Egypt-map

Temple gorging on the Nile

Despite Ismael’s best efforts to keep us around and lavish us with the mystical merits of his beloved home town, we had to press on. I attempted to convey to him the inherent urgency of our breakneck itinerary. As born & bred Americans, I explained, our perpetual lack of time precludes us from lingering in any one place for too long.

Ismael simply curled his brow, and a look of confusion came over his face. Clearly, he was not privy to the concept of speed. We parted ways after Andrea gifted him a copy of her Colorado Byways book, and I promised to mail printed copies of the portraits I took of him (see previous post).

We did our best to ignore the cloud of belching diesel fumes and uncomfortably dense clusters of Euro-tourists as we boarded the S.S. Behemoth. The term “river boat” would be a complete understatement. The vessel looked more like the Love Boat of Egypt. Not really our style, but the only alternate was a felucca boat. A tempting option, if not for its max speed of a scarab beetle. We would just have to suffer through the next 2 nights of all you can eat buffet meals and rooftop lounging. Not all bad I suppose.

Captain Stubing had us bellied up to the tour’s first stop at precisely 7:45 AM the next morning. Right on schedule for tourist consumption of the ancient Kom Ombo temple.

Andrea scouted the perimeter and was decidedly unimpressed, not to mention slightly peeved about the unnecessary sacrifice of shut-eye. So I dished out the admission price and went in solo with my Canon a blazing!

The Romanesque columns and monumental presence was impressive, but I was more taken by the precision and artistry of the petroglyphs.

Then I had my first security guard encounter. As a relative newcomer to the baksheesh schemes on the Egyptian tourist trail, I politely accepted the the guard’s escort over to a glaringly obvious section of underwhelming petroglyphs. As I pretended to be appreciative and carry-on my mary way, he jutted out his hand in the universal sign of “show me the money.”

Ah right, the stupid tourist tax I thought to myself. Should have known. I parted with a few Egyptian pounds (I’m sure he was hoping for British pounds) and chalked it up to the tout learning curve. Next time, I would not be such an easy mark. Nonetheless, Kom Ombo was an enjoyable warm up to the Nile’s ancient temple viewing.

That afternoon, with impeccable timing, our stewards herded us off the boat once again. This time, we had no choice but to walk the plank into a frenzy of taxi drivers who were frothing at the mouth.

The Edfu temple was 3 or 4 miles away from port. In order to explore the temple grounds and be back at port in time for departure, our ground transportation options were limited to horse carriage or… horse carriage. To these drivers, carriage navigation was merely a formality. Their true profession was separating tourists from their cash.

Andrea and I had haggled with our share of rickshaw drivers in India and Southeast Asia, but these guys were among the best. Thankfully, before disembarking, we had asked the boat staff what a fair price for transport was. A teenage driver begrudgingly agreed to said price and whisked us away with the snap of his horsewhip.

Edfu did not disappoint. After breaching the front line of aggressive touts and merchants, we spent the next hour gaping at the ancient virtues of Edfu. The hypostyle hall of towering columns was fantastic, as were the inner chambers and ornate hieroglyph carvings.

On the return trip, our driver pulled out all the stops in an attempt to ratchet up the agreed price. When it was clear that we were no push overs, he put on an Oscar-worthy sulking and moaning performance. Then, as a cherry on top he added ” I change my mind, America is no good! I no like America!” We paid the original agreed price and wished him well.

“That’s I-Smile,” he explained. “My mother said I was born with a smile on my face.” He laughs. “I haven’t stopped!”

Earlier today, we flew from Cairo to Aswan to catch a Nile cruise. The cruise basically involves lounging aboard a floating hotel for two days. Cruising the section of Nile between Aswan to Luxor was traditionally done aboard a graceful felucca with swallow wing sails, but, as Egyptian proverb puts it, the one who voyages the Nile feluccas must have sails made of patience. Lacking the time to test said sails, we chose a typical cruise ship, which provides food, entertainment, and a wide Astroturf roof deck on top.

The cruise-ships’ 10,000-horsepower engines can propel khaki-legged tourists to Luxor in a matter of hours. In order to extend the cruises—and get a feel for the Nile’s famous languor—tour companies have the boats dock at destination cities for many hours, including overnights. It is common to see battalions of floating hotels belch diesel fumes onto lovely Nilefront corniches (waterfront walkways), speedo’d and pale tourists lounging on top, lacking interest and access to the more chaotic world outside the ship.

But chaos implies chance, which, done right, leads to fortune. Which is where Ismael comes in. We are killing time watching the sunset from Geziret el-Nabatat Gardens in Aswan, a tranquil, green retreat minutes from the polluted corniche, when he walks up behind us, a grinning Nubian man in a white tunic and turban.

My first instinct, brought on by relentless touts, is to ignore him. One blink later, I feel a rare and innate goodness emanate around him. His genuine enthusiasm eddies around him in gentle whorls, drawing us in, overriding chatter, noise, and tourist headaches.

“I just retired from 35 years as a diving instructor,” he explains after introducing himself. His eyes twinkle. “I spent so much time underwater. Now that I am retired, I want to make up for all the time I didn’t talk.”

He invites us to his ancestral home, a traditional Nubian affair with cooling mud walls and stairways that look up to the stars. This 300-year-old compound has lived Ismael’s family’s history, witnessed births and deaths, absorbed generations of tea circles, children at play, big, fresh meals crafted in a simple kitchen. Its walls radiate a sense of calm familiarity. Time slows.

It is here, over homebrewed cinammon-ginger tea, that Ismael shares the kaleidoscopic stories of his life. His tales weave a rich inner life offset by the simplicity of his surroundings: A night spent alone inside the tomb of Giza’s second pyramid, quaking in his sandals at the alien howling of the wind. Riding a motorbike through the open desert to Sudan with a bunch of Germans and losing several turbans in the process. Falling asleep on one bank of the Nile, dreaming that he turned into a beam of light, and waking up on the opposite bank. It’s the stuff of fairytales, or biographies.

Night after night, Ismael invites foreigners like us into his home. He is motivated only by the urge to share his life and culture and make new friends. His experiences are religious; ever-expanding whirling dervishes that deepen his connection with life itself. As a listener, I felt like his stories had, instead of merely being told, been lovingly etched into the fiber of my Egypt memories.

Ismael’s memories became our own. They are shared pieces of his human experience, which mirrors the human experience.  Our chance encounter opened us up to Ismael’s stunning world, reminding us that the best stories are not heard, they are received. They bear not only words, but new memories. And, most powerfully, stories are not experienced by one person alone. We share them, keeping them alive by connecting, relating, and retelling them.

Thank you, Ismael.

Besides the pervasive human warmth, several things set Cairo apart:

-Safety. You can walk anywhere in the entire city, at any hour of the day, and be safe. This city of 20 million people has no dangerous neighborhoods (although petty theft is common). Can you name a single city in the United States with that kind of record?

-Trash. Many buildings here are old and dirty. It’s a national habit to chuck trash down any chute that will take it. The trash generally lands on the roofs of other old buildings. It’s not unusual to see old chairs, wire fencing, cardboard boxes, and any number of other non-recyclable items heaped up in piles that must have started when the buildings were first put up. (A group of Coptic Christians picks up all the recyclables and sort them in their town in another part of the city.)

-Cats. Cat-haters might call it an infestation. I like cats, which is a good thing, because there may be as many cats as people here. They beg for food, stare at your from elevator shafts, slink around corners looking for scraps. Calicos, tuxedos, tabbys, tortoiseshells–every variety of housecat you’ve ever met lives ferally in Cairo. Cat rescue aficionados would be eaten alive here.

-Stunning ancient neighborhoods. To list a couple:

The City of the Dead, where people inhabit ancient tombs
Mosque-lined Islamic Cairo, which hasn’t changed much since medieval times
Coptic Cairo, where you can visit the church where Mary and the child Jesus hid from King Herod’s lackeys

The other treasure here is the Egyptian Museum, which contains a mind-boggling number of mummies, stone pharoahs, tombs, obelisks, tomb accessories, papyrus paintings, trinkets, and other precious finds. The precision, care, and artistry with which ancient Egyptians constructed their edifices in unreal. It’s as though they had slide rules and laser etchers…but they didn’t.

The Pyramids
These are the real deal, the actual Pyramids of Giza. It is breathtaking to see them in real life. Although they are located on the outskirts of the city, they retain a sense of distant mystique. We explored the three pyramids and the nearby Sphinx (whose nose is in France, and beard in England) on the backs of camels.

According to our guide, in the old days, each pyramid was covered in smooth stone, so there was one red pyramid, one green pyramid, and one white pyramid. Imagine the splendor!

The combination of ancient and modern in Cairo, as well as its tolerant confluence of monotheistic religions (Muslim, Christian, and Jewish) make the city tintillating. It would be easy to spend two weeks here and never get bored. Strong lungs and willingness to play Frogger in traffic–a necessity here–help.

People just don’t build fortresses like they used to. These days, our forts are digital, comprised of firewalls and DMZs, encryptions and layers of invisible security. Impressive, sure, but also invisible. Back in 1459, less than 40 years before Columbus misnavigated his way to the New World, an Indian king named Rao Jodha lay the groundwork for what would eventually become the imposing, red-stoned architectural marvel that defines the city of Jodhpur. He was the 15th king of Marwar, the mythical Land of Death, located in western Rajhastan. His empire lay nestled in a barren, dusty plain on the vital trade route between Delhi and Mujarat. It was a dry, fly-ridden town where merchants led camels through narrow alleyways, priests performed puja (blessings) nightly, and the scent of chanting and incense filled the air.

A fine kingdom, indeed, but terribly prone to attacks by the neighboring tribes at its old location. Jodha needed to protect his empire, so he turned his eyes to the heavens, where a 400-foot cliff loomed over the nascent town of Jodhpur. It was a logical place to build one of India’s most impenetrable and renowned fortresses. He rode up the hill with a few of his best men to lay out plans for the fort. An old scraggly hermit named Cheeria Nathji, the lord of the birds, was the only inhabitant there. When Jodha forced him off his roost, the hermit cursed the fortress with a chronic drought, a prophecy that remains true in Jodhpur to this day. Jodha tried to appease the hermit by building him a house and temple and, when that didn’t work, burying a man alive in the fort’s foundations.

Thus it was that the great fort of Mehrangarh was founded. Complete with elephant defense spikes, ornate cannons, a pleasure room, an armory, and quarters for queens, mothers, and concubines, Mehrangarh stands as one of India’s proudest and best-preserved fortresses. The cramped, endless city of Jodhpur murmurs below the fort’s towering hulk, a maze of blocky blue houses and flooding sewers that hasn’t changed much since Jodha’s time.

The fort saw his successors to the early 20th century, when it finally lost its primary purpose as a protective citadel. Men with bejeweled shields valiantly fought enemy troops by horse, foot, and elephant. The latter could fling man and horse casually aside with its powerful trunk, with which it also often wielded weapons. Society was equally dramatic: Queens flung themselves on funeral pyres, musicians and dancers kept the royals entertained in special pleasure rooms, and Jodhpur bustled with traveling merchants and spice traders.

We took an audio tour of Jodhpur’s imposing giant today, exploring the intricacies of the flashy and expansive Rathore empire. The kings seemed to be just as devoted to the glitzier elements of warfare as they were to their effectiveness as warriors. Portraits show them as bejeweled, glaring lords surrounded by rose-scented wives. Their swords had lion-headed hilts and blades cast with jasmine vines. Even the cannons were gilded. So much prettier than the spare northern European ruins I saw as a kid. I wonder what would happen if you put the Rathores head-to-head with, say, the Huns. One group would be perfumed, plaited, and shiny; the other coarse, smelly, and rough. It would be like a fistfight between Elton John and Jack Black. I mean, who would win? Impossible to tell, but highly entertaining in the process.

We finished off the day with dinner at the fort’s restaurant. Phenomenal view, but the overpriced food left much to be desired. Think lamb with shards of gristle, chewy chapati, and badly cooked rice. You know that when the rice is off, something’s wrong. Still, it was a nice, touristy day, and perfect introduction to the great forts of Rajasthan, Land of Kings.

So we took it off-roading. There was a rutted dirt road outside of town rumored to contain authentic Indian villages, with authentic-looking villagers, camels, and a smattering of mysterious Shiva temples. Village kids would stick out their hands to high-five us as we whizzed by at a high-pitched 9 miles per hour. Some of their little palms hurt pretty good. I’m sure they felt the same.

We explored a Shiva temple nestled inside of a rocky canyon about four miles into the dirt road. A narrow path led past small, boxy stucco buildings with a scummy set of pools running through the middle. Beautiful fig and bodhi trees grew artfully out of the mountain flank to one side; the inside of the temple, with its silent, dark shrine, contained a powerful, soothing sense of utter peace. Another India contrast: beautiful trees, peaceful temple, pond scum, trash. We passed a herd of billy goats on the way back, swerved around camels pulling loaded camel carts, their necklaces jingling in the sun. We also got stuck in the sand and had a near-miss with a tractor as a result. The moped, which had barely started as we headed out, died in town. The hotel people tried to charge Seth extra for a new spark plug. Sigh.

Another important Pushkar highlight involved flying kites off of Pushkar’s uneven rooftops. Flying kites is hard on every level: getting them up in the air, keeping them from nosediving into a tree, and reeling them back in one piece. Remember how the kids in Kite Runner would fly kites until it was too dark to see? Pushkar was like that, the sky flitting with geometric squares made of tissue paper, kids and adults alike delighting in their nightly ritual.

We also visited a lovely nonprofit called Fior de Loto. They run a school for girls, taking in poor girls from surrounding villages and giving them education, housing, and a chance at a good career. Finally, we discovered the perfect culinary complement to Pushkar’s peaceful and colorful valence. The Rainbow Café serves delectable recipes from around the world with a 360-degree rooftop view of Pushkar. He even serves eggs, which aren’t allowed in the rest of town for religious reasons. We spend many a satisfied hour cultivating our love handles at this sweet locale.

Seth was suffering from The Sinus Thing today, so I took off solo to explore town. About 10 minutes in, a beggar woman walked up to me, her face folded into finely drawn lines. She held up her small silver bowl and smiled at me, speaking in silent and worn Hindi. She patted her soft old belly and said “chapati, chapati.” Something about her eyes reminded me of glazed amber, and the fine wrinkles on her leathery face reminded me of my Oma, my mother’s mother, who, in her old age, also had dark, folded skin. I agreed to buy her some chapati.

One bag of chapati flour, a bottle of soy oil, and a bag of salt cost about $7—roughly what she might make in a week or two. She placed the flour on her head and led me out of town. We walked about a mile through exposed and trash-filled yellow dirt to an encampment strewn with blankets. A fence made of bamboo and twine encircled the place; beds were placed both out in the open and inside of leaf-covered huts. Women in brightly colored saris, with plastic bangle bracelets up to their elbows and multiple silver and beaded necklaces, squatted near a fire. It was a Rajasthani gypsy camp.

About seven women trickled in out of various corners of the camp when we arrived. Some, thankfully, spoke good English. They implored me to sit on a blanket and share a bidi, or small, leaf-wrapped cigarette with them. The bidi was potent little tobacco bomb that left a pleasant buzz inside of my skull.

The gypsies had come from Jaisalmar by mule. Pushkar, with its many tourists, presented good business opportunities, so they settled here. Someone gave them trouble about settling on the land at first, but leaves them alone now. They’re an extended family of married and unmarried women, widows, men, and bejeweled, dusty little kids.

When I asked one woman about her husband, she said he took the drink and left. Every morning, they walk one hour to get water and carry it back in clay pots on their heads. The rest of the day, they go do henna in the market, teach dance, and, as far as I could see, hang out, cook, smoke, and take care of the kids. The camp had a lull to it, especially around midday, and I could easily see myself becoming a squatting, gossiping chain smoker with the rest of them.
After the obligatory questions—how old you? You married? Kids? No kids? Oh…(face falls)—they told me about Puva, the old woman. She’d been widowed years ago and had no family. The big gypsy family allowed her to sleep by their fire, but could not share food with her, as they had to take care of themselves first. Her eyes were failing and her lungs were weak.

“She has two month, then she see no more,” Sanita, a girl roughly my age who spoke the best English, informed me.
“What then?” I asked.
“We give her a stick and tell her which way to walk to town.”

With failing eyesight and no family, Puva cannot make jewelry or do henna, two things that help gypsy women sustain themselves. Nor can she dance, she’s too old. When I asked how old she was, Sanita shook her head and said very, very old. About 40.

The women put mehndi, a marital wedding design, on my hands using henna squeezed from plastic bags. Before the henna was dry, they started dancing, a display complete with drums and a built-in audience. They did a traditional dance with flowing skirts and tricks like bending over backwards and putting a 100-rupee bill inside of her mouth. They continued to smoke like chimneys. I found yet another bindi between my lips as I took pictures. They then took me to their kitchen area, where I shared in throat-burning dahl and homemade chapati.

After buying some jewelry and giving them a kickback for the food and the show, one of them, Shanti, accompanied me back to the market. We sat in the middle of the dirt for a cigarette break halfway there. She informed me that my clothes were mediocre and I had to make myself beautiful. Next thing I knew, she’d stuck a bindi on my forehead and smeared dark lipstick on my lips with her pinky finger. She also gave me a ring to wear. Much better.

It was mid-afternoon when I finally got back to the hotel room, where the food service guy had locked Seth inside. He was a steaming heap of feverish blankets when I found him. He’s better today. Somehow, after smoking 4 bindis yesterday, I’m worse. After visiting an adorable hole-in-the-wall café this morning for breakfast, we’ve both collapsed into the dizzy, snot-ridden world of unending sinus colds.

The Train. According to the movies, this is one of the most fabled, mystical experiences a person can have in India. When you bear in mind the delays, the unending obstacles—dogs, sleeping people, crowds—and the fact that all signs are written in Hindi, perhaps “classic” is a better word. We easily caught our train at 6:10 this morning. Save for a screaming, pooping, miserable little girl, we had an effortless ride. Endless desert plains replaced Delhi’s throbbing urban sprawl as the train ambled its way into Rajasthan.

This vast, arid region of Northeast India is named after the Rajput, a 1,000-year-old set of warrior clans known for their glitzy traditions and reckless bravado. Nobody’s waging war with ivory-hilted swords anymore, but Rajasthan remains steeped in history, with sandstone forts, camel trains, and the yawning, ruins-filled Thar desert beckoning tourists with promises of Indiana Jones-like adventures. Unlike smog-clogged Delhi, Rajasthan promises wide-open spaces, room to breathe. This is something we’re much looking forward to.

We spent a freezing cold night at a budget hotel and headed for the Taj early the next morning. The Taj was built by Mughal Emporer Shah Jahan in the mid-1600s as a tomb for his second wife, Mumtaz. Jahan was said to be so grief-stricken after her death–she perished while birthing their 14th child–that his hair went gray overnight. Around 20,000 people constructed the Taj, giving rise to the city of Agra. The Taj is constructed on a platform, so that the sky is its only backdrop. It’s touted as an edifice of purity and beauty; a wonder of the world, one of life’s must-sees.
Understandably, it’s also a tourist megahub. You pass through a line of aggressive peddlers to buy a ticket, check all your bags and food in a locker, and stand in line for a scan inside a metal detector. After you’re cleared, you join a throng of international tourists to the tomb itself. Indians mingle with Europeans, Japanese tour groups, Americans, and one-offs from all over the globe. It’s overrun, but you hope it’s worth it.

It is. Even with a hundred heads in view, even with the dense pollution, the gleaming white edifice of the Taj stops your heart for a split second. It’s an exact match to the Taj you picture in your imagination. On  glance, time itself stops until you blink and remember where you are. From a distance, it’s all gleaming purity; as you venture closer, you glimpse elaborate designs that appear inlaid with unmatched tenderness. The monument looms in its aching perfection, an immaculate testament to a fallen love and, later, a Mughal kingdom turned to ash. You want to walk up to it, but feel hesitant to touch it, because its architecture is fine enough to be just out of reach. It’s a building that you can enter, but can never truly access. The place has captured a soul and held it tenderly, like a child holds a butterfly. It’s even more exquisite with the contrast blocky, dry, blaring Agra surrounding it.

We took pictures for a while, then took a secret detour to the Taj’s mystical backside. The Taj is perfectly symmetrical from all four sides. Most people only see it from within the confines of its four official walls. However, if you walk north past the storage lockers on the east side of the grounds, past stone cutters and herds of goats, you access the wide and stagnant river that delineates the Taj’s rear perimeter. We hired a boat to take us across the river, then found a small boy with a camel to capture the Taj from a new angle. Seth worked his magic while the kid, who couldn’t have been older than nine, hustled us like the best of them. He grinned, posed, and flashed his pearly whites like a Bollywood stud. When it came time to pay, he gave us the professional lowdown on his profit distribution (care and maintenance of camel, food for self, board for camel, money for friend), and ended up making out pretty well.

After that, we loaded up on chai, pancakes, and porridge–the quintessential Indian tourist breakfast–and headed back to Delhi. Just a couple more days in Delhi before we leave for the great deserts of Rajasthan.

Delhi is vast. It smells acrid, sounds like car horns, motors, rapid-fire Hindi conversations, and barking dogs, and feels like a messy connect-the-dots picture. Here, a shanty town; there, a sprawling ambassador’s mansion; power lines hanging like spider webs atop alleys littered with cow pies, music, food, foreigners, locals, tinsel, Hanuman…everything is everywhere here. Picture 22 million people and enough urban sprawl to make Los Angeles shudder.

We’re not so much touristing here–though there are fantastic old colonial buildings and museums to be seen–as we are taking care of business, like buying alarm clocks and getting Sandy’s flight sorted out. We’re hiring a car and driver to make the 3 1/2-hour trip to Agra tomorrow. Today will be all about massages, haircuts, and food…

Thiruvanamalai Saddhu at Shiva Temple

Sorry friends, this post is back dated. Clearly it has taken me quite a while to put this blog post together. **FYI – Blog posts will be more frequent as soon as my travel writer extraordinaire (Andrea) is on the scene**

There are far too many “must see” temples and villages to experience for one mere mortal. Anticipating its immensity, I intentionally reserved large blocks of the calendar to India. Yet I still have the undeniable feeling that I’m merely surveying the tip of a vast iceberg. BUT, I’m not finished yet!

I experienced my first sleeper car on the overnight train from Goa back down to Bangalore. I shared my compartment with two young Indian couples. They were nice, but when they learned I was American, their courteous small talk turned into a relentless barrage of prying questions. It seemed impossible to quench their thirst for knowledge.

Making friends on the train.

To them, any question was fair game. From the itemized purchase prices of my camera equipment, to the intimate details of my romantic life. I didn’t divulge all my secrets, but it was admittedly amusing to see their eyes bulge out of their skulls while learning about anything American. The Q&A inquisition went on into the night, until alas I had to raise my white flag of surrender and retreat to the overhead bunk.

I ended up spending Christmas day traveling – by train and by bus. It hardly seemed like Christmas at all in Hindu land. The scant evidence of the holiday amounted to a 5-foot inflatable St. Nick in the hotel lobby, and something resembling a Christmas tree at the Catholic church across the street. But thankfully, by the miracle of Skype, I was able to call and talk to some loved ones back home. That in itself was the best gift I could have gotten.

Thiruvanamalai and Mt. Arunachula.

So I have criss-crossed back through Bangalore and over to the southeast state of Tamil Nadu. I have been drawn to the small, unpretentious, yet spiritually potent town of Thiruvanamalai (Tiru for short). It’s known as something of a hidden gem in small circles of travelers and pilgrims. I found Tiru to be especially beguiling. So much so, that I decidedly extended my stay (ahh the beauty of planning itineraries on the fly).

Chanting of sacred scriptures rise up and fill the air above the local ashram. Mysterious sadhus clad in orange garb rove the area seeking alms. The town is also home to one of the largest temples in India. All is overshadowed by the venerated Mt. Arunachula, where it’s an auspicious act to circumambulate the base and visit all 9 of the temples along the way.

Arunachula temple map

Scrambling up the blessed mountain requires that you remove your shoes (a compulsory sign of respect), and if you comply you can visit a cave where a great swami (Ramana Maharshi) lived and meditated for 19 years. I must admit however, that one of my favorite rituals was visiting the Manna Cafe each day for breakfast and dinner… the best food I’ve had so far in all of India!

Beyond Tiru, I bussed over to the coast of the Bay of Bengal. The Lonely Planet, aka travel bible, spoke very highly of an artists’ enclave by the name of Mamallapuram.

Thiruvanamalai locals

Although it’s on the coast, it’s not a beach destination. It’s more renown for it’s rock carvings. It seemed nearly each and every native had a hammer and was chipping away at a small piece of soapstone or a monumental piece of granite. They were extremely skilled in the art, which no doubt was handed down to each subsequent generation within their families. Also, a fortunate stroke of serendipity landed me in Mamallapuram during a traditional Indian dance festival.

I scored a front row seat where I gaped at the mesmerizing

Thiruvanamalai jeweler

display of dance moves and goddess-like costumes.

From there I hired a car to get to the Madras airport and said goodbye to South India.

The plan was to rendezvous in Delhi with my new traveling companion… Andrea: my luminous albeit jet-lagged girlfriend.

**Note – as I write this, an enormous camel with jingle bells and colorful regalia just cruised by (quite swiftly I might add) the door of my internet cafe. Wow, this is definitely not Colorado.**

Shiva Temple elephant blessing

Back alley of Thiruvanamalai.

Traditional Indian dance fest.