WARNING: SUPERLATIVES AHEAD

Now, I know I’ve been saying quite often “I don’t have the words or the feelings to describe (fill in the blank) of the Himalayas”. I sometimes feel like Bill Walton in all of my hyperbole: “They are the largest, the most majestic, the most grandiose…I could not duplicate, I would not replicate, I should not insinuate anything close to these behemoths. Throw it down, God, throw it down.”

But…the face of the mountain I saw the other day, the face of the slab in the video, literally stopped me in my tracks. There was a discernible pull to stop and stare for a long, long time. To be made small. The summit seemed to go on and on and on, due to the overcast sky and the fresh coating of snow way, way up. I turned to my porter/guide Sonju and expressed my awe and he said that his culture calls that mountain “The Way to Heaven”.

I have felt overwhelmed in nature at times in my life and that experience is now on that list. I consider myself lucky to be moved by a gargantuan piece of earth but that’s exactly what this piece of earth did. And when I talked to a fellow trekker (who is doing the circuit I’m doing, only on a mountain bike) a few days later, not only did he remember that particular viewpoint, but he said he went back the next day to see just how far up in the sky it stretched.

(*I’m a bit brain addled. When I said “mastiff” I actually meant “massif”. Even though the Mastiff is a very large dog, they are still a bit smaller than this.)

As each day takes us a little closer to Thorang-La, both in distance and in altitude, I have been crazy tired at the end of each day. It is now Saturday morning, April 20th. I think I shot the previous video three days ago. It rained quite heavily on the day of The Way, and I must admit, my spirit was a bit on the fence. Yes, everything up to now has been insanely beautiful and rain is certainly part of nature’s equation. But please God, give me sunlight.

Well, the next day, after a wet and chilly night in Lower Pisang, I woke up to this:

And the weather has been superlative ever since.

I will recap the trek in another post, but I had to include a video in this post that I shot Friday, April 19th just outside of Manang. Sonju and I arrived in Manang Thursday night with the goal of using our scheduled rest day, Friday, to hike to Ice Lake, four hours up and two hours down, outside of town. We would then rest Saturday before resuming our trek on Sunday with four glorious days of walking remaining.

But the hike to Ice Lake turned out to be more difficult than I imagined. It was quite steep and after 3.5 hours, we hit snow and the trail disappeared. Sonju was confident he could find the way but truth be told, I was scared. And not the scared that motivates you to work through it. No, this was my gut hiking up the red flag and saying “STOP”. So stop we did. Up to that point we saw vistas that were mind-boggling, including some new ones that revealed themselves to us for the first time, due to our location. Sonju said we probably hit 4400 meters, so we got some more high altitude training in before our rest day (which, friends, is FANTASTIC).

Here is a shot of mountains behind the village that can only be seen if you climb up and up toward Ice Lake:

But the stars of this geological show are not hidden behind lower hills only to be seen by folks willing to walk a little higher. No. The stars of this show are opposite the previous shot, across the valley, imposing their will on your senses. I recorded a video three or four times on the way up before I got it right because I thought “Certainly, the vantage point can’t be any more dramatic.” Au contraire, mon frere. Au contraire.

Yes, I was a wee bit tired towards the end of that hike. My legs were shaking a little bit. And the downhill did not take half as long as the uphill had, as we were told. Everything was taking its own sweet time. But as Sonju keeps reminding me as we chew up mile after mile on the trail…”Bistardi…bistardi.” “Slowly…slowly.” So we slowly made our way back to Manang, where I practically inhaled a plate of dal bhat (yes, I’ll have seconds [and thirds], please), followed that up with a HOT SHOWER, my first in three or four days, dropped off a bag of laundry at the town laundromat and set about wandering the narrow slate streets at magic hour.

As I got lost in the labyrinths of Manang, taking shots of every day life, including the massive sentinels overlooking this town, a most definite feeling began to wash over me. After six days of, at times, strenuous hiking, of thousands of feet gained in elevation, of times when I was tested both by the cold and by my breathing, here I was walking the cobbles near dusk, bistardi, wonderfully and completely at peace.

Day 0 – Travel day from Kathmandu to Bhulbhule

My porter guide Sonju arrived at six, right on schedule this morning.

We hopped in a cab, made our way to the bus depot, met Sritangh from San Diego (an AMERICAN! I can speak freely!!!!) and then waited for our public bus to appear for our rumored-to-be nine hour ride to Bhulbhule, the jumping off point for the Annapurna Circuit. Well, I’m here to tell you it wasn’t close to nine. It was 12. I had a twin seat all to myself until a Nepalese army man sat down next to me, with his wife across the aisle.

Talk about a great guy. Turns out he’s also on the military’s baseball team, holding down the shortstop and center field positions. We chatted for awhile and then, well…then, he fell asleep on my shoulder. HARD.

I DREAM of the day when I am able to literally or even metaphorically fall asleep on a stranger’s shoulder. He and his wife were transporting his 80 year old grandparents to a special temple five hours away. It’s at the top of this giant hill, accessible only by gondola. As we approached it, sure enough, there it was, all by its tiny self. We said goodbye and then he hopped off. And yes, he was going to take his family back by public bus, the same day, for another five hours.

What’s the difference between a nighttime Indian bus and a daytime Nepali bus? In Nepal you will see the coming explosion. har har – I jest in a way to deal with it. Today on the long ride there were three ambulances at different times racing in the opposite late back to town.

I saw one lorry that was flipped after ramming into a cement wall. The Nepalese, gotta say, aren’t as skilled as the Indians playing Death Race 6000, but they are working very hard at catching up! Like Indians they completely understand the give and take of people surging ahead or screaming toward you in the wrong lane. Or was that me screaming? No matter.

As we got closer to our destination, rolling down a road that was fit for neither man nor beast, we came upon a most surreal scene: there, mere feet from a two hundred foot plunge into the river, was a tractor’s trailer, holding a 10 ton slab of metal, upturned, blocking the road from both ways.

Much scratching of heads ensued. Push the trailer back to the side ground? Nope. Turn the trailer over by the strength of a hundred hands? That’s about 2 million too few. Put on your backpack and walk the last 5K and let them figure it out? We have a winner! But right before we strapped on our packs, word came from the other side of the wreckage. A bus from Bhulbhule had made its way to the scene and turned around so we could catch a ride for the last few miles. And the best feeling of the day was when we came upon a group of about 20 Nepalese who had all seen the writing on the wall and started walking, show their excitement when our bus rumbled up behind them. There was much rejoicing.

One side benefit of stopping where I did, I happened to look up and see a massive mountain – my first Himalaya. My God, it was so huge and majestic and as the sun shifted, you could tell there was another mountain BEHIND it.

We (new friends and my porter/guide) hopped on and settled at my first tea house, named Heaven. We each got dal baht to start the daily tradition, ordered breakfast for tomorrow and are all now settled in our rooms. Mine is small, 300 Nepali Rupees (or $2.72) and perfect. See you in the morning, coffee.

With another night in a bouncy house disguised as an Indian bus, it was with a bit of sorrow that I made my way to Aurangabad one last time. Yes, it was farther inland and yes, that meant temps of up to 106 and yes, I start melting at around 90. But what was on my mind was saying goodbye to my host Pradnya, her mother, her staff of lawyers and assistants and of course her erstwhile office boy and young man who took care of me when I needed anything (even when I didn’t know I did), Shiva. Thank you, Shiva, for ferrying me around to and from bus and rail stations, to your favorite cool drink house and overall friendship. You’re a good man and you and your wife will have many happy years together. I’m sure our paths will cross again.

I rolled in around 5:30 in the morning on this, New Year’s Day for the farmers of rural India. And at that early hour, there were parade floats lining up and great groups of people dressed in orange and white, getting ready to celebrate the beginning of a new year. Shiva pulled up soon thereafter and soon dropped me at my apartment where I passed out immediately. After a day of random activity, one of the lawyers in the firm took me to one of the parades for independence day. WOW. Incredible. So much color, dancing, celebration, and even though I knew next to nothing of the symbolism, or who the people were supposed to be on the horses, or the drumming and dancing and the flags, I was blown away by the sheer passion of the people taking part.

After returning to the office, Pradnya, her mother, her aunt and her two cousins took me out to Indian Chinese dinner for my last meal with the family. If you are ever able to go to this kind of restaurant, where these cultures are fused for your dining pleasure, DO IT. My nose is pretty much dead after years of an Afrin addiction (don’t do it, kids), but every single Indian dish penetrated the dead blocks that are my sinuses and for that I am thankful.

Speaking of being thankful. Pradnya. At every turn she helped me out, whether it was booking buses or understanding what was going on or what needed to be done or heck, just the simple act of letting me invade her office, take up a/c and power for my laptop so I could write in the cool, to lunch and dinner with her and her mom almost every day I was in town…they have a saying in India: “Guest is God”. Well, I was certainly treated with the utmost in kindness, kindness to a level I thought didn’t exist anymore. So thank you, Pradnya, for that and so many other things. Your family will always be welcome in my home. I hope to see you and yours again soon. Oh, and THANK YOU for introducing me to paan!! 🙂

I’m lying on my hotel bed in Kathmandu, avoiding the now-hot afternoon sun and trying not to freak myself out about what’s about to transpire. I’ve decided to go with a porter/guide, one man who plays both roles, for my 100+ mile trek on the Annapurna Circuit. It’s estimated we (Krishna and I) will finish in approximately 12 days, though I am NOT rushing to meet any deadline. In fact I look forward to a rest day in Manang and maybe as many as two others as we make the counter-clockwise journey around the Annapurna range. We’ll be finishing in Jomsom and then will head to Tatopani to relax in some hot springs and then another bus ride to Pokhara will end Krishna’s and my time together in Nepal. I’ll make my way to Kathmandu for some sight-seeing and shopping and then it will de the slow dip back into India, hopefully stopping in Varanasi, Delhi and Agra before churning southwards to Mumbai and my flight home.

My last few days in India were what my travelling sister and brother-in-law would call “zero days”. Time to re-group, re-gather, re-energize. And the last four were. But when last we met in the village of Shelgoan, I was having an out-of-body experience in front of a bunch of school children, playing a game of call and response with that simple happy-sad word “goodbye”.

From there, we made our way to the chili field for a little shade with some new teacher friends. Then it was off to the dairy on the back of Chet’s motorcycle, stopping here and there to talk to folks. Then a strange thing happened. While we were at the dairy, when the thermometer crested at 106, lightning and thunder appeared in the distance and before you knew it, an honest-to-goodness gulleywasher hit Shelgoan and folks ran for cover. It rained HARD for hours. Sideways hard. And as is the local government’s custom, when it rains like that, they turn off all the power. So there we were, trapped at the dairy, waiting for the rain to pass. Which it didn’t, fully, for quite some time. But Chet and I seized a slight dry moment and booked it to the darkened farmhouse, where he, Nagesh and I sat by the light of our smart phone flashlights talking to each other about everything. We talked home, school, women, made jokes, told jokes and the place was pitch black, save for those little lights.

And about an hour later, the family of workers who live next door sent a now-soaking child to us with a giant pot of rice, nuts and raisins so we wouldn’t go without dinner. They had already stashed a large cooler of clean water for me to drink on the cement windowsill, so we were good there. So what started as a day with the hope of another night on husks under the stars turned into an almost-chilly evening in the farmhouse. And I won’t lie…my hips hurt after 10 hours on the ground, but I knew it would be my only night in such conditions.

Friday morning meant market day in Udgir, 20KM away. I hopped on the back of Chet’s bike and we zoomed back to the big city to experience auction day. His chilies and tomatoes were on the block and he wanted me to see how it all went down. He was a little concerned that I might be consumed on all sides by all the stares and encroaching humans. “Walk confidently”, he said. By this time, I knew that smiling and saying “Namaste” turned flat, unsmiling faces into wide grins and the big city was no different. I never felt threatened. Well, not until a knot of people wanted to have their picture taken with me (I highly recommend going somewhere where you are stared at. Talk about wearing another person’s shoes…).

After meeting so many people and taking so many photos, it was time to bust back to the village. There wasn’t much more time before we’d be coming back to Udgir to throw me on an overnight bus to Aurangabad and my last two days with my host family.

Time was growing close to an end in the village but Chet and his friend Rahm wanted to take me to one more place: Their hindu temple on the top of a nearby hill. Of course, my western sensibility took over and I worried about missing my bus (“They know you are coming. Don’t worry” was close to what Chet told me). We motored up the hill and I could not believe the beauty before me.

I was sad at saying goodbye to Chet and all the new friends I’d made. I was SO LUCKY to have experienced what I had in less that three whole days!!! But I had to get back to Aurangabad, so after having a kickass dinner of paneer tikka masala at a restaurant in Udgir, I said goodbye to Chet and his two friends who accompanied us to the big city, in the dark and the dust without knowing if I would ever be back. Chet has a giant heart and it was never more apparent than in all of his actions to me, someone he had only just met. Thank you, Chet. I hope to meet again soon

As I wrote early, early on in this, in 1989 I edited a video entitled “Exploring the Himalayas, Nepal and Kashmir”. It was such a labor of love that when I finished it, my producer and director asked me to come outside because they wanted to give me something. A recipe book of 1001 Indian curries (Dennis Burkhart’s specialty)? A mannequin head (totally Gary Adams’ speed)? No. They popped the trunk of Gary’s car and there, in all its blue glory, was a Gregory internal frame back pack. The seeds of travel had been sown.

When you edit a program you love, you nearly remember every edit for years to come. You’re building a story of image and pace, of emotion and suspense so, hopefully, your soul is invested. It’s pretty cool. And one of my favorite segments of the video was the one where we visited Swayambhunath, a large Buddhist temple, in Kathmandu. Well, today I was at Swayambhunath, otherwise known as the Monkey Temple, for a full four hours.

I tried to leave many times but failed. Scores of humans, legions of pigeons, a few packs of dogs and a few handfuls of pesky monkeys moved about the place and the only word I could use to describe the top of that hill is “peaceful”, regardless of the intersecting parades.

As I awoke on a bed of spent sugar cane husks, as the cool, early sun grew in heat and intensity, as the workers gathered and the breakfast was served and the salutations were given, I felt about as far away from anything familiar as I could feel. But I was comfortable, content. Not rushed. Awake and alive. The family who works on the farm (you’ve seen their impish daughter steal the show) cooked breakfast for Nagesh, Chet and me and also gave us delicate cups of chai before we started our day.

As with the day before, this day started out with a series of checks on farms, friends and family. Chet has no shortage of any, especially friends. The man is mayor of that little village, or will be soon enough. He made everybody laugh, threw quips out at passing drivers, checked on farms of all sort, everything a well-liked human does to connect with his or her neighbors. We had a mid-morning breakfast scheduled at a local farm, and it was there the owner of the farm attempted to give me protection against the intensifying sunlight.

As we left the farmer and some of his workers, we headed to the heart of the village to pick up some water and to also check in on the grade school where Chet and his father and his siblings all went years ago. Chet just wanted me to see the grounds, wave at the students, you know, basic stranger-in-a-strange-land kind of stuff.

Well, what I got was much more than that. Much, much more. A life-changing amount of love/respect/attention/admiration/listening/fun/smiles and I’m sitting here reflecting on it in wonder that it happened and still not sure if it was planned. What happened was two of the teachers came out of their class and directed me to the headmaster’s office. We chatted awhile (where are you from, why are you here, how do you like India, our village, etc.) and then the most amazing thing happened. The two classes flowed out of their rooms and into the courtyard, in lines of ten, standing at attention and then sitting, all listening to me. I was going to be given an honorary shawl, marking me as an esteemed guest of the school. As I stood in front of them completely flummoxed, each student greeted me with “Hello! My name is _____” and it continued up each row until everyone was covered. Then three little girls came up and sang a song to me. Then two boys came up and recited a poem. When it was my turn to speak, I thanked them for their greeting, told them where I was from, told them I was impressed by them and their teachers and to study hard, as education is very important. Now, Chet had disappeared at some point, so I was glad when he showed up holding a big bag. The bag was filled with little chilled bags of flavored water. I was to hand out a little bag to each student as they came up to shake my hand. I have never smiled as broadly in my life. All these precious, innocent, HAPPY children gleefully welcoming a large, white American to their village, a first, as I said earlier. My humility was off the charts. To show a stranger such genuine kindness left a huge mark on my soul. Yet the day was merely getting started.

Well, a school in a neighboring village got wind of the guest in Shelgoan, so all of a sudden, Chet and I were whisked away to this other school to meet another group of students. This was a different school, however. Yes, another public school, but one that covered grades 1 through 8 whereas the one where we had been covered 1 through 5. Once we arrived, all activity in the classrooms and on the playground stopped. Mouths were agape, kids waved, hid, smiled, stared and some started to move tentatively toward me. But before I met them, I was ushered into the headmaster’s office where she presented me with a bouquet of flowers, a coconut and a shawl, all important signs of showing respect to a guest.

One of the teachers caught wind I told stories.

“So, you can tell a story to our 8th grade class. They are studying English so if you tell it slowly, they will understand.”

“Oh, that sounds great! What kind of story would you like me to tell?”

“One with a moral.”

Holy shit! A moral? Just whip up a story, Aesop, you’re on in 30 seconds.

Every class greeted me the same way. As I walked through the doorway, they sprang to their feet and yelled “Good morning, Sir!” at the top of their lungs. Each class. I felt like falling to my knees.

We started with the 5th graders. I explained to them where I was from, drew a map on the chalkboard showing where Portland was, why I was in India and so forth. And then it hit me! A Q&A! I said “does anyone have any questions?” And lo and behold, they did. Where do you work, what is your salary, are you married, do you have children, what did you study and on and on. Each class came with its own set of questions (mostly asked by the girls…the boys were too shy) until it was time to tell my story to the 8th graders. A story with a moral. And then it dawned on me. Tell the story of how I got to India. The morals of friendship, kindness and sharing. Of Pradnya and her family. I told it succinctly and slowly. And I hope by their silence they understood because as I stood there telling the story, I was kind of having an out of body experience. A total view of the strange reality that was going on. What was happening? Why am I being feted? I’ve done nothing except take advantage of an amazing opportunity to go deep into a rural part of India where others choose not to go. Not because they don’t want to, but because they don’t know.

When it was time to go, all the kids surrounded me, were waving goodbye, yelling goodbye, smiling goodbye. A nearby teacher blew a whistle and suddenly the kids opened a path for me. I looked up thinking I’d see Chet the Jet on his motorbike. Instead, the English teacher had retrieved his car and there, at the end of a path flanked by students, was an awaiting car with its door flung open.

I climbed in and the kids kept reaching through the window to touch me, all the while screaming goodbye. Another whistle blew and the kids moved enough for the car to make its way off the playground. We hit the main road and before I knew it, I was sitting in the shade next to Chet’s chili field with two teachers.

I was floating.

A hypnotic view of jaleebi, an Indian confection, begin made at the Aurangabad street market. Yes, it’s kinda greasy. But it is super sweet and delicious. Kind of like an apple fritter that just does away with all that extra dough.

After a night of being thrown around on the bus in my little double-bed, still-too-short sleeper cell, like a kernel of popcorn in an air popper, I was ready for a little stability. I had travelled from Aurangabad to Udgir with my final destination of Shelgoan still 20k away. I was going to be met by Chetanya, Pradnya’s 26 year-old-cousin and local farmer. When the arrangement had been made, I was asked “would you like Chetanya to meet you with a car or with a motorbike?” I couldn’t say “CAR!” faster or with more urgency. I let everyone else de-bus before I poked my head out the door. “DAVID!!!” I looked down and there, smiling large, is Chetnaya, waving. “Come on, David! Let’s GO!” So I hauled my back pack off the bus, looking for a car to throw my crap into.

Will I ever learn?

The good thing was, Chetanya brought two friends on another bike, and the one in back would wear my full pack while I wore my day pack. Man, I gotta get over this fear thing. Because people, that 20k ride on the back of Chetanya’s bike, deeper and deeper into rural India, was one of the best trips I’ve ever been on. The road got narrower and less busy. The homes much less urban and much more basic. The stares increased in amount and longevity. I was savoring every minute, grateful for how I got here.

Chetanya leaned back a little and shouted into the wind “this is the real India!”

I was told I’d be staying in a farmhouse on the property. Being the naïve westerner I, of course, imagined some type of Waltons-esque structure with lush mango trees surrounding the property and three happy dogs frolicking amongst the sugar cane husks in the front yard. Silly John Boy. We turned up a slight hill, the driveway to the place, and I noticed two things: I could not have been so wrong and two, the children from the home next door were playing and laughing and laughing and laughing.

And then the kids saw me. I was told later I was the first foreigner to ever visit this village. My three day visit was just beginning, so I had no idea how many people would come up just to get a selfie with me. No, the only thing I noticed were the two young children hiding behind their two older brothers as I dismounted Chetanya’s bike, blood alive from the thrilling ride. I noticed their terror immediately and thought “I got this.” No, I didn’t got this. They reacted in horror and recoiled beyond their brothers’ grasp as I took a step forward. I said “Hello” softly, waved, and then turned, heading toward the farmhouse.

To say I couldn’t be more wrong about where I would be staying would be a huge understatement. But it’s exactly what I wanted when I saw it. A few steps led into the building, with a buffalo standing beside them. Entering the rock and straw strewn room, there was a baby buffalo, lounging. Farther into the house was the main room where I’d spend the next few days, with a shower room on one side and a toilet on the other.

Once I chucked my bag, Chetanya (or Chet, for short) was ready to show me around the countryside. But the first stop was his home so I could meet his parents. His father is the brother of Pradnya’s mother. Pradnya is my host in Aurangabad and Chet is her cousin. I step inside and am immediately shown the portrait of Chet’s great-grandfather who built this home. I let that soak in a bit. It was built at the turn of the century and continues to be lived in by the same family. And with Chet’s commitment to farming, it stands to be in the family for many years to come.

After a brief and delicious breakfast of curried flattened rice, ground nuts, onions and curd, it was back to the farm for a walk and a meeting with the workers there.

Chet has fields of chilies, watermelon, tomatoes and cabbage, but the main function of the property where I stayed revolves around sugar cane. The cane is delivered to the farm from the neighboring fields and fed into a press to squeeze out the precious juice. Yes. It is precious. It’s juice from the sugar cane, after all.

They feed the stalks into the press again and again, until all moisture is squeezed out. The juice is transported to a large container that is stirred while it is brought to boil.

The man who does this is in charge of the whole operation. He adds flavoring and color as the mixture boils and even dips his fingers in the boiling goo to test the consistency. He uses a large hoe to continue mixing the sweet, sweet brew and when it’s time, the sluice is pushed over a rectangular space, the drain is unplugged and the liquid flows into a second pool to continue stirring.

This goes on for several minutes until the mixture takes on the consistency of brown sugar. It is then scooped and packed into 10kg containers which will be sold at market.

The photos here were taken at a neighboring operation that Chet and I visited in the afternoon, a little bit larger than the one at the farm where I stayed, but the system is the same.

After enjoying a sample of the caramelized batch, we hopped back on the bike to check out the family’s dairy operation which consists of twelve buffalo on site. They also receive milk from independent farmers in the area, do all the proper testing and then bag the milk into one liter sized pouches to be sold at market.

Because the sun goes down fairly early here in the tropics, we bolted back to the farm to have more rice, bread and vegetables.

Being farther inland than Aurangabad, it was a good 106 degrees at the height of the day. This made for a nice, balmy late evening. So instead of staying inside the farmhouse (otherwise known as the Cement Oven), Chet suggested we spread a huge tarp atop the spent sugar cane husks and sleep under the stars. It may not have taken the shape of Grandma’s feather bed but baby, it was soft as a downy chick.

So ended my first day in Shelgoan.

Okay, so now time is really speeding up. It’s been six days since Shiva plucked me out of the crowd, invited me to sit on his Mattel Matchbox Motorbike and puttered off to the apartment I would call home. Tonight I board another overnight bus, this time to my host’s mother’s ancestral village of Shelgaon, population 150. I’m about to go Deep Rural in India and I can’t wait. My host, Pradnya, has a cousin who is in charge of the family farms there (sugar cane, mango, etc.) and for three days he will be taking me to other villages to meet all the folks there. I’ve been told that the people I’m about to meet have never seen foreigners before. I will therefore be armed with colored pens, hacky sacks and chocolate.

The time in Aurangabad has been good. So very good. When I landed in Mumbai, my friend Rachel was there to be the perfect guide as she walked me around sections of that massive city and I was lucky she was there when jetlag was wreaking havoc on me. Having travelled back and forth to the states for years, she knows the drill. And it was so great to have a friend who knew her way around…so comforting after traveling halfway across the world. Then it was off to the law offices of Pradnya’s father. He and his staff welcomed me with kindness, a place at their table and a big bed for 3 days and 2 nights. And then to Aurangabad. Here I was able to really stretch out, take some time, eat meals with Pradnya and her mother, learn so much about Indian culture, walk around the neighborhood and meet and play games with all the kids in the building where my apartment was. Not to mention, this city is the jumping off point to the centuries-old fort that overlooks the city and, of course, to the Ellora and Ajanta caves.

There are so many vignettes I’ll take with me. Last Saturday night, around 11, I was about to march down the street to get a bottle of water when I hear “Excuse me! Excuse me!” from across the street. It’s a young woman with a group of friends, all dressed up. I point to myself and mouth “me”? And she shouts “Yes! You! Come over here!”

Who could turn that down?

So I crossed the street and was enveloped by the group. They could all speak English well and peppered me with questions. “Who are you?” “Why are you here?” “Where are you from?” “Would you like a beer?” “Give him a beer!” (Was I in heaven?) I was ushered into a large party, where the couple of honor sat at the main table. They were celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary and all those men and women were siblings and cousins.

And everyone was in various states of inebriation. I was seriously thinking about diving deep into party time, but then Shiva, my host’s office boy, came into the crowd, grabbed me by the shoulder and said “Come with me! No alcohol! Very bad for your health. Too hot. Go to sleep.” And then he said something to the group in Hindi that was probably a lecture and that was that. As I boarded the bike, the group rang out “Goodbye!” “Have a nice trip!” “Nice to meet you David!”

Last night I was looking out my third story window at a couple of kids playing cricket in the alley. One kid wound up and pitched the ball and the other kid swung the bat and…drove the ball straight through a window in the building next door. And the kids? They SCATTERED. Same, all over the world.

Even though I’ll be back this weekend, I’m sad at leaving Aurangabad. It turned out to be exactly what I needed as a third leg of my trip. Pradnya has been so kind (along with her mom and Shiva, who lamented tonight that he won’t have anything to do after I leave) and I have truly been made to feel at home. Now it’s off to somewhere else strange and new. I will be picking green chilies before daybreak this Friday with Pradnya’s cousin and then head to the village’s wholesale market to sell them to the highest bidder. And I’ve been told we will be sleeping outside.

I know I’m missing sites and sights that people travel thousands of miles to see. But I am perfectly happy showing a smiling group of children how to properly kick a hacky sack.