Hey Doc, I got this wrist thing see...

Somewhere between doctor and nurse is a term for Darlene's job that doesn't seem to exist in other countries.

Physicians Assistant? Never heard of it.

Nurse? Blasphemous!

Doctor? Hmmmm.

You're a doctor? Well, now that you mention it... Every one seems to have a little something that's bothering them, but no, they haven't been to the doctor and maybe you could just take a look at it?

Darlene was called into service today. Our guides older brother punched out someone while gallantly defending the honor of his clients, a mother and daughter pair. Or so the story goes.

However it played out, the guy had a serious wrist injury. I could tell by the jolt and grimmace whenever she poked it; "does this hurt?" Yes, it obviously hurts.

I've never seen Darlene work before, but today she was a star.  Operating with dull shears, a razor blade, a bucket of water, and cast plaster, she had all she needed to sink into her element, a buzz of activity, questions, and care.

A line formed mid operation and a second wrist was examined and prescribed a simple, "if doing that hurts, then don't do it." Plus a couple aspirin.

When all was done, she had rendered an impressive removable cast to one happy customer. We were later invited to their home, his mother gave cooking lessons and we dined on the best food we've had yet.

A Flower for Mom

A childs hands arranged a small banana leaf bowl adorned with bright orange flowers and a centerpiece tea light candle. We were adrift in a small wooden boat on the Ganges River.

Her tiny voice instructed me as we lit the wick, then I sat in quiet reflection for a moment, thinking of loved ones gone, most specifically, my mother.

As the sun set, I lower the craft into the water and sent the light afloat on India's holiest river.

Getting the hang of it

What kind of holy animal lies in it's own shit? Rats wont even do that.

I boated down the Ganges River at sunrise this morning, past the blazing riverside crematorium fires and alongside several dead, bobbing bodies wrapped in burial cloths. After lunch I walked back up the river along the ghats. A lot of stuff happened in between, but as I walked, I watched dead, naked cows float by. Cows are sacred and when they die, they are dignified with a toss into the Ganges. As I stood watching them drift by, I couldn't help but wonder if the carrion birds riding the bobbing steak are worthy of such a holy meal.

Yesterday, I was attacked by a cow. Karma? I think it was just a warning, because one firmly placed hand on it's head redirected it's aggression.

In the days before cars and rickshaws, the vehicles of the Gods were animals. Shiva used cows, or perhaps bulls. Regardless, thats why cows are sacred and it's illegal to kill them (though I see them getting whacked with sticks a lot).

Hinduism has three primary gods, as part of the trimurti: a creator, a sustainer, and a destroyer.

Shiva is the god of Varanasi and the Ganges. He's the destroyer. If you don't believe me, ask his son, Ganesh. Shiva chopped his head off in a case of mistaken identity and barely saved his life by replacing it with one from a baby elephant. Ganesh is a favorite of the people because he eats lots of sweets, is a bit rotund, and quite jovial. If you had an elephant head, you'd have to have a good sense of humor.

It's all rather complicated, but I visited a number of temples today and i think I'm finally getting the hang of it.

I really quite fancy Ganesh, actually.

Morning Chai

I woke up this morning on a train crossing the Ganges Valley in India. The day was already hot when I moved from the air-conditioned coach to the open doorway, but the movement of the train kept it fresh. I stood watching kids playing in the fields, waving to us as we passed, a hot chai in one hand, a warm samosa in the other. I slept well and stretched to welcome a new day.

Last night we stiffed our driver after he flew into the parking lot a few hundred meters from the train station. We had minutes to catch our train and the old man, a faithful hare krishna, ran from his car to fetch a young porter, who then raced us on foot, thru alleyways and across parking lots in total darkness to the station.

Running up the stairs, we learned out train was an hour late. Lucky us.

Or so we thought.

We tipped the porter and sent him back to the driver to thank him and explain. The old man came back to us beeming and we tipped him well.

It wasn't his fault we were late; in addition to the ever-present traffic, there was massive construction five kilometers from the station. (There were also blinding sandstorms, but they stopped when it started to pour.) The clock reset to noon everytime he powered off the vehicle, so we weren't sure what time it was, but could more or less add up the minutes passing us by. While he sat in his seat, his face buried in his hands, we formulated plans B and C, which were mercifully unnecessary.

At the station, the hour delay turned to two, three, and four plus. Each time the departure time encroached, it disappointed. We sat on the platform, perched atop our backpacks staring into the tracks, fighting sleep, and waiting for that train.

Under the stale warmth of the platform lights, the scene was pretty banal, minus the adolescent three ring circus piled high over the bench of two young female travelers and the wily bearded man with a grain sack that found infinite jest in pestering a young man for his plastic bottle. Meanwhile, we were the quiet center stage in a sea of stares, engulfed by dropped jaws and devoted awe.

When I finally laid down in my berth, sleep came fast and as the train rattled along India's rails, I knew there was no where else I wanted to be.

A Great Place to Bring a Date

This morning I watched the sun rise over the Taj Mahal. I sat on its smooth marble steps and marveled in it's cool interior.

They say it's the greatest building ever built for love.

Probably true.

But if I were a Maharaja (in those times), I would have put a swimming pool in the center, entombed my lover below, and enjoyed this sensational building on a daily basis.

Timeless

Pssst. Hey, are you awake?

Yeah.

Turn on your camera. I want to know what time it is.

She reaches for her camera and turns it on. We have no watches, no clocks. Every room in the hotel displays a completely unrelated time from the other rooms. Even the computers in the cafe are only within a couple hours of each other.

We flew on one ten, one six, and one four hour flight to get here. We crossed the international date line, zipped thru time zones, and traveled with the sun thru our internal clock's night-time hours.

The camera is the only item we have that tells time and it's only accurate to within a couple hours. But whats more interesting is that we have no idea what the date is.

That's just the way I like it.

Its Absurd, But its Real

Photographically speaking, this place is explosive. The colors are brilliant, the chaos is charged, the absurdity is invigorating. But what I see, sense, and feel is not yet captured by the lens, not to my liking.

We shoot all morning, walking the streets, surrounded by assertive people full of hope to a commission for unwanted services rendered. Tired, we break for the sancity of lunch and hold an enthusiastic review of the days field sessions over thali and lassis.

The mornings playbook was bold, but blank. Darlene deflected unwanted solicitors like an offensive linesman, while I danced thru the busy streets like a quarterback, my camera cocked and ready for action. We were surrounded, a complete canvasing of solicitations. We've discovered that speaking together in Spanish, even complete gibberish Spanish, turns the masses away. Though one hardy soul persisted beyond comprehension, but eventually huffed off seriously postulating, "Lady, are you crazy?"

Nicely done girl, they think you are nuts.

Finding Gandhi

Every now and again I find myself itchin' to unplug, back away, and shake out. This means travel and it generally entails leaving a perfectly good job. In good faith, its tempered by finding a replacement so the employment transition is smooth.

I just spent fourteen months donating time and sweat to Powermand, Inc and now more than ever, my legs need a good stretch. Hence, the procurement of tickets to India and Nepal.

Powermand, however, isn't like most jobs I've walked away from. I actually have a significant interest in it's success as I've "invested" a lot of cash in the form of unpaid salary, aka stock. It also happened to be one of the coolest jobs I've had. I also want to work there again.

So the replacement needed to be top-notch. Stakes are higher this time around and as I applied for my visa to India, we recruited a well-known java guru: Gandhi. (We knew someone that knew him.)

So, now I take my leave and make my pilgrimage.

Watch my investment, Prashant Gandhi, my faith is in you.

Proof of Onward Tickets

By the way, the Maoists won. The Maoists beat the Marxist-Leninists in a democratically held election. That's great.

We have no idea where we're going, but we have onward tickets to prove we're leaving. Most countries require that. We wont take it personally.

Saving the World, One Vacation at a Time

Today, Nepal held a historic election. Jimmy Carter headed up some sort of committee to oversee it's success. The British tossed in fourteen million dollars and the world over sent delegates and goodwill.

I haven't done all my homework, but there seems to be a monarch, a Maoist fugitive rebel revolutionary, and everything inbetween.

There are a lot of pissed off factions. The monarchy can't even vote for themselves because they didn't realize they needed to register. In the months leading up to the elections, there have been bombs, fires, drive-by anger and a handful of walkup candidate assassinations.

Naturally, the election was declared a major success. In what scattered news I could accrue, there was one stolen ballot box, twelve voting centers closed down, one voting booth set ablaze, one candidate assassination, and countless black-eyes and scuffles (I presume).

We are going to Nepal. I want photos, she wants to donate her time to third world medicine. Perhaps we'll dedicate future time to participate in the democratic process, running a fire-proof voting booth, for example.

Perhaps we can save the world, one vacation at a time.

Avoiding the Crowds

"You're going in May?"

The travel agent needed to confirm what she thought she heard, but didn't make sense.

We don't like to stand in lines.

Taking the much hyped culture shock of India seemed way too easy. We figured we'd take all those sights, sounds, smells, and touch, bundle 'em up, put 'em in the oven of India's summer, and crank it up to a "freakin' hot" (in the words of my friend Kranthi Yemula) one hundred and five.

And then, check out the culture shock.

Cause my girl looks good in rivulets of sweat.

The agent booked the tickets.

Delhi is a city of thirteen million, but if it's too hot for the tourists, we should have the place to ourselves. Right?