Monday, February 25, 2008

A few pics (a little late)

Thumbs up to 6AM boat ride on the Ganga (Ganges). Thumbs down to human flesh eating dogs on other side of Ganga.
Here is snow Srinigar with Himalaya backdrop. Imagine sweeping off each of those snow covered roofs 3 times a day..with no electricity.


Genna and Leigh in traditional men's ferhens eating Was Wan with the women at the 40 day feast of sorts. This is only the first round.


Genna and the ultra cute, almost-makes-me-wanna-have-a-kid Rumman. He's our best Kashmiri bud and a great adventurer.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

A Day in the Life

Step 1

Genna and I spend the first five minutes of our discombobulated day attempting to dislodge the mucus pustules that have established residence in our lungs through the night. Leigh curses the fact that despite washing her hands 76 times per day, taking a multivitamin and utilizing the supposedly miracle performing Airborne elixir in all its effervescent glory, Genna has managed to kick their mutual cold well before she has.



Step 2

Our first task after arising is the laborious process of disrobing our teeth of thick nightly sweaters that cling to them like leather on Halle Berry as Cat Woman.



Step 3

We emerge into the dusty alleyways of current residence to acclimate ourselves to the refusal process that will soon be second nature - no autorickshaw, no boat, no hotel, no guide, no bicycle rickshaw, no hashish, no tchochke, not silk, no goat head and no saree. One or the other of us politely turns down requisite marriage proposal of the day. Sympathetically lament the VISA policies of the US with angry Muslim woman from whom we only need directions.



Step 4

Chai. And no white people, restaurant, acrid tea-bagged bullshit neither. We look for the slummiest alley with the most loitering men and the grumpiest looking chai wallah hovering over his blue propane flame and approach. Inevitably the sea of overlookers parts offering the only bench to approaching whiteys with red-toothed smiles. Using our limited Hindi request "Do chai" (there is no word for please here) and wait for enlightenment.



Step 5

Pick a direction. Any direction. Some mornings, the direction of food. Some, the direction of a skirt we wanted to see or a bowl we wanted to buy and loose. Sometimes the direction to where a bathroom might be. Accidentally end up at the monument all of the motivated tourists are getting lost while trying to locate.

Step 6

Practice haggling skills. "Is that kilo of grapes really worth 40 rupees? Come on, half of them are starting to turn and I can get them across the street for much less? They look more like 30 rupee grapes." Decide whether the salesman is actually insulted, or is just a very melodramatic actor. Pretend to walk away, turn around when they shout the price you want at our back.

Step 7-

Stop in the smallest hole in the wall you can find for dinner. Point to what our neighbor is eating, trying to convey that we would like to share one. Still somehow get two. Swear to learn Hindi word for sharing.

Step 8

Realize that it is now 7:30 and things are starting to close as simultaneously coming into the fact that biscuits (cookies, to you Yankee types) would be awesome in chai for dessert. Seek out confectionery, only to find that the only sweets still available are little syrupy balls of stuff that are way to sweet and if you are lucky, find streetside cookie oven guy, who somehow bakes little flat sugar cookies on a thin sheet of metal between live coals and a heavy pan placed on top.

Step 9

Order chai on the roof top of the hotel. Wait 45 minutes for chai to arrive. Dunk cookies in the sweet hot liquid and enjoy every bite. Try to read or attack the impossible task of catching up with writing in the fading light.

Step 10-

Crawl under the extra blankets requested, both huddle on one of the twin beds pushed together to form the Indian version of a double bed. Leigh, who lacks the ability to create heat herself, latches on to Genna "the oven" Kohlhardt like a panda cub to its mother, only wishing a more marsupialesque fitting were a possibility. The girl obliges, clamping pedal digits between angled warm skin. The two eventually drift off to sleep with strings of drool winding their way down the channels of smile lines like the 36 sewage drains flowing into the great Ganga River. The soundtrack of their slumber is rickshaw honking, the vibration of a water heater and the three hit songs that share rotation on the radio waves.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

P is for Primates with a Package

Internet is wicked expensive in Agra so we leave you with this little word of observation direct from our rooftop view of the Taj Majal. That's indeed correct, dey sum well hung primates.

More soon...Varanasi in 2 days. Hopefully the American monopoly has not caught on for internet cafes as it has here. Lame.

Friday, February 15, 2008

(#2) B is for Brain and Biscuits Before Bed

We've passed the stand a dozen times and inspected its meat no less than that. Despite Annie's warning not to eat meat in Delhi the bloody, mushy sheep's brain that rests in that pan like a tray of brownies keeps calling out to us. It may be fresh, it may not...how does one tell when brain has passed its prime? The place (read - stall on side of road) is crowded: a good sign. However, we have not seen any one person actually consume the brain before us. Still, with Leigh's interest and Genna's encouragement we decide that it is only appropriate that we consume the craziest thing we can find. Order up.

When he pulls the lobes from the pan we are shocked by how much they looked like ridged pink globules of mucus. He sit on the pan and promptly minces it to look somewhat like gooey ground beef. To this he adds red stuff, green stuff, yellow stuff and a dash of some other stuff. And while everything else the man cooks takes less than two minutes, our special order seems to require similarly special preparation.

When the hippocampus (Rob, correct me if you will) reaches the desired doneness (looks rare to me) the still partial liquid is scooped over the wok's edge and into our foil bowl. The man splunked two miniature spoons like those tasters you get at Baskin Robbins into our cranial feast and handed it over. With apprehension we each dove in. Spicy, liquidy, solidy, brainy...deliciousness. But it needs something.

We spend the next 10 minutes, tin of steaming brain in hand, looking for the perfect compatriates to this incomplete meal. Down one alley we travel until we find the chapati maker scooping hot rounds from the tandoori. Up another alley we find the man with the final touch: curd. Our picnic is complete.

Back at our confusing Korean filled "hotel", we dig into our loosely compiled dinner. A crazy brainy burrito topped with paneer and onion...how cerebral. A cup of chai and a few cookies from the bakery today and our culinary extravaganza is complete...for today.

In other news, we are back in Delhi soon to head to Agra and Varanasi. We do our best to evade the Indian men trying to sell us rickshaw after bracelet after cigarettes after their first born child. We drink tea in teal walled homes discovered down dead-ended alleys. We lie about our Indian experience to the tourist counters. And we strictly refuse to go to Rajasthan. Oh yes, and we will be loitering around this place for another month as Kenyans have yet to decided whether they would like to stop killing each other. Bummer. Oh well, India is bright, delicious and odiferous and there's much more of it to see, taste and smell.

Friday, February 8, 2008

M is for Mad at Married Men

Ok, so in the US when you say "I'm divorced" that usually means "I'm divorced...currently." In Srinigar it apparently means: I have a wife in Bombay as well. Asshole. So, one of us, (who shall remain nameless) took letter K for Kiss me Kashmiri and mixed it with letter M for Married Men and here we are at S - Shit-out-of-luck Stuck in Snowy Srinigar.

We've been here in excess of a week and there are no signs of leaving until Monday or thereafter. Luckily, Kenyans hate each other so we most likely have more time in India. (Yes mom and dad...you're right).

A little about us now might start with Leigh's head bent over a bucket this morning dripping freezing water on the bathroom floor. Perhaps 3 hours later her hair is finally combed and french braided to be left for no less than 4 days. Genna's knickers, on the other hand, hang on the hook in the bathroom stall as we are told that under garments are not to be washed or hung for any to see but oneself.

Tonight we have the hook up. Because we are Americans and get away with everything (yes, I know) we get to go out and play some snooker. Sweet.

Monday, February 4, 2008

ABCs cont...

H is for Hostages on Houseboats

We have been sucked into the wet winterland that is Kashmir. It seems the entire universe, including every Kashmiri male and the climate, conspires to keep us here forever. Not that this is a bad thing. After days of toying with the idea of catching a train to Agra we have managed to instead get into the heart of Kashmir villages, become a catalyst of the houseboat mafia war, and contribute hugely to the economy.

In actuality, our escape from this insansely kind place has been barred by poor road conditions combined with poor weather. We have instead had to spend the days drinking tea with every third person on the street who extends us an invitation and discovering the practical world of Kashmiri fashion. At the moment Genna and I huddle in men's clothing draped in men's panchos stuffed with our kangri (winter wife).

B is for Boulder Bakers in Developing Nations

We're in a car with a man we met 5 minutes ago. He's a baker though, so how could we say no? He has promised to show us his factory at which he says there are two Americans working. This seems an odd place to find two American bakers, but it makes more sense when we pull up to the "industrial complex" (FoodPark) and two ex-Boulder hippies step out from the cement walls.

Leave it to Boulder to begin the wheat flour/brown sugar rage in a country that doesn't have sewage systems yet. Bob and Annie arrived in Kashmir with a dream this August and somehow managed to find a Kashmiri to share that dream. In the "bakery" is the most ancient industrial mixer we've ever seen sitting beside the brand spankin' top notch bread mixer. The wood oven bakes 150 loaves at a time and aside from that there is a stove top with a setting of high...only.

And so, we converse with these characters for some time sharing the joy of Kashmir and the hopes of health food abroad. There is little more we can say without writing a book on this event. Tomorrow, we head to Jammu if the roads are clear and then to Agra to be ripped off by countless Taj touts. Can't wait to dive into the madness once again. Missing you all.

P.S. A quick note on the blog...if you click on Our Profile you will find the individual blogs of Genna and Leigh. Leigh's is thinkgloballeigh.blogspot.com and Genna's is wordgenna.blogspot.com...there you can get riled up for exciting diatribes.