Hyderabad Nights

This past weekend, due to inadvertant flight mishaps, we spent much of the weekend in Hyderabad. On Friday night I organized a night out to a local pub called Escape that is known to host the Cricket World Cup on big-screen. An email chain, drivers, and and a rampage stop at the local Nike store for last-minute India team gear later, we arrived en masse at Escape in time to watch the boys in blue take to the pitch.

With an embarrassing loss to Bangladesh behind them, and up against Sri Lanka, it was a must-win situation in intro play. To advance to the Super-Eights, they had to defeat the Lankans. Wearing an Indian flag wrist band, armed with Kingfisher and dutch courage, and sporting the Indian jersey, we excitedly began our night of cricket. India was bowling first. Having held the Lankan team to around 180 runs after 42 overs, a reversion to pace bowlers coupled with aggressive batsmen left the target at a solid, but doable, 255. Having conceded more runs in the final 8 overs than in early powerplays, the last of the bowling was dubious, but didn't set the stage for impossible.

While the pub closed after the first inning, at the end of Indian bowling, we returned home to a couch and cokes for a bit of into-the-night cricketing that left us missing our SpiceJet flight to Jaipur (read post below). After a bit of duck hunting by the Lankan bowlers, Malinga and company, Sachin and other Indian stars had fallen. Indian dreams of an '83 repeat died with each wicket, and the swan song for Sachin was a duck, or getting bowled for a wicket after having scored no runs, a pitiful parallel to Zidane's football World Cup exit, albeit sans tete.

Well, and so you have the Indian World Cup story, as told from the frontlines of a Hyderabad pub. Saturday night was an local expat melange that ended with paparazzi and the girls making the 'Hyderabad Times' above the fold. Us lads weren't so lucky as to make the newspaper, but lucky enough to share the table.

Despise Spice

This morning we made our way to Hyderabad's domestic airport at 5:30AM. After a night out watching India's unfortunate Cricket World Cup loss to Sri Lanka, we were running a bit late, and asked our driver to speed a bit. Asking one to speed in the States means adventure; in India it's nearly asking for an accident. At 100 kph, we sped over curving roads, darting through red lights with a flicker of brights and a smatter of honks, braking only slightly to allow careening buses to rage past us. At 5:45 AM we arrived at the airport. With no bags to check, a guarantee from Spice authorities on the phone, and tickets in hand, we were sure we'd make the 6:10AM flight. Flights are notoriously late, lines are short, and without bags, we could, and literally were expecting, to do this in our sleep.

When we arrived at Hyderabad airport, we were met with the staunchest intransigence I've ever faced. Not only were SpiceJet employees unhelpful, their strict interpretation of rules and policy became entirely unreasonable. While we attempted to reason with them for minutes, as our flight time approached even nearer, we grew impatient with their meek rationale for why their 'closed system' would not issue us a boarding pass. The SpiceJet employees, a quibbling, mumbling cadre of red-clad, brain-dead automatons who were hired only for their desired ability to mindlessly repeat policy tag-lines, were perhaps most frustrating to encounter at 5:45AM. When reason fails to make an impression, braun may prove equally ineffective, but far more enjoyable a method to vent frustration. At one point I shredded a paper, widened my eyes, slammed my hand down on the counter yelling through the still falling confetti of SpiceJet paraphanelia at a camel-eyed supervisor who stared back with indifference.

After forcibly missing our flight, exiting the airport in a frustrated 6AM huff, our only consolation was that SpiceJet would offer us a ticket on the next available flight, tomorrow morning, same time, same place, same automatons. So tomorrow we embark on a 10-hour stint to Jaipur. Faced with sunk cost, the allure of a day in Rajasthan only slightly outweighs the unenjoyment I've come to expect from SpiceJet that's sure to again be our morning rooster.

Paradise Found

Paradise exists in a cluster of coral atolls a few hundred miles west of Sri Lanka. In the equatorial archipelago of the Maldives, marine life abounds just off the white sand beaches and palm fringed coast line of nearly 2000 islands.

My direct flight from Bangalore on Indian Airways landed me in the capital city of Malé, a densely populated muslim city housing around 300,000 sardine-packed into small alleyways and streets. The fifth ward, not New Orleans but Malé, is actually a separate island accessible only by ferry across the turquoise water.

According to the Economist, Malé is the most densely populated city on the planet, and is riddled with poverty, squalor, and saddness. What I found in the capital city was quite the contrary. Friendly, relaxed individuals ambled through streets that, by comparison with India, seemed empty, clean, and tranquil. Those with whom we spoke had a calm ease, and did not seem worried by over-population or global warming. Our travel agent spoke about 'consulting the Google God for answers,' the latest NBA scores, where Madonna stays when she frequents the Maldives, and why he admires Steve Jobs for creating beautiful machines. Abbu, introduced himself in jest as 'having the same name as the monkey in Aladdin,' a '90s Disney movie.

The people we met in Malé were traditional in dress, relaxed in spirit, and cosmopolitan in view. They had exposure to composite culture through their resort status, and seemed to make the most of such adoption in an admirable global perspective. Abbu works in a travel agency, but owns two power macs, an ipod, does web-consulting, and is building his own home. He frequents coffee shops alongside the coastal football pitches in the evenings, measures distance in the number of cigarettes it takes, and explained that an island taxi operates on a flat rate. Abbu was not exactly what I expected from the Economist article, but he's demonstrative of another side to Malé in the Maldives.

Outside Malé, we stayed at a resort called Lohifushi, now renamed Hudhuran Fushi. About 40 minutes North of Malé by speed boat, aside Club Med and Four Seasons islands, the all-inclusive resort is stunning. Turquoise and blue water laps at white sand on all sides, and palms nestle with thatch-roofed beach bungalos. The island hosts beautiful house reef and thousands of butterfly, sun, and parrot fish. Snorkeling, we saw two black-tip reef sharks about 3-feet in length, with fins and shape to make you think twice about following them around. On two scuba dives, we dove to 12m off an open-ocean coral shelf, and were able to see inside a small cave.

We also endeavored on a surfing expedition to Sultans and Honkeys, a beautiful point break hosting both a left and right, just outside Lohifushi. We surfed the 4-6 footers, bantered with a group of local sea-plane pilots, and confronted one of our ship-mates on her surfing ability only to find out she was the European Champion. After getting caught inside, battling through the chop to re-board the dhoni, I gnawed on a bit of coconut and enjoyed the placid waters that are truly host to paradise. With salty skin, board upright aside, coconut milk on my hands, I gazed into the green and watched a large Moray Eel slithered its way through a glittering rainbow of fish just below the surface.

Bangalore

My second trip to Karnataka was on the famed 1 Rupee Spice Jet flight from Hyderabad to Bangalore. This was my first trip to the capital to the south of Andhra Pradesh, and I was pretty stoked to arrive in the IT hub about which I'd heard and read so much. I was impressed with Bangalore. While the IT mecca is undoubtedly still India, and Indian in its frenetic energy, traffic, polution, smells, character, and feel, its tree-lined streets with large banks and corporate giants were perhaps even reminiscent of the Bay Area, California.

I spent my Wednesday stint in Bangalore with two friends with whom I'd traveled to Corbett Tiger Reserve in Uttaranchal a month or so back. We had a wonderful evening near Bangalore's MG Road (Mahatma Ghandi Roads are in every city in India). Flanked by international chains such as Lacoste and TGI Fridays, we ate atop a building at a lounge called the 13th Floor. With Australian cricket on the tele, a cold Kingfisher in hand, and a vista over the skyscape of Bangalore and its Ministry building, we could have been anywhere. It was a glamorous setting fit for New York or any cosmopolitan setting, with the prices a good bit lower than our vista.

After riding motorcycles into the night, slowing only gradually to cross major intersections, I was struck as we pulled into the parking lot of an HSBC. Nine months ago I stood at the base of the HSBC tower in Hong Kong. Tonight I was sitting on the back of a speeding bike through the balmy Bangalore night, pulling out midnight Indian Rupees at a local HSBC, en route to surf in the Maldives. Life is fast, and the opportunities afforded are both fleeting and enriching, and those simple moments of contrast, reflection, and appreciation really bring to life the exceptional.

Ode to Frankies

First off, this blog post is long overdue. Never did I imagine that I would wait so long to recount the delicious wonders of Indian street frankies, the delectable 32 rupee morsals bought at steaming Tibb's Frankie stand in Begumpet, Hyderabad near the Lifestyle Building... ah yes, these are the days. Frankies are not of the Ballpark. They are not squeezed from a tube, nor are they endorsed by Michael Jordan. A veritable Indian taquito, the Tibb's Frankie adds an egg, chicken tikka and onions in a sub-continental slam dunk to what I've otherwise found south of the border.

In California we have a place called In-and-Out, a place where a 4x4 is more than a truck, and more of a dream. It is a venue for which mere thought inspires salivation and longing, a place where cows and potatos meet their maker, or at least their eater, and a cleanly joint where a dreary day can turn, at times, even magical.

Tibb's Frankies is this, and so much more, because in its greatness are layered the surprise and wonder borne from the fact that such a tastey, joyous thing can be created out of so dubious a location. From the sullied parking lot of the Lifestyle building, from the dreary street corner aside perpetual construction, a small glowing red sign beckons one to stop, to question, to order, and to taste greatness in all its Mumbai, franchised glory. An unlikely turn landed us at the sign that was to be our siren song, and though we have tried to blind our eyes to its ebullient glow, to wax our ears and to bind our hands like Odysseus to the mast, it is of no use... we eat Frankies at least twice a week.

I know not what Frankies will do to me, but what I will do for Frankies...

ISB Balling & Liquid

While we're still missing out on the Indian 'national sport,' hockey, by Wikipedia's definition, we have played a bit of local basketball pick-up at the Indian School of Business (ISB). ISB is an enclave of slience and peace in the midst of an otherwise hectic but vibrant Hyderabad. It's, to my knowledge, a one-year MBA program that's expensive and taught by American faculty from Wharton and Kellog. This week we took to ISB, and introduced the Iverson cross-over to the sub-continent. After about three hours of pick-up basketball on a slippery concrete floor, we left the manicured lawns of ISB's idyllic setting.

Although the week was incredibly hecitc, with conference calls at 7AM and 1AM on the same day, Champions League games to watch, dinners to attend, trips to plan, etc, we made due. Tonight we topped it off to a trip out to dinner at Fusion 9, and a night at the club with Liquid. Convinced that we'd seen Tollywood stars, we ordered a hookah and kicked back for the evening, looking out over a glassy skyline filled with half-constructed edifices and cranes. Actually, the term Tollywood star is a bit of an oxymoron, so we sat ponderously gazing into the reflective glass, slightly jaded at the fact that we'd been moved from our table to make room for those more C-list spenders than ourselves. While not the skyline of Barcelona or Istanbul, not the scene of Dancatoria or Leb-i-Derya, the atmosphere was a contrasting alternate-side to the faces we see on Hyderabadi streets daily. India continues to strike and enchant me as a nation of extremes.

Holi Hyderabad

After a momentus but hectic 10-day trip throughout Northern India and Nepal, we were in good need of rest this week, and so decided to remain in Hyderabad. It only eased the decision that our company cover band was playing at a pub on Friday evening, that we could play cricket on Saturday, and that I'd be able to fully recharge with some downtime and good old-fashioned reading about pirates, namely, 'Cup of Gold' by John Steinbeck. I'm usually a proponent of reading where you are, but after a tepid experience with Rushdie I figure the read where you're from logic with Steinbeck applies as well.

After a fitting at the tailor, we spent Friday evening raging away at a local hotel club. The band, which is comprised of our friends and coworkers, does ecclectic covers from the Cranberries to Metalica to Bon Jovi. The turn-out was great, and we closed the place down, staying out near to midnight!

On Saturday it was rise-and-shine, a 7am wake up and drive to the cricket grounds for our match. A 12-over match, we were up to bat first. I was happy, as I didn't get bowled for a duck, and I did eat a mean Frankie on the bench (veg or non-veg taquitos a la Indian). I was, however, bowled out on the second toss, but with one ball wide I'd scored a run (inadvertantly). After setting the target at nearly 170 runs, we took to the field. I managed to field a few balls without error, and would have had an ESPN highlight-reel catch if the short concrete wall had not jumped out to undercut me mid-stride. Luckily my complaint about no warning track and subsequent wipe-out was after I'd already bowled out my buddy Greg!

Sunday was officially 'Holi,' a strange but playful Hindu holiday that consists of 'throwing color' at other people. Colored flour and tastey chemical dies create a rainbow of colors at street-side stands and shops. A few rupees buys a whole array of fun to throw at your friend, and ruin his morning if he's bound for a five-star brunch. Well, we didn't 'play Holi,' but 'Holi played us.' We were attacked by a pack of hot-pink youth on our morning 5k run, and were again targeted by our own managers in the parking lot. Our ride to the Taj Krishna hotel, and lavish bruch thereafter, was tainted, literally in color, by the Holi flour that covered us from head to waste.

An afternoon clean-up, Bob Marley at our complex pool, and a dinner at the Mariott topped off a rather lavish day of hotel brunches and relaxation. All and all, it was what we needed post-trip, laying the groundwork for more inevitable adventures to come.

The Ubiquitous Cafe

Cafe options in India are limited, but seem to be a growing trend. The cafe life in India is a different scene than the drop-in European style, or on-the-go American style. Indian cafes, Barista and Cafe Coffee Day, are more up-market eating establishments than local bohemian cafes. Whereas Italian cafes offer the receipt first, the espresso shot at the bar, the ever-hasty euro coin and 'Ciao,' Indian cafes are full-on couples affairs with attire and style. Whereas Parisien cafes are host to musing writers and artists, and Japanese Starbucks are a refuge from luxury consumerism for Omotesando youth, Indian Baristas seem more weekend date than the spontaneous caffine fix.

My few trips to Barista have been met with quick service, prompt attention by the various staffers, delicious cappuccinos and espresso, all for around a buck. The courtyard features subtle tunes and a gurgling fountain, valet parking, and a comprehensive menu with coffees from as far as the Blue Mountains of Jamaica. Compared with the ubiquitous Starbucks 4-dollar latte, the dapper style of Barista is proof of American mark-up. While labor is undoubtedly cheaper here, the fact that you can get an espresso from Kenya, Jamaica, or Indonesia for a mere 50 rupees is impressive. In the opposite extreme, the swank Bosphorous 'Gloria Jeans Cafes' in Istanbul tried to charge $7 for an insipid cup of joe. In two burgeoning economies with arguably cheap labor supply in both, it's interesting that a comparable Turkish joint can charge 700 percent more for the same cup of coffee. Although Gloria Jeans golden logo haunts the Bebek and Ortokoy districts of Istanbul, beautifully positioned on to overlook a continental spread, I think I'll stick to my Banjara Hills Barista for the time being.

Eklavya... A trip to Bollywood

Tonight we took a trip to Bollywood, though not your typical song-and-dance number. The movie is called Eklavya, and is a modern day rendition and extrapolation of an ancient fable from the Mahabarata, to the best of my knowledge, the Homeric work of Indian folklore (Maha=great).

Eklavya was a gifted archer of low-caste beginning who studied archery in only the presence of a clay image of Arjuna's great guru. Arjuna, the archer hero of the Mahabarata, feared that his preeminence in archery would soon be surpassed by the low-caste Eklavya, and asked his guru to remedy the situation. Drona, his guru, demanded Eklavya's right thumb as payment. When asked to recuse himself from a future in archery, in deference to duty, Eklavya obliged and had his thumb cut off to make way for the great Arjuna.

Although complicated, and in HINDI (thanks Ruksha for the translation!), the movie Eklavya overturns and makes amends to the ancient fable of duty. I found my first Bollywood experience to be wonderful. Driven by powerful images, vivid colors, emotive physiognomy and expressive eyes -- perhaps more impactful because I understand little Hindi -- my first trip to the theater, seeing the Big B (Amitabh Bachchan) on the big screen, was a cultural couple hours in great company.

Annapurna Massif

After a brief date with Indian and Nepali challenge, we were anxious to find solitude away from the traffic and polution of Kathmandu. Contrary to my expectation, Kathmandu is a sizeable city of nearly 2 million with frenetic streets, mostly unpaved. Streets are narrow, energy is friendly but high, and overall, it's not why you come to Nepal.

We booked a Ghorka Air flight from Kathmandu to Pokhara, a lakeside town huddled near the Annapurna range about 200 KM west of Kathmandu. Though we could have flown on Yeti or Buddha airlines, something about the Ghorka plane was reassuring... well, kind of. A high-wing Dornier 228 plane, roughly 18-seater, was home for a buzzing 40 minutes. The stewardess brought candies and cotton swabs for our mouths and ears respectively. I sat pinned to the window, watching the cloudy horizon and spectacular Himalayas poking through.


Pokhara is a village on a placid lake under the towering Himalayas. Untouched, forrested hills lunge into the cool blue mirror of a lake that reflects the Annapurna massif on clear sunrise. The town itself is shamelessly touristy, but this only means cheap knock-off North Face from China, Tibetan flags, and Buddhist novelties abound. There are few foreigners, typically Korean, Japanese or Chinese.

We spent two days lake-side, and one day climbing the nearby vista called Sarangkot. A taxi and climb to 5,000 feet leaves you well below the cloud line and mountains that poke through the gossamer horizon of morning moisture. From Sarangkot you can see nearly eight peaks, though their size is deceiving, as distance plays its tricky part. Fishtail, a sharp and holy peak rises above the Annapurna range, but is much shorter (~22,000 feet).

Annapurna I is the 10th highest peak in the world at 8091 meters (26,545 feet). Also in the range are Annapurna II, III, IV, Gangapurna, and Annapurna South. The sight of it rising half-way into the sky is unparalleled and magical. The crisp white of the snow blends with the clouds below, and I found I had a kink in my neck from gazing at the summit for too long with my morning chai. While October is purportedly the time to visit Nepal, we found perfection in our 70 degree days and relatively clear vistas of the world's tallest peaks.

After a night of pick-up football under the range, a japanese dinner at Koto, and a series of Everest beers, each label displaying the famous Sherpa who ascended with Sir Edmund Hillary of New Zealand, we reterned to Kathmandu for a few days of Gompas, Stupas, Temples and other sights. We saw one of the holiest Shiva temples for Hindus, and the largest Stupa in Nepal for Buddhists. We met innumerable Tibetans who had been exiled and were living in Nepal without citizenship, forced to walk a month back home as their only alternative to the official Freedom Highway back to Lhasa. We heard stories of Maoist rebels, but mainly as a protectionary force for local disputes. A boy told us how he'd incited Maoist help to save him from gang retribution, a story that smacked a bit of mafia. There are eight parties, and the country is still politically unstable according to most accounts.

Nepal is a friendly and beautiful country that is worth more than a few days visit. I hope and wait for my return to the Himalayas, or in Sanskrit, the abode of snow.

Delhi to Kathmandu

Our well-earned trip to Nepal began inauspiciously with a trip to the wrong airport in Delhi, followed by Jet Airways not recognizing our already-purchased tickets. There are two airports in Delhi, one domestic and one international, and there is absolutely no transportation between the two besides taxi. Once we made the right airport we had a new challenge. Apparently Jet Airways does not recognize electronic tickets, despite the fact that our record locator, meal preferences and seat numbers were in their computer system, and my AmEx had been charged.

What began as confusion escalated quickly to frustration and then to rage as one issue created another. We thought we understand the unfortunate solution, namely to swipe our card again and issue a subsequent chargeback with American Express to dispute the initial charged for unrecognizable tickets. This would have been easy -- easy, but their credit card machine was not working. In fact, no credit card machine was working in New Delhi International Airport! Despite pounded fists, shouts, and incompetent management loitering nearby, the concept of calling in a credit card was as foreign as our unfortunate situation. Instead, the proffered solution by Jet Airways customer service was to take an armed escort with us to the ATM where we could withdraw sufficient funds (around 3 lakh rupees). We soon find out that, of course, the ATM is not in this building, and while it thankfully recognizes our bank card, it limits withdrawl to barely cover our one-way to Kathmandu. But our one-way ticket to Kathmandu is paid in cash, and the receipt is a mere scribble on paper that does not even bear the company seal. Somebody's pockets were getting deeper along with our situation.

When we arrived in Kathmandu we fought our way through the crowds to the block brick building aside the International terminal that housed airline offices. Though the officials for Jet Airways did not show up for over an hour, when they finally did we were welling with hope that we'd be able to make a return flight to Delhi on Sunday. After smiles and greetings though, the nightmare continued with our Jet friends offering little more than an incoherent printout of matrix numbers and letters supposedly representing our confirmation. We were dubious at best, and offered to pay for tickets. Sure, but again, no credit cards. Ok, no problem, how about cash. Where is the nearest ATM. Oh wait, you will not accept Nepali Rupees? I thought we were in Nepal. Right, we are, but you only want American dollars. But we don't live in America, we live in India. Oh, you won't accept Indian Rupees either because of counterfeit worries... 1...2...3...3...2...1

We eventually bought return tickets at the Kathmandu office on Visa after blowing off steam in Pokhara, hiking under the striking beauty of the Annapurna range, and playing pick-up soccer with Nepali youth. Our business class seats on return to Delhi allowed us to spite Jet with each glass of mediocre Austrailian Merlot, an enjoyable but insufficient counterbalance to the sheer chaos that Jet Airways added to an otherwise wonderful trip to Nepal.

To the Taj

At 5AM, after an alley call with mother nature, a dangerous cup of street chai and a bumpy rickshaw ride from New to Old Delhi stations, we discovered that squalor meets chaos at all hours, even in the wee morning. With the discerning help of a large and assertive Bombay friend, purchasing a ticket to Agra was, in an optimistic description, near impossible. Trips between scores, literally scores, of ticket windows was to no avail. A brusque wave of hands, another non-descript utterance in Hindi, and exhasperation drew deeper lines into our friend's already furrowed brow.

The concept of lines in India is both frustrating and hipocritical. You'll get cut off all day, and the moment you adopt comparable propriety, or lack thereof, glowers abound. After the eventual 68 rupee unreserved seat train ticket to Agra, we experienced the insanity of boarding an unreserved train in Old Delhi station. Hundreds, if not thousands, rush for the still-moving doors of the train. When we finally made the train, it was the wrong one, as our platform had changed a minute before. Five hours later we rumbled into Agra station, and spent the remainder of the day meandering the tranquil gardens across the Yamuna from the back of the Taj Mahal. A trip to the older Baby Taj nearby was even more peaceful, with the venue nearly to ourselves (save for garden monkeys, of course).

The Taj Mahal, built as a monument to fallen love by Shah Jahan, is without a doubt, the most spectacular monument I've ever seen. Its pure white marble reflects the light differently through the day, from pure to pink to gold, changing with the sun. Unlike many monuments, its size and solitude bolster its already iconic status. Whereas Big Ben isn't so big, and Corcavado of Rio sits a thousand feet above a city, the grandeur of the Taj is singular and unavoidable in Agra. Up close, the Taj is equally impressive. Well-preserved, inlay marble upon marble, rock upon carved rock, it's amazing that even 20,000 individuals could construct such a masterpiece. We polished off a terrific day with scotch and a Partagas Cuban cigar, a glass of Hennessey and a view of the famous silhouette from an Oberoi Hotel balcony, rocked a rickshaw home and then slept it off in our $10/night hotel. Next day, back to work from our Gurgaon office near Delhi...

Corbett National Park

After an inevitably delayed flight from Hyderabad to Delhi on Air Deccan, the Southwest Airlines of India minus A-round boarding, we struggled to make it across Delhi for our overnight train to Ramnagar, Uttaranchal. Uttaranchal is the state wedged in Northern India between Himanchal and Nepal, Tibet and Uttar Pradesh. It's also the state in which Jim Corbett tracked the legendary 'Man Eaters of Koumon,' or tigers. Following an F-1 drive across New Delhi, me piled atop bags in the trunk, we shuffled our way into Old Delhi train station. I've slept in statioins before, namely Milan, and seen grime, but nothing compares to the Dickensian squalor of Old Delhi station. We happily traded the scurrying rats and festering pools of urine for the clacking night breeze aboard our six-hour ride to Uttaranchal.

Although the day began before 5AM, stumbling off a train into an ever-foreign world, riding on a safari jeep that sliced its way through the frigid night air under a blanket of glittering stars, after two-hours of sleep we were ready. We spent the day on safari, making our way through the forests of Jim Corbett National Park, and the open plains under the rolling foothills of the Himalayas. We saw hundreds of monkeys and spotted deer mingling in the golden grass, but failed to see a tiger. We closed off the night with a delectable curry and paratha dinner, and kept adding logs to the bonfire that kept us company until morning, through discussion of Ghandi, caste-life, and education with friends from Bangalore, Delhi & Mumbai. It was a memorable night of iPod jams, a blazing fire and lodge entirely to ourselves, an endless sky of stars, and wonderful company and conversation laced with laughter, smiles, and an exchange of cultures.

After a relaxing morning chai and a series of pseudo-adventure sports we piled into smaller jeeps and made off for safari day-two. Today felt more auspicious, as we silently bumped over softer leaves and muddy waters, deeper into the park. By noon we had spotted hundreds more spotted deer and monkeys, kingfishers and crocodiles. Soon thereafter we spotted the elusive leopard and her cubs. While not a man-eater, we didn't stick around to find out... overnight train back to Delhi.

Varanasi... India in Extremes

This weekend we took the arduous, but worthwile, trip to Varanasi, India. Varanasi is the holiest city in India, and purportedly the second-holiest city in the world, second only to Jerusulem. It is an ancient city on the Western banks of the Ganges, and one of the greatest pilgrimage points on earth. Near Allahabad, at the sangum of the Yamuna and Ganges, the river plane of Uttar Pradesh in Northern India is one of the most crowded regions on earth, and believe me, it feels like it.

Varanasi is, to say the least, a city of extremes. As articulated by Greg, "Varanasi is India in a crucible." It is the incarnation of so many thoughts, expectations, stereotypes, cliches, and extremes. Innumerable adjectives could be used to describe the experience of journeying to Varanasi... overwhelming, powerful, incredible, uncomfortable, holy... the latter perhaps most poignant, altered, though not necessarily diminished, by the innumerable former...

When you arrive in Varanasi it's like any other Indian experience; your flight is inevitably 3-hours delayed, you stumble off your budget airline perturbed, but at least well-fed by veg food and square bottles of water, and you chart your exit from the terminal. Through the sea of eyes, crumpled name cards, and tan-clad security forces nonchalantly bearing weapons, you plot your course and walk decisively, brushing aside offers and "deals" that abound.

Varanasi was all this, but maximized on arrival, and compounded as soon as we began to enter the city. A 12-kilometer drive from the airport took us 90 minutes, and involved one minor accident of a motorbike clipping our bumper... an amazingly low rate given the magnitude and proximity of traffic. While, at a size of 1 million people Varanasi is as large as San Diego, it lacks even a modicum of proper infrastructure. Save for roads, which are paved, the city is impoverished to an extreme, more crowded than Bombay, and host to the putrid scents that I'm starting to associate as common. Scores of people walk amidst water buffalo, pooled water, and feril dogs. A wild boar stands aside a goat next to a man mixing concrete for a building construction staffed by a dozen employed, but idle workers. Trash cans do not exist. Bathrooms abound, and despite the diversity of life on the streets, the smell is quite similar. The smell also eminates from the lapping water of the Ganges, the river in which offerings are made, men and women bathe and brush teeth, and the ashes of the dead are spread.

A walk along the Ghats (steps) of the Ganges involves an uncomfortable but rewarding confluence of sights, smells, thoughts. Holy men in saffron, men who have denounced worldly possessions, stand in reverence aside the holy Ganges, partaking in puja, offering prasad, uttering words in Hindi with eyes closed. Twenty men build a small boat while children scamper to sell you a candle and flowers to offer the Ganga at sundown. Women beat clothes into cleanliness in water sullied by a million pollutants. Others swish the same water and toothpaste to purge their rotting red teeth of the betelnut-stain. And still other men, naked, or wearing only loin cloths perch in tents nursing fire and applying gray ash to their skin. Their hair is madded and made wiry by time spent resolutely devoted to their cause.

Further down the Ganges are more naked, ash-covered men, others in saffron, others self-mutilated into forms a boy explained to us as "in the form of Ganesh." Ganesh, the god of beginnings and good fortune, has the head of an elephant. One man atop the ghats too had one eye, and half of his face loosely hanging in a flap of skin vaguely reminiscent of a trunk. Again, I cannot fully comprehend, but I can appreciate the experience as an eye-opening look at religious devotion.

Our final stop along the ghats was at the "Burning Ghats." When men and women are prepared to die, many Hindu devotees will make the trek to the Ganges for cremation and final resting in the Ganges. It is believed that the holy river can absolve one of sins, and allow one entrance into heaven. At the burning ghats there are hospice houses. There are piles and piles of wood. There is banyan, mango, and sandalwood. There are pyres. There are colored linens that vaguely resemble human forms. There is one eternal flame from which all cremation ceremonies begin. Though there is undoubtedly sadness, there is reverence and there is also no crying. There is no smell but that of wood. There are a dozen fires on different terraces alluding to the status of the individual. There is silence, save for the lapping water of the Ganges, the occasional crackle of the flames, and the communal hush of respectful onlookers engaged in a timeless Hindu tradition on the bank of the Ganga.

Varanasi, while tiresome, culturally daunting and immensely crowded, retains a holiness that transgresses the squalor and saddness that are the brethren of poverty. And that experience is sufficient enough to visit, though perhaps not return.

Jolly Roger in the Straights

On a Saturday night in Mumbai we met two guys at our table who were deck hands on global oil and container tankers. What began as an awkward drinks-for-four, two Americans and two Indian locals, quickly became an in-depth discussion about life married to the sea.

It's not often that you can compare favorite Ipanema joints, and hear an explaination about the process by which an oil tanker passes through the Panama Canal, but it's even less often that you get to talk about PIRATES, especially in Bombay. I'm not talking Johnny Depp, but veritable swashbuckling buccaneers... except maybe without the anachronism of the sword.

As deck hands they're given an assignment from Mumbai, flown to the necessary port (let's say Dubai). From there they board the ship and begin cruising in stints, 4 months for oil tankers, 6 months for container ships. They're modern mercantalists, shuttling goods around the world, beans from one location, jet fuel to another. On routes from Mumbai to East Asia, the only viable passing point is through the Straight of Malacca, the notorious stretch of ocean between Sumatra and the Malay peninsula. The straight narrows between Malaysia and Indonesia until Singapore, at which point the tanker can proceed East to it's port of call, say Manila.

When the tanker is in the Straights, there are a number of tactics they employ to avoid the Jolly Roger. By sticking close to shore, boarding up the hull, sailing full-steam, and expelling jets of water off the port and starboard sides they can deter pirates for the small window of time during which the tanker is vulnerable. The deck hands said there are never more than 20 or so guys on a tanker, so it's easy to see how a few modern Captain Cooks could commandeer a stockpile of jet fuel... marooning our friends on some Lost island paradise, or worse, sending them to Davey Jones' locker... shiver me timbers!

In Bombay Looking West

Friday we decided to jet-set it over to Mumbai, the coastal capital of Maharashtra known as Bombay until it changed its name in 1996. It's the home of Bollywood, the putative New York City of India, financial and business center, and one of the the most notorious cities in the world for its crowds. Sixty percent of its 14+ million inhabitants live in slums that are heart-wrenching and troubled while the other half (or almost) live in places with the prices of Palo Alto.

The apartment in which we stayed had a beautiful view looking westward over the Arabian Sea, but as far up and down the Malabar coast as could be seen, dilapidated apartment towers loomed over the tin roofs of coastal slums. We spent less than $0.50 on a street vendor's bhelpuri lunch, and $100 on a dinner fit for Brad and Angelina. It is, like every city, one of extremes.

When traveling, I always have what I call "Thomas Friedman moments." The first came when I ordered a green-tea latte and a tall regular latte at the exact same time in Tokyo and Washington DC. A latte at a Narita Starbucks, a direct ANA Tokyo-DC flight, and another upon arrival landed me in two Starbucks restaurants on two different continents at the same time on the same day(with receipts to prove it)... but I digress. My Tom Friedman moment in Bombay came while drinking scotch, and listening to salsa music.

We were, as the story goes for many, asked to act in a Bollywood film. Approached by a "foreign model scout," he promised us 500 Rs and a day on the set. With a 4AM start, the opportunity cost of lost sleep far outweighed the $11 salary that our Bollywood good-looks promised, so we assured the scout that our agent would return his call... right.

We spent Saturday meandering the city and seeing the old British sites. The Brits inauspiciously constructed the "Gateway of India" sometime in the early 1900s, but did leave a number of beautiful buildings along tree-lined boulevards in the Colaba and Fort districts of South Mumbai. While the bygone buildings stand grandly aside cricket pitches, encircled by buzzing streets, the more modern financial area was surprisingly dilapidated. Despite police presence, the Mumbai stock exchange housed sleeping dogs on the steps, and opened to a razed dirt/gravel road.

Sunday we decided to splurge on the 25 Rs entry to the Indian Derby horse race tracks. The supposed second home to many Bollywood stars, I put 10 Rs down on "Gorgeous Blue" to win it all. My odds were not bad, but others were onto our tactics. A man in line casually asked if I, "liked the horse's name," in reference to my bet. "Yes," I responded, "and that's MY exact science... there will be no copying of strategy." Gorgeous Blue and Master Planner, my two horses, came in nearly dead last and dead last respectively. Needless to say neither was a cash cow, but then again maybe that'd be obvious to others.

After two races and no Bollywood sightings we returned home for another sunset over the Arabian Sea, the placid water sloshing against the backyard tide pools of the hundreds of brightly-dressed kids who'd emerge from the warren of corrugated-roofed homes to chase a cricket ball or fly a kite. India may be China's analog, but Mumbai is not Shanghai. In contrast to China's politically stoic feel, Bombay's vibrant democratic voters took the streets in their parties colors, thumping drums and lighting fireworks. It's hard to know what will ultimately improve the lives of those in coastal shanties... China's cold order, or India's impassioned chaos.

Mahabalipuram... on the Coromandel Coast

After a jaunt past the famous Pallava-architecture Shore Temple and a seafood lunch to Bob Marley hits, we incited a small dance party on the sands of Mahabalipuram.

When the little girl's father came by, he agreed to catch crabs for us if I held his necklaces. While I wasn't able to hawk any to the other confused, passing tourists, he did catch us a small crab before asking that I take a photo of his daughter.

I obliged, and took a round of photos of his little girl to the giggles and exciting novelty that only Panasonic on the beach can create in India.

Wickets of Fun

On Saturday we attended the India vs. West Indies cricket match in Chennai, India. Attending an Indian cricket match in the year of the Cricket World Cup was the unlikely and fortuitous result of the fact that our Indian co-worker has cricket connections. Having played at the state level for Tamil Nadu, and having roomed with one of India's rising stars, our friend secured us shaded tickets to an impossible match.

While the match lasted nearly 100 overs, and ran from 2:30-10pm, it was hardly a slow event. India is notoriously busy, and to layer on top of the status quo the crowd and enthusiasm of national team cricket in the year of a world cup still doesn't do justice to the craze and buzz in the balmy Chennai air. Streets were blocked, and we hopped our way over standing water and through crowded smiling streets toward the stadium, armed with flags, orange and green, and rare expat cricket enthusiasm.

India, in my superficial view, combines a bizarre mix of chaos and order that I suppose comes as a result of its immense population. Strict rules exist, but with the excess of employees, plurality of officialdom means you can often slip by. If mom says no, just ask dad. When I was stopped at the gate with my camera and told unequivocally that I could not enter, I merely had to loiter, shuffle pockets, claim it was a cell phone all along to a new guard, and walk through the buzzing metal detector to no notice. Bingo -- try doing that to the superbowl! It helped that I also distracted them with the old "sunblock in the white-boy pocket" card to evoke laughter from the bevy of bronzed local guards.

Though they don't serve "adult beverages" at Indian cricket matches, they do serve samosas and ice cream. While the samosas come with dirty fingers and greasy cardboard, they proved a tastey addition to watching Brian Lara (the Michael Jordan of cricket) disarm the Indian fielders with 80+ runs. West Indies won by 3 wickets.

On the Road... without Jack

Throughout the past four weeks in India, it has been hard not to notice the highways, the cars, and the lifestyles that straddle the road. Roads in India are more ecosystem than transportation conduits, with families, settlements, and full lives lived out on their shoulders. In Chennai we saw countless families cuddled under blankets aside busy streets. We saw vendors covering their products with tarp for the night, and then settling down aside their goods for the night. The roads are never alone, and it's difficult, impossible really, to find a solitary moment irrespective of the time, day or night.

Despite the fact that 1 million new cars are being added to the roads each year, the total number of registered car owners is still less than one percent of India's population. Until a few years back the only cars available in India were Indian-made Ambassadors or Italian-made Fiats, though now virtually all models are available. Though Ambassadors are still ubiquitous, the India-made Tata Indica seems to be a rising star on the budget, but nicer-than-rickshaw level of personal car.

I spoke with an auto-rickshaw driver in Hospet, Karnataka who told me that he essentially rents his rickshaw for 140 rupees per day. He drives all night, and any money he makes above and beyond the 140 rupees he pays out is profit. He also has to pay for petrol, however.

Though there is a newly developing super-highway system in the works, linking Mumbai, Delhi, Calcutta, and Chennai in a giant rectangle of pavement, it has brought with it social and political issues. Rarely does the road allow pedestrians with animals to cross. Traffic is dangerous. With the construction has come a corresponding spread of HIV moving with the migrant workers across South India. While the highway's construction is a necessary improvement to inter-state infrastructure and concurrently facilitates auto sales by making car transport easier, it's also the harbinger of many less than salubrious externalities.

Republic Day in Pondicherry

We arrived into Chennai late on Thursday night and immediately booked a car for Pondicherry. "Pondy," as it's known, is a former French outpost that still retains its Francophone flavor. Streets feature blue Parisian-tile numbers, the only difference being that the Rues in Pondy also feature the street name in Tamil... surprise! Tamil is one of 16 official languages in India, each relatively unique to its home state, but generally Dravidian in linguistic origin (in the South).

The ride from Chennai to Pondy is about 120 km. A private black "Ambassador" ride, set of drivers, and guarantee of adventure set us back around 1800 rupees ($40). Half way to Pondy our drivers pulled off for dinner at a street-side shop. We, apparently, didn't really have a say in this so we ordered a chai, chicken, and chiapati on a banana leaf. The two locals from Tamil Nadu with whom we sat didn't speak much English, but told us we were their best friends after 20 minutes across us in plastic chairs, fingers dripping and arms smeared with curries.

Upon arrival we watched the sun rise out of the Bay, looking across the water towards the coast of Thailand, Malaysia, and Sumatra, and across the water that experienced the Tsunami two years back. The coastline appears relatively undamaged today, but locals warn of dangerous rip tides due to offshore sediment and sea-floor changes.

Aside from Francophone Indians and culinary melange of crepes and dosas, Pondy is also host to a few churches, the biggest of which features a colorful statue of Jesus and facade fit for a coastal Mediterranean post rather than aside the Bay of Bengal.

A stroll through the back alleyways of Pondy landed us amidst a local cricket match. We rounded a corner to find a scurry of seven year olds, and a stone wall that stood as the makeshift wicket. Until we arrived, the only spectators were two loitering goats and a cow in the same alleyway. The kids called us over, and we guarded the wicket through an hour of enthusiastic bowls. After a dozen short-films of our enthusiastic young friends reveling in the street, a risky handful of home-made samosas, and an exchange of emails, we attempted to leave the alley and bevy of young cricketers but were assured that we'd get a tour of the city.

Six boys between ages 11 to 16 began giving us the grand Pondy tour, ripe with junkets through back-alley homes, a shrine blessing, guided walk through the Botanical Gardens, and stroll along Pondy's tres-French promenade. Aside from the vibrant saris that unfurl across the path, the large Ghandi statue, and dearth of silver stones, strolling the Pondy promenade is not unlike being on the Cote d'Azur.

As we neared the beach we invited the boys to lunch. Eight sandwhiches, six grape juices, and three banana splits later, we'd given our crew of cricketing tour guides an unforgettable Indian Republic Day, and we'd gotten to know pure Pondy.

The Wedding Crashers

Tonight we crashed two weddings, and were invited to a third. It was an exceptional feat, really, to show up uninvited and actually make it inside two separate weddings. Our driver, the kind, beguiling Sayeed, unassumingly dropped us off at the first site of what we thought to be our friend's wedding reception. About 30 minutes into an awkward serenade and a room full of confused Indian eyes fixated on us, the wedding crashers, we received a call telling us we were in the wrong place... Wedding 1 consisted of multiple bands hailing the entrance of another participant, and the bride and groom atop gilded seats, sitting before the sparsely-populated auditorium.

When we showed up to wedding 2, we could not possibly conceive that the impossible would happen twice, but it did. Twenty minutes after piling food onto silver platters, aimlessly wandering and mingling with Indian guests, I again, received a call from Sayeed telling me that we had again arrived at, "the wrong wedding." The awkward impropriety to which we admitted during round one was becoming comical. The wedding director had approached me and asked how I was enjoying my food. Candidly, I told him that I was a bit lost, and he promised to have someone escort me around... and this was not even the right wedding! We surveyed the roti, curries, gravies and other delectable North Indian dishes, and escaped the less-than-innocuous paparazzi, making our way to wedding venue number 3... yes, 3.

Wedding 3 we half expected to be disasterous, but as we approached the table-covered knoll and thumping beat of music, we realized that our luck had finally converged with circumstance, and we'd found the right spot. Greg aptly likened our evening to Goldylocks... "The first wedding was too small. The second wedding was too big. But the third wedding was JUST right." We snapped a few photos with the groom and his girl, tipped back some Johnny on the rocks, bantered with the inlaws and their college cronies -- now behind the scenes in Hyderabad's finest uniforms -- and hit the dance floor.

Indian dancing is not something with which I have much experience, but even so, we proved ourselves to be the Michael Jacksons of the sub-continent, sans nose. Between the lightbulb dance, which consists of alternated, twisting wrists in the air, and rhythmic gyrations to thumping Hindi beats, we kept the cameras panning and helped incite a party. Indian dance is visceral elation... it doesn't get much better, especially when you get to do it at three weddings in one night, without provocation or consequence.

And to get a tase of what I'm talking about, YouTube a video by Shahrukh Kahn when you get the chance! In the words of my co-worker, this guy is so famous in India that, "He's like the Old Testament; He makes even athiests shake in their boots."

Monkey Business in Hampi

This weekend we traveled to Hampi in Karnataka, about mid-way between Hyderabad and Bangalore. The site of Hampi is famous for its other-worldly topography and for its gorgeous temples and ancient ruins. The skyline in Hampi is a mix of Martian-red boulders littering the land, and the hazy tropical green foliage of banana and coconut palms that conjure Jurassic images. I half expected to see Taradactos.

When we arrived in Hospet, the gateway town to Hampi, it was 5 AM and the sun was not yet up. We piled into an autorickshaw and made our way, careening through the dark over bumps and jolts, riding a buzzing tin-can with axles, a giddy driver at the helm, far too enthusiastic for the hour. The journey was about 40 minutes, but time passed as in a dream, all at once and in slow motion, with gossamer figures in pale colors emerging from the dark, passing us in a whoosh of air. Through the clatter of bells on passing water buffalo, the barking of dogs, the buzz of other rickshaws humming their way toward Hospet, we made our way to Hampi and arrived before the sun had creasted the horizon.

When we arrived, sleep was only a contingency plan. We had to climb a pile of rocks to see the sunrise. Although weighed down by backpacks, and constrained by the darkness, with an agile, goat-like ability, we mounted the boulders by sunrise. The single headlamp was both our climbing necessity and our excuse for tresspassing, having scaled an 8-foot stone wall.

We rented bicycles and road the dirt paths through a banana plantation. We traversed a river and went bouldering for two hours, only to be rescued by a man in a giant basket after marooning ourselves on the far side of the creek. We received warnings of local crocodiles and bandits, but failed to heed warning in the marsh and were convinced that the only thieves were the monkeys that go after yellow bananas. And we survived. We saw old women shoot at pesky monkeys with sling-shots, and incited a James Brown dance party outside the Hospet trainstation with an iPod and speakers, and considered getting a jungle haircut until divine intervention showed itself in the form of a power blackout. After an exploding cup of yogurt on the inbound train sullied my evening, it was nice to know someone up above was on the lookout.

"Outsourcing" Models

In speaking about Hyderabad work life, it's interesting that jobs here consist of two categories according to local workers. There are BPO, business position outsource, and KPO, knowledge position outsource, jobs.

BPO jobs are those that people in the US would typically think of as "outsourced jobs," as they're lower-end jobs that have moved downmarket to where a labor supply us cheaper than in the United States. These jobs are not as highly sought after as KPO jobs, and are typically open to those with a high school degree.

KPO jobs, in contrast, are knowledge specific, and do require specialization. These jobs are akin to financial overnighting (HSBC) in which CPA-level accountants and analysts do research around the clock for bankers in NYC. While some jobs in Hyderabad do bridge the BPO-KPO gap, with BPO positions evolving into more KPO roles, these two are fairly dichotomous and distinct. Highly qualified individuals with MBAs or BBAs may opt for an international post as opposed to a local KPO. These were the thoughts and tinkerings from a conversation that I had with an Indian girl who's worked here for about 5 years.

Golconda Lights

Last night we watched the lights & sound show at Golconda Fort, a former stronghold on the Deccan Plateau. It's an impressive fort that was built atop a hill strewn with boulders, and was fortified with ramparts that were impenetrable, and impervious to everything but treachery. Local betrayal allowed Mughals from Delhi (basically Indian muslims of Turkish or Persian origin) to eventually breach the walls and conquer the Andrah Pradesh hilltop.

The lights show, while very Disney and a bit histrionic with famous Bollywood voice-overs and rhetorical questions, was a fun way to learn the fort's history, and see its walls aglow. We attended with three work friends and coordinators of the ambassador social committee, and over a dinner of North Indian cuisine, Lassis (yogurt drinks), curries, nan, and a delectable array of goodies, we learned a bit more about India.

India's religious breakdown is roughly 85 percent Hindu, 7 percent Muslim, and 2.7 percent Christian. One girl in the car was Christian, so she quipped that we were seeing a rarity! Hyderabad, in contrast, is nearly 50 percent Muslim, with the bulk Sunni (according to drivers). This is curious to me, as much of the former influence was Persian (Shia). Of the Christians in India, the bulk reside in Kerala on the Southwest coast. There is actually a Jewish presence here as well, somewhere near Cochi.

Another guy in the car is originally from Rajistan (Northwest near Pakistan), but currently lives in Kalcutta. He said that Kalcutta is a much warmer city, in personal touch, than Hyderabad. There he lives with his extended family. The wives join the men's family, and soon the house grows large quickly. He explained that this is quite traditional. His father, mother, uncles and their wives and children all live together under one roof. Their home is nearly 30 people large, and they own land to expand the home when need be. In contrast to Rajistan where he said many marriages still occur at ages 13-15, with the girl coming to live with and grow up in the boy's home, his family is less traditional. Dating is not discussed, but he said that it's something that is inevitable and happens in his family. At his home, the women are the primary caretakers and homemakers, a tough job with a family crew of 30 eating from one fridge!

A Number of Challenges

As is true when visiting nearly any country, one must deal with the inevitable conversions that come with American hubris, and our non-adoption of the metric system. Why should we adopt the metric system? And, we'll call it soccer too while we're at it. I saw a relic in an Istanbul museum that confirmed that the "foot" and "inch" do have a historical foundation. What perplexes me more though, are the arbitrary and anachronistic comparisons that some nations still draw. Why does a stone weigh 14 pounds?

In India they have something called the "Lakh." A Lakh is 100,000, so a city of 10 lakh would be the population of 1 million. There, I did it... though it did take me a minute. Converting to lakh seems akin to revaluing currency. Or maybe a better analogy is that it's like putting the same amount of water in a short fat glass or a tall skinny glass... one glass makes you think there's less water when the volume never changes. When you have a population of 1.1 billion you've got to get creative. You can't measure your country in terms of people anymore because it sounds overcrowded and unappealing. Instead you have to invent new conceptions to group people to count them in smaller numbers... because India may be 1.1 billion people, but it's only 11,000 lakhs. China, in contrast, sounds appallingly crowded with 1.3 billion whole people!

This is not Indian logic, but I think that maybe it should be. Playing with numbers makes sense with lakh, but when you're at the gym curling 15 kilos you would appreciate if the dumbells listed 33 pounds. I know I would. It's the water in the glass again, but sometimes each glass just makes sense. Indians got it right with lakhs of population. Americans got it right with pound weights in the gym. Would you rather be the weakest strong person, or the strongest weak person? It's all perspective...