Mindo to Peurto Lopez

“When I go from hence, let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable” by Rabindranath Tagore, describes the joy of travel: from the magical moments conjured by ancient pyramids and structures that are often the focus of the coloured photos of guide books, to the seemingly more mundane crafts of indigenous people to the taste of a perfectly ripe mango at a local market.

Sometimes however, it’s not some spectacular sight but an alluring descriptor: in this case the availability of real espresso in a small hotel in Mindo that was the catalyst for planning to stay at this particular establishment. As a creature of habit, or more appropriately a forever, soon to be reformed caffeine addict, oh how I miss my morning continental dark coffee piping hot as I try mightily not to let my mind be distracted from the wonders at hand. Not that there is no coffee available in Ecuador, in fact its locally grown and roasted, but the custom of using concentrated essence of coffee, and adding hot water, the result being a tepid black mixture, just does not fully satisfy. So the promise of real espresso in our chosen hotel in Mindo, reawakened the cravings.

Mindo, is a one-horse, dusty little town, a magnet for bird watchers, aficionados of butterflies, chocolate in the making, and orchids, both wild and beautifully cultivated. Alas, my lasting impression is that of a simple authentic espresso, made by Susan the American born, co-owner of Hotel CasKaffesu, delivered splendidly on my expectations. Thankfully, Mindo did make a lasting impression, so when I am sufficiently fortified by my drug of choice, the sight of butterflies emerging, the taste of raw cocoa, and the colours and intricacies of the orchids, do come back with crystal clarity, at least until my next fix.

From Mindo, it was a 13 hour bus ride to Peurto Lopez on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. While unaccustomed to riding buses, especially of such long duration, albeit in three segments, the experience of taking buses turned out to be quite enjoyable.
The roads, rough gravel at times as the bus groans and moans up in first gear and down with breaks screeching, tightly twisted corners, with no guard rails, long views of the hills and valleys once the clouds that hang like pools of cotton baton until the sun burns them off, and the Andes are so dominant that they make a mockery of the roller-coaster rides of country fairs. Beyond the scenery, best are the people, ranging from very young kids coming to or from schools, not yet subject to helicopter parenting, to the elderly, often accompanied by family helpers and carrying telling belongings: produce, pets, animals or well-honed machetes. In between, were the aspirational cellphonated young, and their display of self: dashing young men with glistening, spiked hairdos, reaching for the sky and young women with proud, perky presentations, defying gravity.

Each village has speed bumps slowing vehicles sufficiently to allow groups of men to jump on and off while the bus is still in motion like trapeze artists in training, carrying all manner of local delicacies, which of course must be sampled and explains why there are no formal food stops. I also discover that the least expensive local buses stop very frequently for long, unpredictable periods, surely not union rules, but the whim of the drivers? I get off to stretch and explore when the ticket collector does, and several times I hear Alison shouting, "Andrew" as the bus pulls away, a signal for me hop back on, not quite with the agility of the vendors.

Beyond acrobatic skills, travel also teaches one how to select hotels from guide book descriptions, the mention of espresso being an unambiguous catalyst. However, at times descriptions can be like reading tea leaves. Since we anticipated arriving late in the beach community of Peurto Lopez, after the long bus ride, I called ahead to reserve a room at a highly rated and recommended place called Nantu Hosteria. A woman with perfect English, a real rarity in Ecuador’s hospitality industry, insisted that I email her my passport number and particulars to confirm the reservation. Needless to say, we were somewhat surprised to arrive early evening, to be greeted by a bricklayer, who spoke virtually no English, who did after several attempts, show us a very comfortable room.

The following morning, we discovered that the place was nearly deserted, had annoying ongoing construction and a sense of off-putting officiousness. Walking along the beach road, we soon found and moved to the warm and friendly, family run Hospederia Punta Piedro at half the price, with a huge terrace with hammocks and a commanding view of the fishing harbour and the sea.

Peurto Lopez is one of those places that sadly will be soon discovered by rumoured government infrastructure investments, and spoiled by over-development. For now is a delight for its ramshackle ocean frontage interspersed with eateries, makeshift bamboo bars, souvenir sellers, hotels, broken sidewalks, dusty streets and its benign treatment of tourists. Even touts for tours to the Isla de la Plata, known as the “poor man’s Galapagos”, are content to accept a simple no as a response to offers of tours, or souvenirs and rarely much else, unlike their counter parts of Kuta beach in Bali, where nearly every conceivable thing or service is available. (The actual tour of the Isla de Plata, was a delight: a 40km ride on ocean waves, with sea spray everywhere, in a small boat with twin 110 hp outboard engines might have been enough thrills for the price. However, we also saw migrating whales from a distance, a lifetime full of blue-footed boobies, not to mention some other rare species, giant turtles and snorkeled amongst some truly colourful fish).

Given more time one offer I would love to have accepted, was to go on a fishing trip with Wiston Churchill (sic) who personally runs his tours. He is a larger than life character, suited to his adapted name, who on his return from an early morning trip to the market not only shared a banana with me, but also the usual small-town pleasantries about life, when two strangers meet with limited language skills between them.

As an aside, speaking of being discovered, in the bustling fishing port where in the mornings, small boats come in by the dozens and a whole infrastructure is in place to sort and sell the fish, sometimes over heated negotiation sessions, as foreigners we clearly stood out. It did not take long to learn from another gringo, having exchanged to usual, “where are you from?” and “where have you traveled?”, to learn that a Toronto couple last year purchased an ocean front house for the astonishing low price of about $150,000. The search for retirement nirvana is prevalent in many parts of the world, and it does not take long to learn from other searchers the tax, cost of living, weather and other advantages of Ecuador, the most salient being the cheap prices for real estate. A typical house here sells for around $50 per sq. ft. and condos, for double that. For now, while we can travel on two wheels, or public transit or on two feet, the idea of settling in some foreign spot, especially one with full fencing around a compound, does not yet appeal.

We did however settle after the first morning for a wonderful little cafe, with only four tables, incongruously known as Don Cherry’s, the name of the owner’s husband, after the iconic Canadian hockey personality. We delighted in the warm welcome of his wife Antoinetta who single handed cooks and serves the best five course breakfasts in recent memory. Peurto Lopez is such a sleepy place that neither Antoinetta nor her neighbouring stores had change for the proffered ten dollars. As such we forced, with delight to return the next couple of days to consume the rest of the money, plus some. Such are the unsurpassable moments of travel, not found in guide books that has us longing to return someday to Peurto Lopez and Antoinetta’s, hopefully before it gets discovered.

From Quito Ecuador to Bellavista Cloud Forest Reserve

For months I poured over maps and studied two guidebooks of Ecuador and could not get a sense how we would make our way in seven weeks from Quito, Ecuador to Lima, Peru. Out of frustration I decided to make no decisions about a route, knowing that like a thick fog, the closer you look, the clearer the picture becomes. Unlike our twenty trips to Asia, we are not traveling by bicycles but by public buses. We are also in a new continent, without any previous reference points. Previously I focused largely on finding places a days’ bicycle ride apart with some accommodation. In Ecuador, our route unfolds day by day, with unexpected surprises, which reminds me of the quote from Paul Theroux, “the tourist does not remember where he has been, and the traveler does not know where he is going”.

What is also different is that we are still getting used to carrying our burdens on our backs in packs and not benefiting from the marvelous efficiencies of bikes. Most importantly we are missing the independence of coming and going as we please. There is similarity as with all early days travel, I contemplate how I could reduce the weight, reviewing each item in our bags, and at times concluding some if not all of our belongings should or could be ditched. Perhaps it’s all a progression from homeless hobo?

But there are compensations: a state of wonder, as each day, each hour brings a sense of joy that comes from all the stimuli of traveling in a new land, with language skills that hardly extend beyond two important expressions, “Mas café” and “mas cerveca”. The feeling of confidence increases as we learn to appreciate the genuine warmth of the people and truly wondrous sights, from man-made to the perfection of nature.

In Quito, we stayed in Hotel Portal de Cantuna, which from the moment of our arrival felt like home. This giant former mansion, converted less than a year ago to a 13 room boutique hotel, with all the features from 150 years ago retained, owned and operated by Julia and her son Bernardo. She would hug and kiss at each opportunity, especially as she prepared breakfast in an open kitchen, and the son, who could not have been more helpful and took us by the hand to arrange our cell phone, give directions to the trolleys that were packed like sardines and making sure the taxi we got, is not one that would have us being robbed, which is a constant warning in guide books. Of course, if one heeded all the warnings about crime, robberies, muggings, theft, ailments from food and water, health hazards, extreme events of nature, the potential riots and other civil insurrection, like most people, one could always choose the sensible alternative and stay close to home and wait for the ceiling to fall down.

In Quito, we were a few steps from the Plaza and Church of San Francisco, dating from the 16th century that rivals anything one might see in Europe, except that it was hardly mobbed by people allowing us to appreciate the grandeur and simplicity of its Franciscan denomination. In contrast, the Iglisia de la Compania de Jesus, built over a 150 year period, starting in 1605, was gilded by 200 tons of gold, enough to take ones breath away figuratively, and climbing the steep bell tower of the Basilica, left us breathless from the climb and the splendid panoramic view below.

The experiences which could be an hourly account are far too numerous to detail, and yet each brought the sense of “reality” unlike those obtained on the various television channels that try to compress to 60 minute segments on a two dimensional screen, that which has sounds, smells, sights, texture and most importantly that sense of surprise of not quite knowing what’s around the corner or experiences awaiting from one minute to the next.

We witnessed the regular Monday morning changing of the Presidential guards, with all the pomp and ceremony of movies of my childhood, as the brass bands blared and the soldiers in brass fittings and blue uniforms, as if modeled after the lead soldiers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, marched and raised the flag on the Presidential Palace with the roaring approval of the crowd, which surprisingly included a large group of protesting union workers, who at one point earlier looked like might challenge representatives of the variety of police forces present.

After wondering the cobble stoned streets of this ancient city for two days, a short bus ride took us to Otavalo, known for its handy crafts, exported worldwide made by various indigenous groups. Our stay in a hotel named for the town was a delight, with a classic open court design, with rooms facing the courtyard, since we were the only guests on arrival, we got a large, quiet room in the back, with a huge window facing Cotopaxi volcano.

As further good fortune, out of curiosity we visited a community development organization called Runa Tupari Native Travel, where a German volunteer, Martin, who has lived and worked in South America for the last five years, gave us his subjective view of places worthy of visit, which happened to coincide with our own values. As a result we developed a plan to reach the coast, and avoid the very touristy town of Banos and find not only an alternative, but get off the main tourist path.

One day we did a guided tour of artisans making straw mats, jewellery, weavings, art and wooden objects, using methods developed over the centuries applying amazing skills at hourly rates that are less than minimum wage in the cities. (For example a large straw mat, about three hours of labour would sell for about four dollars or a hand spun and dyed woolen scarf, which took days to make sold for $15.). Sadly, in our homeless state, and firm resolve not to carry even an additional ounce of weight, we had to limit our purchases to two pairs of earrings bought only to support a wonderful community project.

Speaking of weight, the one along my belt-line is expanding as lunch and dinner seems to consist of, some and most of the time all of my favourite starches: potatoes, usually fried, giant kernels of corn, popped, roasted, boiled or on the cob, plantains, and beans, accompanied by other vegetables and generous portions of meat, that being the mains; starters are soups of all or some of the above ingredients, plus cream. These five course fixed-price meals range from three to five dollars.

Unlike in many Asian countries, where exchanging a few hundred dollars US, makes one an instant local millionaire, in Ecuador the US buck is the national currency and as such one is more aware of prices. Unlike in Asia where the currency of choice is the crisp $100 note and is most sought after, in Ecuador even a $10 note results in a plea for something smaller as most of our dealings are with small business and smaller denomination coins are in short supply. Virtually none of the banks would change large bill, and only do so one at a time - but thankfully we discovered that larger supermarkets were happy to take large bills, so we need not go hungry.

In Otavalo we stayed for the famous Saturday market that takes over nearly the whole town with endless vendors occupying the main streets displaying all the goods and handicrafts that one can imagine. Best however was the animal market where locals and tourist mingled and the bargaining was at a feverous pitch when sheep, pigs, chickens, cows, bulls and horses where changing hands.

Near Otavalo we had an overnight stay in a rural hacienda with a local indigenous family (in quite luxurious accommodations) where we helped with the cows and vegetable crops, attended an outdoor church service with men in blue ponchos, long black hair in braids, often reaching their hip, wearing white pants and fedoras.; the women in black skirts, white colourfully embroidered blouses, beads, head wear and also jet black braids -so special to see and experience, especially when we were invited to a huge community feast of chicken and corn, rice and potatoes to celebrate a musical competition in which our hosts daughter participated.

Our next destination was Nangulvi, barely mentioned in guide books a true oasis with wonderful hot springs. The community-run hacienda where we stayed gave us full access to the hot springs, the rope bridge and a hike up the gorge. It was a tremendous deal: a cabin facing a raging river, and three authentic meals, the cost for two was only $40. Arriving on Sunday, there was a bit of a buzz from locals around the five pools of varying degrees of hot water. But by Monday morning we had the place to ourselves and the kitchen went out of their way to assure our comfort and feed us to the max, so much so that at 12:30 we were still eating lunch, when the waitress informed us that our one o’clock bus had already passed. We grabbed out backpacks and rushed to the roadside hoping against all odds that she was wrong, as the next bus, for the two hour ride to Chontal, was the following evening.

Contemplating whether to hitch a ride or stay another day, another bus (or the one we originally anticipated) arrived five minutes later and we were on our way to Chontal where we were told we would have to overnight before continuing our journey. A casual inquiry on arrival clarified that indeed there was a connecting bus, and it materialized in less than five minutes, and much to our delight we were on our way to Nanegalitos, from where we took a four wheel drive truck to the famous Bellavista Cloud Forest Reserve.

Chapters could be written on riding local buses, as they are the best metaphors for the lands that they cover and the communities that they bind together. People hop off and off at will anywhere along the routes, carrying all conceivable goods and implements and often greet each other as if family, which they may well be. Best are the small kids, some surely no more than four or five years of age, clutching their nickel fares, who are often dropped at some remote mountain dirt trail, and in their immaculate uniforms they scamper up on steep trails as experienced mountain goats. There is hardly greater joy on a kid’s face, when some conductors refuse their payment.

Bellavista Cloud Forest Reserve is a private eco-reserve founded by a British ecologist to preserve prime cloud forests through his efforts, and that of a foundation. As one might expect it is a quite magical setting and the staff warm and amazingly knowledgeable and we thoroughly enjoyed our stay in a cabin, overlooking a canopy of trees and our three guided hikes through the cloud forest. We saw plenty hummingbirds and some rare avian species, but not being ’’birders’’ we did not fully appreciate the rarities and after two nights, looked forward to the lower altitudes of Mindo and the continuation of our magical, mystery tour.

A Year of Living Homelessly

‘Homeless’ is how I have been describing my current state, albeit not the young frequently seemingly healthy panhandlers outside coffee shops. I am fortunately in reasonable physical shape for a male in his late sixties, arthritic joints excepted, non-smoking, married and of fairly sound mind but currently without a home, admittedly out of choice and not necessity. In fairness, perhaps my wife Alison’s depiction, “home-free” is more apt, as we sold our house, which had been home for about 31 years, last December. Since then we have traveled though South-East Asia and Australia for 4 months and upon our return to Toronto in April, we have been house-sitting in Toronto and nearby cottage country. This mobile life-style has many advantages, the main one being the complete sense of freedom it has given us, and we hope to replicate, at least for the next year or so.

 Downsizing from a three-story house with five bedrooms and four bathrooms to a 10’ by 17’ climate controlled storage unit, (not that we are living in it, as yet), took some effort and adjusting, not the least of which was what to do with all the years of accumulated STUFF that had anchored us physically and emotionally. Reasons for selling, beyond the obvious size consideration, were in part the feeling that the seemingly inexorable rise in house prices fueled by the press as measured by numerous house-porn articles, and the crescendo of cocktail party speculative chatter, had to at some point abate. More importantly, it was the growing realization that over that last twenty years, as avid bicycle tourists, Alison and I had been quite content to travel our planet for months at a time with four rather small saddle bags and on returning home, experiencing the startling contrast of being burdened by a house needing constant attention, a house full of possessions that had less and less meaning over time.

 Craigslist was of limited help in the unburdening process: some old electronics and a set of snow tires on rims sold rather expeditiously. Books, household gadgets and the usual array of dust collectors, of which we had tons, often duplicates, became objects of give-away parties, where we invited friends with the understanding that they had to take some item as a token of their appreciation of being fed and/or wined and dined. Despite heroic efforts, the countless items hidden in plain sight or in drawers and cupboards necessitated endless trips to the nearest Goodwill store where I became a recognized habitué. A few antiques were accepted by a consignment store and numerous pieces of furniture(which were surplus to our needs, as we only kept items to eventually fill a one-bedroom apartment), went near gratis to friends or to the Furniture Bank, which gives a tax donation for the “value” of the item. The value of the said items seems to equal what they charge to remove them.

 Since our return about six months ago we have lived comfortably in homes and cottages graciously offered to us by friends and acquaintances. Having no fixed address, other than our mail going to a friend’s home does have some challenges. For decades, we had had email accounts with our cable provider Rogers, but they could not provide email service without a fixed physical location, so we switched to web-based Gmail. Similarly, our land-line numbers were transported to cellphones. As a consequence, I joined the 21st century with an unlimited data plan smart phone, which costs less than a land-line and allows me not only to stay in touch wherever I am, but as a bonus, to be connected to the internet as well.


Beyond practical considerations, I am often asked if we miss having a place of our own, or not sleeping in my own bed. The answer is an overwhelming no! There are the obvious things that I do not miss: paying for a mortgage, utilities, insurance, permits, cable, internet, property and utility taxes etc. that go with owning property. I also have no fond memories of all the maintenance and related issues that go with being a proud home owner: fixing roofs, driveway, painting, leaky basements and the myriad of small things that seem to require time, skills or reasonably priced and reliable tradesmen, all in short supply. I have also got used to not having to face the relationship testing discussions like “when are we going to do such and such?” Then there are the perennial issues of updating appliances, kitchens, bathrooms, gardens etc. and the furnishings to go with them, to give us the sense of well-being and approval of our peers. The homes that we stayed in varied in size and design, proud testaments to their owners. Each house provided some novel features and new neighborhoods to enjoy and explore, like luxury B&Bs, on the road of our travels.

 Ironically, as we become experienced, and appreciated house-sitters, with excellent references, I now take pride in doing some repairs in the homes we stay in: fixing doors, leaking taps, chipped sinks, and with a bit of judicious use of force and logic, even making good a massive garage door, not to mention watering gardens, looking after pets, driving the owners to the airport and stocking the fridge with food on their return. We also enjoy replacing ancient clock radios, dull knives and semi-working toasters and kettles that their owners just never got around to doing, a behavior pattern that are reminders of my own past procrastinations.

 Having a storage unit full of possessions is a mixed blessing. Our mover Tony did such a fabulous job of stacking our belongings like a giant Rubik’s cube, that short of unpacking the whole unit, we are denied access beyond the first layer of boxes and a few seasonal clothes and items that we had the foresight to keep handy. It has been nearly a year since our move and we have slowly forgotten the contents of the countless boxes, and have done perfectly well without them. We are constantly dismayed by all the stuff that we still own but have not used and are happy to do without. We are content with our modest traveling possessions and are extremely reluctant to buy anything but consumables lest we add to our hoard and duplicate something we already own.

Still, there have been some adjustments. We discovered quite early in our house-sitting moves that we could not enjoy drinking coffee from a random selection of fine bone china or beer mugs, so we each succumbed to purchasing Dollar Store mugs of pleasing size and shape. Likewise, we are now proud owners of a brand new can opener, carrot peeler and an ultra-sharp ceramic knife, as well as a large plastic salad bowl and a garage sale purchase of delicately carved set of wooden servers from South Africa to go with it – all of which now travel with us from house to house as part of our house-sitting essentials. .

We are off on a six month adventure to Ecuador, Peru, Australia and Guatemala and looking forward to house-sitting, perhaps your home next April, so do keep a list of the things that may need fixing. The anticipation of traveling in cooler and wetter climes has also prompted me to buy a couple of long sleeved shirts and a fleecy from my favorite Goodwill store, which after our travels will be donated to some worthy cause.

reflections

We went back to a small beach community Jemeluk where we had stayed 15 years ago.Of course it had grown immensely and with all the choices for accommodation, none seem just right.After some looking, at the end of the village, a well-built young man, obviously a fisherman, as opposed to a tout who gets a commission for renting a place, invited us to look at his rooms.

Down a dirt path we went for about 150 meters, through a field, past the small black pig tied with a rope, past the chickens and two brown cows to a wall with a small opening that led to two bungalows, in front of which was a small open café and all of this no more than 30 feet from the stormy Bali Ocean.

The room was obviously just built and had crisp white linen with a huge four poster bed.I knew this was the perfect place for us. I asked about the rate and with only a smile and a hint for a discount, the $12 a night rate with breakfast, seemed like a gift.

It was only when we were moving into the room that I noticed a neatly monogramed towel “Papa’s Home Stay”.

Later in the small eatery, sipping a hot ginger tea, the wind blowing, the white caps dancing, the local children running around freely,I had tears of joy. I had come home.

My father, whose birthday is today, was called "Papa".

Bali Sanur to Tanah Lot

Having flown across the Pacific on 17 hour flights on numerous occasions, the short hop from Perth to Bali was perfectly uneventful, other than it was via the no frills airline Jet Star, that charges for everything, plastic sandwiches, blankets and $10 per movie on tiny hand held tablet computers, but to my relief not for the use of toilet… yet. Somewhat incongruously we ate our home-made smoked salmon sandwiches to the slight amusement of the entirely Asian staff.

On our arrival we cleared immigration quite quickly as the woman agent, with full Muslim head covering, barely took notice of us as she had a cellphone discretely tucked against her ear and was in full conversation the whole time, easing the transition from formal Australia to the ways of the island of Bali.

We were met at the airport as arranged, and a small pickup truck, with me and the bikes in the back, were quickly delivered to our Sunhouse Guesthouse. Alas, it being overcast and very humid, it did not live up to that sunny part of the expectations, otherwise its a charming family place, air con and hot water, when there is power, including WiFi throughout, and it helps that I can sit outside looking at the small pool and sip a cup of tea, from the help-yourself kitchen.

Riding in a pickup gives a very different first impression of a place than one gets from the glossy brochures with gleaming white sandy beaches. In heavy traffic I enjoyed the buzz of scooters around our car and noted how friendly and curious the drivers were of this stranger amongst there mist; I was also too aware of the large pools of water that collected by the sides of roads, reminding me that it’s the rainy season, and my profound distaste for riding in rain.

The shock of the heat and humidity and the pollution added to the feeling of weariness despite or perhaps being immediately transported to a different milieu and not quite knowing where we were. However, after unloading bikes and bags, we headed to the beach, where some locals were playing ball and others pulling in colourful, narrow wooden canoes with stabilizers after a day of fishing.

A night market was just starting up and I could not resist the invitation for roasted corn on the cob from a woman who had a tiny clump of charcoal simmering. When I ordered two, she with a big smile and vigorous effort fanned the flame, filling the air with sparks and that unmistakeable aroma of charcoal. Within a few minutes she was waving at us as the corns were ready, their smoky flavour enhanced by copious butter and in my case hot chillies, applied with a brush.

The feeling of wellbeing started at that moment and we slowly made the transition and started to discover why Bali is referred to as the Land of the Gods. Having been here 15 years ago, the changes are all too obvious, and like people before us, we can tell the first-timers, I remember when Sanur beach was... For ourselves, I try to keep in check, the inevitable expectations from before and to appreciate the here and now.

Signs of progress include the usual new hotels, eateries and simply more of the same. Given all the choices, from fish and chips to pizza, sushi etc. that first night, and many times since, we had the simplest of Indonesian staples, Nasi Goring which is enjoyed by the locals for breakfast, lunch and dinner and it too helped make the connection to this place.

The first day was spent putting the bikes together, (at least an hour) walking around, getting a local SIM card,buying drinks and having lunch overlooking the beach and the sea.

Having gotten a slow start, we were determined to perfect the technique, and booked another two nights stay at another hotel, (ours being full) slightly more upmarket, with a much larger pool and an irresistible offering of a buffet breakfast, albeit we had not earned the rights to consume as had done zero kilometers on the bicycles.

On the fifth day, having built up caloric reserves, we headed to the famous seaside temple of Tanah Lot. I had given some thought to our route, as it meant going through the capital city of Denpasar, and heeding the warning of guidebooks of impossible traffic, and yet we found the dreaded bypass road, to be perfectly smooth, and traffic well behaved, certainly compared to places like India and other parts of South-East Asia. The one regret was that in focusing on the ride, I did not stop to take a photo of the sign advertising “ANTIQUES, MADE TO ORDER”, a motto that continues to resonate as we continue trying to differentiate the real or authentic Bali from the made to order Bali experience, in luxury villas, with private pools etc.

Sadly, even the trusted bible of the backpacker and off the beaten traveler has bought into the crass theater of the "Bali experience",which can only be considered as conspicous consumption, such that the Lonely Planet is now calling the Four Seasons and similar hotels as its TOP CHOICE, at prices starting at $800 per night.

Paul Theroux’s comment seems so appropriate, "Luxury is the enemy of observation, a costly indulgence that induces a good feeling that you notice nothing. Luxury spoils and infantilizes you and prevents you from knowing the world".

In contrast, we have had perfectly comfortable accommodations, ranging from $15 to $30 per night, often in small family establishments where the smiles and welcome were genuine. We also had the ability to compare and contrast places to stay, gently negotiate prices until a place said “hello”. In Tanah Lot, we stayed at Dewi Sinta, that same comfortable hotel, overlooking the pool, where we stayed 15 years ago, but LP no longer deems it worthy of mention.

Beyond the souvenir sellers, the temple and the jagged coastline is still magical and the army of instant photographers did a rip-roaring business, as all the Indonesian tourists wanted to have their pictures taken of us with them, and we became part of their authentic experience in a quest to know the world?

On the malaise of modernity

Perth, Australia, December 31, 2011

I recall with nostalgia, the days when I awaited with some anticipation the annual letters of distant friends that highlighted with wit and nostalgia events that transpired for them and their families, during the previous year. As this year is about the end, in contrast, its with some apprehension that I contemplate this blog, aware that many have asked if I will “blog” our travels to Australia, Indonesia, Malaysia and Taiwan this year and deciding what it is that I really want to say. For now at least, since I am comfortably ensconced in Perth Australia, our second home, or perhaps more correctly our first and only home, since we have sold our house in Toronto and all of our earthly possessions, other than our touring bicycles and minimal amount of gear with which we travel now reside, in a 10’x 17’climate controlled storage unit in Toronto, in what was formerly a factory that manufactured widgets, I feel the onus of what to write about acutely, in our rapidly changing world.

I am much too aware, that in this age of desk top, lap top, note-book and net book computers, not to mention the pervasiveness of smart phones, tablets, and the advent of social media and countless apps, communication is increasing at an exponential rate and yet I find that most messages are correspondingly denuded of content. Devices as status symbols are becoming the message as witnessed by the little signature lines that proudly state that the message was brought to you courtesy of some i-phone, i-pad, berry or some variant of an android attesting to the smarts of the owner.

While not quite a Luddite, since I own a most basic cell phone, and travel with a netbook, I am aware that majority of people are content answering the most frequent of questions in their communication: “where are you”? and “what are you doing?” I have a need to express, if anyone cares, what I am thinking and feeling and of course long to hear from others beyond the simple indication of where they are located and what particular activity they are engaged in.

Travel has always been an eye opener for me, especially over the last nearly two decades, in the less economically developed parts of the world and the influence of technology on our behaviour and our values.

I recall being in Israel in the early 1970s, and people lamenting how prior to the prevalence of telephones, friends and family used to arrive unannounced and were entertained spontaneously. Today, I am told that in some contexts its considered impolite or intrusive to telephone someone without arranging for a telephone conference time by some other device.

I am also old enough to remember the great European tradition of coffee houses, where the cadre of intellectuals and the romantically inclined would while away hours discussing some important matter of state, possibly the next revolution or some revolutionary romance, as the case may be. Today, coffee houses are virtually devoid of any conversation as the focus is on the keyboard at hand, or perhaps on intrusive cell phone conversation.

I can also recall the days when going to a gym meant some interaction with people and when it was common practice to exchange greetings on the street. Now with i-tunes most people are plugged in and tuned out, oblivious to the world around them.

Another effect of technology is that we are googelized, and no longer experience the world directly, but filtered through some technology that allows us to live vicariously from second hand information that we can so readily collect from cyberspace. No need to experience the snow, sun, rain or humidity when the trusted device provides minute by minute updates. The world of opinion leaders and reviews can tell us what to eat, read, watch and consume, and if need be, most or all our needs can be delivered to the comfort of our homes. If we do venture out we can fully expect that peak, perfect experience we have had the opportunity of googelizing to a predictable pablum like pulp.

The advent of all enabling technologies also have social consequences that reinforce patterns of dependent behaviour. Cell phones initially were sold as communication devices to be used in cases of emergency. Now we have become so fearful of not being able to communicate where we are and what we are doing at all times, that even seven year old children must have the latest smart phones, so parents can helicopter over them and protect them from all manner of perceived evils that may befall them. Needless to say, with a heightened awareness of the dangers of the world, children no longer walk to school, take public transit, play on the streets but join their parents, safely cocooned indoors: kids glued to their video games and the parents to so called “reality” TV shows or spreading the latest disease of inane videos to go even more viral.

While travelling on two wheels on the back roads of south-east Asia is not a complete or by any means the only anti-dote to escaping the malaise of modernity, it is a step in the right direction. The world is a far safer, warmer, more welcoming and exciting place, than the dependency inducing self-indulging technologies would have one believe.

It is still possible to have unique, unanticipated “aha” experiences by leaving behind the creature comforts of our confines. However, time is running short. As we in the economically advanced world are quertying away much about nothing, oblivious to others around us, the planet is being blanketed by the same devices and there are no guarantees that our world will be a safer and happier place for it. Au contraire, given the recent experiences of the Arab Spring and the Occupy Movements demonstrate, anyone with or without a legitimate case can cause governments to topple or the rights of democratically elected peoples to be trampled upon. Worse, anyone can produce a device of mass destruction causing much more than minor social disruption. Do I hear the clarion of anarchists to unite? But that’s another story. Happy New Year.
‘

Reflections

Three weeks ago, Alison and I decided to sell the house I have lived in for nearly 31 years, which needless to say involved a great deal of de-cluttering,selling most of our furniture and letting go of STUFF, which no doubt in our newly found lightened, if not enlightened but homeless state, will allow us the freedom the explore more.

It is as if I have to let go of the past to make room for the future.

As I applied this principle of making room on my computer's C Drive, I came across the piece below that I wrote on the occasion of the tragic death of two infant boys.

LIFE AND IMPERMANENCE

All life is impermanent. We are all children of the Earth, and, at some time, she will take us back again. We are continually rising from Mother Earth, being nurtured by her, and then returning to her. Plants are born, live for a period of time, and then return to the Earth and in doing so, they nurture our gardens. We humans are unique in our knowledge of our own immortality, and our ability to deal with our own passing through reason. We also have choices about and some sense of what we leave behind.

Today we are here to reflect on the passing of two souls who did not yet have the awareness of the meaning of life. We are also here to comfort two parents and in some way all of us, who have the ability to reflect on the imponderable question of “why”.

Leslie and Susan from their meeting and deciding to share their lives, from their determined plans to have a family, from their earliest knowledge of life having been formed, from the moment of knowing there were two fertilized eggs, to the surprise of anticipating two tiny males, with each passing week watching them grow, planning for their care, the myriad of details, its hard to conceive of two beings more anticipated by two parents than whose passing we are here to observe today…alas, they are no more.

We are grieving with Leslie and Susan… for what might have been: the hands they longed to touch, the faces they longed to kiss. Their arms hold no small lives; their hearts are filled with sadness. We are all confounded by the overwhelming sense of loss of never seeing the world through four eyes and two inquiring minds, to not knowing what they might have looked like, what they might have thought and what legacy they might have left behind.
Our rational minds crave order. We have a tendency to think that life is a linear progression, where we go from A to B to C and so on, and if don’t get to B we can't get to C. Events like this, tell us that order can be an illusion. If we think carefully about our own lives, we know that the pattern of our past is often serendipitous and accidental as when fertilization formed the miracle of two lives; and the mystery of why they are no more. We don't know why.
Perhaps our challenge in life is not to know precisely where we are going, but to prepare ourselves so when those wonderful moments of serendipity occur or when we are confronted with mysterious painful ones, such as the passings we are observing today, at times like these we can listen to our hearts and know what it is we need to do. So in remembering the loss of two tiny souls, let us reflect on the joys, the excitement, the anticipation, let us remember how their possibility fertilized our imaginations and hope that their memory will yet take us to a higher plane, where our hearts can roam free and where we can listen to the little voices inside all of us. Life is impermanent; memories live for ever.


September 23, 2003

Finally, our trip in Northern India and Nepal

As the first taste of winter has arrived in Toronto, and am planning this year's winter getaway,I am reminded that I left the blog incomplete. I have no excuse. Below is our route, should anyone like to follow our fading tire tracks.

INDIA

January 8 – February 15, 2011

Date Destination Distance
Km
Jan 7 Perth - Kuala Lumpur 0
Jan 7 Delhi 0
Jan 8 Delhi - Gurgaon 0
Jan 9 Palwal 72
Jan 10 Vrindavan 87
Jan 11 Vrindavan 20
Jan 12 Agra 78
Jan 13 Agra 0
Jan 14 Agra 0
Jan 15 Agra 0
Jan 16 Dhaulpur 61
Jan 17 Gwalior 69
Jan 18 Datia 76
Jan 19 Orchhe 50
Jan 20 Orchhe 0
Jan 21 Nowgong 110
Jan 22 Khajaraho 71
Jan 23 Khajaraho 0
Jan 24 Khajaraho 0
Jan 25 Panna 47
Jan 26 Satna 73
Jan 27 Chittrakoot 83
Jan 28 Chittrakoot 0
Jan 29 Allahabad 137
Jan 30 Allahabad 0
Jan 31 Mirzapur 95
Feb 1 Varanasi 67
Feb 2 Varanasi 0
Feb 3 Varanasi 0
Feb 4 Varanasi 0
Feb 5 Varanasi 0
Feb 6 Varanasi 0
Feb 7 Sarnath 18
Feb 8 Sarnath 0
Feb 9 Sarnath 0
Feb 10 Sarnath 0
Feb 11 Sarnath 0
Feb 12 Gazipur 72
Feb 13 Dohrighat 81
Feb 14 Kushinagar 92
Feb 15 Gorakpur 57
TOTAL 1,516

1,516km in 21 full cycling days = 72km per day (average)

NEPAL

Feb 16 Sunali 100
Feb 17 Lumbini 26
Feb 18 Lumbini 15
Feb 19 Butwal 46
Feb 20 Tansen 40
Feb 21 Waling 62
Feb 22 Pokara 62
Feb 23 Pokara 0
Feb 24 Pokara 0
Feb 25 Bandipur
Feb 26 Bandipur
Feb 27 Malekhu 76
Feb 28 Kathmandu 46
Mar 1 Kathmandu 0
Mar 2 Kathmandu 0
Mar 3 Kathmandu 0
Mar 4 Kathmandu 0
Mar 5 Kathmandu 0
Mar 6 Kathmandu 0
Mar 7 Kathmandu 0
Mar 8 Kathmandu 0
Mar 9 Kathmandu 0
Mar 10 Kathmandu 0
Mar 11 Daman 0
Mar 12 Daman 0
Mar 13 Heteuda 57
Mar 14 Sauraha 74
Mar 15 Sauraha 0
Mar 16 Narayanghat 24
Mar 17 Butwal 118
Mar 18 Chatauta 66
Mar 19 Lahami 60
Mar 20 Kohalpur 118


1,136km in 18 full cycling days = 63km per day (average)


INDIA RIVISITED

Mar 27 Radrapur 100
Mar 28 Moradabad 75
Mar 29 Ghaziabad 14
Mar 30 Ghaziabad - IGI Airport 0
Mar 31 Toronto 0
TOTAL 189


GRAND TOTAL: India + Nepal 2,841km in 42 full cycling days = 68km per day

Places I have been

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Changing gears in Kathmandu

When we set out from Delhi to Kathmandu, we not only had in mind a ride through a kaleidoscope of sights and terrain, but a mission to support a cause that Alison is involved with, namely to raise funds for a program to help kids in various parts of the world have educational supplies. Alison calls her mission Kinder Kit Fundraiser: B.I.K.E = Bicycling In Aid of Kids Education and thus far she has raised more than $3000 but I am sure she would be delighted by additional contributions, which can be made by following the link https://secure.e2rm.com/registrant/donate.aspx?EventID=62239&LangPref=en-CA&Referrer=http%3a%2f%2fwww.veahavta.org%2findex.php%2fcurrent-event%2f

After a couple of days of sightseeing, being in a UNESCO World Heritage Site, we shifted into a neutral gear an became tourists. There are in Katmandu, Patan and Bhaktapur literally thousands of temples, stupas, monasteries scattered around narrow alley ways and the famous Durbar Square which dates back many centuries. Besides the Nepalese Buddhist and Hindu temples, there are a large number of beautiful Tibetan temples with lamas in Burdgundy robes, all in a setting of east meets west and everything in between. As might be expected there are countless shopping and eating opportunities and the gamut of places from simple rooms in guest houses to five star hotels, all in a valley that on a clear day seems magical and on others, it’s easy to see, or should it be not seen why it’s one of the most polluted cities in the world.

While we did a lot walking, riding buses and taking an occasional taxi, we changed gears, not that of bicycles, but immersing ourselves in a humanitarian organization from Israel, called Tevel B’Tzedek that is doing some marvelous work here. http://www.tevelbtzedek.org/ We have literally moved in with them over the last six nights, since Alison in particular wanted to learn about the organization and to participate in trips that started very early in the morning to see firsthand in the field the fruits of their labour which indeed are impressive. Alison also had some meaningful input into some organization development issues with TbT, which is one area of her expertise.

Their achievements to date are substantial in terms of empowering youth and women, education, agriculture and early child development which can be seen from the numerous school and extra-curricular programs, arts activities, women’s groups, farming, bio gas, sanitation, water supply and health education programs which they have established.

TbT adopts a holistic approach by working closely with established community leaders and partners, and has 23 Nepali staff who manage and operate programs throughout the year. Each year, TbT operates both long and short term volunteer programs. The four month ‘’Full Program’’ operates twice a year with two cohorts and the 5 week ‘’Backpackers’’ program consists of 6 cohorts between October and May. TbT conducts extensive orientation sessions for the volunteers to prepare them for their placements including Nepali language, culture, history, site visits, workshops and discussions on Jewish values and responsible volunteerism.

During our field visits we saw terraced fields of various crops that only a couple of years ago were dormant. TbT brought water from nearly a half kilometer, introduced wells, toilets that are linked to a system to produce bio-gas for cooking year around, concrete enclosures for animals, and a new fishpond. We met with various youth, womens ‘groups, saw programs for blind kids, day care centers, school programs and much more that were TbT’s initiatives. Perhaps most moving was our living and at times participating with 20 young very energetic and enthusiastic Israeli’s who are going through a one month intensive training program, that includes learning Nepalese, prior to them going into the field for three months.
After a couple of days’ delay, which in large measure was due to the need to get an extension of our Indian visas, an entirely unpleasant bureaucratic experience, as of the time of writing, we are planning to leave from Daman, a hill town at an elevation of 2,300 meters, unless we continue in neutral gear at the urging of our hosts and stay for Shabbat.

Pokhara to Kathmandu and the 99% solution

The distance from Pokhara to Kathmandu is only 200 kms but when traveling by bicycle, these measurements can be deceptive, since they don’t take into consideration the terrain and that we have been on the road for over two months, with hardly a rest day, which as rare as they are consist of hours of walking and climbing, as fueled by the inexhaustible sights at the expense of depleting our energies. All this as an introduction to the conclusion that after 2,069 kms, and having reached the village of Naubise, we decided to cover the last 26 kms to the city of Kathmandu by hitchhiking in the back of a small pickup truck, a bumpy and hair raising experience as we crawled up the steep mountain, leading to the rim of the Kathmandu valley. The road is steep and tortuous, but what makes it daunting, is the continuous stream of trucks, buses, cars and motor cycles fighting for space on a narrow road traveling in both directions, often slowing to a crawl, and at each hairpin turn we could see the traffic ahead of us snaking up and down, like a train, hardly an inviting experience for two loaded, and admittedly tired cyclists. While disappointed, I was not entirely unhappy to have opted for the one per cent solution.

After Pokhara it was 71 undulating kms to the foot of the hill town village of Bandipur, the last 8 kms of which is straight up hill and we had already done about 30kms of climbing, we took the local shuttle truck which to our delight was just leaving. The village perched on a level portion of a high hill, became one of our favourite stops, as we enjoyed not only the uninterrupted views of the Himalayas in the distance, but the fact that this one street village with a handful of guest houses, with no car or motorcycle traffic, is a well preserved “museum” like Newari community, carrying on life as it has done so for centuries, warm and welcoming, almost oblivious to even to the in-your-face, small group of Japanese tourists, who with giant telephoto lenses, were taking pictures in unison one afternoon.

Apparently Bandipur for centuries was an important trading center on route from Tibet to India, and traders built two to four storey dwellings from local and imported hard woods, with shops on the main floor and accommodations above. Some 70% of the buildings in the village are original and many are well preserved, even though some 50 years ago, the highway below diverted the traffic, which has led to the community’s decline, hence a magical window onto the past, with women carrying heavy loads of wood or fresh grown produce, children playing amongst the handful of temples and the occasional goat or cattle that passes by. We explored the track up several hundred meters to get the best view of the snow-capped Himalaya and the lows down the valley, with verdant agriculture. The two nights spent in a family home with a marvellous view of the valley were fair compensation for the basic nature of the facilities.

The early morning ride downhill to the main highway was exhilarating in the cool mountain air with the clearest views of the high Himalayas, taking nearly an hour to cover the eight kms. The constant breaking and the alternating coolness in the shade and warmth in the sun invited us to stop frequently. As competitive as I can be, I did not mind being beaten by the many groups of young kids on the way to school who raced us running downhill but had the advantage of taking the near vertical footpaths as we slowly followed the serpentine road.

While in Pokhara, the manager of our first class hotel recommended that we stop in Malekhu, where there were fine accommodations and we were looking forward to a goodnights sleep, as more than half of the 76 kms we covered were uphill. Alas, the first place that looked somewhat inviting was full and we were forced to settle at the Midway Garden Restaurant, in a room with cold shower, that I will leave to the imagination, although at about three bucks a night, was decent value.

The upside of the Midway Garden was that its restaurant opened at 5 a.m. for hungry truckers so that we were able to get going early in the morning, in anticipation of riding to Naubise, the last stop before Kathmandu. Although only 46 kms with lots of steep short hills, we were ready to settle for the night and it took some searching and the intervention of a very friendly English speaking man, who took it as a principle of national pride to ferret out for us the two potential places to stay for the night, both of which seemed worse than the room the night before since they had no nearby toilet facilities and were no doubt appeared darker and dingier since most days, electricity is unavailable for about half the time.

We had a late lunch to consider our options, and as the day was at its warmest and our mood at the lowest, we decided to flag a bus or truck down, when a driver for a local hospital picked us up and we covered the last one percent of our journey, in the back of his truck. Not entirely out of altruism, he dropped us at a guest house, no doubt anticipating a commission, but after a near two hour in ride we were happy to settle near the heart of the main tourist district in Kathmandu, the Thamel, and I managed to salvage some of my pride by striking a hard bargain and we moved out the following morning to a comfortable hotel next door, after carefully considering a myriad of options.

Still, for the first day, having been dropped in a middle of this teaming metropolis, I went through a bit of emotional adjustment asking the question “where am I?” an experience I am sure many tourist ask as they travel on organized tours and not having been connected to the land that they traverse. The experience reminded me of the many times when we took walks in the evening in the small villages of India, when many a local out of amazement would ask, “where are you from?”, as if we were Martians who have landed on the planet. When we told them we are from Canada, they probed further to find out how we got there and to be even more surprised to be told that we came on bicycles.


Happy cycling or being where ever you find yourself or others find you,

andrew

Nepal: what a difference a border makes

After a rain soaked arrival in the border town of Sonauli on the Nepalese side, we were not only glad for the return of sunshine that we had experienced uninterrupted for six weeks, but also for the palpable differences between India and Nepal. As much as we loved the colours, sounds and the intensity of India, Nepal while similar, felt like a new world, cleaner, less frenetic and laid back, nowhere more so the in Lumbini, which is a World Heritage Site, known for being the birth place of Buddha. The village is essentially a one street, one block affair with a few guest houses, stores and a couple of street level eateries and yet the village attracts thousands of pilgrim from around the world. The only chai shop has a few tourists and many more locals and in the early evening there is a steady parade of cows and goats, heading home to mud plastered thatch roofed dwellings.

Of course the main attraction is the giant park known as the Lumbini Development Zone, referred to as the Sacred Garden, where most Buddhist countries are building or have built giant temples and monasteries to complement the much revered Maya Devi Temple, marking the exact site of the Buddha’s birth. The Sacred Garden was designed by an architect from the land-starved country of Japan and measures one by three miles, so there are vast tracts between each nations temples that are best explored at a relaxed pace on bicycles.

We spent two nights here not only decompressing from India but to dry most of our belongings. To our good fortune, there was a major celebration of 77 years of nuns having been in Lumbini and we were invited to a luncheon, where we had authentic food as well, some local input to our next destination, Buthwal.

Instead of retracing our steps from the day before, we followed a road due north, which as promised had no traffic and for the first 10 kms was paved. Unexpectedly however, the remaining 20kms was a dirt track and gave true meaning to being off the beaten track. Still, it was a window into a Nepal where people still live off the land , mostly without electricity, and adults wear brightly coloured traditional clothes, including fezzes for men and scarves for women and where children delight in having their photos taken. Just before we reached the highway to Butwal we happened upon a wedding and had the pleasure of sharing the celebration with an extended family dressed in their colourful costumes, while a band with brass flutes, drums and 10 foot long brass horns played on.

Butwal is a prosperous commercial center which is literally at the footsteps of the Himalaya mountains and it was all too obvious as we walked around town that we were heading due north on the road that pointed straight UP at a steep angle, very much in contrast to our riding in India, which for the most part was flat.

Our destination was Tansen, a hill town appropriately named, some 40kms away, and while the distance seemed short, since nearly all of it was uphill. At the end we were much more tired, than after some of the 100+km days on the flat roads of India. Clearly the more than 2,000 kms we had cycled while in Australia and India were not sufficient for the demands of the long and steep mountain climbs. But what a thrilling ride it was as the road snaked in deep cut gorges, parts looking like the Fraser canyon of British Columbia, with spectacular terraces and rice fields and rushing blue waters below. As always, we had warm welcomes from the smiling locals in tiny villages.

Despite feeling the challenges of the climbs, we explored the town on foot drawn to the most notable site in town a 300 year pagoda like temple. Alas it was on a narrow, medieval like street, heading straight down, one for which most western building inspectors demanded handrails. Still, even from a distance it was captivating and a smiling elderly gentle man meditating in lotus position engaged us in pleasant conversation. It would have been too rude to refuse the invitation to sit with him and indeed the warm rays of the afternoon sun, and the cool still mountain air was an ideal environment for reflection. Unfortunately, my mind wondered fleetingly, from the exquisitely carved erotic sculptures on the columns of the temple of 300 years ago, reminiscent of Khujaraho, to the brass doors, bells and sculptures, but more importantly to the effort to stand up, and how much will my knees be talking to me to make the climb up to the highly recommended restaurant, filling the most urgent environmental imperative: food.

In Tansen, we stayed at the White Lake Hotel, although there is no lake in sight, but at a height of 1,550 metres, we soon understand the appellation, as the valley from our room’s balcony was a shimmering “white lake” of cloud-like dense mist below, illuminated simultaneously by the sun rising and the moon setting at the same time.



From Tansen, we were heading to the lakeside town of Pokhara, at the foothills of the Himalayas, about 120 kms away and given the previous days topography, not a destination to be reached in a day. Adding to the mystery, was the unknown terrain nor knowledge of places to stay along the way. In fact from a cyclist perspective we were one terra nova. Unlike previous trips, we encountered only two other cyclists in Veranasi, and a fairly exhaustive search of the internet showed very few others who had followed our route.

The road continued to follow some river valleys with moderate undulations there were lots of climbs of severity between various mountains. By the 40km mark we noted several very simple places offering food and lodging, one even had a tailor shop with “shirting and suiting” but none looked inviting. I also wanted to reach the halfway mark so we pushed on. Perhaps my growing exhaustion, coloured my perspective, but we decided on a lodge, the Nature View, at Waling , that had a small clean room with a detached washroom down the hall and a hot water bucket shower, but at five bucks a night, served our needs.

The following day we headed to Pokhara, where after another day of river valleys, deep gorges and rice terraces, and some tough 62kms of riding, it’s as if we arrived in yet another world for we are now in the heart of trekking country, with the 8,000 metre Annapurna mountains of the Himalayas serving as the backdrop and the main attraction, and the giant white clad teeth like peaks are clearly visible from our room, at the recently completed Hotel Trekking Inn. www.trekkersinn.com (A place I would highly recommend to anyone visiting these parts).

Like kids in a candy shop, we are soaking up luxuries and amenities: 24 hour hot water and a bath tub in which to luxuriate, and even a mini-fridge; television with news in English albeit all the woes of the world are not comforting; countless places offering laundry using washing machines versus our hand washed clothes in cold water; restaurants of every nationality so we have pizza and Israeli salad for lunch instead of searching for the elusive fried noodles and veggies in the villages; and shops stretched out along the lakes side road for a couple of kilometers. We spent the day shopping, in a meditative walking pace sharpening negotiating skills to acquire of a few essentials, a rainproof Gore-Tex jacket for Alison which thankfully does not have a pirated major brand’s label, new sunglasses and some shorts for me. We both get haircuts for the price of a Starbucks coffee and acquired a pocket book, carefully considered for content and weight. As we look ahead, we are already contemplating extending our 30 day Nepali visas, as we are truly enjoying this side of the border.


namaste

Leaving India: persistence and overcoming impossibilities

After a long unscheduled “rest”in Sarnath, it felt good to be back on the bikes and ride comfortably about 70 kms to the Uttar Pradesh (UP) Guest House in Ghazipur, which had been recently upgraded with good quality furniture and mattresses, the latter being the most notable requirement of tired cyclists, and as on many occasions, we were the only guest in the hotel, and it being run by the state government, had the full complement of staff to look after our dinner and breakfast needs.

The next destination, Doharighat had an identical UP guest house and we looked forward to a good night’s sleep, having had yet again an easy ride through small villages and open fields with yellow mustard seed plants and the occasional sugar and rice fields throw in. I duly approached the person behind the UP reception desk in a deserted lobby who told me quite curtly that there were no rooms to be had and then he disappeared. My suspicions were raised since there were no cars or buses in the parking lot so I just stood there patiently for a couple of minutes when Person #1 returned and I asked again if we could get a room, to which he said no. I smiled and tried to look pathetic and told him that we had been staying in UP guest houses through our travels and we were very tired after riding 80 kms.

A few minutes later Person #2 appeared, an obvious superior and after some discussion takes place between them and it’s clear that Person #1 was sent to look at a room. More discussion and Person #2 say sorry “but it’s impossible”. I once again play my ‘”we are card carrying members of UP Guest Houses” and are very tired and we don’t want to cycle 60kms to the next town and could I at least see the room that they had been discussing. Person #1 shows me a room with peeling walls but with same nearly new furniture and the much coveted mattresses that we enjoyed the night before. By this time Person #2 arrives and directs Person #1 to open another room that looked perfectly OK, other than the fact that the linen need changing and tells Person #1 to give me this ’’impossible room’’, and by the way he tells me there is no hot water.

Person #3 now appears - clearly he is the lowest man on the totem pole- and I ask him when the others have departed if we could get new sheets, towels and buckets of hot water and with the aid of a few rupees he returns smiling with everything we asked for, which only goes to show that in India even the impossible is possible with a little patience, persistence and showing appreciation of those who actually do the work. Later we dined again with the place all to ourselves, with its full complement of staff.

From the mundane issues of accommodation, we were looking forward to Kushinagar, as part of our on-chronological tour of the famous Buddhist sights demarking his life: Kushinagar being the place where the Buddha died and was cremated in 563 BCE, having come from Sarnath where Buddha gave his first sermon, to Lumbini where we are today, the place where Buddha was born.

The highlight of our stay in Kushinagar was the Mahaparinirvana Temple, that houses a 5th Century six meter long reclining Buddha, that was unearthed in 1876. Set in a beautiful parkland, the temple was truly serene and moving, as a continuous stream of devotees, in a small tomb, chanted, lit candles and brought offerings of flowers, incense and money, some of which ended in the right pocket of the attendant. As in Sarnath and in Lumbini most major Buddhist countries are represented with the own temples and meditation complexes and devotees wearing their national colours move in unison to the various holy sites in these communities.

After a short ride to Gorahkpur, we faced a nearly 100 km day to the India-Nepal border town of Sonauli. Despite the fancy digs at the Park Regency we found six staff sleeping on the lobby couches at 7:15 a.m. well past the time the restaurant was supposed to open, so we decided to leave on near empty stomach to beat the heavy morning traffic, typical of all large Indian cities. We had covered about 10 kms when over a span of a few minutes the western sky turned black and the fierce winds forced us off the bikes and rain began to fall. Fortunately within a few minutes we found a house with an overhang and a half open rollup garage type door where we were protected from the heavy downpour and were able to put on several layers of clothing to keep warm. Through the open door, two kids about three and five offered us chairs inside their room, brought us tea and snacks while we could only make out the shadows of their mother, who no doubt, out of modesty, kept out of sight.

After an hour it started to clear and conscious of the fact that we had done only 10kms and it was past 9:30 we started to ride first in the drizzle and using heavier downpours as an opportunity to consume road side chai but our frequent stop making it to our destination seemed like a remote possibility. Still, we had made some progress and after a good lunch by 1pm, we “only” had 50kms to go. By this time we were both thoroughly wet but persisted at the goal of reaching our border destination; waiting for a bus might have caused hyperthermia and moving was the only way to keep warm. With only a few kilometres to go and still about two hours of daylight left, we had more tea and our favourite “snack” a two- egg- bread- omelette from the road side egg-wallah.

Fortunately by this time the rain stopped but it was getting colder, thus I was elated to find the local UP Guest House only to be demoralized as they were obviously full, and preparations were well under way for a wedding. A quick inspection of the only other optoin in town convinced me that our best option would be to sleep on the Nepali side, the only limitation being the bumper to bumper traffic and slowly setting sun. The road was a giant mud bath that added to the challenge, but by persistent manoeuvring of our bikes between cars, truck, buses and rickshaws enabled us to push our way to Immigration . We cleared Indian Immigration reasonably quickly and in about 15 minutes we also had our Nepali Visas.

We were both getting seriously cold and a couple of full hotels added chills to our spirits as the prospect of riding in the dark the four kilometers to the next town started to loom large. Fortunately, persistence paid off and we did land, in the near dark, at the Mamata Hotel, recently completed with a lovely room with hot water. We were both on the verge of tears of joy. Later a small group of overland adventurers in a sizeable bus, who had arrived at the hotel the same time as we did, told us that it took them three hours to grind their way through the border traffic, which goes to show that cycling has its advantages, if you are persistent and are prepared to ride the distances to soak up the local scenery, which at times come with some rain and loads of possibilities.

Selected Images of India #4

https://picasaweb.google.com/andras1944/SelectedIndia4?authkey=Gv1sRgCP6sttWuhPGHfw#

From Sarnath: the week the wasn’t

The last time I set digits to the keypad, we were anticipating a Shabbat dinner but it wasn’t the way things turned out. Ever since arriving in Varanasi, to a person, told us that everyone gets ill there, no doubt in large measure due to the abysmal state of sanitation and the water quality of the Ganges. Not that we are smug but Alison and I have had more than thirty cycling trips between us in south east Asia and India, without ever being sick. But by last Friday it was clear that Alison wasn’t about to continue our streak and by late afternoon had a mild fever and severe stomach woes. Disappointed as we were, we could not make it to Shabbat dinner. A few days resting, a dose of Ciproflaxin, and a steady diet of water and tea lead to Alison’s partial recovery. This allowed us to return to Chabad House for a welcomed meal, accompanied by lively discussion of life and Judaism. It turns out the both the Rabbi and his wife, she in her late thirties and he in his forties found their calling after a life of work and travel so we could well appreciate his advice and experience that amongst other things one is best off eating street food, where there is a large turnover and one can see what is being served.

Still, by Monday we decided to cycle to Sarnath, only 15 kms from Varanasi which promised being much smaller in size and the center for Buddhism, to be quieter and also less polluted. The roads getting there, mostly dust tracts under an expressway under construction. On arrival we were delighted to find that Sarnath wasn’t anything like Varanasi, which I earlier described as the confluence of all the contradictions of India. Sarnath is the place where Buddha gained enlightenment at Bodh Gaya and gave his first sermon in 528 BC and the sites and monuments here have been holy to Buddhist ever since.

Sarnath continues to attract large numbers of pilgrims of many nationalities and yet retains the charm of a small village with basically one main street lined with vendors offering fruits, vegetables and stalls and small shops selling a treasure trove of religious art, ornaments and Buddhist books. There are spacious Burmese, Bhutanese, Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Tibetan and Vietnamese temples many with monasteries where many come for retreats and dharma gatherings.

So in this environment of green spaces and lovely gardens, only moderate air pollution our good fortunes continued as did Alison’s recovery. We found Shivam guest house, built less than a year ago with huge rooms, with large windows and gleaming tile floors and beds designed to accommodate a family a at least five, the perfect place but Alison’s recovery was slower than we anticipated. So much so that we approached the local clinic to discover that we had to register for the lofty sum of one rupee and the medical consult with the doctor and all of the medications we received for all possible travel related ailments which hopefully will last for at least another thirty trips, were completely free of charge!

While this wasn’t the week we planned, by tomorrow, we should be on the road, not only of recovery but one of exploration of this land of many incongruities: one of the calmest, smallest communities, a place revered by Buddhists the world over, next door to the holiest and most chaotic Hindu place of worship; in a nation with many poor people, an ill Canadian is treated by a doctor, free of charge. Had we stayed with our original plans, Sarnath might only have been a short stop on our route; such is India and we are thankful for the week that wasn’t.

Varanasi, known as Kashi, the City of Life

It has been said that India is not a contradiction in terms, but sets the terms for all contradictions, and this is especially true in Varanasi. I give a few rupees to a beggar and an Indian man next to me says “good karma”. Later I read in the India Times that the American Bill Gates is urging Indian billionaires to be more charitable. Indeed in India there are many billionaires and countless living in poverty.

Just before arriving, on the perfectly smooth four-lane expressway cows wandered and not unexpectedly trucks and cars travel in the wrong lanes, as everywhere in India. At the city’s periphery there are gleaming modern Toyota and Ford car dealerships next the tent cities and mud dwellings and women making paddies from cow droppings and artfully arranging them by the road side. The pavement stops and suddenly it’s a mud track due to construction and traffic is at a standstill. Throughout the congested narrow lanes of Old Varanasi, where a cow can barely pass, one always needs to be on the look-out for speeding motorcycles.

But it’s along the Ganges, locally the Ganga, one of the most holy of rivers to Hindus, in this City of Life, where life and death stand in stand in dark contrast. Pilgrims come to pray and the sick and elderly come to die. By all accounts one of the most polluted rivers in the world yet by the thousands healthy-looking people pray at, swim in and drink the water of the Ganges along the dozens of ghats. There are colourful and very moving puja ceremonies before sunrise and at sunset. Amongst the ghats are several special “burning ghats” for cremation, bodies wrapped in white, placed on piles of wood, surrounded by family and ; most have their ashes scattered in the holy water. But even here there is a class divide: one ghat for the untouchables and the rest positioned such the wealthier are closest to the water. Unlike the healthy, in seeming contradiction most of the ill and dead animals are not cremated but are weighed down by stones and sent into the Ganges.

The celebrations of life and death seem almost equally serene as the prevailing belief is in reincarnation. The “puja”, meaning respect incorporate elements of most religious and folk art/dance traditions that I have seen. There is the constant chanting, ringing of bells, use of water, flowers, incense, candles and lights. The blowing of a conch sounding just like the shofar, the use of smoke and candles as in Eastern Orthodoxy and the delicate hand and body movements of the dancers of Thailand and Indonesia. All this in a setting where huge crowds gather; cows, goats, dogs roam freely. The crowd is mostly women in multi-coloured saris, men in their woollens, often covered with thick blankets to ward off the chill of the dawn or dusk, children selling small offerings of flower pedals with a candle to be floated down the river, holy men in pure white or deep orange robes and thankfully, not that many foreign tourists, who seem to arrive by the busload and head straight for larger boats to observe the ceremonies are far enough off shore such that only their ineffectual flashing cameras indicate their presence. Most independent travelers appear as mesmerized by the fusion of activities and only an occasional oriental stands out as he or she makes grotesque faces in contorted positions, for the benefit of the camera.

Beyond the river there is a maze of streets to wander in the old city, a number of temples, a vibrant university set along landscaped boulevards and several major arterials full of all the modern conveniences of a city of about two million. We have been here three days but decided to stay an extra night, having found several restaurants and street vendors to our liking, one special one being the Aum Café, run by a spiritual ex-Californian woman with simple, healthy food and she is proud of using only fresh ingredients and for not having a can opener, and free wi-fi is an additional bonus.

On Thursday night as we are strolling after dinner, the unmistakable figure of a man with a large black hat, black suit and white shirt, a Chabad Rabbi appears. He is putting up posters in Hebrew, having only arrived the day before that Chabad House is open and we will be having a Sabbath service and meal with him this evening.

What is the chance of such a Sangam, the confluence of events, in this case two tourists, who had planned to move on the day before, meeting a Rabbi, who had just arrived in town the day before, on aminor side street at the south end of Varanasi: only in India, the land of contradictions and conjunctions?

Namaste and Shabbat Shalom

andrew

chief explorer

andrew's bicycling tours

more photos of India

https://picasaweb.google.com/andras1944/SelectedIndia3?authkey=Gv1sRgCJuO_aGBmoOvggE#

Selected Images of India #2

http://picasaweb.google.com/andras1944/ImagesOfIndia2?authkey=Gv1sRgCO6Ti5P2mbzrTg#

Erotic sculptures from 1000 years ago

http://picasaweb.google.com/andras1944/FromKhajuraho1000YearOldErotica?authkey=Gv1sRgCI_1gufg2oP59wE#

Life as it is, from Khujaraho to arriving in Varanasi

If it was not for this blog, the countless photos and the universal ritual of reviewing the daily tally of digital images which I imagine is similar to great white hunters of long ago, tallying their daily kills. In our case, we have two cameras and Alison in a humorous moment suggested saved our marriage, as such we can each focus on our own experiences. Without these reminders I would have difficulty recalling, where we have been, what we have seen and try to review it in some orderly manner. Beyond the daily kilometers covered, which now totals 1,200, soon at some level all the myriad of experiences start to meld into a gigantic pot full of everything India is well known for, compounded by the fact that we are experiencing it by being self-propelled on two wheels and at times internalizing all of the nuances, as we move from place to place, and by osmosis we become Indianized, a word not yet in the Google Dictionary.

From Khujaraho to Satna, we rode through pleasant country side and for the first time I became aware of the marking on the map, “Panna Hills” which by the standards of the Rockies or the Himalayas are mere random errors on the generally flat landscape, but they still engaged slightly different muscles groups and were a welcome variety and a taste of what’s to come as we head towards Nepal. It being Indian Independence day, we were regaled in every settlement by everyone heading to a school yard or other point of assembly carrying small flag and the speeches and singing followed us for most of the day. As luck would have it there was yet another wedding in the hotel we were staying, and after dinner we were “invited” to join the festivities and sample the fruits and sweets that were offered.

While I do a fair amount of planning for each trip, after Satna I was not sure which way we were going to ride towards Varanasi, the quality of the road surface and the promise of a place to stay being two key considerations. The two faint pink lines on my map, which I was told was a single lane road, and reassured that it was in good condition became our route to Chitrakoot, and what a great ride it turned out to be, with virtually no traffic and at least half the distance through rolling hills and forest with little or no habitation.

In Chitrakoot we spent the afternoon and evening wandering the narrow streets leading to Ram Ghat, one of the revered bathing places to mingle among the pilgrims and worshipers followed by a boat ride on the river, each river boat being saddled with an additional passenger: a pink eyed pure white rabbit.
Just as we were starting to have dinner, a couple from Australia arrived and perhaps like us, not having seen a foreign tourist for many days, and none on bicycles yet, they were eager to trade stories as like-minded people do. Each encounter is a quick recap of a life and we soon learned that the Ozzies had rented their home for five years and are thus “forced” to be on the road for the most part for the duration, needless to say, prompting us to give consideration to extending our own four month foray.

The ride to Allahabad promised to be challenging as the map indicated a distance of about 130 kms and in anticipation we had an early start and the tanks were filled with morning chais and parathas. What we did not count on were the abysmally rough road surfaces which constituted about the first 50 kms. Conscious of the need to keep a steady pace the pounding took its physical and mental toll, for in the early low angle of the sun, the road like a mirage shimmered perfectly smooth, and for very short periods indeed it was quite ride able, but for the most continued like an old rock and roll song, ‘’shake, rattle and roll’’. Slowly my mindset changed: rather than experiencing disappointment as the apparently smooth surface in the distance turned out to be otherwise, I gradually assumed that the road will be rough and took delight in the few smooth patches as they materialized. It brought to mind the slogan on a T shirt I had seen earlier “MBA Master of Bad Attitude” which could be interpreted in many ways but it became a mantra as I conquered my own attitude to the road and accept “Life as it is”.

Thankfully, the road did improve and by the 110 km mark as the sun was once again slowly sinking, to my horror I saw Alison lying motionless on the road about 25 feet behind. By the time I raced back a concerned crowed had already formed and traffic around here were rerouted and she was able to tell me that she did not see the rut in the road and had fallen off her bike. In a minute or so she regained composure and reflected on her scraped elbow, a large bump and we were directed to a nearby first aid station and her wounds were attended to and she soon recovered her composure. While only about 25 kms from our destination, we considered taking a bus but she made the heroic decision to ride the distance. We arrived at what later turned out to be the outskirts of Allahabad in near pitch darkness and it appeared nobody had heard, or understood, the direction to our planned place to stay.

As our map of the city only showed the core, we moved in the darkness, each with rear flashers but with no way for me to see Alison cycling behind, she kept singing “I am right behind you” until at one intersection a confident young man of about 18 was able to draw a small sketch, which to my horror indicated several turns and about four more kilometers to go. My lateral suggestion to hire a rickshaw and follow it to our destination was met by a firm directive from the local youth: “You will not hire a rickshaw; you will ride”. We followed instructions and we continued in the Saturday night traffic, moving at a snail’s pace towards our destination; a half hour later our guide who was on foot gave us an encouraging smile and a wave as we waited to make a turn at a particularly congested intersection.

Using the Catholic Cathedral as our landmark, which we discovered was beautifully lit at night; I pull up to our hotel, only to have my heart sink to be told that they were fully booked. More cycling and several “sorry no rooms” we finally arrived at Hotel Valentine, thankfully several notches above a “love hotel”. After 137 kms and riding, including one hour in the dark, I instantly loved the room but was still motivated to negotiate a 35% discount. And yet again, after a dinner were ‘’invited’’ to a very lavish wedding in the fancy hotel across the street, where we enjoyed the fireworks, the music, the chanting and the sweets; - After all, this is life as it is in India.

On Sunday morning we were inexplicably drawn to the huge Cathedral, where a moving service in English was in progress to commemorate International Leprosy day and was our way of reflecting on and giving thanks to our own good fortune. We then toured four majestic tombs from the 1600s but the highlight of the day turned out to be a visit to the “Sangam” meaning the auspicious confluence, in this case of two holy rivers, the Ganges and the Yamuna, which draws hordes of pilgrims, which every 12 years attracts a staggering 17 million. This year’s Magh Mela, a couple of days away, is a more minor celebration but judging by the sea of tents set up as far as the eye could see and the throngs of people everywhere, we quickly understood why there were no rooms to be had.

Next day we stayed at the Utter Pradesh Government run guest house at the foot of the bridge crossing the Ganges. Luckily they had a room for us, one of a few of several dozen that had been renovated, the rest being gutted and under construction. Once again, amongst the rubble we had a great stay and as the only guests, the full attention of staff with a delicious dinner and early breakfast as requested.

The smooth concrete road leading to the edge of Varanasi was a joy to behold only to be jolted into another reality as the main street leading to our destination was under construction, reminding us of the Ying and Yang of life. Once again, we found the hotels listed in tourist guides, especially with views of the Ganges, fully booked. Thankfully, there are no shortages of places to stay and a modest hotel, in a quiet location with a large balcony and a magnificent view of the rivers awaited us, a sharp contrast to the throngs at the main ghats, and the labyrinth of narrow streets that seem to attract speedy motorcycles. All is well as we accept life as it is.

Namaste