Question and Answer Travel Summary

Here is a list of questions and answers which kind of summarise our experiences, for good or ill.

1. Number of times Tam was mistaken for a Russian: 6 (India)
2. Number of times Dylan got mistaken for a Kiwi: 3 (it was the leaf-print hat)
3. Most recommended destination: How could we not say Bhutan?
4. Most used foreign phrase: "Chelo" (get out of the way, go away) and "Dost" (friend) (both in India)
5. Most sought-after dish: Cheese momos
6. Favourite drink: Pocari Sweat (electrolyte drink) and lemon, honey and ginger tea without the ginger
7. Most enjoyable activity: Riding Royal Enfield in Darjeeling (Dylan), seeing Orang Hutans (Tam), sledging concrete walls (both)
8. Worst journey: Train delayed by 9 hours and waiting at Indian rat-infested train station 7pm until 4am.
9. Number of rats at rat-infested train station: 87. Just kidding, I didn't really count them.
10. Dodgiest transport: 3 hour trip in a public van with our bags on the roof (not tied) which slid back and forth whenever the van swerved.
11. Weirdest person met on our travels: A man called Rajiv, who claimed he foresaw our meeting in a dream and that he had been born more English than Indian.
12. Most intense experience: Michael Jackson fan, oh and self-flagellating Muslims
13. Most mosquito bites at once: 12
14. Best hotel stayed in: A woodfire cabin in Bumthang, Bhutan
15. Dylan's favourite confectionary: Dinos-X bubblegum and candy Marlboros
16. Tam's favourite cake shop: Darjeeling Cakery
17. Dylan's favourite Indonesian phrase to bug the locals: "Berenang tanpa pakaian, ya?" (I swim without clothes, yes?)
18. Pushiest salesmen found: Agra, India (at the Taj Mahal)
19. Countries we visited that we didn't ride a motorbike in: Bhutan (we drove a car instead)
20. Cutest animal seen: Toss up between baby elephants and baby Orang Hutans
21. Most value for money item purchased: Ear warmers (AUD$3) and "shonky" TVPhones (imitation iPhones) for $120 each.
22. Worst pop song listened to: "Shining like a setting sun, like a pearl upon the ocean, come and feel me, come and feel me" (India)
23. New skills Tam learnt from Dylan whilst travelling: Skimming stones (Bhutan) and blowing bubbles with gum (India)

Quake, Rattle and Roll

For the past 2 weeks, we have been volunteering for Hands On Disaster Response in Sungai Geringging in the Padang/Pariaman district of west Sumatra. In 2009, Sumatra suffered an earthquake measuring 7.6 on the Richter scale, killing 1,115 people. An estimated 250,000 families (1,250,000 people) have been affected by the earthquake through the total or partial loss of their homes and livelihoods. Hands On is a secular NGO out of the states, working on deconstructing unsafe houses and building transition shelters for those with no homes.

The group of about 45 volunteers at Hands On consists of altruistic thrill-seekers, disaster junkies, tattooed hippies and general do-gooders. While many wont admit an addiction to chasing Mother Nature's little accidents, some will at least concede to "itchy feet" and the odd volunteer will even proudly confess his fetish for dangerous and uncomfortable situations.

Not surprisingly then, the recent act of God in Haiti has left many volunteers with restless leg syndrome. Although Hands On has a commitment to Indonesia until the end of April, the thought of freshly settled dust and scenes reminiscent of Dresden 1945 spark something deep in their reptilian brains. Freshly squeezed adrenaline into their cerebral machinery oils the cogs of catastrophe and fuels the lust for bedlam.

The group of volunteers is divided into teams which go to different sites and perform different duties. Early on, Dylan and I got on a Decon(struction) team for two days and had the satisfying job of tearing a damaged house apart (safely). First we assessed the structure and decided to work towards a "pull" which involves other groups of volunteers coming to the site from other jobs and pulling the house over with ropes. It took us one and a half days of work to get to the point of the pull, because we had to sledge walls, pull out door and window frames and remove part of the drop ceiling. While bashing out bricks, we had to put several supports in place to ascertain that the structure did not collapse prematurely. In the end, the pull came off perfectly and much easier than expected (we barely had to tug on the ropes and the whole thing fell over).

On the salvage team, our team leader Niel set a grueling pace. The work was hard and fast and sometimes it was a struggle to keep up. One morning, for four hours, I shoveled a mixture of broken bricks, concrete and rubble into wheelbarrows and dumped the detritus into massive piles beside what was once the house. This work left me completely fagged and drenched in sweat and covered in dust. Most houses are build with bricks or cricket-ball sized river rocks which all need to be chipped from the mortar and heaped in separate piles. From our understanding, the project has salvaged around 50 houses and plans to do a hundred more. Once the rubble is cleared, there is a clean foundation for the family to rebuild upon using the salvaged building materials.

Depending on the climate at the time and how much torrential downpour is happening, we get about four water breaks, lasting about 10 minutes each. The temperature can swing like a jazz musician, dropping about 10 degrees from an angry biting 30 degrees Celsius down to cool overcast and breezy conditions. Tam and I were on salvage teams for the majority of the time volunteering and unfortunately we did not get a chance to try pre-fabrication (cutting and chiseling wood) or framing (actually building the skeleton structure).

Repeated encounters with sizable spiders and scorpions whilst clearing piles of rubble in demolished houses has helped Tam to reduce her instinctive reactions from screams to mild squeaks and squeals. Impressive as this habituation is to members of potentially the earth's most dangerous Class (Arachnida), she is yet unable to stifle the fear aroused by coming face-to-face with the gentle tree frog. She can now handle a decent variety of spiders, centipedes, cockroaches, millipedes and grasshoppers but will still jump three feet when I hand her a frog.

Transition shelters are wood frames and concrete and fencing wire walls, built to last the two years, which is the expected time it will take the family to save enough money for a new house. However, we think the occupants will likely be in the house as long as they can, possibly over 10 years.

After another team had built the skeleton structure of the new T-shelter, we went to the site to render the concrete walls. Form boards were nailed on the outside of the house over a layer of chicken wire, thus providing a firm textured substratum onto which we packed a substance which is called in this business, mud. To be specific, mud is five parts sifted river sand and one part concrete mixed with water. We smeared the stuff on the wall with trowels in two layers, the second coat requiring a smooth, professional finish. Dylan and I, being the professionals that we are, picked up the technique on the first day and had a great time.

The short stay at Hands On allowed us to thoroughly enjoy the food without becoming overwhelmed by its lack of variety, like a lot of the long-termers who look forward to weekends away at Pizza Hut*. A standard lunch or dinner (breakfast was cereal or toast) consisted of steamed rice (very occasionally noodles), fried onion and potato balls, tofu (or if we were lucky, tempe), leafy vegetable from the back of the house, a spicy meat or tofu curry and a fried egg for vegetarians. I often avoided the curry as one mouthful of the sauce would cause one's tastebuds to recoil in horror and one to breakout in a fever-like sweat. In 30 degree heat and 80% humidity, I was sweating enough on my own.
* I was baffled by the power of everyone's attraction to Pizza Hut, recalling only sufficiently decent food on previous visits in Australia. Then Tam took me to one in Medan, Sumatra. The Indonesian culinary imagination is a bizarre and outlandish warp of fantasies not stifled by Western expectations. The final product is a surprisingly pleasing one, both aesthetically and gustatorily.

During the hours of boredom that followed a hard days work, some volunteers took a fire poi "monkeyfist" ball of bound rope the size of a cricket ball and started playing catch with it whilst wearing leather gloves. The ball was firstly soaked for several minutes in kerosene and then set alight. This not satisfying some people, the game of catch eventually developed into a sport, simply known as "the game". This undertaking had gameplay akin to Ultimate Frisbee and a lack of contact rules that would make even the National Rugby League cringe in horror. Reminiscent of Neanderthals fighting over the last bone, the scene is one of eight sweaty, muddy, half-naked, beer-soaked brutes grappling in the dark after a flaming ball. The real skill comes from field/player awareness, ie., knowing where every player is at all times. When you are passed this conflagrant ball of Teflon, it is impossible to see anything but a face full of fire. It is therefore essential that one relies on calls from teammates (see below for video footage). To attest to the brutality of the sport, during my last game, I sustained three decent injuries in ten minutes. I am still nursing swollen wounds which feel like a cracked rib and a dislocated finger and toe.

We both enjoyed our volunteering experience very much. It was interesting to be involved in a project at the coal-face and see how things functioned. It also gave me (Tamara) a new appreciation of manual labourers. Our stay did not feel long enough and we would have liked to hang around longer and see the expansion of future projects, such as developing first aid and earthquake awareness programs and building a new school. It also wasnt long enough to get to know everyone well enough and those we did get to know well, were left too soon. The basic conditions and living in close proximity with 45 people was a challenge. However, we recommend that an experience like this one is worthwhile and easy to get into. A good thing about Hands On is that it focuses on the community's needs rather than the volunteer's experience and monetary contributions. We were impressed with the efficiency and dedication of all volunteers at Sungai Geringging. We both enjoyed doing some hard physical work for a change, getting fit and toned. We felt healthy, sweating away in the fresh (albeit humid) air of the jungle.

The Venerable Island

Day 1. (click on map for larger view)

Tam and I arrived in Sri Lanka (literally "venerable island") after about 3 weeks of intense India. We were both exhausted and looking forward to seeing our friend and taking it easy for a while. We arrived at the airport at 3am and got taken to a hotel in Negombo called "Hotel Fish and Chips". Daily maximum temperatures of around 31°C and humidity levels of 80% were in stark contrast to the Delhi climate we had just come from, wrapped in wool and fleece. It took a couple of days to acclimatise but a swim at the beach soon got us in the island mood. The waters of the Indian ocean were a fantastic temperature and were not as salty as in Australia.

On the first day we discovered something very attractive about Sri Lanka (maybe only I did...). We were driving with our friends when suddenly we heard a series of rapid, very loud bangs. We looked to see a man standing beside exploding dust and fire, looking in child-like wonder and very pleased with himself. I knew that look well and I also knew that sound. Fireworks! "Where do I get some?" I asked immediately and was told that fireworks were legal in Sri Lanka and available to buy from most "milk bars". Hot damn! The next day we procured a swag of pyrotechnics for our trip north for the giddy price of about $4.

Mosquitoes are thick here in Sri Lanka. Thankfully the hotel we are staying at in Negombo has a large mosquito net (I also carry one) which keeps them at bay while we sleep. By the time we get up however, they've whipped themselves into such a frenzy smelling our sweet exotic blood, that the moment we step out from under the net we are assaulted and bled dry from every patch of bare skin they can get there proboscises into.

Sri Lankans seem to love Australians despite suspicions that we prefer to give Tamil people visas over Sinhalese. Everyone is happy the conflict is over and the situation is reportedly calm all over the island. There are theories that another Tamil leader will just replace the last one, but for now it seems this island paradise is as it should be. As Negombo was described as "the little Rome" by a local Catholic, we were both surprised to find out that the islanders are mostly Buddhist (69.1%) while the rest of the population follows: Islam - 7.6%; Hinduism - 7.1%; Christianity - 6.2%; Other - 10%.
Here the local kids are in full swing of the Sri Lanka, Bangladesh and India cricket series, playing on every flat patch of earth 20 metres long they can find (although sometimes not even that).

Day 2. Fish-heads and explorations

We woke early the second morning (5am) to visit the local fish market with our friend Rohan. Riding to the market on the motorbikes, we smelt the fish before we even saw a fishing boat. The piscine stench hung heavy for miles. As we rode through the narrow street of the market, dodging shouting fishermen and locals looking for a fresh bargain, the smell got stronger. The fish market was located inland a small distance from the mouth of the river on a lagoon littered with fishing boats of all sizes. The most commonly found large "fishes" were tuna, sharks and stingrays although Sri Lankans appear to catch and eat pretty much anything. Mercilfully there are three exclusions; sea-turtles, whales and dolphins.

Rohan's family are fisher folk. After perusing the local catches of the week, his uncle took us on his boat for a closer look at the life of a Sri Lankan fisherman at sea. The main cabin was small with 2 bunk beds against the wall on each side which slept four of the crew while one kept vigil. The boat was shepherded through the long nights at sea by the large ivory compass and the little plastic figure of Jesus Christ on the dashboard. The kitchen was extremely cramped and in order to cook food the chef had to squat down, which he did while we watched in order to bail out the several inches of water around his feet. I thought I would add this lifestyle to my international "day in the life" documentary I thought of making one day, along with other vocations such as a Bhutanese potato farmer and an Indian cycle rickshaw wallah.

We hired another motorbike, a Honda 250 cc this time, and after the fish market we bought the fireworks and aimed the bike north, up the west coast of Sri Lanka (see map). It had nothing on the "Bullet" but it sufficed to scratch the itch we both had of tearing up bitumen in a new unknown place. I had it in mind to find somenice swimming beaches near Puttalam lagoon but I had forgotten to check prior to departure and our mission was unsuccessful. However, we did have a great time - free to roam where we liked, stopping in at random cafes for tea and cake whenever we pleased.

That evening we set off our fireworks on a quiet beach. It was a little windy for the rockets, however crackers are good kick when and wherever you happen to light them. After several explosions, a local from a nearby group stood up, walked closer to us and let off a rocket. He then rolled his shoulders back and bared his teeth in a primitive ape-like challenge. The next cracker I threw landed only several metres from the group, making them all jump and then laugh.

Day 3. Hot holy matrimony
The third day was to mark the holy matrimony of our friend Rohan and his fiancee Nishanthi. Our reason for going to Sri Lanka is that Tamara's friend Rohan was getting married. Rohan came to Australia around 9 years ago as a refugee and now has permanent residency. He was getting married to Nishanti, a Sri Lankan woman from near his village, and plans to bring her to Australia to live. It was a great honour for us to attend their wedding, meet their relatives and friends and see the place where Rohan comes from. Most of the wedding guests could not speak English but we still managed to converse in smiles and emphatic gestures. The Catholic tradition in Sri Lanka is for the wedding to take place over 2 days. On Saturday we went to Rohan's house at noon and got dressed up. His sisters helped me dress in a Sri Lankan-style sari and Dylan wore a long-sleeved shirt and dark pants. At 2pm relatives came to pray with Rohan and take part in the tea table ceremony where the groom and guests ate sweets that the family had prepared earlier. We then went in buses to the church of the bride's family, and the marriage ceremony started at about 4pm. We were sweating faster than we could replace fluids but the large Catholic church had fans which made the afternoon bearable. The entire ceremony was in Sinhalese so the only words we understood were the bride and groom's names and the odd "Jesus". After giving well wishes to the new married couple and taking many photos, the guests went back to their houses. Rohan and Nishanti had a one-night honeymoon together in a hotel, before another exhausting day for them on Sunday of taking wedding photographs in many different locations.

Day 4. Run in with police and the wedding party
Tam and I took another run down the coast, this time to the island's capital Colombo. We kept off the main roads and as close to the coast as possible. The ride down was lovely, zooming along through palm-shaded villages, waving to locals and grinning at children.
The large coastal area of Colombo is assigned to shipping import and export and a good 500m of shoreline is walled off from the city for several kilometres. The traffic was crazybut quite manageable after riding in Yogyakarta. The city has a very nice large lake, spotted with pedal-boats and hemmed by trees. On our way there, I tried to keep out of the way of a bus by speeding up in front of it down a hill. As we did, we passed a police post on the left and a policeman waved us down. He told us that we were speeding dangerously (which we werent) but this appeared to be news to his partner who appeared to disagree until he was told otherwise. Once it was settled that we were speeding he requested my license. I gave him my South Australian drivers license knowing full well that we needed a Sri Lankan license or an international license. He told us sternly that the fine was 3000 Rupees (about AUD$30). After I paid him we were all friends and were even given helpful directions to a nearby resturant. Nothing was taken down or filled out, so we drove off leaving them to no doubt divvy up and pocket our money.

On Sunday night there was a wedding reception at a hotel near the beach. As the bride and groom were arriving, Rohan's brother stopped the car they were travelling in and brought out a decorated bicycle. Rohan had to pedal it with Nishanti on the back to the door of the hotel ( while Dylan and some of the other guys made loud bangs with firecrackers). It was a fun night of drinking, eating, dancing and listening to bad (in our opinion) music. There were also some interesting hip-hop dances performed by local teenage girls in Rohan's village.

Day 5. I like Kandy
Tam and I were slow to start after the night of drinking and dancing. The climate had parched our brains and left us sucking the moisture from the empty bottles of mineral water that littered the hotel room. After breakfast and sending postcards, we set off west. 20 km out of Negombo and buildings gave way to palm trees and the road started to slightly incline. Another five and we were surrounded by hills and huts. Kandy is 465 metres above sea level, very scenic but also very busy. We arrived late so we just found a hotel and some dinner in town.

Day 6.
The next day we left early for Pittawana, home of the elephant orphanage. We bought tickets and the last bottle of milk and headed into the zoo-like compound. Two baby-elephants were tethered under a large shelter until feeding at which time Tam held the one litre bottle of milk and the baby's trunk as it sucked the milk down in about 3 seconds flat. The orphanage also housed a herd of about 40 elephants, young and old.

At night on my birthday, Rohan and his family bought heaps of fireworks and we had a great time running around setting off crackers and letting off rockets from our hands.

Bodhi Trees, Kite-flying and Mausoleums

After 26 hours of travelling and squishing up to many different types of talkative Indians, we arrived in Bodh Gaya. Bodh Gaya has quite a distinct feeling given to it by its people - Buddhist devotees from all over the world, desperate beggars and a few wise old monks that rise above it all. The area surrounding the Bodhi tree is quite inspiring, with a lotus pond, meditation park, golden prayer wheels, fairy lights, and lawns within which people do prostrations and listen to teachings. The Bodhi tree (or its descendant) stands at the centre at the point where the Buddha reached enlightenment in the 6thC B.C. Bodh Gaya also has many contrasting styles of temples representing Buddhist populations in different countries including Tibet, Bhutan and Japan. Since we were in Bodhgaya for a couple of days we checked some of these out as well as Buddha's meditation cave and the Mayabodhi. The place was particularly busy at the time we visited because of the Monlam Chenmo festival and the Dalai Lama's visit coming up. We had some interesting experiences in Gaya as Dylan outlined in a previous email, but the most surreal experience for me was meeting our rickshaw driver's eight sisters-in-law and getting an individual photo taken with each by their mother!

We took a bus and arrived in Sarnath at 3am on a foggy street corner. Our companions in the bus kept sleeping, waiting for a temple to open at 6am so they could complete their pooja (pilgrimage). It took us a couple of hours to work out that we had arrived at the right destination. Then we found a guesthouse and slept until afternoon. Sarnath's claim to fame is a deerpark in which the Buddha gave his first teaching. We visited this and headed to Varanasi the next day.

Varanasi is a vast sprawling city and the area in which we stayed comprised of endless labyrinthine alleys and side-streets in the old market. By using commonly known keywords like "main road" and hotels out of lonely planet (which most locals seemed to know), we were able to navigate relatively successfully. Silk-wallahs and craftsmen beset us on all sides as we took the air of Varanasi. We soon stopped doing that though, as the streets were a foot-deep in cow manure. For as many cows on the ground, there were kites in the sky. Both young and old (possibly even more old than young) were honing their skills for the upcoming kite-festival on January the 14th. As we strolled along beside Mother Ganga, we were enjoying watching local kids play a game of cricket, as a corpse crackled and popped on a funeral pyre in the background. As they like to say here, seemingly able to explain any strange and outlandish phenomenon, "This is India."

We celebrated new years at a free party at the hotel we were staying at. They provided the guests with beer, delicious food, traditional Indian dancing and music, and fireworks. The evening was topped off with a huge caramel chocolate cream sponge cake! The rest of the time we seemed to get lost in the various shops (toys, fossils, spices, oils, jewellery, pots, pans, silks, shawls, after-dinner mouth-freshening seeds) and travel arrangements. We were running low on hand-sanitiser (a necessity for travel in India) so we had been looking for something similar in every town and general store we came to, but without success. We heard a local rumour that there existed a certain "Himalaya handwash". Finally in Varanasi, we hit the mother load in an Ayurvedic shop. Our stores were replenished.

A highlight of our time in Varanasi was an early morning boat trip up the Ganges. From the river we could see men washing themselves in freezing water, 3000 times the recommended foecal bacteria content for healthy bathing. Others washed their clothes by beating them against slabs of concrete. People practiced yoga in front of loudspeakers booming yoga instructions while sadhus (holy men) waved their arms around, spreading ribbons of incense smoke, presumably to help heal Mother Ganga. Ghats (crematoriums) warmed up to incinerate the previous days quota of dead and boats full of postcards and other nick-knacks ("floating supermarkets") zipped from tourist-boat to tourist-boat, trying to make their first sale of the day.

To get to Agra, we hired a private car as we were told the trains were being delayed dozens of hours, however, just as our luck had it, the only time we hired a taxi, there were no delays. However we did have a more comfortable ride than the train-goers, despite some severe communication problems with the driver who could not speak a word of English and had never driven to Agra before. He could not read roadsigns in either English or Hindi and had a poor memory for directions, so we were better off navigating for him.

The first day in Agra found us doing the obvious, visiting the Taj Mahal. I (Tamara) had already seen other monuments like Borobudur and Angkor Wat which were spectacular for their scale and historical significance, but the Taj stood out in a separate category altogether. Its glittering white marble, fine inlay work and symmetrical, balanced design gave the impression of a perfect architectural masterpiece. No wonder people come from all over the world to see it. After visiting the Taj Mahal, all other sites seemed paltry in comparison. Nonetheless, we saw them anyway (Agra Fort, Mehtab Bagh gardens, Itimad-Ud-Daulah (another tomb nicknamd Baby Taj) and Chini-ka-Rauza (a riverside tomb).

Situated in the tourist area around the main gates of the Taj, marblecraft salesmen waited for us like hungry jackals, licking their lips at the sight of our white, white skin. We got to see the craftsmen in action, grinding semi-precious stones to the width of finger-nail clippings in order to lay them in white marble. It was very skilled and beautiful work.

In Agra, most rickshaw-wallahs made "a bit on the side" by taking tourists (often unknowingly) to large textiles and marble stores to get a 50 to 100 rupee commission from the store-owner. Tam and I soon cottoned on to this and by negotiating with the driver got an entire days trip free by visiting a couple of shops. We pretended to look interested inside for 5-10 minutes until the owner had taken down the driver's rickshaw number for payment. We also asked if the driver could somehow signal us when his number had been written down, but he thought this was too cagey, even for an Indian.

Even though we were ready to leave Agra, it seemed to train wasn't. Due to delays, mainly because of the risks of driving in heavy fog, our train arrived at the station 8 hours late to pick us up at 4am instead of the scheduled 8pm. We passed the time reading, eating roasted peanuts, drinking chai around a roadside fire with rickshaw drivers and playing cards with other foreigners. As we were very tired by the time our train arrived, we slept well until arriving in Jaipur at 11am.

We were disappointed to find that the Tibetan refugee girl called Nangsa Dylan had been sponsoring was at Bodh Gaya on a pilgrimage to see the Dalai Lama. She was not to return until we had left India, but we had dinner with her mum and her younger brother. We also spent some time hanging out at their sweater stall in the Tibetan Refugee Market, drinking chai and butter tea. Dylan was able to talk to Nangsa on the phone and we left the mother with some presents we bought in Australia. The young boy Sonam loved the glowsticks we brought for him.

We both liked the 'pink city' of Jaipur including the clear skies, hawker-free streets, drycleaners, icecream shops and the interesting history of the Mogul rulers. Amber Fort was much more spectacular than Agra Fort, situated inside a wall stretching for kilometres on the hills overlooking Jaipur. We visited the City Palace, Water Palace on a lake and Wind Palace with many windows - all places where the Maharajah and Maharani used to enjoy. There were a couple of nice lookout points such as Tiger Fort and Monkey Temple which was infested with naughty macaques clambering for peanuts from Dylan's pockets.

Michael Jackson and Self-flagellating Muslims

One morning in Bodh Gaya, we were forced off the street by a large group of people marching down the main street wearing green headbands with Arabic writing, some of which were holding curved steel swords, pike-arms and hockey sticks. Upon inquiring, we were informed that Muslims were in the midst of a holy festival called Muharram related to the death of Imam Hussain in 680 AD. It's all terribly complicated so I'll spare you the details. Needless to say, it's a very big occasion and they were all out making a real show of it. The festival lasts around 68 days. As we showed interest in the topic, we were also told that the next day was particularly special, as it involved a small group of particularly sorry-feeling Muslims lashing themselves with blade-tipped whips and other nasty implements as a show of mourning. This was the second time we had heard things like "the streets run red with blood" and "you wont believe your eyes that it is real" in relation to this occasion, so we decided it might be worth a look.

The next day, we were picked out of the chaos by the words, "Hey, you look like the king of pop, Michael Jackson". It was three young (16, 17 and 18) students and the loudest boy, Michael, was referring to my Columbian drug-lord hat. He was an serious M.J. fiend and constantly sang all the popular songs to us. The three boys were going to the festival so we shared an auto-rickshaw with them to Gaya. We arrived on the scene to find huge crowds filling the streets, as well as doorways, windows and balconies. Everyone was looking at an area roped off in the street about as wide as a tennis court, inside which was filled with banners, horses and dedicated Muslims. The atmosphere was electric with anticipation.

It soon became apparent that the several men dressed in white robes would be participating in the self-flagellation as they were looking very solemn and holding carrying cat-o-nine-tails, razor blades and chain whips.

We were actually given quite special treatment by being given a seat off the dusty street and handed chai. A number of Muslims then explained the history of the self-harming practice to us, making sure they were listened to clearly. It seemed very important to them that we understood the practice as a reasonable thing to do. We weren't able to see properly from the streets and the balconies were all full. Tam and I were invited to walk inside the roped area (off to the side) in order to get a good view of the action. Tam declined, but I wanted a closer look. After seeking permission from the elders, I took off my shoes and followed them in. I was assured that I would be safe and out of range of blood-splatter.

It began with some praying and mild chest-beating, with the hardcores reading aloud from prayer books. It slowly worked up a notch as one man began shouting into a microphone and the robed men used both hands to assault themselves. The microphone holder began screaming at the crowd and it all reached a fever-pitch when a couple of robed Muslims pulled out straight-razors and started hacking away at their own chests. Blood flowed freely down their bodies as they continued to wail prayers.

A fellow must be feeling pretty sorry about something to flay the skin of his own back with rusty knives, but considering it is done for something that happened 1330 years ago, it strikes me as borderline, if not over-the-line, psychosis. It is a shocking thing to see a man involved in such self-destructive behaviour and in the dying throes of the year 2009, it boggles the mind to consider how primitive we still really are.

Suddenly one of our friends was at the sideline calling me out. Apparently someone wanted us to leave and all of a sudden, we were not welcome anymore. The police escorted us away from the festival while another Muslim shouted at us and waved a big stick. It turned out to be a mixture of factors that caused our expulsion; concern for our safety, confusion about whether we were paying someone to guide us there, but mainly because Michael had given his last name which had immediately identified him as a Suni Muslim. Everyone knows Shi'as and Sunis don't get on real well, so we left. Unfortunately we didn't get to see the flails in action, but its probably for the best

On the ride home, Michael played M.J. songs on his phone to cheer himself up as he was slightly unsettled. When I asked his friend if he was also feeling upset, he shrugged and said nonchalantly, "I'm not worried, this kind of thing happens every day in India."

Settling In

Once Tamara and I left Pheuntsholing, we were no longer under the wing of any friends. No hot chai on hand (even when we didn't want it) and no-one heating our water or washing our clothes for us. We were dropped in Darjeeling by our last "trusted contact" and left to fend for ourselves.

It usually takes a couple of days to acclimatise to the brute reality of India, even though compared to other Indian cities, Darjeeling is asleep. The sheer volume of people in any direction at any time, the tremendous filth lining all streets which overcomes even the most hardened senses, and of course, the noise. The clamor of over a billion voices, horns, motors, taxis, bells, cellphones, workshops, grinders, hammers, dogs, pigs, chickens, cows, babies, music, hawkers, laughing, shouting, screaming...

So after 3 days with our feet on the ground, Tam and I felt that we were starting to get a feel for things. That's when we decided to hire a motorbike. We expected something like the stunted 125 cc scooters and road-bikes we saw buzzing around town, but our local friendly tourist-guide landed us a nice new shiny Royal Enfield motorcycle. Tam and I have ridden scooters in Indonesia and I even used to ride a Suzuki 185 cc dirt-bike growing up in the country, but the Royal Enfield "Bullet Machismo" is an entirely different kind of animal. With a lean-burn all-aluminium 500 cc engine giving maximum torque of 40.85Nm @ 3000 rpm, the "Bullet" is over 400 pounds of chrome noise and muscle. This brutish machine sounds like a stampede of rhinos.

After showing the locals I could handle such a monster by a solo practice run up the road and back, Tam and I took a ride through the country and then back through Darjeeling. By then I was already getting a phallic-complex and a serious boost to the ego, so booming along the streets of Darjeeling with my "mama" slung on behind, I felt like a real hard muthafucka. I'd just finished reading "Hell's Angels" by Hunter S. Thompson which didnt help my attitude any either.

We rode through Darjeeling to a nearby town called Ghum. When we reached Ghum, we were still 11 km from another small town named Sukhia and the fog was already rolling up the hill fast. However, once you are astride one of these beasts, the temptation is to push it as far as possible, ride until your fingers are stiff cold and your face turns numb. So we kept on, holding tight to the bends, and as soon as the road opened up, screwing it all the way over, blasting up to 60 km/h then leaning hard on the brake and horn before the next corner. The company's motto "made like a gun, goes like a bullet" is not tarnished by the five-speed gearbox, though we barely used three of them on the tightly wound roads which cling to hellishly steep hillsides. When the British engineering company dissolved, Royal Enfield of India, based in Chennai, carried on the name, making Royal Enfield the oldest motorcycle company in the world still in production and the "Bullet" the longest production run model.

For a little change of pace, the next day we wandered the sleepy hillside tea plantations while colourfully dressed women hacked at shrubs with curved iron machetes, filling huge sacks which they would shortly haul up the hill on their backs. At 4pm the sun was already about to drop behind a wall of cloud, which spanned the horizon like a palisade of cotton wool. When it finally did, the air quickly took on a sharp chill and any body part not covered by wool or fleece soon felt the effects of the plummeting temperatures. We wound our way back to town and did the only logical thing we could think of after perusing idyllic tea gardens at sunset; entered a tea house and indulged in a cup of the finest tea on offer - about 10,000 Rupees or A$240 per kg. As we sipped our amber nectar from cups of glass and looked out at the fogs rolling in to engulf Darjeeling, Bob Dylan wailed somewhere in the background, "In a world of steel-eyed death and men who are fighting to be warm, 'Come in,' she said, 'I'll give ya, shelter from the storm.'"

Gravellers and Demolitions

A couple of days ago, we left the capital of Thimphu and headed for Phuentsholing, a small Bhutanese border town adjacent to Jaigon in West Bengal, India. Like our other journey across the Himalayan terrain, this one took considerable time to travel a relatively short distance - 170 km in 6 hours. Our travelling companions were Bhutanese and Indians and without a constant stream of fresh air, we were overwhelmed with the smell of masala, betelnut and a coat of human grease that a cold bucket of washing water is ill-equiped to remove.

The roads were just as meandering and narrow as our first trip, except this time they were under considerably more construction and riddled wth rocks and pot-holes. The only direction available for widening a road which winds around a near-vertical cliff is in. This is done with dynamite, excavators, giant pneumatic drills, handpicks and shovels.

Roads are littered with huge piles of rubble, covered with dusty Indians pain-stakingly picking over and separating the debris into piles based on rock size. Gravel and rocks are moved by shovelling loads onto a tarp and then carting it to another area. Progress is molluscan-like with conditions harsh and resources limited. Without large excavation machinery, the time and effort it would have taken to initially construct these roads, which stretch hundreds of kilometres, is mind-bending.

We are staying here with a friend and have already seen the highlights of Phuentsholing: a small temple, a vegetable market and a crocodile breeding farm. Tomorrow we are hoping to enter India, picnic in a park and do some boating.