India, Sri Lanka & Kenya Travelogue
These entries were written at internet cafes from around the world.  They appear here as originally written.

Table of Contents

Entry #1 - "Greetings from India"
Entry #2 - "Sir Lee in Sri Lanka"
Entry #3 - "Mr. Canada leaves Colombo"
Entry #4 - "Wayanad Wanderings"
Entry #5 - "43 days gone, 43 days to go..."
Entry #6 - "Taxi touts, tourist angels, and intestinal parasites, oh my!"
Entry #7 - "I Dreamed of Cheetahs"

Entry #5 - "43 days gone, 43 days to go..."
June 18, 2006, 8:00 PM
Palolem, Goa, India

Greetings from Goa,

Tanya and I have rooted ourselves in an idyllic bay for the past two days, blessed with blue skies and sun shimmering on the ocean waves. Someone once told me they envision God as the glimmers of sunrays reflecting off rippling water. Sitting outside our beach cottage, watching the wave tips turn white as they gently crash onto the shore, I can see why they made that connection.

I'm reminded of the weather worries expressed to me on countless occasions, by each and every person to whom I mentioned summer was the time I would travel to India. Monsoons! Rain! Sizzling temperatures! Yet the climate has been nothing but cooperative. Of course, twenty-six days still remain for us to be swept away by floods or erupt in spontaneous combustion brought on by 45+ degree Celsius heat. Even so, if the worst of the weather is yet to come, it has been outweighed by travelling in low season, where prices are even more reasonable than usual (meaning there's less need to haggle), and moreso because the crowds are fewer, or as few as they can be in a country holding a billion souls. Here in Palolem, 3000 people populate this small bay during the busiest months. A nightmarish vision, that. Right now, there are perhaps a few dozen tourists at most, and the peace and quiet that offers cannot be attached to a price. As I write this email, dark clouds are rolling in and lightning intermittently brightens the sky, so there is time yet for me to eat my words.

While visiting the vast city of Bangalore for a day we caught a screening of The Da Vinci Code, Tanya and I having both read the book this past month. I dare not comment on the subject matter, not wanting to venture into religious waters in a group email, though I've lost count of how many Indians have likened me to Jesus. Today a group of Indians came up to me, pointing and saying "The Da Vinci Code" and "Jesus Christ", even requesting to take a picture while standing by my side to which I indifferently obliged. It's a little disconcerting, though mostly good for a laugh when it occurs. In regards to the film, like most Ron Howard directed features, I found it to be competent but nothing more. (The one exception perhaps being Apollo 13, a rare example of an instance where I preferred the movie over the book.)

From Bangalore to Goa was a 15-hour marathon of travel via rail and bus. The first half of that was a train ride to Hubli, where we caught an autorickshaw to the bus stand. Not one, but two separate drivers told us there were no buses from the old bus stand, so we had to go to the new bus stand (several further kilometers away, and 25 more rupees). Upon arrival, we found a uniformed man who confirmed there was a bus at 3pm to Goa. We had lunch, where we bore witness to a young waiter, no more than thirteen and perhaps quite a bit younger, who was reprimanded with a harsh beating. By his father, or manager, I don't know, but the rest of the young employees gathered around to watch the violent kicking and punching, their eyes straying away from the unusual appearance of Tanya and I for the first time since our entrance. The boy's treatment was nothing short of atrocious, and no wrong he had done could justify such extreme physical abuse. In Canada, I would have no choice but to loudly object and put a stop to this act, but here I knew my interfering would only worsen matters, and perhaps land me in troubled waters. A few minutes later some officers arrived, one carrying a long rifle, and for a second I had the hopeful idea that they were here to right the wrong that had been committed. Alas, they were simply transporting chained convicts, who sat directly across from us, making little effort to hide their stares.

Back to the bus stand. We wandered around 2:30 to the proper platform, only to be told there was no bus to Goa until 10 at night. Dejected, Tanya and I crashed onto a nearby bench, and I pulled out a map, hoping to find another route. A place called Karwar looked promising, not requiring much of an extra journey, so I asked the station manager if that was possible. "Karwar?" he said. "Yes, this bus right here." And he pointed at the bus closest to us. I asked what time it left, to which he replied "two-thirty". Tanya and I scurried on, finding a seat near the front (much to my stomach's happiness) and were on our way. I mentioned that the rickshaw drivers had told us there were no buses from the old bus stand, which was much closer to the railway station. Low and behold, the first stop this bus went to was the old bus station, which was far busier. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as the bus filled to capacity right then, the driver's lie ensuring we got a good seat (and separating us from another 25 rupees, but well worth it, as this time my lunch continued in the proper direction of my digestive tract).

If one is wanting to explore spirituality, India is a prime place to go. Temples, churches and mosques are on every corner, and every Indian we've met has been a devout follower of one religion or another. I've been pondering my own spirituality, and how exactly to define it. Nature is certainly a big piece, for nowhere else do I feel more connected to the world then when surrounded by an intricate ecosystem of living beings. Writing, I think, is also very spiritual for me. One theme that has perhaps surfaced most often in my stories is finding something profound in the simplest of things. An author expert in the use of language can turn something mundane, something you've seen a thousand times every day of your life, into something animated and deep with wonder. Having awe for the simple is what I connect with most. Imagery can stir the imagination in indescribable ways. I won't attempt to give an example here and now in the haste brought on by being in an internet cafe.

Our trip is at its halfway point. Perhaps I've become habituated to constant travel, or perhaps it is in knowing the home stretch was swiftly nearing, but I haven't felt homesick the past two weeks. Africa is coming soon, a prospect far too exciting to allow me any fanciful thoughts of returning early.

Cheers,
Lee

Entry #6 - "Taxi touts, tourist angels, and intestinal parasites, oh my!"
June 30, 2006, 7:54 PM
Old Manali, Kullu Valley, India

Part One - Mumbai and the Two Terrible Taxi Touts

Since Goa, life has taken a turn for the hectic. After an overnight sleeper train (on which there was little sleep to be had) we arrived in northern Mumbai (aka Bombay). Not long after disembarking we were spotted by a very friendly fellow, who guided us to his taxi with a driver. We inquired about the price and distance to the hotel we wanted to stay at, and decided to go with him, being persuaded by our fatigue, despite the quote being a little too high. Three hotels later, none of which we had wanted to go to (with the meter running like mad the whole time) we decided enough was enough. We took the overpriced hotel and while Tanya registered I paid the two taxi drivers.

They seemed keen to leave, and although I was reluctant to handle money without Tanya present, I relented. I remember pulling out two bills: a 500 rupee, and a 100. The two drivers were sitting in the taxi as I handed them the money. I'm certain his hand never left my eye, and almost instantly he returned the bills to me, opening his palm to reveal two 100s. I *knew* I had taken out a 500, so I searched my pockets. It wasn't there. I searched the ground. It wasn't there. A hotel employee came out and asked me if everything was all right. Not thinking clearly, I said it was. The driver told me he had seen me take out a 100. Being the trusting fellow I am, and further convinced by my exhaustion, I believed him. After giving a fresh 600, the hotel bellboy told me in the room that the man had cheated me, switching the bills right before my eyes.

In retrospect, four hundred rupees isn't that much, a little over $10 Canadian. But the injustice is what stung. On the plus side, I'm going to use this incident as a scene in my novel. I wouldn't put it past them to ask for royalties...

Later that day, we ran into a number of very friendly Mumbains. One kindly directed us to the correct train, fought to hold seats for us, told us which stop we had to get off at, and gave us his address and number if we needed any further help in the future. There are many helpful, benevolent people who we have come across in our travels. The touts are certainly in the minority, foxes treating us like chickens outside the coop. Though after being helped on that same train, during the mad scramble to get off Tanya was groped by an entirely unsavoury and anonymous fellow, the most likely candidate a middle-aged man with a briefcase. But he disappeared into the crowd faster than a fox with a kill.

 

Part Two - Chandigarh and the Tourist Angel

Arriving in Chandigarh, Tanya and I were both understandably wary of any further "help" being offered. As soon as we stepped off the bus a group of rickshaw drivers descended like vultures. We did our best to ignore them, trying to find our way to the hotel recommended by Lonely Planet. An older man intervened, asking what we needed, and where we wanted to go. The rickshaw drivers looked distressed by his arrival, which we took as a positive sign. He offered to show us the way, and said he didn't want any money. We've heard that one before, but this fellow had a gentle aura about him, an honesty in his eyes that couldn't be falsified.

As it turns out, Narinder Singh is known as the Tourist Angel. As a hobby, he spends his time helping foreigners avoid touts. At 70, he's been doing this for nearly 50 years, a convincing testament to goodwill. He found us a huge room for 200 rupees, and we had dinner for a mere 50, less than one-fourth our usual cost. Narinder also took us to a Sikh temple, where he partook in a twenty-minute vehement argument with the president about whether or not Tanya and I should be allowed entry. We huddled in the corner, not wanting to cause a fuss, Tanya trying not to chuckle at my pink and gold headgear serving as a turban, but ultimately Narinder succeeded and we were shown around the holy site. Yet the most vivid memory I have from that day is the raised voices and angrily flailing arms of Narinder and the President (a previous foreigner had tried to bribe someone in the temple for a room, hence the president's suspicion).

 

Part Three - Manali and the Denizens of the Duodenum

After a hop by train to Mumbai, a skip by plane to Delhi, and a jump by bus to the Kullu Valley, we arrived in Manali, exhausted by nearly a week of constant travel and staying in a different hotel every night. There to greet us was Lobsang Chojor. For twenty years my parents have sponsored him, initially through the Save the World fund and then privately, since they don't allow sponsorship when the sponsored child becomes an adult. Lobsang is a Tibetan refugee, having come to India when he was ten. He hasn't seen his father since then. Lobsang doesn't dare return, for fear he may not be able to come back to India and his wife and two daughters. His father, alternatively, has tried for two decades to obtain a visa to visit his son and granddaughters. This winter, they are hopeful for a family reunion. But permission is still pending. When a grandfather can't see his first or second generation family, "Free Tibet" takes on a very personal meaning. Happily, I got to meet my foster brother and his wife and two girls, and the kindness he showed Tanya and I was heartfelt and sincere.

Tanya and I have both had times on our trip where we've felt unwell. Luckily, we have alternated these minor ailments, so one of us has always been healthy and able to take care of the other. Unfortunately, we recently broke that trend, and chose the worst time to do it. After two days of waking with an intense fever, my head feeling on fire even after a (all too common) cold shower, Tanya convinced me to see a doctor. The main hospital had crowds of people waiting outside, so we went to a private clinic. A few hours and a blood and stool test later, I learned I had some lovely parasites in my small intestine, specifically Giardia lamblia. Tanya got tested shortly thereafter to find out the same. Thankfully, the antibiotics prescribed appear to be helping, my symptoms today limited to general fatigue and overactive bowels. All told, the visit, blood and stool test, and three medications cost under $10 Canadian. Reasonable, woudn't you say? We were in Manali for nine days, and an unusually high proportion of that time was spent either on or over the toilet. The Himalayas were visible from our hotel room, looking like a continuous peak stretching interminably east and west. Although we didn't have the energy for a trek, just being in their presence was humbling in itself.

 

Entry #6b
July 5, 2006, 2:16 pm
Delhi, India

After a nearly twenty hour bus ride, we are here in Delhi, preparing to fly to Patna, where we will catch a bus or train to Bohdgaya, the most important Buddhist site in the world. There, under the bodhi tree, the Buddha attained enlightenment. We have seen this same tree in Sri Lanka, grown from a cutting of the appropriately named Ficus religiosa. Soon we'll be in the original location of the bodhi.

Then, off to Africa.

Until next time,
Lee

Entry #7 - "I Dreamed of Cheetahs"
August 15, 2006, 9:16 AM
San Diego, California, USA

Sitting here in San Diego, life seems a blur. I’m here for the Writers of the Future workshop and awards ceremony, yet just a few weeks ago I was on safari in Kenya. The agenda? Half a dozen national parks, four lakes, the great wildebeest migration, and the two highest mountains in Africa: Mount Kenya and Kilimanjaro. The goal? To see as much wildlife as possible. The real goal? To see a cheetah in the wild.

Dreams are interesting entities. Often flights of fancy that seem unattainable upon first consideration. They can drive people to great heights, give hope to the hopeless, or make the unimaginable real. Whether they are attained is a balance between the unlikelihood of the possibility, and the determination of the dreamer. My dreams don’t usually include lofty visions of riches, fame or fortune. Though I can’t help but feel so utterly blessed at my good fortune this summer. To travel across the globe and experience the experiences I have, I was perfectly content without spotting a spotted sphinx. Or so I told myself. Cheetahs have fascinated me since childhood, and being on the African plains in their presence is a dream I have carried perhaps longer than any other. The mix of thrilling anticipation of coming across Acinonyx jubatus and the dreadful possibility of not doing so was almost too much to bear.

Having conquered Africa’s two highest peaks (not by climbing them, but by getting to see them clearly without clouds enveloping their snow-topped pinnacles, a rarer event than you might think), Tanya and I were off to Samburu national park, north-east of Nairobi. This particular park was chosen by myself for its renowned cheetah density. Our driver, an interesting and knowledgeable fellow who never failed to smell of booze, tempered my enthusiasm by informing me nothing was guaranteed. After an agonizing drive over a road bumpier than a crocodile’s skin, and setting up camp next to “Baboon Forest” (from which one of its inhabitants emerged later on to send our dinner table, complete with cutlery and food, flying just before we sat down to eat) we set off for a late afternoon game drive. We started north of the river, on a quiet and peaceful path next to the water. Something came over the radio in Swahili, and our driver gunned the engine, taking turns on the park roads in the safari van as though he were in the Indy 500.

The radio turned out to be invaluable, the other drivers informing each other of the game animals they had seen, and when something particularly exciting was spotted they would all coordinate and converge on the site. Based on our breakneck speed and sudden change of course, our driver had obviously received a hot tip. He would never tell us what was said on the radio, allowing Tanya and myself to eagerly imagine the untold wonders that lay ahead as we gripped the top of the safari van, desperately trying to stay standing. We got south of the river and joined a caravan of vehicles, all with binoculars and cameras at the ready, the rifles of the twenty-first century. I struggled to see what they were all seeing. Our driver still didn’t reveal what lay some fifty feet away.

Tanya and I scanned the surroundings, following the pointing fingers and the direction of the lenses. I overheard “cheetah” spoken more than once and my disbelieving ears soon matched my disbelieving eyes. The speed of our driver somehow seemed appropriate, as there in the shade of bush lay the fastest mammal of all. Here was my first cheetah. One by one the other vehicles left. Our driver kept asking if we were ready to go, to which I always answered “No.” Even though the great cat was in the distance, and he wasn’t doing much besides napping, and most of the time his head was completely hidden, I was still in awe. To the driver, perhaps an everyday event. To me, this vision had been played countless times in my head. But to experience it in person was like swimming in the ocean instead of seeing a picture of the Pacific in a brochure. Finally I relented and we moved on. The day felt like a success. Elephants, giraffes, buffalo…they just didn’t compare to this elegant feline form…that happened to be just barely visible.

Another vehicle passed us by, and the drivers stopped to briefly chat, as they did more often than not. The three people standing in the back wore huge smiles on their faces. The surrounding savannah was enough to keep me grinning from dawn to dusk, but then they informed Tanya and I of what they had just seen. It sounded too good to be true, yet five minutes later our driver had made the unimaginable real. Four cheetahs—a mother and three adolescent cubs—were lying just beside the road next to a large male impala they had recently killed.

Needless to say, we stayed there until the park closed.

Now, sitting in the hotel room in San Diego, everything feels more surreal than ever. Fortunately Tanya and I have 3700 photos from our trip to remind me that it wasn’t all just a dream. Or rather that it was, but one that became very real. On Friday my novella will be published in volume 22 of Writers of the Future. It seems I will have to come up with new dreams. But one thing is for certain: they will be many, and I will be as determined as ever to make them real.

Lee

See more photos from the trip

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