Life is a river. It starts humbly, a trickle of ice-melt tucked in the mountains above the clouds.  The icy river grows and gains momentum.  It works around rocks and roots.  It pulls from the soil and carries the silt as it grows and grows.   At times, it rages, rolling boulders beneath its wake.  Its cascade can be deafening.  One must stop to admire the omnipotence of its power.   And at other times, the river slows, meandering through the green flats, while spreading its great serpentine body to the horizon like a lazy snake in the sun.   Then the river merges with others.  Their colours differ at first but slowly the rivers engulf each other until they’re indistinguishable and the details of their separation seem like vague memories.  The river is dammed at places; it is split into channels for irrigation, taking many different directions as it goes.  Maybe the river dries in places, and sometimes it sits and stagnates, but never does it stop altogether.   It flows until it reaches the sunny coast.  There it spreads like a fan, blooming into thousands of currents, carving great islands of mangrove and mud, until it plunges into the tepid waves of the ocean, the eventual fate of every river.

     My river’s overflowing now.  It’s breaking levies.   It’s flooding all the basements of the neighbourhood.  Life is good.  Das Leben ist schön.   My heart aches a little while thinking of the staggering beauty of this world—the grace of perfect strangers, the hospitality of old friends and new and the quiet tenderness of a new lover.   Hitch-hiking and couchsurfing has reaffirmed my hope in humanity.  We are all good; we just need an opportunity to let it shine.

     Thank you Cristina, Ellie and Mike for some great Baltic traveling, the Huskaj family for showing me the warm heart of Kosovo, Laura, Lazslo, Sandro, Lisa, Mario, Caroline, Daniel, Isabelle and Patrick for letting me surf your couches and interrupt your beautiful lives for a night or two.  Thanks to all the people who drove me from one place to another in their cars.  Thanks Iza for being such a great lawyer.

And Agi; thank you for shining your light on me.

     There are a wandering people of this world trudging with heavy footfalls beneath the burdens of backpacks.  They have sunburned skin, twinkling eyes, growling stomachs and honest smiles.   Like pilgrims of yesteryear, they leave their lives behind and take to the road.  They are searching for some truth hidden in the confines of a ruinous cathedral, the secluded cloister of a forested path or the comforts of a warm meal and a conversation.  They are seeking beauty and knowledge, the eternal spark that unites all humanity or to examine the ugliness that continually divides us.  They are philanthropic observers and devout practitioners of some unnamed faith—restless people of every age, creed and culture who are unhappy with la vie médiocre.

     I am a proud citizen of this anti-nation.  Although we converse in many languages, our shared language is most commonly English.  We also recall the pleasantries, greetings and fragmented sentiments of every tongue we come to use throughout our travels.  All of us are fluent in the exaggerated gestures of body language and the universals of humour.  We see the value in self-deprecation and daily embarrassments.  We are also sharp to human kindness wherever it appears.   We weigh others’ value in the wealth of their experiences and the wisdom in their recollections, not the possessions they carry or conceal.  We rejoice in life and try to grow into the people we want to be with each new step we take.  We don’t accept that life needs to be as formulaic as it’s been advertised to us;

Birth+

Education+

Debt+

Employment+

Home-ownership+

Marriage+

Mortgage-payments+

Children+

Divorce+

Retirement+

=Death.

      There are many of my anti-statesmen exploring the Balkans right now.  This appears to be our Mecca.  We perform our evening prayers with beers and bottles of wine while recalling moments of beauty or absolutely absurdity from our past or the aspirations of travels to come.   I’m happy to introduce my people and I’m eager to welcome you to immigrate to the anti-nation.  There’s no green card or visa needed for this state of mind.  All you need is a backpack and a sense of wonder.

More stories to come next time...

     It was 5:45 AM and I was watching the sunrise over the abandoned business sector of downtown Dubai.  In the distance stood the world’s most luxurious hotel, the Burj Al Arab, and further in the distance rose the sharp fang of the world’s tallest skyscraper.  I watched the indigo clouds roll in from the desert and gingerly drank the Jack and coke in my hand.  The people around me, my gracious hosts, discussed their favourites in world cinema and argued over who would be in control of the music next.  I smiled to myself, thinking about the strange series of events which had brought me to this place. I had been awake for nearly 36 hours and my brain was buzzing, struggling to absorb everything which was taking place.

     I will remember my short stop in UAE as a blur of drinking with an ensemble of intellectuals on a 22 floor balcony after dancing in a swanky club with Dubai’s young and rich.  Thank you Che and Co. for showing me a glimpse of your exciting world.  As quickly as I had arrived I departed again, headed for the Balkans over the frozen moonscape of central Asia.

    And just like that, I was back in Europe—Eastern Europe to be precise—where the cheese is delicious, the women are breathtaking and the beer is plentiful.  I’ve enjoyed myself here, maybe just a little too much.  I stayed three days longer than expected in Belgrade and then three days longer than expected in Sarajevo.  The Balkans are such great value for a budget traveler and the people who venture here are a different breed of adventurer, here because it’s not your day-to-day vacation destination.  The food is delicious and inexpensive, but admittedly quite heavy.  Every meal involves meat and bread, so if you’re on a diet or you aren’t a carnivore, good luck.   Belgrade has grown in infamy for its night life, and although I arrived at the only time in the year when things slow down, Orthodox Easter, I still had a great taste of the partying this place wears as a badge of honour.   Thanks to Mike and Mia and the other motley crew of internationals streaming in and out my hostel in Belgrade, I had a great time.  I wish I could have stayed a little longer.

     A few days ago, I tried hitchhiking but failed epically.  After waiting three hours at the outskirts of town in the mud and trash beside a gypsy settlement, dark clouds started rolling in.  I swallowed my pride, admitted defeat, walked back to a bus stand and took a bus to Uzice instead.  Here I met a trekking Frenchman at an old socialist-era hotel and then I went for another night of debauchery in this little town tucked away in the mountains.    Not too many tourists stop in these parts and we attracted a lot of attention in the streets and in the various bars and in no time we were making introductions and then toasts as big frothy glasses of beer were clanking together in every which way.

     I arrived in East Sarajevo and reality sunk in.  This had been a warzone only 15 years previous.  Without the slightest exaggeration, every single residential building in this part of town was pockmarked with bullet holes while some even showed the deeper black scars of rocket blasts.  In Belgrade it’s pretty easy to gloss over the facts that it was the scene of such recent conflict, but in Sarajevo there’s no ignoring it.  The signs are everywhere.

     I’ve explored the city with Cristina, an aspiring war conflict journalist, taking in the history and the culture, and I roadtripped with an American specialist and chilled-out Australian barkeep.  Now I need some direction in my life.  Today I’ll figure out where I will go, south towards the sea, or west into the mountains.  Decisions, decisions, decisions…

     I’ll keep you posted on what strange corner of the world I end up in next.

     Once I’d found a place to sit each night after a long day of fighting crashing surf, I’d feel the warm afterglow of sun on my skin and I’d eat a great heaping mound of spicy vegetables and rice. I’d hunker down into quiet contemplation as my arms, shoulders and back muscles moaned and the sound of surf in the distance beckoned for my return.  Surf me, it said, like a siren song trying to lure my ship ever closer to the reef submerged just below the shifting surface of the sea.

     In the hill country, with my head propped against my palm, leaning from the open window of my train I was lulled into reverie by the mesmerizing lines of tea plantations and the metronomic rattle of the metal wheels on the metal track.   They said to me, Lucas, what took you so long?  We’ve been waiting for you forever forever forever

forever

forever

forever

forever

forever.

     And upon reaching the summit of some folkloric peak, I’d be hypnotized by the wisps of cloud rolling over the bumpy backbone of a mountain.  My thoughts condensed in the cool morning air and drifted away down to the verdant ravines below.  Encoded in the raindrops was a clandestine communiqué for my ears alone. I knew that we’d be friends, the rain pattered on the leaves, I just knew it.

     Staring at a purple-faced monkey hanging casually from a tree, he looked at me imploringly with his beady black eyes mounted between his perfectly groomed white sideburns.  His eyes yelled, Don’t go, Lucas, not yet.  We were just starting to like you.

     But alas, my time in Sri Lanka is nearing an end and go I must.  I’m really sorry to leave this little paradise and break free from its intoxicating spell.

     I’ve had so many great experiences in the last three weeks, but I don’t really feel like sharing them with anyone else.  So you can keep your dirty stinking paws off my memories, thank you very much.  They’re for my thoughts only.

     And to my dearest Sri Lanka, until next time, I wish you adieu.  Don’t change a thing.  I love you just the way you are.

Sincerely, with love from your greatest admirer,

       Dr. W. Lucas Brailsford, Esq.

     Sri Lanka is the warm embrace of an old friend.  How else can I better explain the strange sense of déjà vu I felt on first arrival?  Had I been here before?    As soon as I stepped into the familiar warm air of afternoon, I felt comfortable, perfectly content. The lush, natural aesthetic of the potted gardens made me stop and admire.  The quiet, clean and orderly streets made me rub my eyes in wonder. And while meeting the dignified and friendly people my heart broke a little each time I saw a passing smile.  The noisy dust cloud of middle India and the barrage of questions and the searing of staring eyes in Bangladesh felt like they were continents away.  It’s so seldom that I’ve experienced a place so different from its geographic neighbours. Crossing from Vietnam or Laos did it.  That was the last time, nearly four years ago.  I’d nearly forgotten about how I feels.   It is an intoxicating moment, the wonder of a new and welcoming place, the type of feeling to chase.  Is that what I’m chasing?

     According to my Lonely Planet, Arab traders called the Island Serendib, which transformed into the word serendipity; the discovery of some unexpected treasure.  That sums it up for me.  This is a treasure I wasn’t expecting. My standards were pretty high for Sri Lanka.  I’ve envisioned a trip made to this place for years and years—13 years to be precise.  I researched Sri Lanka for a project when I was 12.  My mom taught a student who had emigrated from Sri Lanka.  My mom helped me ask her family of their experiences.  She copied down some Sri Lankan recipes for rice dishes from the mother’s dictation, and to my surprise, the mother made me a dessert to bring in to hand out as samples.   Here it was Sri Lanka, this little island paradise of my reverie, my childhood project come to life.  I was slightly worried that the actual Sri Lanka wouldn’t match the one I had built in my imagination, but fortunately for me, Sri Lanka is a pretty swell place.  It surpassed my expectations.  It is the type of place that reaffirms ones love of travel, and then I’m reminded, I still have nearly three weeks left to explore.

     Currently, I’m surfing in the south, not very well, I might add.  I’m no surfer, but I just like rising with the sun, grabbing a board, stretching on the sand in the slanting rays of sunrise while peering at the place where the waves break against the beach.   Even when I’m struggling to catch a wave and I can feel a sense of frustration wash over me like the breaking of the surf, I stop, sit atop my floating board, look at the palm tree-dotted coastline, the jagged red cliffs on either side of the bay, the fishing boats rocking in the distant tides and my legs swishing in water warm as a bubble bath.  I take a deep breath and smile.  Life is great.  Sri Lanka is great. Did I mention how great Sri Lanka is?

   There are many extremes at play here in Bangladesh.  A trembling tension is in the air.  People seem earnest about some unknown future creeping ever closer.  Many of the people I’ve met in my day to day have been sophisticated, intelligent, dignified and capable, but sadly, unemployed, undervalued or underutilized.   Every conversation seems to circle around at one point another to work prospects in Canada.  I can feel the conversation shift.  People here want to work.  They want to study.  They want to partake in a global economy.

    Also, many people want to tell me their stories; how the many actions made on the other side of the world changed theirs.  The global economic crisis rippled around the world.  I had a man who grows fibrous plants to make burlap bags explain to me in simple and clear language that when the banks failed in the US, the price of gas continued rising, the market changed and suddenly the crops he sold for a respectable price dropped to half their previous value overnight and have barely recovered since.  This farmer understood how the dark tentacles of capitalism wriggle around the globe better than I could ever wish to understand.  His livelihood and the health of his family’s future were pending on the results of millions of invisible transactions happening each a second electronically a half a world away.

    I sometimes wonder to myself while looking from my window seat on long bus trips through the lush Bangladeshi countryside, will the Arab Spring come here?  I mean, it has all the ingredients.  Unemployment.  Large population of educated youth.  Corruption.  Military over-presence.  And Facebook, as strange as that sounds.  I feel like something going to break.  The center cannot hold.  Time will tell.

     My time in South Asia is coming to a close.  The immigration officials at the Indian high commission in Dhaka were stricter than I had expected them to be.  They refused to accept my application for a multiple entry visa.  At first I was frustrated and even disheartened that my overland journey to Europe would not go as planned, but then I thought to myself for a moment; I imagined the dust, the dank toilets, the threat of food-poisoning looming over every meal, the sets of eyes staring at me, the blaring horns at all hours, the negotiations needed for everything, the traffic and the coming sticky summer.  I reassessed my lot.  I thought about my house.  My warm bed.  My warmer shower.  My family busy at their days’ work.  I thought about the sound of lapping waves coming through my screen window.  I thought about bare feet in cool, wet grass. I thought about bird calls and the sounds of silence.  Oh, how I miss silence.  I thought, it’s time for me to come home.

      I went to Hannah’s family flat.  The family was a fascinating and generous collection of expats currently residing in Dhaka.  I quickly began a frenzied internet search for cheap flights to bring me from Dhaka to Colombo, Colombo to Dubai, Dubai to Belgrade, London to Rekjavik and then finally, Rekjavik to Halifax.  I found everything as planned and attempted making the reservations.  Funny enough, my credit card was flagged for suspicious activity.  This was the first time I had used my card in months and all this flight-booking seemed out-of-the-ordinary to the people silently guarding my accounts.  It’s all settled now.   I’m not home yet, but homeward, like a majestic golden retriever with my wise-talking boxer and prissy cat sidekick quick at my heals.  Imma coming home.  Be there by June.

     By chance I arrived in Varanasi on the eve of a three day religious holiday dedicated to Shiva and the Mother Ganga river   My hotel was perched above the burning ghats, the cremation steps, where all day and night funeral processions carried bodies wrapped from head to toe in decorative silk sheets, floral arrangements and tinsel.   The blanketed silhouettes of human bodies were then placed on the funeral pyres built on the muddy banks so their ashes could merge with the holy river and their souls unite with that of Shiva’s.  I didn’t realize what part of the river I was living along until I saw the black billows of smoke rising for the stacks of wood and the unmistakable shape of a human body.   Crowds of solemn foreign tourists sat in the shade watching the services.  No cameras were flashing wildly away because a photo-free policy is strictly enforced in this area to respect the dead, and for right reason.

      My hostel had a restaurant overlooking the river and in earshot of the funeral ceremonies.  It was a perfect place to contemplate or read a good book.  There were many interesting people from every corner of the world staying at the hostel.  It was easy to start up conversations with fellow travelers and before realizing it, spend the entire day wandering little alleys and watching millennia-old Hindu rituals amidst the dizzying surge of humanity.   I’ve been reading Rudyard Kipling’s Kim and he seems to sum up my observations of Varanasi better than I could ever do.  He wrote “All India is full of holy men stammering gospels in strange tongues; shaken and consumed in the fires of their own zeal; dreamers, babblers, and visionaries: as it has been from the beginning and will continue to the end” (p.32).  After spending so much time observing these age-old curious religious rites, I’m still no closer to understanding the complexities of Hinduism.

     The only downside of coming to Varanasi on a religious celebration is the surge of sexually frustrated young men making pilgrimage from the countryside.  These are hard-working guys and part of their time off involves taking large quantities of ingestible hash and walking for 48 hours straight visiting the various holy sites while hobbling barefoot.  When their ritual begins, they still have energy and their brains are buzzing from the hash; unfortunately when they encounter women on the streets during their route they grope them in a frenzy of mob mentality.  I was walking back to the hostel just after dark with an Australian girl and we were both surrounded.  It was terrifying.   We had to walk down an alleyway no wider than two meters as thousands of young men walked past trying to fondle the girl.  I stood in front and tried to keep them away.  They were pushing me and I was pushing them back but despite my best efforts to intimidate those in the pulsating crowd, and her best efforts to  avoid the hands, inevitably she was groped and grabbed a few times.  It was pretty awful to witness, but hearing stories of other girls in the hostel, our story was tame in comparison.  It was an ugly side of an otherwise enjoyable festival.

     From Varanasi I took an overnight train to Kolkata.  To my surprise, I fell in love with Kolkata.  It was loud, dirty and chaotic, but also strangely beautiful.  The British built themselves a majestic city here in the place of an obscure Bengali fishing port some few hundred years ago.  There are enormous cathedrals, manicured city parks, statuesque government buildings and riverside cobble-stoned streets, but when the British left, India took control and added her own cosmetic touches to the city.  Things were left to rot and ruin here and there, new buildings sprouted up, trees poked out from the sides of stone facades.  The streets are now lined with food stalls serving steaming chapattis, butter chicken and tea, fruit vendors singing the praises of their produce and shoe-shiners bent over double polishing the shoes of a businessman on lunch break.   Great yellow ambassador taxis coast along the streets looking for passengers and rickshaw drivers sprawl out on their seats and click their tongues to get your attention as you pass.  Open-air barbershops with nothing more than a stool, a mirror hanging from a wire and a bucket of water have lines of patrons awaiting service.  Nothing from the British days seems fully broken, instead, just battered and bent but still, nonetheless operational.   The city is like a great poetic masterpiece.  Like a tropical London flipped on its head.   It’s truly a worthwhile place to get lost for a couple days.

     Now I’m in Bangladesh.  I’ve got stories to tell…sometime soon.  I promise.

To avoid the constant onslaught of hustlers, drug-dealers, camel-guides and rickshaw drivers asking me the same inane questions; “What country you from?” or “What is your good name?” I invented an alter-ego.   If any Rajastani tout is to ask, my name is Johannes and I’m a Latvian import-exporter.  I only understand a little English so I can’t carry on a very long conversation.   I started using random countries at first just for my own entertainment, but very quickly I realized that when saying Latvia specifically and using a non-English name, almost immediately the touts would stop their attempts of coercion, and they would focus their efforts on luring others into their shops, autos or restaurants.   Most people know Canada, or at least its general location.  If I answered honestly it gave the hustlers an opportunity to latch on to something, tell me about an uncle they had in Canada, or a city they’d heard was beautiful, and boom, I’d be right in the middle of a negotiation for a pashmina for which I had no need.  I was even interviewed after watching some camel polo and I used my fake persona.  If anyone happens to pick up a copy of the Jaipur English Daily dated February 7^th, 2012, the Latvian who was satisfied with the performances but dissatisfied with the stage arrangement is yours truly.

I spent a week exploring the dusty world of Rajastan, wandering through ancient forts, cobble-stoned streets and along the banks of timeless bathing spots.  I traveled with some great people, like Peter from Munich and Johanna from Sweden and then I made tracks for Haryana, to attend the wedding of Rohan’s sister.   Rohan was understandably busy organizing multiple days of activities, events and ceremonies while also catering to the needs of the thousands of guests who were invited, but I was very fortunate to have Rohan’s school friends with which to spend the days in and around the dizzying schedule of celebration.  The wedding was one hell of an event.  Their was a cornucopia of succulent dishes , an endless supply of drinks and a strange cacophony of confusing ceremonies and superstitions.  It was great.  I had few shirts appropriate and no dress pants or shoes to attend a wedding of this calibre, but fortunately for me, Rohan tracked down some dress clothes from his cousins for me so I looked presentable.

The pre-wedding ceremonies were held in Rohan’s birthplace, Karnal, while the wedding was in Agra.  He put us up in a five star hotel a short rickshaw’s drive from the Taj.  Rohan two, Fran, Peter and I explored this emblem of Mughal architecture, and it was still pretty amazing even after all the hype.

From Agra we returned on a train cabin reserved for the guests, played cards and drank some more.  In Delhi I wasted the days on strange excursions to the city, errands with Rohan two and a great food tour with Rajpal.  It’s been a great last couple of weeks.  Now I’ve got my Bangladeshi visa, an expensive stamp in my passport and I’m sitting on a terrace overlooking one of the oldest cities in the world and the holiest place in India, Varanasi.  In a couple of days I’m going to Kolkata and then onward to Bangladesh.

I’ve got another movie in the works and I’ll have it posted soon.

     I was awake by 6:30.  I made a pot of tea, collected my art supplies, sat on my balcony and watched the hazy horizon where the sun was still tucked away, readying myself to do some artwork.  With each passing moment, a new kite fluttered its way higher into the sky, brought to life with the flapping of insect-like motions, orchestrated by the poised fingers of the early-risers of my neighbourhood.   By time the sun rays had cut through the dust, thousands of kites hovered in every remote corner of the skyline and cheers of success were howled from the rooftops.   90’s pop ballads blared from parked cars, and children ran down each twist of the road following the falling kites as their fluttered to the earth.   Soon, the power lines were blanketed and the trees peppered with the multicoloured paper and shimmering tinsel of downed kites.  This was Uttarayan, the most beloved day of the year in Gujarat.  I soon understood why.

Uttarayan is the two-day kite festival held mid-January, celebrating the sun’s northern path on the celestial sphere.  The kites are flown during these auspicious days because the wind changes directions, corresponding to the lengthening of the days and the coming spring.   Uttarayan is a time to celebrate future prosperity and a chance for new beginnings.  Unlike most holidays in India, there is little to no mythology involved.  It is simply a time for young and old to gather together, eat special dishes and fly kites.   It reminded me of Halloween in the sense that as a holiday, it lacked or had lost any tangible religious beginnings, and instead, revolved around simply having fun and the pursuit of sweets.  There seemed to be few rituals or rules, just fly your kite for as long as possible.

     At busy intersections make-shift stands sprouted up selling spools of hand-prepared string laced with purple dye and powdered glass, packages of kites, tape to wrap fingers and every other accessory a kite-fighter might so desire.   Sameer and I were feeling rather ambitious and we picked up 20 kites, two spools of string, tape and then we took to his rooftop terrace ready to test our luck.  As it turns out, kite-fighting is really difficult. I couldn’t even get my kite into the sky by myself, let alone fight it.  It was embarrassing, especially when I saw preschoolers far more adept in kite-flying than I.  Every Gujarati kid learns how to fly kites when they are old enough to stand.  There are tricks of finesse to which I still remain oblivious.  From what I could gather, it’s all about trying to outwit the cunning of neighbours, coercing the kites higher and higher, and drawing the line tighter in attack before letting the line loose in defence.  Everyone made it all look so simple. But unfortunately, the winds were not cooperating for the festival.  By mid-afternoon there was little to no wind and even the seasoned-professionals were struggling to keep the kites airborne.  We took the opportunity and retired to his apartment to eat samosas and other specialty foods and nurse our battered egos.  My favourite part of the festival was still yet to some.

     Once dusk fell, a cacophony of fireworks burst in every direction as if the city were a warzone.  Families huddled together against the cool night breeze, telling stories, sharing sweets and watching the slowly ascending sky lanterns rise through the sulphur smoke like glowing apparitions.   Even getting the lanterns to rise properly was a skill, but luckily Sameer had had some experience from Uttarayans past and he knew the procedure.

     What I’ve come to realize is festivals like Uttarayan would not be possible in Canada.  There would be too many rules against it, laws put in place as preventative measures against fire and pollution.  There is definitely an argument to be made there because this was both a dangerous and environmentally destructive festival, but at the same time, because strict societal rules and laws in Canada, we often miss some of the magic only found in places like India where rules are often ignored and safety overlooked because having fun with the family is the prerogative.

This took me long enough.  My little laptop has real difficulty processing HD.  But it’s finished.  I’ve got another on the way.  It’ll be posted later this week.

I forgot to share the events of my last week in Nepal. After spending a delightful couple of lazy days with Angela, Helen and Sarah in Pokhara, I met up with Jurriaan and we headed westward towards Bardia National Park, one of the last remaining refuges of pristine Nepalese biodiversity.

     I started the day before the sun had risen. Over a quick breakfast of tea and toast, my guide explained the dos and don’ts of the jungle; which turned out to be a guide on ways to narrowly avoid a painful death in the event of unexpectedly encountering one of many dangerous animals in the park. Prim, my guide, explained, if you find a rhino, run diagonally as fast as you can, climb up two meters into a tree, and wait. If you find a tiger, back away slowly, look it in the eyes and if it still comes towards you, smash your walking stick into the brush to frighten it. If you stumble upon an elephant, pray. You can’t run faster than a sprinting elephant. You can’t scare it away. You can’t climb a tree large enough which can’t be toppled with ease. These are the big three; the rhinos, elephants and tigers which everyone flocks here in hopes of seeing; the most dangerous of the bunch, excluding the cobras, sloth bears, crocodiles and leopards. With these parting words of council from Prim, I started my walk into the park.

     This is about the time when the seriousness of my little jaunt into the jungle began to sink in. This walk in the forest was potentially life-threatening. People do get killed by startled rhinos, raging elephants and territorial tigers. Not regularly, but it does happen. Case and point, it happened the day before I arrived at Bardia National Park. As it turns out, a woman had been cutting elephant grass to repair her thatched roof when she startled a mother rhino with its a baby. With maternal instincts ablaze, the rhino charged the woman and gored her, not with its horn as might be expected, but instead, with its front tusk-like teeth. It was pretty grizzly stuff. Reading about Bardia National Park on the internet made it sound so great. It was a novelty. I smiled while thinking a place where one could go with a guide only equipped with a stick to see wild animals, some of which are ferocious, in some of the last protected pieces of natural habitat left in south Asia. Now that I was here, I felt much more nervous about what I was about to get myself into. This particular morning was misty and cold. Prim wasn’t too happy about it. I figured it was because it was going to make animal-sighting more difficult. This was true, but really, he was more concerned about animals not being able to see us. Rhinos have notoriously bad vision at the best of times, and the worst thing to happen is catching one off guard. After hearing the tales of danger and death I felt rather alert. Every twig that snapped and every bird call in the distance gave me chills of cold fright. We saw ghostly languors perched in the trees, sounding alarms as we neared. We sighted countless spotted deer gliding across the scraggy brush and grass disappearing in the grey veil of mist. I saw whole troupes of macaques making river crossings where the water was the shallowest. Then we visited watering holes well-known to my guide and every animals looking for a quick drink, but there wasn’t a member of big three anywhere to be found. As the hours passed and time after time, the sources of the breaking branches and howls were nothing but harmless herbivores, I found myself becoming desensitized to the pending danger lurking behind each tree. Then turning a bend in the path, Prim would spot a steaming pile of elephant feces and the trail of prints leading away. This was when reality rushed back to me. Oh yeah. This was not a zoo. I was on high alert again.

     We followed the well-trodden trails carved out from the undergrowth by the elephants and rhinos. We meandered through the labyrinth of causeways cut into the ten-foot walls of swaying elephant grass. Prim was worried taking us through these paths because if an animal is feeding in the grass neither it nor us will discover each other until it’s too late. We opted for walking the cobble-stoned riverside. After hours of hiking, we came to rest at an elbow in the river. We took our bags off and unwrapped our pack lunches. This place was perfect for seeing animals because it was between two shallow points in the rivers. Prim said our chances were best from here. We ate in near silence and waited for nature to appear. From this vantage point we watched kingfishers dive and dart into the water retrieving minnows in their bills. We watched sambar deer wading waist-deep into the dark pools. And suddenly, Prim perked up and pointed frantically upstream. An Indian rhino stumbled down the river bank, stopped mid-river, took a leisurely drink before continuing across. He then climbed up the opposite bank and disappeared into the bushes. As quickly as it had come it had gone from sight again. Those twenty seconds were what so many people pay to experience. It was such a fleeting glimpse at an animal whose future is full of uncertainty. While people like Prim have grown up with these animals, respect and fear them, choosing to be nature guides, tracking these animals to provide photo-opportunities for tourists such as myself, many people are not like Prim. Many are driven to hunt these prehistoric animals with guns. Their body parts are prized by a thriving black market for oriental medicine or ornament and they offer opportunity for villagers to make income otherwise impossible for simple farmers. Nepal is doing a great job in trying to protect and expand the parks it has, realizing the role these animals have for a bustling tourist industry, but at the end of the day, acts of conservation are often trumped by the desperations of poverty and the temptations of wealthy offered by trafficking exotic animal parts. I feel so fortunate having seen these animals in the wild and I hope they don’t become just curios of zoos, aging relics awaiting the last of their numbers to dwindle and die out. The odds are against the big three, but I have hope that we as a species can leave expanses of habitat free from our influence, where animals can exist how they always have.

     I’ve got to admit it; India’s really starting to grow on me.  To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t too convinced at first.  Maybe it was just a rough start in account of my food-poisoning and the forty-plus hours of train travel, but now that I’m settled and working, I’m really starting to fall for India’s charm.  I love the range of flavours in the food.  I love waking up to pigeon’s cooing outside of my windows and morning Islamic prayers moaning in the distance.  I love the way each person wobbles their head as an answer to nearly every question.   I love the kids flying kites in the late afternoon and their cheers of joy when they cut the line of an opponent’s kite.  I love the dogs who sleep on top of parked cars or perform great feats of acrobatics to climb atop 8-foot walls, like silent ninja assassins.  I love the lazy languor basking in the sun, fluttering their eyebrows as they itch their protruding paunches.   I love the peeling paint, the crumbling plaster and the coat of black moss which blankets every structure.   I love shuttling around town in a rickshaw wondering how there are not more car accidents on roads with no traffic lights, stop signs, speed limits, crosswalks or general rules of road safety.   These will be my memories of Ahmedabad; the sensations I’ll try to store away.  This is home for the next month.

       I’m working as a videographer/animator for a company called Sarvajal.  I’ll save details of the company for another time.  Instead I’ll mention some people.  I work with a big team of dedicated, intelligent and creative people.  Prachi has been a godsend.  She’s really gone above and beyond to show me the ropes and make me feel welcome.  I live with three guys, Ankit, Bala and Vijay.  They are all a little crazy in their own idiosyncratic ways.    They’ve made me feel right at home;  They are really accommodating, especially Vijay, who took me out for New Years and drove me all around town to try new foods, look at sights and shop for some little necessities.   Christmas wasn’t very festive, but nonetheless, it was as good as could be expected.   At least I didn’t need to hear overplayed Christmas carols.  I went to a buffet at the Marriot with Prachi, Sameer, Ankit,  and I ate my weight in cheese and olives, watched a bollywood film and then watched some TED talks.    It was a little lonely still and I did feel a world away from home.  I guess I’m allowed those moments of sombre introspection from time to time.  It think it’s healthy.

     At work I spend all day on my laptop so my inspiration to write and edit photos after office hours is pretty minimal, but I will take more time to update my people on my whereabouts.

     I hope you all had a lovely holiday season and hopefully I’ll be around next year to make up for a few years absence.   I still owe some Nepalese stories, but I’ll save those for a better time.

     I can barely wrap my brain around it all, understand how bizarre this place is, but I’ll try to illuminate a few key observations;

     According to WHO, Seventy percent of Indian people still defecate outdoors, a statistic which seems shocking considering India has 1.2 billion people.  I can believe it having lost count of the numbers of people I witnessed taking open-air shits on the tracks or nearby the railway stations or on the street side during my forty-plus hours of travel from the borderlands of Udder Pradesh to the Western state of Gujarat.  Where else on Earth do mangy and flee-bitten cows wander down the main city streets, bringing traffic to a standstill as they lazily munch away at burning piles of multi-coloured plastic and garbage?  No one asks the cows to leave.   No one shoos them away.  They are holy and they own the streets. Where else do obviously rabid dogs attack people in broad daylight, but no one, not even the woman who was attacked, raises an eyebrow or sounds an alarm or call of distress.  Where else do trains fill to such a capacity that every square meter of space is colonized by muttering people, and even the bathroom stalls are deemed as appropriate places to enjoy the 10-hour plus journey by six or seven men.   But the train-goers look at me as if I am foolish when I ask them to leave so I can take a piss in the only lavatory available?  Where else on Earth does an ancient religious hierarchy totally dictate one’s ultimate station in life, totally justifying a life of the lowest sort of servitude or conversely, the highest status of social esteem?  Everything is broken or in a perpetual state of disrepair, and no one seems to mind, like a nation of fatalists absolved to the fact their world is beyond repair.  Almost everything is rusty or soggy or stained or putrid or peeling or dilapidated or overgrown or overcrowded or overstressed.  Everyone seems to bear the burden of a half-century or more of misappropriation of funds from public coffers, and instead of worrying about things they can’t fix, most find a way to carve out an existence for themselves and their families in a world from which they’ve been exempt.   I’ve passed through to my fair share of countries, seen my fair share of squalor, but nothing in my twenty-five years has prepared me for that which is India.  It is a monstrously filthy and fascinating place, where linear history doesn’t exist, but instead, all of her human triumphs, toils and tears have continuously built on, in or around the crumbling narratives or cultures past, until history neither begins nor ends, but instead shimmers like dusty piles of broken glass shards.

     This is where I’ll call home for the next couple months.  Then, depending on whether or no India has broken my spirits, I’ll venture elsewhere.  Perhaps Sri Lanka.  Bangladesh.  Myanmar.  Or maybe Pakistan and overland to Europe.  We’ll see which way the wind blows.

     I have some stories left from Nepal, but I’ll save them for another time.

Merry early Christmas, everyone.  Have a glass of eggnog on my behalf.

     Yours truly,

-Lucas

     Kathmandu has its bustling back-alleys of dilapidated, ramshackle buildings, with chipped plaster, peeling paint, crooked doorways, crumbling foundations, adorned with once-immaculate wooden lattices tarnished by years of diesel fumes, termites and rain.  Hindu shrines, splattered by years of crimson and marigold pigment and blemished by the white wax of countless candles sit at the intersections of most narrow road-sides. Street-vendors selling tangerines and over-ripe bananas declare the prices of their wares to passer-bys.  Mustached men on great dented motorbikes weave through crowds of pedestrians blaring their horns to demand passage.  Grubby cross-eyed children in greasy jackets and worn-out flip-flops huff glue from plastic bags before staggering about begging for alms with outstretched hands.  Trekkers with three-week-old beards, sun-burnt skin and sunken eyes decompress and swap stories of misadventures while devouring warm meals in candle-lit restaurants.  Steaming pots of dal and curry billows forth from the front doors of samosa shops, cinder block cubicles owned and operated by a family of six, welcoming you as you enter and ushering you to an empty bench.  Men of only skin-and-bones lurk in the shadows, stepping into your ear-shot to ask in hushed tones, “Smoke hash?”  This is the dizzying and dusty splendour of Kathmandu, a place of legend and lore; a place with a mysterious and far-reaching reputation; a place where history neither begins nor ends.

     Crossing the mountain range separating the Kathmandu valley from the rest of the country, the anxiety and raucousness of Nepalese city life just melts away.  The concrete sprawl is replaced by lushly forested hills, aquamarine rivers, golden terraced patties of rice, and best of all, looming above the horizon, the snow-capped peaks of the Annapurna mountain range float like percarious icebergs adrift in the waves of pale blue clouds .  In the sleepy villages settled atop the mountain passes people live day by day, waking with the sun and sleeping with the moon, growing and raising all the sustenance they could need.  Without falling too deeply into the romance of it all, it’s tough to imagine why anyone would want anything else from life.

      We shared a family’s dal bhat (lentil soup, curry potatoes and rice) and drank glass-bottles of Coka-cola, staring slack-jawed and awe-struck at the pastoral beauty of the Nepalese countryside, uninterrupted by the cacophony of horns, engines and banter; instead, serenaded by dogs barking in the distance, chickens clucking and children laughing.  Early sunsets paint the skies and darkness falls as fast as a drawn curtain.  With a trained and patient eye, while waiting around the giant bodi trees, the fluorescence of fireflies hummed on and off like secret codes.  We rode atop a jeep on the roof-racks through the visceral darkness beneath a starlit ceiling, yelling along at every passing vehicle with the jeep totes as they threw their cigarette butts into the black abyss, leaving great trails of sparks in our wake.

     We trekked up and down the mountains beyond Besi Sahar, following ancient paths, and ascending winding staircases of rock-slabs shimmering from the talc contained within.  We found, as if we were explorers of years long past, timeless Gurung villages only accessible by foot, greeted by wide-eyed and smiling children, snot-nosed but thoroughly polite.  We said, “Namaste,” in greeting, pushing our hands together and nodding, to each person we encountered, and stopped to eat at any hut with a table poised outside.  We drank tea in villagers’ courtyards as their pigeons cooed above our heads, and helped pick beans from bushels in exchange for their hospitality.  For three days we wandered up and down these forested paths, stopping to scare away white-maned monkeys from eating harvested piles of drying rice, or to carry mounds of millet alongside dark and wiry old farmers, or just to stop for the night at an empty guesthouse as the sun slunk behind the hills, buying a room, a warm curry and a cold beer to wash it all down.

We took hours of bumpy local bus rides through sleeping villages and negotiated fares with young guys with slicked hair before finally reaching Pokhara, a city notorious for relaxation and recovery.  With no further ado, it’s time to go see what this place has in store.

I was rocked to sleep on a train drifting across the dark deserts of Qinghai province.  I awoke with my brain between a tightening vice and on the verge of throwing up.  Despite my altitude sickness, I struggled to stand and moved to the window to watch the slow sunrise over the frozen lunar landscape of the Tibetan plateau.  I watched the corners of the horizon change from a ghostly grey blue to a pastel orange.  Eagles and ravens soared and swooped above the snow-freckled earth and grey foxes ran below, amidst the ashen dust and dun-coloured shrubs split up only by the vibrant azure of meandering rivers of silt.  Prayer flags fluttered from every bridge or mountain pass, giving thanks to the forces of nature, the gods of protection or the gods of punishment who have the power to choose whom they give amnesty and those they forsake.

On arriving in Lhasa, my friends and I could barely muster the energy needed to carry our bags from the truck to our hostel and ascend the three flights of stairs to our room.  Headaches raged and stomachs churned, but after a few hours and lots of warm water, the signs of altitude sickness eventually passed. Every street corner in Lhasa is occupied by five Chinese soldiers, most of which are fresh-faced, skittish-looking teenagers holding batons or readying rifles on their shoulders.  This is the ends of the empire and they are paying their dues as young recruits. Patrols also routinely pass looking for disobedience.  No one makes eye-contact.  No one wants to make an excuse to be stopped, questioned or carded.  Everyone pretends the military isn’t even present.  It’s a difficult deception to perform, like a big nation-wide joke in which no one laughs.

Pilgrims of all walks of life, all shapes and sizes, follow a path, a cora, around the holy sites of Lhasa.  Some have bulbous diseased noses, burgundy skin of leather, others have mysterious glinting tawny eyes staring out from face masks and head scarves.  Some nervous looking farmers wear immaculate head-dresses and intricately designed  braids.  Some do the entire circuit by lowering themselves to their knees and placing their foreheads on the cold concrete every meter of the way.  Some are carried along by loved ones, evidently ill and looking for relief from their suffering in the alms of the Past, Present and Future Buddha or the thousands of other deities and protection gods enshrined within the walls of the holy places.  All have prayer beads in their hands and conviction in their eyes.  Their faith is total, all-encompassing, effecting each action they make.  Buddhism is visceral in Tibet.  It has a heart-beat and a pulse.  Some are grandparents who’ve witnessed and still remember their nation before it was “liberated” by the People’s Republic of China in 1959.  Most are far two young and only know life under occupation.  They all walk together in one great pulsating ring around the Potala Palace or Jokhang temple, murmuring their prayers and clicking one bead forward at the end of each prayer’s recital.

Be it within the Jokhang temples, the Sera monasteries or the majesty of the Potala Palace, while walking through the labyrinths of Tibetan buildings, it’s easy to become lost wandering the network of alleys, cul-de-sacs, staircases, courtyards and assembly-halls; these dusty rooms of colour and culture.  In these mysterious realms lit by hanging bulbs of fluorescence and the warm glow of yak-butter candles, monks and pilgrims alike ebb and flo before statuettes and inscriptions praying for health and happiness.  The air is thick with the sickly sweet smell of hot butter, incense and the sweat and tears of the devout.  Light streams in through blown-glass windows, leaving hazy trails where disturbed dust and smoke from incense twirl and twist, illuminating rectangular patches of light on sacred images or statutes of religious icons indistinguishable to my ignorant eye.  These are not museums.  These are not tourist traps.  These are active places of worship and I felt like a grateful intruder on some esoteric ritual.

Leaving Lhasa we headed west, following the valley of the mighty and sacred Bhamputra river, run off from the holy Mount Kailash.  Traffic or military checkpoints sit in wait in every village along the Friendship Highway.  These are routine annoyances for Tibetan drivers.  Their movements monitored and timed.

The Tibetan countryside is covered by rust-red mountains with craggy ridges, jagged like the blades of broken knifes.  These great red masses are deeply etched with dried stream beds like scars cut by curved Damascus blades.  Upon the seasonally fertile flats between the hills and the rushing water men and boys tend to flocks of speckled sheep, which along with stray dogs and every other form of livestock, bring traffic periodically to a standstill.  Yaks graze the autumnal grey grass and ash-coloured ruined walls of ancient homesteads, wind-burnt and weather-beaten, slowly erode, returning to the soil from which they came.

And then there is Mount Everest, Jumulama, its Tibetan name, the giant hunched-back white queen surrounded by an entourage of snow peaked sentinels.  My pictures can’t capture the cold of the biting wind and the prominence of this natural wonder.  I wanted to stay and bask in its glory, but the health of my freezing appendages was more important to me and I returned to the safety and warmth of the Landcruiser.

Then after one last mountain pass decorated by the flutter of thousands of multi-coloured flags, we started our decent into Nepal.   We followed an ancient route called “The way to hell,” name so for all those in history who’ve lost their lives going to or from the roof of the world.  The new Chinese-built road was a great improvement over the medieval path, but the evidence of rock-falls, land-slides and earthquake damage were found around every bend in the serpentine road.

My last evening in Tibet found us sitting atop a patio in Khasa, overlooking the Nepalese mountains across the river.  We saluted Tibet and the wonderful people who live there and refuse to be beaten.  I’ve spent the last eight days thinking and rethinking all I’ve known before, during and after visiting Tibet.  It’s no new statement, but it deserves repeating until it comes to fruition.  Tibetans deserve to practice their own religion unimpeded.  Tibetans deserve to speak their own language firstly and foremost.  Tibetans deserve to speak their minds.  Tibetans deserve their freedom.  I hope to hell I’ll live to see a free Tibet!

My little Chengdu is all grown up.

I arrived in the early afternoon and eventually found myself in the warm and friendly quarters of Sim’s Cozy Garden Hostel.   This is Chengdu’s number one backpacker hostel and also, one of the best hostels I’ve ever seen.   I spent the next six days here eating Dutch french fries, drinking Chinese beer, sipping coffees, playing pool, ping pong, lounging around, conversing with travelers and exploring this city which has changed light-years since I was there last.   Sim’s was a little bit like a resort for disheveled backpackers.  I had such a great time and any one who is in this part of the world shouldn’t hesitate spending a couple days or even a week here.

some highlights from my last week:

• I was out-drank by a Dutch girl on several occasions

• I visited the Chengdu Panda Research Center and watched the cutest animal alive lazily eat bamboo

• I became the focus of a street performance in Chengdu’s People’s Park.  I held the attention of an audience of well over a hundred camera-wielding Chinese locals

• My leather jacket was stolen when I was being willingly distracted by a pretty lady.  Oh drat

• I joined a tour group headed through Tibet onward to Nepal with Alister, Merlinde and Andrien

• I boarded a 44 hour train from Chengdu to Lhasa and woke up with a mean bout of altitude sickness

That’s been my life thus far.  I’ll save Lhasa and the Tibetan Plateau for another time.  I’ll be headed towards the Nepalese boarder for the next week.  Anticipate a great post in 8 days time.  Shout outs to Emma for a hilarious week of lounging and laughter…it was exactly what I needed.   Thanks to all the other weird and wonderful people I met in Sim’s!

This is my fourth visit to China.  It is still as captivating as my first adventure here with Terry back in 2006.  I still find myself dumbfounded by the hive of activity building and breaking around me at every passing moment.  It is total sensory overload.  The fact that 20% of the world’s people can live and function here day in day out is mezmerizing.  The markets are dizzying circuses of barter and banter, the roads are still as loud and chaotic as ever, and the taxi drivers just as pseudo-suicidal.   The average people are just as inquisitive, devious, unapologetic, unabashed, but ultimately as friendly as I remember.  It seems that for every bit of ugliness that one may encounters in China there are many moments of genuine serendipitous beauty to tip the scales and warm your heart.  People appear as if from nowhere to help whenever you need assistance.  China provides.

A lot has changed here too in the last five years.  First of all, the standard of living has improved greatly.  The prices have doubled in the last couple years.  This is not to say it’s not still affordable, but gone are the days when ten dollars would suffice for a full day of bizarre and mysterious travel.  There is still a lot of inequality, but the new middle class of China is rising and the evidence of a thriving consumer culture is visible everywhere.  As Yin, a couch surfer I stayed with in Xi’an explained it, so many Chinese people have fallen quite easily into the swing of consumerism because in a society such as this, every bit of property is technically on loan from the government, and driving a Volkswagen sedan, carrying a Guchi handbag or answering the latest iPhone symbolizes more than it would elsewhere in the world.  Ownership is taken for granted in North America, but if one were kept from it for a whole life and then suddenly these restrictions were lifted all at once, one would go crazy for purchasing, spending, consuming.  It’s like those kids who parents forbade them from eating candy; as soon as they visited at friends’ houses they gorged themselves until they go into sugar comas and convulse on the carpet.

In the last week I’ve traveled from Incheon, South Korea to Weihai, bussing from Weihai to Qingdao to Shanghai.  I explored the financial capital at my leisure, staying with my friend Johnny.  As much of a wonder as Shanghai is, it’s not really for me.  It lacks the gritty appeal of rural China.  I boarded the longest-feeling train ride of my life from Shanghai to Huang Shan, full of ignorant, country-bumpkin Chinese labourers and merchants.  I foolishly bought a hard-seat for an overnight train.  I was seated beside the toilet/smoking area and I was relentlessly jarred awake by the drunken chatter and chuckles of brown-toothed, glassy-eyed characters of every shape and size, smoking cigarettes and downing half-toxic moonshine mere meters from me and my vain attempts of getting sleep.  Needlessly said, sleep was impossible, but things seemed to be cooling down at around 3:30, but alas, a man suffered from a nose-bleed and of course, was nursed for the better part of an hour across the table from me.  Torrents of blood spilled from his face.  Every train attendant, conductor, food vendor and labourer on the bus had to come and take a look, each with their own folk secret on how to stop a nosebleed. Once he had regained his composure, everyone on the train seemed to be wide awake again.  All the men continued chain-smoking and drinking their turpentine while I gritted my teeth.  I’ve vowed never to take another hard-seat train again.  My sanity is worth the extra money for the sleeper train.

Huang Shan was amazing.  I stayed with a fellow couch surfer named Valerie.  She was a delight.  She showed me around her little town and then accompanied me to Huang Shan (Yellow Mountain).  I think the pictures speak for themselves.   Beautiful.

From there I went to the village of Hongcun before taking 24 hours of buses and trains to get to Xi’an.  I stayed with Yin, a 30-something year old author/hermit.  I spent a few hours each day answering his many curious questions about the western world.  He was a very philosophical.  He helped teach me a different perspective of this country; the darker side of China’s rise.

I tried my best to get a Tibet permit but it proved to be impossible in Xi’an.  I met an exotic fruit vendor named Blues who wanted me to witness the real China and while on a bus to the Terracotta warriors I met two wonderful Dutch girls named Daphney and Emma.  I explored the city with them for the next day and a half.

Now I’m rattling away on a train to Chengdu, my old Chinese stomping grounds.  Hopefully a Tibet permit is awaiting me somewhere in the maze of dusty and chaotic city streets.  Wish me luck.

I finally finished this behemoth of a video project just in time.  I’m leaving in 3 days to travel  from South Korea to India overland.   I’ll probably be traveling for 6 months or so. This video is not exactly what I had in mind, but it will have to do.   My original idea might have been just a bit too ambitious. I hope you all like it.   Please, leave feedback!

Last night was the 2nd Art Beans exhibit.  It was a great turnout.  I feel so honoured having had the opportunity to participate with such outstanding artists and friends.   Everyone produced some excellent work.   It was an amazing night.