. I headed straight for the dance floor where a few girls took me under their wing. I had a blast dancing with them and everyone was so ridiculously nice and welcoming. It was a little unnerving because I was constantly surrounded but most people were just having fun. A few men just came really close and stared, just standing there on the dance floor watching me but other than that it was really fun. So I honestly don't know what would have happened. After about 30 minutes the guys I was with pulled me away. A crowd tried to suck me in, it was pretty chaotic, I was lucky I had 2 big guys with me, one of whom had to force a guy to let go of my arm so I really couldn't tell you the way the night could have gone. I like to believe that my friends were just paranoid when they said it would have gotten ugly. The people seemed happy we were there, but race in South Africa is a very tricky deal. Nothing is clear, it's all sorts of grey area all the time.
But I do know that I learned so much in the last couple weeks. As cliche as it sounds, it has been a very eye-opening experience to say the least. I got to ride whenever I wanted and gallop my horse through the stunning African bush past warthogs, bless bock and impalas. Now that is pretty hard to beat!