Greetings all
Hope you’ve all had a terrific Christmas. As for us, Christmas Eve was celebrated in Siliguri, a fairly dull city in which there isn’t much to do except arriving and departing. And, of course, having an alternative Christmas dinner: the closest thing we could find to a traditional Norwegian Christmas meal (pinnekjoet, maa vite), was mutton sheek kebab. Hardly a substitute, but thanks to our Indian fancy-wear and, importantly, our imported aquavit, I’d say the dinner was a relative success. After dinner we sang The Most Beautiful Christmas Carol in the World Ever (as an Indian marketing professional would call it), “Det lyser i stille grender”, wearing Santa Clause masks, then watched X-men II. On the whole it was an untraditional but memorable celebration.
On the 25th we left for Sikkim, the tiny mountainous state lodged in between Nepal, China/Tibet and Bhutan. Our first stop was the capital Gangtok, where we made arrangements for another trek. Having strained my knee pretty nastily on the last day of our trek in Nepal – it’s still rather sore – I reluctantly decided it would be wisest, or rather less idiotic, to limit myself to a two-day trek. Obviously, the wisest thing would be not to go at all, and sure enough the knee hurt something fierce in the steepest parts of my descent, but I couldn’t resist. And the pleasure of the hike and scenery was definitely worth the pain. Sigurd S is still trekking as I’m writing this, and in style: he is accompanied by no less than a guide, a cook and two porters. This is not due to laziness, but because, unlike Nepal, there are no teahouses providing accommodation and food on the routs in Sikkim. Hence, one must bring and prepare one’s own food, or, customarily, pay others to do so. Also, to bring a guide is compulsory, as the Sikkimese government is pretty serious about eco-friendly and profitable tourism. Another result of this, the guide is just as important for guiding trekkers through the extensive bureaucracy of permits as for actual guiding in the mountains. This reminds me of a curious element of our trek in Nepal that I forgot to mention in earlier posts: the Maoists. Though this communist group works towards a more or less violent overthrow of the Nepali government, it seems to be tolerated that they set up ‘checkpoints’ on trek routes, where they demand ‘donations’ from tourists (in a very polite, almost apologetic manner, to be fair). Personally, after making them promise not to spend our money on guns and to consider changing their name to something of more palatable connotations, we decided to “obey these rules” as they so matter-of-factly put it. I would’ve loved to see them try and squeeze that money out of a tourist taking a more J.E. Hoover-like position on communism, but there weren’t any present.
But I digress. Like I said, I’ve descended from the mountains to the town of Pelling in the relative lowlands of Sikkim (on a measly 2000 meters above sea level). While writing this, I am intensely cursing at the useless web page of Indian Railways, trying desperately to book a ticket from Siliguri (where we, amusingly, might end up celebrating New Year’s Eve) to our next destination: Kolkata (Calcutta). As for New Year’s Eve, it will most likely be celebrated in Darjeeling or Siliguri. Provided, that is, Sigurd S makes it to Pelling tomorrow. Otherwise, we’ll be celebrating in our separate Sikkimese villages. On a related note: Sigurd and I have now spent more than 24 hours apart for the first time in almost five months. I also have a room to myself for the first time in as long. It’s almost traumatic. Indeed, if all else fails, Sigurd and I could probably move in together and live happily ever after in an old and very filthy house, in a secluded village in the middle of nowhere. We could even buy a motorbike with one of those passenger carts, and take short drives in the countryside for recreation. Seventh heaven, to be sure.
For today’s quote I have selected a handful words of wisdom and warning that you should all pay heed to in the coming year (and tomorrow night in particular):
“Please obey traffic rules” – common road sign in India
“Swimming in the sea is thrill, but it will kill” – warning sign on Paradise Beach, Pondi
“Do not urinate here” – sign on wall in Pondi. On the same wall: “Sticks no bills”
“When married, divorce speed” – Sikkimese road sign
“Drive like hell and you will end up there” – another Sikkimese road sign
Finally, my personal favorite:
“Liquor ruins country, family and life” – warning on the label on ‘Bullet’ strong beer in Tamil Nadu
On that cheerful note: HAPPY NEW YEAR!
“Thank you” – large sign placed, for no apparent reason, in the middle of Sikkimese nowhere
Sigurd B
søndag 30. desember 2007
tysdag 25. desember 2007
Julekort fraa Nepal.
Utsikta fraa hotellet vaart i Pokhara.
Fjelltur i Annaporna regionen: Guiden vaar Bhimsen og masse sauer.
Bhimsen nyt utsikta fraa Poon Hill (3210m).
Machhapucchare (Fishtail) (6900m).
-2 grader Celsius paa toppen av Poon Hill.
Flittige fjelldamer.
Tibetanske Budhistar i Kathmandu.
Sigurd B., ein hyggeleg Sherpa (som hadde vore 7 gonger paa Mount Everest) og Hans (som me budde hos i Kathmandu) framfor ein budhistisk Stupa.laurdag 22. desember 2007
Elevation
Update 2 of 2 (scroll down for number 1)
Time: mid-December to present
Location: Nepal
We entered the kingdom of Nepal a week and a half ago, at the less than idyllic border-town Sunauli. The relief was instant: the last people we met on the Indian side were the bicycle-wallahs who were physically tugging us away from their competitors, threatening to kill both each other and us (I think), and some touts trying to convince us that if we didn't exchange our Indian rupees for Nepali ones (in their money exchange shop) the military would most likely shoot us dead upon crossing the border. As soon as we entered the Nepali side, not a person was bothering us the least. And it has only gotten better, at least after the cramped and butt-numbing bus trip that brought us to Pokhara, some thirteen hours (was supposed to be nine, but during the first four hours the bus kept making half an hour-stops every ten minutes or so) later. Our travel-companion at the time, Ben the Australian, got out of the bus to stretch his legs at some point during the night, and realised to his terror that the bus driver's daredevil driving was taking place on a narrow road at the edge of tall, steep mountains, nothing below but a pitch-black abyss. Sigurd S and I were sound asleep, happily oblivious to this fact, and Ben did not have the heart to wake us up. Personally I slept till dawn, and was greeted by the sight of the mighty Himalayas in all their splendour, accompanied by crisp mountain air. Truly amazing. We spent a day in Pokhara making arrangements for a trek in the mountains and buying some necessary gear. Fortunately, it seems every household in Pokhara has their own outlet for (mostly fake) 'North Face' clothing.
Bright and early the next morning we headed out towards the Himalayas. We had signed up for a standard five-day trek, but according to our guide, Bimsen, that route was for 'seventy year old women' and would be too easy for strong young men such as ourselves. Fortunately, we did not disappoint him (we did the standard five-day trek in three), and it was uniformly agreed to extend the route. Bimsen was more than happy about this, perhaps not a shocker coming from a fifty-two year old who firmly rejects fashionable comforts such as socks, beds, and sitting.
In short, the trek was superb. One scenic view relieved the other, we got a glimpse of the rural Nepali lifestyle, and spent the nights in charming teahouses along the way. My 26th birthday was celebrated in one such teahose, in the company of Sigurd, Bimsen and a dozen Korean businessmen and their small army of guides, porters and cooks (!). A curious, but worthy, celebration, certainly one for the books. I went to bed at ten. Speaking of celebration, the night before we witnessed a genuine Nepali party (for some guy's little brother, who had been accepted into the Gurkha military unit). Nepalis party much like westerners: they drink, sing and shout like any sane person would do. One curious phenomenon was the ease and smoothness with which their dancing would shift, or transform, as the music constantly shifted between folk tunes and absolute-yabbadabbadance-McNinetysomething. Our man Bimsen joined in the festivities, or was indeed a festivity in his own capacity, with his peculiar sneaking-about crab-like dancing style. Though techno wasn't his particular cup of tea, his antics worked just as well with this music genre when the folk tunes were too far apart.
We returned to Pokhara a few days ago, and checked into the hotel where we had stayed the first night. One of the guys who works there, who clearly takes his tourism-studies rather seriously (almost to the brink of lunacy), hugged me for about one minute upon our return. The next morning we got on a bus to Kathmandu, capital of Nepal, where we have invaded Sigurd's friend Hans' appartment (thank you for your hospitality, Hans!). We've been chilling out for a few days, taking in the sights, sounds and flavours of Kathmandu, getting ready for our return to India, to the mountainous state of Sikkim. The plan is to head out tomorrow, the 23rd, after having a christmas lunch at the Norwegian embassy (where Hans works). The actual Christmas celebration will, presumably, take place in Sikkim (or, worst case, on a cramped bus bound for Sikkim). We have brought along a bottle of Aquevit (thank you Eva) and a Santa Claus mask for the occasion, and feel confident that these props will ensure a worthy celebration.
On that note, I end this post by wishing you all, from the both of us, a very MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!
Sigurd B
Wherever in the world you go, [...] obey the guide
- Bimsen
Time: mid-December to present
Location: Nepal
We entered the kingdom of Nepal a week and a half ago, at the less than idyllic border-town Sunauli. The relief was instant: the last people we met on the Indian side were the bicycle-wallahs who were physically tugging us away from their competitors, threatening to kill both each other and us (I think), and some touts trying to convince us that if we didn't exchange our Indian rupees for Nepali ones (in their money exchange shop) the military would most likely shoot us dead upon crossing the border. As soon as we entered the Nepali side, not a person was bothering us the least. And it has only gotten better, at least after the cramped and butt-numbing bus trip that brought us to Pokhara, some thirteen hours (was supposed to be nine, but during the first four hours the bus kept making half an hour-stops every ten minutes or so) later. Our travel-companion at the time, Ben the Australian, got out of the bus to stretch his legs at some point during the night, and realised to his terror that the bus driver's daredevil driving was taking place on a narrow road at the edge of tall, steep mountains, nothing below but a pitch-black abyss. Sigurd S and I were sound asleep, happily oblivious to this fact, and Ben did not have the heart to wake us up. Personally I slept till dawn, and was greeted by the sight of the mighty Himalayas in all their splendour, accompanied by crisp mountain air. Truly amazing. We spent a day in Pokhara making arrangements for a trek in the mountains and buying some necessary gear. Fortunately, it seems every household in Pokhara has their own outlet for (mostly fake) 'North Face' clothing.
Bright and early the next morning we headed out towards the Himalayas. We had signed up for a standard five-day trek, but according to our guide, Bimsen, that route was for 'seventy year old women' and would be too easy for strong young men such as ourselves. Fortunately, we did not disappoint him (we did the standard five-day trek in three), and it was uniformly agreed to extend the route. Bimsen was more than happy about this, perhaps not a shocker coming from a fifty-two year old who firmly rejects fashionable comforts such as socks, beds, and sitting.
In short, the trek was superb. One scenic view relieved the other, we got a glimpse of the rural Nepali lifestyle, and spent the nights in charming teahouses along the way. My 26th birthday was celebrated in one such teahose, in the company of Sigurd, Bimsen and a dozen Korean businessmen and their small army of guides, porters and cooks (!). A curious, but worthy, celebration, certainly one for the books. I went to bed at ten. Speaking of celebration, the night before we witnessed a genuine Nepali party (for some guy's little brother, who had been accepted into the Gurkha military unit). Nepalis party much like westerners: they drink, sing and shout like any sane person would do. One curious phenomenon was the ease and smoothness with which their dancing would shift, or transform, as the music constantly shifted between folk tunes and absolute-yabbadabbadance-McNinetysomething. Our man Bimsen joined in the festivities, or was indeed a festivity in his own capacity, with his peculiar sneaking-about crab-like dancing style. Though techno wasn't his particular cup of tea, his antics worked just as well with this music genre when the folk tunes were too far apart.
We returned to Pokhara a few days ago, and checked into the hotel where we had stayed the first night. One of the guys who works there, who clearly takes his tourism-studies rather seriously (almost to the brink of lunacy), hugged me for about one minute upon our return. The next morning we got on a bus to Kathmandu, capital of Nepal, where we have invaded Sigurd's friend Hans' appartment (thank you for your hospitality, Hans!). We've been chilling out for a few days, taking in the sights, sounds and flavours of Kathmandu, getting ready for our return to India, to the mountainous state of Sikkim. The plan is to head out tomorrow, the 23rd, after having a christmas lunch at the Norwegian embassy (where Hans works). The actual Christmas celebration will, presumably, take place in Sikkim (or, worst case, on a cramped bus bound for Sikkim). We have brought along a bottle of Aquevit (thank you Eva) and a Santa Claus mask for the occasion, and feel confident that these props will ensure a worthy celebration.
On that note, I end this post by wishing you all, from the both of us, a very MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!
Sigurd B
Wherever in the world you go, [...] obey the guide
- Bimsen
måndag 17. desember 2007
Fuglemat: Eit flytande, halvbrend lik.
Chowpatty Beach, Mumbai.
Crikett i Mumbai.
Mumbai Taxi.
Hotel Taj Mahal og Gateway of India, Mumbai.
Sigurd B. viser fram dei flotte kjempegeitene i Mumbai.
Ein konsentrert Sigurd S. speidar etter dragen sin, Jaipur.
Brått dukka det opp eit kart over Noreg i himmelen over Jaipur. Me fekk litt heimlengsel.
På veg til Jaipur Fort, også her er det mykje bos.
Geitetransport.
Skal tru om han har ein tiger i kikkerten, Corbett Tiger Reserve.
En fleibede abekatt!
Vakker natur i Corbett Tiger Reserve.
Sigurd B. viser fram Taj Mahal, Agra.
Sigurd S. og Taj Mahal.
Nok ei triveleg indisk gate, Varanasi.
Familekos ved den heilage Ganga elva, Varanasi.
Bøn og bading i Ganga. Visst du at... det er 1,5 millionar fekale (dvs. bæsj) bakteriar pr 100ml vatn i Ganga? Vanlegvis vert ein fråråda å bade viss det er meir enn 500.
Fuglemat: Eit flytande, halvbrend lik.
The Siggz: 'Buns of Steel' Tour 2007
Update 1 of 2
Time: early December
Location: Central North-India
Namaste (North-Indian/Nepalese greeting)!
The title of this post refers to the numerous butt-numbing journeys we have had on various buses, trains, trucks and whatnot. A selection of such vehicles have most recently brought us to Pokhara, at the foothills of the mighty Nepali Himalayas (even the name has a majestic ring to it, doesn't it?), from where we have ventured on foot. However, as the crossing of the Nepali border in my mind marks the entry into a new phase of our travels, I choose to split this update into two blog posts, chronologically.
Thus, I begin where I last left of: Mumbai. On our last day we did a guided slum tour, hoping to gain some insight into how the vast majority of the city's sixteen to twenty-something million (no one really knows) inhabitants live their lives. It was a fascinating and educational experience, inspiring feelings of despair and pity, but also of optimism. The conditions under which so many people are living are truly miserable. The slums are so cramped and so filthy that they are hardly habitable at all, certainly not for so many. Yet there is cause for hope. The sense of communality and tolerance displayed by the slum-dwellers is incredible, as is the intensity and ingenuity with which they strive for a better life. Examples of business entreprises we visited included a keyboard recycling shop and a cardboard box repair shop. As the Mumbai slums is a world beyond my grasp, I borrow the words of author and bombayite Suketu Mehta as he observes:
Why do people still live in Bombay? Every day is an assault on the individual's senses [...] Why would you want to leave your brick house in the village with its two mango trees and its view of small hills in the east to come here? So that some day [...] your eldest son can buy two rooms on Mira Road. And the younger one can move beyond that, to New Jersey. Your discomfort is an investment. Like insect colonies, people here will sacrifice their individual pleasures for the greater progress of the family.
The next stop on our journey was Jaipur, also known as 'The Pink City' as it is mandatory for the owners of buildings in Old Town to paint them in the same colour (a tradition dating back to the visit of some royal character centuries ago). Truth be told, the 'pink' was rather an ordinary reddish-brown colour, and if I hadn't known about the uniformity in advance I don't think I would've noticed. Jaipur's most characteristic features were dust, noise and some of the most annoying people I have ever encountered. The beggars were tenacios, the touts more obnoxious than usual, and the rickshaw drivers were impossible. At some point a kid threw rocks at Sigurd S. Even the dogs would, without exeption, bark at us. We did a nice hike around the city fort, though, and had some of the best north Indian food so far.
One curious highlight was the most elaborate and pleasant attempt on a scam I've ever been subjected to. It started out with this kid, fifteen or so, striking up a conversation on the street 'to improve his english'. He was polite and friendly enough, so we didn't mind him tagging along as we strolled the streets of Old Town. He told us about the number one leisure activity in Jaipur, kite-fighting (the Jaipur sky is littered with small kites, the string attached to each of them greased with some substance containing glass. This enables the pilot of the kite to cut the cords of other kites, thereby winning the kitefight), and invited us to try our hands at this sport on the roof of his house. 'Why not', we thought, and went along. Kitefighting was a lot of fun, though we didn't really get the hang of it, and the roof top view of Jaipur was as good as it gets. We had a great time. Still, we sensed that something was afoot when we were invited to have coffee with the kid's big brother, manager of the family's jewellery business. Sure enough, after some friendly small talk (through which he cunningly presented himself as the hard-working and successful entrepreneur victimised by the unreasonable taxes imposed by a corrupt government), the proposal was set forth: We were to transport a large amount of jewellery to Norway on our 'tourist quota', where we would be met by the company's Oslo representative and be richly rewarded for our efforts. All we needed to do was to pay a small amount of money (by visa) as a sign of good faith, since they were entrusting us with highly valuable merchendise. Without doubt, the 'Oslo representative' would never have showed up, the jewellery would have turned out to be fake, and our bank accounts would have been emptied. Needless to say, we firmly but politely declined the offer, and the meeting was adjourned without any drama or hard feelings on either side. On the whole it was an amusing and rather pleasant experience.
Our next destination was Delhi, capital of India. It was a fairly nice city, where one can easily move from the chaotic and cramped Old Delhi to the spacious and western'ish New Delhi. We crashed into a pedestrian while we were in an autorickshaw, but he wasn't badly injured. Beyond that, there isn't much to say about Delhi.
While in Delhi, we did a one-day detour up north to the Corbett Tiger reserve, home of some four hundred tigers. We didn't have the good fortune to spot one (seeing how the driver of the large truck we were in drove like a madman, I think the only way we could've spotted a tiger was if we ran over one). Nevertheless, it was refreshing to spend a day in clear mountain air and the laid-back villages in rural north-India.
From Delhi we completed our tour of the 'golden triangle' as we travelled to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. A mausoleum over the wife of the mogul Shah Raha, the Taj was described on a t-shirt I saw as 'the largest erection over a woman ever'. The monument was both large and magnificent, worthy of its spot as one of the seven wonders. Originally, Shah Raha intended to build an identical mausoleum for himself. Unfortunately he was imprisoned by his son, possibly because the latter found his father's fascination with building massive marble structures to be a bit over the top. Can't really blame him, as the Taj took decades to complete and cost vast sums of money, and I'd say one is surely enough for most purposes. After seeing the Taj and the Agra Fort, we had dinner with Sara and Gaute before catching a train to Varanasi.
Varanasi, home of Shiva, is one of the holiest cities in India. It is situated on the banks of the Ganges, where thousands of people come to wash away their sins and hundreds are cremated every day. Personally, we decided to givethe bathing a miss, upon learning that the Ganges has three thousand times the level of faecal bacteria that is acceptable for humans to swim in. We did go on a rowing boat trip though, which was a peaceful and scenic experience spiced up by the occasional observation of floating human corpses, feasted on by crows and seagulls. As the price of firewood is steep, burners use as little as possible in order to incinerate a human body. Due to this, the funeral pyres are not the large wooden structures one might imagine, but rather medium-sized bonfires, head and feet of the corpse sticking out. Another consequense of the high prices, the expense of burning a body might be too high altogether, in which case the family of the deceased will, evidently, toss the body straight into the river. Varanasi is truly a fascinating place: spiritual, chaotic, holy and utterly mental.
Nevertheless, saturated with the hustle, bustle and hassle (not to mention the immense pollution) of the north-Indian metropolises, it was with a light heart we headed north towards the kingdom of Nepal.
(to be continued)
Sigurd B
The Mississippi, the Ganges, and the Nile,... the Rocky Mountains, the Himmaleh, and Mountains of the Moon, have a kind of personal importance in the annals of the world.
- Henry David Thoreau
Time: early December
Location: Central North-India
Namaste (North-Indian/Nepalese greeting)!
The title of this post refers to the numerous butt-numbing journeys we have had on various buses, trains, trucks and whatnot. A selection of such vehicles have most recently brought us to Pokhara, at the foothills of the mighty Nepali Himalayas (even the name has a majestic ring to it, doesn't it?), from where we have ventured on foot. However, as the crossing of the Nepali border in my mind marks the entry into a new phase of our travels, I choose to split this update into two blog posts, chronologically.
Thus, I begin where I last left of: Mumbai. On our last day we did a guided slum tour, hoping to gain some insight into how the vast majority of the city's sixteen to twenty-something million (no one really knows) inhabitants live their lives. It was a fascinating and educational experience, inspiring feelings of despair and pity, but also of optimism. The conditions under which so many people are living are truly miserable. The slums are so cramped and so filthy that they are hardly habitable at all, certainly not for so many. Yet there is cause for hope. The sense of communality and tolerance displayed by the slum-dwellers is incredible, as is the intensity and ingenuity with which they strive for a better life. Examples of business entreprises we visited included a keyboard recycling shop and a cardboard box repair shop. As the Mumbai slums is a world beyond my grasp, I borrow the words of author and bombayite Suketu Mehta as he observes:
Why do people still live in Bombay? Every day is an assault on the individual's senses [...] Why would you want to leave your brick house in the village with its two mango trees and its view of small hills in the east to come here? So that some day [...] your eldest son can buy two rooms on Mira Road. And the younger one can move beyond that, to New Jersey. Your discomfort is an investment. Like insect colonies, people here will sacrifice their individual pleasures for the greater progress of the family.
The next stop on our journey was Jaipur, also known as 'The Pink City' as it is mandatory for the owners of buildings in Old Town to paint them in the same colour (a tradition dating back to the visit of some royal character centuries ago). Truth be told, the 'pink' was rather an ordinary reddish-brown colour, and if I hadn't known about the uniformity in advance I don't think I would've noticed. Jaipur's most characteristic features were dust, noise and some of the most annoying people I have ever encountered. The beggars were tenacios, the touts more obnoxious than usual, and the rickshaw drivers were impossible. At some point a kid threw rocks at Sigurd S. Even the dogs would, without exeption, bark at us. We did a nice hike around the city fort, though, and had some of the best north Indian food so far.
One curious highlight was the most elaborate and pleasant attempt on a scam I've ever been subjected to. It started out with this kid, fifteen or so, striking up a conversation on the street 'to improve his english'. He was polite and friendly enough, so we didn't mind him tagging along as we strolled the streets of Old Town. He told us about the number one leisure activity in Jaipur, kite-fighting (the Jaipur sky is littered with small kites, the string attached to each of them greased with some substance containing glass. This enables the pilot of the kite to cut the cords of other kites, thereby winning the kitefight), and invited us to try our hands at this sport on the roof of his house. 'Why not', we thought, and went along. Kitefighting was a lot of fun, though we didn't really get the hang of it, and the roof top view of Jaipur was as good as it gets. We had a great time. Still, we sensed that something was afoot when we were invited to have coffee with the kid's big brother, manager of the family's jewellery business. Sure enough, after some friendly small talk (through which he cunningly presented himself as the hard-working and successful entrepreneur victimised by the unreasonable taxes imposed by a corrupt government), the proposal was set forth: We were to transport a large amount of jewellery to Norway on our 'tourist quota', where we would be met by the company's Oslo representative and be richly rewarded for our efforts. All we needed to do was to pay a small amount of money (by visa) as a sign of good faith, since they were entrusting us with highly valuable merchendise. Without doubt, the 'Oslo representative' would never have showed up, the jewellery would have turned out to be fake, and our bank accounts would have been emptied. Needless to say, we firmly but politely declined the offer, and the meeting was adjourned without any drama or hard feelings on either side. On the whole it was an amusing and rather pleasant experience.
Our next destination was Delhi, capital of India. It was a fairly nice city, where one can easily move from the chaotic and cramped Old Delhi to the spacious and western'ish New Delhi. We crashed into a pedestrian while we were in an autorickshaw, but he wasn't badly injured. Beyond that, there isn't much to say about Delhi.
While in Delhi, we did a one-day detour up north to the Corbett Tiger reserve, home of some four hundred tigers. We didn't have the good fortune to spot one (seeing how the driver of the large truck we were in drove like a madman, I think the only way we could've spotted a tiger was if we ran over one). Nevertheless, it was refreshing to spend a day in clear mountain air and the laid-back villages in rural north-India.
From Delhi we completed our tour of the 'golden triangle' as we travelled to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. A mausoleum over the wife of the mogul Shah Raha, the Taj was described on a t-shirt I saw as 'the largest erection over a woman ever'. The monument was both large and magnificent, worthy of its spot as one of the seven wonders. Originally, Shah Raha intended to build an identical mausoleum for himself. Unfortunately he was imprisoned by his son, possibly because the latter found his father's fascination with building massive marble structures to be a bit over the top. Can't really blame him, as the Taj took decades to complete and cost vast sums of money, and I'd say one is surely enough for most purposes. After seeing the Taj and the Agra Fort, we had dinner with Sara and Gaute before catching a train to Varanasi.
Varanasi, home of Shiva, is one of the holiest cities in India. It is situated on the banks of the Ganges, where thousands of people come to wash away their sins and hundreds are cremated every day. Personally, we decided to givethe bathing a miss, upon learning that the Ganges has three thousand times the level of faecal bacteria that is acceptable for humans to swim in. We did go on a rowing boat trip though, which was a peaceful and scenic experience spiced up by the occasional observation of floating human corpses, feasted on by crows and seagulls. As the price of firewood is steep, burners use as little as possible in order to incinerate a human body. Due to this, the funeral pyres are not the large wooden structures one might imagine, but rather medium-sized bonfires, head and feet of the corpse sticking out. Another consequense of the high prices, the expense of burning a body might be too high altogether, in which case the family of the deceased will, evidently, toss the body straight into the river. Varanasi is truly a fascinating place: spiritual, chaotic, holy and utterly mental.
Nevertheless, saturated with the hustle, bustle and hassle (not to mention the immense pollution) of the north-Indian metropolises, it was with a light heart we headed north towards the kingdom of Nepal.
(to be continued)
Sigurd B
The Mississippi, the Ganges, and the Nile,... the Rocky Mountains, the Himmaleh, and Mountains of the Moon, have a kind of personal importance in the annals of the world.
- Henry David Thoreau
fredag 30. november 2007
Bordvik i solnedgang.
Den smilande vakta vår Ashraf.
Fotosession til oppgåva vår om korrupsjon i det indiske politiet (desse koselege karane her er på ingen måte anklaga for å vere korrupte).
Den ultra-valdeleg tradisjonelle Indiske leiken Kabbadi-Kabbadi. Ein slags blanding av kanonball, bryting og kickboksing!
Frykt i Mamallapuram!
Nokre av dei 2400 krokodillene i Crocodille Bank.
Sigurd S. og Babycroc.
Sigurd B. og Babysnake.
Happy Diwali! Fyrverkeri og firecrackers i to dagar til endes. 
Vandring på promenaden i Pondicherry.
Badande kyr i Kochin, Kerala. 
The Backwaters of Kerala.
Tidleg morgon i ei bakgata i Mysore. 
Solnedgang i Arambol, Goa.
Bordvik i Solnedgang.
Maximum City
Greetings from Mumbai!
We've been in the-City-Formerly-Known-as-Bombay for a couple of days now, but I'll start from where I left off in the last blog post: Goa. Goa was sand, sun and fun. We mostly kept to the more or less peaceful places that package tourism has not yet fully conquered, where the backpackers and rooted hippies still reign supreme. Not that they're necessarily any better, some of those guys are ridiculously stereotypical: with their rastafari hairstyles and ragged hippie clothing they're every bit as uniformed as the post-retirement package tourists they so despise. Anyway, we hung out, submitted our exams, went diving for a day (us and diving instructor Luther, sixty-something years of age and smoking every minute above water) and planned our journey northward.
We didn't plan it to well, though. As we approached the counter at a Goa railway station, optimistically requesting some fairly decent tickets, we were mercilessly informed that the only thing available was 'general seating' - what may well be referred to as 'worst class'. "How bad can it be", we reasoned, "on a 12-hour train journey they can't possibly have wooden benches or whatever. Let's just go for it". They could. They had. In fact, the benches were made of iron (literally). Furthermore, the train was absolutely completely full, and even with four or more people on each bench - which leaves about 30 square centimeters per person, people were still spooning on the floor and even standing up for hours. At every stop still more people forced their way in, until the passengers at the doors simply refused to open them. The people trying to get in promptly and repeatedly expressed their frustration over this by banging on all the windows with wooden poles, smashing a few. There were infants, surprisingly quiet but not without smelly bodily functions, there were people shouting and yelling, there were people sleeping ON you, there was a steel bar in the back of my 'seat'. Truly, it was an absolute nightmare. We got no sleep whatsoever, and I still have a back-ache and severe emotional trauma.
The Indians had no trouble sleeping though, and in quite imaginative positions at that. On the bench below me (yes, the benches were in two stories, which meant I couldn't stretch my legs over the edge of my seat) two guys were lying face-to-toe, with another 3 or 4 guys sitting on top of them. Across from them, two men were sharing a single seat, one resting his head in the other one's lap, who in turn rested his upper body on the first guy's back. I don't think they knew each other, either. No wonder they have no concept of personal space in this country. And finally, just to dot the i, some fuck stole my mobile from my bag half an hour before we got to Mumbai.
When we finally arrived, tears of joy and fatigue in our eyes, we checked into the first-best hotel and slept for hours. Since then, it's been a walk in the park. We've been seeing the sights, doing a bit of souvenir shopping, hanging out with Oda, Eva and Sara, and dining at some of the finest locations in India (including a spectacular lunch at the Taj, allegedly one of the most luxurious hotels in the world). One of the more curious establishments we've visited was the Go'Kul, a pub where Indian men go to get hammered. There were only urinals in the restrooms, half of which were filled with vomit. Nothing but charm.
Time for a few more words about Indians, this time on a less positive note (possibly because I'm pretty annoyed about the phone theft thing). Being a tourist, 9 our of 10 people who approach you want something from you. Most of them are pretty up front about it, like beggars, salesmen in street-side shops and taxi drivers. These are fairly easy to deal with, and don't bother me much. The ones who do bother me are the people who pretend to make contact for some other reason: to help, to ask about something or simply to chat. Most of the time, it turns out they're tryin to sell you something or cheat you in some way. A couple of examples: two days ago, this man walks up to us on the street. At first sight he looks like a businessman on his lunch break: he's wearing a suit and tie, talking about the Norwegian economy and business trips to Europe. On a closer look, his trousers are filthy and his tie knot is a mess. So, when after a bit of chit-chat he wants us to get into a car and go 'for a cappucino and a beer', we naturally decline. Most likely he was going to take us to some shop and try to sell us something. Yesterday we saw him in a coffee shop, in the same outfit, approaching some other tourists.
Another example: as we were trying to book train tickets yesterday (which is not easy in this country), two guys who sort of looked like railway employees were suspiciously eager to help. This eagerness diminished somehow when we insisted on going with them to purchase the tickets. In the end, we went to get the tickets ourselves. Sure enough, when we overcame the queues and astonishingly complicated booking system, it turned out that the tickets were half the price of what those guys were trying to get us to pay.
These are of course not very dramatic stories, and the bright side is that I feel extremely safe (in terms of violence) in this country (moreso than even in Bergen). But it's a bit sad, not to mention annoying, that you must assume that anyone who talks to you is trying to cheat you. It's certainly unfair to the - many - people who are actually approaching us with friendly intentions.
And with that outburst of frustration I'll end this overly long blog post. Tomorrow we're heading north to Jaipur, then (roughly) Delhi, Agra, Varanasi, Nepal, Sikkim and Calcutta awaits us. Stay tuned.
Go well, dear friends
Sigurd B
"Indians do not have the same kind of civic sense as, say, Scandinavians. The boundary of the space you keep clean is marked at the end of the space you call your own [...] This absence of a civic sense is [...] the national defect in the Indian character"
- Suketu Mehta in Maximum City - Bombay lost & found
PS: if anyone needs to reach me, my new phone number is +91 9967140177
We've been in the-City-Formerly-Known-as-Bombay for a couple of days now, but I'll start from where I left off in the last blog post: Goa. Goa was sand, sun and fun. We mostly kept to the more or less peaceful places that package tourism has not yet fully conquered, where the backpackers and rooted hippies still reign supreme. Not that they're necessarily any better, some of those guys are ridiculously stereotypical: with their rastafari hairstyles and ragged hippie clothing they're every bit as uniformed as the post-retirement package tourists they so despise. Anyway, we hung out, submitted our exams, went diving for a day (us and diving instructor Luther, sixty-something years of age and smoking every minute above water) and planned our journey northward.
We didn't plan it to well, though. As we approached the counter at a Goa railway station, optimistically requesting some fairly decent tickets, we were mercilessly informed that the only thing available was 'general seating' - what may well be referred to as 'worst class'. "How bad can it be", we reasoned, "on a 12-hour train journey they can't possibly have wooden benches or whatever. Let's just go for it". They could. They had. In fact, the benches were made of iron (literally). Furthermore, the train was absolutely completely full, and even with four or more people on each bench - which leaves about 30 square centimeters per person, people were still spooning on the floor and even standing up for hours. At every stop still more people forced their way in, until the passengers at the doors simply refused to open them. The people trying to get in promptly and repeatedly expressed their frustration over this by banging on all the windows with wooden poles, smashing a few. There were infants, surprisingly quiet but not without smelly bodily functions, there were people shouting and yelling, there were people sleeping ON you, there was a steel bar in the back of my 'seat'. Truly, it was an absolute nightmare. We got no sleep whatsoever, and I still have a back-ache and severe emotional trauma.
The Indians had no trouble sleeping though, and in quite imaginative positions at that. On the bench below me (yes, the benches were in two stories, which meant I couldn't stretch my legs over the edge of my seat) two guys were lying face-to-toe, with another 3 or 4 guys sitting on top of them. Across from them, two men were sharing a single seat, one resting his head in the other one's lap, who in turn rested his upper body on the first guy's back. I don't think they knew each other, either. No wonder they have no concept of personal space in this country. And finally, just to dot the i, some fuck stole my mobile from my bag half an hour before we got to Mumbai.
When we finally arrived, tears of joy and fatigue in our eyes, we checked into the first-best hotel and slept for hours. Since then, it's been a walk in the park. We've been seeing the sights, doing a bit of souvenir shopping, hanging out with Oda, Eva and Sara, and dining at some of the finest locations in India (including a spectacular lunch at the Taj, allegedly one of the most luxurious hotels in the world). One of the more curious establishments we've visited was the Go'Kul, a pub where Indian men go to get hammered. There were only urinals in the restrooms, half of which were filled with vomit. Nothing but charm.
Time for a few more words about Indians, this time on a less positive note (possibly because I'm pretty annoyed about the phone theft thing). Being a tourist, 9 our of 10 people who approach you want something from you. Most of them are pretty up front about it, like beggars, salesmen in street-side shops and taxi drivers. These are fairly easy to deal with, and don't bother me much. The ones who do bother me are the people who pretend to make contact for some other reason: to help, to ask about something or simply to chat. Most of the time, it turns out they're tryin to sell you something or cheat you in some way. A couple of examples: two days ago, this man walks up to us on the street. At first sight he looks like a businessman on his lunch break: he's wearing a suit and tie, talking about the Norwegian economy and business trips to Europe. On a closer look, his trousers are filthy and his tie knot is a mess. So, when after a bit of chit-chat he wants us to get into a car and go 'for a cappucino and a beer', we naturally decline. Most likely he was going to take us to some shop and try to sell us something. Yesterday we saw him in a coffee shop, in the same outfit, approaching some other tourists.
Another example: as we were trying to book train tickets yesterday (which is not easy in this country), two guys who sort of looked like railway employees were suspiciously eager to help. This eagerness diminished somehow when we insisted on going with them to purchase the tickets. In the end, we went to get the tickets ourselves. Sure enough, when we overcame the queues and astonishingly complicated booking system, it turned out that the tickets were half the price of what those guys were trying to get us to pay.
These are of course not very dramatic stories, and the bright side is that I feel extremely safe (in terms of violence) in this country (moreso than even in Bergen). But it's a bit sad, not to mention annoying, that you must assume that anyone who talks to you is trying to cheat you. It's certainly unfair to the - many - people who are actually approaching us with friendly intentions.
And with that outburst of frustration I'll end this overly long blog post. Tomorrow we're heading north to Jaipur, then (roughly) Delhi, Agra, Varanasi, Nepal, Sikkim and Calcutta awaits us. Stay tuned.
Go well, dear friends
Sigurd B
"Indians do not have the same kind of civic sense as, say, Scandinavians. The boundary of the space you keep clean is marked at the end of the space you call your own [...] This absence of a civic sense is [...] the national defect in the Indian character"
- Suketu Mehta in Maximum City - Bombay lost & found
PS: if anyone needs to reach me, my new phone number is +91 9967140177
måndag 19. november 2007
Destroyed by Madness, Starving, Hysterical
... nah, we're just fine. We are, however, as in the title of the Jack Kerouac novel from which this phrase is taken (or was it Ginsberg?), On The Road. And in a very literal sense, too. We left Pondi Tuesday the 13th (making the train by a margin of 11 minutes after an excruciatingly slow bus ride and a hazardously fast rickshaw sprint), and spent 3 out of the first 4 nights on various buses and trains, doing a total of fifty of so hours of traveling. We've been skipping effortlessly between roads more and less traveled by, and had great fun. We have now slowed down a bit, resting and putting the finishing touch on our exams.
The ambitious start of our journey took us, first, to Kochin. Fort Kochin is a nice little city in Kerala, very idyllic and (more or less) known for its tranquil backwaters (on which we did a one-day boat trip, which was very peaceful and charming), its chinese-style fishing nets and for housing the remains of Vasco Da Gama until they were moved to Portugal 14 years after his death. Fascinating, huh? We hung out with Oda and Eva, saw the sights and tried some great Keralan food, including some seafood we bought from the local fishmongers and had a nearby restaurant prepare for us.
After Kochin, we took the night bus to Mysore, which is a small city in the mountains of South India. We spent a day there, visited some temples, a zoo and a palace (we bribed a police man to let us in through the wrong entrance, thereby avoiding to pay the entrance fee. Not bad for two guys who recently wrote a dissertation arguing that police corruption is, indeed, an obstacle to positive peace. Sorry to give away the ending folks, I know most of you were probably planning to read it). The zoo was fun, we got to see some huge tigers and other beasts. Tigers are cool. We then spent a couple of hours waiting for our train, killing time by playing cards (current scores in the disciplines Texas Hold'em, Scrabble, The Idiot and Gin Rummy will be posted now and again). We then managed to get on the wrong train. Luckily, the train was headed in the right direction, and after spending an hour or so at the desolate train station of Hassan (not a place frequently visited by tourists, I imagine), we were back on track.
This train ride brought us to Goa, a tiny state on the west coast, more specifically to Anjuna beach. We have met up with Kjersti, Helle, Kristin and - for a brief but beautiful moment - Lars, and are having a terrific time here. We've even been to an Indian rave, which was strangely amusing, and had numerous meals at the local german bakery (where they serve, among other curiosities, Israeli food).
That's about it for now, I think. We'll be back with photos and more tales of our travels. Go well, ladies and gentlemen, see you soon.
Sigurd B
“In India, I found a race of mortals living upon the Earth, but not adhering to it, inhabiting cities, but not being fixed to them, possessing everything, but possessed by nothing”
- Apollonius Tyanaeus
The ambitious start of our journey took us, first, to Kochin. Fort Kochin is a nice little city in Kerala, very idyllic and (more or less) known for its tranquil backwaters (on which we did a one-day boat trip, which was very peaceful and charming), its chinese-style fishing nets and for housing the remains of Vasco Da Gama until they were moved to Portugal 14 years after his death. Fascinating, huh? We hung out with Oda and Eva, saw the sights and tried some great Keralan food, including some seafood we bought from the local fishmongers and had a nearby restaurant prepare for us.
After Kochin, we took the night bus to Mysore, which is a small city in the mountains of South India. We spent a day there, visited some temples, a zoo and a palace (we bribed a police man to let us in through the wrong entrance, thereby avoiding to pay the entrance fee. Not bad for two guys who recently wrote a dissertation arguing that police corruption is, indeed, an obstacle to positive peace. Sorry to give away the ending folks, I know most of you were probably planning to read it). The zoo was fun, we got to see some huge tigers and other beasts. Tigers are cool. We then spent a couple of hours waiting for our train, killing time by playing cards (current scores in the disciplines Texas Hold'em, Scrabble, The Idiot and Gin Rummy will be posted now and again). We then managed to get on the wrong train. Luckily, the train was headed in the right direction, and after spending an hour or so at the desolate train station of Hassan (not a place frequently visited by tourists, I imagine), we were back on track.
This train ride brought us to Goa, a tiny state on the west coast, more specifically to Anjuna beach. We have met up with Kjersti, Helle, Kristin and - for a brief but beautiful moment - Lars, and are having a terrific time here. We've even been to an Indian rave, which was strangely amusing, and had numerous meals at the local german bakery (where they serve, among other curiosities, Israeli food).
That's about it for now, I think. We'll be back with photos and more tales of our travels. Go well, ladies and gentlemen, see you soon.
Sigurd B
“In India, I found a race of mortals living upon the Earth, but not adhering to it, inhabiting cities, but not being fixed to them, possessing everything, but possessed by nothing”
- Apollonius Tyanaeus
måndag 5. november 2007
Crossroads
This one's mainly dedicated to our new friends who have now, for the most part, left Pondi. The last couple of weeks have been dominated by frantic working to finish our group assignments (which we did, and quite smoothly at that) and almost equally frantic socialising. A dozen farewell dinners, -parties, -lunches, -volleyball tournaments (we lost miserably to the local heroes) and other events later, only a small group of people are left. For our part, we'll be around for another week or so to write our exams, then we embark on our two-month journey around India. At this point I'm certain our blog posts will become far more action-packed, so stay tuned.
For now, I settle for saying that my - and I'm sure I also speak for Sigurd S - life in Pondi has been a curious and terrific one, largely because of the people we've met and friends we've made. I hope you all feel the same way, that you will think of this semester as a time when we were young, when we would lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we could see. Cheers, ye Princes and Princesses of Pondi, I hope to see you all again.
Sigurd B
- whistling Eventyret om en melodi
"We owe a lot to the Indians"
Albert Einstein
For now, I settle for saying that my - and I'm sure I also speak for Sigurd S - life in Pondi has been a curious and terrific one, largely because of the people we've met and friends we've made. I hope you all feel the same way, that you will think of this semester as a time when we were young, when we would lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we could see. Cheers, ye Princes and Princesses of Pondi, I hope to see you all again.
Sigurd B
- whistling Eventyret om en melodi
"We owe a lot to the Indians"
Albert Einstein
torsdag 18. oktober 2007
Elefantar og fjell...
Stolt Sigurd på elefantryggen.
Chai-chaps!
Jesu Brothers i Thanjavour.
Ballett på fjellet: Sigurd viser stolt fram quiz-premien sin, ein grå stillongs.
Bålkos på fjellet!
Veldig fint: Kodaikanal.
Cafèbesøk på høgfjellet.
Hipp hurra, nesten som heime!
Eit lite knippe av India sine 200 millionar kyr.
Oppnedbading i ei elv på fjellet. Kaldt, men forfriskande.
Heile turgjengen!
To av 400.000 indarar (og 30 nordmenn) som var med på måneskinstur i Tiruvannamalai.
Pondycherry er stolt av byen sin: Beauty is our city!
Medan nokon arbeidar med å fiske frå ein slags planke, slappar andre av.
Studiesenteret vårt. Hengekøyer og plankebåtar om kvarandre.
Klassebilde med førelesaren vår, Yajadeva (eller var det Jayadeva?) frå Sri Lanka.
Rickshawsjåfør med blodsprengde auger i Chennai.
Ein liten tilbakeståande gut og den sinte broren hans.
Offameg, pass dåke for han her...
Skulejenter sett frå sykkelsetet.
Sigurdane viser fram dei fine syklane sine.
Ein kommunsitgarasje på veg til skulen, og ein sveitt, veldig rar mann.
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