A Disfunctional Diary of INDIA - Varinasi: Day 6

Backpacking through India is a lot like consuming a high powered hallucinogenic; you see things beyond reality, you question the definition of sanity, and you go through a phase of puking. It's inevitable. Everyone who travels here will be sick at some point in the journey. My day was today. A 5:30AM wake up in a cold sweat lead me up to the rooftop of the guest house to capture the sun emerging between two buildings. That was the highlight of the day. Then it was back downstairs for heavy breathing, dry heaving and toilet grieving. I acted quickly, knowing there was only one shared wash room, and I couldn't live in it, so I grabbed a bucket and locked myself in my room for the massacre. I should've grabbed two buckets. Mr. Bohlu's mom was ready with water and a pack of electrolytes. She also hooked me up with some traditional home remedies. This is one of the great benefits of staying at a family guest house.
After every 'session'  in my bucket I laid back on the bed and absorbed my surroundings. All four walls were decorated with framed pictures of deceased family members and Indian gods like Vishnu, Ganesh and Shiva, all staring down at me, offering comfort and encouragement.

Read Day 7

A Disfunctional Diary of INDIA - Varinasi: Day 5

Varinasi is known as the Holy city of India. It runs along the Ganges River, which is where people from all over the country are taken to be burned when they're dead. The Ganges serves as a river of redemption, where all sins and fucks ups are washed away by bathing in the disease infested water. The bodies of the lepers and children under 10 apparently don't burn so well, so they are sunk in the bottom of the river.  It is by no means a tourist destination and those who go there are lucky to get in n' out without getting sick. After learning all this we decided to stay only 3 days and move on.
Our train rolled in two hours late as the sun was reaching it's boiling point. After some loose altercations with a crooked tuk-tuk driver, we met a Nepali man who walked us 40 minutes into the old city, right to the doorstep of the Uma Guest House, which would have been virtually impossible to find. The old city of Varinasi has only a few main roads. The rest are narrow stone walking paths, set up like a labrynth. There were huge bulls around every corner. The cows in India do whatever the hell they please and are free to roam because they are considered a sacred animal. People touch them and say prayers and bless themselves with the beast's tail, and in return we are given land mines of dung to slip in day n' night.
Then there's the monkeys. Varinasi is their playground and if you try to obstruct their fun you'll get bit. If this happens you'll need to go to the hospital for nine shots in your belly (or so the rumour goes). They are also notorious for stealing from your room and dropping dookie bombs from above.
The Uma Guest House was one of the oldest buildings in the old city. It was a family guest house that dated back all the way to the 1800's. The owner, Mr. Bohlu was the 4th generation of men to run the business. He was proud to introduce us to Avi, the new born son - generation 5. The reason we chose the guest house was because it was connected to a small school where we could volunteer. We were quite lucky and got the last three rooms for 150 rupess each (under $4.00). We got back out into the labrynth to look for some other places we'd heard of. In terms of beggars and shady merchants, it was was one of the worst places I'd seen. They were so bold in their attempted schemes that it insulted my intelligence and pissed me off.
Later, down by the Ganges river we watched the bodies burn while we talked with an informative Indian fellow who explained that the majority of the locals didn't like foreigners in their "funeral house", which I could understand.
The day was long. When the sun went down we three J's reformed to go find a good restaurant and damn near walked ourselves out of the old city before we found a little place with a good price. Then we strolled through a market area and sampled a variety of crazy snacks that we probably shouldn't have. When I got back to my room, Mr. Bohlu's mom, Uma asked me where I ate and when I told her she said two words; "uh-oh"


Read Day 6

A Disfunctional Diary of INDIA - Kolkata: Day 4

Jon and I had plans to meet up with Ashish again today and go over some details of a potentially awesome road trip to the North East. We made it as far as the south side mall and overindulged in Subway and ice-cream. Subway has some crazy sauces here, like mint mayonnaise. Once again, getting hold of Ashish was a problem and we ran out of time before we could meet him so we took a hot taxi ride back to Sudder Street, picked up our bags and said fair well to the boys at the tea shop before we headed for the train station. It was a 15 minute walk and 4 rupee ferry boat ride across the water. Howrah train station was like a condensed version of the city- complete pandemonium. Very entertaining for us, who got there three hours early and sat in the cafeteria, eating veg wraps and watching the people move. Jonny said it best; There is no order in India.
We were staying in the sleeper car of the train. We'd been told by a few sources that it was smelly and that rats n' roaches were also frequent passengers. But all three of us found it to be pretty alright. There were lots of funny food vendors that walked up n' down the aisles and a guy with a gruff cartoonish voice that walked from the front to the back of the train selling "Chai, chai, chai" for the entire 14 hour duration of the ride. It's been said that India changes in one form or another every 100km, and as the train pushed hard to the north we began to notice a difference in the simplicity of life between the two major cities. I set up by the open window, put the music in my ear and let it run.


Read Day 5

A Disfunctional Diary of INDIA - Kolkata: Day 3

Today was Sunday, the day of rest, celebrated more literally and erratically in India than most other countries. There was nothing religious about it that I could see. It was simply a day where nobody did a damn thing but drink and sleep, which was too bad for us 'cause we were on the prowl for some new food to try and something interesting to do. But nothing was cookin'. Not even our go-to tea hang out on the corner. As I walked by it, our new friend Acter popped his head out the back seat window of his car. He was glossy eyed and full of joy. "Come inside" he said. "Today we are drinking." I laughed my ass off at him as if I'd known him for years. "No thanks, my friend. I'm going for water first."
"Have that also. We have everything in here." He passed a cold bottle out to me and I drank it Indian style (the bottle must never touch the lips). I thanked him and told him we were going for breakfast and he wished me good luck and rolled up the tinted window.
After we located a restaurant that was open we called up our couchsurfing friend contact Ashish, who was supposed to show us around town for the day. But after three calls and no response it was now almost noon, so we took to walking down streets we hadn't ventured yet. We eventually found the famous mission and resting place of Mother Theresa, which was both educational and honourable. The lady lived and worked in the heat of a depraved city for over 47 years without a fan. Every time I'm about to complain about the weather I remind myself of that.
On our way back to Sudder Street, I took a different road to myself and ran into "Maaah", the deaf guy who worked at the corner tea shop. He was so excited to see me he started screaming. We ended up sharing 2 big Kingfisher beers and communicating through hand signs and by drawing in the dirt. We walked back to the corner tea spot to find Acter and Danni, the tea shop cook, completely passed out on the makeshift benches of flat stone. A young stray dog came up and began licking Acter's face until it was coated in a thin layer of clear slime. Shortly after, the Swedish couple from the previous night arrived and "Maaah" invited us to go smoke his chillum, so we did. It was then that a cat scratched my leg and I freaked out a bit, but I was in too good of a mood for the worry to last. Jon found me on the street and told me that he'd finally got in touch with Ashish and we were on our way to meet him. We caught a cab to the south side and he picked us up at a mall and then made two stops - one for beer, one for food. We took it back to his house and hung out side on his rooftop lounge, complete with trippy Indian tunes, and a full moon lighting everything. Ashish struck me as a well-read cat, who had travelled and fallen in love with his own country. He was proud of it for his own discovered reasons, not from being brainwashed. There is a glaring difference that I respect between that and patriotism. He seemed smarter than most other Indians I'd met so far.
We drank and ate and learned a lot, then smoked some fine charas before he took us home by way of the scenic route.
Despite how tired I was, I stayed up and and chatted with a threesome of Swedes in the common area of the guest house. One of them was a girl with a perfect tan, wearing nothing but a long tank-top, no bra. As we traded advice and travel stories about Thailand and India I pondered which one of the ugly dimwits was her boyfriend. Then he stood up, passed me a poorly rolled joint and introduced himself, shaking my hand with the same familiar grip and eye contact that I used to give motherfuckers for 6 years. I miss being so lucky, and knowing it.

Read Day 4

A Disfunctional Diary of INDIA - Kolkata: Day 2

We bailed on our guest house and relocated to a sweet communal place with a room on the rooftop, and so much character. The bed I was in last night had bugs in that fucked my night up. I read a lot and changed beds twice. Good news is I left the bugs there. They did not come with me.
The first order of business today was to find a bank and get money, which proved to be harder than I imagined. Jon was out getting a henna tattoo so Justin n' I walked around and found some cheap street food. We've all made the decision to be vegetarians here in India, because you just can't trust the meat. We met Jon walking with two kind Indian ladies who had him by both hands ushering him to an NGO, so we went along. What followed was a long-ass walk-about through the city of Kolkata. The good Doctor at the NGO was out for a long lunch so we went to the train station to book tickets to Varinasi.
The night completely unloaded a dump-truck of culture shock on us. I'm still buzzing from it. For the first time since I started traveling, I really felt out of my comfort zone in a righteous way. Being tired from walking all day, we laid off the booze and went for chai and a huge plate of ginger and garlic noodles at the corner tea shop, where people meet and things happen. And something happened; we got invited to a marijuana party that was part of a religious festival that went until 4 in the morning. The good man's name was Acter and it didn't take very long to realize that he was a known name in the west side of Kolkata. There was a small group of us sitting around choppin' it up with him- a Nepali dude with a Spanish girlfriend, a Swedish couple and us. Acter told us proudly that smoking marijuana was part of the many slices of the religious pie in India. The festival that we were going to was very important and over 5,000 people were attending. What he didn't mention was that it was a predominantly Muslim crowd of dudes who were not used to foreigners, especially with woman at their special event. Getting in was no problem. At that point everything seemed exciting. We all sat down on big blanket and met Acter's "Students", 2 guys around our age dressed in very traditional Indian clothing. I asked Acter what he taught and he responded by saying "I am a teacher of Life." His students nodded as we shook hands with more of his friends who joined us in a circle around the blanket. I learned fast that it was fairly important to always keep the circle closed. Acter had a large crew. Every one of them brought their own grass and began to engage in a somewhat ceremonial method of breaking up the weed and then using a small cap-full of water to work it within their hands. It was like watching a dance, complete with clapping and twitchy finger movements. Then they packed it into a chillum and gave it to Acter who hit it like a fuckin' champ. The chillum went around in steady rotation and of course, we got stoned and I had to go take a deuce in the woods. Acter asked if I needed any help from one of his students and I declined. I feel I've mastered the art of shitting in the woods for quite some time now and I didn't need a guide to walk me there. I was confidently stoned. The chillum kept going around with only small breaks for water and tea drinking out of small hand-made cups of clay that are traditionally smashed and left on the ground after wards. You'll find them all over the streets of Kolkata. The whole group of us outsiders had the same question: "Why do you smash the cups? Why don't you wash them and use them again?" To which Acter replied: "Because we are rich. This keeps people working and making more cups." The night progressed and more n' more people came in and out of the circle to smoke while a crowd of hypnotized  looking Indians would gather round and stare hard, unreadable stares until Acter would say something in Hindi and stare back and then they would scatter like mice. It was very strange and the general impression on me was that they were almost as uncomfortable as I was. Acter sensed it in all of us and explained that they were "entertained by our difference." He demonstrated his seniority of the people many times by short words and facial expressions. But as soon as one group was shooed away, another would collect and approach. There were friendly ones that shook our hands and said hello, but the majority just stared hard. It was a hell of a time to be really high, but I got the hang of it and only hesitated once when I was offered a cow's liver with naan bread. First and last time on that snack.
The only moment of heavy sweating was when three elders walked by dressed in white clothing with scarves that made them look important. Only one of them said something said something low under his breath and Acter didn't look up and stare back or say much at all. They passed by at an eerily slow pace while my brain sped up and began sorting through the files of every crazy thing I'd heard or read or been fed about Muslims. It became a battle between conscience and imagination. When the Swedish couple headed to the woods to pee together there was a mild roar of voices from every direction. Acter stood up instantly and scoured. Things calmed down and he directed one of his students to take them to a better place. When they finally returned after 40 minutes, they told us that the guy took them to his own house to use his clean toilet.
The crowd got bigger around us and the clock struck twelve. The 6 of us felt it was time to go so Acter made a call and had a car waiting for us outside. All we had to do was make it through the masses, walking like a tight line of kindergarten kids. The car was too small for 6 people. Including the 2 students we had 8. Five in the back, three in the front. We wedged in before we noticed that the car was stuck in between a fleet of motorbikes. It took 5 minutes to move them to make enough room to thread the car backwards. As soon as we got out onto the road the Nepali dude turned to me and said "This guy is the best driver" and then smiled an illegal smile. What followed was, as of now, the craziest drive of my life. Instead of taking the main street straight back to our guest house, he chose the narrowest, bumpiest, dog inhabited streets in the city. The first few streets were surprisingly alive with young kids playing cricket. There were so many people of all ages out there it was hard to believe that it was almost 1am. The driver (student #1) kept the peddle down pretty well and laid the horn on like a machine gun. Every other speed bump the car would bottom out and scrape it's belly on the ground. The Spanish girl was so overwhelmed, she kept saying "oops, oops!", every time we almost hit a dog or went head on into the the bright lights of another car. There were many close calls, but at that point, the whole experience of the night was sinking in and I was thankful and collected, already beginning to write the memories in my head.


Read Day 3

A Disfunctional Diary of INDIA - Kolkata: Day 1

An easy 3 hour plane ride from Bangkok to Kolkata. During our journey through the North of Thailand we had run into a thick bearded cat named Justin from Georgia on different occasions in different places. As life would have it, he ended up on our plane to India. We spared no time in exiting the airport and getting ourselves out into the streets- hotter, busier and louder than Thailand. We hopped on a bus to Sudder Street, where guest houses our plenty. Walked around for a while looking for the best deal in the grittiest guest house and breathing in the new culture. The city was exploding with life on all levels. Traffic was fucking insane. People use their horns more excessively than any other country I've been to. The vibe flips like a coin from peace to madness and back again.
 We finally settled on a forth floor dorm room house with at least 21 bunk-beds rammed together. I struck up an instant conversation with an old Swiss Jazz man who seemed down on his luck but was still crackin' jokes about the golden age. He had done it all, and had the photos to prove it. He enjoyed talking and I couldn't blame em' so I listened and laughed as much as I could.
Jon, Justin and I (Triple J) went out for food and met some other travelers at a small tea shop on the corner. I knew right away I would visit this spot every day as long as I was in the city. It was run by two young dudes, one of them deaf and very eccentric. Happier than most people with ears that work.
It was at this tea shop that I also met Chris, a 32 year old rock climber from California (most likely Humboldt). We only chatted for a short amount of time but the cat inspired me. He had the confidence of a man who knew his niche in life. He had taken the risks and opened as many doors as possible to do it, and now it seemed I was talking to a very centered and certain person who had things figured out pretty well.
The sky threatened a storm so we returned to our room and took a needed rest. In the evening the three of us went out looking for a drink. The difference of night and day in India is quite significant in terms of street activity and overall ethics. It was much less chaotic, but the individuals still out there were either looking for or offering drugs, woman or rides to clubs. After 3 tall Kingfisher beers each at a dimly lit tavern, we struck up a deal with a taxi driver who said he could take us to a place with cheap beer and girls. But he must have thought we said cheap girls and beer because he took us to an apartment where 3 middle aged Indian woman presented themselves proudly with hands on hips.  When we explained our request further he said "Yes, yes, here are the girls, now how many beers are you wanting?" It took a while to get outta there but eventually we were back in the taxi, cruising while sharing beers and smoke before pulling the curtain on our first night in city with seemingly no limits.



Read Day 2

Take it Back / Push it Forward (a flashback)

December 31st, 2002.
99 Days on the road.

Last night we rolled into Pasadena. It must have been around 7:00pm when we hit the heart of the city, and despite the fact that I hardly ever take the wheel of this beast, I was tired as hell.
I was thinking back on the conversation I'd had with my Dad over the phone before we left the three million dollar flop house that Flanny's Aunt n' Uncle had bestowed us with for Christmas in the Pacific Palisades. I asked him if he had any suggestions on where we should go for New Years and he recommended Pasadena, for the annual Rose Bowl Parade was happening the next day. We didn't have any other ideas so off we went.
What we saw upon entering the city was too much of a sight to describe justifiably. The streets were overflowing with people... all kinds of people, from families to thugs, white color to blue. All walks of life were present and accounted for. We found a lucky spot to park n' stay the night and then took to the streets to walk amongst the Americans. It didn't take us too long to grab our supplies for the evening's event; A 40 of rum, a mickey of the infamous Black Velvet, a pack of cigars, and a 99 cent big-ass polish sausage, which I ate raw with Mr. Noodles for dinner.
We didn't mingle with the street crowd for very long. We had devised our own agenda. We hopped back into the motor-home and I set up the video camera while Matty and Flan started writing down the names of all our boys back home. There was about 30 in total, so the math worked out like this; we each did a shot for 3 friends at a time, every 13 minutes until the clock struck midnight. No chasers either.
I really don't remember when we started, but I do remember finishing. And by the end of the night were three proud and extremely drunk individuals. With only a small hand-full of minutes until the ball dropped, we jumped out of the motor-home and got immediately separated amongst the mob mentality crowd. I ran up n' down the streets with the video camera, going ape-shit with everyone else. I actually started the countdown on the one side of the street. Everyone was in banner spirits, and it didn't shake me at all that I had no idea where Matt n' Flanny were.
Not long after that, the lights went out in my head and only the playback on the video camera would give us some vague answers the next day.


January 1st, 2003.
100 days on the road.

I woke up in my own piss today. No biggy, except that there are three beds in the motor-home, and we alternate almost every night because they differ in size and comfort. Damned if I wasn't sleeping in the best one. My mind was bombarded with so much happiness when I woke to find that we had all made it back alive, that I really couldn't care less about my mishap. Plus I'm quite certain that Flan already beat me to the punch on this one.
We all seemed to spring to life at the same time, and there was so much going on outside it took a while to sink in. Brand new day, brand new year. Three tight friends at the Rose Bowl Parade with once-in-a-lifetime hangovers. The door to the motor-home swung open and we slowly exited, letting our fragile eyes adjust to omnipresent sun.  Three stealth bombers zoomed by overhead of us in a deafening noise that stirred our headaches like can of rotten fruit. I was happy to see them for the first time but I have no idea how those things can be called 'stealth.'
Out on the street things were booming with even more life than the night before and in our careless mentality, we walked into the middle of the road and lied down in a circle to make our presence known. It wasn't a conscious decision on anyone's part either. I think we all just wanted to be in the heart of all the excitement. We didn't talk much and we didn't need to. I've noticed that the communication patterns of my buddies and I are always on point when we're forced to share the burden/blessing of a hangover. There was definitely a shared feeling of re-birth circulating amongst this massive crowd, and for a good 10 minutes there, nobody had a problem with anybody. Too bad every day can't share the magic of January 1st.
A couple people came by and took pictures of us lying out there on the street, and then we were finally told to get up because the parade was on it's way. It turned out to be awesome, much like any other parade, except bigger, longer and better. Bill Cosby and Mr. Rogers were the grand marshals. I doubt I'll ever see a parade like that again.
Later on, in the midst of it all, I had an embarrassing "only you" kind of moment. Well, it was more than a moment, and I'm funk dubious to write about it so I've decided not to. I can tell it better in person.
The parade was winding down. It was time to leave Pasadena and move on up the P.C.H to find 'Sharkey's', the tattoo studio of Opie Ortiz- the man who was responsible for all of Sublime's album artwork and tattoos, of course. We had a clearly drawn out mission for the remainder of the day. But it wasn't going to be easy. Our hangovers had kicked into a new gear, and getting out of town was a lot more challenging than we had ever imagined. We forgot to consider the rest of the parade traffic. I don't know how long it took us to get on the highway, but it got to the point where we were all babbling incoherently, with a healthy mix of laughter and Buju Banton tunes. Truly a beautiful day.
Finally, we arrived in Sunset Beach to find it was basically just a main drag on the side of the highway.
With oblivious luck we pulled off and parked in front of a small shop that turned out to be Sharky's. Good news- we found it with no problem. Bad news- it was closed. But we were already stoked and  motivated to get our first tattoos. We saw that right across the street was another parlor called 'American Beauty' so we stumbled over to get some ideas and decide how long we were going to stay in town until we found Opie. We walked in to the sound of wild, underground hip-hop. The shop was small but impressive looking. There was burnt out looking dude, prepping another guy for a tattoo and an intimidating mexican working vigorously on a sketch pad in front of us. He stood up and smiled as he walked to the back of the room. He had no front teeth. It was the man himself, Opie Ortiz.
A few hours later we were hot-boxing his washroom.