I just uploaded six new locations to The Gallery, bringing it up to Mumbai. Don’t forget to look for page two in the gallery, which shows the last three locations. At the moment I have things set so that only 15 sub-galleries show per page and I’ve hit my limit.

The sketchbook section now includes Tibet.

You can read all about how I spent the first few days of 2007 (falling face first off a jeep) in the new Mt. Abu post here.

I’m starting to feel a bit of pressure, now that I have plans. For those of you keeping track, I have a flight from Mumbai to Amman, Jordan on February 20th. Right after buying the norefundable ticket some space opened up at a yoga ashram in the South near Thrivandrum so I’ve had to cancel out a few of the East coast temples in favor of “yoga vacation.”

I’ve already swung around the Southernmost tip of India and am now in Madurai, staring at a pretty awe-inspiring temple. This is what I think of when I think of Indian temple architecture! I sign in for yoga vacation on the 31st and after I leave plan only a few days for Bangalore (movies… shopping!) and Mysore before taking the 24 hour train to mumbai for my flight.

I think I may have been in India too long. I almost changed my dinner plans tonight because I knew that The Office would be on tonight. It’s pretty bad when I’ve memorized pertinent parts of India’s weekly TV schedule.

While checking email here in Alleppey, Kerala I’ve just learned that The Chicago Bears are going to be in The Super Bowl.

I remember the last one well… It was 1985/86 and I was in elementary school. Walter Payton was our hero, leading a pack of characters including “The Fridge” and “The Punky QB.” We went to my uncle’s house for the first of what would be many Super Bowl parties. I’m not a football fan, and it was probably the first football game I’d ever seen but I could tell it was something really important.

Since then the Super Bowl parties have become a tradition in my family—a celebration eclipsing Easter. I’ve always thought it was funny that The Super Bowl is celebrated by my Catholic family and not Easter, but that goes to show you just how important the 1985 Bears win was in my family and all over Chicago. The only sporting event that could possibly eclipse this is a Cubs World Series appearance.

I still own an original VHS copy of The Super Bowl Shuffle.

So, what am I to do when I am supposed to be at a yoga retreat in Southern India for two weeks starting Janurary 31st? I don’t even like football. But this isn’t just football, it’s The Bears. Some of you might not understand what the problem is, and maybe it’s only something a Chicagoan can understand. But somehow I feel it’s my responsibility to watch this game.

Once I decided to give up potatoes as a way to lose weight. My mom wouldn’t let me because it would be against my Irish heritage. Not watching The Bears in The Super Bowl is like giving up potatoes for me. It’s just wrong.

I’ve been getting a handful of bounce-back messages from subscribers, so I hope no one’s missing out. For those non-subscribers, I’ve post-dated a post about New Year’s in it’s appropriate place here. The gallery has been gradually being updated while I’ve been in India and I have photos up through Christmas in the Thar Desert. When you have some time to spare take a look.

As you can see here India’s map is up to date as of today. I will work on my expenses for the rest of Nepal and India to date this week. I just sent a package home, so I took new souvenir and sketchbook photos which will be coming online soon as well.

I’ve come to terms that some posts that I’ve saved photos out for may never see the light of day. However, the photos will be coming online, there’s some that are too good to leave behind. Don’t you worry, Tajikistan and Tibet were both started long ago and it’s just a matter of sitting down and finishing. The Tajik post includes the infamous “eyebrow dyeing” photo that’s been requested so much. Sometimes the most interesting places are hardest to put into words. Both needed some time for me to reflect before I could write about them.

Tomorrow morning I’m heading down to the Southern beaches of Goa for a vacation from my vacation. Vacation for me actually means making time for computer-stuff like sorting photos and writing blog entries. Tonight at dinner my waiter gave me a hard time for reading a book. He told me that I shouldn’t be reading on my vacation. The truth is, I don’t have time to read when I’m not on vacation and reading and sketching is one of the best parts of the travel lifestyle for me.

I am still soliciting any advice on Africa, including Egypt and Jordan, for my next leg. You guys know what I like, so let me know if there’s somewhere I just can’t miss. As for animals, giraffes, zebras and hippos are my top 3 so the big cats will just be a plus.

At the moment it’s looking likely that I will fly from Mumbai to Amman, Jordan in February. I’ve been quoted around $265 for the one-way fare, not bad. From there I will head to Egypt and then either fly or overland South. It figures that Bush would pre-bomb the areas on my itinerary. He’s always ruining my vacations with his “war on terror.” Doesn’t he realize that “the axis of evil” has the most interesting sites to see?

On my first day in Mumbai I spent two hours looking for a hotel. I was only promised two days at the YWCA—surprisingly, the nicest affordable hotel around. Today I spent more than an hour looking for a new hotel but no one would confirm that they would have rooms so I have to shop up sometime between 9 and 12 tomorrow and hope for the best. It’s hard to sight see when I spent a few hours every day dealing with hotels.

On the way to the internet cafe tonight my friend had her butt grabed twice and another man grabbed my boob. Granted, my boobs tend to get in the way due to their size, but after the two butt-grabbings I am not giving the guy the benefit of the doubt. Ironically, we were discussing the case of the woman who had her entire skirt torn off in the middle of a crowd on New Year’s Eve. Many people seem to think it’s not a big deal and the girl “should have known better” than to go to a public event at a landmark with her boyfriend. This is the mentality I’m dealing with every day here.

Sexually repressed Indian mean aside, Mumbai has a really nice feel to it. I’m staying four nights before heading downto Goa for some R&R.

The capital of Gujarat, Ahmedabad, doesn’t attract many tourists. Sure, there’s some mosques, a few shaking minarets and crumbling city gates but the main attraction is it’s textile museum. Having recently completed a textile design class before leaving on this trip, I naturally wanted to stop in the city for a look around.

At first glance the city is just a sprawling mess of rickshaws and pollution on either side of a wide river. But after a few days I realized that everyone I met was kind and no one tried to cheat me or lie to me. I’m not sure if it’s because the city hasn’t been overrun with tourists or because alcohol is outlawed in the province. One of the drawbacks of less tourists is less tourist-friendly shops and restaurants. It took me a while to find a reasonably clean dive to eat at near my hotel, and even then it had a tree growing in the middle and the floor was littered with tombs. When I took a picture of the tombs under diner’s feet the owner reprimanded me. I thought building a restaurant over a large number of tombs (and painting them bright green) was a little more offensive than me taking a photo of them!

I ventured out to the textile museum on my first day in town to make sure I had enough time. Most rickshaw drivers don’t speak English and none seemed to know where the museum was. It took a crowd of Indian men to decipher my directions and map and even then we spent about 15 minutes driving around lost. When I arrived a small crowd of foreigners were gathered in the entrance. Someone explained that for some reason only a certain number of people were being allowed in that day and it was already full. I looked around at my competition plotting my next move when the couple I spoke to ushered me over. There was one more spot and I squeezed in.

Although open to the public, it’s a private museum, with more rules than usual. Every one had to join the tour and we were only allowed a few minutes in each room. I was dismayed at first, trying to take it all in. The rooms were arranged by region and style which really reflected the differences in cultures across India. When the curator promised we’d have time to come back and take another look I relaxed and tried to get an overview instead of focusing on the details. Another building housed showcases on technique and materials, which I found interesting as well.

When the tour was over a few of us asked to have more time but the curator changed her tune. She told me that I would have to call ahead and make an appointment with a specific request for the one room I’d like to see. What a shame. The museum was wonderful but I saw so little of it that I felt really disappointed. Seeing the techniques also made me realize I should have planned some time to explore the Northern Gujarat Province where so many of the interesting textiles were produced.

I found an eager rickshaw driver outside to take me across the river to a Western-style restaurant. On the way we passed by a McDonalds and I quickly yelled “bas-bas!” for him to stop. Upon eating my McChicken Burger my stomach immediately calmed and I felt more like myself than I had in weeks. I made conversation with an older man who desperately wanted to move to America and we started talking with a younger girl next to us named Shraddha. I asked the man to ask her how much Indian women pay to have mendhi (henna) designs on their hands. I had been quoted some ridiculous prices in Rajastan and wanted to know the “real” price. The girl excitedly told us that she was great at mendhi and would do it for free.

She seemed sincere and was suddenly on her Motorola Razor phone bragging to her friends about her new American friend. I decided to go ahead, knowing that although it might take up a lot of my time it was my best chance to see real Indian girls hanging out together. After some back and forth Shraddha’s friend, Dippal, showed up and we headed out to grab a rickshaw to one of their houses. The ride took 45 minutes with stops by the market to pick up the henna and another to pick up an english-speaking girlfriend named Anny.

Dippal’s house was on the outskirts of town on the third floor of a cement apartment block. I struggled up the stairs, my knee still unbendable from the fall in Mt. Abu. The apartment was only a few rooms with little furniture or clutter. Dippal’s’ mom looked at me in horror because not only did she have her house dress on, but she was also wearing a blue facial mask when we stormed in. I drank the glass of tap water provided, deciding that it was better to have stomach problems than insult such nice people. We looked through the books of designs Dippal had while her mother worked on preparing the henna. I picked out a design with peacocks in it, which she assured me wasn’t too difficult. Although I wanted both hands to match Shraddha decided to draw a floral design on my other hand instead.

The process took over an hour with the two girls working on different arms while Anny and Dippal’s mother and brother looked on. Dippal’s grandma slept on the couch the entire time, taking no notice of the strange foreigner in her living room. I thanked everyone profusely, which made them mad because “friends never have to say thank you” and we were now “best friends forever.” After some tea and a few posed photos we waved goodbye and walked down to the main road to find a rickshaw back to town. I was perfectly happy to go by myself, especially since I knew they wouldn’t let me pay for anything. But Indian women never travel alone and it was clear that I was going to have a few girls accompanying me back to my hotel.

As we walked the group changed directions and before I knew it we were heading into a portrait studio. But then, just as suddenly, Dippal took off running down the road and her brother soon followed. I looked at the others and they were as confused as I was. Shraddha took off after them to see what was going on and we saw that Dippal’s mom was with them. It turned out that when waving goodbye from her balcony she thought she saw me get into a rickshaw by myself. And that’s why she ran down three flights of stairs and down a busy street in her housecoat.

Everyone settled down and we stepped into the portrait studio where I was, once again, seated in the middle of the group for a photo. I felt really silly sitting with everyone around me like I was the head of the household. The flash used rendered me as white as possible and everyone was happy with the results. I managed to convince them to let me pay for the pictures (which cost less than the first rickshaw ride to Dippal’s house) as my gift to them.

Anny and Shraddha rode with me back to town and asked to meet my friend. Although I usually tell people I’m traveling alone, they were worried about me and I happened to be traveling with Sui at the time to I mentioned her to them so they wouldn’t worry so much. I gave them a tour of the hotel, with my backpack and clothes thrown about the room and I introduced my new best friends to Sui. They had wanted to go out for dinner but I begged off, mostly because I didn’t want them to pay for me any more and the expensive Western food I needed to calm my stomach would have been expensive for them. This day was more than free mendhi—it was a chance to experience “real India” and get out of the tourist bubble that most of us travelers find ourselves in.

January 1st, 2007 I woke up to my alarm with an uneasy stomach and rushed to meet Sui for the bus ride to Mt. Abu. My first meal of the year was a spicy samosa wrapped in old newspaper from a street vendor—not the best thing on an upset stomach but the cleanest-looking option at the time. The bus ride took most of the day, two hours longer than we had been told. The woman sitting in the aisle next to me only started throwing up halfway through so we were able to breathe freely most of the morning. Everyone visiting Mt. Abu is required to pay ten rupees at the entrance. The man who took my money tried to pocket fifty rupees of my change. It’s tiring dealing with such petty things every day when you’re on the road.

Rickshaws (motor and cycle) are banned from town which makes walking around a lot easier and probably safer. The town isn’t very big, but most people don’t want to carry their luggage so the locals have improvised with very short blue metal carts. They resemble a riding lawnmower’s cart in size but function like a grocery cart with a bar at one end for pushing. Most have boards across either end for sitting but because of the dimensions, anyone riding in a blue cart looks ridiculous. I saw a family of four sitting on the boards with their feet around their ears while a frail old main pushed them uphill much slower than they could have walked. Sui and I teamed up with a couple from Brazil and wandered around, carrying our own luggage, finally finding the right street leading up to our hotel.

By this time my stomach was showing it’s anger toward the spicy samosa and I spent the rest of the night laying around and watching cable in my room. Some of the fine entertainment that night included Walking Tall staring “The Rock” and Soccer Dog: European Cup staring a dog named Kibbles and multiple jokes about haggis.

Mt. Abu isn’t as well known to foreign tourists but it’s a popular homeymoon spot for Indians. This meant that we were left peacefully alone by all the touts, who focused their attention on all the Indians looking to blow some cash. Sui and I left the next morning for the Dilwara Temples, meant to be the most intricately carved marble temples in India. It took us about 15 minutes to find where the shared jeeps left from and when we finally found a ride I jumped in the back. Sui headed for the front and when I saw the man in front of me surrounded by cigarette smoke I jumped out to get into the front with Sui.

Only, rather than stepping on the small step at the back I missed it completely and landed flat on my face on the asphalt. I felt like I was in slow motion during the fall, thinking “no, not my face!” but I didn’t even have time to put my hands down. I touched my face and pulled my hand back covered in blood. Looking up, I saw that I was quickly surrounded by Indian men staring down in shock. Sui confirmed that my teeth were still there and the blood was coming from my lip.

My knees apparently took some of the fall and were swollen and streaked with blood and quickly bruising. After a minute sitting on the step of the jeep I composed myself and contorted my body into the back for the ride to the temple. In retrospect, I probably should have gone back to the hotel and cleaned the dirt and stones off my face but I just wanted to get to the temples and finish my sightseeing in Mt. Abu as soon as possible.

The Dilwara Temples were built by Jains starting in 1031. From the outside they look plain, like whitewashed concrete, but the interior is floor to ceiling marble. The complex has five temples, but the three most impressive were completely covered in intricate marble carving. The temples generally consist of a large square courtyard with a six foot wide covered walkway around the edges from which small shrines behind doors or rows of seated statues protrude toward the exterior walls. The rest of the courtyard is filled with pillars surrounding a large central shrine which towers over the surrounding structure. The shrine contains a main alter facing the door with a marble or metal sculpture of a deity. Often smaller diety sculptures are found on the other three sides of the shrine, but most people spend their time (and money) on the main figure.

The Jains are a minority in India, but have historically been good businessmen and are often wealthy. Having a wealthy following certainly helps when you want to built temples like these. Every surface of the walls, pillars and ceiling has been carved into detailed floral and geometric designs. While I walked around, staring up at each unique ceiling panel I couldn’t help but think “these would make beautiful tattoos.” Some battle scenes could be seen around the walls and many pillars housed figures of women, hunters or animals posed in-between the tendrils of the pillar’s design.

One of the temples was spotted with mismatched bamboo scaffolding where workers were cleaning and polishing the marble. These newly cleaned surfaces glowed and were a reminder that much of the marble I’ve seen in India could use a good scrub. I was sure my lip’s swelling was going down but an Indian tourist offered me chapstick with a worried expression on her face. I declined, but gave my face an extra dab with a wet tissue to dislodge some of the remaining dirt.

Unfortunately, no photography was allowed anywhere near the temples so I have no evidence of the beautiful surfaces to show. However, a search online, produces some photos. On the way out I bought a typically substandard pack of postcards with a few details as a reminder. After the temples we stopped at our favorite Indian coffee chain, Cafe Coffee Day, for a “Tropical Iceberg’ and a break from India. Sometime I just need to sit in a quiet, clean place that reminds me of the orderliness of home.

Mt. Abu is known as a romantic spot with a lake surrounded by mountains and georgeous sunsets. Neither Sui or I was particularly moved by the garbage strewn lake or hazy, outlook but we both had a good time watching the Indians making the best of their “clean” air and water. On the way uphill to Sunset Point we walked alongside groups of schoolchildren, single men, couples and families buying corn on the cob rubbed with lemon, peanuts and winter hats. At the top a huge crowd of Indians gathered on three concrete platforms, taking photos into the fading sun and gawking at our foreigness.

Once the last edge of the sun shifted out of sight the crowd began to push it’s way down the mountain any way possible. Some people hired silly blue carts, others rented brown and white horses and galloped wildly through the crowd of pedestrians. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, enjoying their holiday and not worried that they might be run over by an out of control push cart. Injuries and Indian tourists aside, I was glad I had made the detour to Mt. Abu. The temples there were some of the most beautiful I have seen in all my travels.

Big events like New Year’s Eve are always hard for me. I usually like sitting back and observing what’s going on around me but days like these require one to actively seek out a good time. I sent Sui, the woman I’ve been meeting up with on and off since Tibet, out into Udaipur to find something for us to do on New Year’s Eve. She booked a sit down dinner with a cultural show that sounded laid back and easy.

But nothing’s easy in India. Earlier that day Sui and I shared a taxi to tour the amazing temple at Ranakpur and Kumbalgarh Fort. By the time we returned to town at 7:30 we rushed to wipe off the road dirt hustled over to the hotel where we would be spending our evening. Because she is even more particular than me, Sui had asked how many people would be there (120), what time is started (8pm), what time dinner would be served (9pm) and so on.

Expecting a nice evening, we walked into the hotel at 8pm to a room with 30 chairs arranged in a square where three elderly Indian men slumped over sleeping. A glance to our left showed that the dining room was set for a small number of guests. In her typical fashion Sui began to question the manager.

Why wasn’t anyone there? Apparently the show started at 8:30, not 8. We pointed at the poster on the wall with the events and “8pm” neatly written. The manager just shrugged and smiled.

Okay then, how many people were coming? Thirty seven. What happened to 120? We were met with a blank stare. Sui asked to see the guest list and it became clear that she was the first person to sign up the day before, when she had been told that 120 people had already signed up. And fifteen of the people were a group themselves, which didn’t leave much chance for conversation.

And dinner? Maybe 9:30. We were starving.

After a short discussion and a sizing up of their bar we decided that we didn’t want to sit through a cultural show. Surprisingly, the manager handed over Sui’s 100 rupee deposit without one complaint and we set off into Udaipur to find food and a restaurant that was open past 10pm.

We stopped into a fancy hotel, hoping to splurge on a nice meal. After climbing five flights of stairs we were met with a beautiful rooftop with white terraces covered in ivy and twinkling lights surrounding a small swimming pool. The set up was beautiful and the buffet looked delicious but it turned out to be a 1500 rupee set menu for the evening, not including drinks. That’s close to $40! With longing glances we walked back to the ground floor to find something a little more reasonable. Although that’s a great price for an event back home or a splurge on a short vacation it’s not something that fits into a seven month trip’s budget.

We settled on dinner on the rooftop of a hotel I had seen during my two hour hotel room search when I arrived in town. Most of the hotels here are over six stories, although very narrow, with rooftop restaurants. The day before the management had assured me that they would be open for New Year’s—”No event, but just a relaxed atmosphere.” Tonight the same man told me they would only be open until 10pm.

All around us were flashing lights and pounding music. We just wanted a place where we could get a drink and relax. Down the road we thought we found a good place and headed up to the roof. We must have made our decision during a programming break because once we opened the door we were assaulted by loud traditional drumming. Out of options with 10pm approaching, the manager agreed to let us in for a beer without paying for the “event” which included dinner and the show for 400 rupees.

Many restaurants in India don’t have liquor licenses so they serve their beer in teapots and cups. I was served my beer in a gorilla mug. The music was blaring and after half an Indian dance and one music number featuring a man with a funny mustache hitting a large pot placed over his head, Sui begged off. Somehow, I never seem to reap the benefits of a travel partner—sharing hotel rooms, company on New Year’s—even when I have one. She was feeling tired and couldn’t bear another hour and a half of the “event.”

I had decided to leave as soon as I finished my beer, but struck up a conversation with a German couple next to me who were as horrified by the music as I was. The music continued, even as some of the guests left, holding their ears and others moved to the tables furthest form the speakers. Even though the event was put on for foreigners, in typical Indian fashion, the manager featured music, volume and entertainers for an Indian audience.

The deafening volume doesn’t quite come through in the following two videos, but it gives an idea what my New Year’s entailed. Teenage girls dancing with pots of fire on their heads (2.8MB, avi). Children dancing to modern music (9.1MB, avi). apologize that this clip is so much longer than the beautiful traditional dancing. I can only assume that I was so horrified by the noise and sights around me that I went into some sort of trance during filming.

Eventually New Year’s came, and we celebrated by our own watches, as there was no countdown and fireworks had been going off for the past two hours all over town. Someone stuck a bottlerocket in a fountain near the stage which promptly tipped over, shooting yellow flames around the rooftop. The androgynous child dancers came by and tried to pull me up to dance, which was not in the cards. I have to drink more than two Cobra beers to start dancing, certainly to the music they were playing. The Germans and I payed up and walked through the deserted street back to our hotels, proud of ourselves for staying up even if the start of 2007 wasn’t quite what we had hoped for.