Youngs Around the World

Tina:

We left Jaipur by train, headed for Ajmer. From there, we still needed to travel another thirty minutes to Pushkar. For the price of a Starbucks latté, we could have gone by taxi but we wanted to experience the public bus so we took an autorickshaw from the train station to the bus station and inquired about buses to Pushkar. Much like Africa, the buses leave when they are overflowing, rather than according to a schedule. As the bus traversed the winding mountain road to Pushkar, an attendant pushed his way through the standing passengers in the aisle to collect the fares. The bus stopped on the edge of town where a barrage of commission-seekers was eagerly waiting to lure us to their respective hotels. After lugging our backpacks through the narrow, maze-like streets to check out a few places, we settled on the Everest Hotel, a boxy, pastel-green tower with a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city. The enchantment of the town had already taken hold of us; we dropped our bags and immediately dove into the vibrant, glittering activity of the market.

Pushkar is home to about fifteen thousand people. It is nestled in the dry desert mountains of Rajasthan and curves around a holy lake with fifty-two bathing ghats around the perimeter where pilgrims come to bathe in the sacred waters. The population is predominantly Hindu and the devout citizens insist that their conservative practices and religious customs be respected by all visitors. All food in Pushkar is vegetarian. There are no eggs, alcohol, drugs or public displays of affection allowed. The main area of town consists of narrow streets that yield to the curvature of the lake. The streets are lined with vibrant market stalls selling beautiful and inexpensive clothes, tailor-made saris and Rajasthani garments, silver and semi-precious gems, shimmering bangles in every imaginable color, incense and perfume, handicrafts, wall hangings and religious art. The traditional greeting is “Namaste”. The vendors are friendly and not overly aggressive so you can shop leisurely without feeling accosted. There are very few cars in Pushkar but motorcycles carrying as many as FIVE people honk and weave through the crowded market. Cows are everywhere! The beloved bovines roam freely wherever they please, grazing on trash or laying down in the middle of the road for an afternoon nap. There are also an unbelievable number of stray dogs in Pushkar. The locals do not keep dogs as pets but they gently tolerate the mangy street dogs which continue to procreate. They sleep anywhere and everywhere in town and can be heard throughout the night, howling at the moon; their echoes reverberating off the cement buildings and inciting a chorus of responses. Near the ghats, on the rooftops and on the outskirts of town, many families of gray-haired, black-faced monkeys frolic the days away and scrounge for scraps. Animals are a big part of the local culture but not as workers; they simply live in harmony with the people.

Kite flying is a very popular pastime for the children of Pushkar. On windy days, the children can be seen on the rooftops, manipulating their lines and staring up at their brightly colored kites, rising, soaring, darting through the air. There are several kite shops in town and it is easy to see how they stay in business; every tree in Pushkar is heavily ornamented with small plastic kites that became stuck in their branches.

The people of Pushkar, and our ability to interact closely with so many of them, were by far the highlight of our visit. They are vibrant and charming and clad in even brighter and more vivid garments than those we have seen thus far in India. We could literally spend hours photographing each and every fascinating person and many people – especially the elderly panhandlers carrying their shiny collection buckets – are happy to be snapped for a few rupees. Now that we know the game, we always carry small change in our pockets and hand it out like Halloween candy. The elderly panhandlers are docile and entertaining but there are also the nasty little child beggars who are persistent and ruthless. One little girl was begging with a baby in her arms. When we tried to shoo her away, she lifted the baby’s garment to display its back full of red sores. Another boy tried, with average success, to engage us in a whole debate about the value of taking our money to the grave versus giving it all to him. The next day, the same boy followed us again. I told him that he should go to school. He replied, “If I go to school, who will get my Mama chapati?” That made me sad because it was probably true.  So young to have such worries.

We sat inside one very kind artist’s stall for over an hour admiring his silk paintings while he talked to us about the beautiful Hindu religion, meditation, festivals in Pushkar, and education. He said that education in India has changed dramatically in recent decades, due to globalization and Western influence. Traditional education was once provided by gurus in the ashrams where students learned language, religion, culture, and how to prepare weapons for war. Now, Indian education is centered on preparing the student for today’s workforce. In that beautiful, tiny shop in the Pushkar market, the thought of losing old traditions in deference to the earn more, buy more, save more culture seemed a bit depressing. In my own experience, I have found that when culture is diluted over generations, the youngest generation cannot reclaim the beautiful traditions no matter how much they appreciate them. If they are not instilled with love from the very beginning and repeated through faith and love through the years, then they do not become a part of you. They remain forever lost. Still, sacrifices must be made to keep up with the Joneses, I suppose.

We spent our two days in Pushkar wandering the streets, indulging in the retail temptations. We’d maintained a solid anti-souvenir mentality until the Pushkar market tempted us with its tantalizing textiles and sparkling trinkets. I have discovered bubble pants! With elastic at the waist and ankles and lots of extra fabric in between, they have a funky, liberating fit that makes me feel like an Asian princess, a yogi, and a martial arts master all at once. I love them and I want more, more, more! None of the locals wear them, of course, but every female tourist, myself included, who is in Pushkar for more than a day is sporting a pair. Bubble pants are the gauchos of India!

We relaxed on rooftop restaurants overlooking the ethereal holy lake, watching the pilgrims and locals bathe at the ghats and make prayer offerings. We have discovered many new vegetarian dishes and swallowed enough Indian milk tea (hot spiced tea with milk and sugar) to fill a bath tub. One of us can easily convince the other to share a steaming pot of it morning, noon or night. Many restaurants in Pushkar serve a cold, refreshing drink, called Lemonana, which is made with mineral water, lemon juice, sugar and lots of pureed fresh mint so that it comes out green. It’s delicious! Note to self: when pregnant and craving a mojito, think Lemonana!

While Pushkar has a very Bohemian feel, the mystical realm of the Hindu religion pervades every street, building and narrow alley. The town boasts hundreds of temples, including one of the few Brahman Temples in the world. On the morning of our last day in Pushkar, we hadn’t toured any of them. The Brahma Temple was located on the edge of the market – we had passed by it at least four times – and, with our opportunities quickly fading into the distance, I sent Aaron in to scope it out while I waited outside with his shoes. He came out about twenty minutes later with some flowers and cardamom, which he said we were supposed to take to the lake. I smelled a tourist trap and said so but he was into it so I followed him down to the ghats and waited at the top for another twenty minutes while he disappeared down an alley toward the water’s edge. When he returned, he had a red smudge between his eyebrows and some grains of rice stuck into the smudge. “How much?” I asked.

Aaron:

I had barely walked ten feet toward the lake with sacrificial flowers in hand when I was accosted by the first of several “priests”. I swiftly dismissed the first and second priests but the third one persistently followed me, directing me to the proper place to leave my shoes and to the proper ghat for prayer. The priests are all plain-clothes men who approach with such fervor and purpose that they could just as easily be mistaken as touts for a camel ride or a budget hotel. As I reached the appropriate entrance to the ghat, I began descending the steps toward the lake where a mat was laid down before me and I was instructed to sit. The priest handed me a plate with an assortment of flowers, rice, spices, and sugar while his assistant took a metal bowl down to the lake to fetch some holy water. I protested more times that I can remember, weighing whether to leave immediately, abandoning my mission of placing my flowers in the lake as a respectful offering to the Hindu Gods, or to “hire” this priest and allow myself the privilege of participating in one of the most sacred and spiritual rituals in Hinduism. I relented and placed the flowers on the plate in front of me.

The priest led me through a series of prayers, alternating in heavily accented English and Hindi, with me repeating after him. I dutifully followed his instructions to wash my hands in the holy water, then place my wet fingers on my forehead, eyes, shoulders, heart and stomach, blessing each with my touch. I prayed for peace and love and good health and a long life and the same for those in my immediate family. At the conclusion of these prayers he dipped his wet thumb in the red powder on my plate, creating a red paste, and gently smeared it on my forehead between the eyes. I was finally allowed to walk to the water’s edge and pour the contents of my plate into the lake. I returned to the mat and the priest informed me that in order for the Gods to answer my prayers, I must make a donation to the poor, solemnly promising to feed no fewer that one thousand of India’s impoverished citizens. He spoke quickly, implying a minimum commitment of “One Food”, or one thousand rupees, about $25. Handing me a coconut and slowly dripping holy water onto it, he asked me repeatedly how many people I intended to feed. “One Food? Two Food? Three Food?” I initially balked at the promise, knowing that I had no intention of donating his asking price, but he would not let me complete my prayers without commitment. He again submerged his hand in the holy water, removing it and once again he let it drip methodically onto the outstretched coconut. “How many food?” His words clamped down like a vise on my conscience. I agreed to “One Food” and moments later, with my prayers official, I was ushered to a small table at the top of the steps where a man waited with an official receipt book.

As instructed, I filled out the form with my name, my father’s name, and my home address. Then the priest told me to write the donation that I had committed to, one thousand rupees, on the form. Nope. I told him that I would not, but that I was prepared to donate 100 rupees. He told me that I was reneging on the commitment that I’d made earlier. I was, in fact, but it was a commitment made under duress and instead of chastising him for using the high pressure tactics of an in-home vacuum cleaner salesman, I simply told him that was all that I could do. After a bit more banter, he agreed to edit the form and immediately demanded that I hand over my “donation”. I obliged and collected my official-looking receipt. Of course the final step in my spiritual journey was the donation to the priest for himself and his family. I pulled out 70 rupees from my pocket and begrudgingly handed it over with a forced smile. About $5 poorer, I walked briskly toward the exit before he could ask for more money.

The experience left me bitter and jaded and it was the second time in as many days. The previous day we had approached one of the ghats along the lake and we were besieged by a priest who would not leave us alone and who constantly said that we had to go down to the lake and place these flowers (the ones in his outstretched hand) as a sign of respect. I knew that he was trying to hit us up for a donation. I simply wanted to admire the beauty of the lake and respectfully participate from the top steps of the ghat. He could not understand my unwillingness to follow up and he continued with an barrage of comments about my lack of respect and my sacrilegious actions. I finally turned to him and asked if, as a priest, he was aware that some people worship in different ways. In the moment of his stunned silence I turned to walk away, clearly disgusted by the encounter.

From the beggars that literally line the street as you enter the Brahman Temple to the many priests offering their blessings for a price, everything about the Hindu sites in Pushkar seemed more human and commercialized than sacred. Since we began our trip around the world, we have had the opportunity to meet people of many different nationalities and religions. And one of the things that we most look forward to is learning more about the history, customs, and nuances of both. But more often than not we’re overcome by the human element which interjects to sour the experience and prematurely abort the lesson.

There are both pros and cons to visiting the heavily touristed destinations like Pushkar. The locals generally speak good English and are tolerant of photo-flashing tourists and eager to help. Unfortunately, many of the locals also become aggressive and demanding when trying to relieve tourists of their money. Many tourists, unaccustomed to such intimidating aggression and out of their element in a foreign country, succumb to the guiles of the touts and beggars. Even with our newly-toughened skins from repeated exposure to the same scams in different countries, we still occasionally re-surface from somewhere with a five dollar red smudge with rice pieces in it. We can only choose to be thankful for the inexpensive lessons. Despite the panhandlers and pushy priests, Pushkar has been one of our favorite stops so far. Hindus believe that Pushkar Lake was formed when Brahma, the holiest of all Hindi deities, dropped a lotus flower. While the concept of multiple gods is still overwhelming to our monotheistic minds, there is something serene and mystical about the iridescent glow of the glassy lake against mother-of-pearl sky. Pushkar is the kind of place where we could easily spend months, communing with the locals, studying yoga, reading the days away on tranquil rooftops, and pondering Pushkar’s magic. After only two nights, we leave with much of the city beyond the dazzling market unexplored but we are thrilled with the richness of our experience.

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We flew from Mumbai to Jaipur, which is the capital of the Indian state of Rajasthan, and took a taxi to the Hotel Pearl Palace, near the city-center. Our room was not quite ready so we ventured up to the rooftop for a drink. Our room was tastefully decorated with local textiles and modern amenities. After settling in, we set out for a walk to the train station to purchase train tickets to our next few destinations. We only made it a half-block from the hotel before an autorickshaw-wallah convinced us to let him drive us around. Rickshaws are two or four-seater cabs or carts with a single driver’s seat in front. Autorickshaws have motors and can maneuver through traffic like a motorcycle. Bicycle rickshaws are slightly cheaper and good for short distances. We arrived at the train station and booked tickets to Ajmer, Udaipur and Jaisalmer. Our driver, Munna, was so friendly that we took him up on his offer to take us sightseeing around town for the rest of the day.

Jaipur is much smaller than Mumbai but it is still a bustling city. As Munna skillfully maneuvered through the noisy throngs of cars, motorcycles, bicycles, animal carts and rickshaws, we felt almost hypnotized by the whir and hum of the city streets. We began in the Old City, also called the Pink City, which is surrounded by salmon-pink walls. At City Palace, home to the current Maharaja, we wandered through the complex of courtyards, gardens and buildings. We toured the textile room, which houses garments worn by centuries of Maharajas and their royal families, including one ruler who was over seven feet tall and five hundred pounds! He had 108 wives and concubines but no children. Next, we saw the armory with walls and glass cases covered in historic Indian weaponry – bejeweled swords, antique rifles and handguns, battle armor and helmets, knives of every length, curvature and design, a mace, and intricately decorated gunpowder bags. In the courtyard, we caught the end of a puppet show and also saw a snake charmer! His beguiled cobra swayed to the enchanting sound of his flute. The snake’s poison had been removed but it still flared as if about to attack.

Munna recommended a good place for thali and we made a quick lunch stop before moving on. We were the only tourists inside the dim restaurant, which is a good sign. The thali was great, though much less elaborate than Chetana, and it energized us for our next stop: the Royal Gaitor. The royal cenotaphs, or tombs of the Maharajas of Jaipur, were set against dry, rocky mountains. They are beautifully carved monuments with intricate details, carved out of marble from Italy, India and many parts of Asia.

As is customary in tourist haunts like Jaipur, Munna drove us around to several local shops where the rickshaw drivers receive hefty commissions on anything you purchase. The proprietors are most accommodating, usually offering tea and a demonstration of how their products are made in an attempt to butter you up for the high pressure sell. We began at a shop that sold beautiful Indian textiles. After a brief demonstration of how block printing is done, we were led into a kaleidoscope of brilliantly colored floor-to-ceiling fabrics. The salesman sat us down and began his presentation of beautiful bed coverings, pulling one after another out of its plastic packaging and flinging it into the air so that it magically unfolded and fell gently to the floor in a swish of multicolor. Each subsequent layer was higher quality, more ornate and more expensive than the last. He was very aggressive in his approach, constantly asking my opinion on the various fabrics, talking over my thoughts, intently listening and intrusively weighing in on my discussions with Aaron. It was quite overwhelming and decidedly annoying. The shop had beautiful things but lost out on our business because of the pushy style of its salesman. We looked next at hand-woven Indian rugs and handicrafts but this simply wasn’t our kind of shopping. We prefer to wander through street bazaars full of haggling vendors. Our sleep schedules were still a bit off from the 11 ½ hour time change; we were waking around 4am and passing out by eight so we retired early to the hotel and scheduled another day with Munna as our guide.

The next morning, we started with Ishwar Minar Swarga Sal, the Heaven Piercing Minaret. Standing 150 feet tall in the middle of the Old City, the tower offered spectacular panoramic views of the entire city. Jaipur’s buildings were boxy and dilapidated, generally two to four stories tall and painted in soft pastels. We stayed at the top just long enough to take in the views and then descended the dark spiral ramp and climbed back into the rickshaw. We rode by Hawa Mahal, Palace of the Winds, on our way out of the Pink City. It was built in 1799 by the Maharaja so that his women could look out over the city from (as described in our guide book) the “extraordinary, fairy-tale, pink-sandstone delicately honeycombed hive” and remain inconspicuous. It is by far the most aesthetically impressive building in Jaipur.

Next stop: Amber Fort. Set on a mountain top about 11km north of Jaipur, the pale pink looks vast enough to encapsulate a small city. We declined offers of jeep and painted elephant transport to traverse the road leading to the fort entrance on foot. The courtyard of the fort was full of activity and, while Aaron waited in line to buy tickets, I was accosted by every variety of trinket-seller. Luckily, my pest-evasion skills are sharp these days and I was able to escape them with minimal effort. As we wandered through the fort’s many buildings, courtyards and labyrinthine hallways (the Maharaja’s passageways to his various wives and concubines), we admired the traditional Rajasthani architecture: elaborate entryways, beautiful city views from corner towers, and the intricate designs in the Hall of Victory and Hall of Pleasure. We could easily envision the Maharaja attending to his amorous desires between royal responsibilities.

The final stop on our sightseeing itinerary was the Temple of the Sun God, also known as the Monkey Palace because of the throngs of monkeys that tumble around the entrance like wire-haired gymnasts, swinging on power lines and wrestling, chasing, and resting on the stone walls leading up to the palace. The temple itself, though beautiful, was unimpressive – the monkeys, cows, pigs, goats and the snake charmer that we passed by on the way up were much more thrilling.

After the Monkey Palace, we asked Munna to drop us off at one of the many bazaars just outside of the Old City. We paid him and wandered around the bazaar for a short while before heading toward our hotel on foot. At a major traffic circle, we spied a McDonalds and decided that ice cream was in order. We were surprised to find McDonalds in India, particularly because Hindis regard cows as sacred animals, symbolic of fertility and nurture, and allow them to roam freely through the city streets. You typically don’t find beef on any menu in India. McDonalds has tackled that dietary hurdle by offering paneer salsa wraps, veggie burgers and curried chicken among other beef-free favorites. Thankfully, McDonald’s ice cream and French fries are pretty much universal.

I had read in our guide book about an award-winning, local artist, well-known for his blue pottery. We found Kripal Singh’s gallery on our map and decided to hire a bicycle rickshaw to take us there. As we walked out of McDonalds, there were four bicycle rickshaws parked outside. I picked the oldest of the four pedalers, thinking that he probably didn’t get as many fares as his more spry competitors, and we agreed on a fare of 40 rupees (about $1). Little did we know that almost the entire distance would be at a slight but constant incline. Only a few minutes into our journey, the pedaler turned to us and clarified that he wanted 40 rupees per person to which we happily agreed, feeling guilty for his obvious struggle, as other rickshaws passed us by. We finally had him drop us off at the end of the residential road on which the gallery was located. An attendant greeted us at the entry and showed us into a small room, where three of the four walls were covered from floor to ceiling with Kripal Singh’s famous blue pottery. After an extensive period of indecision, we selected a pretty floral vase which will undoubtedly cost more to ship home than the original purchase price. Nevertheless, we were excited about our new treasure as we set out down the road.

Before long, we were approached by a group of menacing young boys who persistently demanded rupees. Accustomed to dealing with this kind of despicable behavior, we employed our usual tactics for deflecting the boys. When those attempts failed to shake them, I tried a new one that I had been eager to test. I stopped short, pivoted, and began barking like a dog. They jumped back in surprise at my loud, shrill bark and most vicious dog face but still they continued to follow us. I barked again and I honestly think it might have worked if we had been able to refrain from laughing hysterically. Suddenly, a boy on a bicycle rode straight at me from the right side. Just before he reached me, he pulled up the front tire and hopped off the back of the bike, still holding the handle bars and walking the spinning front tire toward my face. I turned and the tire grazed my arm. It didn’t hurt but it was enough to set Aaron off. He ran at them, angrily screaming, and finally frightening them off. If he hadn’t been holding our fragile new purchase, I think he would have taken at least one of them down.

The reality is that no good result can come of an encounter with these little street urchins, especially when they work in groups. If you give them money, you are rewarding and perpetuating beggar behavior. If you give to one, he tries to get more and you get swarmed by all of his sticky-fingered cohorts. They are experienced enough to be undeterred by threats or shouting. While our instincts scream that a WWE-style body slam is the best recourse, we have so far opted for patience. If we ignore them long enough, they eventually get bored and go away. Still, it’s interesting how our minds work around our normal perceptions of children as innocents to paint these beggar children as vermin. They don’t have the innocent faces of youth; they have faces aged and hardened by the harsh realities of their surroundings. When they’re swarming you as you walk down the street, tugging at your clothes, purposely bumping into you or stepping in front of you, you stop seeing them as children from vulgar beginnings and start seeing them as well-trained, methodical pests that must be expelled from your personal space by whatever means necessary.

Safely back at Pearl Palace, we recounted our Jaipur experiences over dinner on the rooftop. We had enjoyed two action-packed days, which merely allowed us to scratch the surface of a city with so much vitality and colorful culture. Despite the many sights that we toured around Jaipur, the vision that will stay in my memory is one of whizzing through the city streets in the cab of an autorickshaw with the flash and hum of life outside appearing as little more than a time-warped blur.

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After waiting almost two hours on the tarmac at O’Hare for our plane to be de-iced, we were off on a rather uneventful eighteen-hour journey to Mumbai (formerly Bombay). We enjoyed the spiciest and most delicious Indian airplane food; in one meal, I ate a pepper (which looked like a green bean) that set off a four alarm fire in my mouth. As the plane touched down at Mumbai International Airport, two friendly Indian women gave us homemade chapati (Indian flatbread, similar to a tortilla) after Aaron helped them with their bags. Before we had even set foot on Indian soil, we felt warmly welcomed.

We had decided to use some of our Marriott hotel points to ease our way back into the hostel world. We took a taxi from the airport and checked into the Renaissance Marriott Hotel around 3:00am. The hotel was posh and luxurious – a perfect haven for sleeping off our jet lag. When we re-surfaced two days later, we were ecstatic about exploring Mumbai.

City sidewalks lined with shacks and tents. Streets congested with incessantly honking taxis that look, feel and smell fifty years old; commercial trucks in candy-bright colors, loaded well beyond capacity; bicycles, mopeds and motorcycles (some carrying a husband, wife AND two children) weaving fearlessly through the gridlock. Street vendors selling roasted nuts, fresh squeezed juices, shoes, textiles, cheap jewelry and clothing, perfume, small electronics, toiletries, and flavored tobacco. Women, in colorful saris, conversing on sunny lawns. Homeless families, tattered and filthy, sprawled out on sidewalks and hovering around fires. Men in turbans with unshorn beards. Women in burqa collecting little girls in sleek black braids and school uniforms. Fruit and vegetable stands. Beggar children with desperate faces and practiced persistence. Stray dogs scrounging for food in piles of refuse. Free-roaming sacred cows. Man-powered carts, piled high with boxes. Balloon sellers. Casual cricket matches. Vibrant, bustling markets. Barefoot road workers. An exploding population entangled and entwined in the kaleidoscopic chaos of Mumbai. In the two days that we spent wandering the crowded streets of Colaba in the southern peninsula, our senses were overwhelmed by the sights, sounds and smells of India. We were immediately captivated by its throbbing pulse and found ourselves insatiably drawn toward the magnetic, colorful culture.

Though many people opt for Western-style dress, there are enough flowing saris in every color of the rainbow and men in robes equally vibrant to keep my head spinning, as if in a dream, following the wings of butterflies. Many women and some men don the traditional Bindi (colored dot between their eyebrows), which we have learned can symbolize many different things such as beauty, self-sacrifice, a meditative focal point, etc. I think they’re stunning and exotic and I want one! One thing that I find interesting about the saris is that, while India is perceived as a conservatively dressed nation, many saris, particularly those worn my middle-aged women, expose almost the entire midriff, from the top of the ribcage to the waistline. The sari is made of a single piece of cloth, usually five meters in length, and is wrapped around the body. It is worn with a fitted blouse with elbow-length sleeves but all of the blouses stop at the top of the ribcage. Personally, I might opt for a longer blouse, especially if the alternative is flaunting a mid-section that has seen many more chapatis than sit-ups.

We ate enough Indian food in Africa to develop a whirlwind romance with the cuisine and just a few days in India have transformed that romance into a healthy obsession. Much of the Indian population is vegetarian so almost all restaurants cater to the “veggiesaurus”. If you have a plain vanilla palate, you’d be best to pack your power bars and peanut butter and jelly for India. The mouthwatering dishes are loaded with spices (cumin, coriander, saffron), in varying degrees of heat, and slathered in rich, creamy, savory and sweet sauces. They are served with fresh baked flatbread (chapati, roti or naan) and steaming basmati rice and there is plenty of sauce left over for dipping! Our favorite dishes are made with paneer, which is an unfermented cheese with a texture and flavor similar to tofu. Many Indian restaurants serve thali, a sampling of several vegetarian dishes served in individual small bowls or sectioned plates. We first tried it at a restaurant called Chetana in Mumbai. We were presented with a large metal plate and about fifteen small metal bowls. The servers then came, one after another, ladling colorful and aromatic vegetarian stews into each bowl, followed by chapati, rice, sweets, and offers of buttermilk, traditional spiced beverages and fresh squeezed juices. Aaron ordered an indigenous Indian beverage, called Jal Jeera, which is made of lime juice, cumin, mint and rock salt. It was a little chunky for our taste but interesting. We wasted no time in devouring the smorgasbord at our fingertips. Each spoonful was an explosion of flavor that shocked our taste buds with a uniquely spiced pleasure. We felt like royalty with an entire staff fawning over every detail of our experience, enthusiastically describing each dish, recommending delicious combinations, and trying to refill our little bowls with more steaming curries. Thali was amazing and we can’t wait to have more!

The poverty in Mumbai, home to more than 18 million people and Asia’s largest slums, is daunting and it is very much in your face. Major city streets are lined with shacks so tiny that most daily activities are performed in front of the shack for all the world to see. Meals are prepared over small fires. Children bathe in metal basins. Dishes are washed. Handicrafts are made. Services are performed. Elderly people lounge the days away. Everyone is outside! Many of the ramshackle dwellings have small lofts above, no wider than a double bed, which sleep entire families. Laundry is hung to dry on lines between trees on a city sidewalk. Some people have only tents as their shelter – a length of plastic tarp or canvas propped up with poles or attached to a cement wall – while many others sleep on the street, rolled in a blanket among piles of trash. A few of the more disgusting occurrences of public human behavior include spitting (and I mean both women and men hocking up phlegm from the depths of their sinuses) and public urination – we see this daily.

On the first day, we walked by a family – mother, grandmother, two young children around six or seven years of age – sprawled out over the sidewalk on a random street corner. The little boy, stark naked and filthy, squealed and ran crying across the sidewalk to his mother’s arms. The grandmother, lying on her side on the dirty cement, opened her bloodshot eyes and then closed them again. Most startling, however, was the little girl, lying face down, motionless, on a dingy mat, naked from the waist down with flies crawling all over her. The sight of her made me gasp. Everyone just walked by. So did we. I looked for them the next day, planning to give them some money, but we never saw them.

The poverty in Mumbai is heart-wrenching because of its magnitude and its vastness but mostly because, here, poverty has a face and it’s staring right at you on every street. We have encountered many beggars, mostly children and elderly, but the intensity still pales in comparison to Egypt. The children are most aggressive and I always wonder what kind of people those beggar children will grow into. Despite of the dire circumstances of the people, there is absolutely no sense of menace. We have felt completely safe at all times. I have carried my purse and walked with my camera exposed with no fear or apprehension. The Indian people have been warm, friendly and eager to please. We like them very much. Even the taxi drivers have been honest and pleasant. We find the collective madness of this multicultural metropolis both intriguing and addicting. We are so enamored with this fascinating country, in fact, that we are already making arrangements to extend our stay from three weeks to a month and it still won’t be enough. From here, we are headed north to Rajasthan and back to hostels and public transportation, which will undoubtedly inspire new dramas and adventures. Strangely, we actually prefer the crazy hostel world over the sterile, sheltered comfort of fancy hotels. We feel like we get a better sense of average everyday life in a place when we’re not living above it.

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We left Johannesburg on the evening of December 18 and, after thirty-one hours and three connections, we arrived in Boston sleep deprived (neither of us can sleep on planes) but otherwise unscathed. As we arrived on American soil, I began to softly sing every patriotic song that I could think of. Mark picked us up and drove us to Providence where we met up with more of the Rooney clan. We all caught up over a quick drink in the hotel bar before they headed off to the Mulhearns’ for dinner and we passed out for a good twelve hours. When we finally re-surfaced, the pre-wedding festivities were already brewing as more friends and family began to arrive.

It had occurred to us just a few weeks prior to the wedding that we didn’t have anything appropriate to wear, couldn’t realistically buy anything in South Africa, and wouldn’t have time to shop in Providence. Thankfully, we knew just who to call – an expert in the retail arts – my mom. Within a few days of receiving a list of our sizes, she had secured full attire for us for the entire weekend’s affairs, including all of the proper undergarments, shoes and accessories, and shipped them to Providence. Momma, you rock!

The rehearsal dinner took place at the University Club at Brown University. Everyone looked ravishing, particularly Mark and Meredith who were both glowing, and the venue was gorgeous. I was still a bit shocked by my own transition from cargo pants to stockings, high heels, and a strapless bra. I had forgotten how much I love Aaron clean-shaven and in a tie. Dinner was a lavish winter buffet followed by an array of decadent desserts to please every palate. Many heartfelt toasts were given in honor of the happy couple and we were even serenaded by Christmas carolers dressed in colonial attire with tall top hats, tiny spectacles and plenty of holiday cheer.

The wedding ceremony and reception at Warwick Country Club were beautiful and adorably personalized. The club is set on the shore of Naragansett Bay where Mark and Meredith spent the summer boating and falling in love. The bridesmaids donned floor-length black gowns, carried red roses, and walked to the delicate melody of a string quartet. The bride was stunning – her gown divine. When the pastor introduced Mr. and Mrs. Mark Rooney, I think that Aaron and I both realized how happy we were to be there. The reception was merry and energetic with an almost constantly packed dance floor. We sipped pomegranate martinis and ate enough hors d’oeuvres to qualify as a full meal, which didn’t stop us from indulging in the four courses that followed. The evening was so much fun that, before we knew it, the band was announcing the last song of the night. In a flutter of hugs, Mr. and Mrs. Mark Rooney said their goodbyes and rode away in their limo. We stumbled across the freezing parking lot to Mark and Meredith’s Volvo (the first “o” is pronounced short if you live in Rhode Island) and struggled to figure out the GPS so that we could find our way back to their condo. We were happy to realize that, because Mark had lent us his Blackberry for the weekend, he wouldn’t have it on his honeymoon.

At 5:00am on Christmas Eve, we arrived at the airport in Providence only to find that our flight to Chicago had been canceled. Bah humbug! We eventually secured two seats on a later flight but were told that there would not be any connecting flights to Moline. After calling every rental car company at O’Hare, we determined that there was not a single car available at any price. Resigned to spending Christmas eve in a hotel, we called my parents with the sad, though not surprising, news and Daddy came to the rescue by driving to Chicago to pick us up!

We had made last-minute secret plans to surprise my family by having Aaron’s mom bring our puppy from Phoenix and we were dying to see our little child substitute. Still mildly zonked from the doggy valium, our little Lenasaurus went totally crazy when she saw us. She kept jumping from Aaron’s arms into mine and back again until finally we both laid down and let her crawl all over us and smother us with four months worth of puppy kisses.

We spent the next seven days with our family, relaxing, visiting and driving each other crazy as only relatives can. We had a white Christmas, which also meant freezing temperatures, so we rarely left the house. We didn’t mind, though. There’s no more beautiful, warm and inviting place than my parents’ house at Christmas. The tree looks amazing every year, the house is trimmed inside and out with Christmas accents and the kitchen is full of Mom’s cooking. This year, Aaron and I had requested pasticcio, spanakopita and my yiayia’s homemade bread and all three were waiting for us when we arrived. One of my fondest childhood memories is of sitting in Yia’s kitchen and dipping her homemade bread, toasted with melted butter and Papou’s honey (he was a beekeeper), into a dainty cup of coffee with cream and sugar. They are both gone now but Mom has the bread recipe mastered and we still have a single last jug of the honey with Papou’s name and phone number on the label. I ate the toast for breakfast every morning until it was gone and even had my coffee with cream and sugar one morning so that I could take myself back to that hazy memory in a tiny kitchen in Dubuque, Iowa where I always felt spoiled rotten and infinitely loved.

Lena stole the show for the entire week. My family is as crazy about her as we are and she went from one lap to another, received a minimum of a hundred kisses each day, and was the main topic of conversation. When we finally left, it was a toss up as to who they were more sad to say goodbye to, us or Lena. We loved every minute of being home for the holidays but it was hard to say goodbye. We would love to have our family and friends meet us somewhere along the way but we understand that, while we’re busy squandering our fortune, most other people’s lives are continuing on as usual. It will be initially hard to return to the hostel world after basking in the comforts of home for two wonderful weeks (I’m already bracing myself for the squat toilets in India) but whatever adventures and challenges the next fourteen months bring will be met with open minds and open hearts. On New Year’s eve, we are off to India with big dreams. The world is beautiful and, with a new year ahead full of promise, we feel blessed for this opportunity to see it.

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After three short months exploring eastern and southern Africa, we’ve seen so much but most of the Dark Continent remains unexplored. We fell in love with Africa and her people, some of the most warm-hearted on earth. Frustrating and inspiring, informative and confusing, hot and cold; our brief visit left me tired and weary, yet not truly ready to leave. From the comforts of home during our brief stay in Iowa, I reflect on Africa; her grandeur, her beauty, and her immeasurable potential so often suffocated by primitive tribal culture.

Africa is expensive. For as poor as most of her residents are, Africa is incredibly expensive for visitors. After staying in more than thirty different hostels in nearly as many nights, we’ve discovered that the rooms are almost all uniformly basic and barely clean, but it still costs a local resident’s monthly wages for a single night stay. On average we spent about $35-40 per night for these Spartan accommodations, always staying in private double bedrooms but often sharing a bathroom with our fellow travelers. Western staples such as food items in supermarkets and meals at restaurants are often priced on par with similar offerings in the US. Transportation, even when traveling on the same buses and shared taxis as the locals do, is often more expensive than one would think because of the dual price structure; one price for the locals, a different, higher price for the mzungus. On many routes, there are very few (insert mode of transport here) traveling to the destination you want around the time you want so you are at the mercy of the conductor/ticket seller and the prices they charge.

Everything will take longer and be more complicated than it should be. Very few things in our experience were done quickly or efficiently or delivered exactly as we expected. Sometimes this seemed to be caused by the incompetence of our local hosts, or an obvious lack of motivation, and other times by a clear language barrier. This Is Africa. Enough said.

The landscapes truly are breathtaking. From the plains of the Serengeti in Kenya and Tanzania to the white sand beaches of Zanzibar to the majestic green mountains of South Africa’s Wild Coast, Africa delivers. Even the most uncomfortable, sensory assaulting bus rides are redeemed by the views afforded along the way. We could have taken a hundred pictures each day (but who wants to look at that many landscape pictures?) and still not been able to capture her beauty. Africa must be experienced to be appreciated. No National Geographic photo spread or Discovery Channel documentary can fully capture the diversity and scale or the unadulterated beauty of these surroundings.

The value of human life is different. Malaria. HIV/AIDS. Hunger. Auto Accidents. Murder. You don’t have to travel far in Africa to find a family whose loved ones have died by one or more of these tragic events. For many of the local people that we met or merely exchanged glances with, each day is a struggle for survival. HIV is a devastating epidemic, but Malaria still kills many more people, over a million, each year. Many Africans only eat one meal each day and it almost never includes a meat dish. Some people are unable or unwilling to work and they rely on the generosity of an able-bodied relative or kind-hearted stranger for their survival. The disrepair of most “road worthy” vehicles and the narrow, potholed roads combine with aggressive African driving to result in commonplace auto accident fatalities. Others are victims of sexual abuse or inexplicable violence that leave them irreparably damaged. These are life and death realities so far from most western minds that it is still difficult for us to fully grasp the magnitude of their impact. In the US, we all expect to live to a ripe old age, dying sometime in our eighties, most likely from “natural causes.” In Africa, just surviving childhood is a divine gift and most men and women will never celebrate a fiftieth birthday.

Our African adventure has changed us in immeasurable ways. We have witnessed the desperation of the struggle for survival. We have seen overpopulation, lack of education, illiteracy, lack of employment opportunities, laziness, oppression of women, children conditioned to panhandle, squalid living conditions and a society where stealing is a means of survival. We have also seen kindness, hope, faith, sense of community, expressions of beauty through music and art, political awareness, and a desperate desire to improve quality of life. As we head for India we know that new adventures await but we can’t help pondering our next trip to Africa. Africa is wild, raw and primitive in comparison to our Western standards but that is precisely what makes it so intriguing.

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