Tiger Team

Friday marks departure for Rajasthan and Ranthambore National Park from Delhi. Departing from Bikaner House bus station near Khan Market, my Hindi comes in handy when I spout the phrase, “yaha bus jaipur se jana hai (this bus is going to jaipur?).”

After an iPod night aboard the bus to Jaipur, we arrive and check into our small hotel for a few hours of needed sleep. The car from Jaipur to Ranthambore is nearly five hours, though the distance is minimal. Roads are littered with oxen, doddling rickshaws and lumbering trucks for which our horn is a futile tool. Half way through the drive our grinning driver surprises us by pulling a DVD screen from the ceiling and putting on a faux-violent and typically disultory Hindi film.

Staying at the Raj Palace in Ranthambore, our facilities are nice, and are markedly improved by the warm sunshine, Kingfisher, and Ben Harper I play from my portable SonicImpact speakers. But not all is lost, as we have tiger-printed sheets and curtains.

Our first safari is unsuccessful, but we manage to spot crocodiles and paw prints, ostensibly fresh, but impossible to validate. Reminded of my September safari in Tarangire National Park in Tanzania where zebra and wildebeast became banal sightings, our initial enthusiasm for deer dwindled as scores ambled in the dry forest.

Five AM on day two tiger team has better luck. Traveling with two other Stanford kids and my Egyptian/Californian friend Heba, we cut through the frigid morning air as a hooded possie on the top of an open-air jeep. The tigers don’t know what hits them.

Our first spotting includes a tigress 10m off the path sleeping under a tree. As our unfortunate driver, hit by a branch as we careen down the dirt path, bleeds from his eye, we attempt to evacuate the park prematurely. Perhaps our second tiger sighting is a karmac reward for our selflessness, as it walks down the path toward our speeding vehicle. Pausing, we let it draw close, within 3m of the car until it nonchalantly graces by the front bumper and into the brush. With a heavy step, it powerfully takes deliberate steps, impressing the elusive paw prints into the soft dust for future jeeps to discover.

Satisfied with our fortune, we play soccer with Indian tourist kids, peruse over-priced Kashmiri carpets, and begin the return journey to Jaipur and Delhi.

Defense Ministry Invitation

Rating up there with my morning at the White House Nobel Prize reception, and the Chinese Film Festival at the U.N. Office at Geneva where the unlimited fruit tarts define Anna’s conception of Heaven, tonight we attended a closed ceremony organized by the Indian Ministry of Defense. Sure, that’s normal right? I suppose if your friend’s uncle’s friend sets you up as is typical of both Indian generosity and bureaucracy.

Our driver, tentatively nearing the Presidential palace walls, drove toward a cadre of armed, khaki men. With the flicker of a generic white envelope, a smile, and claim as “Mr. Scott,” no not the Brazilian footballer, but the invitee, we entered the gates.

The end of the Rajpath is not unordinary, and is nor inaccessible on normal days, but this week it resembles an armed fortress due to the National Day holiday. Surrounded by taller-than-average men in khaki poised aside beeping security terminals (ostensibly metal detectors without enforcement), the ceremony for the Ministry was held on the Rajpath opposite the India Gate. The scene reminded me of Latin American airports. Between the “your machine’s broken” argument and the “empty your pockets” demand, the former is a much easier battle to win, a consequence that likely makes your life easier to lose.

“The Beating Retreat” as it is called, includes a live marching performance of the massed bands of the three services at Vijay Chowk. In immaculate order, and adorned with at least one hundred bagpipers, we witnessed a wonderful Indian ceremony obviously directed at the adorned men who had arrived in 1990s stretch Mercedes. We didn’t mind.

At the end of the night, after the men retreated into the night, the camels that had lined silhouetted against the sunsetting sky gently moved down the porticos to a point where their unique form belended into the graying stone of night, all building edges instantly illuminated in a Tivoli moment. It was Disneyland magic slash Copenhagen on the Sub-Continent. Just as the harmony of trumpets and campanile bells was echoing into silence, the lights ignigted an erruption of cheers from the crowd, and we departed.

Delhi Nights

In an area called Defense Colony in South Delhi, I held a table at Barista where a cartwheeling four-year-old out my window gyrated in competition for attention with James Joyce sitting before me. While her smile lit up when I’d turn my head, I knew the futility of her act, and was saddened by the cold fact that it was driven by penury, and demanded by her mother. I turned my gaze back to the reflective words of Joyce on the page that had been before me for minutes, my thoughts tumbling through all but the storyline. I joke that my still reading the book “Dubliners” a week into Delhi is a testament to the Dublin pub life.

After a short wait my friend from Stanford arrives, and we catch up over tales of Google.org and the World Bank. I appreciate good company, old stories, and the broad smile she brings into an otherwise solitary weekend. She’s responsible for the Bank’s Malarial medication outreach on the sub-continent and reflects on the difficulty of compliance. A few hours pass and we walk to a nearby friend’s apartment in Defense Colony. I like to call Defense Colony the Coronado of Delhi because similarly, as you probably would not wish to provoke a bar fight with a Navy SEAL, there is a history of martial population. This is an interesting contrast to the Lotus Temple, a Baha'i house of worship and peace, that I visited earlier in the afternoon.

On an outdoor balcony, and over a few Kingfishers we discuss Punjab and Joyce. I reflect on Delhi with Dubliners. Making our way to another nearby home where two friends are throwing a party, the surprise of serendipity strikes again as a friend from work, and another Indian girl whom I’ve met at the gym saunter into the small living room gathering 10k miles from California. The crew is comprised of UNDP workers, members of the World Bank and French and Dutch embassies. Fulbrighters and venture capitalists, microfinance, and those fighting age by adopting a remote life wherein adventure can preserve youth.

I feel at home with this group, and I’m invited to join a local football team called “CNG Car” with Dublin backs, an Italian keeper, and the promise of letting me play up top.

Dubliners

My week in the Dublin office offers me a chance to hit the ground running, albeit in the rain. Having set up 30 meetings, my workday requires the endurance of an Ironman, the intensity of a sprinter, and the agility of a decathlete, but at night I learn the Irish saying “Sober as a Judge,” and its late night spoonerism “Jober as a Sudge.” Over a dozen pints of Guinness, it’s Irish courage that comes about, not Dutch, and friendships blossom.

A Thursday night Brazilian party teaches me the ways of FoHo, as I miserably explain my dance failing in Rio de Janeiro to two Brazilian ladies from Goyaz, and recount to a Valencian, my poignant tale with the Girl from Ipanema, one that concluded with a long kiss goodnight, splashing puddles, chasing a taxi cab in the rain, and the consolation of two Brazilian bouncers who longingly annunciated the word “Belleza.” He philosophically rationalized that deeper understanding could have revealed incompatibility. I told him of my faith in the world, as on my return to California a guitarist aside me in a café began playing the “Girl from Ipanema” as my thoughts spilled onto a journal page. I approached the man with a coffee and told him, “I know her.”

On Friday I met had a night out of Buckfast, a potent Irish drink, with a dozen friends from India. Spilling into the night with all the Dubliners about whom Joyce wrote a book by that very namesake, my friend Giovanni and I made it home by 5am. Recounting memories from our time as roommates in Barcelona, comparing stories and perspectives Italian and American, and finding solidarity in our joint appreciation of Doesoevsky, I remember that true friendship can endure. After three years, we did not skip a beat.

We see Monets in the Dublin City Gallery, the Book of Kells at Trinity College, the National Gallery, and then meander the streets about which Joyce writes. St Stephens Green and Nassau Street, Merrion and O’Connell, Grafton and Mulligan’s…

Saturday concluded with a Dutch party that I attended with twenty friends from six continents. Conversations sparked in French, Italian, and Spanish, and topics varied from Biarritz surfing with a South African to discussion of Japanese alphabets with a Brazilian girl who has studied Arabic and Mandarin, pursuing the same focus in her life as I’d like to in mine, namely international diplomacy and economic development.

Aboard my flight from London, the sun began to rise over the Hindu Kush in Afghanistan. Jagged snow-capped peaks revealed a country beyond CNN. Deep rifts held dangerous mystery, but somehow it looked innocent, untouched, and beautiful. In a part of the world most troubled, as we flew with Kabul and Islamabad out of my leftside, 747-window, I envisioned an alternative. Looking at my moving flight map, turbulence introduced a palpable fear dictated by the ubiquitous regional perceptions, but as I turned my eyes to the cold glass of my window, I was saddened by an unfortunate corruption of a beautiful land.

Belgian Beer and Harvard Law

Attending an amazing two-day session with a Harvard Law School war crimes delegation, to which I was invited by one of my best 2L friends, Albert Chang, I was fortunate to listen to and discuss cases with lead prosecutors and defense attorneys at the International Criminal Court (ICC) and International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia (ICTY) in Den Hague. We met with the lead prosecutor for the Serbian propaganda chief on trial in the ICTY. Though I visited the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda in Arusha, Tanzania in September, I was not able to enter. As I scanned my passport and entered the metal detector, it was fitting that my security agent was a Tanzanian with whom I could conduct similing Swahili banter, and mention the fact that I had a beer with his national team’s goalkeeper, Ivo Mapunda.

I was struck by our meeting with the lead ICC defense attorney for Charles Taylor. How could one stand with the conviction to defend a man who has allegedly sold arms to fuel war in Liberia and Sierra Leone, endorsed or at least not opposed the use of child soldiers and diamond mine exploitation? In his black and gold-rimmed glasses and gold watch, the bedazzled persona of Charles Taylor makes a difficult case even tougher. It’s difficult to consider how the cost of extradition, in that it’s likely a reasonable assumption of guilt, influences the perception of justice for the convicted. ICC has historically acquitted far fewer than 10 percent of cases, so then is the role of defense attorney merely a formality? I pensively drew lines in the condensation on my Belgain beer glass as an articulate man explained his belief in justice and reconcilliation as separate processes.

From The Hague we journeyed to Amsterdam where I walked the canals with Simon, my buddy from Munich. I visited my favorite gallery, and constructed my own version of the FT’s “Perfect Weekend” column, a feat that included two pre-India McDonald's burgers eaten in about 1 minute.

Head and Heart

After visiting 17 countries across four continents in 2007, my new years resolution focused on far more personal and athletic goals than adventurous ones. Adventure is but one piece in a composite that for me approximates happiness. It is one piece that along with beauty, love, wisdom, and respect, creates an environment in which happiness can flourish. Man is assuredly defined by his choices, and not by his abilities. A desire for ability can infiltrate choice, and though my choices have remained adventurous, priorities that define choice are beginning to evolve away from my monolithic perspective.

I began my year with an intimate and powerful human spark, but my preordained choices revoked me from an immediate potential that my heart demands. Despite a love for adventure, the illuminating smile of a new friend indicted my priorities, and made me, in days, question the choices that have, for years, defined me.

At the time when my heart calls for California, my head has selfishly dictated alternate circumstance. The future thrusts its way through the present, an omnipotent but transient moment when the possibilities of the future become the memories of the past. I am resigned to the Stoic, in the classical sense, reality that I can only live the choice that I have created, which today, is another life in India.

As I departed California I was fortunate to have the companionship of great friends. The company we embrace makes the experiences we cull from life also the ones we cherish. Flanked by some of my best friends – Californian, German, Italian, Dutch – I spent 10 days en route to India, between Eindhoven, The Hague, Amsterdam, and Dublin.

Dhola Ri Dhani

Upon morning arrival from Bombay, I began my last week in Hyderabad. Tuesday evening our team had reservations for a Rajasthani-themed restaurant on the outskirts of town called Dhola ri Dhani. The restaurant featured not only camel rides, a Rajasthani puppet show, a magic show, and innumerable other attractions, but also choki-styled seating and traditional dinner. As expected, our team of six exhibited remarkable enthusiasm for the location. With child-like energy we bounded from one activity to the next, accompanied by a man in a dancing horse costume. The Rajasthani puppet show featured puppets juggling fire, and the magician promised to retrieve someone's ring from my nose. He gave me orders in only Hindi, so somehow the ring ended up in the middle of a tomato instead.

The choki-styled dinner is one in which you dine seated at a small table. Dinner requires not only that you manage spices well, but also that your knees can withstand a couple hours of awkward pillow repose aside a stunted table. For me the former was not a problem, but the latter left me limping to the sink to wash up. After rounds and rounds of food, raita and dal, sweets, kulchas and gobi and aloo (all veg), rice and curd, I managed to convince the waiter that 'Nai, nai' was not embarrassed courtesy masking hunger, but was bona fide, 'Do not give me any more food or I will wipe my curd-encrusted fingers all over your turban.'

We finished up the night with Gujarati hits (out of theme, of course) and a little post-meal dancing. After an impressive demonstration by one of the girls on our team, (a former Indian Idol finalist!), we packed up the cars and left Rajasthan.

Whirlwind Weekend

With the arrival of Anna on the sub-continent, we set off on a whirlwind India tour. Starting with dinner at Bukhara, the acclaimed 'Best restaurant in Asia,' and '50 Best Restaurants in the World,' our first day in Delhi was one for the books. Beginning with a 5AM airport arrival, we toured Delhi until 10PM. From the Qutb Minar to the Red Fort, National Museum, Rajpath, Old Delhi, we ravaged Delhi's tourist attractions in a successful effort to keep Anna awake. While we did make the mistake of walking the Rajpath from the Gate of India to the Secretariat in 45 degree C heat, this was imperative preparation for our upcoming stint in Udaipur, Rajasthan. When we had reached the Secretariat, having engaged in a nervous and jocular banter with two guards carrying machine guns, my mouth was parched and shirt soaked. An oppressive blanket of heat stifled every pore in my body, and I could feel the pulsing blood in the back of my neck. As even short distances began to present themselves as insurmountable obstacles, we decided to text Permeshwar, our Bihari driver, for more AC touring.

On Anna's second day we drove from Gurgaon to Agra to visit the Taj Mahal, and then we flew to Udaipur for the forts and palaces for which Rajasthan is famous. A Jet Airways flight full of Italians, and an hour later, we arrived in Udaipur. Upon arrival we were reminded by our taxi driver that Bond's 'Octopussy' was filmed at the Lake Palace, now a Taj Group hotel. Although we tried for drinks there, popularity means that prix fixe is now the only sky-high reservation option. We spent the day meandering through the serpentine streets, playing Lewis Hamilton with the cows and rickshaws that kept us alert.

Low season in Udaipur means high temperatures, but little traffic. We had a private tour of the Monsoon Palace, another gorgeous vista over the arid Aravalli Mountains. As we looked Westward, little obstructed our view toward Pakistan. We had lunch at the nearly deserted Devi Garh, a five-star palace hotel featured in my Bollywood favorite, Eklavya. While it was the preferred location for Liz Hurley's wedding, its intimate size precluded it from being a finalist. With JW Blue Label on rocks in hand, we took a tour of its offerings.

After two days in Rajasthan we set off for Bombay, and our last stop before I had to return to Hyderabad for my final week of work. Mumbai offered stark contrast, and as we flew down Marine Drive at sunset, looking at the glowing orb set over the Arabian Sea, illuminating the skyline of Malabar Point, nostalgia began to set in. We settled into our Churchgate hang-out, and walked Colaba for a night out with two Nariman friends in Indiana Jones-style, Leopold Cafe. After street-side paan, and snaps of betelnut faces, we headed for 'Not Just Jazz by the Bay,' a trendy establishment in Churchgate that, at 1am, offered pretty faces and unlocked doors.

At 5AM I jumped a taxi for a 7AM flight to Hyderabad. In a rattling suicide mission to the airport, my taxista got me from Churchgate to Bombay International in 15 minutes flat. It was the type of drive for which the flicker of headlights and horn suffice as warning for our intersection crossing. Brakes are not used. While I could have buckled-up in the back-seat, what good is it at 'Mach 2 with your hair on fire.'

Amritsar - Kes, Kangha, Kara, Kirpan and Kachcha

On Saturday our Air India flight touched down on the scorching runway of Amritsar, Punjab (and our landing gear did not fail)! When we arrived, we were met with heavily armed and bearded men on the tarmacadam, but an otherwise tranquil airport surrounded by languid construction. I say languid because in 48 degree C heat nothing moves fast. While Felipe stopped to smoke a cigarette at arrivals, we observed the slow unloading of bricks from a large truck, the half-constructed drive that was to facilitate taxi drop-offs, and were soon swarmed by the pre-pay taxi brethren. Upon arrival the crowd provoked my assumption -- Adam Smith's hand might work even in the Punjabi desert, and this means fair price -- but alas, all worked for one price-fixing pre-pay taxi monopoly that charged us an outrageous 450 Rs for a 5 minute drive to our hotel. With absolutely no alternative, scarcity was on their side, and not ours.

We arrived at La Cascade, a boutique hotel in Amritsar after a bumpy ride inside a non-AC Tata Indica. Passing turban-clad auto drivers, motorcycle enthusiasts, charrioteers on horseback with large bullock carts piled sky-high with everything, we made our way through the small city of 1 million plus. After a relaxing AC stint, fantastic lunch of border-style food served by a dapper gentleman with a dedicated mullet, we took an auto to the famed Golden Temple.

The Golden Temple is serenity in marble. Using the same Pietra Dura style of the Taj, with inlay marble designs, the Golden Temple is surrounded by a grand and shimmering pool, and white marble portico. Men and women with heads covered slowly shuffle bare-footed over the cool white marble, between you and the sparkle of the water. Bright and matching turbans punctuate the piercing white reflection of marble, water, and gold, and accent the flowing cotton that hangs toward the smooth marble walkway. Reds, blues, greens, pinks, intricately wrapped atop the heads of tall, bearded men with grand features, penetrating eyes, and aloof, friendly stares. Men who embody and espouse the Sikh panj kakke, or five symbols of faith, men with uncut hair (Kes), comb (Kangha), clinking steel bracelet (Kara), slung knife (Kirpan), and undergarmets (Kachcha) reverently glide by.

Many ask to snap pictures with us. I too ask a man and his young son to pose, showing them the magic of Panasonic in recreating the Golden Temple and them in miniature. Though the rectangular walk around the pool is small, we spend 2 hours in rotation, as prayers echo through the heavy hot Punjabi air. With my covering and beard, I trade my sunglasses for laughs with a few local kids who flip their collars for my film, grin and giggle, and demand nothing more than conversation.

From the Golden Temple we took a rattling Tata 30km to Wagh, the border between India and Pakistan. Over good roads, we drove at speeds that should have driven cool air into the cabin but at 116 degrees F, I had trouble keeping my eyes open. In the oppressive heat the glare of the sun was omnipresent, dry, and heavy, and I found my body beginning to shut down. Unconsciousness was closer than sleep, but there was little alternative. After an hour on the road, we arrived at the frenetic border area. Immediately accosted by flag, beer, food, and DVD vendors, we soon traded currency for refuge at the cost of 120 Rs and an overpriced, fly-encrusted 'Thunderbolt' Beer (only sold in Punjab). When the gate opened at 5pm, we were the first through.

The Wagh border ceremony occurs daily between Indian and Pakistani troops. Crowds gather on either side of a heavily fortified border, and military pomp and circumstance elicits innocuous, but nationalistic pride on either side. Chants of 'Hindustan' echo over the razor wire to the similarly-dressed, kurta-clad fans on the Pakistan side. The safron of the Indian flag unfurls in the wind before we sun dropping westward over Pakistan. And the green and white crescent of the Pakistani flag flutters before those who've made the trip from Lahore, capital of Punjabi Pakistan. After much trumpeting, chanting, stomping, marching, and stepping, the flags are lowered in tandem and folded, the border gates closed, and ceremony closed.

At dark we returned from Pakistan by road, a period that was reminiscent of driving in America not because of sanity so much as driving on the right side of the road. Our driver, in an attempt to pass every moving truck and bullock cart, every motorcycle and auto, every lingering animal and rival Indica, drove at least 75 percent of the drive home on the wrong side of the road. Regardless of oncoming traffic, a flicker of brights, honk, slight swerve, and nonchalant glance at the passengers sufficed for survival. In support of Darwin, we tipped him well upon hotel arrival.

And after a 90 rupee Punjabi Thali dinner at a local hole-in-the wall with bingo night, an outdoor stroll, and cycle-rickshaw home, we made rest for fantastic day two in Punjab.

Tandoor in Tollywood

Last Wednesday we were invited to a restaurant opening for 'Tandoor,' a nice new joint in the Hyderabad Lifestyles building. Upon entry, the flashbulbs were popping as they mistook us for the important guests. We shook hands with the owners, two friendly Punjabi men with bright turbans, flowing beards and clinking Kara, the iron bracelet that's symbolic of bondage to truth and freedom in the Sikh faith.

The scene was one out of Hollywood, or Tollywood, rather, as the glam and glitz crowd began to gather under the dim lights and lightly pumping music. The sparkle of glass, swish of fabrics, and the ever-important glazed eye stare as though one were looking for everyone and no one in the transitory moment of flashbulb bliss. We were amidst that languid mix, partaking in a night of free drinks and revelry, punjabi food, sitar and tabla, and self-important entertainment.

While they rolled out the red carpet for Tandoor in Tollywood, our photos didn't grace Page 3. Next time...

Priyanka to Punjab

While I was quick to exalt the glories of the Little B's new bride, Aishwariya Rai, I overlooked another Indian Miss World in Priyanka Chopra, the stunning Punjabi beauty. Last week I watched the Bollywood stunner, 'Don,' also reputed as the Matrix-reloaded-in-India Shah Rukh Kahn response to Ethan Hunt. While thrown for some laughs by Shah Rukh's one liners, I was also enraptured by the skillful martial arts of Priyanka Chopra. Upon reading that she's a former Punjabi Miss World, I decided a trip to Amritsar, Punjab was in order... well, only half kidding. I already had my tickets to Punjab, but Priyanka was added impetus.

On Friday, after a hilarious night out at a testosterone-heavy Hyderabadi joint, we boarded our 03:45 SpiceJet flight for Delhi. Due to allegedly bad weather, the flight was inevitably late, closing the ever narrow margin of time we had before we were to board our Air India flight for Amritsar. Once our two-hour window had shrunk to 25 minutes, and after meek apologies and mumblings by our half-conscious stewardess, we dashed from the plane with an impossible task. Delhi Airport, unlike any airport in the world, is disconnected from its international counterpart. And not only are they disconnected, there is no shuttle (or an infrequent one at best) that forces one to take a 15-minute pre-pay taxi to get to the other side of the airfield. Fun, sure, but not when your flight is departing in 25 minutes. We shoved our way into a taxi, demanded speed, and then stuffed a hundred rupee note into the complaining fingers of our driver when he demanded $10 for his trouble. To his indignant huff, my only laconic response was, 'We don't have time for this,' before our dash inside.

Once we'd entered Delhi International through the staff entrance, as it was closer and we were nearly maniacal at this 7AM point, the Air India counter for Amritsar was closed. This was a half-relief, as the last two Air India flights about which I've read have involved failed landing gears, but we were still on a mission, so safety came a close second to Priyanka. Shuttling between the counter and the back office, I audaciously cut in line. To the hypocritical holler of those aunties standing nearby, whose conception of 'Line' was dubious at best, I tried to apologize for SpiceJet's typical negligence, and eventually got a point across. Utilizing the magical approach of one in-front, one behind-counter, we managed to convince an automaton employee that the customer is always right. A non-existent flight materialized, we passed through customes and into a departure hall filled with flights to unlikely destinations like Kabul, and 30 minutes later we were boarding a Dubai-bound flight with a stop-over in Amritsar.

We were finally Priyanka, and Punjab, bound. And what we found was not only miss-world hot, but other-worldly hot.

Indian Futbol

Last week I stayed up all night to watch the Champions League semi-finals in India. Liverpool and AC Milan will again meet in the final, though this time Athens, and not Istanbul, will be host to the inevitable magic. Football is the global game, and I can attest to its veracity. I've juggled a ball with a beach-side Rastafarian in Jamaica, played pick-up at the base of Annapurna in Nepal (above), performed slide tackles on gravel roof-tops in Quito, played over a net in Brazil, inside a netted pitch in Italy, and on an imacculate court in Hong Kong. But I've not played in India.

If you consider India, you realize that football is really only 5/6 global, because 1.09 billion people in India do not play football, or if they do, they're not good at playing football. Since being in India I have seen football. All the EPL matches are broadcast and Champions League gets great coverage on Asian ESPN. But hardly any youth plays, and the pockets of passion seem few and far between. Goa and its Portuguese past is an enclave of football, and West Bengal, with Pele's brief '60s visit, has inspired a predominately Brazilian following. Kerala too has a smattering of futbolistas who I did see cristening some wet sand near Kovalam, but games are Spartan at best, and skill levels paltry. Although there is a domestic league, anecdotal evidence suggests that it's only minutely popular in those states listed above.

It's hard for me to imagine how a country of 1.1 B can't put 11 good players on a pitch, but it's true, and FIFA's Blatter had no qualms saying this in his recent visit to India. India is ranked 165 in FIFA global rankings, a dubious distinction that places them as ranking worse than St Lucia, Turkmenistan, and Andorra.

If you think of having a one-in-a-million athlete, India has 1100 of them, and they only need 11 footballers to create a winning roster. That means that they need one good player out of 100 million people. And this one person out of 100 million doesn't even need to be Kaka or Messi or Sevcenko or Drogba... just a player able to propell India to rank higher than Turkmenistan.

When India requested that FIFA revise its WC team allocation to include more from Asia the response was curt but frank (no, not the proper nouns). India and China can do a lot of things well, but putting the ball in the back of the net isn't yet one of them. When I want to watch the Champions League Final on May 23, it may be with some local friends. But when I want to kick the ball around, it'll be Felipe, my ex-pro Futsal buddy from Murinho's pre-Stamford Bridge home of Porto, Portugal.

Ruminating

Three weeks from today my Indian Airways flight will depart from Hyderabad for Bangkok. After a week in interim, between Cambodia and the beaches of Krabi and Samui, and the quick highlights of Seoul, Korea, I'll arrive back home in San Francisco, California. It's currently a mix of emotions, as my departure will mark a close to the time I lived in India. It will end an exciting and fascinating chapter in my peripatetic life abroad, and has broadened me infinitely.

Six months ago I did not know that I'd have the chance to live in India. Nor did I think I'd have to chance to visit 10 more countries, explore secular Turkey, travel solo through the Middle East, relax in the Maldives and trek in Nepal, bathe with elephants in Malaysia, and hopefully see the ancient ruins of Angkor Wat in Cambodia's Siam Reap. Life comes at you fast, but opportunities are not inspired by fortune; I firmly believe that they're the consequence of assiduity and resolve. In my final weeks in India, I'm trying to take a step back from my experiences and enjoy the day-to-day nuances of life here that make it different from my life in California. India cannot delude itself into yet thinking that lifestyle here is on par with that of other developed nations, but there are unequivocally pockets wherein you can find parallels.

I've undoubtedly lived a privileged life in India. Between 11 drivers and a 2000 sq ft marble-floored apartment, I realize that my daily life has been the furthest thing from ordinary. But it's hard to apply Western, or American, conceptions of luxury in a country where population, labor supply, and a generally low cost of living allow for formerly upper crust services to become simply above average. What I mean is that in India, even non-essential services are quite cheap because the demand for work is high. I saw an ad for a local Hyderabad apartment in which for under 4k Rs, (~$100) you could live in a furnished, all-amenities apartment fit with daily maid service. That standard cannot compute in the US. So while I accept, and sometimes deplore, our extreme privilege in India, it's not entirely accurate for me to judge my living standards with an American eye.

Many of my co-workers dine at the fanciest restaurants and call their favorite pub "Dublin," the posh underground bar at the ITC Sheraton. Granted they're IT wizzards who are doing well by local standards, but it's difficult to know exactly where to draw the line. There are discrepancies in certain prices, for example Hyderabad rent vs San Francisco rent, but flight costs are identical. So while local wages are based off the purchasing power parity of essentials like food and rent, there are certainly global disparities. The fact that I'm paid in dollars affords me certain relative privileges not shared by my Indian co-workers which are accentuated in certain spheres, such as travel, when no alternative exists. An Emirates flight to Dubai costs the same despite the currency of the salary. And that flight is cheaper to a Brit, and cheaper still to the Maltese.

Reflecting on this allows me to understand, if still feel indignant from, specifically "foreigner costs". Ecuador does it terribly with flight costs to the Galapagos Islands. It's less extreme in India, but a 1000 percent mark up for a white face is common. Charminar in Hyderabad, but one example, charges 10 Rs and 100 Rs depending on skin color. Despite my beard and floundering Hindi, I can't escape the "foreigner tax."

Some of these ponderous situations require introspection for which words do little justice. I should pay more, but yet I don't feel as though it's fair or right. And while I'm happily willing to donate, and likely would, I'm indignant at the fact that the color of my skin demands a higher price, especially despite my local status, burgeoning knowledge of Hindi, and growing appreciation of India's rich diversity. It's the typical, 'I'm not a tourist, so don't treat me like one,' mentality. But at root, I am a tourist, I am paid in dollars, so wihle it's "unfair," it's probably "right."

Sherwani Fingers

During my last weeks in Hyderabad, I’ve tried to take in as much as possible. Last Sunday was my day to don the Sherwani at my friend, Mandar’s, wedding reception. After a brief Saturday Maharashtran ceremony, we met up Sunday for some snaps with the couple, mingling, and banquet hall dinner. It was a fantastic night full of laughs, as friends from office came in jeans and polos while I dressed to the nines in traditional garb. Though I lacked the curl-toed shoes fit for Sherwani, my traded sandals with Sayeed, our driver, accented my attire, and saved me from the brunt of the jokes.

My one frustration for the night stemmed from the inevitable trauma that standing and eating creates. It’s worse in India, because not only are you standing and eating, but also it’s hot, and you’re eating with your hands. Sure, by using your hands you avoid those awkward fork-knife moments when gravity and dexterity demand the need for more hands, and there’s that unfortunate reality that one must hold the plate. But then there’s the added problem of sullied fingers… dal and rice in the nails, butter paratha smeared on the knuckles… and the non-existence of napkins! Oh no, I thought, in my internal Jerry Seinfeld voice, what am I to do? I had just finished dinner and conversation, was asked for a photo with a few new arrivals, and went briskly for a napkin. None to be found… and what with the plates, you might ask? Yes, I thought of that too. But the napkins were maliciously stacked in with the plates in an alternating color-coded pattern, white plates and yellow napkins, and all napkins from the top had been swiped. Think, think…

Now only napkins 15 plates deep still protruded their angular corners from beneath the circular rims of heavy porceline. I tried for one, but after a moment of slippery fingers sliding over the napkin, dripping delectable masala from their tips over the pristine white plates that would serve others, I cringed in embarrasment. Now what? Smiles, the offer to shake my hand… 'I’m sorry, one second.' All at once I was struck with an epiphany – my pants! Of course - beneath the side of my Sherwani lay a slit up to the thigh, and beneath, the textured cotton of my pijama that knows its place as substitute. With a deft and furtive swipe amidst askance onlookers, I made my move and shuffled the painted fingers over cotton, front and back. At long last, I was free… free of the dal makhani and murgh malai that had encrusted my right hand.

In a moment of triumph I almost called out, beckoning the curries. In perhaps my greatest challenge in India, I had prevailed. I had escaped the impossibility of the napkinless moment when my fingers became my nightmare.

Living on all Sides

I started my Saturday morning with the Times of India and a Kenyan coffee at Cafe Coffee Day. While not as posh as Barista, it's an Indian version of Starbucks that offers a cosmopolitan touch to any morning. From behind tall windows I sat inside over a frothy mug, staring out at the busy street ahead. Tall buildings and billboards surround, and only upon lowering one's gaze does one see the manifold rickshaws and passers by who betray the fact that I'm still in India. From the menu I cannot tell, but from the prices, it's apparent that we're not in Kansas anymore... ok, maybe Kansas.

Pockets of developed middle-class life exist in India for sure, but it's still pockets. In watching Guru, a recent Bollywood hit, this weekend, I see these pockets exemplified and magnified. Perhaps for few, but not for many. The Bollywood sets do bring India to life to the tune of a snappy beat and to the scene of a beautiful gyrating human, but it's India in a vacuum. I would never argue that Hollywood exemplifies realism in America, but I do think that more Americans can draw parallels and empathize with Hollywood storylines. The dichotomy between the average American life and the Hollywood movie life, and the average Indian life and the Bollywood movie life, is in my opinion, larger in the latter. But that's my opinion after 4 months and movies...

It's interesting to me because even after over four months in India, after two hours of watching Guru, beautiful Aishwarya Rai whirling under a Karnatakan waterfall, and second-class sleeper train Bollywood sets, I forgot that India has immense development challenges ahead. The Bollywood set glazed over poverty with a little make-up, avoided sanitation issues by showing Aishwarya plowing a pristine field in the rain, and convinced me that even a second-class sleeper car could be fun... with a soft 40-watt glow, bobbing beauties, and a bit of hay tossed on the floor for that agrarian touch, I had an idyllic longing to be stuck in close-quarters for an overnight journey... with Miss World Rai.

As I spent Saturday afternoon plowing through the Charminar crowds of central Hyderabad, surrounded by poverty, extreme population density, unsanitation, and the gamut of street animal life, I can only hope that my perception of Hollywood is less obfuscated by American idealism than Bollywood's is for India.

After shopping for glass bangles, and removing my shirt in-shop for a free Rajasthani block printing lesson in Charminar, we retired for dinner and later for drinks. As we paid the 1200 INR ($28) cover for Ahala, a posh Hyderabadi club, I looked around the linens and skirts that fluttered under the strobe light and undulated to the pulsing music. The pocket is undeniable, but in a city of 5 million, it's hard to imagine that many more people than were in the room could have afforded to be in the room. When we exited we got a hug and hello from a messy-haired guy in a Monaco Grand Prix t-shirt. Turns out he's a movie director. I guess if this is the life you live, the Bollywood set don't look all that inaccurate.

Extreme India

India offers, like most large countries, a diverse topography. From the dry Deccan plateau in the south, hemmed in by the Western and Eastern Ghats and sub-tropical southern lowlands... to the Gangetic plane in the North, spanning across Uttar Pradesh... to the tea plantations of Darjeeling, Scotish highlands of Shillong in the far North East... to the Himalayan hill stations in Himanchal and Kashmir in the Northwest, to the arid deserts of Rajasthan in the far West... it's diverse. Many of my Indian co-workers see it as unparalled in scope, but this is myopic, for America, even Ecuador, have impressed me with equal diversity. In truth, topography is never, or rarely, distinct. But one trip abroad will prove this.

In the last few weeks, I've experienced extremes of India. I participated in a Rajasthani pilgramage to Amer Fort outside Jaipur in the sweltering, parched heat of the desert, and two weeks later was admitted alongside sadhus into a South Indian temple for the solar new year in Tamil Nadu. Both locations meant friendly inquiries, crowds, heat, beauty and squalor. The walkway up to the Amer Fort in Rajasthan was lined with beggars of every deformity, in the worst states of penury. With an arbitrary flip of a coin, the sari-clad women ahead of me would pass unsentimentally to the top. My throat was clenched, and my coins were not enough. The futility, the sadness, the reality of life, the stoicism, the shallow feeling of support, the coyness of philanthropy, it was frustrating.

Two weeks later, on the road between Trivandrum, capital of Kerala, and Kanyakumari, the southern-most tip of the sub-continent, I stopped off at famous temple. I was traveling alone, and hired a car for the day, as the bus schedule would not permit for my hasty Hyderabad return. My driver, a worshiper of Devi -- an incarnation of Parvati, wife of Shiva, (yea, it's complicated) -- was pretty excited to be headed to Kanyakumari. It's not only the tip of India, but it's also a sacred Devi city, and the location of Vivekanandra's famous meditation and spiritual epiphany. And Sunday was a festival day.

So after roadside puja for the Devi idol on the dash, we stopped at a Tamil Nadu temple. At 7am I was admitted to the temple despite the fact that I'm non-Hindu, a rare event. Without a shirt or shoes (though not in mandatory dhoti or sari), I was allowed inside in Hawaiian-bought O'Neil boardshorts. I was the only foreigner, and stood alongside sadhus and other worshipers as we passed through the darkened, damp, stone passageways which were lit mainly by oil lamps. There were men chiming bells, many colorful women crowded around idols, waiting patiently to catch a glimpse of an elusive golden statue comprised of Brahma, Vishnu & Shiva, and shuffling past me with eyes fixed. Toward the end of my time in temple we encountered the hoisting of a Devi, Shakti or goddess, and Nandi Bull, carrier of Shiva, statue by a dozen skinny-armed, dhoti-clad men. Amidst candles and chanting, under the cool canopy of stone that encapsulated us in time and moment, the men hoisted the statues above their heads for a Tamil Nadu solar new year procession. It was truly exceptional.

We continued onto Kanyakumari, where I was taken in by a local Karnatakan family who escorted me around the Vivekanandra temple and monument. I survived the over-cramped barge ride to the island thanks to the reassuring grip on my bicep from my host-father. He did not speak English, but would nod and smile, and held both his 14 year old son, and my arm as he guided us onto the undulating barge.

Boarding anything in India is sheer chaos. The transportation is invariably moving, and single-file "lines" are notoriously wide and convergant. Once aboard, I was given a seat and a history lesson. The exciting thing about traveling solo in India is that you're never alone. My cricket jersey prompted innumerable questions about whether I was affiliated with the BICC, and my beard meant half the time the hello was in Arabic. Salaam Alaykum. At all times I was surrounded by five people asking where I was from, if I was married, and how I reacted to the spicy food. California, not married, food no problem. Same same. Sunglasses prove refuge from eye contact and engagement, and I found myself wearing them more to secure moments of solitude amidst the inquisitive but friendly crowds.

India's diversity allows a panoply of experience, sometimes extreme, trying, always fascinating, and invariably expanding.

Operation "Malaysia"

Over the long Easter weekend I was able to rally three others for a trip to Malaysia and the Petronas Grand Prix Formula 1 race at the Sepang Circuit. I'm not an F1 afficionado, but I firmly believe in coupling experience with exotic location. We did international cricket in Chennai, and a horse derby in Mumbai. If you're going to ride a camel it should be in Dubai. If you're wanting to ride an elephant and see F1, why not Malaysia?

Upon Friday arrival from Hyderabad via Chennai (Anna International Airport), we checked into the swish Mandarin Oriental at around 7am. Upon arrival we knew we were in for a weekend, as aside from innumerable Travel & Leisure awards, the lobby was adorned with the F1 Ferrari pit crew. I say adorned because an F1 entourage is comprised of more than just drivers and mechanics. Let's just say Ferrari isn't the only *model.

Our Petronas Tower suite was pretty sweet, and our 21st floor vista put us 20 under the double-decker skybridge that made 'Entrapment' more than just another Catherine Zeta-Jones film. We spent Friday meandering the city, snacking on dubious roast duck in a dingy streetside eatery, pondering the notorious Durian and its unfortunate smell. After Chinatown, we survived the scorching equatorial heat by absconding to the shaded park where the national mosque and butterfly farm were kept. And following a poolside evening, mojito in hand, watching the sun set over a James Bond infinity pool and South Asian skyline, we dined at a hard-to-find, but exceptional, restaurant.

Our concierge at the Mandarin, a man who not only remembered all our names, but our room number and preferences, recommended the Gulai House. A former mansion used to house visiting heads of state, when we arrived we realized that we were the only table. Dining with a wait-staff of half a dozen on an immaculate jungle-fringed, white-pillared veranda, we thought of our fortunate circumstances. As thunderclaps and gray rain clouds obscured the moon and bats circled above, there was an eerie perfection about our grand solitude and privileged night. But a car was called, and we returned to the Mandarin for our next adventure...

On Saturday we journeyed north two states to an elephant sanctuary called Kuala Ganda for relocated elephants. Surprised by the immaculate and streamlined Malaysian infrastructure, we were able to cruise at nearly 180 kph, autobahn-style. When we arrived, after feeding the elephants by handing them chopped bananas, cucumbers (which most did not enjoy), and watermelons, we rode elephants bare-back until it was time for them to bathe. With half a score of baby elephants only 2-3 feet tall, we splashed around in a muddy-banked Malaysian jungle river. Their vibrant energy, loud playful shouts and trunk waving induced euphoria in the cool water. Hairy-backed, big-eyed, and clumsily independent, the elephants were truly endearing. After an hour in the water, and half a day at the sanctuary, it was time to return to Kuala Lumpur (Kuala=river, Lumpur=muddy, this name in reference to its former history as a mining town, primarily for tin). Upon return to KL we unsuccessfully attempted to enter a VIP BMW F1 party. Given our elephanty smell and disheveled appearance, our surprise was that we were not ejected sooner!

On Sunday we made our way from the Mandarin to the Sepang Circuit, the F1 course 50km south of KL. Via subway, train, bus, taxi, running, and bus, we made our way to the race. The incredible infrastructure of KL proved itself again with enabled remote check-in for Malaysian Airlines from the train station, 12 hours pre-flight and 50km from the physical airport. Not to worry, we got our seat assignments, boarding passes, and confidently checked our bags before watching BBC and seeing Google news on the speeding bullet train to the airport. Coming from India, the word novelty is a relative understatement. Once to Sepang the traffic was appalling. A bus and taxi proved ineffective so we ran for it, 2km down a sweltering freeway through bumper-to-bumper traffic. At the checkpoint, the impetus for chaos, a cop asked us how we'd arrived. When we stated we'd ran, he smiled and said 'Welcome to Malaysia,' a funny line at the time given that his response indicated that he thought we'd literally run from abroad.

We eventually arrived at the Sepang Circuit about 20 laps into the 56. The audible buzz of cars signaled our arrival before sight could confirm affirmatively. We mounted the hill station that was our uncovered 40 ringit seat ($13), and endured the heat that was 56 degrees C' on the track. I'm not quite sure how we survived, but we managed to track Alonso and his McLaren car to the checkered flag, and enjoy our debut with the global F1 craze.

Next year, Monaco.

Indian Work Bash

Whereas in the States a corporate party will yield sparse turnout, terse small talk, jaded mumblings about office goings-on, and on the whole, the material that served as muse to Scott Adams and the director of Office Space, in India it's quite the contrary... at least at my job. Weekend offsites and team building camps are known to inspire 100 percent turnout, even when they spill over into other holidays. A going away party last week that ran late into the night proved no different.

After renting a local hotel space, and convincing (with little effort) 100 percent turnout, general revelry ensued. While we initially presented gifts to our departing manager in the form of framed pictures, books, a t-shirt, a 7 minute video produced by a teammate, the night soon devolved into a jack-of-all-trades variety show. The mike was passed, and no one could escape the eyes of 25 co-workers fixated on you as you had your limelight. Even those cowering in brightly colored saris could not escape the inevitable move of the mike, and one girl was literally forced into Kashmiri song.

I decided to make the most of my moment, as hesitation merely signalled weakness but offered little escape, engaging the rest of the group into chanting and clapping while I did my favorite Bollywood dance to the beat of Dhoom 2, a catchy number from a recent Little B (Bachchan) film. Others were far more cultured. Although we heard a less than PC impression of an American President, we also heard songs and dances from Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Maharashtra, Karnataka, Kashmir, and Manipur. It was a fascinating look at the diversity of India. On my team of 25 we had six states represented in song, dance, and language.

Following a plate of Indian grub, more Bollywood dancing and multilingual songs, we took off for the night. Although this picture is completely unrelated, it's my good friend Arjun fondling his precious Luminary Award, offering at my request, lines from Lord of the Rings. As he speaks 15 languages fluently (including Swedish, Tamil & Swahili), he's lucky I don't ask but in English. Arjun is not only my cube-mate, but his namesake is the historical hero of the Mahabarata, the fabled archer who faces moral dilemma. I'm fortunate to still have my thumbs (see Eklavya).