Merci.

In this world I have the power to change locations at will. Teleporting back and forth to deciduous treed environments and having one-sided conversations; they are so rapid I can barely process what is said or seen. Responding is out of the question. In fact it doesn't follow our known laws of nature; I'm only here to listen. The faces begin to fade and shift into the backs of heads, slowly moving out of my vision and disappearing through an invisible portal. One by one, each contact makes its departure as I am disturbed from my slumber. I notice where I am, each ankle and wrist fastened to the table with Velcro. A slight pain begins in my left forearm begging me to rip free from my constraints. I choke out a few voluntary and involuntary curses, to let someone know I'm feeling pain. “Don’t move, only two more minutes.” I couldn't tell if the doctor noticed he was resting his elbow just above the boa constrictor wrapped around my bicep to let them know that: yes, somehow the blood is still flowing through that arm. What it failed to tell them was nothing a few one syllable words couldn't convey mixed with a bit of wriggling about. Still blindfolded so not to freak out from all the blood pouring out my ear, I felt a familiar touch at my hand; a few fingers followed with a loving grasp. My heart rate stopped if not only for a moment, and slowed to a comfortable rate. I hear the doctor’s words once more along with a set of hands massaging the blood through my arm. I push through the next half an hour with the caring hand ready to comfort me throughout the rest of the procedure, triggered by my lovely one syllable sounds or by the doctor’s word that this time it really will only be another two minutes. Was it really you, did you convince them to let you put on scrubs and make sure I was okay?

Happy Birthday!

The dancing is completely you, with no hint of embarrassment or fear; the quirky way you say delicious, as though you can taste something’s beauty; your pure passion for photography, and with it the keen eye that has given you true sight; your trusting, glowing eyes that are not afraid to keep a locked gaze; your gung-ho tomboy attitude mixed with the cuteness only a woman could possess. This is you, and this is why you are beautiful.

What is holding us back to our full potential? Fear. Don’t get me wrong, fear does have its benefits. When old mate gets eaten by a wolf because he gets too close to mums pup, there is a use for fear. Falling off of a balcony may add to your caution around heights. These are what we have adopted to ensure survival, and some of these genes get wiped out; natural selection at its finest. Everything has become much simpler now. In suburbia you don’t have to worry about a wolf who forgot to pack a lunch waiting for the morning metro but there is a different kind of monster one must watch for. This is the power of our imagination. One thing we believe separates humans from all other creatures is that we can create multiple realities from one simple idea. They may very well be plausible realities, but you can’t tell unless you have first-hand experience. Now while this may seem very beneficial it does tend to backfire. I can’t count how many times on all of my fingers and toes my mind got in the way of what my heart really wanted. Wanting to go traveling but being constantly afraid by all the horrors a “3^rd world country” has in store. From dengue to dysentery, it can be quite easily avoided. Just don’t lick your flip-flop. The media has control over the masses with newspapers, advertisements, television, etc. so if one hasn’t educated oneself, they may be brainwashed with ideas of all the ways to die in Guatemala. New experiences = new opportunities = new ideas to develop in your mind brain.

We can learn safety measures without having to seriously compromise our wants and needs. How many of these fears are actually useful? Not many. We don’t say what we want to say because of the fear of the unknown. “The only regrets we will have on the death bed are the things we didn’t do.”  While there may be another life after this one, time shouldn’t be wasted worrying about consequences of all your actions. This is no ticket for hurting others, but remember you can’t make decisions for people, only suggestions.

http://youtu.be/5H1sqXNZkbE

I’ve worked my way down to Daman, where the beer flows like Niagra and is tax free. A little beach town in its own little state (like Goa and Delhi). Old Consuelo has had a few minor problems in the past couple of weeks, all of which seem to be easily fixed. Had a flat on the way to Ahmedabad with Ilona from Aus, but the tire wasn’t as deflated as the company. We waited around for 15 minutes at a rest stop with a chai and pani until a few very helpful lads decided that they could lend us a hand (they just needed to clear out all the “not possible” from their systems). Popped off the tire, borrowed a bike to the next town and was back on the road in 30 minutes. The luggage rack has been supporting 3 persons bags, so needed a bit of welding after hitting some of India’s many carefully hidden potholes. The riding has been much like being in the world’s largest street race where some people join in at random, snaking through the cars and trucks on the best road yet in India. Seriously though, I could maintain a steady speed for more than 2 minutes at a time.

The Veg Bandit

Leh has been my homebase now for around 2 weeks; I reckon it’s time to move on. The scenery of this area is like a fucking fairy tale or somethin’. After Allan went back for Australia, I right away joined in on Chey’s group, which I was never really keen on to be honest but I’m glad that I did. The group was incredibly diverse, and everybody played an important role. After a while it began to be a bit of a challenge to hold things together. Liam has a gung-ho attitude about keeping the group entertained and keeping up with it is all about banter and boosing, which I’m not against but  material started to become scarce after a 5 day bike trip. I was very impressed with Yael, an Israeli girl I talked with for only a brief moment atop the Stupa. Just before our departure to Nubra Valley, she casually invited herself for the ride. Old Consuelo is used to hauling a couple passengers, so she had no problem keeping up with Liam’s Lobsang, the bike that climbs mountains and saves lives. Even with all this stimulation in the past couple of weeks, I feel like I’ve been holding back a bit too much. Mein ego is getting in the way of my normal humanly function. I have been slacking on my self-improvement time and socially overloading.

Ali, Turtuk's mob boss posing as a weaver.

The garden I view from my peripherals is full of pinks and whites and yellows and violets, among carrots, eggplant-shaped radishes, cauliflower, and cabbage. One must be vigilant with shutting the gates to the guest house yard, not for the safety of the vetements hanging on the line, whereas in Turtuk nothing could be left unwatched as the children had sticky fingers, nor for the safety of the bikes parked in the driveway, but the ninja cows silently slipping through the gates to enjoy a fantastic garden salad. The highly worshipped beings have no authority over mum and old mum when the tell-tale sound of torn vegetation floats through the air. They’re armed with their “hiyahiya’s!” and canes, usually requiring a bit of assistance after having a few chuckles over the seriousness of the situation. I will miss the character that brings travelers back to this fairy tale. People do not try and rip you off, nobody hassles you to buy their shit, and the honking is at a minimum. The sound of Enfields become music to the ears and it becomes second nature to get along with the scorching hot sun and the freezing cold shade. Might I add it is now off season, maybe it’s chaos in the busy months?

A pretty high road pass with the left-leggers.

So I bought a 2009 Royal Enfield near Karol Bagh in Delhi. There is a street with all sorts of motorbikes lined up and ready to test drive. 3 of my most memorable shopping days. Fact.

First day on the Enfield: It took a couple hours to get outside of Delhi. We had planned it perfectly to leave just as rush hour hit, so we road until Panipat. We found a reasonable room which also doubled as a mosquito factory, where we spent most of the night either throwing Allan's shorts at the bastards, or practicing the important skill of towel whipping. I would like to tell you that when we woke their wasn't a single new mozzy bite, I really would. Unfortunately in the morning when I went to get the bike at the 24 hour secured parking lot, I found the bike moved from where I had left it and a few indications of maltreatment. The day had begun on a seemingly bad start, but I didn't feel too bad once I found out it was only 50 rupees to weld the luggage rack back on. I felt much more comfortable with Allan and all the gear the second day of riding to Chandigarh, especially with only a fraction of the traffic experienced the previous day. Chandigarh is the capital of Haryana and Punjab, wealthy, following a grid system (this is new to me), green, and arguably quite clean. Clean for the India I have seen thus far.

Our first tour stop was the Rock Gardens built by some guy with a lot of spare time and a very lonely wife. Being the only ones with white skin seemed to draw a lot of attention. First someone comes to ask for a photo, and once the first person has done it everyone else feels quite comfortable asking. I began to keep track by taking photos of those taking photos of us, and have counted 13 in a span of 1 hour. I had to explain all this for you to understand this photo. It was after a rush of about 8 people asking for family photos. 

I made a deal with his mother, and will visit the child every other weekend.

Like clockwork

Oh Delhi. Here I sit on the floor of a very skinny hallway and not a fan in sight. I wait in this tiny crag because of certain wants not being met. The whole thing is a lot more complicated than I could have imagined. It’s an antique clock I bought on impulse in a shop down south, and I’m not certain as to how hard I should turn the crank or what I can do to make it work without explosion. So what do I do? Out of curiosity one must play with the clock a little bit, test its limits and see what bends which way. It chimes an off key chord, something sounds like it snapped. Well, shit.

Once again I haven’t slept for quite some time; it’s 9 in the morning. Allan and I just got back from a quick stroll after seeing Danielle and Jessica off. It’s really a sad day for me. A couple days earlier Hamid left our presence as well, we may meet up again in a couple of weeks. I have been removed from a comfortable situation and must learn to rid these feelings, one area of life I hope to mature during my trip. I feel like a part of me is missing now, and have begun to plan (which I haven’t done for 3 weeks) what I can do to stay busy. A couple museums, gym, cinema, swimming pool, and long walks will be the first on the list. Most things happen or begin for me whilst walking, so I’m going to do what works. Buying the Enfield (oh and I might buy a motorbike) will open up a lot of opportunities, along the lines of more challenges and more freedom (is more freedom possible?). Is this what I really want to do now, all of these things? Right now I’d rather  my friends came back together, but I must not forget one of the most important lessons vipassanna taught me, anicca: everything is impermanent.

The boys.

I’m now aware of the qualities I find attractive in a woman. In fact, many of the things I thought were important really are the exact opposite. Mannerisms I don’t understand rather than ones I feel comfortable with make me much more curious, much more willing to try if they are practiced genuinely and with good will. A woman lacking confidence is only a girl; when her actions are synonymous with her thoughts and her speech: total sploosh.

No more henna, I promise. Maybe.

Super Flexible

Without truth, what do you really have? Well obviously, a lie. The truth always slips out one way or another. Whether it be through an elaborate ploy to outwit an experienced “fibber” or if the body responds appropriately. Such fine design surely deserves some sort of respect, no? Respect perhaps from the student, who really doesn’t know the effect of learning the trade, or respect from another who has reached a managerial stage with a secondary route. Morally speaking, one could argue quite easily that if the questions were not asked directly, why answer the indirect? Pushing the thoughts of others away from a certain question requires a special trait that allows for the debatable idea of moral flexibility. Taking all this into consideration, one comes up with the point of what is and what isn’t fair. One may feel extreme discomfort if most any creature is poorly treated. PETA plays on these emotions of people well, they realize what power they can have on their donors. Is this fair to play on the hearts of those who clearly miss the point? To be too afraid to speak the truth, because of a cognitive dissonance, or an ulterior motive? I'm beginning to ask such questions, unbiased visions on one’s thoughts and views, friends and family, and many experiences from past, present, and future. What can I do to learn more? Maybe I need to step it up.

Practicing gang signs

To form our new gang, we needed to create an initiation. Of course. We all had henna tattooed on our faces, walked around Varanasi, went to museums, and practiced our "crazy" faces. We didn't have to try hard.

Patience and persistence. Someone will give you a hotel room.

It’s hard to trust my memories without having a photo, a drawing, or some writing. I really struggle keeping up with photos, and I only say this because I compare too often to how many photos many of my fellow travellers are taking. I like to stay in the moment, and when I look through that screen on my compact digital camera, it takes me away from what is happening around me. Drawing is an admirable skill, but my lack of interest doesn't allow for the practice to draw honestly or even reasonably well through my eyes. I like to write. I'm going to become a better writer, by taking your positive and negative critique and considering everyone’s point of view and with practice I will soon become completely ego free and unbiased. Actually, fuck that. There’s no such thing as a non-biased point of view, but if I need to I could convince you so.

This is my henna. No it's not stupid and effeminate, it's cool.

India challenges me mentally every single moment I'm on this different planet. I love it, I really do. Even when I hate it, I love it. This thought process seems like one of a mad man, and I can’t disagree that it very well may be. Let me try to explain: a mixed curry of evil westerners with a bit of Indian masala are served as a new dish at the Allahabad, a vastly overrated, overpriced restaurant on 123 Fake Street. Most of the regulars who order this dish send it away after catching the scent as it’s placed on the table. Some of them take a cautious bite, skeptical of it’s contents and smash their plates on the floor as if it were a Greek feeding. “Opa!” they shout with shit-eating grins and authority in their voices. The new meals are beginning to look as though they’ll be a wash, the management rushes to the kitchen to stop the rest of the new mixed curry orders when he passes a customer on his way to the washing basins with a masala-stained face, congratulating him on what he considers to be a very fine meal. The meals are decided here and now to be kept, with a few changes to be better suited for the locals. 4 of my friends and I are the "new dish", the regulars are the hotel owners who turned us down for many times "no reason", or "we are not a hotel even though it says we are". A couple hours through our adventure, we found a room! Never have I experienced such an event.