A Walk.

A waft of burning plastic awakens my sense of smell, in turn, my sense of sight. Eyes open to a new day in India and I remember – every day is new. Maybe today, I will love it here.

The first step outside is not into a pile of shit, though I will watch closely every step that I take. Thirteen pairs of rickshaw-driving eyes leap to life at the sight of me – perhaps today’s first opportunity for a ‘foreigner’ fare. Despite the crumbling sidewalk and chaos that awaits me, I opt for a walk. Thirteen ‘no thank yous’ later, I am on my way. I wonder if number thirteen was feeling especially lucky this morning – if he truly believed I’d choose his ride after turning down all the others. Five meters past the end of this three-wheeled, black and yellow, soot-stained line, I hear the familiar sound of a two-stroke engine slowly approach. Rickshaw? No. No thank you this time.

The dust has nearly settled from the morning sweep. Only one brightly wrapped woman lingers, slowly and deliberately brushing the remnants of yesterday’s traffic from her stoop. It will sit in a tidy, dirty pile off to the side until a bus blares by or any animal comes rummaging for a morning snack. For now, she has cleared a small space and continues L-bent, spreading an intricate pattern of talc. It will linger, welcoming visitors much longer than the dirty pile remains tidy.

The air is suddenly thick and the back of my throat knows before my eyes do that the source of my awakening this morning is only moments away. A neighbor has ignited her tidy, dirty pile of metallic cellophane, plastic bottles and street soil. Eyes burning, scarf held securely over nose and mouth, I step blindly through the dense smoke. Please, let my foot land on solid ground and not in a steaming pile. I can barely make out the silhouette of bovine hips a few meters ahead. My foot is safe, but the tail is raised and as the air clears I feel the gentle spatter of cow urine on my ankle.

I step quickly aside – wary of sidewalk crumbles underfoot – around a corner and into the street. My sense of time and space is instantly overwhelmed by the unyielding blare of a horn. Though the worst thing I can do is hesitate, I freeze for a moment. Countless obstructions come sharply into focus. I know, after two months here, to say farewell to that focus sooner than it arrives. It is best to just keep moving, shifting, drifting. Constantly and carefully, one foot in front of the next.

Right hip dodges fruit cart. Left shoulder escapes sideview mirror. Left foot narrowly misses a freshly hocked loogie. Left leg is less fortunate, roughly grazed by a bike pedal. Right foot high steps over a pile of defeated shoes. Left hip shirks an ox cart. Right hand draws up just in time to avoid contact with the outstretched hand of a beggar – wait, is that hand attached to an arm – or directly to a shoulder? Barely time to notice that feet protrude directly from hips. I just passed a torso with ten fingers and ten toes.

My walk continues. I don’t need sunglasses, thank you. Sugarcane juice? No thanks. Come look, my shop. Not now. Earrings? Necklace? Drum? Map? Postcard? You don’t have to buy, just look. No thank you. Looking is free. Nothing is free. Just look. Nope. I’m walking and fear the slightest pause.

Left foot sidesteps unidentified puddle. Left shoulder bangs an elbow slung casually across the back of gentlemen friends. Right shoulder skirts the basket on a brightly wrapped woman’s head. Right hip eludes child’s foot – a child dangles by one arm over this woman’s shoulder. As one hand balances the basket, the other carries the wrist of her flailing toddler.

An abrupt pain courses through my right breast. My head turns, catches a uniformed boy – maybe ten – trotting away, looking back, smirking. Through the onset of disbelief, my body follows my head and I am walking swiftly and angrily after him. He glances again and is surprised to see me following. Paces quicken. Suddenly, I stop. What am I going to do to this kid? He catches up with his friend and before I turn away, I see them giggle maliciously. A ten year old boy just slapped my breast for fun. I was publicly molested, and except feeling helpless and violated, there is nothing I can do about it. No one else seems to have noticed. (Did I mention this was a fun/ny thing for a 10 year old?!?)

As I shake my head and begin to walk, the sputtering behind me slows. Rickshaw? No!

I’ve never trusted rickshaw drivers. Now, I don’t trust children. I am slowly and painfully learning to distrust everyone I encounter in this country. As I am much more of an idealist than a cynicist, this is very difficult for me. My light skin is a permanent blemish – a hindrance to any sort of fair negotiation or honest dialogue. Light skin = foreigner = money.

Equals survival. In this country of over one billion people – of which almost 400 million survive on the equivalent of roughly $1.25 a day – the psychology of living is contrary to my own. Can I spare the extra 50 rupees (Rs 50 ~ $1) I’m charged to travel the same distance (as a local) in a rickshaw? Why shouldn’t I pay Rs 250 to see this temple while an Indian pays Rs 10? Who’s more likely to buy a necklace – someone who earns Rs 100 a day or someone who earns $100 a day? Should I bargain down to Rs 100 for this shawl so you can by your family dinner – or pay the Rs 500 you ask of me so you can feed your family for a week?

I don’t have to be here. I chose to be here. Why? To peak my curiosity? To stoke my sense of adventure? To create an opportunity for learning? To alter my perspective? To experience a different psychology of living? If I made the willing decision to come here and had every intention of remaining open-minded and open-hearted, why do I feel so damn frustrated? What – exactly – is all this about?

The pungency of stale urine assaults my olfactory nerves like the Allied forces on the beaches of Normandy. I have just stepped over another unidentifiable puddle into an open air, tile corridor. Looking up without pausing, I notice four men facing the wall to my left, legs shoulder width apart. Before my twinge of embarrassment escalates, I have passed through and stepped out of this public urinal. Just another drop in this immense bucket – but I’ve had enough for today.

One more corner to turn before the refuge of my Rs 400/night room. Done walking, I’ll read and write and ruminate there for the afternoon – and maybe I’ll love India tomorrow.

Hampi: Heat.

Every day, the heat grows like a crescendo. It is April fifth and we have been in India one month. We have been in Hampi one week – this place is magical and oppressive. Air is ripe with the sweet smell of rice and dense with its moisture. After rising with the sun, the heat settles over the day like a thick woolen blanket, heavy on my chest.

We have found what we were looking for. Boulders sprinkle the landscape as far as the eye can see and nature has created the most perfect scene of balance. Only nature can. Among the seemingly infinite sea of granite, man has woven in three layers of devotion and a thin, sad layer of waste. From my hill-top perch, the sun is slipping silently away and the energy of evening begins to stir.

My fingertips are tender and hot and reveal the consistent stress of my intermittent activity. I have attempted to solve this problem a number of times, but my body has not yet found what my mind tirelessly searches for. I will know when to rest. Flesh and blood have been taken by this rock, but will is steadfast and remains intact. The solution relies on the smallest of adjustments and if it does not arrive now, I will wait patiently. Its fruition will seem effortless; the practice of body and mind coming energetically together is a discipline. I have just returned to it.

We are tired. Nights are no longer for sleeping. In order to play with the rocks, we merely nap at night and again at mid-day. Despite this mid-day inactivity, we don’t come alive again until dusk. It is hard work carrying a thick, woolen blanket around all day.

Hampi: Boulders.

We have spent the last two weeks rising with the sun. It is cool in the early morning hours and the rocks remain unbaked until ten o’clock. After a hot cup of chai, we wander slowly through the dew-soaked rice paddy, careful with our hazy steps. The sun rises more steadily than our selves, but our chatter grows as bodies warm and begin to work again. Muscles – some stiff after a day’s rest – are stretched up and out and around. The rock and thorn-strewn path has led us to an area called Little Cave and it has been two days since I was last confronted with this challenge.

My route is in the shade now, though the unforgiving sun creeps silently closer. Time is limited in this small way and I am glad. Before long, I will put this problem to rest. First – a swig of water. Feet stuffed into sticky shoes. Hands lined with chalk. I look up at my former nemesis and squint. As my heart begins to crawl a little higher in my chest, I notice it looks a little different today. My body reads the rock and seems to recognize it. A deep breath into my belly reigns down my heart and I place my hands on the first two holds.

Exhale completely. Of the four extensions from my body, only my right hand holds solid. Left fingertips use a small seam in the stone for balance and the sticky balls of my feet utilize friction against the rock. My body has a memory of this movement and my left arm rises as I stand taller on the texture. It finds its place quickly and my fingertips fit snugly into jagged grooves. Right hand mimics left, though this one feels sharper and my time on it is less. Feet step up to the smallest of dimples and I hug strongly into the rock as my legs elevate my torso just high enough to let go of the painful right hand.

There it is – my eyes catch it first – and suddenly my arm is outstretched and my hand is securely embracing this elusive hold. Immediately, my right foot slips and my left hand barely meets its match. My heart leaps north again, but I am stronger now than last week and hold fast. Energy moves quickly into my core and I find my feet pulling up onto a beautiful little shelf. With one final extension upward, I am stepping atop this sun-soaked boulder.

Squinting in the bright morning sun, my smile is as wide as this panorama. I have never been to this particular vantage before – I have not been able to reach it. Today I understood how and my body was ready to translate. Another deep breath draws in sweet morning succulence. Behind me is a landscape littered with boulders – as if someone much greater than me is playing a wicked game of marbles. They teeter precariously upon one another as I balance lightly on this edge. Before me, the rock drops sharply down to the rice paddy we crossed some moments ago. Beyond that, a river runs, a temple towers and ruins reach out as far as I see.

This is a special place, an unforgettable moment. A personal challenge achieved through discipline and a small tap into a universal energy source. Rocks are not merely climbed here. A relationship develops between a body and a boulder – and only when the mind is removed from the equation, does this connection truly occur. Funny, I realize, a body doesn’t always need a mind to fully understand.

Technical difficulties.

So, I finally wrote a couple more blogs - and I just logged on to post them - however, they are not saved in a format this computer can read. Woo hoo! I'll have them up as soon as I can figure it out.

For now - Dan is officially published online! Go to www.climbing.com and he's right on the front page - if you click on his reader blog, you'll find an entry and a few photos from Hampi, India. We just spent almost 3 weeks there bouldering and hanging out with some great people.

We're in Delhi at the moment - a chaotic, smelly corner of the world - and will get to spend tonight (Dan's birthday!) with my friend Sara. She's also in India (down south in Kerala) for a few months studying and working...but had a holiday week and we'll be crossing paths. Always great to see a familiar face!!

Some news: Dan has contracted rabies. Well, we're not sure he is actually rabid - but he was attacked by some random dog on the street in Hyderabad the other day (check out his blog for the full story) and is now receiving the rabies vaccine. Funny - and not so funny - all rolled into one - the first shot he received was directly in his buttocks!

Also, I walked straight through a public urinal yesterday. I'm not sure how it happened - but I was following Dan around this crazy corner and we didn't pass through any doorways or anything - yet suddenly I was engulfed by the rancid smell of stale urine and there were four guys lined up with their backs to me. Public urination and defecation are pretty much everywhere here - apparently, railroad tracks are also a perfectly acceptable and often utilized 'dumping area'. We saw a lot of bare bottoms during the 26-hour ride north!!

Every day is an adventure - hope yours are too!

Location changes. People don't.

I'm just as awful about posting blogs from India as I was from the USA!! The heat in South India has been melting my brain for the past few weeks - and we settled into a place with a ton of climbing - so I haven't been writing much. In my head, I've been composing lots though - so check back in a few days - we've got a 26 hour train ride ahead of us. Hightailing it for the Indian Himalaya!!! Until then...

Ooty to Calicut.

My knuckles are about eight shades whiter than my sunburned wrists. We spent three hours on horseback in the high-altitude sun of Ooty yesterday, but that is of no importance now. Now, we are careening down a steep slope of hairpin turns on a bus that seems to be driven by one of this country's many deities rather than the man at the wheel.

The ride began at about 2240 meters above sea level and we were unlucky to find seats in the rear of the bus. We knew the first portion of this journey would be a few hours winding through the same tea plantations and national forest that welcomed us here. As the bus engine groaned and clunked to life, we looked at each other and questioned what was coming.

The first hour of the journey passed as expected. A little concern arose when the bus braked and something moved and banged under my feet resting on the rear wheels. But my place next to the window allowed fresh, dusty, engine-stained air to flow freely and saved my motion sensitive stomach from catastrophe. The woman behind me wasn't so lucky, and she left her breakfast on the steps of the bus at the first rest stop.

A half hour passed and we came upon a stopped, broken bus and forty waving people. We pulled into the oncoming lane of a blind corner and waited for them to board - a precarious position, no doubt. But people move quickly here and we were off within minutes, standing, sitting and hanging on for dear life.

The bus cleared at the two-hour stop. We moved to the open front seat and were happy to further protect our bellies. With three hours to go, we did not know what road was ahead. This is where we turned to the West and the coast and everything new again.

Three hours passed the same as the first. Tea plantations tended to by brightly colored women sprawled across the steep slopes through which we traveled. Cows and dogs and goats and people littered the road, sadly decorated with plastic bottles, newspapers and melon rinds. Bustling mountain towns provided stops for coming and going and a changing population on our bus. The sun fell low and illuminated graying clouds the best it could. We wondered why there was no ocean in sight when darkness grew bold.

Now, our estimated time of arrival in Calicut has passed. The sky is black and moisture has begun to condense and fall from the sky. From our front seat vantage, the windshield quickly becomes spattered and I wonder how the bus driver can see the cows and dogs and goats and people that continue to litter the road. He stealthily weaves through them and chatters with the ticket collector and I wish for him to stop chattering and focus on driving.

The road curls steeply and sharply down the Western Ghats toward the ocean. In the bus, we are bigger than the turns and the black and white striped barriers come too close and too fast. I think the bus will not clear the barriers - I see where other vehicles have not - and as my hand grips the arm rest mightily, my body leaves the seat. I am ready to throw my weight to the uphill side of the bus so that we do not plummet over the edge and tumble thousands of feet to our end. As the dark and wet and danger begin to overtake my sensibility, the driver chatters happily with his mate and steers us through the maze that is an Indian road.

Dan and I love each other and say so now because it seems quite possible we won't have another chance. I think of family and dear friends and hope they are dry and safe and know I love them too. When I think I can't take any more, the road becomes wetter, the turns come more quickly and the driver decides to pass the government truck in front of us. I have just seen a 'No Passing' sign and wonder how he missed it! And, who in their right mind would even consider passing at a moment like this?! This man is cheerful and mad and steering us through impossibility all in a day's work.

I can't keep my eyes open and the end of this journey is now two hours overdue. I must have read the time wrong and my lids gratefully shut so that I don't have to witness the last forty-five minutes of madness. When this vessel finally releases us into the wet night air of Calicut, I feel relief, understated. My body feels tense and weak and ready to stand on solid ground, which is slightly cleaner here in the state of Kerala. We have two hours before the train and will feel full and ready to rest when it whisks us away into the night and toward the North.

Opposite color.

Tonight, there is no better feeling than the gentle rustle of a bedsheet against bare skin. I lay awake in the first warm darkness and a fan whirs overhead. We have slept most of the day and part of the night. In the pre-dawn hours, we are both alert and wondering what the light will bring.

We hear a knock at the door - room service. Would we like coffee/tea/breakfast to go with the paper that has slipped under the door? The man appeared as if anticipating the flip of a switch inside our room – and I wonder how long he has been ready to provide this service. It is early. The sun is just beginning to illuminate the cool gray concrete of the wall outside our window.

An army of rickshaw drivers greets us as we step outside the protective walls of our lodge. With so many pairs of deep brown eyes pleading for our business, how do we choose? It is morning cool and we will walk.

Through a maze of motion, we soon realize that caution will not serve. Bicycles weave through mule carts weave through motorbikes weave through rickshaws weave through buses – a tightly knit fabric. People fill spaces without hesitation. As we step off the curb, I remember playing ‘Frogger’ as a child and quietly smile.

The onslaught of sound is deafening – horns blaring, motors chugging, men chattering – all of it echoing the assault of cacophonous smells. The sweetness of jasmine. The pungency of urine. The earthiness of sandalwood. The acrid waft of burning plastic. As my darting gaze tries to match sight with smell with sound, I see the silhouette of a cow through the haze of smoldering trash. It’s like a barnyard fell into a town fell into a landfill fell into a city. Though there appear to be no rules, there are no collisions. Every space is full, everyone is present.

For some reason, we have decided to visit the zoo. I find this funny, for I always go to the zoo when I travel, but never where I live. Also, most zoos are similar - and I usually end up feeling quite sad for the animals. This morning, I welcome the tranquil shade that greets us beyond the gate and feel soothed.

I recognize the faint discomfort of looming eyes immediately. It began out on the street, but there was way too much happening to mind. There are a lot of people in this country – and so far, it seems there are mostly men. No less than three at a time and sometimes eight or nine – standing, walking, eating, selling, riding, watching. Here, they are watching the animals and they are watching me.

It is subtle at first. As the sun rises higher in the midday sky, so does their audacity. Eyes follow me from a distance; keep watch as I approach; stare from inches away. When my gaze meets theirs, I am the first to smile or turn away. They have no sense of discomfort, nor curiosity. I have both. There is merely a stare. Sometimes a simple word – hello. And then there are children.

Before we know it, we are surrounded by children and they are curious and smiling and saying hello, where are you from? Can we take a picture? They are pressing small bodies onto the bench beside us, lining up behind us, and sprawling on the ground in front of us. Their teacher holds the camera. I am under the impression we will be talked about more than the giraffe or the hippopotamus and wonder what they will say – what they are saying as I sit here and smile. It is innocent and fun and exciting and when they move on to the chimpanzee, this charge dissipates from the air as quickly as it came .

I miss their enthusiasm immediately. For a moment, it mirrored my own and I felt at ease. It is my first day in a new place and while I don’t appear any different to these animals, I appear very different to these people. The next group to approach is more reserved. The men speak to us in English; the women smile demurely from a distance. After we tell them where we are from and learn that they are managers on a company outing, we begin to move on. Then, there is a space on the bench among the women and I am invited to sit down. Everyone crowds around and as Dan lines up the shot, I hear giggles behind me. ‘Opposite color,’ they observe. I turn and laugh and nod my head yes, opposite color.