Bad Timing in Badami (Karnataka, January 7-8, 2009)

I arrive in Badami very late and am dropped off near the bus stand, not much more than an open parking lot off the village's sole main road, near the area's only hotels. I knock on the doors of several of the hotels until finally someone answers. As I have no choice of where to stay, I have no leverage to use in bargaining. Nonetheless, I still try to hint that the price is a little high. The night hotel boy makes a strange deal with me, that if I pay him bakshish (a bribe), he will say I came in that morning so that I don't have to check out so early the next day. So I basically pay the written price (which is always too high), but he gets a cut and I can stay later the next day, before I catch the night bus to Bangalore en route to Mamallapuram.

The next day, after little sleep, I am up and out touring the rock-cut caves temples surrounding the village of Badami. According to my Lonely Planet Guidebook, "Badami was once the capital of the Chalukya empire, which covered much of the central Deccan between the 4th and 8th centuries AD" (926). This explains why there are so many magnificent sculpted rock cave temples scattering Badami and the surrounding areas, which are today only small villages. These cave temples, according to the Lonely Planet, are "some of the earliest and finest examples of Dravidian temples and rock-cut caves, as well as the earliest free-standing temple in India...The forms and sculptural work at these sites inspired the later South Indian Hindu empires that rose and fell before the arrival of the Muslims" (927).

On the way from my hotel to the cave temples, I come across a large group of boys and men. They tell me they are preparing for a Muslim holiday celebrating something having to do with the prophet Muhammad. It seems that not all of the participants are Muslim, but I am informed that everyone celebrates this festival. It is a great photo opportunity:

Finally, I reach the cave temples. The first and oldest is dedicated to Shiva, the second is dedicated to Vishnu, the the third contains carvings or images of several deities, and the fourth and smallest cave is dedicated to Jainism and has an image of Suparshvanatha (the seventh Jain tirthankar) surrounded by 24 Jain tirthankars, and a sanctum containing an image of adinath, the first Jain tirthankar. At one point while I am at the caves, the night hotel boy finds me and asks for a photo. He is very short compared to the carvings:

Here are some other images from the cave temples:

After visiting the caves, I explore the 5th-century Agastyatirtha Tank and the waterside Bhutanatha temples, discovering more great photo opportunities:

I am not surprised to find some men sleeping next to the temple, an historical landmark. People sleep everywhere in India-it is so hot, the culture is relaxed, and unemployment is common.

On the other side of the tank is an archaeological museum, which houses examples of local sculpture. The stairway just behind the museum climbs through a dramatic sandstone chasm and fortified gateways to reach the various temples and ruins of the north fort, with expansive views overlooking the rooftops of Badami. On my walk from place to place, I encounter village children playing and doing chores:

I walk back to my hotel, have a snack from a street food wala, and see that the Muslim holiday festival is still happening:

Exploring the Realm of the Monkey Gods (Hampi, Karnataka, January 3-7, 2009)

According to my Lonely Planet guidebook, "The fascinating ruins of the 15th-century city of Vijayanagar, near the village of Hampi, are set in an extraordinary landscape of giant granite boulders, lush paddies and banana plantations. The clock seems to have stopped at this World Heritage site, and you can spend a surprisingly large amount of time gazing at the weirdly balanced rocks, wondering how millions of years of erosion could achieve such formations...In the Hindu legends of Ramayana, this area was Kishkinda, the realm of the monkey gods. In 1336 the Telugu princes Harihara and Bukka founded the city of Vijayanagar, which over the next couple of centuries grew into one of the largest Hindu empires in Indian history...This all came to a sudden end in 1565 when the city was ransacked by a confederacy of Deccan sultanates; it subsequently went into terminal decline...Although it was declared a World Heritage site in 1986, only 58 of the 550 monuments in the area hold heritage-protection status" (919-920).

Over the next few days, I take short day trips to the attractions Hampi has to offer. I try to do a little something each day, but not too much as I need to rest. At this pace, it will take me a while to see everything here. On the one hand I feel I am wasting time, but on the other hand I don't really know where to go next. I have nothing pulling me!

One of my first destinations is Anegundi. My Lonely Planet indicates that it is less commercialized and more residential than Hampi Bazaar, and I am instantly drawn to this place. Plus, it is within walking distance from Virupapur Gaddi, and I do love to walk. According to my Lonely Planet, "North of the river is the ruined fortified stronghold of Anegundi...an older structure than those at Hampi; within it you'll find a charming village...Much of the old defensive wall is intact and there are numerous small temples worth a visit" (922-923). Here are some photos from my walk:

It is a hot, sunny day--like most days here--and I am tired when I finally arrive in Anegundi. The place is quite sparse; I try to orient myself using the small, over-simplified Lonely Planet map and the bits of tourist signage posted at key locations in town. I try to make it to all the significant temples and historical sites. It's really not that impressive overall, but I do like this religious shrine and iconography:On my way back from Anagundi I visit the whitewashed Hanuman Temple, perched atop the prominent Anjanadri Hill. The temple is just a little ways off the main road from Anagundi to Virupapur Gaddi. There is maybe an less than an hour of sunlight left, and I'm a little worried I won't make it up and down in time for the last bus back to Virupapur Gaddi. The climb to the top of the hill will take maybe 30 minutes. But it seems many travelers are gathering to view the sunset, so I go on. Atop the hill I meet some travelers who are willing to split the cost of an auto-rickshaw with me.

The temple is aptly named, as monkeys abound (Hanuman is the monkey god). I take my shoes off to walk on the holy ground and argue with the shoe guard, who seems to indicate that a donation for watching my shoes is mandatory. I sneak away and explore. Here are some photos of what I see of the temple, and views of the temple's surroundings:I watch the sun descend, a little worried about missing the bus and not being able to find the people who offered to share a ride with me. Most travelers are grouping up to watch the sunset, but I am alone. I enjoy hopping over crevasses and exploring the rock's structure, all the while people-watching. I leave a little before dark, so I can make it down the stone-carved staircase before the rush. Luckily, I run into the people with whom I will share a ride. At the bottom of the hill, I buy a coconut, as I am so thirsty. I make sure to have the coconut-walla slice it when I am finished drinking, so that I can eat the flesh.

After a long day of sight-seeing, we head back toward Virupapur Gaddi and my bungalow. In the evening, I usually go to a particular small restaurant near the entrance to Virupapur Gaddi. It is the cheapest place I can find. I usually order the thali and a hot ginger lemon honey. They give me a whole bottle of honey to use freely, and I use more then they'd probably like me to because honey should help my lung infection and cough.

One night, there are a group of French people and one Israeli woman who is living in France with her boyfriend. She speaks negatively of Israel, and of places like Hampi that attract so many Israelis. These travelers seem to be newer to India, and I help them translate the menu. I try to use a little of my French. I appreciate their conversation and friendliness. Like me, they seem to be at a loss for deciding where next to go. We exchange ideas, but ultimately both they and I end up staying in Hampi a bit longer as we dream up the next leg of our journeys.

Welcoming the New Year on the Beaches of Gokarna (December 30-January 2, 2008-2009)

Near the end of our YIC course, everyone is talking about their plans for after the course. Yung gu will stay 1 week longer for the Yoga and Diabetes course. Remee and Beena will stay for another year for the Yoga Therapy course. Alan has to stay to complete the practicum portion of this 1-year course. Markus will leave to take other healing therapy courses in India. Lisa and Jean will return to Goa, where they had enjoyed themselves prior to YIC. Many of the Indian students will go home and either stay there, or return to Prashanti in about a month, when their coursework begins. My roommate Jin is dreading a return to South Korea, where people will tell her she's gained weight in India (she's still very thin, however). She wishes she could travel longer, but her mom wants her home.

I am trying to decide. I have signed up to sit a 12-day Vipassana meditation course in Bangalore. The courses are run by volunteers and therefore available on a donation basis. While they exist around the world, including the US, there are many locations in India and travelers often find the ambiance and history of the region conducive to the course's objectives. This is one of my goals for my India trip, but I am still ailing from my terrible cough and lung problem, so I decide to postpone the rigorous schedule and austere manner of the Vipassana course.

At the last minute, I decide instead to join a group of YIC and SVYASA students headed to Gokarna beach in Karnataka. The non-Indians going are Alan, Julie, Markus, Remee and Binha. I do not recall the Indians who went. I think they are mainly friends with Remee and Binha, and full-time SVYASA students, rather than YIC students. A few of their non-SVYASA friends also come. A Japanese student in the bachelor's degree program also comes. He speaks very little English and seems to know Alan best. Despite his inability to communicate well, it is his goal to complete a PhD program at SVYASA. Nobody seems to be able to recall his name, so he is called something from one of our classes...I think cin maya (as in cin maya mudra, one of the hand positions for breathing exercises).

All the students at Prashanti Kutiram must have an out pass signed before leaving campus. This is easy for the YIC students, as their course has ended, but much more difficult for the long-term students (Alan, "Cin Maya," and the Indians). I think Alan has to forge Cin Maya's out pass, even though both are full adults!

The Indian students have organized a van and driver for us, and we split the cost. One of my hesitations was that it is quite expensive, compared to what the same trip might cost on bus or train. But it is also not easy to get to Gokarna from SVYASA, as it will require first going to Bangalore, and then more than one mode of transportation from there (I think). Also, as it is New Year's, many people are headed to the beaches, and reservations for transportation or hotels might be full. I am counting on strength in numbers. Also, I enjoyed by time at YIC, and I still want to linger with a couple of the people from my class, and gradually fall away from the experience, rather than jut away alone again.

But I soon realize what my decision means. While I had pictured a peaceful New Year's on a quite beach, I had forgotten that most people celebrate the New Year with alcohol, fireworks and partying. The Indian guys who planned the trip start drinking on the van ride to Gokarna. It will be a long drive, maybe nine or so hours, through the night. I can't recall if we were short one seat (in part because I had decided to come at the last minute, which also saved everyone some cash), but people switch off sleeping in the aisle. Although Markus only travels with a small backpack, he seems to be the most prepared, with a decent sleeping bag. I donate my SVYASA yoga mat, which is like a thick rug, to the aisle "bed." At one point, in the morning, Markus remarks that you'd think students of yoga would be up for a peaceful, sober New Year's. I think we both have a pang of regret about traveling with this group.

We arrive in the morning, which is New Year's Eve, only to find that there's no hostel available. Here's a picture of Julie and an Indian guy upon our arrival at the entrance of the beach, and a view of the beach from above:

At this point, I am so tired and still not feeling well, and I just want to sleep. The Indians know someone else who has reserved a room, and we are allowed to put our things in there. Throughout the day, people from our groups go try to find rooms. We only find one hut--quite far from the other hostel and the main beach, hidden in the woods. I think Markus, Alan and Cin Maya decide they will room there.

I cannot recall what I do for the day. Probably worry about feeling better, and where to sleep, all the while trying to stay awake. Maybe I take a shower in the friend's hostel room. I also go into town with a couple of the nicer Indian boys to see a doctor about my lung infection. The doctor says I have some tropical thing--I can't remember. He says that to be sure, I'd need a test of some sort, but he can only administer it on certain days. The Indian boys who accompany me advise that I do not get treatment here, as it is such a small town and facility. I'll have to wait. We have some food from one of the restaurants lining the beach; all of the restaurants are somewhat Westernized.

At night, we plan to have a feast. But the restaurant has so many orders, we wait for a long time. As it gets dark, people are shooting off fireworks and drinking in crowds. It seems dangerous to me, but I seem to be the only one worrying. I am so tired, and just want to sleep. But I stay awake through the feast that finally arrived. I cannot recall what I have. Finally, after much debate and discussion regarding where we will sleep, I am insistent that I will just sleep in the van. I take my yoga mat, airplane pillow and travel sheet. I cannot recall who comes with me, but there are a few others who share the van with me. Finally sleep!

As morning comes, a few others join us in the van. Then it is time to fully wake up. We still don't have a room for ourselves. In the course of the night, Cin Maya never made it to the hut where Markus slept. Alan seems to have lost him, but it turns out he wanted to sleep by the water.

I try to make the most of my time on the beach, but I am becoming adamant that I must leave. I will lose money because included in the price is the trip back to Bangalore, but I don't want to spend one more minute in that van with those people. Julie also wants to depart from the group. Markus does as well, but he has to go back to Bangalore anyway, so he will stick with the group if only for the ride. Remee and Binha don't seem to mind, as these are their friends and they will return to SYVASA and study with them. Alan is cynical but easy-going. Cin Maya, well, I can't really talk to him.

Julie and I finally find a beach hut to share. It is nice to have a place of our own, and especially nice to take a shower. Though the water is cold, after the first minute, it is so refreshing to take an outdoor shower in such hot weather.

Markus had offered to do some pranic healing on me, and I take him up on the offer. I had seen him doing this to Ahalya at Prashanti during one of our class breaks. She had chronic belching problems on account of the stress she was under at home. She always insisted she got married too early. Pranic healing instills positive energy and takes away negative energy. Or something like that. We go to a quiet place on the beach, on a large boulder. His hands hover over me, I close my eyes. For the most part we are silent. After, he talks about the color of my aura, and the colors his hands inspired. It seems he hasn't done anything drastic, but he insists that even this subtle manipulation will bring positive healing.

It is nice to be with more peaceful people. But soon I will be leaving. I am going to to go Hampi. It's on my list of places to visit because my Uncle Mike, who had previously visited India, had gone and it was one of the few places in India he liked. Granted, he is a rock climber and Hampi is a well-known bouldering destination. At least the beach is beautiful, especially at sunset:

The next morning (I think), I wake up very early and Julie walks with me to town. I need to borrow some money from her because none of the ATMs have worked with my card, and I had to pay for the round-trip van ride. I will send her a check when I get back home. I am thankful for her trust and friendship. Julie really grows on me. She reminds me a bit of my friend Rebecca Glowacki, or of one of my favorite professors, Natalie Gummer, a professor of religious studies and expert on Buddhism. After getting money from the ATM, we separate (if I remember correctly), I find the bus stand and wait. There is still time before the bus comes, so I find a nearby food stand and have some breakfast--either idly or dosa and sambaar, I cannot recall.

Reflections on Ashram Life (Prashanti Kutiram, Jigani, December 1-30, 2008)

This is a combination of an excerpt from an email I wrote friends regarding my ashram experience, and additional information I added today:

The ashram...It was a great experience, especially looking back on it from America, where yoga is so different. At the ashram, it really was about living a holistic "yoga lifesyle," not just yogasanas (physical postures). I learned that yogasanas and pranayama (breathing exercises) are really just a preparation for meditation. The yoga lifestyle is all about experiencing and spreading bliss. Although I learned this in theory from the academic lectures on the four types of yoga--bhakti (devotional), karma (action/service), raja (physical), jnana (intellectual)--I think I learned this most clearly from the yoga games we were sometimes required to play. These were improvised physical or performance games. The Indian students were so spontaneous, unself-conscious and funny. This, too, is a form of bliss and these games brought me to a good place, just like yogasanas or pranayama.

My roommate Jin (from South Korea) and I woke up at 4:40 am every morning for our 5 am class, yogasans for one hour. Then we had pranayama (breathing), then breakfast (always kitcheree, a healthy and delicious mixture of rice and dhal; and then other things such as idlis, which are rice patties; dosa, a pancake-like food; mixed cooked veggies; and the foreigners always got fruit because we ate in a different place for breakfast...kind of strange, but it was nice to have the daily fruit, usually coconut and something else like papaya, and catch up with the other foreigners).

After breakfast, we had maitrimilan (friendship meeting), starting with about 30 minutes of singing--I think verses from the Baghadvad Gita, and then a lecture by Guruji (aka Dr. Nagendra), the guy who started the school. The whole time I thought he must have a PhD in Philosophy or Religion or Medicine, since he talked a lot about physical benefits of yoga, but turns out he was an Engineer with NASA and then decided to open the ashram/university/hospital. He opened it with Dr. Nagarathna, the head doctor. She performs research on the effects of yoga lifestyle (asanas, pranayama, devotion, philosophy) on health and healing, and has been published in important medical journals. Anyway, Guruji was NOT cool. We had to watch so many videos of him talking about key points and then elaborating with long, repetitive stories that weren't necessary for understanding the concepts. Basically, it was hilarious and the students and I had to keep our laughter in many days, but often we were cracking up through the whole lecture. One day my friend wrote in her notes, "bliss=fragrance," and we were wondering what that meant from all the crazy things Guruji said and we had to try to memorize. Then we realized he ended every lecture, saying "Let us now spread the fragrance of bliss."

After maitrimilan we did karma yoga (action/service yoga), usually some menial task, and then had bath time. I learned that Hindus are religiously bound to take a bath every day, hence the requisite time for this. Although Jin and I only had hot water at 4:30 am, we would go into the Indian girls' shared bathroom to get hot water at this later time so that we didn't have to get up so early. The Indian girls had many more people in their room, and shared a bathroom, but they almost always had hot water.

Then back for a lecture and more asanas. Then lunch, one hour break, lecture, yoga games or break or asanas, lecture, two hour break, dinner, devotional singing, lecture, happy assembly (talent show)/something else. I can't remember exactly! We were required to serve during one meal per day. I got the lunch meal, which was the most labor-intensive. People were very demanding--"more rice, didi"--and not very good at instructing me on how much they wanted or where on their plate they wanted food. I was a sometimes angry server.

Another thing we had to do maybe one week into the program were kriyas (cleansing) in the morning. These included jal neti (water through the nostrils), sutra neti (catheter up the nostril through the mouth!), and bamana dhoti (drink 1-2 liters of warm salt water fast, then throw it up to cleans mucus out of stomach lining, on an empty stomach of course). I was at first opposed to all this, but it is much easier to do in a group of 35 people. It's a good bonding experience. Sometimes in the mornings when we were doing asanas inside, we would hear other groups doing their kriyas just outside the wall in the outdoor area where people did kriyas!

We had exams, and though they required only memorization and no critical thinking, it was difficult to cram all the information into my head when we only had about three hours per day of free time, and I was exhausted by our 5 am-9 pm daily schedule. On the first exam, one of the student coordinators of the class came around and gave people answers. I felt so guilty when he gave me answers, but when I talked to others after, they were like, "Yeah, he helped me out, too." Then I justified it to myself, thinking that there is corruption everywhere in India, so corruption in a university ashram must be okay, too!

We also had to write a group paper and do a 30 minute group presentation. My group consisted of: a girl from Canada (Lisa), a doctor from Bangalore who spoke Kanada, Hindi and English (Dr. Satish), a student from Sri Lanka who studying in Tamil Nadu and spoke Tamil and English (Sanjay), an 18-year old freshman girl from Karnataka who spoke Kanada and little English (Aswini), a 20ish-year old girl from somewhere north who spoke Hindi and little English. There were no computers (except pay ones, for the Internet), so we had to write our papers, and our teacher was very particular that we make borders equally on every sheet. It was like elementary school! So, imagine writing a group paper on jnana yoga (our topic, intellectual yoga, one of the harder topics) in a group of 6 people, not all of whom speak English, and then doing a 30 minute creative presentation! Challenging, but fun and rewarding in the end.

In addition to our coursework, the staff at SVYASA had some fun surprises planned for us. On the full moon, they prepared a special meal for us--complete with bhelpuri and gulab jamun--and we ate outdoors on a roof. We played games, and the winners/loosers had to perform (sing, dance) what they were asked to perform. Another day, we hiked through a small village to a nearby nature area filled with intruiging rock formations to have a picnic. We had time to explore, and Yung gu and I had fun taking pictures. Yung gu had a great camera and enjoyed taking photos of people doing things natural to them, things that brought out their personality. Or things that were just plain funny.

We also had Christmas in the ashram, since I was there in December, and I was surprised at how much the Hindus got into it! They were totally excited to learn about Jesus! Jane and Lisa organized the whole thing. The got permission to go to Bangalore with Jai (class assistant) one day and bought the necessary supplies. We decorated Mangala Mandir. We hung a giant star above the state, decorated a small Christmas tree, and made a manger. I was instructed to go out to the cow shed to get some hay. Everyone made paper stockings, which were hung on the stage. We had a birthday cake for Jesus, and birthday cake was given out in the cafeteria for dinner. At satsangh, we sang Christmas carols after the devotional songs. One of my Indian friends Spurthy even lead a carol she had learned in school. We had a Secret Santa gift exchange, during which Jane read The Night Before Christmas. I gave The Kite Runner to Markus (Germany), along with dried dates (one of the more expensive canteen foods) and some fruit. Yung Gu gave me beautiful little butterfly hair clips, which I since lost somewhere in India. At night, there was the option to watch a chipmonks film Remi had. I called home during the film.

At the end of our YIC batch, we were asked to contribute to a Happy Assembly. I got together with Naveen, Spurthy and Nagendra to perform Udja Kale Kawa, a song from a much-loved Bollywood film, Gadar. The film takes place in 1947, during Partition. It is about a Muslim woman who falls in love with a Sikh man, and the conflict that ensues when the woman finds the father she thought was dead working for the Pakistani government in Lahore. I borrowed a violin from the musician who comes weekly to play the hand organ for devotional singing. At one point, I had taken a short lesson with him and he had tought me India scales. The violin is not of high quality, but it will do. Naveen is insistent that the song begins with a very famous violin part, and the audience will love it. I learn the simplified violin part and vamp two variations throughout the song. Spurthy provides the harmony. Nagendra provides the hand organ. Nagendra has a lovely singing voice and sings along with Naveen, but Nagendra's voice is also much too loud for our balance. Our rehearsals are stressful. The Hindi lyrics are difficult for Spurthy, a native Kanada speaker, who must write out all the lyrics before learning them. I have to discern the structure of the music independently, as Naveen is more concerned with getting Spurthy on pitch, and making sure Nagendra doesn't sing too loud. The language of rehearsal is more Hindi or Kanada than English, although I often ask for information. We just don't have enough time. In the end, however, it turns out great. The audience recognizes the song instantaneously when I begin the violin part, and everyone sings and claps along.

Other notable performances during the YIC 89th batch Happy Assembly are Lisa's dance to Madonna; Lisa's broadway singing; and a group of people who do a comedy routine of our class. Ahalya plays Padmasri Didi and Satish plays Dr. Nagendra (Swamiji). Naveen demonstrates the kriyas in a separate comedy routine. What at talented group of people!

The last 5 days were unusual in that there was a cow conference at the ashram, an academic conference on scientific research perspectives related to the cow (the holy animal) and the panca gavyas, or the 5 aspects of the cow used in Ayurveda--dung, urine, curd, ghee and buttermilk. Our course ended early, and we were to do karma yoga for the conference. Though I didn't do much because I had developed a terrible cough/lung infection from lack of sleep and air pollution. I felt fine, but knew I should rest. I attended a few talks. One on curing so many cancers with the panca gavyas. Another--the most controversial--a woman spoke about the cow not being the most perfect animal we think it to be because humans shouldn't drink its milk cuz we don't digest it well, and most mammals don't drink milk after childhood. Some people were upset and said she shouldn't be there. Which reminds me that I did feel some Hindu nationalist sentiment at the ashram. For example, in a lecture about the culture of India that totally ignored all but Hindu religion and culture. I feel the university must get money from Hindu nationalists.

One other thing...I became quite sick at the ashram. I think it was the culmination of so much pollution, plus the lack of sleep and intense schedule, and maybe also the kriyas. In any case, I developed a very audible cough in my lungs. It was nice to be in a place with so many people dedicated to healing at that moment. Satish made sure I was gargling with salt water. He also wrote a prescription for cough medicine, which Lisa and Jane bought when the went into Bangalore. I was advised not to consume dairy. Padmasri Did advised me to drink warm tumeric water. Alan recommended an ayurvedic doctor, who prescribed ayurvedic medicine which, ultimately, I did not purchase. Jin and Yung Gu told me to get rest. When we were in Gokarna after Prashanti, Markus performed pranic healing on me. Although my cough lasted for maybe a month after Prashanti, it was nice to have so many people helping me out. I went to several doctors, took several antibiotics, had an x-ray taken and an IV of saline water, and eventually, with the right antibiotics, my cough got better.

What did I learn in the ashram?

One, observing the Indian students in the ashram, they were so comfortable improvising things at the last minute. When the foreign students were freaked out because the teacher only gave us a day to prepare for an exam (because she didn't want us to have tension), they took it in stride. When we had yoga games (mainly playground-type games, and the winner/loser has to perform in front of everybody), they were awesome at getting up there and throwing something together. I think this, more than the yogasanas, taught me about the bliss that is the yoga lifestyle. The contrast in approaches to coursework and games was articulated well by one of our gurus, who said that Westerners have conquered the external and excel at environmental control, while Easterns have conquered the mind. This is something I try to keep in mind now that I'm home, and something that helped while traveling in India, when I was standing in a densely packed bus, holding onto the side so I wouldn't fall onto anybody, for example.

Two, I got to examine myself and my habitual psychological tendencies in an environment very different from what I am used to, and shed new light on these. For the first two weeks, I was my usual shy, reserved, judgmental, guarded self. But I soon realized I only had so little time with all of my wonderful classmates, and I tried to bond more with them. I really appreciated all the interesting talents they brought to the experience...Spurthy's angelic harmonies during devotional singing; Naveen's comedic charictures; Lisa's positive energy and compelling life story; Julie's natural curiosity and willingness to confront tough questions; Yung Gu's natural friendship, hospitality, and love of adventure; Jin's care and compatibility as a roomate; Virginia's yogasana talent; Mangala's frienship and beauty; Satish's discerning intelligence and patience; Aswini's innocence; Sangay's care and hospitality; Ahalya's quiet wisdom; Ayoush's humor; Heman's talent; Jai's relaxed ways; Markus' dedication to healing; Alan's perpetual cynicism; Beena and Remi's friendship; Padmasri Didi's care for the wellbeing of us all...there are so many people I do not want to forget, I fear I am already leaving someone out...

Three, I try to make relaxation and bliss the goal of yoga classes I teach, rather than physical postures. I believe a slow, less intensive physical practice can be as productive (or more productive) than a physically intense yoga practice, when executed with total awareness. In my teaching and personal practice, I am trying to balance the typical Western yoga practice with what I discovered at SVYASA.

Abode of Peace (Jigani, November 30-December 30, 2008)

At the SVYASA Bangalore center, I am told to wait for a ride to Prashanti Kutiram (Abode of Peace), SVYASA's ashram in Jigani, maybe a 1.5 hour drive from Bangalore. In the mean time, I head to a small restaurant and have my first official South India breakfast--idlis (savory rice cakes) dipped in sambaar (a soup of dhal, tamarind, tomatoes and other vegetables). Indeed, South Indian food is spicier than North India food. But I am comforted by the fact that the ashram is supposed to serve South Indian-style sattvic food, or typical ashram food that does not use intense spices such as peppercorns, peppers and garlic. I also get a ride to a nearby bank to take out funds to pay my tuition. Unfortunately, I can only take out half as much as I need.

Finally, two men, participants in a short residential class for business employees, join me, and we all get a ride to Prashanti. We have to stop when we have car trouble mid-way, and then continue on. They are very friendly, and are eager to say "hi" and ask how my program is going, how am I settling in, etc. whenever they see me on campus. It is a good feeling to meet such friendly people right from the start. They had already been at Prashanti prior to their yoga for business program, and they both spoke very positively of the ashram experience. They say it is a wonderful time to relax in such a quite place.

I spend my first day on campus orienting myself. The campus is full of YIC participants who have just finished the November batch. I ask some of them if the program was good. One Indian girl spoke very highly of it. One European yoga instructor said it was just too much philosophy packed into one month, but that you get a feel for what lectures/programs you really have to attend, and what ones you can skip. A performance artist/dancer from San Francisco advises to make the best of it. I meet two girls in the Internet room who will be in my December batch, the 89th Yoga Instructor's Course (YIC) batch. They are Jane from the US (but also a Canadian citizen) and Lisa from Toronto. They also seem apprehensive about the quality of the course and are writing to the Yoga Alliance to see if this course will count for 200 hour certification. But they are committed, and so am I.

After a little mix-up, I am shown my proper room and meet my roommate, Jin from South Korea. I really like her, and it seems like we will get along well. The room is sparse--we each have a bed and a thick blanket. Unfortunately, her bed is damp and she needs to wait for new bedding. The campus is very busy, as there is a youth school group visiting, and the old YIC batch is leaving, so there are not many extra blankets. We also have an attached bathroom. I am happy we have an Indian-style toilet. We have a bucket shower and hot water only at about 4:30 am, and whatever hot water remains into the morning after others have showered.

I remember my first eating experience at the ashram vividly. I walk into the cafeteria, and it is full with people. I walk into a the washing room, where I learn I am to pick up my metal plate, small cup and bowl. I walk over to the women's side of the sinks, and begin washing the dishes with water and damp brown detergent. I then walk into the eating area, lined on both sides with three or so rows of thin straw-woven cloth for sitting. Men and women are separated. My first subji (vegetable) features bitter gourd, the bitter vegetable I tasted during my first Bangladesh meal, and with which I associate my Bangladesh stomach problems. It is so terrible, and I fear I am in for a long month of barely edible food.

Very happily, bitter gourd is seldom served after this. The food is difficult to adjust to at first, but by the second week, I love it. Ahalya is an older woman in our course from Tamil Nadu, near Auroville. She is a mother figure to me and others throughout the course. She recognizes that I love the food and is always telling me what's good and what I should eat. When she serves, she always asks if I want more.

During the first few days of class, we are issued a textbook, yoga mats (thick woven cloth mats, different from the sport yoga rubbery mats found in the US), shoulder bags for carrying our textbook and other supplies, and a uniform. Women get a one-size-fits-all white salwar and light blue kurta with machine-embroidered flowers along the collar; men get black sweatpants and a white polo shirt with a screen printed image of Swami Vivekananda on the back.

I orient myself to the bookstore, a small shop across from the Internet and STD phone booth room. The bookstore has SVYASA's publications, along with yoga publications from Bihar Yoga and others. It also has toiletries, school and yoga supplies. Down from the cafeteria is the canteen, where we can purchase fresh fruits and snacks in addition to the cafeteria food, which is included in our tuition. Near the canteen is an ayurvedic pharmacy. Near the center of campus is the Arogyadhama, SVYASA's yoga hospital and yoga medicine research institution. There is also a library, but it has no card catalog so finding books is a little tricky. YIC students are only allowed to check out one book at a time. Mangala mandir is the main meeting place for the campus and the building in which we have most of our yoga practice, lectures and devotional sessions. There are other smaller classrooms throughout campus. There is also a nice, wooded walking path through campus, and a cricket field.

The first night, I go with Jin, Yung Gu (South Korea), and Victoria (Hong Kong), Remi (UK) and Beena (UK) to a trataka session. Trataka is a kriya (cleansing practice) for the eyes and meditation technique. Yung Gu and Victoria are roommates, and their room is just two doors down from ours. Remi and Beena are cousins, currently living in the UK, but descendants of Gujrati Jains. Remi was actually born and lived in Tanzania before moving to the UK.

The next day, we meet as a class with our coordinator, Padmasri Didi, and assistants, who are recent graduates of SVYASA Master's programs. We are to address all women at SVYASA as "didi" (sister) and all men as "bhaiya" (brother). We fill out requisite forms, and I meet more of the YIC students.

Alan, from Ireland, is in the one-year Yoga Therapy program. Many of the Indian students are in the Bachelor's program. I realize YIC is a requirement for any of SVYASA's BSc, MSc, PhD, or other programs. Suriya Bhaiya works on campus and is attending YIC for the first time. Ravi is the webmaster with whom I communicated via email before arriving, and he will also be in our YIC batch. Julie is from Rhode Island, but attending an international college and spends each year in a new location.

North to South on the Bangalore Rajdhani Express (Delhi-Bangalore, November 28-30, 2008)

My train is scheduled to depart from Delhi's H. Nizamuddin station at 20:50, and arrive two days, or about 34 hours later, at Bangalore CYJN at 6:35. I will spend two nights on the train, which I am excited for. I love train rides, and I've just started The Kite Runner, so I have an excellent read for the ride. Once I am on the train, I discover that all my meals were include in the ticket price, as this is how the Rajdhani Express caters to its passengers. We are continuously being fed meals of rice, dhal (lentils), subji (cooked vegetables), curd, a sweet, pani (water) and a juice box. In between meals, there are snacks--chai and biscuits, bread with butter and jam. It is difficult to be bored when continuously served culinary surprises.

Along the ride I meet a Pakistani-American man who is about my age. He is in India with a group of Muslims that do service projects. He had already spent some time in an impoverished community in India, and he will eventually head to Bangladesh and Pakistan. I am jealous because he paid the same price as me and got a Bangladeshi and Pakistani visas that last several years, I suppose because he plans to return to these places to do service work and visit family. We talk for a while about values and religion. He tells me about his wife, how they met and fell deeply in love, how she respects his decision to leave for a while and do these service projects, how they have very open communication. When he is in the US, he does IT work for large corporations. It seems good for him.

Later, I join the Muslim-American man in his cabin and meet his two Uzbekistani cabin mates. They are a couple; the man is of Russian heritage, and the woman of Uzbek heritage, but both citizens of Uzbekistan. They are traveling in India to meet a religious teacher they have been following, especially the man. I think the woman works for the Uzbek government, and I cannot recall the man's line of work, but he seems very intelligent. We talk about Uzbek culture and history, Russian culture, and the future of the Russian federation as it relates to Uzbekistan and other former satellite states. The man seems to be very interested in conspiracy theories and the impact of Christian/Western mythology on the development of the world.

I also finish reading The Kite Runner on the train. I am thankful for the time to read. Several times the book makes me cry as I lay in my bunk, hopeful that my Indian cabin mates don't see the tears.

In my last hour or so on the train, I make friends with my cabin mates so that they can help me find a taxi or rickshaw at a decent rate. The group of young men find a ride for me and try to get a good rate, as I stand back so that hopefully the driver will not realize he is taking a white person that he should be charging more.

I thank the men and head off to the Swami Vivekananda Yoga Anusandhana Samsthana (SVYASA) center in Bangalore. It is early morning and the streets are surprisingly calm. My first impressions of Bangalore, and of the South, are positive. It seems like a smaller, more navigable city than Delhi. But maybe this is only because it is morning. We drive past some impoverished areas, and then finally find the SVYASA office.

Thanksgiving and Terrorism (Gurgaon, November 25-28, 2008)

I take a taxi from Old Delhi to Austin's Google guesthouse in Gurgaon. It is the first time I have had to get a cab from Delhi, and I bargain hard just to get the maximum price Austin told me I should pay. Because evening is falling, I will not be able to find a better price. I get to Austin's at night. I'm sure Aarif greeted me and told me the staff missed me.

I inform Austin that I'm planning to stay in India a bit longer, and thankfully he is okay that I will leave my things in his room while I travel. We plan to celebrate Thanksgiving at his guesthouse, and he will invite some of his friends to the celebration. I also reserve my train ticket from Delhi to Bangalore, where I will attend the one-month Yoga Instructor's Course (YIC) at the Swami Vivekananda Yoga Anusandhana Samsthana ashram called Prashanti Kutiram (which, I think, means abode of peace). SVYASA is a yoga university based in Bangalore, but the ashram is in nearby Jigani. There is also a yoga hospital (arogyadhama) on campus, where research is conducted on the healing effects of yoga for a number of physical and mental ailments.

One evening, Austin and I go to his acquaintance's apartment for a party with a bunch of Indians and ex-pats. I don't think Austin knows the host as well as he knows some of his co-workers at the party. I'm quite awkward all-around, because I really don't know anybody. I am thrust into the kind of ex-pat life I saw in Hong Kong, and I don't really like it.

Austin and I plan for Thanksgiving. I spend most of the day at the Internet cafe while he is at work. We meet up and Manbir takes us to grocery stores that tend to have Western fare. Austin finds a smoked turkey that is more like a processed lunch meat than the real bird. I can't remember what else we find, but I know we cannot find pumpkin pie filling. We might also have mashed potatoes. The guesthouse cooks will make our American food, and also Indian food in case the Indian guests don't like the American dishes. We are fortunate to find some nice pastries at a bakery, and these will suffice instead of pumpkin pie.

I learn that on Thanksgiving day, there has been a huge terrorist attack at two expensive hotels in Mumbai. After Thanksgiving dinner, I call home to talk to the family. I tell my mom that I have decided to stay about three months longer in India, and she is worried. She said she was doing so well with my being gone, until she heard about the Mumbai blast. Now she wants me to come home. I assure her that when I am in the ashram, I will not be mobile for an entire month, and I will be in the middle of nowhere, a place not likely to be attacked. She finally says it is okay for me to stay. I talk to everyone, especially Andrew.

I take the next day to finish laundry and pack, and Manbir brings me to the Delhi train station for my 34-hour train to Bangalore on the Bangalore Rajdhani Express.

Decisions in Old Delhi (November 23-November 25, 2008)

After breakfast, the German man and I part ways.

I wander the streets of Old Delhi, probing shops, trying to find cheap Kashmiri pashmina shawls and a place where I can exchange books I've read for ones I haven't. I am looking for a shawl similar to the one a Pakistani friend of mine gifted me in college, the kind with hand-stitched embroidery embellishing the corners and borders. I learn that Old Delhi, such a touristy place, is probably not the place I will find a good price. In fact, although pashmina shawls are probably cheaper in India than in the States, they are still more expensive than I had expected. After trying on some real (and expensive) pashmina shawls, and interrogating the salesman about discerning an authentic pashmina, I find another salesman selling cheap, wool shawls that have embroidery similar to what I had been looking for in pashmina. They are clearly of much lower quality than I would have hoped, but he takes me to his upstairs room and shows me his whole selection. I try on a red and black one, and as he has no mirror, he uses my digital camera to photograph me so I can see how I look.

I bargain hard and he offers them to me for the incredibly low prices I had requested (I think Rs. 400 for the two of them). I didn't think he'd give me that price, and I realize I don't really want them, so I say, "No, never mind, I've changed my mind." He says, "No, you can't do that." I think I've violated a rule of bargaining here, and begin to feel guilty. He begs me to buy the shawls. I will be his first sale for the day, and he's having a slow day. If he can sell these to me, it will guarantee he'll have a good day. The first sale is always a lucky one, he indicates. I buy the two shawls, justifying the purchase by telling myself they'll make good gifts for my mother and Nonna, or at least keep me warm as I travel. Only thing is, they're pretty thick and bulky (compared to pashmina).

I look for some books, but I can't find anything. I cannot remember if it is today or the following day, but one day while I am eating my thali lunch, a parade starts up in the main street of Old Delhi. It is a Sikh festival, and the Sikhs bring their communal kitchen to the streets for all to enjoy. There are brass bands and groups of school children marching through the street in parade fashion. A bus comes through decorated with strings of flowers. The Sikhs have prepared food dishes to share with all the people lining the streets of Old Delhi--chole bhature (spicy chick peas with maida flower fried bread that puffs up like a bubble), and others. Crowds surround some men giving out juice boxes and food. A good time is had by all, but the streets are left to bear the brunt of the festival.

Later in the day, I bump into the German guy. He tells me he's left a note for me with the front desk staff at our hostel. When I get to the hostel, I ask for the note. "Think about it. Do it. You may not get another chance," it reads. Of all the people to give me such advice, he must know something about not getting another chance, I reason. This is the kind of serendipity people come to India for, the kind of coincidence I had heard in other's experiences, but hadn't yet experienced myself. I've been waiting for this all along. Something outside of myself to direct me. My inclination to stay in India for another three months is gaining validity.

Now, I must insert here, that I think I was in Old Delhi for approximately two days and three nights, before I headed off to Gurgaon for Thanksgiving and R&R at Austin's Google guesthouse. I cannot recall the exact order in which the aforementioned events took place, and in what order they occurred.

In any case, I believe it was on the evening of my first day in Old Delhi, after the shawls and the Sikh festival and the note, that I had another serendipitous encounter. I returned to the cute, comfortable cafe where I had been treated to breakfast that morning. I sat alone, looking around at all the travelers who had others to talk to, or who were reserving places for friends. I felt alone, but strong. In came two travelers. They tried to sit down, but another person said, "these seats are reserved for friends."

"Sit here," I said, "I have no friends." I guess I was a little down on myself. They sat across from me, and I recognized American accents. I hadn't talked to an American in a while. Although I was a bit sick of talking to travelers by this point, I asked them where they were from, how long they'd been in India, when they were heading home, etc. They were both originally from San Francisco, but the woman was currently residing in Oregon and running her own travel and outdoor recreation business. They had come to India for a friend's wedding. "I'm leaving early tomorrow morning," the woman said, "but he's..." Stephen was his name. Turns out he was scheduled to leave with her, but contemplating extending his flight.

I told them I had the same quandary. I couldn't believe I was meeting someone even more indecisive than myself, someone who would wait just a few hours before his flight to change his itinerary. He said he felt that he hadn't fully experienced India, that he was still waiting for some spiritual inspiration, the thing people come to India for. I think that for both of us, the decision-making process brought us into our first serendipitous moments in India. For me, these were with the German man and Stephen, and for Stephen, it was with me. I told him about my experience with the German man, about how with his advice, I was leaning very strongly toward staying another three or so months in India, and fulfilling my goal of staying at an ashram and visiting spice gardens. I think this was the mirror Stephen needed to look in, to learn that his soul also wanted to stay a bit longer.

He decided that night to call his airline and change his ticket. He told me that it was because of his meeting with me that he was able to make this decision. I divulged that now I felt very responsible for his well-being and positive experience in India, but he assured me that it was not my responsibility. He seemed very happy about his decision and promptly made plans to leave some of the heavy luggage (for example, a bike kickstand) at the hotel so he could travel light.

I stayed one more day in Old Delhi, and probably met up with Stephen after his friend left on her scheduled flight. But I cannot remember exactly what I did on those days in Old Delhi.

I do know that Stephen was a wonderful person to have in Inida. Although we did not meet up after Old Delhi, we kept in touch via Facebook messages, offering each other our joys and struggles, our doubts and assurances about our decisions. He thanked me many times for helping him fulfill his personal destiny and deepen his spiritual journey in India. He sat in a 10-day Vipassana meditation course and made good friends with a Keralan family who owned a guesthouse. He ended up staying in India maybe 1-2 months longer than I, but we still kept in touch.

Sightseeing in Darjeeling (West Bengal, November 18-21, 2008)

I end up spending about five days in Darjeeling, which is more than I had expected. There are many sights on the Darjeeling tourist list, and I am determined to see most of them. My arrival and departure dates are quite rushed, so I suppose I really only end up using three of the days for sightseeing. The other two days are for moving in and out.

First, I take a two-hour tourist "joy ride" ride on the Toy Train, and visit the train museum en route. The British are credited with directing the construction of the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, or Toy Train, in the mountains of Northern West Bengal. Its inaugural journey was in September 1881, and it is one of the few hill railways still operating in India (India Lonely Planet 535). Without it, the region would have been geographically and economically disconnected from the rest of the country. Thus, although the British presence in South Asia was detrimental in many ways, colonization also resulted in important development projects that had a positive impact. Despite their oppression under British rule, many Indians today seem to retain a subtle sense of reverence for the Crown.

I also visit Observatory Hill, which was the site of the Dorje Ling Monastery (the city's namesake), and is sacred to both Buddhists and Hindus. Today, devotees of both religions come to a temple in a small cave to honor Mahakala, a Buddhist deity and an angry form of the Hindu god Shiva. I arrive at dusk and am a little confused as to where the interfaith temple is located. There are a few other worship spaces on the hill, a labyrinth of prayer flags and devotional bells. A Hindu man eagerly offers to take me on to the temple. Although I should know better by now, I tell him "no money," and because he concurs, I decide to follow. He shows me that, indeed, this is a site for both Hindus and Buddhists--pointing out the iconography and small sculptures unique to each religion. He then walks me through a Hindu prayer, dabs color on my forehead, and shows me now to tie a special knot with a red string, which he advises me to use to pray for my family. As we are walking away from the temple, he asks if I want to buy some marijuana. I didn't see that one coming! Apparently at the other worship spaces, it is common Hindu practice to smoke weed. I tell him no and walk away. I circle the hill a few times, hoping for a nice sunset view and photo opp of the Himalayas and Mt. Khangchendzonga, but this is not to be had.

I cannot recall the order in which I visit the next sights (it has already been six months since I was in Darjeeling), but during the next couple days I visit the following:

I walk quite a ways from my hotel, through Chowrasta, Darjeeling's town center, and to the Tibetan Refugee Self-Help Centre. According to my India Lonely Planet, this refugee center, established in 1959, "comprises a home for the aged, school, orphanage, clinic, gompa and craft workshops that produce carpets, woodcarvings, leatherwork and woollen items" (536). Not listed are the village toilets, my first stop. A sheltered, long, shallow trench (rather than the usual deep hole in the ground), they definitely make my "worst toilets" list for the trip. Things get better as I visit the craft workshops, however. Most of the Tibetan artisans are willing to let me photograph them, and I get some great photos as they spin yarn, some on bicycle wheels.

After the Refugee Center, I continue walking quite a distance in search of Happy Valley Tea Estate, the only Darjeeling tea plantation listed in my guidebook. En route, I take a break at some roadside stands selling Darjeeling tea. Not knowing how long I'll have to wait to find a proper restaurant along my walk, I'm happy to satisfy my hunger a stand that prepares fresh vegetarian momos for me. The savvy saleswoman also prepares samples of tea for me, and I am sold on the silver leaf tea. I buy a nice box for Austin, who has been such a gracious host in Delhi. I also buy a cheaper bag of green tea to take back home.

I continue walking on my way, asking for directions to make sure I don't get off track. I am determined to see a tea plantation here because Darjeeling is famous for its tea. According to my India Lonely Planet guidebook, "The tea bush was first brought to Darjeeling from Assam by British planters looking for a way to break China's monopoly over the tea trade. Credit for the discovery of tea as it's drunk in the Western world should really go to the Khamti and Singpho tribes of Assam, who first introduced British explorers to the healing powers of fermented tea leaves brewed in hot water. Darjeeling produces around 25% of India's tea, including some of the world's finest brews...Teas from estates around Darjeeling and Kurseong (also marketed as Darjeeling tea) regularly and justifiably achieve the world's highest prices" (535).

I finally arrive at the Happy Valley Tea Estate, only to find that I am late for the unofficial tour. A friendly employee, however, lets me inside and doesn't even accept a tip! Although the machines have shut down for the day, I still get to see the withering trough, where high-speed fans reduce the moisture content of the leaves, before they're rolled with heavy rollers to force the remaining water onto the surface. The rolled leaves are then fermented in a high-humidity chamber to produce their distinctive flavor. Fermentation is stopped by passing the leaves through a dry air chamber, which reduces the moisture. The finished tea is sorted into grades--unbroken leaves are set aside for Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe teas, while broken leaves end up as Golden Broken Orange Pekoe, Orange Fannings and Dust--and then graded by expert tasters. Low-grade leaves are blended into household teas, while the best leaves are sold to international tea traders (India Lonely Planet 535). I also see a few women working in a separate room, finishing off their leaf sorting for the day. After visiting the tea plantation, I continue on my way back to the center of town and to my hotel.

Another day I walk from Chowrasta to the Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoological Park and the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute. The zoo was built to conserve and preserve Himalayan fauna, including Himalayan black bears, red pandas, snow leopards, Tibetan wolves, and India's only collection of Siberian tigers. It is quite impressive in that the animals are caged outdoors, in a rocky and forested natural environment.

The Himalayan Mountaineering Institute is near the zoological park. Although this is not my main interest, my Uncle Mike and brother are both climbers, and they have piqued my interest in the sport. The Institute, founded in 1954, both provides training to some of India's leading mountaineers, and hosts the fascinating Everest Museum, which traces the history of attempts on the world's highest peak. Next door is the Mountaineering Museum, with a relief model of the Himalaya, dusty specimens of Himalayan fauna and more historic mountaineering equipment (India Lonely Planet 536). I am especially interested in the history of attempts at Everest, captured in historical documents such as newspaper clippings.

On my third day in Darjeeling, I am surprised to run into the Czech Buddhists I had befriended in Sikkim. We plan to tour Darjeeling together the next day, but they have to book a flight to Nepal as the overland route is temporarily closed due to flooding. Instead, I tour myself and we plan to meet up in the evening to see a Bollywood film. Unfortunately, I am running late and so I go to the theatre alone, hoping to run into them.

I enjoy the film Dostana, which is Hindi for "friendship." It is a comedy about two Hindi men living in Miami who pretend to be gay in order to convince an apartment owner to rent an apartment to them. The owner hesitates because here niece lives in one of the three apartments, but because they are gay, she allows them to rent. Predictably, they both fall in love with the woman, named Neha. What follows is a series of funny scenarios as they try to win the girl while juggling their fake identities. Although the plot is unoriginal, it makes the Hindi film easy for me to understand. I enjoy the music, dancing and humor very much. Apparently, this is the first Hindi film that addresses homosexuality.

I am disappointed to miss the Czechs at the theater, so I walk to their hotel, hoping they will be in the dining area. Luckily, the two Katkas are sitting at the table, and I am able to deliver the box of sweets I bought for them. Soon, the rest of the Czechs come into the dining area, and I am able to hug them all goodbye one last time.

The next day I leave my Darjeeling hotel and take a 2.5 hour share taxi to Siliguri. I am a little worried I will miss my train, as the car isn't filling up quickly, and we have to slow down to pick up travelers along the way. But the driver assures me I'll make the train. He leaves me off in Siliguri, and I take a share rickshaw to nearby New Jalpaiguri, where I will catch my train to Delhi on the same day. At this point, I am still debating whether I should extend my flight, which was originally scheduled to depart Delhi on November 25. I don't want to miss the train, because it might be a few days before I can book another seat, and that would be cutting it close to my flight.

Khecheopalri Lake: The Dalai Lama's Personal Chef, Czech Buddhists and Mountain Caves (Sikkim, November 12-15, 2008)

In the afternoon a share jeep that has left from Geyzing picks me up at Hotel Kabur in Pelling, along with two not particularly friendly Australian tourists, and takes us to Khecheopalri Lake. One of the Australian tourists had just finished reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy and is going to donate it to the hotel library (which consists of about five shelves of books), but I ask him if I can have it and he gives it to me. "It looks like a quick read," I say. "It's good. It's depressing," he says. When I later read the book on a train ride back to Delhi, I am endlessly grateful he gave it to me. I am awed by McCarthy's writing as I absorb his post-apocalyptic story of a father and son venturing across a desolate America.

The hike up to Pala's Guest House is up an incredibly steep hill. A boy, maybe 11 or 12 years old, wearing a T-shirt that reads, "Sid Vicious--Drugs Kill," is at the bottom of the hill to ensure we make the ascent. I am surprised that I stay ahead of the Australian couple, who seem to be struggling. I walk with the boy most of the time, but when he asks me questions, it is difficult for me to catch my breath and respond. I am just hoping the guest house is nice, because I don't want to leave the hill and find another after the climb. The rooms are perhaps the most basic I stay in throughout my entire trip. The walls and floors are thin wood, my bed is a slab of hard wood, and I have to ask several times for another blanket, as nights are cold. My light switch is in the room of another traveler, so I turn my light on and off by screwing and unscrewing the light bulb.

Despite the rustic conditions of the guest house, the legacy and personality of its owner makes the stay worthwhile. Pala, born in the same village that is now home to his guest house, lived in Tibet to attend monastery when he was younger. He eventually became the personal chef of the Dalai Lama. He had two previous wives, but they were killed by the Chinese during the Communist Revolution. He then moved back to his village near Khecheopalri Lake in Sikkim, where he now runs the guest house and teaches meditation. He is a lama in the Nigma tradition, which is a part of Tibetan Buddhism. (The Dalai Lama is a lama in the Galupa tradition. The third form of Tibetan Buddhism is Karmakachi. This is information I gleaned from the Czech Buddhists I befriended.) Pala is ethnically Lepcha, which is a tribe from Tibet. He is 82 years old and has fathered 11 children with his third wife. The youngest child is six years old. A lama is a teacher who, unlike a monk, is allowed to have a family.

Almost immediately when we arrive, dinner is served. With the former chef for the Dalai Lama overseeing the preparation of food, all our meals are excellent. They usually consist of bhat (rice), dhal (lentils) and two choices of subji (vegetables). On this particular night, one of the subji is beans and potatoes and the other is greens. There is always hot water in a thermos for making hot chai, and sometimes cardamom pods to add. When it gets dark, I move to the fire, around which other travelers sit for warmth. I chat with the Australians and also meet a guy from the UK who likes to talk. I go to bed early, as it gets quite cold at night.

I am very fortunate to meet a group of 10 friendly travelers from the Czech Republic, nine of whom are Buddhist, and one of whom is a friend and tagging along. With the fall of Communism and state regulations on religion, there is a surge of young people exploring their religious options in the former USSR. Consequently, there are quite a few Czech Buddhist tourists who are attracted to this part of India. The Czechs I befriend all belong to the same sangha back home and Pavel, who has already traveled in India and Nepal, has organized the itinerary for their pilgrimage. They are mainly sticking to the important Buddhist sights, found in Bihar, Sikkim, Nepal and Bodhgaya. They prefer the more natural, peaceful parts of India and didn't seem to have the best experience when they first entered the country in Delhi. Then again, most travelers don't have positive first impressions of the country. That comes after learning how to navigate the touts and traffic, and after making many mistakes.

Katka is Pavel's girlfriend, and she has brought her friend, also named Katka, and the only non-Buddhist in their group. Beda and Mira are two of the more boisterous members of the group, often cracking jokes and drinking alcohol. I didn't know Buddhists could drink so much alcohol, but I suppose culture overrules religion in this situation. Beda, Mira, Katka and I spend maybe two nights talking and laughing around the campfire as the other Czechs couple off to bed. Alena and Tomas (I think, but could have been Dan) are a couple, but I cannot speak to them much because they don't speak English. Dan (or could have been Tomas) is a nice guy who is very precise with the photographs he takes. There is one other couple, but I am sorry I didn't record their names. They are on a slower travel schedule and will spend more time in Sikkim and in South Asia.

The next day (November 13), the Czechs invite me to hike with them to important caves where famous Buddhists have meditated. Apparently they had tried to get to the first cave the previous day, but had become lost in "the jungle" in the dark, and so decide to attempt it again with a guide. The guide is the same young boy who led me up the hill, presumably Pala's son. Our first hike is to Guru Rimpoche cave, where Rimpoche, an important yogi/lama in the Nigma tradition had meditated. Pala has meditated in the same cave for three months at a time. The hike to the cave is quite a surprise for me. We go through jungle-like forests, with walking paths no wider than two feet and having a steep drop-off on the edge, and with ground that is often wet, slippery and not always dense or stable. I am impressed that the Czechs were able to navigate the jungle the previous night, and now understand why they kept calling it "the jungle" in their retelling of how they got lost. I find that going down is more difficult than going up for me because I am so afraid of slipping and falling. I am surprised I am able to keep up pretty well, however. We return to Pala's guest house for an excellent lunch, similar to the previous night's dinner. Our breakfast this day had consisted of a Tibetan pancake (my favorite of Pala's creations), fried egg and sliced potato with a light sauce.

After lunch, Pala leads us to the next cave, named after Mela Ripa, the most famous Tibetan yogi. As legend has it, when Mela Ripa's father died, people wanted to steal the belongings of him and his mother. At his mother's request, he began to practice black magic and was successful at killing his enemies. He then realized what he had done and began to practice meditation. He became a very good ascetic and had to practice very hard to make up for his tremendous sin. Because he ate only nettles, he is always depicted as having green skin. As with the Guru Rimpoche cave, there is a small opening through which to go further into the cave. We go in and out the same hole at Mela Ripa cave, but Pala comes out a different, more challenging hole.

On our walk home, Pala leads us to the home of one of his village friends. We are invited into an attached room where there is a fire pit and cobs of corn hanging densely from the ceiling. Two men are performing a Nepalese healing ceremony, dancing ecstatically throughout the house and outdoors. Apparently a sick person died recently and they need to purify the area by doing this. We are given chhang, a local alcohol made out of fermented millet. I take a sip and decide to stop, trying to pawn my cup off to one of the Czechs who is willing to drink it. We hike back to Pala's Guest House and chat over dinner and around the fire.

The next morning (November 14), we gather for a breakfast of fried noodles with vegetables, tossed with spongy chunks that are either yak cheese or eggs. The Czechs invite me on yet another cave excursion, and once again I tag along, completely oblivious to the challenging hike that is to come. Today we are headed to Green Tara cave, the most famous in Khecheopalri Lake. According to my Czech Buddhist friends, Green Tara is an emanation of the Buddha's energy field. She gives people a kind of wealth--that is, she gives them what they need so that they are satisfied. Doma is the Tibetan name for Tara and means "to liberate." The color green symbolizes a strong connection with animals. Since it is the most well-known cave, Pavel (the unofficial group leader) erroneously reasons the route leading to it will be the easiest. In actuality, it requires a 500 meter ascension at a pretty steep grade, and a 500 meter descent to return. Our guides are Deepen, the twin brother of Deepesh, who owns Hotel Kabur in Pelling, and Deepen's girlfriend Chudy, one of Pala's daughters. Near the cave, Pala has a small building that is a meditation center. We return to Pala's Guest House in the afternoon for a great meal of dhal, bhat and subji.

At night, we sit around a fire and Pala tells stories. I have a difficult time understanding because his English is so broken. The Czechs seem to be able to understand better because they have a background in Buddhism. Deepen sometimes translates. One lesson I do understand is that being clean inside, as opposed to outside, allows one to rise up. At one point Pala picks up a red coal from the fire, juggles it between his hands, and then places it in his mouth for maybe one minute, maintaining a placid expression on his face. The Czech Buddhists tell me this is a technique used to warm the body, especially during long meditations in the cold mountains. The coal meditation unites the internal fire with the fire from the coal. Since this is our last night, Pala gives us a farewell gift of a locally-brewed alcohol made of vegetables and rice. As with the chhang, I don't drink more than a few sips.

The next day (November 15), we plan our departure. I am torn between hiking to Yuksom or sharing a jeep. Seven of the Czechs do the hike from Khecheopalri to Yuksom, but three of them and I share the cost of a jeep. We also take many of the hiker's bags with us. The ride is only about two hours long, but on very rough roads, so the driver needs to backtrack to Geyzing to get more oil before picking us up, and this makes the ride expensive (Rs. 1400 total; I pay Rs. 225). I do regret not having done the hike, but I chose not to for good reason. I was afraid I would have slowed everyone down. Also, I was sore from the previous two days of hiking and didn't want to get sick or hurt.

Village Visit, near Faridpur District (October 21, 2008)

The next day, Mizan takes me to his grandfather's village because we have been invited to an important meeting of the local cooperative society. We get there by taking a bus, a ferry and another bus.

The cooperative society is a group of men from the village who pool funds and ideas to improve village life. Mizan's older brother, a physician's assistant, is active in the cooperative society. Their biggest outcome has been a fishery. The day of our visit is the inauguration of a new structure to be used as a meeting place and office. They have also invited a political representative of the district.

When we arrive, Mizan and I are instructed to sit at the front of the new structure, in front of growing crowd of what comes to be about 50 men--or 100 eager eyes. I sit between Mizan and the politician who has been invited, and in front of a sign upon which our names have been printed. We are all asked to speak--again, an impromptu speech! This one is, however, less intimidating than yesterday's, as I'm sure the standard of English is lower among this audience of village men, and no one has been given the impression that I am any sort of expert on development. My speech was short but sincere: I congratulated the men on their new structure, told them how welcomed I felt in Bangladesh and how happy I was to experience beautiful village life as an escape from Dhaka. Mizan and the politician also speak, but I cannot recall the content. Something was said about not letting divisions destroy the productivity of the cooperative society.

After the ceremony, we have a locally-cooked lunch (again, only bhat and subji for me). We then visit the fishery. I am offered a local sweet, which tastes like a mixture of milk, butter and sugar. We also visit Mizan's family, including his uncle who is very sick and confined to bed.

Mizan and I take another boat ride. He says he feels different in the village than he does in the city. The air is clean and quiet, and the pace is slower. Nonetheless, this is only the second or third time he has been to his grandfather's village. He works six days a week, long hours. And getting to the village requires two bus rides with a ferry ride in between.

On the way back to Dhaka, we stop at Mizan's aunt's house in Faridpur. It was she who nursed him when he was young, as his mother was preoccupied with his sick brother. She is very emotional and scolds Mizan for not having visited earlier. They haven't seen each other in years. She serves us dinner, filling our plates to make sure we have enough to eat. After we leave, we receive a call from her. She is upset because she forgot to offer Mizan a sweet (which he was too full to eat anyway). This is Bangladeshi family life; this is Bangladeshi love.

Meeting Shilpi in Brahmanbaria (October 20, 2008)

As was previously mentioned, one of my objectives in traveling to Bangladesh was to meet my uncle Mike's sponsor daughter, Shilpi. He is currently giving her financial support so that she can get a good high school education at a boarding school in Brahmanbaria (Chittagong Division), a small district in east-central Bangladesh. Mizan and I take a day trip from Dhaka to visit her at the school. Her father, a village doctor, has also come for the day from his village.

We meet with the principal, who is effusively enthusiastic about the effectiveness of his institution. He takes me on a tour of the classroom facilities and dormitories. Each time he sees a student, he poses questions to them in English, "How do you like it here? What is your favorite part of the education?" I feel bad for the students, who are obviously afraid of him and nervous about speaking English. Often, they reply that their favorite of the school's values is "discipline." Then, he makes them ask questions of me: "What is your name? Where are you from? How old are you?" they ask, quietly and with trepidation.

Shilpi is just as shy, if not more than the other students. She is a special case at the school, as they made an exception for her and allowed her to enter later, in class 9, rather than starting with the rest of the students in middle school. She seems to be adjusting well and making friends, though it must be difficult for her to come from her small village and fit in here. She is so quiet and barely articulates a conversation with me about my family and Mike. Yet, I can tell that if she weren't so shy, she would show me that she has learned a sufficient amount of English in a very short time. Despite our limited conversation, I can tell from her smile, bright eyes and soft presence that Shilpi is a sweet, sweet child. I am so happy to have met her.

After the school tour, the principal makes me speak to a group of about 20 teachers at the school. Mike has told him that I taught English in Hong Kong (in actuality I was only an English tutor), so he is under the incorrect impression that I am a teacher. The teachers each introduce themselves and their subject, standing when they speak to me. I insist that they do not need to stand. Then the principal asks me to give a lecture on my teaching philosophy. I make something up about the importance of creating opportunities for critical thinking and questioning. In language instruction, I note the importance of conversation practice as well as written practice for students who may be too shy. I cannot think of anything else to say. Then the principal asks me to sing a song for the teachers, as I have a background in music (instrumental music, however). Mizan has been asking me to sing for him all along, and I have refused. The children at the orphanage and Shobnam's sister have also asked me to sing. This is Bangladeshi culture. For some reason, I cannot remember the words to any songs beyond maybe the introductory verse. I squeak out the beginning of Cat Steven's "The Wind." Then, the principal introduces a young female student who sings two songs beautifully. The audience is moved, and I am told the songs are about the freedom fighters who fought in the liberation war.

After this ordeal and a lunch of bhat (rice) and subji (vegetables), Mizan and I take Shilpi and her father to a nearby Hindu temple, as they are Hindu. Then it is time to part. Shilpi's father tells me, "You are family. Mike is my brother and you are my daughter."

Mizan and I walk to the nearby lake and search out a canoe to rent. He bargains with some local boys and we relax on the water for some time before catching a bus back to hectic Dhaka.

On why an "I survived Dhaka" t-shirt seems appropriate... (Dhaka, October 8-22, 2008)

I didn't realize until well into my trip that my Lonely Planet guidebook suggests spending about two days in Dhaka. In their highlights of the city, they list, "getting the hell outta there!" Needless to say, I ended up spending over two weeks in Dhaka. In contrast to Bangladeshi villages, it is a jungle constructed of concrete structures and electrical wires with rivers of rickshaws, CNGs and barreling buses, fogging the view with exhaust. Mornings, the call to prayer wakes me, bouncing from mosque to mosque, an asymmetric echo. Traffic seems much more hazardous than that of any city I have visited in India, with unforgiving buses speeding in a sea of cycle rickshaws, each uniquely adorned with paintings of popular film heroes and heroines. Each rickshaw ride feels like my last, as the lungi-clad (a lungi is a cloth wrapped to make a skirt, worn by men in Bangladesh and India) rickshaw drivers have developed the strength to traverse town at impressive speeds, and I fear I will fall off the tiny seat when we hit an inevitable speed bump or pot hole, or nudge the rickshaw in front of us as we slow to a stop.

Jagorani and Bottomley Home Orphanage

We arrive in Dhaka the morning of October 8. Mizan pays a young boy to carry my bag, perhaps half the weight of the boy, on his head. I haven't carried my bag since I arrived in Bangladesh it seems--Mizan either carries it or pays someone to do so. We take a CNG (an auto-rickshaw, called CNG in Bangladesh, because they run on compressed natural gas) to Farm Gate, an area in Dhaka where Jagorani and Botomley Home Orphanage are located. Here is a view of a busy (and typical) street near Shadarghat port, taken from the launch on which we arrived in Dhaka:

My Uncle Mike donates money to Botomley, an orphanage run by nuns of the Associates of Mary, Queen of Apostles for rural children who would otherwise not be able to afford an education. (For more information, visit http://www.botomleyhomeorphanage.org.uk/). The same order of nuns also runs Jagorani, a home for unmarried women who make and sell traditional handicrafts. I stay in a clean room here, under the care of two kind nuns, the affable Sister Protibha and the somewhat more stern Sister Lillian. After a filling breakfast, including toast and jam, which I haven't had since leaving home, I am told once again, "take rest," and happily I go to my room. Here is a picture of Sister Protibha:

I go to the orphanage for the first time, as I had planned to volunteer there as an English tutor. The children are gathered in one space and I am told to sit in front of them. I bring the candy that Mike gave me money to buy as a gift for them, a break from the monotony of orphanage meals. Some of the children greet me with a bouquet of beautiful flowers. Then the kids sing some songs, including "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," which seems to be required learning for grade school children here. Some girls are asked to dance but are very shy and finally give way to the sister's demands. I am surprised, embarrassed and overwhelmed by all this attention.

After the formal presentation, I go with some of the older girls for a tour of the orphanage. It is modeled after a village to accommodate the children who have come from that kind of lifestyle. There are animals and a garden. The facilities seem excellent--classrooms, dormitories, a dining hall and worship room. I am surprised at how nice of a place it seems, given the images that the word "orphanage" usually conjures. In actuality, I learn from Sister Protibha, the orphanage is doing financially well because of recent donations, including those of Muslims who have donated for Eid. Mizan informs me that compared to other orphanages in Bangladesh, this one is well-off. Indeed, the children are very fortunate to have shelter and schooling, compared to the streets where so many other children find their home.

The girls seem very excited to meet me, but a bit too energetic for a traveler in a new land, dragged down by a late summer heat. They make me play badminton on a field where other children are playing soccer, and I don't much like the prospect of being hit by a ball, something I haven't had to watch out for since the elementary school playground. Later, they crowd around me, tugging at my hair, not understanding why I don't have it combed straight. They take out my elastic and comb it for me. They ask about my mother, father and brother. And, most importantly, "am I married?" They ask about my job and my schooling. They try to teach me Bangla, but it is difficult to understand their overlapping shouts. I want to involve the quieter, younger ones but they are not assertive enough to join in the broken conversation, riddled with translations and topics that change with each excited interviewer. Ultimately, I feel like a teacher unable to control her students, failing. On another visit, the same group of older girls decides I should try a sari, a dress made of one long piece of cloth. One of the younger teachers, herself a former Botomely orphan, helps them to dress me in a sari, makes up my face, combs my hair straight (of course) and, despite my protests, manages to dot my forehead with one of the biggest bindis I have seen. I try to avoid volunteering at the orphanage after these experiences.

What to do...

For about five days, I do very little. I am still getting over sickness and the heat makes me very lazy. Also, I find Mizan and the sisters to be extremely protective of me and they won't let me go anywhere on my own. Since Mizan works from about 7 am-7 pm, I am resigned to Jagorani. On Sunday morning, I go to the nearby church, not understanding any words, but recognizing the general structure of the Catholic mass.

Wanting to feel useful, I offer to help Sister Prothiba in whatever way she needs. What is needed is for me to copy the greetings of Christmas cards and write them in the handmade Christmas note cards designed by the women at Jagorani. It is October, but the Christmas season is very busy, so Sister is already preparing cards for the most important priests, bishops and Sisters of Bangladesh. After, I type addresses and distribute them for envelopes. I am happy to help, and even more happy to work with Sister Prothiba. She always seems to be working on or planning something, and she always seems to be happy in a quirky sort of way.

At night, she always insists on coming to my room and helping me put up my mosquito net. One night, she invites me to her room. It is a simple room, with not more than what I have in my room, despite her permanence there. She has a graphic picture of Christ wearing a crown of thorns. It strikes me how universal religion can be, and I wonder if she understands the Christ story in the same way a Westerner would. I wonder what the story looks like through Bangladeshi eyes. When I was at mass, were people having the same emotional responses as people at home? Are the meanings exactly the same, or is there variation? And if there is variation, how can there be one Truth?

On another day we celebrate Sister Lillian's 70th birthday. I can't believe she is 70--she looks so healthy and young, not a day over 60. She said even her doctor thought she was lying about her age. I buy some Bengali sweets to give her, and there is a Western cake as well. All the girls and Sister Prothiba gather to celebrate. Sister Prothiba sings a folk song and dances--something about a person in a boat. I am the photographer. Here is a picture of Sister Lillian (left) and Sister Protibha with the Jagorani girls at Sister Lillian's birthday celebration:

Sometimes I sit with the girls while they are working. They are kind, but the language barrier is quite strong. We watch a TV drama. Something about a woman who is arranged to marry a man, but is in love with another man. So typical here. Marriage problems. Would someone tell something original?

Dhaka's Tourist "Attractions"

Bangladesh as a whole lacks the impressive temples and archaeological attractions that India has to offer. The attractions I get around to seeing in Dhaka include the Bangladesh National Museum, Ahsan Manjil (the pink palace), the modern-looking Parliament building designed by Louis Khan, the pleasantly wooded Dhaka University campus, Old Dhaka and Shadarghat port. Here is a picture of Shadarghat port:

Mizan takes me to the national museum, a comprehensive storehouse of dioramas and artifacts detailing Bangladesh's agriculture, flora and fauna, traditional village life, clothing, weaponry, musical instruments and jewelery. It has artwork by Bangladeshi painters, the most striking of which are a series of paintings commemorating Bangladesh's famine of 1974. The museum also has a large exhibit on the Liberation War and important leaders in the nation's history. After the national museum, Mizan takes me to Ahsan Manjil, an Islamic palace pink in color. We go out for dinner, although the only thing I can eat is the tandoori naan because there is no vegetarian option. Still, it is one of the best naans I have tried.


Surviving Dhaka

I am beginning to feel defeated. The orphanage didn't work out. I have been sick on and off since arriving in Bangladesh. And it seems Sister Protibha and Mizan are too protective to let me travel around Dhaka or other parts of the country alone. I find an out: I tell Mizan about Christiaan, a Dutch traveler I met in Kolkata who said he'd be coming to Dhaka to renew his Indian visa. I receive an email from him with the details of his hotel. "Let's be bored in Dhaka together!" he writes. Mizan and I take a rickshaw across the city to Old Dhaka and find Christiaan! We suggest that we hang out a few days in Dhaka until he gets his visa, and then head off to some other intriguing destination. Here is a picture of Christiann, relaxed despite the stares of curious Bangladeshis:

I email Christiaan about how trapped I am with the nuns, and he is kind enough to pick me up at Jagorani every day so that they won't worry that I've left alone. Turns out Christiaan knows of two other travelers, both of whom had stayed at our hotel in Kolkata (Hotel Maria), and who were in Dhaka dealing with visa issues. We take a CNG to the Indian Embassy, which becomes our meeting point for the next few days.

Magda, a Polish traveler hoping for an Indian transit visa, is already at the embassy. Later we meet Raphaella, an Italian traveler trying to renew her visa for maybe the sixth time. Christiaan is the only one who knows us all. All three have great personalities and I have a wonderful time with them. Christiaan, originally from Holland, resides in London where he was a bike courier living out of his van. Magda, from Poland, lost her job two years ago and has been traveling ever since in India, Nepal and Southeast Asia. She has a list of about 200 sights she was determined to see before going home. She is tenacious and willing to bargain on anything. She loses patience easily with Bangladeshis and their "where are you from?" questions. She makes me laugh. Raphaella, from Naples, Italy, is in India researching for her PhD in comparative literature with a focus on Indian and American writers. She has a wealth of knowledge on Indian culture and politics. I am happy to have someone with whom to discuss contemporary Indian society. Easily impassioned, Raphaela often describes what she is seeing or has experienced--from the greenery of Bangladesh, to its friendly people, to her experience in the US and, in particular Vermont, to the family she stays with in Bangladesh--as, "It is/was so beautiful." Like Magda, she also has a bite in her and is spending her days fighting with workers at the Indian Embassy to ensure she will be able to obtain another (her sixth!) Indian visa. Here is a picture of Christiaan and Magda at our chai break. Christiaan is in good spirits, but Magda is becoming increasingly impatient with the gathering crowd of Bangladeshi men.

Here is a picture of Raphaella and I, sitting opposite Christiaan and Magda, taking a chai break, with an audience:

The three of us spend about three days in Dhaka together, each day meeting at the Indian embassy and then going from there. One day we ride across Dhaka from Gulshan (where the embassy is) to Old Dhaka and Shadarghat port. We rent a boat for an hour and enjoy the sunset from the water. We stop, sit and sip chai, only to find ourselves surrounded by a growing crowd of curious Bangladeshi men and boys, which makes for some photogenic moments.

I observe that the chai is made differently than I have seen in North India. In Bangladesh, it is made with sweetened, condensed milk rather than fresh milk. Another day Christiaan and I go to the American Embassy so that I can cast an absentee ballot for Barak Obama while Raphaella and Magda deal with their Indian visas. There is a Bangladeshi American at the embassy who is also voting, and I ask him the name of Obama's running mate, as I don't recall and it seems to be a required part of the ballot. Now I know my vote will count. We relax one night at the refreshingly arborous campus of Dhaka university. We explore some markets, browsing books, watching workers stamp ink patterns onto cloth, and pausing for chai and cold drinks. Here is a picture of a young boy at work:

Muslim praye caps for sale on the street:

We decide that, after everyone receives their passport from the Indian Embassy, and after I do two day trips with Mizan, we will take the Rocket from Dhaka to Khulna. The Rocket is the government-owned version of the private launch Mizan and I took from Khulna to Dhaka. The trip in the opposite direction will take around 30 hours. We are hoping to organize an affordable tour from Khulna to the Sundarbans.