Fez, Morocco

I’m on a local bus bouncing and swaying back to Marrakech right now, but I think I left you on my way to Fez, so let’s backtrack a bit, shall we?

. . .

We arrive in Fez and are greeted by the government guide we had arranged for. The medina in Fez is large and guarantees you’ll be lost for days if you go it alone. About 250,000 people live within the 9th century walls, and there are over 9000 narrow lanes and alleyways, most unmarked and looking just like the last. Our guide takes us to a riad that is within our price range. Fatima and her daughter Khadiva run the business. They’ve converted their home to a guest house, living on the bottom floor while guests stay in the next three floors in tidy rooms situated around a communal area and open column. Fatima’s husband died a few years ago and Khadiva is in school, so they’ve worked out a way to make ends meet while providing a comfortable and homey place for travelers.

We go to the king’s palace, the large brass doors and blue mosaic tiles are illuminated beautifully at dusk. We walk through the old jewish quarter, stopping to sample dates and almonds, buying a bag for the next day’s snack. We hurry back to our riad before it gets too dark and enjoy dinner of couscous and veggies that Fatima has prepared. She wanted to use her best dish to welcome us, which was a very kind gesture, however it was about two feet in diameter and contained probably five pounds of 

vegetable couscous, and this came after our soup and salad. We do the best we can, which barely makes a dent, and ask her to keep it for us for tomorrow. 

. . .

Now, if you’ve ever traveled abroad, you’ve probably experienced interrupted sleep for one reason or another, be it the roosters in Central America, the endless jackhammers throughout Asia, or the rowdy Aussies everywhere (just kidding, I love Australians). If you haven’t traveled to a Muslim country you might consider these fairly annoying little wake up calls. However I assure you, roosters and jackhammers don’t hold a candle to what it’s like to be jolted from your very merry dreams at 5am for the morning call to prayer. I’m not exactly sure who regulates the time at which they sound, or the length they’ll run, but it’s usually a little different for every town. Now this particular medina we’re staying in has dozens of neighborhoods, and each neighborhood has five public buildings and services, a water fountain, bakery, hammam (bath house), school, and yes, a mosque. I now advise you, while choosing accommodation in Muslim communities, if you value your sleep and sanity, please take note of the nearest mosque. We had arrived tired and not thinking clearly and had overlooked this very important detail. I am awoken by the local mosque which is directly next door, the loudspeaker not more than ten feet from our screened window. And whomever is in charge of the length of this particular call to prayer does not believe in brevity. They do however, appreciate the anticipation a lengthy pause can create, and I’m toyed with for 45 minutes as the prayer sounds for several minutes, followed by a minute of silence and then is resumed with newfound vigor and volume. I feel the need to warn you of this not-so-small nuisance because I also happen to be an avid wearer of earplugs when I sleep, and there is not a pair on this earth that can save you if you’ve failed to notice the mosque next door. 

. . . 

After catching a few hours of sleep we get up early and eager for our day. Fatima serves us crepes, olives, cheese and fresh apricot jam for breakfast. Our guide meets us and we head out to explore the leather tanneries that have been producing much of the leather in Morocco for the past nine centuries. The 250 family cooperative comprises one of the largest tanneries in the world and the process has not changed much in hundreds of years, and I assume, neither has the smell. I am given a sprig of mint to hold under my nose as I look down at the dying vats full of hides from our perch on a rooftop above; the mint does little to mask the horrid smell. We’re told that in the summer months it is much worse, hence I also advise you to not travel to Fez during this time; I honestly don’t know if the unaccustomed human could survive it for more than a minute, honestly. 

Nonetheless it is quite something to behold such a timeless process and I leave with a newfound appreciation for how leather is procured. We’re also told that the animals are killed primarily for food, harvesting the soft hide is a useful byproduct of getting to the tender baby goat meat....awe shucks, they really know how to make a vegetarian feel good about purchasing baby skins. 

Medina life has not changed too drastically since the walls were erected. Men yell Balak, balak! (watch out) as they push carts of various herbs and goods, while mules silently carry heavier loads along the uneven cobblestones. You can peer into the low-ceilinged workspace of craftsmen making wooden furniture and sewing by hand the traditional male garment, a jilbab, which is a long cloak with a large pointed hood....let’s just say you wouldn’t be buying one in white and wearing it back in the States. Stalls of fruits and vegetables line the wider passageways, where you can buy a bag full of produce for two bucks. We walk through the meat district. They keep the chickens alive until someone orders a slaughter and the butcher’s stall has no sign on it, just a freshly severed cow head hanging over the door, still oozing with it’s enormous tongue out to one side. And past the University of al-Karaouine, founded in 859 it is the oldest university in the world and still one of the premier spiritual and educational centers of the Muslim world.

After a day wandering the medina, my senses are completely shocked; Fatima’s leftover couscous couldn’t taste any better. We enjoy it on the rooftop terrace as the sun sets and warms the red mud walls and roofs surrounding us. The hills in the distance are dotted with plots of color, the dyed hides left out to dry for days in the sun. The real beauty of the medina is found in its quiet. No cars, horns or sirens. Just the very real noises of children shrieking, hooves on stone, men storytelling and alas, the covered women whom navigate their daily lives very much like a hushed whisper. 

. . .

We board a train for Marrakech in the morning, it’s an eight hour journey. Flocks of sheep graze next to the tracks, their tails still in tact, the young ones clean and white, looking awfully cute. A river winds next to us, rushing water pushes around the boulders. I stand at the window between cars to take it all in. Just as I start to daydream that I am traveling quickly back through time, I notice the sheep herder is on his cell phone and the satellite dish on the roof of the mud home; still very much in the 21st century.

Salaam Morocco!

Well, well, well, where do I start?! How about the first of the year! 

We left Paris for Tangier, Morocco, flying Europe’s budget airline, RyanAir. And by budget I mean they’ll squeeze every extra dime out of your overstuffed carry-on bag and have the gull to offer sleep deprived, New Years day travelers $15 shots of 5hr energy drinks. Also take note,  if you ever find yourself in the mother of all pickles, the kind that requires you to hi-jack a passenger plane, do it here, where the lifeless ticket agents are also security screeners and stewardess’ too!!! 

Despite the deck being stacked agains us, we did actually make it. Upon arrival we couldn’t face another big city right away, so opted to take a grand taxi (which is an old 1980’s mercedes 240D) to Assilah, a sleepy beach town 45km south of Tangier. As we swerved past donkey carts and old Honda motorbikes, cruising down the coastal highway, the rush hit. It’s the feeling you get of having absolutely no idea where you’re going, what you’re doing, and how the hell your driver is going to clear this black-smoke sputtering chicken bus before he has a head-on with the lumber truck whose lane you are very much in right now. Ah yes, the good rush.

. . .

For a first introduction to Morocco, Assilah is a perfectly civil, easy-going place. Our taxi drops us at the gate to the medina. The medina is the old, walled section of each city in Morocco, many have foundations that date back over 1000 years. We are immediately overtaken by the town tout, unofficial guide, who will take you wherever you need to go for a few dirhams, but only after trying to talk you into whichever hotel pays him the most. We’d be utterly lost without his guidance though, and follow him through tight alleyways, past herds of feral cats and restauranteurs beaconing our business. Arriving at our chosen hotel, our tout disapproves (he must not be in on their cut) and assures us that this is where the sluts go after the disco; perfect, I brought earplugs for that. 

I’m pleasantly surprised by the weather, I’d expected it to be a bit more chilly, but days are in the 60’s, although the nights are still cold. We have vegetable couscous, pickled beets and moroccan soup; a delicious, garbanzo broth with a couple bits of spaghetti noodles waiting at the bottom. We can’t see the sunset from this side of the red-mud medina wall, but the swaying palm trees and carts of sticky sweets make up for it. 

Dumb luck must be traveling with us, because the first shop we stop in happens to be owned by perhaps the sweetest and most mild man in all of Morocco, Omar. And wouldn’t you know, it’s a carpet shop, just what Courtney and I came here for. Now I’m not being sarcastic; those of you who don’t know what we’re up to, the short story is that we’re traveling the world for the next couple of months buying up everything that strikes our fancy for our little pipe dream, an international home decor and design store called Delyea Navone. I can’t give you too many details, the cat’s still kind-of in the bag, but after several glasses of sugary mint tea, the only beverage in Morocco, and hours of oh-ing and awe-ing, we’d made our decisions and sat in front of a stack of carpets bound for the US.

We spent the next day wandering around the medina. Green doors indicate a mosque, while most doors to homes are painted in various shades of blue and turquoise, in perfect contrast to the white stuccoed walls. Away from the main square area, where all the life is happening, it’s a quiet mosaic maze. Pairs of women disappear silently around corners, leaving the faintest impression of a bright purple or leopard print head-scarf. Climb a set of stairs and you’re looking across the Atlantic; fishermen dangle their lines thirty feet to the gentle surf below.

. . .

Back in Tangier we hire a taxi to take us to Cap Spartel, where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic. We stop along the way to play tourist and have a quick camel ride. It was worth it just to see the three babies misbehave and run away from their handler; grace was not granted these lanky, knobby animals, or at least not in the early years. Tangiers is big, loud and pulsing with tourism, not quite our scene and I’m glad to soon be on a train headed south for Fez. 

Happy New Year's Paris!

Hello All! I’m writing on a train from Tangiers to Fez, Morocco. It’s Friday afternoon and it was t-shirt weather when we left the hotel at 10am this morning! 310 dirhams (about $40USD) bought us two first class births for the four and a half hour journey. The climate is mild here, so we’re passing fields of citrus, olive trees, rows of cyprus, pines, yucca and cactus. It appears a mix between parts of Turkey and Mexico; cold nights and warm, sunny days. We’re headed to Fez to explore the leather tanneries and government carpet cooperative....oh my the treasures we will find! But more on that later, let’s go back to Paris...

As the plane descends and the countryside comes peeking through the clouds, I see the rows of poplars sheltering homes of white stuccoed walls and red tiled roofs. There are fields and fields of patch-work green and brown churned soil; yes, France on first impression appears just as it should. 

Paris is a lovely city. As instructed, I arrive at the Notre Dame metro station and take the escalator up. You would think that I’d have expected to see Notre Dame standing right before me, hence the name of the station, but I hadn’t, and so stand drop-jawed, amazed to be face to face with such an iconic and unfathomable building. I gather my bearings and take off in the direction of Courtney and her dad, Mike’s, hotel. I stop though, and turn around and go the opposite way, I decide again that I must be heading in the wrong direction finally ask directions twice and am pointed along the right street...I couldn’t be been happier to be lost within my first two minutes in the city! Before I reach the hotel I am surprised on the street by Courtney and Mike, who’d been waiting at a nearby cafe. 

We walk for days; to Montemartre and the Basilica of the Sacre Coure for mould wine, to the Champs d-Eulyses for a ferris wheel ride and bird’s eye view on the Eiffel Tower and Arch d’Triumph, and back to the Latin Quarter for four cheese fondu. Courtney and I explore the museum d’Orsay, which was once a train station, but now houses Monet, Van Gogh, Latrec, Rouseau, and many, many more. We peer out of the enormous clock face at the top of the building at the quick, brown Seine below and bustling Paris beyond. 

When hungry we stop for a baguette with either brie or chevre. If thirsty, wine is cheaper than water. We go to Notre Dame at night, when the crowds are thin, and just watch, sit, and marvel over the cathedral. 

We are joined by Courtney’s brother, Justin, and friend Shayla and move across the river to a studio apartment. We visit Notre Dame again, but this time went in. I could barely put one foot in front of the other; to be in the midst of such a vast and impeccably executed space, I can only imagine it’s like seeing snow fall for the first time. Maybe that’s how the Church does it, they shock the heck out of you and leave you so awe-inspired that you feel like you’ve seen something greater than yourself. But each stone and piece of colored glass was lain by man, yet the sum of all the parts add up to something equalling that of a religious experience.

The Louvre certainly isn’t nothing, and at night, the modern glass pyramid glows like a beacon in stark contrast to the centuries old, statue lined buildings surrounding it. You can sneak a peek through the windows at the painted ceiling and grand archways, among which lies the most fabulous collection of artwork that has ever been compiled. It is good to live in a society that values art in such a way. 

On New Year’s Eve we go to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery, seeing the sites of Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison. The weather has turned cold and we are glad for our hats and scarves. We enjoy a great dinner at a Chinese restaurant and make our way down to the Eiffel tower. I am a firm believer that it’s best to see the sights at night, when the crowds have gone home and the lights are lit. Tonight, as expected, the lights are lit, but the crowd is also thick, and there are shouts of merriment and well wishes from all around. The tower is of course something to behold. As you walk under it it morphs, presenting something altogether new from every angle. 

We wander up the river, back towards the heart of Paris, stopping to buy a bottle of champagne from a street vendor and pausing at the eternal flame monument that has been erected over the tunnel where Princess Diana died. It’s been raining, well, more of a persistent drizzle for us Oregonians, and we squeeze amongst the thousands of black umbrellas for a view of the tower. On the strike of midnight the crowd cheers as the tower becomes a giant sparkler; thousands of tiny flashing lights make it shimmer. We cheers our bubbly and kiss cheeks. It’s been one heck of a year, with plenty of ups and downs, but we’re grateful for our friendships and are giddy with excitement for the year to come, or perhaps that’s the third bottle of wine and champagne. Either way, we have an early flight for Morocco in the morning, so we join in singing Auld Lang Syne and head to catch a cab back to the flat. Paris has treated us well.

Bessalama!

Wedding Crashers

Saturday March 21st:

We turn up on time, 4pm, at the house of the bride and are immediately swarmed by women vying for our attention and making sure we're properly fed; we enjoy mouth watering biryani rice and sugary coconut balls. None of the women can believe that I'm 25 and unmarried, let alone without children! How lonely I must be! The bride's brother offers to aid in my dire situation, whipping out his phone to call my father for permission; fat chance.

The bride to be sits in the middle of the room, tented in gold fringed silk, as everyone present takes turns smearing her with sweet smelling jasmine powder and trickling water on her head. It's a messy, festive atmosphere; a room filled with smiling faces and sideways glances and giggles. I'm cheered on as I'm pushed up to take part in the bathing. I do so happily, yet a little weary, I can't help but feel that our presence is distracting from this young woman's very special day. Every time I catch her eye though, to give a courteous and thankful smile, she returns an equally thankful smile, seemingly glad to share the limelight and pressure.

I’m told by her uncle that she's 23 and that after tomorrow this will no longer be her home; she'll go immediately to live with her husband, a man she's yet to lay eyes on. He's very excited and proud as he gets misty eyed remembering the first time he saw his wife the day they were married, 20 years ago. I can't help but feel immensely lucky to be welcomed into such an intimate day.

It's only been two hours since we were last fed, but it's dinner time now and we're led up to the roof, where it's much cooler and they've lain out woven mats. We sit and are dished heaping portions of curry, rice and chutney on our banana leaf plates. Court and I are the only women eating, all the others wait patiently, watching their husbands and refilling our leaves as soon as we scoop up a finger full.

After dinner we don’t stick around very long; we realize we’re just in the way as we completely lack the proficiency that all the women are displaying in tying strands off small jasmine flowers (perhaps it’s because it’s our first time). We’re told to come to the Marriage Hall at 10am the following day, and to wear "American dress," meaning what I've got on, cargo pants and a t-shirt. Just as we're enchanted by their silk saris, they love being around our different style of clothes. We bid our farewells to the adults and are escorted by a throng of children for several blocks. Once we’re alone we can’t stop talking; as quiet and observant as we were at the house, now we’re rehashing every detail of the fascinating evening.

In the morning we stop in and pick up a card to give the bride. Court has to talk me out of the "Bon Voyage" greeting card; I think it's too fitting.

At the wedding hall it’s a similar scene to the night before, and so my limbs become jelly as everyone tries to get a piece of the foreigner pie. The hall consists of three main areas, one side houses a stage for the groom, on the other side of a partition all the women sit, and behind both of these is the dining are, where there are already many long tables filled with avid eaters. Soon we're sat among feverishly shoveling fingers at a crowded table; men walk by scooping out portions of all the usual, and now I know why the feeding is so frantic, it’s so good! As soon as we finish we're just as suddenly plucked from our seats and carted off to the bride's room. She's getting her make-up done and all the important women in her life are present. It's a spectacularly colorful room, blossoming with silk saris, no two quite alike, and ornate gold jewelry dripping from head to toe. Although the overall mood is quite boisterous, I notice that the bride is looking into her lap and a few quiet tears are slipping down her cheeks.

A day that young girls in our culture dream of and wish for, is right now appearing to be a very scary time. She’s about to walk into a chasm of unknowns and I can not imagine what is going through her head. Yet I commend her; she is certainly trying not to show her inner turmoil, presenting instead the strong woman that is capable of leading a duty filled life and taking her place in society. Although I can’t fathom it for myself, I respect the choices that have been made here today and the implications that they carry.

After the fuss and primping the bride takes her place on a heavily glitzed and glittered throne on the women’s side of the partition. Women and men remain separate, and the marriage takes place over a loudspeaker; husband and wife won't come face to face until this evening, in his home.

The Muslim wedding is quite fascinating, so different from the celebrations of our own; it has certainly become an enlightening and cherished day. After three hours of smiling and nodding, not understanding half of what is said to us, and sure that even less has been absorbed by our ever-attentive audience, we're thoroughly exhausted and dripping in the heat. We thank the family for having us, pose for several more photos and then head back for a nap; digesting the morning's events and many meals.

That evening clouds roll in and the air cools; I'm walking quickly to find a travel agent and the wind is picking up. At the intersection I look to the right and am stopped by the sky. The Nilgiris stand silhouetted black; the mountains are clear, as is the sky directly above them, but then the clouds thicken to a black mass, eating up the color. It looks as if the mountains are black flames, emitting an orange glowing light that's quickly swallowed into the void above. I push on, the wind now playing crazily with anything that's not tied down, each falling raindrop is larger than the last as feet hurry and hands quickly close up shop. I book us tickets to Pondicherry, a French city on the coast, and we hurriedly pack and run to the station in the cascading rain.

As I sit on the overnight bus, moving freely throughout a country far from my own, doing things on a whim and as I please, I think of the young woman spending her first night away from home; tonight I don't take for granted my freedom and youth.

Out of the Mountains and In the Clear

Thursday March 19th:

After a little more exploring of Ooty, which consisted of sampling the abundant homemade chocolates, having our palms read by a fortune teller (no worries, we're all going to be happy, loaded, have kids, and die of old age; very original) and whiffing essential oils, we're off to Coonoor, a smaller hill station 15 km south. From there we'll take a bus to the Non-Such Tea Plantation and hike to Droog Fortress, a pinnacle offering great views of the plains below, to camp for the night.

When we arrive in Conoor Court's feeling a bit dodgy, and opts to take a room in town, so Vegar and I hop on a local bus towards the plantation and are soon rewarded with magnificent, awe-inspiring scenery. The old bus lumbers up hills and winds amongst perfectly sculpted, vibrant green tea plantations that are lined with tall poinsettias and dotted by huge purple flowered mayflower trees. Here and there the plantations drop off into the sky, giving way to rocky cliffs that plummet down 100's of feet, cutting up the impressive landscape.

After being the topic of many hushed whispers and backward glances, all from smiling faces though, we arrive at the end of the bus line and are further impressed by the view. The colors are painted on the fantastical serated cliffs in impressive swatches, glowing in the late afternoon sun. We set out towards Droog, the top only being a 4km hike through the fields, and on which is a type of cement, two story gazebo that we can see from here. A group of school boys offer to walk part of the way with us; they run home, returning with two of the better looking Indian canine specimens I've seen, panting and sniffing on leashes. And we're off!

We wander along the rocky red road and make small talk with the boys who are eager to practice their English. Women are beginning to bring their days' pickings in. Huge bundles of the emerald leaves ride atop their heads as they crowd around a scale and accepting their rupees and quickly shove them in the folds of their saris. A tractor pulls up alongside us and stops; the men on board warn us about tigers, urging us to turn back.

After a short discussion Vegar and I convince ourselves they're joking and push on. The contrast between the rolling green and the jagged drops, paired with children's voices rising and falling and calling from behind trees, evokes J.R. Token's hobbits and how they would enjoy such a place. We start up the final hill and wave goodbye to our loyal guides and their even more loyal and patient dogs. We veer off on a path through the forest, and although I'm sure the tiger stuff was just a spook, our mood quickly changes, becoming quieter and more alert.

The sun is setting so we scramble up the crumbling stone path, past the ancient wall that once encircled the top of the mountain. We reach the peak in time to get through the little bit of forest that's between the gazebo and a cliff that drops down 700 ft. I sit at the edge, or as near to it as my crawling skin allows, and attempt to take it all in. There can't be many places on earth like this; no wonder the people who live among these magnificent hills and valleys believe so much in their gods and heaven, they have their own small slice right here.

The sun has set and it's final hoorah of red and pink is lingering. Then, as if on cue, a lightning bolt jumps through a cloud. If I wasn't already impressed that wouldn't have done the trick, but I am; I've been given a front row seat to the best show around.

It's an uneasy sleep though; in my mind every rustling leaf and unfamiliar noise is either a stalking tiger, rabid wolf, or pesky monkey. Morning doesn't bring much relief, as I'm woken by a "Forest Ranger" who warns that we aren't allowed to sleep here. We convince him to let us go check out the view one last time and I try to soak it all in. It's a weird feeling, being able to see so much and for so far. And you know there are millions of people living in the fertile land below, you can see their marks, but you can't hear a sound of it; only the faint calls of the wind prick your ears.

I'm yanked back to reality as the guy seems to be pretty serious about us being in trouble, so we play along, take our last moment of silence on the hill, then allow him to lead us down the mountain and back to town. We're shuffled along through a long line of "superiors" and after an hour, and me refusing to pay a fine that will undoubtedly go straight into their pockets, we apologize and walk away; good Indian justice.

Now we get Court, who's been waiting patiently and is feeling much better, and head to the train staition to grab the Toy Steam Train down the mountain. The Nilgiri Mountain Railway is a World Heritage Site and it's steam engine has been pushing cars up the mountain for over 100 years. We share a car with four Indian men, and upon opening a packet of biscuits, offer them around the car. A moment later I learn another little Indian lesson: always count teeth before offering hard snacks; the guys didn't even have a full set between them.

28 miles, 16 tunnels and 250 bridges later we're back in Mettupalayam and the memory card in my camera is nearly full. We're here for the wedding; a day early though so we head out to grab a beer. It's been two weeks since my last sip and the brew couldn't taste better. I turn the beautiful, cold, sweating bottle in my hands and laugh aloud when I read: "Manufactured Date: When Filled."

Oh India, you're funny.

Not Just High Altitude in Ooty!

Sunday March 15th:

We wake up and are cold, but feeling great; time to break out the sneakers and jeans I've been hauling around in the heat! Udhagamandalam, or Ooty for short, is a town 2,240 meters (9,080 ft) up in the Nilgiri Hills, the second highest mountain range in India (Himalayas are #1). This area was developed rapidly under the British Raj in the 1800's, and still holds a bit of the colonial charm; however most of it's been bulldozed over and rebuilt with unsightly, yet real-estate friendly, multiple story concrete structures. Two big selling points are the lake, though from my nasal research I'd presume that the liquid is less water than it is fecal matter, and also a racetrack for horses, but sadly for them the shape of the track is much like India's roads, plagued with pock marks.

Horses and ponies in Ooty are what the cows were to Goa's beaches and the goats to Fort Kochin, they're everywhere! They run past rickshaws on the streets, bite each other's butts and have a height advantage to all the other animals trying to get into the dumpsters (luckily for the other animals dumpsters are few and far between, semi-strategically placed garbage heaps are much more "in"). At least they're not trying to run around that shabby track.

Just as we feared, the gray skies that've been hovering above have finally decided to show us some action. Sopping wet, we hop in a rickshaw and ask to be taken to a nice hotel that has a fireplace; we'd read in the guide book that there are still a few old ones around that'll stoke the fire on a cold day. We arrive a few minutes later, on a hill above the town center, at Lymond House. We're greeted by Anita, an Indian woman in her 40's, and invited in. It's not so much a hotel, but a B&B. The house dates back 150 years and was one of the summer homes of a very rich Brit who owned half the town. There are two sitting rooms, connected by glass french doors, and each has a massive brick fireplace. Even though they don't light a fire during the day, and especially when there's no one staying there, we decide to have a cup of coffee. We are sat amongst the old black and white photos of successful hunting expeditions and summer picnics in the wooded forest. Not only are we surrounded by original, antique furniture, but a feeling of nostalgia begins to envelop me, as though someone has slowly stopped the clock and then begun to move it cautiously in the other direction. Our voices are hushed as we sip our coffee from porcelain cups and daintily nibble butter biscuits; I drift easily off to a place some time ago, where women wore petticoats, men walked with shiny black canes and worries were for the working class.

A little while later Anita re-enters with a proposition. Business is slow, there's no one occupying any of the six rooms, and if we'd like to stay we just have to name a price we can afford. She leaves the three of us for a few minutes to discuss. We agree that it'd be quite an experience to stay here, our socked feet sliding across the wide wooden floorboards, so we tell her that we can do 1000 rupees. She says 500 each person, breakfast included, and we can't say no; the house has already started to work it's charm, sucking us in.

After retrieving our bags from our original guesthouse, we pick the "green" room, with pastel walls and a nice patch of mold where the ceiling has leaked. The bathroom is tiled green and has a gorgeous, huge shower head, that rains out hot water! I haven't taken a hot shower in a month so I'm the first one in; finally drawing back the curtain I can barely make out the shape of the toilet in the corner. There's a big four-post bed, complete with canopy and embroidered linens; curtained windows that open out onto the garden; a fireplace; and wouldn't ya know, a flat screen TV mounted on the wall.

With my hair still dripping I grab my book, wrap a wool blanket around me and assume my position by the fireplace in living room #2. Court and Vegar soon join me, and we're served dinner right there; no need to move into the massive, cold dining room, they say. It begins with vegetable soup and chili gobi (gobi being cauliflower), and for the main course we have a fresh, spicy curry, boiled veggies and steaming chapatis (must be Indian for tortilla). After dinner we're served tea as we continue to put wood on the fire and enjoy the heat and smell of smoke.

The staff have gone to bed (there's a full-time staff of six) and the only sound in the house is that of the cracking fire and the chiming of Grandfather Clock, who sits otherwise silent in the corner, as he has for a century.

I awake early but linger in the comfortable bed. After willing myself out from between the warm sheet and enjoying breakfast in the early morning sun that fills the garden, we head down the hill and across town, off to find a trail that Anita has told us about. We follow the narrow road through thick forests and over hills; the evergreens make me miss home. Bright green tea plantations blanket the hills in areas, while in the valleys there are equally bright rice paddies shining up at us; there are sporadic human settlements scattered around to see to the tending. Finally we spot the fallen tree that's been hacked in two to allow traffic on the road, and veer off on a dirt path to the left. We pass more tea plantations and fingers stop picking as towel wrapped heads turn to us; strangers coming up the all but forgotten path. Then the forest thickens and right on cue we spot the cobblestones that lead off to the right. Anita had assured us that you won't find this path in any guidebook, it's the last remaining one of it's kind, scattered with poems etched in stone, a quiet indication of the British Raj.

We hike up and up, stopping only to try and make out the poems under the encroaching moss. At the top we're rewarded with a magnificent view of the valley. A mist has settled in and shrowded the city in a cleansing film; from here you'd have no idea that Ooty is just as filthy and littered as any Indian city. It looks more like a whimsical winter's wonderland, patiently awaiting the big day.

On our way back to town we take a detour up to The Fernhills Palace, the very place the Maharaja of Mysore called his summer home. It's set on a hill, just as all majestic places are, and looks down at the plantations whose owners once flocked here to dance on fine floors, eat fine foods and gossip to no end I'm sure. We walk through the grand hallways and enter the main chamber, a room with nearly a dozen fireplaces, a ceiling I can barely make out, and every kind of plush chair that was around back then. It isn't hard to imagine this other breed of people passing the summer months in this cooler climate, away from the grime of greater India, able to sip tea without sweating and socialize as if this were a part of England herself.


Monday: I'd forgotten how difficult it is to get out of bed when it's cold, I guess a year and a half of good weather will do that to you. But this morning it's back down the hill to the Botanic Gardens, where we find a beautifully manicured garden, with miles of well trimmed topiary (though I never could make out any of the images; elephants perhaps?) We walk to the very back of the garden, wind our way and watching our footing up the hill, and are met by a chain link fence with a little turnstile in it. Out the other side and we're standing in a Toda village. The Toda people are an indigenous tribe, whose numbers now hover only around 1,000, and live in relative isolation to the crowds just over the hill. We get chatting to two old women, who proudly show us their shawl-like garments, that are hand embroidered with black and red geometric designs, and take six months to complete. As Court and I step into a house for a cup of tea we nearly have to bend in two; these doors were not made for tall Americans, but rather the Toda women who slip in without a change in posture.

After the village we make for the Nilgiris Library. It's an old building, like anything that's worth seeing here, with a fine rare book collection. The British poured their hearts into this place, trying desperately to bring with them all the best of home. What's left are cobweb crossed rooms with leaning shelves that are swollen with books that haven't been opened in decades. Slow moving people, nearly as old as the building, shuffle amongst the shelves and tend the counter; ghosts who've no idea the changing of the times. We're taken to the attic room, a place that's kept locked, home to the oldest books. (Lucky for me it was the British that built this library and not the French. I'm able to sift through the covers, reading the titles and picking up a few that peak my interest; "Life in America" doesn't say anything about automobiles or television.) I ask to see the oldest book they have, and out comes another set of keys, unlocking a dusty glass case. I turn gently the pages of "The Ancient Ecclesiastical Histories of the First Six Hundred Years After Christ," printed 1587. I can feel the indentations the printing press left while inking on the letters. There are typos, or perhaps some things were just spelled differently then, or did they run out of letters in this particular font? On some pages the first letter must've been cut from a large wooden block, floral patterns swirling around it. Few of the edges are straight, the years have been hungry. On the final page of the book there is a handwritten letter, telling of the six propheciesed ends of the world; floods and famines predicted to take place centuries ago.

I sign the guestbook and then walk out into the future, squinting in the sunlight and breathing in the crisp air of 2009.

We were planning on leaving today, after treating ourselves to two nights, but we can't be fussed to pack our bags. Instead we set out to walk around the lake and try to find the ashram that's on the other side; should be just one turn from where we hiked into the forest the day before. We get around the man-made lake, which I've mentioned is nothing of the clear water that the creators were trying to capture back in 1850's, and head up towards the hills. I'm feeling pretty confident in my navigational skills and convince Court that if we cut down through the valley, instead of sticking to the ridge and making a big "U," we'll shave off some time. Court, being the good friend that she is, still pretends to trust my internal GPS although it's gotten us lost on several continents, and agrees to my plan.

There will be nothing short to this cut, we won't actually make the ashram, but it's not my GPS's fault I swear!

We come across a beautiful little village that's built up around the small bit of brown water running through the lowest part of the valley. The water itself is disgusting, as is all water accessible to the public in India, but from it springs green patches of carrots, potato, and beetroot. We stop to get some snacks and the man tending the small shop invites us in for tea; Court and I glance at each other, we know this won't be an in-and-out job. Half an hour later we're stuffed with a complete box of biscuits and brimming with a pot of tea, but it's off to the next house! More tea and biscuits and then, just like clockwork, out come the saris. This time they don't stop with just the sari though; soon we're dripping from head to toe in gold jewelry and my hair's been neatly combed. Now for the ceremonial parading for all to see; we're escorted into the garden, which will make a lovely backdrop for the photo shoot. Again, right on the mark, as Court aims the camera in my direction a wailing baby is tossed into my arms. It's assumed that we're staying for dinner, and they insist on feeding us chicken (we're both veggies). We know we can't refuse, they're serving us their very best, so we grin and bare it. I picking small bits of meat off the bone and mix it with the rice on my banana leaf before popping it in with my fingers (That dang Muslim generosity again!). Our every bite is followed from floor to mouth with proud eyes, stopping only to pile more on our leaves.

It's late and we can barely move, thankfully the father offers to take us home in his jeep. We exchange information, promising to mail photos, and wave, genuinely sad and happy to leave at the same time. Back at our little villa on the hill Vegar is worried sick, it's nearly 10pm.

I'm soon tucked in bed, so tired I don't give a seconds though to the ghost stories Anita was telling us about the house and especially the piano...but as my senses fade I think I hear the soft plunk of keys.

A day like today, only in India.

Force Feeding and Dress Up Dolls

Saturday March 14th (getting closer to being caught up!)

It's still early morning as I look up from my book and out the bus window. Not far beyond the shanty towns and palm forests are rows and rows of jagged gray mountains; neglected teeth chipped and snarling. These are The Western Ghats.

We're coming into Coimbatore, our first pit-stop in Tamil Nadu, and traffic is thickening. It's a city of 1.5 million, our largest yet, and an utter mess. I've yet to see a traffic light; buses take the slow and steady approach, while scooters and rickshaws dip and dodge. We arrive at the station just as a bus north to Mettupalayam is pulling out. I run and jump, grabbing the hand rail, Indians pull me inside and I turn to help Court on; Vegar manages to swing aboard just as we're gathering speed.

Bad news at Mettupalayam, the steam train that we were planning to take up to the hill station of Ooty, has been canceled for the past two days and we won't know for hours if it'll be running tomorrow. We throw our bags in a room near the station and set out to hoof it around town while we're waiting. The city is buzzing near the bus station; it seems like half of this nation is continuously coming or going by bus. The stations are chaotic places of seemingly little organization. Signs aren't often posted in English, so you need to ask around to get anything done. Asking directions from an Indian isn't an easy task though. It's common knowledge that Indians don't like to say "No" or admit that they don't know, so you have to be careful how you word your questions. You can't ask "Is the bus to Ooty over there?" and indicate a certain direction, because even if they don't know they'll say yes. Instead you have to ask "Where is the bus to Ooty?" not giving anything away; but still be weary, because even if they don't know they're liable to just point anywhere. To confuse things even a little more, Indians also have a head wobble. I know this sounds funny, or that perhaps it's an isolated thing, but really, it's nationwide, and done by the young, elderly, men, women, rich and poor. It's a kind of side to side, bobble-head nod they do when they speak and are being spoken to, but in no way does it mean yes, no, or anything in particular; it just is. So when seeking directions or help from an Indian, it requires all sorts of code breaking and interpretive skills; assert caution, one misread head nod could send you two states over.

We head away from the bustle of the transit area, veering off down a narrow street that's home to a wilting veggie market. Tarps are strung over the path for shade and lethargic stall owners sit amongst their surplus of produce. The only thing buzzing around here are the flies.

Out the other side and we're on a quiet, clean street lined with blue and white stuccoed walls. Behind open doorways we can see small yards and the homes beyond. Soon we catch the eye of the neighborhood kids who all want to see themselves in a photograph (I've long since given up trying not to look like a tourist, my fat Canon strap hangs forever around my neck). This goes on for sometime, take a photo and a dozen grubby hands fight to see the screen. Some of the more outgoing children insist on getting behind the lens and take photos of us, grinning with pride and accomplishment. They continue to march us down to the river, our numbers swelling, where men and women are beating clothes on smooth rocks, then laying them to dry on the pebbly shore; I might be doing my own laundry from now on, this isn't normal "wear and tare."

Back up the hill we go, and straight into one of the kids' homes for tea. The home is simple but very tidy; four rooms around a small open courtyard with a water spicket for washing up. We are sat in the father's room, complete with bright lemon walls, and handed a cup of tea. Two minutes later and a girl grabs my hand, placing it in her lap and begins drawing mehendi on my palm with henna.

I feel like I've just stepped into a play, I'm surrounded by a bunch of characters, each cast superbly! The father of the house is 80 years old, and in what appears to be good health, carrying a big belly on him, with a long white beard. His two daughters and their families live here, the head count totaling ten. One sister is big, round, with large features and a bit serious, the other is tiny and wiry, with mischievious eyes and a loud mouth; though she hardly speaks English she's chatting away, grabbing and slapping our hands as she laughs like crazy, exposing more gaps than silver capped teeth. The larger one disappears for a minute. While she's gone her sister makes her arms into a circle and with a head nod towards the door, says "Big Mama," then goes off into hysterics, taking the rest of the room with her.

I've been watching the girl paste floral and paisley mehendi patterns on my palm and fingers and hadn't noticed the room filling with people. There are now at least 30 bodies crammed in the make-shift living room and even more struggling to get a head in the door. "Big Mama" comes back, the seas parting to let her through in her yards of pink silk sari, and she's brought biscuits. My hands are full, one being painted, the other with tea, so she starts dipping biscuits in my tea and then feeding them to me, soggy and dripping. She lets out a deep chuckle, thoroughly enjoying playing with her brand new American Girl Doll. I'm being plumped up; just as long as she doesn't start poking me with a stick and stoking the fire, Hansel and Gretel style.

I look back just in time to catch two heads popping up and down in the window, vying to catch a glimpse of the spectacle. Every few minutes Big Mama shoos the crowd back into the hallway and onto the street, then refills our small metal cups and feeds us more biscuits. There's a saying around here about three cups of tea; one and you're acquaintances, two, friends, three and you're family; we've had ten. The family is Muslim, and Zakat, or alms-giving, is one of the five pillars of Islam; they appear to be fairly well off, so it is obligatory to extend their good fortune to those around them, including us travelers.

We've now long since exhausted their English vocabulary and my mouth is aching from non-stop smiling. I don't think I can swallow another sip of sweet, milky tea, even to wash down a mouthful of fried dough. Much to my relief Big Mama grabs my arm and says "You, sari." Oh dear, now comes the dress up part, seems her new "American Girl Doll" came with a change of clothes. I'm led to a back room where there's a wardrobe filled with saris, every color and print you could imagine, light catching sequins and diamond encrusted folds. I'm stripped, put in a long plain cotton skirt and a short midriff blouse, or choli, with hook and eye closures down the front; Big Mama buttons me up. It's deep red with diamond flowers sparking all over, and pretty baggy, but nothing a safety pin won't fix. Then comes the wrapping of the matching sari. Sari's are a strip of unstitched cloth, from four to nine meters in length and draped around the body in various ways. She begins by tucking a knotted end into my waist, then wraps it around me, gathering it to make a sort of fan at one side, then brings it over one shoulder, a long bit trailing down my back and nearly to the floor. Finished! I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself, I belong on the Bollywood red carpet (Bollywood being India's Hollywood). Big Mama is laughing uncontrollably as she leads her doll, glittering red from head to toe, out the front door and into the cheering crowd.

The village's all here, laughing and clapping, pushing right up to have a feel (perhaps an American in a sari feels different). One woman tosses me her baby and I can't help but feel slightly like Angelina Jolie, ethnic baby in hand, towering over a crowd of locals, wearing traditional garb; the only difference is I'm not taking this baby home...and perhaps a few other things. Another woman brings the tail of my sari up over my head, Muslim style, which brings another round of cheering.

Court has managed to stay out of the limelight for the moment being, but soon they spot her and away she's whisked, emerging a few minutes later dripping in silk and smiling ear to ear. After a brief photo shoot, much to the amusement of the crowd that's fighting to get an arm in, we are disrobed, reclothed in "American dress," and then tugged two door down. We're sat again in a tiny living area, this time without a fan, where more tea and biscuits await. Again the small talk and staring and smiling, until someone decides that the timer's gone off and it's their turn to feed the foreigners.

This goes on for hours, and at the last house we're served Sweet Burri; a fried dough puff filled with sugar and coconut, which I can hardly appreciate, as I've been near to bursting and about to go into a sugar induced seizure for the past three hours. One of their daughters is getting married next week and we're given an invitation and made to promise we'll be there; Saturday at 4 pm we're to arrive at the house to partake in pre-game ceremonies and then the wedding at 10 am the following day. We exchange phone numbers and assure them that we wouldn't miss this opportunity to get a better glimpse into their lives and culture for anything (in fewer words), and bid our farewells while shaking hands with everyone in sight. We take off into the night with our care packages of Sweet Burri and salty mangoes, the children escorting us skipping and shrieking down to the main road.

We're thoroughly exhausted, can't even look at street food stalls we're passing, but smiling from toe to hair. This has just turned into one of the best days ever. We hurry back to the room and then high tail it to the bus station, we need to catch the last train north to Ooty. We get there in time, but the bus is full. I convince the ticket-taker to allow us to put our bags in the aisle and sit on them; a few extra rupees for him and he's sold. Soon we're slowly crawling up the mountains, the air cooling as we gradually ascend. I'm glad it's dark out because the roads are crap, the bus is 30 years past it's prime and there are no guard-rails between us and the valley floor far below.

But India, today I love you.