Woo.. what a wedding.

Alright, well, I'm not exactly sure how long the vows took, but they seemed to last about an hour or two. I was sort of walking in and out for most of it, along with about one or two hundred other people. I think my uncle was exaggerating at 400, unless that's how many are arriving for the eating reception foofraw thing, which would not surprise me. It was sort of almost informal, actually.. people sat down to watch the vows, and then wandered upstairs to eat, and then stood around and smoked, walked back in to watch the vows.. I don't think anybody actually stayed for the entire thing, except maybe immediate family, and even they floated upstairs for a quick bite come the middle.

Speaking of informal, woo.. my uncle (the one whose daughter was getting married) told us to get sarvanis, which is a special sort of four-piece suit with long kurta, loose pants that come up to your bellybutton, coat and long dupatta scarf, all of silk, so we did. And also leather chappals, which are sort of a nice looking sandal, only Ryan decided that he shouldn't mess about and went for the black red and gold ones that curled up at the toes into a point, and he says he's going to use them for house shoes when he comes back. So suffice it to say we were pretty decked out... and then we arrived there and my suspicions that we were totally overdressed came true, because everyone else was just wearing kurtas and pants, or sometimes even just shirts and pants. Well, the guys, anyways. The women were of course splendid, because if they weren't, well, the world would stop existing if Bengali women were not splendidly dressed. So we were sort of the snazziest there, I guess.

Everyone was shouting, but that's not really anything special because that's how Bengali people talk. I think it helps if you think of them as Italian.. they love shouting, eating good food and all sorts of art stuff. You can never really tell if it's an argument or a conversation or a fight.

The vows... now they were something. Essentially the bride, Dola, had an amazingly painted and jewelleried face, hands and feet, and also a magnificent suit, and had to hold a sort of cylinder thing which I can't describe, and the groom, that's Goldie, had a very tall but magnificent hat and a worried expression, and had to hold a sort of spoon, and the priest did a lot of the talking, and at one point they lit a fire in a tray of sand right in front of them, despite it being a hot night with no fans because that would blow around the jillions of insects that were attracted to the light and flew in through the windows which were open because it was a hot night, etc. So they lit the fire, and then they put a lot of holy water and oils in it, which made it start smoking and carrying on, and everyone had to squint, and Goldie, who was sitting right in front of the fire, looked like he wanted to cry, but they carried on for half an hour for the fire and the room got kind of dim through the smoke, then I went to eat.

Then they had to do several things like roll a stone over paan leaves with their feet, and throw some grains into the fire and also a banana, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what any of it symbolised. Probably fertility, I imagine. I think most wedding rites could be condensed to "Alright, here you go, this is you and this is you, you're married, I hope you have a good time and a couple of babies", but everybody wants to add their own flair.

Also note that for the duration of this trip, I've become "Basu Roy", because that's what Indian people seem to hear my name as. It's a good Bengali name, although Basu is usually a last name I gather.

Weekly Indian Feature: Stray Dogs

Stray dogs are everywhere. And I mean, with the same frequency that you'd see garbage cans in Canada, only since they don't have garbage cans in India they settle for stray dogs, which actually do the same job, sort of. I don't know how they survive. Sometimes people put out old rice for them, but I guess generally they eat garbage. I always feel like petting them, only they always turn out to have some skin disease or are more interested in humping, fighting or playing with one another, so it's really all immaterial. Canadian streets are going to feel very empty.

-Basu

So we arrived in Delhi, only to find out that...

That Delhi was actually a lot nicer than Kolkata. It partly owes this to being the capital, so the government works harder at making it nicer. There's not as much diesel, since all the auto-rickshaws and taxis are running on Compressed Natural Gas, burning a lot greener and cheaper. There's also a lot more parks, so I guess that's good. The first night, we stayed in a place called Majnu Ka Tilla, a Tibetan refugee colony. They keep it pretty clean, and the hotel we stayed in was phenomenally so, for a pretty good price too (7.50 for a double room, if you want to talk dollars.) After that, we ended up moving to Sanskriti Kendra, which I really can't fit into my idea of Indian cities. It's a park, with avenues leading through it to houses and gardens and orchards, with craftsmen's workshops everywhere. Woodcarvers, painters, sculptors.. basically a lot of artists. In the middle is a meeting hall, and off to the side is a museum, and apartments for people who stay there. Everything's so green, and it's right smack in the middle of Delhi and you can barely hear the horns. It's an anomaly.

We went there for a retreat, although it wasn't so much relaxing as interesting. A bunch of activists went there to talk about things like activism and education and India, and I stayed there for half of it and walked around whittling (I whittled a spoon that sort of looks like a not-spoon) and whistling outside for half of it, and came round at mealtimes to be stuffed, because that's how they feed you in India. Anyways,

After the retreat was done we ambled around Delhi for a couple of days, stayed in a couple of bad hotels, visited a huge mosque and a slightly smaller Sikh gurdvara and then jumped on board the train for Kolkata, which I can't really pass over because it's a doozie. Woo.

26 hours of, let's see, beggars with awful, terrible burns all over their bodies, with their chins fused to their necks, either accident or because someone wanted to increase their profitability, just standing there and looking at you, not bothering to even ask, beggars with arms bent the wrong way, beggars busking by hitting their staff on your bed for percussion and singing at you, beggars telling other beggars who gave money, so they know who to hit again.

26 hours of hawkers, and I mean hawkers, walking up and down the train yelling out their wares, despite the fact that you're two feet from them. How they yell! Everyone's got their own hook.. IdLI.. IdLI.. Chai-COFFee.. Chai-COFFee.. Chat Patta! Chat Patta! Pani jol water bottel! And of course the two main food groups, VEG AND NONVEG! It all runs into one after a while.

26 hours of being sick, taking a "veg cutlet" for breakfast and regretting it. I tell you, an Indian train toilet is the worst possible place to be sick, especially if the train's moving. You finish throwing up, and then you remember where you are, and see the ground whipping past through the bottom of the toilet, and it just makes you throw up again. The best I can say is that they give you a bar to hold on to, and the disinfectant they use shuts down your nose with eucalyptus.

It was wonderful to arrive in Kolkata, clutching two small plants in plastic bags from Delhi. We aim to travel all over India with them, or maybe not.

I'm planning to include, with every post, a little feature that India has that might help you understand what it's like. Today's feature is:

Spitting and nose-clearing: This happens all the time. Spit, spit spit. If you're lucky it's just spit. If you're not, it's yellowy muck. If you're really into this sort of thing, you can see someone spit red, which is not blood but paan, which is a thing they chew that stains your lips and teeth red. They don't really seem to feel embarrassed about it unless you stare right at them, although they probably just think "I wonder what he's staring at me for" more than anything.
Snorrrkht, khaaaak! Patu.

The nose clearing is a rarer occurrence, but every so often you'll get to see someone sticking their finger in one side of their nose, and blowing out a long string of muck. It's quite normal. I saw one guy do it while walking.

Here's hoping I'll see you guys sooner rather than later,

Bashu

P.S. I've been having dreams about being at home. Not especially spectacular woop, here's a dinosaur dreams, just dreams about lolling around at home, watching some deer in the back yard.

So I guess we're luckier than most India-goers, because we stayed in a Rajah's house.

It was pretty story-book like. He's the Rajah of Kalakankar, a small village on the Ganges, and owns half the town. However, he doesn't really live there so much as actually he lives in Seattle, leaving Kalakankar to get by on its own. He's got a huge house on the banks of the river, with ten people jumbling around keeping it whole, and he let us stay there on account of how our mom knows him, and we're in India and he's not in India, on account of being in Seattle. So, for three days we bumbled around, being served three wonderful Indian meals a day by the staff, and reading books and walking around, and taking a riverboat ride, and walking through the village, orchards and farms.

Funny thing is, another person who stayed there was Svetlana Stalin, who is in fact Joseph Stalin's daughter. She came here to put the ashes of her Indian husband in the river, in the sixties. She also built a hospital in his memory, and it's still standing there in Kalakankar today, unused and abandoned. We went to look at it. It's a strange experience. You should try it some time.

Anyways, after that we took off for Delhi. This trip has been nice because to get anywhere that's anywhere in India, you need to take a train, which I haven't ever done much of before. Indian trains are a special experience, because they actually work well.

I'll tell you what happened in Delhi soon as I can find more time for Internet. See ya!

-Bashu

Olright so you know what's hilarious?

Dachshunds!

Hot dogs!

You know what's hilariouser?

Dachshunds crossed with other breeds!

I never knew it before but you gotta see it to believe it. Apparently there's a dachshund in this town that's got a lot of kids waddling around with heads too big for their bodies. We've seen about five so far.

Okay, getting down to brass tacks, we're in Dhulikel, a town an hour's bus ride from Kathmandu. The hotel we're staying at is really wonderful, with an amazing view of the Himalayas. Our mom got us up at sunrise today to see the light hit the mountains- if you listen close it actually makes a sound.

Yesterday, me, Zaman and Ryan ate an enormous breakfast (who doesn't have a weak spot for buffets?) walked about half a kilometer out of town to climb a hill with a hackysack and some biscuits and mango juice. We weren't really sure how to get to the top, so we just sort of scrambled, only it was a big hill so we sort of scrambled in slow motion, through farms and forest to the top where, although there's no-one living, there's still (of course) trash on the ground, some of which we took back. Like Zaman said, you can really see how Tolkien got his inspiration for Lord of the Rings- you can only say the landscape is epic.

Ryan took out his MP3 player, which I should mention he's hooked up to some speakers and kept in his backpack and which, although it only half-works, has been a great source of comfort and sanity throughout this trip, and put on the Beatles. Zaman says now if anyone asks him if he's ever hacked on top of a mountain in Nepal while listening to the Beatles (the quintessential hippie experience), he can say yes he has, so you should probably ask him when he gets back home or else he'll be disappointed. Then Dream Weaver came on and they started fighting about it, so there goes the British Columbian dream.

Anyways, I have to say I didn't really know how much I missed Sean Connery until I saw Dr. No again. Cable is a blessing.

-Bashu

Woke up this morning and had a sudden attack of laziness lasting into the afternoon. I honestly think that I ever went travelling by myself, I'd never get anything done with nobody to wake me up and get me moving in any particular direction. Eventually they did, and we took a tight (All our taxi rides have been tight with four people in the back seat) taxi ride to the Hindu temple of Pashupatinath.

Pashupatinath Temple is built with the river going through it, with an outer temple that anybody can walk around and an inner temple for Hindus only. Our mother was let in, and she said it was beautiful inside.

The outer temple had a series of long steps going down to the river, with platforms on one side of the river, with fires burning on some of them. These were cremation pyres, although nothing was visibly burning except wood and ash. A guy came up to me and Ryan as we were sitting there and struck up a conversation, which in Kathmandu inevitably turns into a sales pitch, and this one ended with offering to take us around the temple and tell us about it. We accepted, and after telling us some things, most of which we already knew, he took us to the sadhu's homes.

The sadhu babas are men who have renounced all that life can offer them by way of pleasure, except cannabis, which they smoke once each day in devotion to their lord Shiva. They're both respected and pitied by Indians. Most of them have knee-length dreadlocked hair, having never cut it, and have painted faces which really make them look, well, terrifying.

However like everyone else they're not perfect and as soon as we walked into the courtyard, several sprung to life offering to do yoga and pose for pictures for some money. One took the initiative, spread out his mat, sat down and put his foot behind his head. He held out a hand as if to say "Alright? See this?". His expression was really strange- I can't describe it, besides something like expectant, bored and put-upon. Not one you would think to see on the face of a holy man. Our guide tried to explain it by telling us "Well, even yogababas and sadhu babas need money to live, eh?", although how they'd survived before this wasn't touched on.

Across the courtyard from the sadhus was an energetic soccer game being carried on by the kids living in the apartments next to them- maybe the family of caretakers of the temple. Across from that were some teenagers staring out at it all from behind barred windows and locked doors. Our guide, I should mention at this point his name was Progress, no I don't know why, told us these were priests-in-training. "They must be kept apart from the world, or they will be playing, running, they will not be priests". Apparently they could go out any time they wanted by another door, although you'd doubt it to see their faces. But if you were shocked every time you saw something shocking, you wouldn't survive India for long.

Zaman's annoyed because I keep saying "in India!" although we're in Nepal. There's not a lot of difference besides dress, people, temperature, mountains, and more tourists, so you can see how I get confused.

When we made our way back to the river steps, there was a body wrapped completely in orange, the colour of God, on the opposite side, waiting to be burned. As we set our prayer lamps alight in the river, I felt strangely unsettled, but I was soon reassured by the the sight of a boy downstream going through the floating offering-plates for coins.

-Bashu

I have a scrap of black plastic that I'm going to take back with me to Canada as a trophy. It marks my triumph over a monkey.

We went to the Swayambha Mandir today, popularly known as the "Monkey Temple", because there's a bunch of monkeys all over it. Whatever you've heard about monkeys it's best to forget until you're actually close to one. Walking up you don't notice them until about halfway up the 365 stairs, and then they're by the side of the stairways and in the bushes besides. They're pretty much the best animals to just sit and watch.

I noticed two sitting on a step and scratching each other's backs, and decided to toss a couple of flower petals at them, I don't know why. I guess they're used to people throwing pretty bad things at them because they both scrambled backwards and stared at me. One of them couldn't let this insult go by, jumped back up and bared his teeth, getting ready to jump. I was panicking for a second that I'd have to have a punch-up with a monkey on the temple steps, then remembered "Hey, wait, this guy is actually pretty titchy" and just, I don't know, did that gesture that humans and monkeys both do when they want to fight, sort of throwing the shoulders forward. The monkey all but backflipped back into the bushes and retired to stare at me. I guess a lot of fights are resolved like that. That's not how I got the black plastic, though.

We made it up to the temple and walked around. It seems like it's half a temple, half a small town up there - there's accomodations for the monks, plus places for tourists to stay, plus restaurants and houses for the people working there, etc. The centerpiece is a huge dome stupa (look it up) with the eyes of Buddha painted on the top staring out over all of Kathmandu, which you can see from the viewpoint there. Besides that there's small stalls and shops, and an old monastery, and tons of smaller stupas, and crawling over it all are brown-furred monkeys. There are several types of monkey:

Grasshoppers: Little monkeys about the length of your forearm with wrinkly faces, hanging off their parents or getting whacked around by the bigger monkeys. No matter how much you want to give them a date or some seeds, they'll always lose out to:

Vicious Little Swearwords: These are guys who know what they want, which is whatever you're giving them and more, if you please. If you hold out a handful of grains they'll pick some out like they're going to take them peacefully, then smack your hand so that you drop them all over. If you flip or jump back, they'll immediately flip and jump back and start snarling at you. Come to think of it, a lot of the monkeys fall into this category. They'll start fights with anybody, including:

Old Farts: These are more wrinkly-faced, whiter-haired monkeys, who generally watch everything and don't crawl about as much. They're either protecting the smaller monkeys or picking things out of each other's fur. Old Farts are also often:

Bears: These guys are big and furry. That's all. Nobody messes with them and you generally try to not attract their attention. The shopkeepers and monks try to drive away the monkeys when they scrabble through garbage or climb over Buddha, but somehow you can't imagine them trying it with the bears.

--

Now, the black piece of plastic. We were having a time of it with some terrible dates that I had bought in Gangtok and never eaten. I was worried at first about the monkeys choking on the pits, but I stopped worrying after the first monkey popped the whole dealie into his month, chewed for a while, then spat out a smooth pit about three feet away. It's really neat holding it out to the monkey and having him take it from you with a warm little hand, although the VLSes can make you feel sort of wary of teeth and nails.

After a while I ran out of dates, and a guy gave me a handful of corn that you could either scatter on the ground for them to pick up one at a time, or hold out in your hand and have them grab as many as they could swallow. We figured that we wanted to stay up there a little longer (it's incredibly peaceful) and bought ten rupees worth of seeds from a vendor. We poured them into a black plastic bag (here it comes) and walked off to the railing to hand some to the monkeys.

Kian, since he paid for it, decided to hold the bag and we were all happily sprinkling and giving seeds, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed an Old Fart sidling closer to Kian. Just as he reached out a hand for the bag I yelled "Kian!" and waved a foot at him(the monkey, not the brother). Kian spins around just in time to see the guy jumping away (they can really jump), and in a motion that makes perfect sense, holds the bag away from him while shaking a fist at the monkey. Holding the bag, in fact, behind him. Where the VLS sitting there on the rail is only too happy to do the job that the Old Fart has fumbled. Kian, I guess, feels a tug on the bag too late and pulls away from him, scattering the seeds onto the ground all over.

Well, it's not any skin off my back, and we were going to give it all to the monkeys anyhow, but I still feel sort of cheated, and as we walk away I can't help but notice that the VLS still has most of the bag and is going through it, looking for seeds. In fact he's got his back to me, and so... I grab the bag, and he shrieks like a dog who's had someone step on his tail, and does the exact same thing as Kian, leaving me with a shred of black plastic which I will cherish forever, because I stole it from a monkey. It's the thought that counts.

Anyways, whatever you think about monkeys, let me tell you - they're nothing so much as just simpler human beings. They want to do the exact same things, they're just not so subtle about it all. I love them.

-Bashu

A note on riding cars, jeeps and buses in the mountains:

Don't ever do it. It sounds romantick and rustick and all sorts of other interestingk things, but it's a bloody nightmare. They take the approach of "living cargo" here. First off, going from Rumtek to Gangtok was a bit amusing to all of us, because there were fourteen people onboard the one jeep, not counting the three kids and one guy hanging off the back (literally just holding one with his hands and feet), because they didn't count as people and thus everything was perfectly legal if uncomfortable. Later on, when we got up at 4 am in the craphole Kakarbitta inn to take a (count 'em) fourteen hour bus ride through the mountains over a road that was long stretches of pothole with occasional bits of road, I appreciated the irony.

It didn't keep us all from swearing like sailors at every turn that threw all my internal organs into one side of my ribcage, though.

Anyways, we arrived in Katmandu, took the first hotel the taxi guy showed us to, and dropped our bags. We decided that we'd earnt a nice meal, so we went out to this Thai restaurant where everybody ordered chicken and noodles and all that but I decided to put my foot down (but gently) and order "Fettuchini Carbonera". Was worth it. Kathmandu is also a shopper's dream. Tailors, embroiderers, jewellers, wood-carvers, whatever handicrafts you want, bookstores, everything. None of them are very modern, but they're all good value. I think I'll pick up some rings and bracelets for you undeserving picklesmugglers.

Also, there's hippies everywhere! It almost feels like Victoria.

-Bashu

So!

Rumtek, the town and monastery, are really nice and peaceful. You can generally walk down to the cafe and see a couple of Buddhist monks or locals playing caramboc, a sort of shuffleboard/pool thing. Some of them were really good at it- I remember one who, if he got to break, could sink two simultaneously into opposite corners. It doesn't really feel like you're in India, partly because of the cold and partly because nobody looks Indian, but rather Tibetan or Nepali.

Buddhist monks, at least the ones we met, are really not the serious solemn type they're made out to be. We ended up playing soccer with them on a plateau on the side of a mountain, which was fun but not as smooth as it sounds, because the thing about being on top of a mountain is that everywhere you go is down. They tried as best they could to make it sort of like a skateboard park, with a quarter-pipe all around, but two of the corners open onto a downwards slope that goes quite a ways down and can stop the game for a couple of minutes if someone kicks the ball down there by mistake.

Apart from that the game was great. Apparently they keep playing all day because all week they study and meditate, and that was the day their exams ended.

Now we're back in Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim, and about to head off to Kathmandu in Nepal. It's going to be cold, which is a nice change from the rest of India.

-Bashu

P.S. For some reason most of the girls here are realtors.

So I guess we're in the Himalayas now.

The train from Kolkata was unique. They have these pretty neat sleeper bunks, which fold out and all, and cha-wallas (tea sellers) and such coming by all the time. We arrived in Siliguri eight in the morning, and took a rumbly bump jeep to Gangtok, in Sikkim Province. It's sort of the place. Cold, but welcomely so.

Left our camera in the jeep, but we'll get it back soon I think, knock on wood. So....

I'm going to Nepal, see you guys later.

Oh, and Zaman has something to tell you.

So! Schedule!

First off, we're heading North. Darjeeling maybe, Sikkim perhaps. They're both a good sight cooler than West Bengal which is where we are, so that'll be welcome. We're almost definitely heading into mountain-ranged Nepal, to Kathmandu, because as long as you're up here it's worth going. You need a visa, however, and they only take U.S. dollars, so that was a bit tricky. However it looks like things are looking up for us, as apparently Kolkata is actually the worst of the cities, and everything else will be nice by comparison. Four weeks it will be, with us going northwest as well, and then returning for the 23rd of November to Kolkata for my cousin Dola's wedding which promises to be a big happy affair.

After that, we're going all around, but staying in the north. Varanasi, New Delhi and Rajasthan are all on the schedule, with my dad joining us in New Delhi. Originally we were planning to go to Iran, but it seems he's only allowed to go once a year and the Persian new year starts in March. You can never plan for everything.

Kian's got his bass, and it's really nice. We've been printing out tons of tabs and I've even been learning a bit of guitar, although generally I sing. My fingers are itching for a piano, but for now I'll settle for my harmonica although you can't accompany yourself singing or anyone else for that matter.

Anyhow, this all just so you know where we'll be and perhaps why we don't have any Internet connection, although you never know where you can find an Internet cafe.

-Bashu.

I've noticed something funny about the scene in India, and indeed Dubai and Switzerland too. Pretty much the only way to be cool is to be Western. All the ads show people in leather jackets, buttoned shirts, jeans, whatever, and most everyone under thirty tries to dress the same way. We were at a club to watch a blues band on Saturday night, and I wore my kurti, which is a loose Indian shirt. I'm positive I was the only person wearing any Indian clothes there. It takes all types to make a world, the saying goes, but soon it's only going to need one - the generic American cool dude.

Anything with English words on it is also in. Pointy case, the shirt I got in Dubai, which I promised to tell you about. It's half black, half white, split down the middle, and is covered with badly translated ranting about how teenagers aren't respected and how revolution is imminent. Along the sides are printed newspaper clippings about gangsters or revolution or something, and it's completed with spots of blood across the front. I figure it's stylish just for the kitsch factor.

I have to say, I'm kind of homesick. Friendsick, too. I keep thinking: "If *friend* was here, he'd probably say something like *friend's generic phrase* right now. Oh well. I think I can make it through three more months, easy.

-
Bashu

Well, I suppose today is supposed to be unlucky.

It's been pretty good so far.

Zaman and Ryan ordered a guitar each in a little shop in Howrah, but when we came back to pick them up yesterday they were acoustic electrics with round holes, and one was blank grey and the other was pinkish red. They weren't terrible guitars, but they'd both ordered natural wood colour, acoustic guitars with f-holes. So after a certain amount of wombling around, he told us to meet him in College Street in the morning to see his supplier.

We went there this morning, in rain you could cut with a knife, and after some wombling with them they brought out two great-looking guitars, just like the ones ordered. (One was made by "Givson" and the other by "Hovner", but apparently they're pretty big brands so Gibson and Hohner probably already know). Zaman and Ryan also ordered hard shell cases, so they'll probably be brought home, and Kian ordered an acoustic bass. After that, we went off to the planetarium in another bout of rain, and sat through a decent light show with terrible commentary by a lady with an thick accent and a sore throat. You might think all the rain is bad luck, but believe me in Kolkata you're willing to overlook the soaked hair and flooded streets for the cool air and clean city afterwards.

I'm just sitting in the slow-as-dried-up-mustard internet cafe, printing out some guitar tabs - Decemberists, Marcy Playground and Radiohead. It might be raining again outside, but it's hard to tell through the tinted windows. YIPPEE!

Also, now is the time for you start emailing me and telling me what to bring home. Jewelry, linen, strange Oriental fragrances and curiosities. I'm thinking of getting a xylophone. Someone talk me out of it.

-Bashu

P.S. Happy Friday the 13th

Finally in India

So we landed at the airport, which deserves a paragraph in itself. It's the crummiest airport I've ever seen - looks like it hasn't had new paint since the eighties, let alone decoration. Plus, it's tiny- the building itself is about four times the size of the SOS or something like that.

We went outside, met our uncle and got a taxi. Most taxis are big steady yellow clunkers called Ambassadors, but we got a sort of SUV dealy. Not that it was new, because it seems nothing is here. Then we set off on an hour-and-a-half of traffic to Howrah, a city just over the Ganges from Kolkata, which is what they call Calcutta nowadays.

Traffic is not anything like back home. Most Canadians, if they were going around a corner and saw a bicycler pedalling into their path, would stand on the brakes and maybe honk the horn. Here they're more inclined to stand on the horn and maybe tap the brakes. You rely on sheer force of volume and annoyance to get yourself through the streets, and you swerve a lot. Lanes are sort of whatever, and I get the feeling that if there weren't strong medians people would feel free to swerve into oncoming traffic just to pass. On two-lane streets, this turns traffic into not so much traffic as one long game of chicken. It's actually pretty fun if you're not driving.

The sound is amazing. First come the pedestrians, who will yell if someone almost hits them (depressingly often) but otherwise can't be heard. Then the bikes, which go 'tingly-tingly-ting". The rickshaws, which sound like your average squeezetoy for some reason. Squeaky, squeak, squeak. Then the autorickshaws, cars and motorcycles, which range from a crazymaking 'hee-haw-hee-haw' to the usual wail. Then the buses and trucks, which drive everyone else crazy and which bellow deep and loud.

The residential streets are scarier. On average they're two Sasha-heights wide. They're filled with walking people, but that doesn't bother the cars, rickshaws, bikes or motorbikes which push their way through, keeping the horn blaring so people know they're about to get run over. Passing is crazy.

We got to the fifth-floor flat which had been rented for us, and it was really not so good. No beds, hard-pack mattresses on the floor only. Lizards on the walls, but that's normal. Cockroaches, also normal. The bathroom was, to put it mildly, dingy. You would not wish to know about the toilet paper situation.

The heat is really something. After about five minutes, your skin just lets go and you don't even feel yourself sweating any more, unless you reach a hand behind your back and feel your soaked shirt. We set the AC for twenty-five and we practically freeze (bliss!). Between sweating, walking and climbing stairs, we'd all be losing a lot of weight if it weren't for the generous amounts of good Indian food our family stuffs us with.

Anyway, we eventually made excuses and moved to another flat, this one in actual Kolkata, which our friend Rana owns, and which we're staying at now. Comparative luxury. Throughout all of this, Durga-puja is going, which is a festival for the goddess Durga. People are generally happy, and everywhere buildings called Pandels are going up, which house magnificent handmade larger-than--life statues of the gods,with Durga being featured. Last night was the last day, and all the Durgas from all over the cities were sent into the Ganga to float away. To say it was crazy would be a criminal understatement. People are dancing, drumming and singing all along the banks of the river, and thousands of Durgas keep arriving.

The main problem that I can see with Kolkata is no trashcans, which means people throw their garbage wherever. In a city of 20 million, this is a pretty big problem. I still feel guilty about doing it. When I drink a cup of chai or something, I keep my plastic cup and look for a trash can, then I always remember that there is none and drop it on the ground like everyone else.

India is a pretty good place to spend your hard-earned money. A decent meal in a sit-down place will cost about fifty to a hundred rupees, and a street meal where you sit on chairs outside costs a lot less. Bottle of Sprite, twenty rupees. A guitar, 1500-3000 rupees. Now you're probably wondering about the exchange rate. Fourty rupees to the dollar.

Which means that you can get an good meal for $2.50, a bottle of pop for fifty cents (although you won't want to, because they have something called Slice which is delicious cold, made with mangoes and costs 25 cents), and a guitar for 40-80 dollars. Things are cheap here, if you have money. Of course if you work here, you'd get paid considerably less, so there you are. Tourist destination, what what.

Anyways, bye for now. I'm not sure when I'll get Internet next.

P.S. If anyone's mad about us being in India and them being in school, work, etc- we're mad that you are back home with balmy breezes and silent streets.

We were just in the Dubai "souk", which is a market. I don't think I can really compare it to anything back home. Well, imagine this - you're walking through Woodgrove, and this guy comes out of his shop and starts rattling off a list of his wares at you. Tell him you don't want anything. You walk on, with him still rattling his pitch at you, and start looking at some sunglasses out by

the front door of another shop. The shop guy tells you, 25! Then you start to walk away, and he says "Nonono, 20!" As you're leaving, he shouts "Come back! 15, sir!"

They take selling pretty seriously here, you see.

There's no pricetags, people just use calculators to punch in their starting offer.  
Then you say no, no, I think I will look down the street in another shop, this price is not impressive (take your pick).  They take back the calculator, punch in another price, etc, etc.

I saw this shirt outside a shop, which I'll talk about later, and I poked my head in to check how much it was. The guy says "Thirty-murmur-which-I-couldn't-make-out". I said "Thirty?", because I wasn't sure. He said "Thirty-murmur." 
I said "Thirty?" He said "Okay, okay, thirty." Then I realised he'd been saying "Thirty-five". I said I'd come back, and later haggled down to 25.  This is all in durhams, by the by. 3.3 dirhams to the dollar. Stuff is pretty good here.

The most original hawker: This guy who just stood out on the sidewalk and made eye contact with people, and then flickered his eyes towards the direction of the shop. It almost made me want to look, only he'd start his pitch and we'd never hear the end of it.

Scariest hawker: This midget with a tray of bottled water who walked up to Ryan and started shrieking up at him "ONEREAYNOEOREYMAONEREY" We figured out after we scooted that he was saying "One dirham, one dirham" but jesus.

Besides that, we ran into about 5-10 people wanting to sell us watches. They don't say anything to you, just face the air and say "Rolex Swatch you are wanting 
good fake watch, come with me, Gucci all good watch." I told one that I had a watch already, and showed him the ten-dollar blue leather one I got in Montreal. He smirked and pointed to a fake Rolex on his wrist.

Just as we were getting a taxi, another one tried to sell us a watch, and I asked him
"Do you want to buy my watch?"
"No, sir thank you."
"I didn't think so."
It might actually work again.

Yes, sir, shopping is a lot more exhilarating than back home. Also a bit harder - 
if you step into a shop, you're sort of expected to get your buy on, right away, and 
if you ask the price you're really asking him "What do you want to start selling 
this to me at?"

Anyways, I'll tell you about Switzerland soon.

-Bashu