Bad me milenge

600 Rs. and 35$ is what I needed to cross the border. The 600 were for the bus to Sunauli, a breakfast consisting of an omelet, toast and a chai, a night sleep in the Nepali side of Sunauli and another bus to Pokhara.

Left Varanasi about 2 hours late. Too many people in a little uncomfortable bus for a 10 hour ride. I got to the bus station on a rickshaw which I shared with Shannon, an Israeli woman. Once my rucksack was safe in the back of the bus, I proceeded to get in the bus to see the inside fully packed. Tourists mixed up with a bunch of rude south Indian business men was indeed an interesting image. Tourist politeness has no limits it seems. The Indians had occupied seats that weren't theirs and no complain was given by any single tourist, instead, they managed to seat were they could. By the time I had got in the bus, I wasn't aware of any of this, so I asked 3 Israeli how did the seat numbers worked out, pointing me to a piece of paper in the window that separated the driver form the passengers.

The Israeli girl was sitting in my seat. "I think that's my seat" I said. "Well, seat somewhere else" was her response. There were many ways to answer to my statement, that was not the way. The response itself wasn't all, the rudeness in it, probably due to her hard Israeli accent, probably due to simple rudeness and ignornce of politeness, made me furious. It was the second time in India I had lost it. At least this time it wasn't with an innocent rickshaw driver.

A little notice of buses in India. You want to sit in the front. The bumps and the curves of the unconditioned Indian roads are more noticeable in the back. It was a 10 hour ride and I had no intention to sit in the back. So with a surge of hate I claimed my seat.

"What?" My face was a shock, I couldn't believe what I had just heard, even more, I couldn't believe the tone of what I had just heard. "Why do I have to look for another place? You get another place!" I demanded. At that point, no explanation was going to make me chill out. Did I have an Israeli issue there? Would I have reacted different were they not Israeli? Maybe. Perhaps. The thing is that I reacted as I reacted. I wasn't coherent. I had had enough of Israelis in the past week and was fed up with their attitude. One of the guys explained me the situation, something they should probably said from the beginning instead of giving such an answer. They were also shocked by my reaction. After a while of criticizing Israelis in general, I realized I didn't care of that seat anymore. They weren't going to give it to me, and I didn't feel like sitting next to an Israeli anyway, so I ended sitting in the only available space at the end of the bus, right next to a fat Indian guy that occupied his seat and half of mine. It seemed as it was going to be the worst ride of my life.

But it wasn't. I mean, it didn't ended up being good, but it wasn't as bad as it looked. Actually, it seemed in a point as it was going to be the most comfortable trip I had ever had in India. Let me explain. All the Indians were taken out of the bus to be put in another bus. We thought we were going to be left in that bus, so they were plenty of free spaces. An illusion that didn't last long. Soon enough we had to get down, get our bags, and change bus. While the Indians were taken to a smaller but more comfortable bus, we were stuck in a wrecked bus with smaller seats. No free spaces in this one. And so I shared the trip with an old hippy English guy fond of playing the bass guitar and of jazz music. Smart enough, the guy was prepared with some "bang" out of which I had some, and indeed made the trip a bit more pleasant.

We end up at Sunauli at past eleven. Everyone was asleep. The town looked totally of what a border town should look like at night. No activity. We went to the Indian post to wake up the guards. Hard work. Once fully awake, the guard recover his cleverness and before handing us any papers to fill out or accepting any passport, he sits comfortably in his sit, with his fat stomach protruding onto his lap, and his face changes into a malice grim. "I help you, you help me. 10 Rupees each." he bursts out. Some protest, guess who. But quick enough, a Kiwi guy interrupts the protests with a "Oh just pay the god damn money". I mean, come on, it's almost 12 in the night, we still have to deal with the Nepali guards, and it's only 10 Rs we have to pay. It could have been worse. It was my first baksheesh in India. Curiously to get out of the country. Almost!

The rest of the crossing went on with normality. A short night sleep that would take us straight to a bus to Pokhara. A tourist bus that seemed more like a local bus, as it kept on stopping everywhere getting more passengers every now and then, and packing up the bus until the point some people decided to finish the rest of the trip on the roof. Yes, that is possible.

Crossing the border had not been a comfortable experience. My first insights of Nepal weren't being attractive. I just wanted to get to Kathmandu and renew my Visa. I was confused and frustrated. I was at a loss and I missed India.

We can't tell the future, or at least I can't. And I couldn't dream on how everything was going to change. But at the moment, I could only think on going back to a country I had already started to love. Love it's people, it's colors, it's sensations, it's variety, it's odors, it's dynamics, everything. The Indian heart and it's nature, full of love. I couldn't say goodbye, I could only say see you later, cause I was going back. 

Bad me milenge!

A city around life

Washing ghats, bathing ghats and burning ghats. Varanassi is a city of creation, learning, living and death. Early in the morning tons of people get in the Holy River, the Ganga, and take their daily bath.

The Ganga is born in Uttaranchal, one of the most beautiful states of India. It flows along the north until its end at Calcutta. It is a beautiful river, and when you see it at Varanassi, at Rishikesh, when you see it at it's formation, you can guess why would it be chosen as the holiest river in the world. Unfortunately, it is also one the most contaminated rivers in the world, and myself, would not consider at all getting any part of my body in it. But Indians in Varanassi live their lives around the River.

Among their daily activities, they wash their clothes there. They wash their animals, their Holy animals. And they wash themselves. Working next to the river is a usual thing for different kinds of vendors. Boat riders, postcard sellers, chai stalls or flower sellers for the daily pooja depend on the river and its everyday visitors, tourists and believers from every part of the vast country.

As the holiest city in India, the pooja is celebrated everyday at 6:00 p.m. A ceremony that takes about an hour and is performed at the main ghat, the Dasaswamedh Ghat. Incense intoxicates your nostrils and covers the place with a dim gray air, while young men perform the ritual in sweaty tired faces. Meanwhile, totally unaware of the importance of the act, you run around the place taking photos of everything that moves, or just sit and watch the show. Because, that is the sensation I got of it. A mere tourist show, with colorful lights and nice costumes. Whatever the pooja was, I have the feeling it has been forgotten years ago.

Not far away, at the Manikarnika Ghat, another ritual takes place. Something not as beautiful, but equally significant. Something that can be even repulsive or perverse. The ritual of death. It's the burning ghat, where Indians go to die and get burned according to their believes. Logs and logs of wood are piled up in the ghat, behind the ghat, and in front of the ghat, in the boats that transport it from other regions of India. The smell is not appealing and the sight is not apt for all stomachs. But not everyone is burned. Pregnant women, kids under 10 or Sadhus can't be burned according to tradition. Their bodies are thrown directly to the river and can be found along its edge some kilometers away. Should you go to the other side, hidden in the white sandy beaches terrible images might appear. And altogether is surrounded by terrifying stories.

And back along the ghats, babas and sadhus flood the place with their colorful poojas on their fronts, remembering again a colorful India. And after a walk, you can see that the Sadhus with their conversations, sellers with their contact with tourists, tourist with their contact with locals, believers after their bath and their pooja, and even the animals, have learned a little bit more of the music of life.

Bad luck or bad choices

Sometimes, when you travel alone, you are destined to keep on that way, alone. You can't control all the odds around you, so the choices we make along the trip might get us to were we want to be, or not. They might make us feel good, or just a bit more lonely than we already are. What makes us strong however, is how well do we endure those lonely times. After my time in Bundi relating mainly with Indians, I was fond of some tourist company.

My runny nose on my arrival to Varanassi was followed by a slight fever that kept me in bed most of the three following days. Not feeling good enough to step outside the bustling city, my few excursions were only to go to the Internet and nearby restaurants to eat.

My guest house was right next to the main street, but far away from the tourist beat. Not really far away, but not in it. I depended mainly on the people I could get to meet on the streets, restaurants and my own guest house. But as I said, I didn't make a good choice in choosing it.

90% of the guests there were Israelis. That fact automatically prevents you from making any relationship within the hotel. You might try as hard as you want, but if you don't speak Hebrew, forget about it. They'll acknowledge you, but ignore you. Why would they want to talk with someone of another country if they feel in their own country when surrounded by their people? The only other foreigner I got to see was American, and he just wanted to be alone. So the only choice in meeting people was in restaurants.

The restaurants nearby weren't really crowded with foreigners, and it wasn't until I recovered from my cold that I discovered the tourist beat. It was in the Old City. The area I had discarded for two reasons. Jimmy, and eighteen year old Indian boy I met in Kudle beach recommended the Assi area, and the Lonely Planet didn't precisely recommend the Old City area, so it made sense. What a huge mistake!

Once discovered, I spent most of my time between the ghats and one of the restaurants, one of the many German Bakery's. There I wrote, I draw and I observed the people coming in and out. The usual costumers and the first timers, the foreign tourists and the Indians, the hippy dressed and "normal" dressed. The street outside was busy, not as much for the quantity of passers by, but for the narrowness of the street. Carts, motorbikes, cows, water buffalo's, tourists and locals tried to get their way, sometimes jamming the shaded streets for a couple of minutes.

But still there I wasn't lucky in the action of meeting people. I relied on getting seated with other loners as me, but generally couples seated. On one occasion I tried to make conversation with a Japanese couple. Extremely complicated. Their English was really bad. So I generally consumed my time, and myself, on drawing. Sometimes, actually, ignoring those who seated with me at the table.

I remember a night I invited to the table a couple of Spanish girls and an Argentinian man. Conversation was fluent and interesting. The guy from Argentina was dressed as a Baba. He had long dirty dreads and a dense grey and black beard. He called himself an artist, selling things wherever he went. His next destination was Italy. One of the things that shocked me the most was his stubbornness when talking about image. His image, is well-known, isn't liked in westernized countries. In his own country, he said, people look at him with repugnance. And he talks energetically and repudiates the high concept of the image in these countries. He felt good and safe in India. But he didn't realize, and didn't want to realize, for more I insisted, that he was using his image to feel that way. He depended on his image to survive in India without a coin. He got in trains for free, or got food and beverages from other Indians, just because they venerate him as a Baba. What he looked like. His tanned skin was obviously an advantage. Babas, saddhus or Holy men are at the center of Indian spirituality. They don't work, and hardly have any possessions. People give them money, food, or whatever they need. They are the wise men in Indian religion. It's amazing how hypocrites can we get to be. Repudiate a concept when it doesn't favour us, but ignore it when it plays to our advantage. How far away was this guy from the image he was giving. A kid was definitely wiser than him, at least if it's for the innocence a kid see things.

So days past by, without any new interesting acquaintances, until the time to go to Nepal.

A ride in the track lanes II

7:30 a.m. - I arrive to the Nizamuddin Railway Station, 3 kilometers from the New Delhi Railway Station. I start conversation with a foreign couple looking puzzled at a map. They had just arrived to India that morning, and were heading to Rajasthan from that station later on the day. They were there just to know where the station was, though, they had no clue where they were. So the three of us head outside for a rickshaw driver. They were heading to Connaught Place and I was heading to New Delhi Station, so I bargained a rickshaw for the three of us.

It was a hard bargaining. I wanted to pay only 30 Rs. He wanted 100. We ended up paying 60 because the other couple went for it. So they payed ended up paying 40 Rs. asking me if it was enough. Of course it was, I was going further away. I felt as if I was ripping them off 10 Rs.

Once in the station, I wanted to double check on my train ticket. It was just a printed piece of paper. It wasn't a complete sheet, it had been cut from the middle. The face of "What the fuck were you thinking of" when they saw my torn paper said I needed the whole sheet. So I start to panic. I had paid 500 Rs. for that ticket. I call Immy and tell him to send me the whole ticket to my email account. They try, but nothing comes out. After several unsuccessful tries, I gave up and decide to get in the train with what I had.

At 15:15 I get in the train. A fat guy with what appeared to be a mixture between a burlesque and a grotesque face started conversation with me. It was a long trip, so I had to keep it on. The worst thing you can have in long journeys are enemies. So just try to be always nice and patient. He offered me peanuts, and I took them. Only 5 minutes later a group of people sat in front of me and also started conversation. One of the first things one of the guys tells me is: "Don't accept food or drinks from anyone." I knew this. I've always known this. Tourists travelling alone have been robbed of all their belongings after they accepted a drink or food that would put them to sleep. I was starting to relax, to get confident. My experience in Bundi had served just right, or maybe the other way round. I was back in India, and I felt comfortable with it, more than I had felt in my almost two months in Goa and surroundings. On that train, on that moment, I realized I was going to miss it, I was going to miss India on my stay in Nepal. The rest of the trip went on, with new faces coming and going until a whole family occupied the rest of my compartment with bundles and bodies of kids and grown ups.

I had been reading about Varanassi in my Lonely Planet. I was getting freaked out. I had just read the "Dangers and annoyances". If you don't really want to go there, just read that section and your mind will be cleared on not going. No doubt at all. But I was already going. I had to go. I wanted to go. It couldn't be that bad.

And finally, after a 16 hour journey I arrived to Varanassi at 7:30 a.m. The train had been too cold. Not even my sleeping back was enough. I had a runny nose that came from my journey from Kota to Delhi and that would keep on with me for the next 3 days in Varanassi.

I stepped out of the train thinking I would find thousands of Indians trying to get me into a hotel, a taxi or a rickshaw. I was ready for the battle. But only one person came. He got me to the Pre-Paid rickshaw stand and I paid 70 Rs. There was nothing to bargain, nothing to argue. That seem too peaceful for me despite of what the guide said.

Finally, after checking out three guest houses near the Assi Ghat I stayed at the worst option possible. Staying near the Assi Ghat had been already a bad decision. But I would not know about that until later on. However, before going for a decent sleep I had some breakfast on the rooftop, where I talked with an Indian guy working in Zurich as a waiter and visiting the Holy city on holidays. Strange I thought. But that was just a preview of what Varanassi can get to be. Actually, that was insignificant to what Varanassi really is.

At 9:20, finally, I go to sleep.

A ride in the track lanes I

8:30 a.m.
"Knock, knock."
"Yes?" My sleepy voice said.
"Hot water."

Hot water on a bucket. My 100 Rs. room hat hot water on a bucket, but it had to be delivered to my room before 9:00 a.m. Otherwise, there was no more hot water as electricity didn't come back until 5 p.m. So more than once my door was knocked at 8:30 when I would start my days at Bundi.

My last day in Bundi, I wanted to take a hot shower before my long trip to Varanassi. On my arrival to Kota I tried to get a train directly to Varanassi, but it was impossible. There was only one train a week to do that journey, and it was on Friday's. So it was either too early or too late to get it. My solution was to get a train to Delhi, which I booked directly at the Kota train station. Unfortunately, I couldn't book a train there from Delhi to Varanassi, and the girl wasn't being very helpful anyway. So I didn't even asked about the possibility.

Once in Bundi I managed to book a train from Delhi to Varanassi through an agency. It turned out to be a total rip-off, but what to do? I could have tried to book it on my own through the Internet, but I went for the easy and sure option. I liked the guys that had sold me the ticket, they were honest, as honest as an Indian businessman can be, but the guy that actually booked the ticket, oh, I didn't liked him nor his expensive commission of 200 Rs. The excuse given was the use of Internet and telephone calls. What was he thinking, that I was new in India? I resigned though, cause I thought it was too late to try it for myself. Should've tried it for myself on the first place.

The day went on slowly talking with the guy from the grocery store and many of his friends who invited me to chai and some snack I can't recall it's name, Immy and Tanny from the Internet place, Deepak, whose mom did the best rice I've ever tasted in India, Yug and other artists, and at Ringo's Restaurant playing Carom.

Immy advised me to leave at about 7:30 p.m. And at about that time I was saying goodbye to all my new friends. Indian friends, not a single tourist. On my way to get a rickshaw I bumped into J.P. whom I'd met at Ringo's. I didn't trust him, but he was fun to be around. He was learning Spanish from a notebook he had and practiced with it whenever he was with me. From his talk I would say he was a trickster. He said he owed money to his friends, all of them tourists. He dressed and acted as a tourist wearing a backpack wherever he went. Immy talked about him with a bit of disdain.

I finally get to bargain a rickshaw for 20 Rs. to go to the bus stand. Once in Kota I bargain a rickshaw for 30 Rs. to go to the train station. They laugh at me, or with me, I can't tell. Again they wanted 60 Rs. but I wasn't up to paying more than what I had payed for the same journey on my arrival to Kota. And I won again.

9:00 p.m. - I'm waiting outside the train station for a train that is not leaving until 11:40 p.m. eating some biscuits and smoking my rolls.

10:30 p.m. - My train is delayed 40 minutes.

10:50 p.m. - A kid asks for money while I talk with an Indian fellow who is going to Delhi in a train that leaves in front of my bored face. The kid keeps on asking until he gets bored and punches my arm. I don't even bother about it.

11:30 p.m. - I go outside to smoke more cigarettes and more snacks.

12:20 a.m. - I go inside to wait. I'm the only tourist in the whole station. I get stared, talked about, but I can't say what they are saying. I think to myself how important it is to learn the foreign language and I promise to myself I'm going to study again my Hindi notes. I didn't, at least in Varanassi.

12:30 a.m. - My train is delayed 10 more minutes. I don't know where to look, how to sit, what to do.

1 a.m. - I finally leave to Delhi coldly cuddled in my sleeping bag, one eye asleep, one in my belongings.

One photo

There are some phrases Indians learn by heart. "Name?", "Which country?", "Are you married?", "Boyfriend/Girlfriend?" are the interrogative ones. "School pen.", "Rupees."or "Chocolate." are the demanding ones, and usually said by kids.

As I have said, there is nothing much to do in Bundi. A couple of palaces and bazaars are it's main attractions. But for some time now, I've been searching for something else that I can't find in it's temples, palaces, bazaars and castles. I've been searching for that part of their lives specially dedicated to Indians. So against logical safety advices, which I think are nonsense, I venture myself into the residential areas, as I did in Udaipur, Diu or Bundi.

Adults usually look at you with a weary eye, but kids, their open hearts and interested innocent minds, run to you pronouncing all those demanding sentences I listed before. But, if they see you with a camera on your hands, they will forget all those phrases, and ask directly for "One photo". Young and adults indistinctively. A photo you have to show them once you have done it. Sometimes they get a bit aggressive, and you have to straighten them up before you show it. Too many hands try to grab you camera at the same time, it turns into chaos if there are too many. Sometimes they give you their address so that you post them the picture taken. I still have to post a couple.

Their poses are many. From postures taken out of their favorite Hindi movies to the strangest face they can put, twisting their faces in ways I find impossible, or with the saddest face imaginable. In these cases, I generally wait a lot until they laugh about the situation and loose concentration on the picture that's being taken. Those, I think, are the best. Sometimes I do a stupid face myself so that they can laugh.

Unfortunately, I'm not too good at taking pictures of people, but I'm working on it. I think this defect might come because I'm really not too good with people. I am harsh when I have to be soft, and say things in too a clear way that I end up offending those I love and care about. My mouth generally goes faster than my brain, without realizing I'm hurting my family and friends. However, they are always there, and I'm grateful for their patience and love.

Carom

20 chips, 10 black and 10 white. 1 red chip, a big white one and a squared board with four holes at each corner. The Indian pool. As in pool, you use the big white chip to move the other ones into the 4 holes. All 21 black, white and red chips start at a circle drawn in the middle. Each side of the board has a line from where you will throw, with your fingers, the big white chip.

There are variations on how to play the game. The way I spend hours and hours playing in Bundi consisted on getting as many chips in the holes, either white or black. Black chips were worth 10 points whereas white chips were worth 20, and the red one 50 points. Condition was that if you got the red one in one of the holes, you were obliged to put another chip in on your next shot. If you didn't get one in, the red chip would go back into the center of the board. Same would happen if any chip would be thrown out of the board. When the big white chip gets into a whole, we had to put back in the board a 10 point chip. You could get change if you only had 20 point chips.

At the end, if the red chip is one of two chips remaining in the board, and you get the other chip in first, you loose all your chips putting them back in the board.

Having finished the first round, you can play again, but only betting the lowest amount won by one of the players, i.e. the amount of the player with less points. And so on until one of the players has all the chips.

An easy game were skill is necessary, but that it's gained with practice. I played this game several times at Ringo's restaurant with locals and foreigners. Locals were harder to beat.

I remember all this Tibetans playing this game constantly at a shack back in Mc Leod Ganj. I wondered why, and now I understand. I wanted to play and play. In many cases, people bet money. I had already lost money playing poker, and I wasn't up to loosing more. But I have to buy this game!

Back to India

Goa, Hampi and Gokarna were mere tourist bubbles that made me feel like in holidays. In them, I had lost, momentarily, the meaning of my trip, which I was just recovering. I wasn't either seeing India nor doing progress on my search for environmental conservation work.

Mumbai was a must stop to get sunglasses, useful in Nepal I thought, and which I did not have. And though another India, it wasn't the one I was missing. Mumbai was the India of fancy clothing and faked American accents. It was the India of showing off the best you had. It was the India of the unexisting American dream.

In Bundi I reached happiness again. I made peace with travelling. With myself. I got acquainted with some locals and walking within the residential areas were all smiles and invitations to this and that. Play cricket, take me to the lake, give me useful directions. All friendliness and helpfulness. And that was great. I didn't need other tourists, I had India again.

There is really nothing much to do in Bundi, and I still missed a couple of places. A blueish town crowned by a rocky palace that looks as if hanging from the cliffs. It gives the place a weary sensation during the day, like if count Dracula were to come out of it at night and haunt you down. But at sunset it provided the town with a magical romantic sensation. As most monuments in India you pay too much to get in for what you finally get. The concept of conservation doesn't seem to have been introduced yet, and thus, you ask yourself, where does the money go?

A nice trek to the hill allows you to discover a magnificent view of the town and the nearby lake. Blue houses fuse with the blue sky as if the town was an extension of the vast horizon, and thus came from the clouds itself. For me it could as well been like that, cause my stay there gave me a sense of freedom and serenity it had gone long ago.

Most of my time I spend it taking pictures or chatting with locals at their businesses, the artists, the Internet guys or the grocery guy. With them I had the best time and one of my best experiences in India. My other hobby was playing Carom.

Back to budget

On my third day in Mumbai I go to Victoria station to book a train to Bundi. After a lot of looking and asking around in the big old rusty terminal, I get to the tourist reservation window totally unprepared. No form to book and not knowing what the train number was. On the other hand, a Canadian guy in front of me, who had arrived just the day before to India, was totally prepared. He had a spare form and had just bought the "Trains at a Glance" booklet. Very useful to get your way within the complicated Indian railway system. He gave me a form and let me use the booklet. I booked my train.

Out of the train station, for some unknown reason that impulses you to check twice and thrice on things, I doubled checked the ticket. Why would I do that? I had checked it back at the counter. What was the need? Something deep inside said I had to. And there is nothing worse than not following your instinct. I had booked the train for the 14th. What was I thinking of? I wanted to leave on the 7th! Back again to the window and a new cue. I waited.

My turn. I explain everything to the lady. She was laughing, oh I knew she was although she would politely only show a shy smile. "Oh, you are going to have to pay" to change my ticket. Shit! I thought. How much I was wondering. If it be too much or if it wasn't possible to change, I needed a second plan. I couldn't spent one more week in Mumbai, I would be ruined, not only of money, but of motivation to keep on. I had already thought of an alternative plan while queuing. The best option seemed to go to the Ajanta and Ellora caves and get the hell out of the 300 Rs. shithole I was in. "20 Rs." was her answer. Relief. That wasn't that bad, I could pay that amount.

I got to Kota train station with some change and plenty of 1000 Rs. notes. Unconsciously, I decided to use the change in buying my next ticket to Varanassi, which was not possible. Instead, I had to buy one for Delhi. But more on this later on.

So I suddenly found myself in the middle of about 10 rickshaw drivers offering me to get me to the bus stand for 60 Rs. Out of all the change I had, I was only left with 50 Rs. and plenty of 1000 Rs. notes the smartest ATM in India had given me. No problem with those notes in Mumbai, but go to India and tell me about it.

I had to go to the bus stand in order to get a bus to Bundi. And I had to pay the bus as well, which could not be more than 20 Rs., or at least I hoped. So I had to bargain those 60 Rs. to 30. I later learned that 30 Rs. would have been Indian price and that tourist price was 50 Rs. I got it for 30. My bargaining skills had clearly improved.

Once in Bundi, I had no more money for rickshaws, so I had to walk to the guest house area, about 1km from the bus stand. Nothing much, other that I was tired and hungry. The first room I was shown was a big double bedded room with hot water and a kind of grill in the floor that allowed you to peek downstairs, and so, be peeked at. Good price, but I didn't like the idea. And besides, I had to recover from my expensive days in the city. I needed something cheaper. Another 200 room which I tried to bargain to 150 without success. Finally, a 100 Rs. room with hot water on a bucket. That would do.

I was back to budget, except that food and Internet were pretty expensive, but I would manage it eating little and just twice a day, as I had been doing in Mumbai. If for any reason I would wake up so early I needed some breakfast, I would just stick to the 5 Rs. biscuits at any stall and the 5 to 10 Rs. chai at Indian restaurants.

I stayed in budget everyday I was in Bundi, except for the day I had to call my sister, as she had had an inflammation on her spine and could not move her arms. But the call was worth leaving the budget aside. An extra cost more meaningful than all the beers I've had so far. Not one of those drinks have been worth the money used. This call was.

Gadget's

My new thoughts had depressed me a bit. And as anyone that's depressed I could only do two things, eat chocolate, which I don't like, or go on buying. I went on the buying option. I was in Mumbai, if I had to buy anything, that was the place. They would try to rip me off, and I would try to get the less ripped off possible.

One of the things I decided to buy was a compact digital camera. So far, I was depending too much on other peoples photos. Mainly in situations I decided not to carry with my own camera, because it was too heavy, because I could loose it, because it could get stolen. It turned out that while my camera was cheaper than in Spain, the compact one was more expensive. I had seconds thoughts about it, but I went for it.

Taking photos was getting bored. Indians do the same things everywhere. Whether they are in Mumbai, Pondicherry or Varanassi, they sell in bazaars which are practically all the same, stand around stalls eating deep fried food, and, in general, seem to be doing nothing all day long. This is a very vague and simplistic characterization of Indian people, but it works for my purpose on this post. So in order to regain my pleasure in taking photos, I decided I had to reinvent myself. For which purpose, I needed a tripod. Something small and handy.

The last thing I bought wasn't going to settle up my thoughts, but it was a must. My shaving machine had died back in Hampi. I had to change my beard for a while cause I couldn't shave properly. Those who know me well, can understand. I needed a new one.

I had new toys. My bag was heavier and I was in a new trip. New people to meet, new friends to have, new emails to loose and use. It was a new trip, but as well the end of my first stay in India.

Personal thoughts V

I'm tired. Tired of travelling with no fix idea. Tired of wondering around without the impression of doing something useful. Something useful for me, for my experiences through life, for my professional interest.

On my stay in Goa, Hampi and Gokarna I hardly took out my camera. I wasn't even picturing my idea of places I was seeing. I was totally loosing track of my purpose in India. It's true I had a fixed destination, Nepal, to renew my Visa. But I wasn't sure of how much did I want to spend there. The idea of going in and out as quickly as Indian bureaucracy would let me was getting stronger and stronger. I needed to do something. Just wanted to get to Pondicherry and volunteer. To work? I really hope is not that, but yes, why not see it that way also. Travelling had become holidays and I couldn't get out of them. And I wanted to get out of them.

Ideas started flowing into my mind. Business ideas. That only happens when you're tired of your job and you're looking for a way out. I wasn't even working!

Would getting out of Mumbai, heading to hectic Rajasthan change my mind? Everything was doubt. How could I enjoy Bundi if I didn't seem to want to be there? It was just a transit point to make my trip to Nepal easier, lighter. Was I prepared to the travelling again when I felt so much apathy towards it? Nothing seemed to be sure. Nothing is sure in India. Only what you have already lived, and even that, sometimes, feels like a dream. Was that it? Was I just living a dream inside an unsure reality? I had to change my attitude. Regain the patience that made me survive my first week in India. I would at some point regain balance, again be sure of myself, again in the track.

Bombayites

Indians in Mumbai are something else. Another vibe is going on in here. Hard rock, sex and drugs are on the main scene. Specially sex. On my Bollywood extra adventure one of the Indian girls could not think in anything else other than her Brazilian holiday lover in Goa. Her friend, an openly Indian gay could only think in sex and MDA. We talked, among other sex related topics, about penis sizes of different nationalities. He was the expert. According to him Spaniards had it very big, while Indians was very short. I pointed out a survey I had heard that said Indian average size was smaller than the world average. He agreed.

Another day, at Leopold's, a girl had made up this paper man were you could pull a huge penis out of it. Origami it's called. Lust was evidently in the air. The sexy Bombayites at the Bollywood movie chose very carefully the girl they would be dancing with. That was their girl and they were their man. The others didn't have a right to dance with them in a shot. Even if the woman in charge ordered it, they would swap after a couple of minutes and appear as supposed in the film. If they appeared at all.

Mumbai language is also totally different. Do they learn Hindi in school I ask myself. Or do they learn to talk from movies? A mixture between Hindi and American movies. I would say they speak Hindglish. Like Spanglish in Puerto Rico or in the latin quarters of New York. Either because it's cool, it doesn't exist in Hindi or just common expressions that have grown to be popular. English is used in every sentence. In Goa, Bombayites talk in English to the waiters of their same country.

A totally different specimen of Indians.

A Bollywood extra

Tommy had left, and I prepared myself for a night on my own in big Mumbai. I hoped to meet some kind faces while eating at Leopld's with no luck. I was placed with a couple on their late fortie's that did not mind my presence in the table, but neither them or myself seemed to look forward to talk with each other.

I tried the bar upstairs that had some music going on. I was alone enough to try to approach some hot Indian girls that were looking in my direction, but I had run out of rolling paper for my cigarettes and, what is most important, money. I had only 20 Rs. left. No point in being brave.

So on my way out I run up into Sagim, one of the Zipi-Zape Israelis I had met on the bus to Diu. He invited me to join them at the Sports Bar. So I went to my place in search of more money and some rolling paper. I was on again for a Mumbai night, which really sucks if you're not nicely dressed and have a girl. It doesn't have to be a girlfriend, but it's your contribution for the Bombayite girl-hunters. If you don't give, you can't get anything.

On my way from my guest house to the bar I ran up with Madu. He is a thin tall struggler in the film industry. He is a recruiter of foreign travellers for Bollywood movies, TV-serials or soap operas. I would have to deal with him the rest of my stay in Mumbai, and he would turn up to be a real pain in the ass.

I should have said no, but I was bored, and decided otherwise. So he recruited me for being an extra in a medium budget film. I had heard mixed opinions about being an extra in Bollywood, so I wasn't sure what would turn out.

8 a.m. in front of Mc Donalds, I was late. I saw a group of foreigners at the other side of the street and had second thoughts. The I realize that if I don't go, Madu is going to be a real haemorrhoid. I didn't know he was going to be one anyway.

All the tourists get into a taxi. The recruiters or organizers get me one for myself. We stop in front of the Churchgate train station I think. After some minutes of waiting a small well built guy comes to me and directs me to another guy inside the station. He scans the foreigners and picks up a Korean girl to go with me. We didn't know what was going on, until we are suddenly seated in a third class suburban train for 8 Rs. Can't say it was horrible, but curious to see. People really packed in the compartments, not leaving their selected place to stand. the same way you could be driven out of the train from the multitude, you could as well be driven back in from the entering crowd, thus missing your stop. People jumped of the train when it was still going. Windows had bars so that people would not try to get in through them. I had seen scenes like this in Hampi. People getting in the bus through the windows. Crazy, really crazy.

After a rickshaw ride we get into the Film City. Nothing seemed very professional. Not even the security. We went in without questions being asked or explanations being given. The guard not even lifted his eyebrows.

Jonas, the other male foreigner, a tall big Swedish, was given a suit that was too small for him, while I was given a jacket that was too big for me. Though it was obvious from a distance, this was the choice of the costume assistant or whatever he was. I had to stick with the suit, composed of a black jacket, a pink shirt and a tie that did not match quiet well with the shirt, but it was of a similar color. I could wear my newly brought Levi jeans for 40 euros, as the pants provided were like 10 sizes bigger than me.

The filming lasted until 5 p.m. though we didn't get back to Colaba until 9. No apparent rehearsal had been made, so we were used as dummies while the main actors learned their dancing and performance. The Indian girls were beautifully dressed, combed and made-up, while foreign girls would only be combed if playing an important part in the background. Boys in general were not considered at all. Not even their dressing. Only I was told to take out my cap. It obviously did not fit in the movie. We were supposed to be in a ball room where they main actor danced around the dancing floor and between the guests totally drunk until he fell in front of a stunning couple. Another scene would show him and his mistress dancing and singing around this couple. While the male character would stare fixedly at the woman, the female character would mock at them and take his man away. Another scene still would show the drunk actor recovering to his feet and arguing with the male character of the couple. The woman, though she was the most beautiful of all, did not say a single word.

While the Director kept on performing scenes for the lost actors and shouting "Silence!", even when nothing was being shot, you had the feeling that there was too much people involved, and more than half doing nothing. A woman decided which extra would appear on each scene, and the 2 foreign guys had the bad luck to be chosen for most of them. Only in one occasion did the Director addressed an extra, a 16 year old blond Swiss girl in a red dress. She was to lean on a column in what was meant to be a sexy and evocative position while talking to an Indian guy.

Jonas and I agreed on one thing, how much were we regretting getting into this. However, I left the place not having spent a rupee, but 400 Rs. richer. On the other hand, a struggler, had lost its struggle. He had not get paid. He was the tea man. It didn't matter for the rest of the crew. It didn't seem to matter for us either, we just wanted to go back and rest. It would just matter for him. All his shouting and weeping would only be for him, cause when he went back to his house, probably a slum, he would have nothing to give to his family on that day, but he would have to stay strong for another day's struggle.

Another kind of tourists

Goa's tourism had not given me a very good impression. They were mainly rude and unsociable, with few interesting things to say, and, generally, with a bit of sense of superiority. I was once in Arambol and went to find Matt. With him was a friend of his, can't say if from the states or from the beach. I stated how hot it was. His response alluded to how a draught causes famine in so many countries, but here a breeze can spoil paradise. Well, if Arambol was his conception of "Paradise" he definitely had to review his priorities. He considered himself an artist. Artists, I say. He is involved in "The Burning Man", an event everyone considers to be the best party in the world. No, no, not a party, the best communal congregation. Thousands of people living of art, trading, without worries of money, however being very expensive. The only thing you can buy is ice or coffee, the rest is up to you or the kindness of the other congregants. He is also involved in many other similar artistic congregations. Maybe because of this he was suddenly raised upon a higher level of knowledge than me and noted out my sinful mistake. Bullocks, it was hot, Arambol is not Paradise and the fact of considering yourself an artist doesn't imply you are closer to the world surrounding us, and so you can understand it better than the rest. Fuck off, I would have said.

Mumbai tourist were even more arrogant. They didn't care about the slums, about the poor people wandering and sleeping in the sidewalks. They wanted to be treated as tourists, but got quickly tired of the hassle the status of tourist provides you in India. They were also rude, to Indians and to other tourists. They wanted to be considered the only tourists of Mumbai, all the attention for them, but please don't bother. As in Goa, it was all about partying and hunting girls. A loner like me wasn't well seen in groups of girls and desperate guys, and any try of conversation was quickly shut. I couldn't say that this attitude surprised me, after all, most of these tourists were heading to Goa or came from there ready to go back home after their 2 week vacation package.

None of the tourists I met was heading north. Everyone was looking forward to head south, to the sun and the beaches I was fed up with, or feeling sad about going back home. None seeked establishing new relationships, they would do that in Goa. Mumbai was a transit point, nothing else.

I must stop generalizing though. I met some nice people, like Tommy. Magnus was a student in Delhi and had gone to Mumbai for a film festival. We would probably see each other in Varanasi. Ruth had just arrived, and though she was heading to Goa as many others, she was really sweet, always smiling and happy. It was contagious. Through her, I met a very nice couple residing in Hawaii. She is from the States and he is English. I have their contact email. A contact in Hawaii. What for? You never know.

However, I wasn't used to this Hi and Goodbye of tourists. It was kind of depressing not getting new contacts heading in your same direction. But one fact among all was the one that depressed me the most. I had said my last goodbye to everyone I had met. They all were either going to be moving around in a different part of India or simply heading to some other country, probably their own. Maybe, I would still see Matt. But chances were I had to start again. It was a new trip all together that had started already and I hadn't realized.

Iron Maiden

What a surprise! Iron Maiden is playing in Mumbai on the 1st of February? Apparently so, according to 3 US kids with Indian origins studying in Bangalore. I had to check it out. The ticket cost no more that 1600 rs. Would i go? I seemed decided to do so, but then i backed up.

Once in Mumbai, I had only met Tommy and his intentions were far away from going to the concert. Going alone back in Spain would have not been a problem. I would know a cheap way to get to the concert. I would be secure, most important, I would feel secure. I would be able to go to the concert felling free to do so. Here I felt I needed someone else in such a city like Mumbai. And I wasn't willing to pay all the expenses of transportation by myself.

I must admit I wasn't fond on going to see Iron Maiden, I was keen on checking out Mumbai youngsters dancing and jumping to the beat of hard rock. So far I had only seen them dance Bollywood music or foreign music like Shakira, Ricky Martin or Reggeaton.

But Mumbai wasn't the India I had seen so far. It was a different India, India's future? I hope not.

Two bars were key to see in the Colaba area, Leopold's and Mondegar. Both full with backpackers, groups of locals and couples of lovers. The second had a jukebox. On my first time there I sat close to it, but I hadn't noticed it. while enjoying my beer I saw some coins on the tables were some locals were eating and chatting freely in that mixture of Hindi and English. With curiosity, i asked them where were the coins from, I had never seen them. they point out to the jukebox. A jukebox?

a minute later one of them gets up in its direction. And I'm suddenly enjoying my beer with Aerosmith, Guns 'n' Roses and Pearl Jam rocking the place. I felt like in home.

Following a book

Tourism with Tommy was really helpful. He had already been in Mumbai and so he knew what he wanted to see and showed me in the way some interesting places worth visiting. Not to mention how handy it was for my economy to share expenses. Not only the room, but taxis.

Among those places to visit where some places mentioned on the Shantaram book. The story of an Australian guy who had been in prison in Australia for robbery, escaped and lived in India for 10 years. A film is being made with Johnny Depp as the main character.

On his arrival to Mumbai, he stayed at the India Guest House, just below the hotel I was staying at with Tommy, and where I would end up staying for 300 Rs. a night. A shit hole. A bed and a square meter space was the only thing available. The upper parts of the walls where opened to the contiguous rooms. Music, coughing, whispering, the pass of pages while you read, sex, everything was heard. There was no privacy. But when you stepped into the hall, there was no sense of lack of privacy. Everyone acted as if the walls were of concrete and soundproof.

Leopold, a bar where the Shantaram guy, Gregory David Roberts, used to go, and that apparently, still goes, was second on scene. It was been repainted to Tommy's displeasure. The charm was lost. That charm wrecked old places have, with its usual costumers, creating an atmosphere of nostalgia of old times that will disappear the moment you step out in the bustling city. I went there almost every night. It was a good place to know new people as you were seated where available. If you occupied a table alone, it didn't matter, it would be fitted with other totally alien costumers.

Another of the places that appeared in the book, and that, of course, we visited, was a restaurant with a hanged photo of Madonna in the restaurant. Tommy just wanted to seat there while having a Lassi. Ok then.

And so, as if when in Paris taking a glimpse at the places that had appeared in Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code", here, we were doing the same with Shantaram. And I hadn't even read it. Yet.

City of strugglers

A cold journey on train before Mumbai was the least I needed. Our train was stopping about 20 km from were I wanted to stay, and yes, it was stopping in the city. A huge city. As I learn later on, a city of strugglers. People not only struggle to survive everyday in the city, the slums, their works, their love lives, they first have to struggle to get in. I had to struggle to get in.

I was trying to know what to do with two Italian girls I had met in the train. Well, women. Whether to try get another train or get a taxi. Tommy came in our rescue. He not only saved us from not knowing what to do, but he saved me from having to search endlessly through the busy streets of Mumbai south in search of a cheap room.

He first sorted out a taxi for a very good price for the four of us. Then we shared a room at Sea Shore Hotel where he had been 2 years before. Thanks to that, we had what we thought, a discount.

Sea Shore Hotel was at the fourth storey of a building in Colaba, in south Mumbai. Most tourists stay in this area. The storey underneath was another guest house where the hero of the book Shantaram stayed at when he got to Mumbai for the first time. I haven't read the book yet, but for what I heard, he also had to struggle in the Indian version of the US. People come here to see their dreams come true.

And Kudle was the last

Again my trousers got wet while loosing a flip-flop, hug Gill and Matt goodbye and get my huge rucksack out of the moving boat that had taken me from Paradise beach to Kudle beach for 50 Rs.

I entered the first guest house to check for a room to see a smiley face looking straight at me. I know him, I think. I know I know him, but from where? It didn't matter, it was a friendly face. I should act as if I knew who he was. It didn't come out very well. Michael, an Israeli who was with him noticed my confusion and confessed me later on how lost I looked when he was talking to me. However, I placed the guy a minute later, in Diu! It was Roy, though his name I would know later on. I don't think I ever learned his name before that. Always with his guitar, never singing.

I used Kudle beach to shanti, shanti, even a bit more. My last outburst still worried me, and for what came ahead I had to be relaxed. I wrote, read and run. Walked along the beach several times to realize the amount of wildlife wight in the shore, under our noses. Tiny crabs everywhere weren't a novelty anymore. Crabs in beautiful snail shells were something else. One of them was in an orange and white coloured shell like if being a relative from the clown fish.

With low tide, ponds of salty water were created within the rocks and nice little fish were stuck in there. If you stayed long enough, fish be encouraged to go clean your feet, tickling you on the way.

Along the beach, from time to time, you could see stars shaped on the sand. I saw a crow eating a starfish. I had to see one as well, though I wasn't planning to eat it. On the next sight of a star shaped on the sand, I started digging to find a blueish starfish. After having it a while with me I returned it back to the sea. Couldn't keep it I guess.

While collecting shells, you could see also little rays that came very close to the shore helped with every wave. They got scared at any little movement and disappeared straight away in the light brown sea.

But Kudle beach was to surprise again, in another way. Out of nowhere, on my last day, Jim stepped into my guest house. He had just arrived that morning.

All good sensations before a busy Mumbai.

Adventurous mood

I splashed in the water on getting out of the boat that had taken me from Om beach to Paradise beach after 2 days at Om. My trousers got wet. Matt and Gill were at the beach. I was supposed to share a room with them, and didn't know where the hell where they. Fortunately, it turned out easy.

The rest of the day consisted in ordering food and drinks, that would take literally an hour to get, while getting stoned. We slept.

On the next morning Carro and Kobi showed up to move to Paradise as well. A weird guy with dreads and dressed in purple, probably Italian, greeted us good morning. Some strange shouting projected from his throat every time he had a taste of his non-stopping shylums. Or was it when he passed it? Whatever.

On our useless day before, I had agreed with Matt to go exploring the mountainous surroundings of Paradise. But we forgot all about it, and I spent my morning playing Carom (Indian pool) and Shithead (popular card game between travelers in India). When we remembered we didn't even look at the watch and we went for it after I finished my second chess game with Kobi.

Making it easy following the paths created wasn't fun or challenging, we wanted some adventure, though, avoiding snakes. A wobbling drunk Matt lead the way most of the time until we finally got to a road that would take us to a village. We bought some snacks. People in the village seemed nice and happy, and the surrounding was very peaceful.

Not knowing what time it was, turned out to be a handicap. I had left my cell phone at the room, which not only served to show me what time it was, but I could call in India, and it was my alarm clock and torch. We decided to go back based on the sun's positionbut we would take another road to go back.

Our adventurous mood had not vanished yet. We got to some cliffs and instead of going back, we decided to go along them to see if could get to the beach, which we saw on the distance. Too dangerous, I at least still had a sense of danger. Matt wanted to keep on that way. I saw ourselves ending up swimming to get to the beach. And that is the nice version. Crashing our heads to the rocks below also came in mind.

Sun was already fusing with the misty horizon and going back to our original track was equally dangerous. Night would fall on us and we didn't really know how we had got there as we hadn't followed the established path.

This time I took the lead and headed across camp up the mountain until what seemed to be a path cried our attention. There was no time to loose or think if that would really get us to our destination. A quick decision had to be made, no second thoughts allowed. We took it.

The path was really narrow entering into the woods a couple of meter from the cliffs we had tried before. Which meant, we were higher. A bad step could be crucial. At some points it really went along the edge of the cliffs, were looking down wasn't appealing at all. On occasions it just seemed to disappear blocked by bushes and darkness. However, it seemed to carry us on the right way.

The only thing we had to do was hurry up, but terrain wasn't easy. Flip-flops decorated my feet and constantly grabbing to trees was the only way not to fall into the bushy darkness that led to the sea from my constant slipping. Suddenly, the path divided into two, or that is what I thought. Which direction to go? We were inland enough for no light getting through the dense thick trees.

We went on one direction but a big bush blocked the way and it was too dark to see beyond it. Went for the other alternative just to blocked by a huge tree. After it, there was nowhere to head. It couldn't be true. The path couldn't fail us at that point. We were lost

No we weren't. That path had to lead somewhere and if not we would do so. Went again for the first choice and crawled under the bush. The path did keep on, but it got more and more difficult to follow. We made it. A photograph with Matt's camera had to be taken to celebrate our victory. We would worry about all the scratches the following day.

Extreme Frisbee

After a morning in Gokarna town taking photos and sorting out the train to Mumbai, I got to Om beach to see Matt and his friends playing what they called "Extreme Frisbee". In plain words, it was something like rugby, without the inconvenience of having to throw the pink plate backwards.

On one of runs on the right wing I was thrown, or better said, smashed to the hard sand floor tackled by Matt. And to everyones' attention, he is not a small guy. I would even say he is twice my size. Fortunately, 7 years of intermittent judo helped absorb the shock.

This day was complete, not only had I done some sport, if we can call extreme Frisbee a sport, but I had taken pictures in the town, settled my leaving date with a train ticket, and took advantage of a nice sunset with some clouds, to vary from the monotonous Indian sunsets, to take some more pics.

But the night would still give me another surprise, not as good in this case. I lost 300 Rs. at poker. Not only I never play poker, but I never bet money on card games, so it was totally a stupid thing to do. And so, I will not play again in such conditions.

A short swim completed the day and only one thing would have done it entirely perfect, and would have been spotting spotting some dolphins.

Beaching

Five beaches form Gokarna. Gokarna beach, which almost anyone goes to because it's full of Indian tourists; Om beach, of which it's said to have the form of an Om sign, and the first I visited; Paradise beach, full of hippies, where a bonfire would light every night with musicians and juggling of different kinds; Moon beach, to where I did not go; and Kudlee beach, the closest to Gokarna, and where I went completely on my own.

By the way, apparently, Paradise beach was famous for being a nudist beach, but news is that Indian tourists heard about hot naked Swedish girls, and they all went away. Damned Indians! I missed them.

Beaching is just a term to say that I was on the beach, but I actually did not all in the 7 days I was there. However, I enjoyed the beach in other ways.

Outburst

Unexpectedly, on our way to Gokarna, the sleeper bus made a halt were we would have to get down and wait for another bus. Noone had told us this, and people weren't happy about it.

Did I had enough of India? I don't think so, but I exploded in anger towards the situation. Forced the bus to stay, not allowing the bus controller to get my bag out. This only happened when the bus driver finally decided to leave, and so, we had no choice.

My outrage surprised me. I wasn't prepared for it. And when a rickshaw driver stood staring at me, I was everything but nice, until the point some foreigner criticized my attitude describing it as disgusting. And it sure was.

I've been looking for an answer to such behavior. The only explanation I can think of is that all occurred due to accumulated tension from my last week with Carro. I must insist, she is a nice girl, as I described her, angel disguised as a demon, but also point out her annoying manners when asking for things as if she had the right to demand whatever she pleased. Also, sometimes a contradictory girl.

However, this is just an excuse I reckon.

And back to friends

Not feeling like going north yet, I went to Gokarna for some more sun and beach. Matt said he was there, but I wasn't sure whether he was still there or he had left. Matt and Gillian were supposed to be at a 3 day party, and I didn't know if they where going back to Gokarna after that, and the only thing I knew for sure was that Claire was in Mumbai.

Carro wasn't sure on what to do, and I was hoping to go to Gokarna on my own. She came. And brought Kobi with her, an Israeli with no Israeli accent she had met our last day in Hampi. I liked the guy, and he would turn out to be very useful.

When I got to Om beach I found out Matt was still around and by then I already knew Gill and Matt were there as well. It was nice to have them around in a less partying atmosphere.

Once in Om beach I really felt like having a place for myself and so Carro ended up sharing a room with Kobi. I was at the other side of the beach and regained the sensation of traveling alone.

575 steps

Though I wanted to leave before 7 days, I also wanted to see the famous sunset from the monkey temple. Days passed and I didn't seem to be motivated enough to hire a bicycle and go for it. It wasn't until my last day that I went the cycling, forced by the bus ticket I had already bought.

My last attempt of cycling, back in Diu, had not been pleasant. My knee could not stand the pressure on going to the beach, which was like 5 Km away from town, and Xavi had to ride it back while I went on a moped with Jim.

On this occasion, my knee lasted all day until the 575 steps. To get to a magnificent view of the surroundings you had to be high up in the rocks, and the best place to be was at the monkey temple. 575 steps would get you there, not without taking your breath first. However, the view provided was far more than impressive.

Though everyone goes there to see the sunset, the light an hour before amused me much more. It was then when total equilibrium between colors and forms existed and, so, when sensations where at its peak. Sunset afterwards was a perfect aftermeal just to relax and go back.

The pain going on my knees going down the steps was terrible, but I had to get back before total darkness. Without a proper torch, no reflector, and Indian driving ways, it was too dangerous to cycle in the night. Moonlight, almost full, helped, but wasn't enough. And mosquitoes didn't do the ride much pleasant. Finally, I had to walk the bike as the knee couldn't take it no more and it was too dark to ride anyway. Safely home, I could only rest.

Templing

I said Hampi was about 5 things. Till now I've mentioned 4, but I'm missing the most important. The small town of Hampi is situated in the middle of hundreds of ancient Jain temples.

The architecture perfectly combines with the rocky formations, as if the rocks had eroded to form beautiful figures Ganesh, Shiva and company. You can spend hours and even days sightseeing the temples, or as everybody says, "templing".

They never seem to finish and sometimes you have to go a long way. Though I only dedicated one day to this activity, I heard that the most impressive and free temples to visit are nearby the touristy area. Without a doubt, worth taking a look.

At the end, all this perfect combination provide a sensation of peace and harmony that makes it difficult to leave the place. However, I managed to stay only for week, but I assure you it's possible to just lay back and stay forever.

Ricefields and Banana plantations

Hampi is about 5 things. Overall, shanti, shanti. Once you have that, the rest will come sooner or later. Not that there's nothing to do, but it's very hard to do something. Or in other words, it's very easy to let time pass away without a pinch of movement. So when you wake up in the morning active enough to think on doing something, and an early joint in the way, don't get it, do not succumb to it. If you reach that point, you'll be able to wonder the surroundings full of strange rock formations, ideal for climbing, apparently.

I met Carlos who had been in Hampi for almost 4 months doing precisely that, climbing. He had rescued a little mangy dog which he called Kingfi, for King Fisher, India's most popular beer. He was planning to take the dog to Spain, though he needed an identifier chip and a passport for the animal. A passport? Can't tell if he made it. He was also sharing room and other intimacies with a beautiful Finnish girl called Maria, and whom I would briefly see in Gokarna later on.

There is also what everyone calls "The Lake", which is nothing more than a dam. Nice, but not impressive at all, unless you want to feel the excitement of throwing yourself from a 20 meter high rock.

Rock formations look like if a kid were making mountains out of balls of wet sand. Like piled in total disorder, however, providing an orderly atmosphere. Strangely, every rock seems to be in its right place, to perfectly combine with the green surrounding of rice fields and banana plantations that extend until stopped by the orange rocks. Green and orange seem to fuse in one only purple color at sunset when seen from the monkey temple.

Something beautiful!

Decision

I had decided some time ago that I was going to renew my Visa and stay 6 more months in India. However, I had not decided where, how or if I was going to volunteer before or after renewing it. Agonda made me see things clear.

I had found an organization that appealed to me to do some volunteering in spite of all its restrictive conditions. But more on volunteering at its right moment. The thing is that I had decided that my first months in India should be for myself, volunteering after the renewal of the Visa. On those premises, as I was heading south, the logical thing to do was to fly to Sri Lanka and do all the processing there. And this is the reason why I thought going to Hampi was a good idea.

But fate again would change my plans. For those who don't know, Sri Lanka has been in a civil war since 1983 between the government and the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), who seek for an independent state. And just when I had decided to go, the peace treaty had been broken and the Tamils had attacked the south, thing they usually did not do, killing all passengers of a bus. Though Tamils have openly said not wanting to hurt foreigners not to be considered a terrorist organization, the truth is that if you're in that bus, there are no distinctions for bullets.

So I got to Hampi worried of what to do. I measured other possibilities, like going to Thailand, Malaysia or Bangladesh, but other than Bangladesh, I felt I wanted to dedicate some time to those countries, and not just get in and out. And I wasn't ready to spend some time there, I was in a hurry to settle up for a while. My main objective in coming to India seemed to be vanishing, and I needed to recover it soon.

The most reasonable and easy procedure was to go to Nepal. This I had decided in Hampi, and it meant going back north. Based on this decision, it made no sense going to Hampi after Agonda if I wanted to keep on going south. However, what to do about the south was my next question. Skip it all? Go south and get a plane to Katmandu? I would go to Gokarna and then north via Mumbai, Bundi and Varanasi.

I was a bit pissed with all this changing of plans and my not great time in Hampi, but something positive had come out it all together, not only I was doing a lot of introspection on my decisions so far, but I had not been carrying all my winter clothes for nothing.

The 3rd should be the last

In Agonda I get an email from Jeff, one from Carrol and one from Dan and Charlotte saying that they were in Hampi. Great! I should go there and try to catch up with them. When I first heard of this, I had not spend enough time with Carro to know there were things I would not stand from her too long. She also wanted to go to Hampi, and so we decided to go together.

Hampi was a place to be seen, and everyone talked really nice about it. Though my original plan was to keep on south and skip Hampi, the idea of familiar faces and another environment with no drugs involved appealed to me.

And so, the third mistake.

I felt again out of place in Hampi. Carro had some Swedish friends there, but I had only caught up with Jeff for a couple of days, Hugh for a couple of minutes, and the rest I had missed. Jeff told me Dan and Charlotte where on their way to Varanasi. Carrol was already in Bangalore on her one month meditation and yoga course.

Hanging around with Carro and her friends was more than boring. It always happens when you're in a group of people of the same country. Israelis seem to be the worst so far on this matter. Furthermore, my host was the last person to make an effort to speak in English. No point in spending my time with them. So I went my way and avoided them as much as I could and met new people. However, I had to force the situation, feeling sometimes uncomfortable. The group I met were very nice and friendly, but it was a group already formed, and getting in is not easy.

Another mistake had been made as I had not made a decision on what I really wanted to do, maybe, cause I didn't really know. I had been at a loss for some time I guess. I had gone to Hampi searching for familiar faces to find balance again in a new surrounding. I missed it, and as an end, my time in Hampi wasn't as everyone had talked about it.

The worst thing is that in Hampi I had changed my expected itinerary allowing me to go to Hampi later on, in a more reasonable route. But this shall be explained in another post.

A place to remember

Despite my discomfort within the group, Agonda offered, for where I've been and what I've seen, the best place to stay in Goa. A long beach where turtles go to lay their eggs. Full guest houses, but empty restaurants. But this is not the best of Agonda.

The beach is indeed nice, but I think that the only existing road offers much more life. Along the road taxi drivers insist constantly on a ride to Palolem or wherever necessary. Bargain is very difficult with them, they have the power to get you out of there, and they know it, so it can get expensive. However, they are nice.

A couple of of little Indian restaurants offer a warm atmosphere to meet other people or simply have a cheap meal.

At one both sides of the road, houses mix up with guest houses and restaurants, though you can see more of the latest on the sea side. Crossing the road leads you to houses, a creek and jungle. A boat ride is also available on this creek.

Both ends of the beach offer the possibility to keep on exploring on foot, or you can rent a kayak and do it by sea, finding new corners and coves.

The place where I stayed seemed to be the right spot to stay as well. A room attached to an Indian family house with 3 kids, a couple of puppies and very attentive landowners. Remy, made everything look OK and even the night of Matt's and I little adventure, when we actually yelled Claire's name and knocked heavily on the door trying to wake her up, he acted as nothing had happened. All he was that he came outside to see if we where OK.

It was all about shanti, shanti in a nice surrounding. Indeed, a place to return, a place to remember.

An adventure

Discovering around the cliffs in Agonda opened my hungriness for some excitement. Go wondering around the cliffs or around the jungle nearby. Something that implied moving instead of laying down getting stoned all day.

It wasn't exactly what I was looking for, but I took it. On the party at Patnem beach Matt asked me if I was up to exploring with bike in search of the music we had heard before somewhere nearby. At that point, I was extremely bored, and without second thoughts I agreed to the idea. Under rigorous eyes, it wasn't a good idea at all. Matt was driving the moped and he was high on drugs. Not to mention Indian driving and surprise obstacles like dogs, cows or whatever else you;re capable of imagining.

On our search, we got to this really posh resort right next to a beach. We went to check it out. Had no problem in getting in, but when we got to the beach, ready to explore on foot, two Indians warned us of how dangerous it was. What was dangerous? How was it dangerous? They couldn't tell. But they did say two tourists had died there a couple of years ago, but couldn't tell how either. At that point it all got a bit weird, and we decided to get the hell out of there.

After more searching and almost getting lost, we ended up at a 24 hour bar to get a bite and a drink. But the possibility of everything going wrong had not ceased. The bike did not indicate the amount of gas it had left, Matt was still on the effects of drugs, which would last until the morning and it was fucking freezing.

We made it back just before the bike run out of gas when Matt going back to his place. But he was up for more excitement, so unconscious of the time it was, we thought Claire might be awake. Not only she wasn't awake, but she had locked the door and I couldn't get in. I must add, that we were sharing the room, so I was supposed to get in sooner or later. So with our banging and yelling we managed to wake Remy up, the owner of the guest house, but not Claire. Under the perspective of having to stay outside, Remy let me stay in the other room for the night. Matt went back to his place.

Knock, knock, knock...

Matt looking for some hash. That was the end of the adventure. It wasn't a hell of adventure, but it sure felt good.

Yoga class II

After a day with Carro at the beach and exploring the surroundings, we went on the search of yoga classes. I did not like my first try back in Rishikesh, but I did admitted it was a good way of stretching and giving some exercise to your body.

So I decided to give it a second chance. To my surprise, I was delighted! After 3 classes in a row, I was decisive to keep on with it on my next destination which would end up being Hampi. Fate was not on my side for this either, as always I've been planning to keep on with yoga classes I got sick. It happened when I got to Hampi and when I got to Varanasi. I would have to wait to be volunteering to practice yoga again.

An unexpected mistake

Though I was looking forward to travel alone, I was out to meet with Vagator again. And again I somehow managed to feel out of place. This time I was responsible for not fitting in the group, though I knew them all. But the vibe surrounding this little group of people hadn't seem to change from that in Vagator. Drugs were still on the scene and I was fed up with them.

I managed to do my way most of the time, but group activities are difficult to avoid. I didn't want to totally exclude myself either. We were to go to two parties where I again did not fit in and got bored.

My new tattoo didn't help much either. It avoided me from beach activities such as sunbathing or swimming, and any other activity under the sun, which meant getting sweaty and not able to go for a swim in the sea to refresh. That got me a bit stand-offish. So the programmed boat ride along a small creek while getting stoned didn't appeal to me either. It meant walking in the sun for a while. And frankly, I needed some activity, and getting stoned wasn't my best option.

However, despite the apparent general discomfort I was submerged in, good things also happened.

Tattoo

I had been emailing with Claire since I left Mc Leod and I had told her I wasn't going to be in Arambol, and that most probably, Gill or Matt weren't going to be in Vagator either. On what was supposed to be my last day, Matt appeared happily along the beach, tired of spending the whole time in Vagator. We were to meet at night along with Charlotte to see Rohan and Shamboo play.

My neighbor, a Swedish girl I could never learn her name, accompanied me to the concert, which really sucked. That was just noise coming out of a speaker and none of my friends were around. We headed to get some food, when we bumped into Matt and Charlotte. And suddenly, a red figure cries my attention. I turn around. Fuck sake! It was Claire. As when meeting up with Jamie, we embraced in a warm hug.

I learned later on that Matt, Gill, Eddie and Carro where going to Agonda as well and Claire was receptive to join in the gang, but she had just got to Arambol and wanted to spend a couple of days there. So we agreed to leave in two days.

On the waiting, I met an acquaintance of Matt who had just had done a beautiful tattoo that had taken 4 hours. Apparently, it had been done in the same place where Oli and his brother were going to have one made.

And I thought? Why not?

Back in Bikaner I had drawn an Om sign that would end up being tattooed on my back left shoulder. The Om signs represents the omnipotent, omnipresent, and the source of all manifest existence. As a syllable, it includes the past, the present and the future, and all that exists beyond the three forms of time.

My trip in India represented exactly that. It was a point of inflection in my life, where the past had been drastically set aside and my future was depending on my present in India.

The tattooer was from Argentina which made it easier to explain him what I wanted. His wife was from Barcelona and he had a tattooing place in Ibiza. On this facts, I got a discount. Of course, the drawing wasn't exactly as I had drawn it, it had the tattooers ability in drawing and his personal touch, which I accepted for the moment.

And so, on the day to leave to Agonda, where we would get 5 buses, I had a tattoo in the form of an Om sign stuck in my body.

Arambol

I'm not going to talk much about this chilling out place, as nothing much really happened. Full of restaurants and guest houses, nothing much went on during my stay. Somehow, trance had still a strong presence, but you could hear other music as well, maybe because everyone was still with the New Years hangover.

I must admit, and I'm not ashamed of it, I felt relief when listening to Britney Spear's "Baby one more time" on my first day. I don't like her or her music, but, God, it was something else.

At night, fires were lit along the beach glowing to the sound of drums and to the movement of poi dancers. Mornings went directly to evenings and life just passed by as the world struggled to survive.

Conversations with Alex and Matt really amused me and we all had the same sensations when talking about the young Australian girls Dean hanged around with. Though stunningly hot, nothing interesting seemed to come out from their mouths.

An interesting game of chess took place between Matt and me, when I proved to be not as bad as I thought if I paid attention. However, I lost the moment I did not sacrifice my queen as I thought I would need it later on. Though I would have lost my queen, I would have taken me his queen and a rook, which would have balanced the game again, but I opted to go for another attack that did not exist. However, I gained Matt's appreciation as he didn't think I knew how to play chess at all, were his exact words. An honest man.

Despite all the apparent inactivity, Arambol sucked you and did not let you go. My following destination was Agonda and I was ready to leave, but as always happens in India, something changed. I stayed for two more days. Claire appeared.

Personal thoughts IV

By this time, I had spent some time with Matt, Gill and Eddie. But you can't expect things to be the same. Another atmosphere, another people surrounded us and I had to make an effort to fit in as nothing of what was going on had anything to do with me.

I think I failed to fit in, but I don't take it as a personal failure nor are my friends to be blamed, it just wasn't my place to be at. For more I wanted to see them again, I had made a mistake that would persecute me later on. I did not follow my own flow, I did not stick to my own rule. And so when I got to Arambol I did regain some kind of balance. Though I was there to see Matt and Dean, overall, I felt too uncomfortable in Chapora to stay any longer.

As a human being, a specimen specialized in falling into the same mistakes once and again, I did it again for the same reason. Friendship can be a powerful weapon that turns upon yourself.

Hello's again

After a quick stop in Moondance to say goodbye to whoever was awake, eg Spider and Carro, went on the mission to get a cheap rickshaw or taxi out to Arambol. I was too tired to venture myself on the complexity of Goa's public transport. It took me half an hour walking from Chapora to Vagator with my rucksack to get a taxi for 300 Rs., as everyone was asking from 400 to 600.

Once in Arambol, I had to look for a cheap place to stay, which also turned into a mission. I think it was all about carrying my heavy bag from one place to another that made so complicated and so big.

Finally settled up in a place, I went for a walk along the beach, not as much for walking, but for meeting up with either Dean or Matt. And I did with both at the same time. Piece of cake. On that reunion I also met Alex, a German guy with a lot of sarcasm. It was nice having people with whom to talk with something that wasn't drugs. I felt part of something again. In Chapora I was totally misplaced.

New Years Eve

What was supposed to be an amazing party night and day, turned out to be one of the most uninteresting event in my life, actually, not worth writing about it. However, some moments of the night must be revealed.

I had casually bumped into Jeff the day before and he would be part of the "partying" comittee, together with Gill, Matt, Maria, Carro and Spider. Eddie would join in later in the day. The plan was to go to party at the beach in Anjuna at a place called Shiva Valley. The music and the vibe there sucked. It was full of rude Mumbai tourists that would follow and harrase all foreign girls. So time passed by sitting at the beach until the fireworks would go on.

Midnight. 2008 had arrived and I didn't have the feeling of New Years at all. Despite everything, it was nice having good friends to hug.

A couple of hours had gone away unnoticeably filling our spirits with mere boredom. The group had divided. I had lost Jeff ages ago, and Spider was on his own dancing somewhere. Gill had decided to stay, too on drugs to go to sleep, and so Carro, Maria, Matt and a server went to bed. We thought on getting some sleep before the big Hill Top party which would be the "thing" to see. The "place" to be. It would be "The Party". A party that had been going on since the 31st and that should last until 10 pm of the 1st. But fate decided we would not get there until 1 pm.

Hill Top is an opened space with a big dancing area, with sweaty bodies moving to the rhythm of techno, trance, or whatever the hell was that. There were mats placed strategically for chilling out, resting and recovering strength to go back to the party and keep on dancing and moving eccentrically to beat. You could get food and drinks, from chai to spirits. The vibe however, didn't seem to change much from that in Chapora.

I bumped into Dean on the way in, he was leaving. Later on I bumped into Pedro. Jamie was also there and the reencounter is the only real thing worth mentioning. Like old friends that had been separated for ages, not more than two months, we embraced in an emotive hug. Worth mentioning as well he was high, on drugs, and I was slow, on joints. I had to try to activate myself, and he did the same the other way round. We catch up with our experiences in India, though it was a bit difficult to follow all what he was saying. He told me that Hugh had changed, becoming a very still and peaceful person. That I had to see.

At the end, Hill Top ended at 3pm officially and I left the place at about 5pm when I would go to meet with the rest of the group at Moondance, as they had left when the music finished at 3.

My kind of party would have been managed differently. I would have gone for partying during all night and going to Hill Top earlier. I reckon that would've been better, but chances are you don't get everything as you like, specially when hanging with a group of people with different intentions.

Finally, I ended the day too tired and too stoned to call home and the only thing I knew for sure was that I needed rest to get out of that vibe the next day. I was to move to Arambol.