the travels of me

My adventures through Kenya, Tanzania, India & Nepal. var sc_project=6622023; var sc_invisible=1; var sc_security="41b28e42";

[thetravelsofme-blog]

I absolutely have to ask this : Did you try traveling by the local trains of Mumbai? :)

Hey chitstarkid94,

I did have the pleasure of riding the local train. I remember there was a guy sitting next to me who kept falling asleep on my shoulder, and whenever I woke him up and pushed him off he would he look at me through sleepy eyes and nestle right in again. After two or three attempts I said to myself Just go with it and let him sleep. Thankfully he wasn't a drooler. He also had very nice smelling hair.

Thanks for the question chitstarkid94.

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Hi, I'm traveling to Kenya in may to do wildlife conservation work in the Shimoni peninsula. I've never been to Africa before and would love a few pointers! I read your Dear American Tourists post, I am an American and was wondering if you had any suggestions or tips for me about cultural customs to respect and be aware of or travel tips in general? I'm trying to learn as much as I can before the trip! Anything thing you could tell me would help! Thanks! Sam

Hey Sam, 

That is great that you are off to Kenya. 

A few pointers... Well, it's hard to know where to start, but it sounds like you are going with a well established company, which means that you are half way there. But I will give it a try...

1. Make sure that you have someone to meet you or somewhere to go to when you arrive.

Africa can be daunting, particularly if you are a western girl.I have never been a western girl, although sometimes I think I would like to be one for a day. I was going to make a list of things I would do if I was a western girl for a day, but my girl mates who are reading this would unfriend me and I would probably be reported to the internet crimes police where I would have to explain what was included in the definition of "Goodies".

Anyway, make sure that you have someone to meet you that you can trust and take you where you need to go.

2. When it gets late, be indoors.

Generally, this was a rule that I followed and I was totally fine. Unless I was in a large group with a few locals that I trusted, I wouldn't be outside after 10pm. Tons of people would say Hey, that's weak, I went out all night and I was fine... That might be the case, but the people who died because they got confident and walked down a back alley drunk at 3am can't blog can they. Because they are dead. Which means that they can't blog. You can only blog if you're alive. Bro.

3.  Get local information

Learn as much as you can from the locals. Speak to everyone you can. Read the papers. Ask people you trust important questions regarding safety, how much things cost, best ways to get errands done, people and places to see. There is no knowledge like local knowledge, but keep in mind that they won't stand out like you do...

4. Learn a little Swahili if you can

Swahili is a relatively easy language. Go for it. Learn the key phrases. Now, the English in Kenya is actually fantastic, but Swahili is useful and if you want to immerse yourself in the culture, what better way than learning what you can of the local language.

5. Beware of conversations regarding religion

Generally, most Kenyans are quite religious and will not be afraid to strike up a conversation with you regarding religion. Personally, I found it better to try and politely change the subject, as they can be a little... assertive? with their views.

6. Know the culture of the beach

It sounds as though you are going to be spending a large amount of time at the beach. It's a good idea to check out the customs for women at the beach. In the countries I visited, the local women would NEVER go out in a bikini and hit the beach. However, the western women did. Just check out the local customs and decide for yourself. I would say though, that from my experience, head there with a few friends, and if possible, a guy friend. This will keep the gawkers away.

Regarding the Dear American Tourists post, I don't think you have anything to worry about, because it is obvious that you are interested in respecting the cultural customs, and so will probably be aware of them as they are happening around you, so you will be able to replicate them. 

In terms of cultural customs, I am a little old school here. I think that if you are in their country, behave according to their customs.

This means that the women need to cover up a little more than they would at home (and yes, it is stinking hot), and the men should really wear pants and a shirt at all times, unless they are doing manual labour or some other special condition. The heat is unfortunately not a special condition. 

Don't speak loudly. Kenyans on a bus or in a public place like to respect each others right to silence (unless you are the driver, and you happen to like RnB music). Have a listen and check out the volume of those around you, and adjust your volume accordingly.

Respect those older and more experienced than you. This really goes for every country, but over in Kenya, the hierarchy is more rigid. Calling men 'Sir' and women 'Mam' also goes a long way.

I think the most important thing to remember is that you are a visitor in their country, and in their culture, so be watchful and look for behavioral cues, and copy them as much as possible. If you are confused, don't be afraid to ask.

I am jealous, you are about to have a great adventure!

Goodluck Sam.

ps. Oh yes, and never leave home without a roll of toilet paper.

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Indigo, Mumbai

An island of beautiful european food (and expensively taxed wine) in the heart of the Colaba district, Mumbai. You can walk in and forget the chaos, forget the smell, forget the wild dogs and hustlers, and have a lamb shank and glass of pinot noir both from New Zealand for around $20. It was here that I first missed the niceties of my first world life, but it was still nice to know that behind a heavy wooden door being guarded by a heavily moustached Indian man, I was exactly where I wanted to be and ready to check out a little more Mumbai.

Also probably the only place in India I have found that has cheese worthy of the name.

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Banganga Tank, Mumbai

According to local legend, it sprang forth when the Hindu god Ram, the exiled hero of the epic Ramayana, stopped at the spot five thousand years ago in search of his kidnapped wife Sita.

As the legend goes, overcome with fatigue and thirst, Rama asked his brother Lakshmana to bring him some water. Laxman instantly shot an arrow into the ground, and water gushed forth from the ground, creating a tributary of the Ganges, which flows over a thousand miles away, hence its name, Banganga, the Ganga created on a baan (arrow).

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Day 44 - Talking Reincarnations of Vishnu with a 135 year old man in the luggage compartment, Mumbai: Haggling with 18th generation hagglers

I was really looking forward to Mumbai.

Mumbai, formerly known as Bombay, was to be the most cosmopolitan and glitzy of the Indian major cities. It was also apparently the best opportunity to get some good western style food, which I was starting to crave heavily at this point. 

All that was standing between me and Mumbai was an 11 hour train ride. But this wasn't to be just any train ride. You see, despite what you may have heard, the train system in India is not that easy to navigate (I know, this may seem shocking to many, but bare with me). There are many many obstacles that stand in the way of getting a ticket to your preferred destination by your preferred time and in your preferred class. Now whilst this last point might not seem like such a big deal, the first 3 classes are nearly always booked out 3-5 days in advance, leaving tourist quota tickets. Tourist quota tickets are like a mirage in a desert. Each time you get closer, they possibility of obtaining one moves further and further away. I was to discover this via the Tourist Quota office.

The Ahmedabad to Mumbai express train had 3 Tourist quota tickets left. I arrived at the Tourist Quota office at around 11am. Entering the upstairs office, I was surrounded by tourists sitting palely and uncomfortably under the flourescent light, the girls in their locally bought colourful pajama's with henna hands.

Sometimes, being surrounded by western tourists can be a good thing. It's not a particularly good thing, when there are 75 of them, and they are all after a Tourist Quota ticket, and there is only one window operating. It's particularly not a good thing when the person on duty doesn't speak English very well. Furthermore, it is in fact, a bad thing, when the person who wishes to buy the ticket, doesn't speak English very well. I took a seat and began reading. 4 and half hours later I reached the front of the que.

"Hello sir"

"Hello sir" I said back in my most polite un pissed off tourist manner.

"Vere would you like to go?"

"To Mumbai"

"The ticket is 1400 rupees sir. Ven?"

"Tonight"

Keys clicked away.

"I'm sorry sir, the Mumbai train is full tonight."

"Oh... what about tomorrow?"

Tap tap-tap tap tap...

"I'm sorry sir, the Mumbai train is full tomorrow as well."

"The next day."

Tap-t-tap.... ... .. tap, space bar, tap

"I'm sorry sir, the Mumbai train is full on Monday as well."

"Ah ha, in all classes?"

"Yes. All classes."

"I see... What about General class?"

The man looked up from the top of his glasses.

"General class."

"Yes."

I had done some research. Depending on the train type, and there are many different train types, there are roughly 4 classes on a given Indian train. Yes, Wikipedia says there are many more, but they don't all appear on every train. They are as follows:

First Class AC - A/C, clean, comfortable seat or bed, food provided, own sleeping cabin, quiet well to do Indian crowd. Toilets like a petrol station.

Second Class AC - A/C, clean, quite comfortable, bench seat or upper/lower bed depending on time, food, business crowd. Toilets like good nightclub.

Third Class AC - A/C, less clean, 3 to a bench seat, random people coming in for a seat from general, no food provided, family crowd. Toilets like a football ground, before half time.

Sleeper - No A/C, rubbish stuffed in to the walls and floor, smells bad, 4-5 to a 3 person bench, no food provided, all sorts of crowd. Toilets like a football ground, after half time.

General Class/Unreserved - No A/C, hard seats, smells like you need to call the plumber, 4-5 in a seat and isles taken up, no food, poorer crowd. No toilets, just a cupboard with a hole in the floor with shit smeared all over the walls and some of the shit making it's way in the adjacent hallway.

Tapping of the keys continued.

"General class is available sir, if you like..." he said, lifting his eyes above his glasses just as he finished.

"Yes, book me in. How much is it?"

"300 rupees."

Sweet, I thought. $7.50, I thought. This is brilliant, I thought. I am killing it, I thought. I thought wrong.

Don't get me wrong, General Class for nearly 11 hours is fine, if you can stand for 11 hours, or you have no sense of smell and don't mind sitting on the floor next to the "toilet" (I'll get to the "toilet" shortly). Having spent 11 hours overnight in General Class, I understand where yoga originated. In General Class there are 3 seats to a bench, and two to a section, so there are meant to be 6 people. There were 10 people sitting, and another 4-5 people standing, as well as 4 people in the overhead luggage section.

Having taken a 75 litre backpack, I was apparently also the only person in the class with more than a shopping bag full of gear. As I made my way through the carriage trying to find an area large enough to even stand, I began to realise that there was a chance that I could be standing for 11 hours, or sitting next to the "toilet".

The toilet

I didn't actually know what it was at first. As I made my way up the coach, stepping over sleeping old men, and being stared at by cross legged old women sitting in the luggage compartment, I noticed a space near the front end where the carriages met. I thought it must have been my birthday, because there was nobody sitting or standing there. I smiled. Until, I got a little closer. There are three main reasons why there was space at the front of the carriage. 

1. All of the floor within a 1 metre radius of the "toilet" door was covered in shit.

2. It smelt like someone had a fed a baby curry, then taken it's nappy, wrapped it in hair, and set it on fire.

3. The door to the "toilet" was broken, swinging with the rocking of the train, fanning everone with curry baby poo burning nappy and hair smell.

I threw up a bit in mouth, and a bit made it up in to my nose, which was a fantastic result, because now all I could smell was bile and carrot. But that dream didn't last long... I stood for a while, at a certain speed, the hole in the floor of the train created a vacuum and sucked the smell down, but when the train slowed, it had the reverse effect, created a wind tunnel of curry baby poo burning nappy and hair smell blasting everyone in the front section of the train. The women didn't seem to mind too much though, they pulled their hijab's across their mouths, and the ones in the burkas seemed fine, the thick black cloth covering their nose and mouth. I wished I was wearing a burka. 

I had to do something. I noticed a space about 50cm x 50cm in the overheard luggage area of a cabin section next to a man who looked about 135 years old with an orange beard. Below it, a family of 8 sat eating home prepared food. I asked if it was possible to sit there, intially the family seemed reluctant, as I suspected that they had wanted to use the space a little later. They said yes. So I made my way up to the luggage compartment, giving them a couple of a Jai Sri Krishnas and Shukriyas for good measure. 

I sat, cross legged, with the 135 year old man staring at me from the end of his rather large nose, which was 15cm away from my face. The train rocked and rolled, and delayed by half a second, the old man's nose rocked and rolled with it, his stare still unbroken. When I looked over to him, he smiled, but didn't look away.

"Hello good sir." said the man riding the train to get away from death.

"Hello sir, how are you?" I said in my best Indian-English.

"Very fine. From which country do you reside?" 

I was taken back by his well rounded English accent. He spoke like Earl Grey tea.

"I am from Australia." I said, in my regular accent.

"Oh yes, Ricky Ponting! Very fine cricketer... Adam Gilchrist also, a fine cricketer. Although I always enjoyed the finesse of Mark Waugh..."

I knew that I was in for a good ride. Mark Waugh is my favourite cricketer of all time. We spoke of the light footwork of Mark Waugh, of who would have opened the bowling in the world 11 with Glen McGrath, and agreed upon Shaun Pollock. We talked of the over agressive nature of our middle order, and after a while, we introduced ourselves.

"I am Paul." I said.

"Ah yes, the christian apostle. My name is Ramachandra. Pleasure to meet you." He said, still 15 centimetres from my face.

"Very nice to meet you too. Yes, Paul is the apostle... and Ramachandra... Lord Rama, he is an incarnation of Vishnu..?" I recalled my crash course in Hinduism from Mr. Patel.

"Why yes," said Ramachandra "the seventh avatar. Vishnu takes a form and comes to the earth in times of need."

"Righto." I said. 

"He has come several times already, and appears when evil has taken a stronghold on the earth. He is the preserver. Where Brahma is the creator, and Mahesh is the destroyer."

I recalled a little more of my conversation with Mr. Patel. He said that the three are in constant conflict. Creation, Preservaton & Destruction. The goal of Hinduism being to avoid this conflict, by obtaining Ohm, or oneness, and avoid being re-incarnated. Apologies for going weird on you. I read The Baghavad Gita before I came. 

Ramachandra went on, telling me a more of Lord Rama's past. It turned out the people below were his siblings, and with a few hindi words, I was presented an assortment of home cooked Gujurati specialities. Each mouthful was watched by roughly 15 people, waiting for me to make the obligatory "Mmmm... Delicious!" face, which was followed by laughs and small hand claps by the women. Any attempts for me to try and buy them tea or sweets from the sellers who passed by every 15 minutes were flatly refused.

After posing for photo's with nearly the entire front third of the train, I managed to fall asleep sitting cross legged, leaning forward on to my bag. When I woke up, it was 7am, and there were only 15 minutes left. 

I said my goodbyes, and shook Ramachandra's hand.

"Safe journey my young friend." he said. I felt like I was in an English war movie.

"No worries. Thank you very much Ramachandra, and thank you to your family for their hospitality. It was very kind of them."

"Not to worry Paul. In India, we say that Guest is God. It was our pleasure."

A little weirded out, I stepped foot in to Mumbai Central train station, and in to the chaos.

Mumbai

There was a flood of people. Shoving past me, walking in to me, touching me as they walked past. People say that in India, you don't get much personal space. I don't think it even exists. Touching is totally fine. 

Before I even left the station, I was haggling with 3 taxi drivers, and playing them off against each other for the cheapest price. It had been a month and a half since I left, and I was getting used to having to convince every person you need to deal with that you aren't a complete idiot. The problem is, that many foreign travelers are actually complete idiots. This makes it harder for those people that have a clue to bargain, because we get a bad reputation for being easily conned. By no means do I pretend to be a professional barterer, on the contrary, I had to learn everything that I have the hard way, by paying way too much, or getting way too little, but I think that perhaps I have a few tips for a first time barter. After 44 days of having to haggle for every Shilling, or Rupee, I think I have learnt a thing or two..

1. Yes, you are being conned

The 40 year old Indian businessman selling original fake 400 year old reproduction wooden Raja antique faux camel bone decorative apples is conning you. Despite the fact that he may appear to be a simple man with a funny moustache, this is what he does. Daily. To people like you and I. For a living. And he doesn't feel bad about it. Do you even know how many people he has conned before you arrived? Believe it or not, when you arrived, he already started conning you...

Did he ask you to come in to the shop rather than look from the roadside?

Did he offer you a drink, maybe a free chai? Did it take a long time to arrive?

Did he ask you where you are from?

Did he look at the shoes and clothes you were wearing?

Did he ask you if you were here alone?

Did he ask you what you do?

Did he ask you where you are staying?

Did he show you the special pieces that were not for sale?

I'll tell you why, respectively.... He asked you to come inside so you spend more time in his shop. Likewise, he offered you chai, and made sure the boy getting it knew to take a long time so that he had more time to establish a relationship. He asked you where you are from so he can gauge how much money you have. Likewise, he checked out your shoes and clothes to see how much money you have. He asked if you were traveling alone to establish whether you have a partner, so that he can perhaps sell you something for the opposite sex, thereby increasing his chance of a sale by 50%. He asked what you do to see how money you have. Likewise, he wanted to know where you were staying, because he can guess how much you've already been conned. The special pieces that were not for sale... Are you serious? Do I need to even...?

2. Everything is negotiable

Everything is negotiable. Ev. Er. Y. Thing. Don't let them tell you otherwise. With the exception of some international chain stores and 4 or 5 star restaurants in Mumbai. Ev. Er. Y. Thing.

3. Offer 1/3rd

As a maximum. No, he won't be offended. He will put on a show worthy of an oscar. Colin Firth would ask him for acting tips. Ignore it, and let him know that you are ignoring it. He will mention his family. He will say that it costs him more than that. H will tell you that it is the last one, and someone else is interested in it. Stay strong. For 35 years he has been practicing this part. Tell him that you had seen it at other stores for this price. Tell him that your Indian friend said that I should pay about that much, but that he could get it cheaper for you. Tell him that you are not really sure that you like it, and that maybe you will come back tomorrow.

Then comes the rebuttle...

He will offer roughly 75% of the full price back. Ignore that. That is still too high. He is still laughing inside, even if he is crying on cue.

Stay strong. Tell him that you might head off and have a look around, and walk out of the store...

3... 2... 1.

He will yell out a price. This time roughly 50% to 60%. This is getting within the right range.

Now comes the important part.

4. Be prepared to walk away

If you are not happy with the price, walk away. Yes, it seems difficult to do so, especially since often you won't be dealing with large amounts of money, but walk away. There are two reasons for this. Firstly, he'll realise that you do have a price point. Secondly, it's hard to enjoy how warm your cashmere jumper is when you find out from the German girl at the hotel that you paid twice what she did. 

You don't have to walk away forever. I try to get to the shopping bazaars on the first day, have a look around, identify what I might be interested in, then tell them that I am not really looking for it, and that I will be around for a few days. Every day you walk past, they will yell out a lower price and try and chase you down the street. Even if he sells that one, the other 49 he has in boxes out the back marked MADE IN TAIWAN will still be there tomorrow.

5. Be wary of the commission 

Your "Indian friend" will not take you to the cheapest store, or the best store, he will direct you to the store where he gets the best commission. This is complicated, and seems inoperable in a country like Australia, but in India, there is a complex comission scheme. If you bring someone to a business, you get a pre-negotiated percentage commission for doing so, which usually sits around the 10% mark. 

No, it's not his brother or cousin's place.

No, it's not a local secret place.

No, it's not a wholesale store.

It is the place where he get's the best commission. Ignore his suggestions. Do your research on Lonely Planet and India Mike and speak with people you trust (ie. actual Indian friends) or pay someone 20 rupees to give you the real information. Being able to detect the bullshit is a skill you'll need to develop your self.

6. Yes, you are still being conned

No matter how good you are haggling, you are still going to get conned. Be cool with it. These guys have been taught by 17 generations of hagglers before them. The only people who can haggle with these guys are local Indians. If you can get one of them to buy something for you, then you'll see what I mean. This is why I always get the hotel staff at the hotel I am at to call the next hotel I am interested in for me and get a good price. 

7. Enjoy it

It's fun. 

Mumbai sights

Mumbai is a great city. Still lingering in it's buildings and culture are remnants of the british imperialist culture, and this is most prevalent in Colaba, which is where I would recommend people to stay. There are a million hotels in Mumbai, and don't expect to get much for less than $40 a night, which would get you nearly 4 star accommodation anywhere else in India. Hotel Apollo is a decent hotel in a great location, and it is close to the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, truly one of the most impressive hotels I have ever been to. I make it a ritual that I visit the best hotel in a city for a drink, and what other drink would I have at Bombay's best hotel, but a Bombay Sapphire gin & tonic. I also visited the jeweler in the hotel, and managed to have a good look through some late 17th century Indian jewelry whilst I pretended to be wealthy enough to buy a piece for my wife, and a piece for mistress... perhaps one day.

I also managed to get to Leopold Cafe of Shantaram fame, and infamy. 

For me though, it was all about he people watching in the bazaars. In particular, the Chor Bazaar (which translates to Theives Bazaar). Legend has it, that when Queen Victoria arrived, a large number of items went missing from her luggage, including valuable musical instruments. Apparently, they were found later that day hanging next to the sitars and other goods in the bazaar for sale for a few rupees. I also checked out the meat and fish bazaar, which I would highly recommend as a way to ensure that you order vegetarian for the rest of your trip.

This wouldn't be my last visit to Mumbai, and so, I left a few doors open for another visit. After 4 days, I was back on the train. This time heading to the land of Palaces and Maharajas, Rajasthan. First stop, Udaipur...

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Mumbai

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Updates coming soon

I realise that it has been some time since my last update, and so much has happened in between...

Travelling alone through India has been an awesome experience, and I will update again soon. Plenty to tell...

- Talking re-incarnations of Vishnu with a 135 year old man & haggling with 18th generation hagglers 

- Maharaja's: The last Playas... & How many Maharaja palaces you can see before you get Maharaja'd out 

- Top ten things I hate about camels

- What happens when you feed an elephant opium in a temple full of people

- The joys of watching a middle aged hippie in a youth hostel in Delhi wearing tie dye overalls slowly fall in to a trance due to overdoing a touch with the LSD

- Prayer time at a temple made of gold with 40,000 Sikh pilgrims

- India v Pakistan... The Border Crossing Ceremony & Battle of the twirled moustaches

- Tea and philosophical discussions regarding the effects of travel on the heart with a well to do Kashmirian army High Altitude Warfare School instructor

Until then...

Perhaps I might throw a question out to the readers... I have 12 unplanned days, and I can pretty much go anywhere in or around India... Where would you go?

[thetravelsofme-blog]

An open letter to American Tourists

Dear American Tourist,

There is no need to yell. I can hear you just fine. So can everyone else in the cafe/restaurant/bus/5km radius.

Furthermore, I feel it is important to point out to you that silence does not mean that it is your turn to talk. It may well be the case, that it is in fact nobody's turn to talk. This is particularly relevant in temples, where you appear to enjoy the acoustics and level of feedback. Whilst this may seem shocking, in other parts of the world, people often sit in silence and enjoy each other's company without the need to provide a pointless anecdote about your 'old college buddy' which include not so subtle references regarding how awesome you are, followed by your own ridiculous laughter which can be heard in nearby provinces.

Also note that the service here in third world countries is not good. The soda and beer here is warm. The bus will arrive late, and leave even later. The in flight entertainment will not work. Every room in the hotel smells funky. Every bed in the hotel is either too hard or too soft. Every television in the hotel has bad reception.  If you order something from the menu and try to change it, it will arrive, unchanged. The riskshaw driver will not know how to get you where you are going even if they said they did when you first asked them. If you try to get your money back or get a new and improved version of what you wanted, you will just get the same thing again, but the second time it will take longer to get to you. 

Finally, no, they probably don't speak English, that's because we're not in Connecticut.

All the best with your future, and hopefully quieter, endeavours.

THE TRAVELS OF ME

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Visit Original Link

A song which includes a prayer for Shiva, one of the main gods of Hinduism. Relevant because I have been listening to a lot of Thievery Corporation, as well as the fact that today is in fact Shiva Ratri, Shiva's Birthday!

Happy Birthday Lord Shiva you reincarnation machine!

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Hinduism

For those interested, a brief look at Hinduism. For those not interested, perhaps the latest Charlie Sheen rant has just been released. I completely understand your choice.

Hinduism is the third largest religion on earth, but it has no central individual leader, no core scripture (though the Bhagavad Gita is the most important text), no central hierarchy. Hindus largely worship at home and may venerate one of several gods, including Vishnu (the most prevalent choice) Shiva, Krishna and Rama. Brahma is the god of creation.

Hindus believe that all reality is a unity, one divine entity. The cornerstone of the religion is a belief in reincarnation. Hindus believe their souls are trapped in a constant cycle of birth, death and rebirth. How you behave in one life will affect how you are reincarnated. The goal is to live in the right way, known as dharma, so your soul escapes the life-death cycle and is accepted into Nirvana.

meaning of name

Hinduism, from the Persian hindu (Sanskrit sindhu), literally "river." Means "of the Indus Valley" or simply "Indian." Hindus call their religion sanatama dharma,"eternal religion" or "eternal truth."

date founded

Earliest forms date to 1500 BC or earlier

place founded

India

founder

none

adherents

900 million

size rank

third largest in the world

main location

India, also United Kingdom and United States

major sects

Saivism, Vaisnavism, Saktism

sacred texts

Vedas, Upanishads, Sutras, Bhagavad Gita

original language

Sanskrit

spiritual leader

guru or sage

place of worship

temple or home shrine

theism

pantheism with polytheistic elements (see Is Hinduism Polytheistic?)

ultimate reality

Brahman

human nature

in bondage to ignorance and illusion, but able to escape

purpose of life

to attain liberation (moksa) from the cycle of reincarnation

how to live

order life according to the dharma

afterlife

if karma unresolved, soul is born into a new body; if karma resolved, attain moksa (liberation)

major holidays

Mahashivarati (mid-February) Holi (Spring) Ramnavami (late March) Dusserah (early November) Diwali (mid-November)

Hinduism by numbers

three paths:

karmamarga - path of works and action

jnanamarga - path of knowledge or philosophy

bhaktimarga - path of devotion to God

three debts:

debt to God

debt to sages and saints

debt to ancestors

four stages of life:

brahmacharga - school years - grow and learn

grhastha - marriage, family and career

vanaprastha - turn attention to spiritual things

sanrgasu - abandon world to seek spiritual things

four purposes of life:

dharma - fulfill moral, social and religious duties

artha - attain financial and worldy success

kama - satisfy desires and drives in moderation

moksha - attain freedom from reincarnation

seven sacred cities:

Ayodhya

Mathura

Gaya (Bodhgaya)

Kasi (Varanasi, Benares)

Kanci

Avantika (Ujjain)

Dvaraka

ten commitments:

1. Ahimsa - do no harm 2. Satya - do not lie 3. Asteya - do not steal 4. Brahmacharya - do not overindulge 5. Aparigraha - do not be greedy 6. Saucha - be clean 7. Santosha - be content  8. Tapas - be self-disciplined 9. Svadhyaya - study 10. Ishvara Pranidhana - surrender to God

courtesy of Fast Facts on Hinduism & The Age

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Day 41 - India: First Impressions & An Indian Wedding on Valentines Day

I had always wanted to attend an Indian wedding.

Indian weddings have frequented my bucket lists for as long as I could remember. Particularly those lists made in recent years sitting at my work desk, late on a Tuesday night.

So when Mitesh sent Dad an email saying that his brother Nikhil's wedding would be on around the same time that I would be India, and that Dad and I would be more than welcome to attend, it was a must. Unfortunately for Dad (and me), he did not have Visa, so I would be going it alone from here on in. 

Perhaps I need to take a step back... Who is Mitesh and how do I know him? Well, Mitesh's full name is Mitesh Patel. He is a 28 year old fellow from Gujurat, India who now lives in Adelaide with his lovely wife Rashnu. He came to Australia for his studies. Mitesh works at Dad's hotel in the reception, and Dad loves him. He is a good bloke as well.

The wedding was to fall on 14 February. Whilst this doesn't mean a great deal to a large proportion of the 1 Billion people living in India, for us westerner folk, it was Valentines day. Being a bachelor with no love interest of my own, what better way to celebrate a day created by card companies and flower stores to boost sales in the name of love, than to attend an Indian wedding.

Arriving in the early hours on the day of the wedding, I was greeted by the usual swarm of taxi and auto rickshaw drivers vying for the foreigners business. It was not so unusual for me now though, this feeling of being a foreigner. I had been a foreigner for 40 days now. Being stared at by adults, being swarmed by kids wanting you take photos of them, and all of them trying to get as much money out of you as possible, was part of the tag. I was ok with it now.

I asked a person working in the airport how much I should pay for an auto rickshaw. 

"Maybe 200 Rupees ($4.20)..."

"Ok, and how much would you pay?"

"Maybe 80 Rupees..."

"Chukriya (Thank you)"

So, armed with local knowledge, I left the airport and managed to secure an auto rickshaw for local rates, much to the dismay of the driver who initially looked at me as though I would be the unknowing sponsor of his first born's college tuition fees.

I can hear people saying Yes, but Paul, it's only $3!... I have a response to that. Have you been to Ibiza? I went there once. It was the most expensive place I have ever been, and do you know why? English tourists. English tourists with stupid tans (see the previous article An open letter to English tourists) and their incredibly strong English pound. Honestly, the pound should be banned it is so strong. That, or the English people should be better educated so that they realise when they go overseas to a third world country, things should be cheaper. By accepting the first price you are offered in a country where you can haggle you are making a 100% or more donation to a crook. In this case, to a Gujurati auto rickshaw driver at 4:30am, not to mention the negative effect it may have on inflation. India's inflation is currently at 10%. You don't want to encourage inflation, do you?

We drove down the highway from the airport. It is a great feeling being in a new city. Perhaps it is my favourite feeling. Driving through the streets approaching the hotel I had found in my Lonely Planet guide, not knowing how I would feel about this new country and what I would find out I loved and hated. My thoughts of what was to come for me in the next 45 days were however disrupted, by the beeping of a horn. I'm not talking about a single beep here and there. At 4:45am, there was barely a car on the 3 lane highway in to the city, and yet, the driver used the horn with roughly the same frequency that one might use the accelerator. In fact, I was and still am convinced, that my driver was under the impression that accelerator was merely a means of charging the horn, and the horn noise was just a by product of making the car accelerate. So onward we honked, alone on the road, with 5-6 second blasts horning in to the darkness for only me, the driver, and the occasional cow to hear.

I arrived at the hotel. It was in a good location. It was clean. It was safe. I was satisfied. I turned on the television and was greeted by nearly 100 channels of Indian television. The channels were roughly broken down as follows:

10 News channels

15 Cricket channels

15 Religious channels

40 Bollywood movie channels

20 Songs from Bollywood Movie channels

I watched a religious channel for about 15 minutes. There was a guru/holyman with glorious black hair down to his waist preaching, whilst in the background, a computerised tye die like image swirled and recreated itself in a similar to fashion to the final scene of 2001: A Space oddyssey. Scrolling along the bottom of the screen there was something in Hindi with mobile number. I guessed it was an SMS service to help fund the guru's weekly conditioner fund. After a while, I too started question my own faith and reality, and decided that the guru with the glorious hair had done a number on me, and it was time change the channel.

I settled on a vintage Bollywood movie film. Within the first 15 minutes on this channel, I had established that this was like every other Bollywood movie I had seen. 

A tale of forbidden love/star crossed lovers. A young man from a lower caste falls in love with the daughter of a rich industrialist with a huge twirled moustache. However, the father cannot allow the marriage, and vows to make the young man's life a living hell. Every now and then, one of the characters will start singing and dancing, and 150 people will appear from nowhere and dance beautifully and amazingly, then the scene will cut back to reality. There will be an irrelevant fight scene and some out of place slapstick humour. The young man will eventually prove himself worthy of the rich industrialists daughter to the father and they will all sing and dance together on the rooftop patio of the father's house.

That started to weird me out a little too, although the music was awesome. I flicked through the channels. The guru with the glorious hair was now yelling and doing yoga. I changed the channel quickly this time, aware of the powers of the guru.

I managed to find an English news channel that was reporting on the revolutions taking place in North Africa and around the globe. To me, these uprisings are perhaps the most fascinating series of events that have occured in my lifetime. I hope that everyone back home is getting the same amount of news that I have received over here. 

I decided that all of my television options were exhausted after I channel surfed my way into 5 consecutive channels of men with 3 foot beards reading from the Koran, and fell asleep.

I woke around 12:00pm and took some time to walk around the city. Having come from Mombasa, it was not really a shock. Mombasa has a large Indian population, and the rickshaws, traffic, and even smells were not unfamiliar. There was a little less burning plastic in the air though, and a little more poo, but this was not such a bad trade off really.

4:30pm arrived sooner than expected, and I was off to the wedding. Driving there I didn't really know what I would see tonight. We arrived just as the sun was setting. Mitesh had been a great host already, speaking with the driver directly, and checking on me throughout the day, and on my arrival he was no different.

An Indian Wedding

As we approached party plot (as I would soon discover, the name given to a park the size of a football oval used for weddings, birthdays, christinings etc.) I could hear music and fireworks. Turning the corner, there were roughly 200 people, men mostly dressed in their western best, and the women dressed in colourful traditional saris. In the middle, there was a group of about 30 people, all dressed in traditional attire dancing behind a truck carrying speakers and a DJ. In the centre of it all, a truck packed with speaker and DJ played Hindi music, while young boys with huge smiles let off fireworks within 6 feet of it all. From the dancing 30, one of them walked toward the car, and through the smoke and lights I could see it was Mitesh. He was dressed in a red and gold traditional Gujurati wedding suit, and looked resplendent.

Mitesh took me around to meet everyone. I met his mother and father, his father in law, and several of Mitesh' uncles and cousins. It was difficult to keep up as I dodged flying firework debree and tried to block out the latest hindi hits.

Everyone was so warm and welcoming, it was a great start to India. Every person I met wanted to chat and make sure I was having a great time. They all knew that I was coming, where I was from, and who I was. 

"There is a Hindu saying," Mitesh said "That goes.. Guest is God."

I was told that I was seeing the final parts of what was a 3 day ceremony. I was part of the grooms party, which traditionally arrived at the place of the wedding after the bride. There were roughly 300 in the arrival party, and as we walked up the driveway following a truck full of speakers, fireworks cracked at our feet, and burst in to colours over our heads lighting up the otherwise black sky. I spoke to many of the Patel relatives down that driveway, and names and exact relations were lost in the firework smoke and hindi hits, but all around me I could see people looking and smiling, or welcoming me with a prayer handed namaste, and a nod. 

We approached a lighted corridor. Everyone stopped. I could hear drums down the hall, and looking in there were 10 or so drummers walking towards the Patel party. From behind there was a cheer, as Nikhil, the soon to be married Patel, arrived. Relatives and guests greeted him, some toughing his feet then their hearts. Someone close by saw me looking perplexed and explained it's a gesture that younger people sometimes make to older people or people of importance. 

Nikhil walked through the crowd, music playing, people greeting him, flashes going, fireworks exploding, and the drummers walking closer. There was a crowd coming towards us too...

Nikhil didn't need to walk far before he was lifted on to the shoulders of some of the younger men and carried to towards the lighted hall.

Tradition stated that the groom is carried in on the shoulders of his relatives and the bride who is inside with her family, is carried on the shoulders of her relatives to meet him. So down the 40 metres hall they made their way, on the shoulders of relatives towards each other, with the drummers playing louder and louder as relatives through rupees at them for encouragement.

At the end of the hall, everyone is greeted by this incredible 6 foot statue of Ganesha. Ganesha is one of the many gods of Hinuism, but is also popular in Jainism and Buddhism. Known as the Lord of Beginnings or Remover of Obstacles, he is the son of Shiva and Parvati. Many Hindu people have a Ganesha icon in their car or as you enter and leave the house, as he is also worshipped as a god for protecting those undertaking journeys. I thought it particularly poignant that my first encounter on my travels with a Hindu god be with Ganesha.

Turning to see a grassed area the size of a football field, I asked Mitesh where the wedding would be in this vast complex, and who all these people were. I assumed that they were here for several celebrations and that the 'party plot' must house areas for each.

"This is the wedding," he said smiling "these are all the guests."

"Brilliant. How many people are here?"

"About 2000." 

Mitesh continued, "Indian weddings are different. There is no guest list here. You invite everyone from your village basically, and the brides side invites everyone from theirs. If you invite someone, they can invite their friend as well. Everyone is welcome to come and give them their blessings." 

We walked onward. Ahead of me was the football sized grassed area, and lit up to my left was an area with a 12 foot pavilion made out of flowers. In the grassed area there were roughly a dozen tables with waiters behind each dish waiting to serve.

It was, as you would expect, the best Indian food I have ever eaten. I must have eaten 15 different meals, and 7 of them had flavours I had never even tasted before, and I love Indian food. In India, it's fine to have a savoury meal in between sweet meals and vice versa, which I quite liked. 

It was after dinner that I noticed that there was nobody drinking. I couldn't remember a wedding that I had been to where there wasn't drinking. In fact, I couldn't remember most of the weddings where there was.

"There is no alcohol in Gujuruat. It is a dry state." said Mitesh. Coincidentally, Gujurat is also the industrial capital of India and is India's fastest growing state in terms of GDP output. 

Soon we needed to sit down for the formalities. We moved over to the pavilion where the Patel family now sat, but the bride was nowhere to be seen.

I was told that the bride disappears for a little while and her uncles bring her in on a shoulder height cart, which is of course followed by some more dancing.

As the bride and family found their spot, the priest starting lighting a fire with spices and leaves making different coloured smoke. At this point, I was offered a seat in the front row next to Mitesh's grandpa. I looked around and noticed that it was only the closest of the closest relatives that had this honour, and so politlely declined and took a seat a few rows back. 

It was a little difficult to understand exactly what goes on in the actual ceremony itself. There is a lot of smoke rising, and cloths and golden chains swapping hands and linking hands, relatives of differing importance make their way to the stage, take off their shoes, and perform certain parts of the ceremony, then retreat back to their seats. All the while, the sit in their crowd, the women in the colourful saris, with henna on their hands and feet, and incredible gold jewelry hanging from every hanging spot, the men in western suits mostly but some more casual, with the occasional traditional white formal pajama. I realised that I was the only westerner in the wedding.

At one point, people started making their way to the stage in large groups. It was photo time, and the bride and groom were to have their photo taken with each person who wanted it. 90% of the people there wanted it. I felt for the bride and groom. Not only had the ceremony been going for 3 days, but I was told that they were unable to eat on the day of their wedding until they were married, and they had been up and performing ceremonies since 4:30am. 

Theirs was an arranged wedding, which is still common in India today. Personally, I am against the arranged marriage. I know that my parents will read this, and call me with a few suggestions as soon as they read this, but hear me out. It's not for me, but had it been considered the norm, had it been considered to be the only option, imagine how much time and money you would save if you couldn't even consider dating someone? I thought what my life would be like if I had used all of the time and money I had spent in search of a wife up to now for something useful. Regarding time, I could have 5 degrees. Regarding money, honestly, I could have used that money on a down payment for a house at least. Maybe two houses. It's no wonder Indians are taking over the world.

At one point they got up and started walking around the fire. I was told this was important. I watched as the priest waved smoke on them and they sat down and rose again several times, then after 7  turns, they sat quickly, and a small cheer arose from the crowd. I was told that this was called The Saptapadi.

The Sapdapadi is one of the most sacred events of the wedding ceremony. The couple circle the holy fire or agni 7 times holding hands covered by a sacred cross, and each time they do so, they make a vow.

To provide for food always.

To give you excellent health and energy.

To make you perform your vrithas (rituals) as ordained in Vedas, during your life time.

To give you happiness in life.

To make your cows and good animals grow in strength and in numbers.

To make all the seasons be beneficial to you.

To make the homams (sacrifices to be done in Holy Fire) to be performed by you in your life as ordained in Vedas, successful and free from hindrances.

This is followed by the bride and groom repeating words which vary by region, and which can be found a little later on in the article.

That was the english equivalent of I now pronounce you husband and wife. After a few more photographs, everybody rose and we sat for dinner with the new husband and wife.

We had another chance to taste the incredible food, and I didn't hold back. I sat next a Patel named Savan and another named Dishu, with Mitesh and Rashnu on my left. A group of musicians came through and stopped at each person, singing cheeky songs about each person, and making the bridal party laugh. I wish I knew what they were saying. When they reached me, they paused for a while, and all burst in to song. Everybody loved it. I was told that the young lead singer thought I was handsome, and so told me so in song. It was brilliant. 

As dinner finished, Mitesh turned to me, "This next part is going to be a little strange for you."  

I remembered the scene from Indiana Jones & The Temple of Doom where the priest pulled the still beating heart of out of the sacrifices chest, raised it to the sky, and threw his body in to the lava pit. Hoping for something similar, I waited with baited breath. 

"Now, the bridal party will all cry and scream as she leaves the wedding. They are sad because she is leaving the house." I'm not really sure what would have been more bizarre. On the one hand, I was really happy for the bride and groom. On the other hand, I was sad for the bride. Soon, everyone in the bridal party was having a cry. Some people were having a scream. People came up and hugged the bride, each of them balling, and paused for a photograph. It was a little strange, but then again, so are all weddings. Anyone ever thought how strange it is to ask the crowd if anyone knows any reason why a bride and groom should not be married a few seconds before they are announced husband and wife? I have always secretly wanted someone to stand up and drop a massive bombshell, just... not at mine.

They eventually met at the car, and got in. The priest appeared and performed a ritual on the car involving a coconut and some flowers, and they were off, for their first night as husband and wife. 

I said goodbye to everyone with a full stomach, knowing I had just seen and experienced something that I would probably never experience again. Mitesh was kind enough to drive me back to the hotel, and answer the many questions I had. I had never had hospitality like that, and I want to take the opportunity to thank the Patels for their warm and generous introduction to India. In particular, to Mr. Patel senior, who was overwhelmingly welcoming and wished me to pass on my thanks to my Dad for taking on Mitesh in Australia. I was so lucky that this was my first stop in India, and the Patel's th first people I met. I was invited to see their village the next day, and took a few pics (perhaps I will let the pictures do the talking in a slide show in my next post). I was taken to the Patel family home and shown more of the same incredible hospitality. Mr. Patel also explained to me a little of Hinduism, of which I was particularly interested, but again, for another time perhaps.

So that was it, my first day in India. Yes, it was a long day, and an equally long night, but not as long as the bride and grooms. Mitesh told me that the ceremony continued through the night. The bride comes to the Patel house where more ceremonies are held, then heads back to hers to get some things where more ceremonies are held, then back to the patels where they play some traditional games. It all didn't finish until 6am. 

I thought I might leave this part until last. Obviously, I didn't understand what was said in the wedding, but I did some research and found this Indian wedding vow commonly used in the area:

We have taken the Seven Steps. You have become mine forever. Yes, we have become partners. I have become yours. Hereafter, I cannot live without you. Do not live without me. Let us share the joys. We are word and meaning, united. You are thought and I am sound. May the night be honey-sweet for us. May the morning be honey-sweet for us. May the earth be honey-sweet for us. May the heavens be honey-sweet for us. May the plants be honey-sweet for us. May the sun be all honey for us. May the cows yield us honey-sweet milk. As the heavens are stable, as the earth is stable, as the mountains are stable, as the whole universe is stable, so may our union be permanently settled.

It was a nice Valentines day, even if it ended with me alone in a hotel, questioning the possibilities of transcendental meditation with the glorious haired guru. 

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Flying from Doha, Qatar to Ahmedabad, India with Qatar airways, I was lucky enough to be able to sample some of the local music.

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Apostle Kay

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Apostle Kay

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Day 35, 36, 37, 38, 39 - Zanzibarian Sun beds & Old Hippies dressed like Aladdin

Zanzibar, a semi-autonomous group of islands off the coast of the United Republic of Tanzania. Famous for sandy white beaches, spices, turquoise waters, and the unofficial national costume: White Linen Shirt, White Linen Pants.

Unfortunately, there are only 2 situations in which the White Linen Shirt, White Linen Pants combination is acceptable. One of them is in the islands off the coast of Africa. The other is if your name is Julio Iglesias.

Julio Iglesias

We arrived on a small plane still tired from our climb. Flying in, we saw the coral reefs and sand bars of the archipelago, patches of green and black coral in the blue water. 

At the airport, we were greeted by 50 Muslim taxi drivers all vying for our business. The first driver's quote to Nungwe beach, some 65 kilometres from the airport, was $100 US. Dad and I both laughed, and so did they. It was a good attempt, but it was way off. Eventually, we settled for $35 US. Our drivers name was Mohammed. 

African, Arabic, Indian, and English culture and architecture, due to the aforementioned entities all having spent some time ruling (officially or unofficially) the islands. Mohammed was blaring the latest Zanzibarian Islamic tunes. He bobbed his skinny bearded head to the loud tunes, turned to us in the back, and yelled something in Arabic, which I guessed was something along the lines of

"Do you like the Muslim music!?"

I gave him a thumbs up and a smile. I should take this moment to thank the "thumbs up and a smile" combination. Without it, I would not have ended 50% of conversations I have had on this trip. Thumbs up and a smile says so much, by saying absolutely nothing. It half tells the non English speaker Yes or OK, and half tells them I have no idea what you are saying. Whichever way it is interpreted, it usually satisfies the questioner.

Mohammed continued to bob his head and speak to us in Arabic. Dad and I stared out the windows as we drove through the fishing villages and small townships. Fish guts, salted drying fish, spices, burning plastic assaulted us through the open windows. Accompanied with Islamic RnB Volume 5 playing through the speakers, we were in a different world again, and we were enjoying it. The track stopped, and Dad and I looked at each other. Without saying anything, we were happy to have the break. It wasn't long however before a small screen popped out of the dashboard, inviting Mohammed to load a DVD. I looked away, focused on a man whipping the shit out of a stubborn cow with a 2 foot lump of fat on it's shoulders as he watched a lady in a burka float past.

Suddenly, a familiar tune started playing. Justin Bieber - Baby was now playing, and Mohammed, knew every word. Well, almost every word, it was his own Arabic version with some debatable Zenglish. Dad and I were loving it. Mohammed may have confused our enthusiastic laughter for encouragement, because Mohammed upped his performance, which now included the odd hand twirl or finger click.

Arriving via a storm of pre-pubescent pop at the hotel, we were greeted by paradise. From the hotel lobby, we could see the ocean over the edge of the infinity pool, which was surrounded by people drinking foot high fruity cocktails, with chillout music playing quietly in the background. That was where we wanted to be, and after heading up to the room and getting changed, we were.

And that is where we stayed.

For 4 days.

Sure, there were snorkelling trips, and dolphin swimming trips, and fishing trips, and jet skis, and dhow cruises, parasailing, paragliding, spice tours, turtle convservation tours and every other tour you would expect from a tropical island reliant on tourism. But we did none of it.

We lay by the pool and drifted in and out of sleep, drinking foot high fruit cocktails, listening to chillout music.

For 4 days.

Sure, occasionally, we did something wild. Like instead of ordering a cocktail, we had, I don't know, a frosty cold beer. I mean, we wanted to try a few things?

On the fifth day, I did manage to convince Dad to venture to Old Town, a world heritage listed town of small alleyways and vendors. I am glad that we did. Apart from averting the risk of sunbedsores, we saw something pretty special. Stone town is a 300 year old village made of, unsurprisingly, stone. It's alleyways are too small for cars or even tuk-tuk's and so it is walking or riding an upright black bicycle only. It also includes markets which service the Stone Town folk, and of course, the tourists. We weaved our way through the alleys and found a small square, full of men drinking turskish style coffee and playing dominos. Dad and I stopped, sat, and drank it in. I remembered seeing a similar scene from the island where my family originates when I visited as a kid. The men all met daily at the Cafenia, as they probably had done for centuries. I remembered that the girls weren't allowed to go, and had to stay at home, whilst 3 generations of my family went to the Cafenia for coffee and man time. It was nice sitting there with Dad. Our 20 minutes of Zanzibarian Cafenia were enough to make me think what our lives would have been like if my family had stayed in Greece... but perhaps that travel might be best saved for another time.

The men argued over the game and sipped their coffee furiously through decade old moustaches. The young men without moustaches stood by and watched arms folded. It was clear that they would not play today. They needed moustaches first, but for now, they watched and learned. Scooters could make their way through this part of the town, and they zipped by, helmetless, and breezy as they do. 

We walked on towards the ocean, which faced West.

We arrived and were told there was a music festival on in the 400 year old fort, so of course, we attended. Sauti za Basara is apparently East Africa's largest music festival. We were lucky, and were delighted by a cultural extravaganza. Mostly, there were dread locks and big mama black women shaking their large bums in new and exciting ways, but it was the crowd that was most interesting. African musicians from all over had arrived, and with them, a tie died, balding pony tailed, vegan, world music loving crowd of middle aged Mzungu's arrived. They sat and squatted and leant in ways too flexible for their age wearing earthy coloured large 4 button shirts and baggy orange pants. They finished every sentence with "man" and ate only the raw fruit and vegetables. They looked down on Dad and I, us capitalists, with our clean shirts and reasonable length hair (or what remained of it). I think hippies are for the most part, ridiculous. There was one English hippie there who was 50 years old and was wearing puffy white pants, and a purply brown vest, like Aladdin

Except that instead of a monkey, he had a bum bag. It was horrible. You can't wear a vest without a shirt in real life. Dress up party, fine. In public, not fine. 

Besides everyone's strange aunty being there and doing that old person hippie dance where they hunch their shoulders and bob their head outside the realms of the beat, it was a fantastic night. We managed to find out that there were a number of seafood stalls and some  local photographers selling their work outside the fort where the concert was held.

The next day, exhausted from our adventures outside the pool area, we thought it was important that we have a rest and recuperate. So, we lay by the pool and drifted in and out of sleep, drinking foot high fruit cocktails, listening to chill out music.

For our last day in Zanzibar.

The next day, I was flying out to India for a wedding, and Dad was back to Australia. It was a great few weeks with my old man. He is a cool guy. We spent the last afternoon walking the beach and taking a few pics.

It's always tough saying goodbye to a travel companion, but this one would be home when I got there.

On to India...

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Mt. Kilimanjaro - Fifth Day - Summiting despite cold hands & Mountains v Beaches

Day 5 - Kibo Hut to Uhuru Peak to Kibo Hut to Horombo Hut

Altimeter: 4,730 - 5,895 metres, and back down to 3,720 metres

Distance: Nearly 40 kilometres

Terrain: Summit range to summit and back to rainforest

Time: 12 - 15 hours

We started getting ready at 11:15pm. Our kit was as follows:

1 x Pair of good hiking boots capable of handling some snow

2 x Pairs of thick socks

3 layers of pants:

1 x Thermal pants

1 x Hiking pants

1 x Gore tex over pants

6 layers on the body:

1 x Thermal top

1 x T-shirt

1 x Fleece jumper

1 x Fleece vest

1 x Goose down jacket

1 x Goretex shell jacket

2 pairs of gloves:

1 x Inner gloves

1 x Goretex gloves

Head gear

1 x Woolen Beannie

1 x Wind buff

1 x Sunglasses

Other

1 x Lucas Paw-paw

1 x Suncream

2 x Chemical warmers

1 x Backpack

3 Litres of water

6 Energy bars

1 x Medical kit (Aspirin, Bandages, Antiseptic, Various medications)

1 x Emergency pack (Shock blanket, Matches, Warning Light, Pocket knife, Best of Boys II Men - Volume 2 CD etc.)

We dressed in the dark, using our headlamps for light. It was around -3 degrees in the hut, or so my thermometer told us. Any water bottles that were left by the window were frozen solid. It seemed a little unreal. It was 11:50pm, it was -15 outside, we could only see each other with our headlamps, and we could only see the shape and direction of the mountain that we were about to climb because it created a shadow in the sky which was lit up by stars. A horizon, 45 degrees up to the West.

"I don't even like mountains..." I heard Dad murmuring through his coat, "I like beaches."

"Mountains first Dad, then beaches."

We started climbing on time. It was slow going. We were probably the fourth of fifth group to leave, which was promising. We could tell because the small groups of lights zig-zagged their way up the mountain. The smaller the lights, the further away they were. 

That was all that you could see. The horizon of the mountain created by the ending of the stars, the zig zagging lights making their way slowly up the mountain, and the heels of the person in front of you. You watched their heels fighting for traction up the mountain, and you did so for 5 hours. I guess that in a way, it was beneficial. It was easy to lose track of time when all you are looking at is another preson's heels fighting for traction in the loose dirt.

He exhaled.

About an hour in, our hands and feet were frozen. Dad didn't have particularly good gloves, and so his were frozen more than mine.

"I can't feel my fingers." said Dad. He had a defected and worried look on his face.

"That's cool Dad, no-one can feel their fingers." I told him. My fingers were just fine. I had two pairs of gloves on, the outer ones being Goretex skiing gloves, and I had ben keeping them in my jacket. Dad, on the other hand, was using walking poles, so his hands were exposed to the wind.

"I might need to go back." he said.

I looked at Dad.

Dad looked at me.

"Nope. That's not happening. It's just your fingers Dad."

I imagined what my facebook status would have said:

The Travels of Me climbed up 1 hour of Mt. Kilimanjaro and then turned back because his Dad's fingers were a little bit cold. 20 minutes later, they were wrapped around a warm Milo. But Milo can't excuse a grown man acting like a 5 year old girl, nor hide a son's shame...

 Me:"Is it frostbite?"

Dad: "I think so."

Me: "Jeff, is it frostbite."

Jeff: "No, is not frostbite. Just cold. He can take my gloves."

Me: "Dad, get up."

Dad: "I don't even like mountains.... Beaches..." he murmured.

We kept walking.

I think Dad just kind of hit the wall for a second. Admittedly, it didn't help that his gloves were useless, and that he was using walking poles.

We stopped again.

Dad: "Paulie, I can't feel my toes."

Me: "Oh... Can you wiggle them?"

Dad: "Nope, I think it could be frostbite."

Me: "Jeff, is it frostbite?"

Jeff: [removes Dad's shoes and socks, inspects his toe] "No, is not frostbite. Just cold. I remove one pair of socks so he can move his toes."

Me: "Put those socks on your hand poppa."

Dad: [exhaled heavily] "Fn... Mountains... Beaches..."

and we were off again, with the extra guide Richard holding Dad's walking poles, and Dad, with his hands in two pairs of gloves, covered by socks, in his jacket, we were cherry ripe... until 5400m.

We walked for 4 -5 hours, zig zagging up the 7.8km scree wall. Jeff told us later that he thinks that you cover around 15kms walking up the wall the way we do. It was good that he told us later. At 5400 metres however, the conditions change. There is a small cave that you use as shelter to put your down jacket on, because the wind really picks up, and you have to start scrambling over boulders.

Great, I thought, I have taken my 56 year old Dad up 5400 metres in -15 degree weather at 4 in the morning to scramble through boulders. Great Kid.

Jeff piped up.

"Only 280 metres to Gilman's Point." he said.

Gilman's Point is the point where you meet the crater lip taking the Marangu route. The altitude there measures 5,865 metres. You then traverse along the inside of the crater for 2.8 km's climbing the extra 230 metres in altitude to reach Uhuru Peak.

"Great." I said. Dad said nothing, but I could tell he was happy with the news.

It was then I started feeling sick. Not ill, just a little nauseous. I hadn't really eaten, so I didn't feel sick from food, just, nauseous. As we climbed, the nausea got worse. I looked at Dad. He wasn't looking too flash either.

"Gilman's Point." said Jeff easily with a smile on his face. We were both a greenish tinge in the headlamp light.

"I feel sick." I said to Jeff.

"If you feel sick, then you should make sick." said Jeff, his headlamp nearly blinding me.

You didn't need to ask me twice. I vomited. Several times. But all that came out was half an energy bar, some electrolyte pack, and 500 mls of water. That was because, that, was all I had eaten in the last 15 hours. I knew that I had to eat more, I needed my energy, and I considered it for a second, but just the thought was followed by a dry reach. I resigned to the fact that perhaps, the last taste of flavour I would experience for the next several hours, would be bile. Dad of course had a spew too. He is a sympathy vomiter from way back, but he too had the same troubles as me. Having said that, he was travelling a lot better than me now.

I did feel better after the episode at Gilman's point, but as we climbed higher, I became more and more out of it. Have you ever taken a sleeping pill on an empty stomach, gone to bed expecting a nice 8 hour sleep, and then been woken up by someone shaking you 5 hours earlier expected? That was now I felt, except that I was now at 5,750 metres, and it was now colder than ever.

"Jeff, wha, how cold is it?" I struggled to say.

"Is minus 15..."

"Oh..." I said.

"Minus 23 with wind chill."

"Oh..." I said. What else could I say? I was 145 metres away from the summit.

The other problem with Altitude sickness is that it most commonly occurs, on mountains. Whilst this may seem obvious, most of the time when you are ill, you are advised to Drink plenty of water, have some rest, and stay in bed. Well, the water was frozen, I couldn't "rest" on a mountain summit, and bed was at least 4 hours away.

We treaded on. My breathing was going along fine, which meant I was ok, but Dad was getting worried. The good news though was that Dad was looking good. Bolstered by the first sight of the summit, crowded with people being shown to us with flashes from their digital cameras, Dad was good to go. The other good news was that the Sun was finally rising. This meant light, and warmth, and some idea as to our surroundings.

We climbed on, traversing the inside of the volcano as the sun started to rise. The sun, obviously, rises in the East, so the Western inside of the volcano was covered with patches of snow and ice, which I really didn't expect, and made Dad a little nervous. Not for him, but for me. My balance, admittedly, was starting to fail a little. Furthermore, little to his knowledge, so was my judgement. I found myself searching a harder than normal for footing. This complemented with the odd stumble, which was not unusual for trekkers at this point, ensured that the famed furrowed brow of my father had miraculously made it's way to the crater of Kilimanjaro.

"Are you ok mate?" asked Dad.

Dad & Jeff & a glacier.

"I'm fine." I said. I wasn't that fine, but I was fine.

"Do you know where you are?"

I thought for a second of playing a trick. This wasn't my first Do you know where you are? rodeo. I had ben knocked unconcious before 4 times, each time resulting in amnesia, a frightening but entertaining ailment whereby the amnesia-ee is unable to remember either short, medium, or long term memories, or possibly a combination of all three.

[Cue harp] enter dream sequence...

The first episode of this occured when I was 16 years old. We were driving with 6 friends in a front wheel drive japanese sports car through the main street of country South Australia. The driver decided it was the perfect time to attempt a "snakey", a maneuvre whereby the driver throws the back of the car out to each side, creating a snake like trail on the road. Unfortunately, the driver of the car was a dickhead, and everbody knows that when you combine equal parts of snakey with dickhead you get words like: Car rolls 3 times and takes out state's oldest phone box, 16 year old male hospitalised, 18 stitches to the head, unconcious, slipped discs in lower back, internal bleeding, amnesia, recovering in local hospital. The next few weeks were a blur, and as was my short and medium term memory. Short term memory covers anything that has happened in the last day or so, and medium term is about the last 3-6 months. Unfortunately for me, I had, apparently, lost my virginity in that 3 -6 month period, and I didn't find this out until my good friend Todd informed me. Naturally, I was delighted to hear the news.

"Sick." I said, as most 16 year old males did.

"That's mad." said Todd, laughing.

"Do you know how I went?"

"Decent apparently, or so you told me."

"Sick." I said again.

"Sick." said Todd.

We sat there nodding for a few minutes, as most 16 year old mates did.

"Have you seen The Life of Brian? I am about to watch it, apparently it's hilarious." I asked Todd.

"Nope. But you have. 10 or 11 times according to your Mum. But you keep forgetting you've watched it, and it's upsetting your Mum, so I think she just let's you."

"Oh..." I said, "Sick."

"Sick." said Todd.

We nodded some more.

"That's sweet value for money." I added.

We said 'Sick' a couple more times, then he left.

The thing about being unconcious or having amnesia is that you don't know that you have either, which makes it great for you, but hard for everyone else. That was where Dad was at I think. He had seen me unconcious enough, so he was getting pretty stressed.

and back to the mountain...

"Are you sure you're ok?" he asked, staring at my eyes for some indication.

I stared back, "I am fine. A little short of breath though..." which was an understatement. At 5800 metres, I might as well have been underwater. Dad wasn now feeling the lack of oxygen too. Jeff on the other hand could have been on the beach strolling barefoot with a coconut in his hand, but he was helping us low landers along instead.

We could only walk 25 metres without stopping. The bizzare thing is that, all around you, there are people cruising past you, and they're not neccessarily fitter than you. Altitude effects every single person differently, regardless of fitness. I saw a 60 year old overweight woman powerwalk past me. That day, an 83 year old man summited, no problems whatsoever, and yet, the 25 year old german who had spent 6 months climbing the Alps didn't make it. It's very strange.

As we got to within 150 metres, I'm not going to lie, there were man tears. I'm not talking about some There's scree in my eye type man tears, both Dad, and I, were balling. It was very emotional. Not because we were scared, and not because we thought we might fail, but because we knew with 150 metres, we were going to make it... and we did.

By no means was our trip over. Strangely, I hadn't put much thought in to our descent. All my thoughts and energy had been put in to making it to the top, and once I did, I felt a great boost of energy... for 10 minutes... then, I was completely exhausted.

The descent is a complete blur. I remember Dad & Jeff taking it in turns to link arms with me because I was stumbling like I was on the way home from the Royal Hotel in Paddington after Anzac Day. We stopped frequently, and all I felt like doing was sleeping. Thankfully, it had warmed up now. It was 8:30am and the sun was in the sky. I was microsleeping at every rest point.

We reached Gilman's Point at around 9:00am and we we were both shocked. We really didn't know how far we had climbed during the night, and seeing the track we had taken in daylight gave us an idea. In the distance we could see 3 dots, which made up the 3 huts at Kibo. How we were going to get down here without sleeping I had no idea. I had never been so tired in my life. I was beyond tired.

We started walking down the scree wall, but we were getting nowhere. I needed to get down to a lower altitude as soon as possible, so I made a decision. I would scree run down the wall instead. Scree running is kind of like skiing, but you use your boots and slide down the mountain in large lunges. It's extremely tiring, but I needed to get down. It was great fun, but being so exhausted meant I needed to stop every 5 minutes, although in that time, I was covering 500-800 metres. I can honestly say that making my way down that mountain was the hardest thing I have ever done. Going up was tough, but at least I had a goal and some energy. Dad was the same. We were looking at each other and shaking our heads the whole way down.

When we reached Kibo, we didn't even speak. We ordered two Cokes, had our boots dusted, and went to bed. Paul Coehlo once said that God created the desert so that man would smile when he saw the Palm tree. I was lying on a 2 inch thick bed at 4,700 metres, and I was happier than I could ever be at the Four Seasons in Paris. I lay there, enjoying every breath, but I knew that we could only stay for an hour or so, and we were off again to head back to Horombo.

Does this story seem like it should have finished at the summit? I couldn't agree more, but this story didn't finish at the summit, and it didn't even finish at Kibo Hut, we still had 4 hours of trekking through the desolate alpine desert to Horombo Huts to go, and we had never been more tired, or more stinky, in our lives.

We set off around 11:00am after 5 or 6 chips and a milo. That was all that I could stomach. Dad didn't even eat. We walked like machines to Horombo, barely stopping, barely speaking, just the occasional rest every 45 minutes or so accompanied by a dry reach or two from each of us. I was feeling better, but Dad was feeling worse. He gets mountain sickness, but it seems to come later, delayed onset mountain sickness if you like, which must be hard to deal with. We walked on. I thought about home, about calling Mum and Kate and Tess. Dad hadn't spoken to Mum for nearly 6 days, probably the longest they hadn't spoken since they had been married 30 years ago. I could tell he missed her, he kept checking with Jeff for mobile service. It was nice.

At Horombo, we sat on the steps outside the Huts for half an hour, staring 3 feet ahead of us, sipping from water bottles, and saying nothing.

We had nothing left, but in the back of our blank minds we knew that we had both done something we would both never forget, and in a few days, the rocks and short bushes which we were both staring at would be replaced by white sand, and the water bottles by mojitos. These mountains would seen be replaced by beaches, and I could tell Dad was happy about it, and so was I.

[thetravelsofme-blog]

Mt. Kilimanjaro - Fourth Day

Day 4 - Horombo Huts to Kibo Hut

Altimeter: 3,720 - 4,730 metres

Distance: 12.8 km

Terrain: Alpine Desert to Summit range

Time: 5 - 6 hours

I will write about only the fourth day, although my memory of the fourth day blends entirely in to that of the fifth. This schedule will show you why:

6:30am - Wake and prepare

7:30am - Begin hiking

1:00pm - Arrive at Kibo and take lunch

2:00pm - Meet with the team to discuss the summit

2:30pm - Rest until dinner

5:30pm - Dinner

6:30pm - Rest

11:00pm - Wake and prepare

(Fifth Day) 12:00am - Begin summiting

7:30am - Summit

8:00am - Begin ascending to Kibo Hut

10:30am - Arrive at Kibo Hut and sleep

11:30am - Wake and prepare

12:00pm - Begin hiking to Horombo

3:00pm - Arrive at Horombo

3:30pm - Eat lunch & Rest

6:00pm - Dinner

7:00pm - Rest

Today we woke up feeling tired. The summit was getting closer, and although we had the benefit of an acclimatisation day yesterday, we do start to feel the effects of the altitude, particularly on the quality of our sleep.

There is a different feeling about the camp today. For those on the same route at the same time as us, it will be a difficult 36 hours. We are to walk to Kibo hut through the alpine desert to an an altitude of 4,730 metres. There we will eat a late lunch, then, things become a little more difficult, because tonight at 11:00pm we will wake up, and begin our climb to the summit. Bags begin to appear under the eyes of the trekkers, some sleeping better than others.

We walked in the most perfect sunshine for the first 1.5 hours, ascending through the last of the moorland, traversing slowly up the side of the mountain. Around a corner, we saw it. The alpine desert, with a path that snaked through the dirt and small rocks to the west of Mt. Kilimanjaro. There was no vegetation. Only small rocks, and red dirt which turned to black as the path got closer to the mountain. We walked for 5 and half hours, in near silence, with the occasional stop for water or a photograph. It's easy to walk in the alpine desert and forget how much time you have walked. It all looks the same and there aren't any points of reference, except that the mountain in front of you gets slightly smaller as you walk on, and your feet hurt more, and the air gets thinner. The sun shone, but the wind was icy cold.

We were however in good spirits. 

We reached Kibo Hut around 12:30pm, in good time, at the base of the mountain. There are no trees and barely any people on the mountain during the day, so it is very difficult to get an idea of scale, but the people that were on the mountain were only half way up, and were literally tiny pixels of colour. Dad and I saw them at the same time, pixels on a gray background moving slowly towards us.

Mt. Kilimanjaro is a strange mountain. It is the tallest free standing mountain on Earth. What this means, is that it is the tallest mountain that isn't part of a mountain range. It bursts out of a plain, and the last 'cone' of it, which were to climb later that night, begins at Kibo Hut and rises at nearly 45 degrees.

We were shown to our hut, which was a shared dormitory style room, and we rested. Not much was said between the trekkers. Some read, some stared at the slats of the bunk above them in an effort to sleep, others took deep breaths, others were sick... We ate, filled in time 'resting' as best we could, then we ate some more, we 'rested' which included about 1.5 hours of shallow-weird-dream-filled sleep for me, then we started getting ready. I personally didn't realise how little sleep we would all get a Kibo Hut, but the guides did tell us that nobody spends time acclimatising here. Now I knew why.

So it was, that at 11:15am, my Dad and I, with torch lights on our heads, began preparation for the summit...