spitting seeds at sparrows in munnar

 um, a crow?

 tea time!

 yogis at sunrise valley

 if only sorrel had a mustache too

 tumeric stained cows, uh, not such a novelty in india.

 raw chickpeas and wee chitlens

 something's fishy here!?

 rolling incense sticks the day we were duped...

 cooking class at sheilah's house (peanut chutney) OMG!

 market art

Hello there Amigos!

We sure wish we could post our experiences more often, but lately we have had no time at the old computer for better or worse.  We have been hopping on a lot more trains lately and will be cramming in lots of train travel and old temples and caves and such, as we try and fit it all in and make some progress towards Delhi.  (plan is to be there around the 10th if all goes well and Ann is ready to recieve us!)

The last week has been good to us, as we have tried to soak up a little "vacation" beach time before heading inland.  We secluded ourselves as much as possible by going to a small seasonal beach south of gokarna (south of goa,)  where they build palm thatched huts every october and they are washed away every june monsoon!

The trash situation has always bothered us, but particularly got to us in this isolated place where water bottles are strewn everywhere as well as bits of plastic wrappers and cigarett butts.  I woke up one night with a little inspiration, and within a few days I had built a small water bottle raft!  The best part was all of the interest that the indians had for my project.  I hoped to spark a little bit of interest and ideas by the project.  Perhaps we can turn that trash into a resource...?

Gotta run because it is getting late and Mumbai keeps you up too late anyway! - Tomorrow we head off to Aurangabad to visit the caves of Ellora and Ajanta.

Cheers, -Abel- 

(a poem inspired by the geologically amazing -and confounding-landscape of Hampi).pics to follow soon...

 erosion is an ancient baker woman god.
she grinds the jagged edges and tattered worries of our planet
between her knobby knuckles
pounding,
kneading mountains
i
 n
   t
    o   boulderstonesandsilt

-SQUEEZING-
robust, potato-skin time, in her mighty hands.

she is a laborer
S L O W and deliberate-ly
sifting 15th century stone temples
into
volumes
of holy
dust.

she works best with her 3 teammates
wind, water, and time
disturbing the slumbering echoes of civilizations past. 
yet secretly, baker woman prefers to live alone
forever haunted by old ghosts

and equally ignored by new generations
who rise up from her relics,
green as young banana shoots,
eager to conceal their past in sloppy layers of paint and
CONCRETE.
sprewing fresh betelnut juice constellations
from their mouths.

history stains the cracks in baker woman's hands,
disappearing S L O W L Y, like a lizard into a slant of stone.
and in her big apron pockets,
clank and tumble,
all the things we leave behind.

i'm feeling a bit like inquisitive alice, stumbing into wonderland. this indialand is equally as nonsensical and contradictory, featuring characters like mad-hagglers and cheshire cows. we've had to do a bit of our own monster-slaying and occassionally i find myself wondering whether i am simply dreaming this fantastical world up in my head...

... we arrive in mysore. it's night and the dark streets are perforated by dangling florescent bulbs and fires flickering from the greasy food stalls . the all too familiar sound of two stroke engine's and "hello madam, what do you want?" pervade the air, joining countless other noises. offers of cheap rooms, hash and swarms of rickshaw operators cajoling us into the hotel where the best commission awaits them. it's the tail end of the harvest festival, pongal, and many indians are on holiday, so inevitably our hotel of choice is full. we bump into an isreali girl named heather, who kindly guides us to a cheap, but horribly dirty hotel for the night. some grime is to be expected here, of course, and nearly everything is tolerable for one night. that said, we are realizing how a few dollars can go a long way in ensuring some basic comforts in the india hotel scene, like clean (sans crusty food or greasy hair stains) sheets and functioning faucets. 

in the morning we relocate into an old colonial-style building with the bright rooms, antique wooden furniture and great rooftop. a jovial 63 yr. old man, who has perfected the art of sliding down the wooden railings in his 20 yrs. of employment at dasaprakash hotel, shows us to our new room. we shed our bags and journey out into the town of mysore proper. navigating the congested alleyways, we enjoy the architectural delights and decaying buildings, and street vendors laden with fresh flowers, and plastic trinkets to sell.

we "casually" bump into a friendly indian fellow who fills our heads with visions of sandawood oil, incense, kum kum powder, and exotic spices. we are swiftly redirected down a narrow street (most of mysore's streets are narrow), past tumeric-yellow stained cows with brilliant red horns (heavily grazing on discarded onion skins), and small school children in starched blue and white uniforms huddled around raw chickpea bundles-piled high on the back of a vendor's bicycle, and into the dimly lit belly of an incense and oil shop. here we meet a woman, sitting cross legged on the cement floor in her sari, rolling incense sticks between her tiny stained hands. the room is perfumed by almond oil and sandalwood. we learn that this little woman singlehandedly rolls out 6-8 thousand bamboo sticks of incense in an 8 hour day, earning 80rps ( less than $2/day). she invites me to sit down across from her and roll a few of my own. the damp charcoal paste feels cool against my hands as i give my bamboo stick a whirl. i am quite pokey compared to her. yet, she smiles approvingly, and the muslim shop owner offers me a job. hmmmm, tempting offer. might have to negotiate the salary and working conditions.

 i wash the black paste from my hands. we are swiftly shuffled into an adjascent room and seated beside a fragrant coctail of oils housed in glass french perfume bottles (the kind my grandma mary displayed on a tray in her upstairs bathroom). the shop owner, a muslim muscle-man-body-builder (true story), the proud beholder of the title "Mr. India," proceeds to apply dabs of sweet, musky, and anesthetic oil to our fingers, wrists, and forearms. a tray of chai is delivered to satiate. followed by a nicely laminated, fixed pricing sheet. but of course. undoubtedly, we were totally duped by the mad-hagglers from the beginning! we can connect the dots back to our first "casual" encounter with the friendly con man in the street, cleary recalling the moment when we fell down their rabbit hole.

although getting swindled feels pretty crappy, like we are merely a pawn in their game. most scams we've encountered are not so injurous (like getting charged an extra 5rps for bananas or getting smeared with holy powder at a shrine or temple for 10rps). and our incense and oil adventure involved a really cool experience and some crazy characters! just another adventure in the motherland.

hey friends!

 it's funny how michael jackson's music finds its way into every corner of the globe. i can't help but wiggle my body to the beat. i'm enjoying the good tunes from an internet cafe in Kalpetta. the prayers from a nearby mosque filter into the space between the music. these prayers, resembling long winded throaty moans, begin at 5:30am. they are god's wake up call from humanity. not even god gets to sleep in around here.