tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-151216292024-03-07T03:58:34.916-06:00Pieces of the PuzzlePieces all over cyberspace, puzzling as ever!Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.comBlogger129125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-82074066116050541222014-09-15T04:37:00.003-05:002014-09-15T06:12:34.283-05:00Reunion.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Can't believe its been 5 years since my last update on this blog. An activity that used to consume most of my time had been reduced to nothingness. <br />
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- Obligation to write a few lines which kept my writing going
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- Keeping my mind active
and entertained in a positive way<br />
- Meeting some cool people through blogging.<br />
- Writing anonymously helped me to vent out without remorse. <br />
- Productivity hadn't improved in the last 5 years
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Unfortunaltely, I stopped blogging because I felt that all my wonderful writing was going in vain when Chetan Bhagat was publishing crappy books. So could I. But try as I may, I couldnt compete with that guy and slowly Facebook caught up and satiated my craving for a written word and instant gratification. Now a bit jaded by the sappy updates from my friends on facebook and jealous relatives thinking that I lead a charming life, I am hoping to phase out of FB a bit and give blogging another try. Also, I hate 'likes' on FB. Write something idiot!
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Meanwhile an update on the last four years-
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1. Got a dog (Jeeves) in Pittsburgh in December 2009- Cute black Lab who kept us entertained and made us proud with his capability of learning new tricks. He was a such a star!
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2. Left the dog back in Pittsburgh because he has a medical condition that couldn't afford him to fly back with us to India. Very saddening but got adopted by a friend and Jeeves now leads a good life.<br />
3. Yes, we returned to India on July 2010
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4. Because my mom got the dreaded Cancer. I was heart broken.
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5. Transfered with same company to work for Bangalore Airport. This kept my mind occupied.
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6. Spent time in India shuttling between work and hospitals. Was tough and draining. <br />
7. Mom gave up and passed away on November 21st 2011. Finally she got relief from the torture in the name of Chemo.
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8. Dad contracted Pancreatic Cancer and succumbed to it on January 4th 2012. My dad had suffered a while because of other ailments. Emphysema. So his death didnt come as that much shock to us. But I also felt so alone.<br />
9. Took some time getting over the above.The memory of them dying in front of me haunted me every night. Work helped. Friends helped. Hubby helped. Travel helped. I had to move on.<br />
10. Did some amazing treks in Nepal and India- Annapurna Base Camp, Everest Base Camp, Indrahar pass. Fell in love with Hampi.<br />
11. Bought a piece of land in Bangalore and started construction of our house. <br />
12. Moved to Delhi on September 2013. Wasnt too happy about it. <br />
13. Discovered Delhi through William Dalrymple.
Became a fan- of both the writer and the city<br />
14. Published two articles in India Today- Travel Plus. Quite kicked about it.
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15. Adopted baby boy. The BEST thing to happen yet.
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Life may have been challenging...but there's one thing I can say - There was never a dull moment. Except when I read Chetan Bhagat. Confession- I even read that Anu Aunty book and that 'If God was a Banker' book. *spending time on Facebook seems cool in comparison*.</div>
Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-12281397143507811622010-07-13T23:00:00.004-05:002011-08-25T12:02:01.323-05:00Oh hi!This blog has become that friend that you postpone calling because you need at least an hour to catch up and you never ever find that hour. How awkward!<div>
<br /></div><div>If that friend were to be on facebook, he/she would have seen this on my profile- Moving back to India with my company working on Bangalore International airport. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Thank God for facebook, I don't have to update my blog.</div><div>
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<br /></div>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-78691348682107782502010-02-10T15:49:00.005-06:002010-02-10T21:54:20.984-06:00Costa Rica, Do you really want me?<div>Came across <a href="http://www.nomadicmatt.com/travel-blogs/win-a-free-2-week-trip-to-costa-rica/">this</a> while whiling away on travel sites. <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; font-family:Arial, Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.nomadicmatt.com">Nomadic Matt</a> and <a href="http://www.gapadventures.com/">Gap Adventures</a> are giving this trip away and I am entering the contest in the high hopes of white-water rafting in Costa Rica this spring. Here's my entry-</span></div><div><br /></div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Costa Rica, you say? No thanks, I say!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This isn’t the case of sour grapes even though it has been established in many years of my existence that I am not to win anything, not even a game of Pictionary. So with lady luck definitely on the side of another loser, I can be less skeptical and more honest. I am entering this contest because it gives me a chance to update my blog. It also gives me a reason to stand out from the rest of the pleading contestants. I don’t have stories of a troubled childhood, which definitely will make me deserve this holiday. I am not a single mom with quintuplets whose babies are stuck in Costa Rica. No sir, I am not even an adventure extremist who can live on slugs or cross the river on a raft made out of chest hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I do not have much chest hair to boast of. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">To qualify my first line, Costa Rica hasn’t really sent me those magnetic vibes like, say, New Zealand or Botswana has. Whenever someone looks at me with glee and goes,’ Guess where I am going next? Costa Rica!’ he can be certain I am not scheming to eradicate him out of abject jealousy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Beaches, volcanoes, islands, hiking, rafting, rainforests and green spotted frogs all sound like something out of my very own dream, but I was never intrigued by Costa Rica. The more I dwell into this issue, the more I am perturbed about my indifference to this apparently lovely country. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m concluding it to the lack of country knowledge and my general apathy towards a certain demographics that don’t like traveling too far from their comfort zone (America). These people give bad press to the countries they go to- like Costa Rica. Why go to Faristan when Costa Rica is so close? Or maybe it is too green for my untrained urban eyes. Now if I were planning on checking off countries, Costa Rica would be somewhere I’d see myself spending a few hours on a weekend trip after visiting neighboring Nicaragua, Guatemala, Mexico and Belize. But I am not that kind of a traveler. I become a ‘<a href="https://www.shamwow.com/ver17/index.asp">ShamWow</a>’ when I go to a new country as I feel the need to soak it all in. Only the sights and sounds, not their entire water bodies (For this free advertisement, ShamWow better send me someplace cool.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I heard about this contest, the first thing that went through my mind is, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Wow, here’s one competition I can participate and not worry about winning. </i>Otherwise I am a sore loser. I have fantasized about winning such trips, but I never entered any of them for the fear of losing. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I will admit to a few things that may be relevant. I am a person who would like to keep the earth as is and experience the world. I would like to travel everywhere if I could (even Costa Rica), preferably all the time like Matt. I love people who travel and I admire Bruce Poon Tip for what he has accomplished in his lifetime. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As my role models, you probably will want to award me with this trip, but I understand if you are put off by my lack of enthusiasm for Costa Rica. But if you feel compelled to prove a point and make me fall in love again, I will grudgingly go.</p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-18794365470148324062009-11-17T22:29:00.008-06:002009-11-18T19:17:22.654-06:00He proposes, she disposes.Angelina, a friend after my own heart, has turned 40, and unfortunately the knight in shining armor has been scared witless and has probably choked on a spear (of asparagus). The boys are there, yes, but no boyfriend. One failed marriage under her belt, she’s rightfully skeptical of everything the spells men, boys, and grandpapas. As much as she puts forth a brave face in front of family and friends and declares she cares ‘two hoots’ for the institution of marriage, she does feel a strange sense of melancholy every time she spends time with her friends who seem content with their respective families, even though Angelina’s heart cringes when she sees Katie, her wild best friend Katie, flipping pancakes and throwing birthday parties for her kids, baking the cakes from scratch. Shudder! If only she could find a husband who’d be there in the cold wintery nights to cuddle with, cook food, one who would indulge her unquenched travel obsessions to exotic countries, and the one who might engage in deep romantic conversations that involve Theory of Relativity. Did I mention she has a doctorate and moonlights as a professor, apart from serving in committes that control the fate of Pittsburgh?<br /><br />Living in Pittsburgh, there are only two kinds of people she encounters, the Pittsburgh native who can’t fathom leaving Pittsbugh or the people in transit who in their right mind wouldn’t want to live in Pittsburgh after their degree from CMU is complete. An average Pittsburgh man has two sets of clothes and both are the black and gold Steelers jerseys. The nicer one he wears during the super bowl game and the other one is worn proudly everyday. If all the people in Pittsburgh were to line up their Steelers Jerseys around the earth, I think it will go around the earth twice. But the only problem with proving such a fact is once the line of jerseys inches closer to the Western Pensylvania border, I doubt anyone from Pittsburgh would want to move further along the globe even if it is to make some well deserved world headlines. People here do not like to travel away from their comfort zone which includes two houses from their own home in that block. Moving zip codes is almost unheard of unless two people get divorced and everyone in the suburb knows the cause of the divorce. Pittsburgh people might leave the lovely city in search of jobs or whatever insanity, but invariably they come back to their hometown. Being so engrossed with their sports teams; it becomes exceedingly hard for Pittsburgers to devote time for any other activity other than lying on the couch and regarding the television with fondness.<br /><br />So it is a miracle that our worldly wise Angelina even found a boyfriend in the vicinity. In some weak moment she would get attracted to some dude’s looks or bank balance, only to realize after a week that she needs someone who would take the Steelers less seriously and her feelings more.<br /><br />Softly cooing into his ear, she wanted to know what was the last book he read.<br /><br />‘In high school, I guess. Why do you ask?’<br /><br />She dumped him.<br /><br />The next one didn’t want to travel to Bolivia with her.<br /><br />‘Why go to Bolivia when you can be in Pittsburgh? If you really want to go to a foreign country, how about Canada?’<br /><br />She dumped him.<br /><br />Being a hardcore liberal and vegetarian to boot, the last boyfriend tested the limits.<br /><br />‘What are your hobbies?’ she asked casually trying to get to know him after some great sex.<br /><br />‘Well, watching football and hunting.’<br /><br />Worrisome indeed. But she attested that everyone is entitled to their own hobbies and like every woman she knew she could change him. She figured that the hunting rules are much simpler to comprehend. You shoot and, boom, your target should cease any activity it was performing by dying. That is much more than she knew about football.<br /><br />‘Hmm.. Hunting? You have a er.. gun?’<br /><br />‘Yes, three in fact. You should see my babies. Do you shoot?’<br /><br />‘Yes, with a camera. I have three lenses. You should see my babies. Heheh. I just got back from Botswana and the camera really helped in capturing some of the animals.’<br /><br />‘Yes yes. It’s in the Caribbean, right? You took pictures of dolphins?’<br /><br />She decided to be polite and move on to some topic that involved Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. He seems to show some excitement by asking if they play in some bar on East Carson Street. So she tried to change the topic back to his original love.<br /><br />‘So where do you practice, ermm…this hunting?’<br /><br />‘On Montour Run trail. I hunt deer there.’<br /><br />She dressed up quickly. A month later she left Moon Township (where she ran everyday in the Montour Run trail) and moved into the city where there are no woods. Needless to say she dumped him that night itself.<br /><br />After many such car wrecks, her family decided to show some concern to her lonely state and decided to hook her up with people they thought would definitely work considering her desperate state. Till now her family didn't interfere. Her aunt took her aside and said, ‘I’ll introduce you to Roger. He’s been divorced thrice with 8 kids and is probably paying more alimony than what Bill Gates earns. He lives with parents, but the good news is that he has driven them insane, so they might end up in an asylum soon. You may meet him next week when he is released on bail.’<br /><br />Now I’m wondering if I should introduce Angie to <a href="http://alpha.blogdrive.com/archive/172.html">Karthik</a>.Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-82047541292613176372009-10-02T22:57:00.011-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.984-06:00Gandhi lived here<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 197px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388222504902338146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUMO7Vhn7YrDluTPlvWgNwO7vC4JWlXWtkWm2_jTH8GL-Cqocp9sdJwSvPuE5bFauxyiP70fRXLfjAi_BFO_rxe4KtuEKLqNTGiqvAoT7SGdQI1-kQ2efuuyLqHIJSRLysQ55D/s320/690-1823-2661-0_175018.jpg" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388220927704602450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVCn0rgO7ftE10JZVJrBuB_5dITU6n8RR_D2sc4_6yRRM6Qg5czZGIcaEx9iLgcbHIiKoPf3CPJdLHjvQcjp2OJIhQ99f88GOoo8Js1Shsm4s2ZL-lGMOinzA41eNsjHFrmTV/s320/nigeria+116.jpg" /> <div><div><div><em>January 24th 2009</em>- Johannesburg, also fondly known as Jo'burg is roughly located on the Northern central part of South Africa. A few hours away from Krugger National Park, Drankensberg mountains, and the country of Bostwana, its location is quite coveted. The biggest surprise as we land in Jo'berg is how progressive the city looks. The transportation system is in par with the US. We just rented a car from the airport and took off with a GPS. Though unlike America, we get a tiny car that rivals the Maruti in India. Hilly and almost picturesque, we see cute little subdivisions that dot the slopes. Just like Lagos, white people don't seem to be on the streets walking. Blacks are everywhere, walking with umbrellas, either going to school or cleaning the streets. As a brown person, I guess I could choose which camp to be in. Most black people were working menial jobs and most white people were shopping at the malls. Did I tell you things are very cheap in South Africa. Cheaper than the US and much cheaper than Nigeria. BTW, Nigerians are regarded as scum in every part of Africa other than some parts of Nigeria itself. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>South African art is quite pleasing to the eye. But then there are somethings that the eye can't see. Deep down in every South African's psyche is the strange feeling of actually walking in an (apartheid) free country. I couldn't get my head around the fact that 4 million minority whites ruled 20 million blacks. To do this with such brutality and for so long right into the 90s….is something I can't even imagine. Can you imagine how it must have been for me to actually stand on the ground where so many people fought for their rights- to able to go to schools, to get health care, to be able to live in areas they wanted, to walk freely with their heads held high, to live in peace and above all to be treated as humans in their country, the country of their ancestors?<br /></div><br /><div>In our tour of Jo'burg, we passed through a highly affluent neighborhood called Houghton. During the Apartheid Government, this locale was primarily a 'white-area' and any blacks trespassing would be arrested without interrogation and put in prison for 6 years. Even now, as South Africa heals, we don't see many black people here other than staff. The houses here are grotesquely huge. Unfortunately we couldn't admire these homes due to high compound walls, with electric fencing as heightened security measures for a once paranoid white population. Some of these houses are now being converted to offices.<br /></div><br /><div>Hillcrest was another White-Area, but it was the only area that blacks were allowed to come to and the only place where they could meet the whites if they 'had' to. Present Jo'burg is seeing a lot of black people moving into this area and the whites slowly moving out. We do see signs on abandoned stores that show some evidence of the past. 'Non-Whites not allowed' or like the photo above.<br /></div><br /><div>Our next stop at Soweto (South Western Township) was quite an eye-opener. In the 1900s there was an outbreak of bulimic plague and many blacks started getting affected by it. Using this as an excuse, the British council moved ALL the blacks and Indians to Soweto to be used as 'evacuation camps'. Soweto is 10 miles away from the white city. With more gold being found in the area, more blacks came from every where to work in the mines. The Soweto slums increased in size to 1 million people. Many uprisings against whites took place here. Many freedom leaders grew up here as did much of the African consciousness. One most noteworthy person is Nelson Mandela. Winnie Mandela (Nelson Mandela's ex-wife still lives there in a division in Soweto called Beverly Hills-slightly nicer neighborhood, hardly the Beverly Hills of Southern California). Nelson Mandela's house in Soweto is on the same street as Desmond Tutu's. So Vilakazi Street is the only street in the world to house two Nobel laureates. </div><div> </div><div>Seeing the prison that housed both Mandela and Gandhi was quite a stirring moment. And there, said someone, is the Gandhi statue. Yes, I do see the signs saying Gandhi square, but that guy is not Gandhi. I was certain. Then it struck me, quite profoundly! Gandhi was not always old, slouching with a stick talking a long stride looking at heaps of salt in the horizon. He was also a young barrister smartly dressed with books tucked away in his hand, a stern face that would take no racial nonsense, not in India and definitely not here in South Africa where he was flung out of the first class compartment in the train for not being white. He stood up for the atrocities shown to his country men in South Africa before he left for India to lead the country to freedom. It is also said that he didn't really care much for the black people and considered them savages. Interestingly, our good old man is branded racist among the blacks of South Africa and they was some resentment for this statue to be unveiled in the first place. This could be attributed to awareness at that time and brainwashing of the Indians in South Africa against the Blacks (which I believe is still prevalent). Later in India, Gandhi stood up for the cause of untouchables and no 'rasict' would have done that. Anyway, I think Gandhi started the first passive resistant movement in South Africa and got the Black people motivated to begin their political movement. </div>So Yay to our Gandhi!<br /><div></div><br /><div>In the corner, there's a Zulu Muti store 'Museum of Man and Science', that sells every conceivable ingredient for the traditional African healers to perform their medicinal skills for any ailment ranging form common cold to hepatitis A. The store sells star fishes, snakes skins, lion teeth, bones of assorted animals (or maybe humans too..i didn't ask) and of course intestines neatly folded. There were drums and spiders. I bought souvenirs for all of you from here, but they ate each other up. Expecting to see a Zulu guy with face paintings and spear, I walk into the store to get a closer look. 'You don't look Zulu at all' I say to a few folks that look more Indian than I. They laugh and say they are from Madras, at least their great grandfather was. They were so excited that I spoke fluent Tamil (hah, at least I could trick them into believing that) and were very happy to have met fellow Tamilian. I think I had more similarities to that stuffed monkey in their store than them. Indians seem to have permeated all sectors in South Africa, even as freaky as above. Being third or forth generation Indians, they speak very little of their mother tongue, but are fluent in Afrikaans and other local languages. Just as I was leaving their store they wanted to know if Aishwarya Rai is Tamil. I say she is from Mangalore. It took me a while to assuage their sorrows.</div><br /><br /><div></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388220935836208562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkeyZHqzkFth5Eb-OmnfzOdT1M44eET64ss9yuRYXhNqJ_EVXJU9Wvo-egU_VT0k51SvErJz3rb8MNXqUFQORd7aW1hXbzRHoPrrbJk6nBDX7E07NREzUd9H201ti4Qr1H5hl/s320/nigeria+388.jpg" /><br /><div>Drakensberg (Mountain of the Dragons) in South Africa is the home to the Zulu warriors, who have for the most part abandoned their spears and taken up to farming. I was very disappointed to see Zulus in pants riding bicycles. What was not disappointing was the stunning scenic beauty of their home in the mountains, a backpacker's paradise. Beautiful and lush green mountains are found just a few hours south of Johannesburg. We hiked up to a few caves at Big Castle Mountain to see some bushman paintings. Nomadic bushmen used to roam around in these mountains only 500 years ago. They are said to have traveled all the way from West Africa in the BC to East Africa and finally to South Africa in the later stages. They are just 4 feet tall, nomadic hunter gatherers and talk in the famous 'click language'. See Gods Must Be Crazy movie. A few tribes still thrive in the Kalahari Desert though many of them are lost to colonization, civilization and the lure of better lives in the cities. One of the people we met was a bushman and when she spoke in that 'click' language, I was stunned to note the kind of sounds a human body could make. All day I tried to bring out that guttural click and in the end I managed to hear my bowels groan.</div><div></div><br /><div>South Africa seems to have it all. Capetown was awesome in its own beachy way. The vibrant culture, the wonderfully friendly people, the wildlife, the natural beauty, the natural resources (gold and diamond mines), the art, the history…No wonder the British couldn't leave. I didn't want to either. </div></div></div>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-60139790829808524362009-09-24T15:51:00.007-05:002009-09-25T10:44:56.290-05:00No Shower without ThunderWhen mankind plunges into amnesia just because they all bumped their heads on the same rock, I would want them to regain their entire memory only to have forgotten one thing- baby showers! Yes, that would make me very happy.<br /><br />I went to one baby-shower during those days when my thinking was confined and my exposure limited. Hoping to see a naked pregnant lady getting into a shower while guests looked on, I was in for a rude shock and am still paying shit loads of money in therapy. What confronted me was a fully clothed glowy type pregnant person who seemed quite smug and hassled at the same time, ’Thanks guys! So sweet of you to do this for me.’<br /><br />I had already done the congrats bit before and since I had to say something, I lied,’ You look great.’ In fact in reality she looked like a python that swallowed an auto-rickshaw.<br /><br />After settling that awkward bit, I just about sit down to eat the nipple shaped cookies when the hostess (a friend of hormonal pregnant lady, equally hormonal and obsessive about making sure everyone has a terrible time) decides to kill whatever little joy by announcing games. Right under our noses, are 6 diapers that are disgustingly soiled to depict various stages of stomach malfunction. In fact, the hostess proudly informs us that it’s not human excreta, but different chocolates melted to look like the real deal. ‘Look at the various poop in the diapers on this tray and please write down what chocolate you think the baby had for dinner. You are allowed to smell and taste.’ This is a sure shot way of keeping all the other women in the room very prompt with their birth control pills.<br /><br />Melted on a diaper with little raisins and peanuts peeping from the shapeless brown mass, however much you want to believe it is chocolate, you end up swallowing some of your puke. If this makes Guantanamo Bay sound like a massage parlor, wait till you hear more torture that I had to endure.<br /><br />Then there is a game where you have to guess the correct circumference of the mommy-to-be’s stomach. ‘Diameter of the earth’ was the wrong answer and so was ‘I’m not sure’. More appalling is how some women will try to cheat by asking me, ‘Would she be at least 6 times my size?’<br /><br />Then there is the dreaded gift unwrapping at which point there is the mandatory ‘Awwwww’ for each gift from us onlookers. I also have a problem with this word ‘Awwww’, but not so much that I would write a whole post on it. [It would suffice to say, I grew up on Shakti Kapoor going 'Awww' at every nubile damsel he wanted to rape on the silver screen.]<br />‘Awww, it’s a cute little toy train. You must have missed my gift-registry that was typed twice in the invite,’ she croons while shooting murderous looks at me. ‘Well, I just wanted to get rid of this dumb train that you gave me for my wedding.’ I said while creating more wrinkles in the fabric of the event.<br /><br />After that terrible experience, I had a huge success rate of avoiding baby showers all together. I fell terribly ill, ran away to New York, had out of town guests visiting…and somehow managed to stay out of the excitement of digging my nails into my skull while playing ‘baby shower’ games.<br /><br />This time my luck wore out and I got invited to a shower where my friend knows only three people and the person throwing the shower postponed, preponed etc, just to accommodate those three people, including poor me. At that point, after 15 emails, I threw my hands up and said with resignation, ‘Alright, show me the well.’<br /><br />The hostess in all zeal sent us ideas for games. ‘Who wants to volunteer for conducting the games? I went to this baby shower where they had the measure the belly game. Or this other game with baby diapers, its gross…but we can do it…’ My faculties started failing me instantly and I hated myself for being surrounded by pregnant people. It isn’t their fault, I know…but they are the root of this misery. What probbaly started off as a well meaning congregation of experienced women teaching a few things about raising a child to the expectant mother and giving nice gifts, has now turned into a nightmarish ritual of cheesy décor, terrible games and a very awkward atmosphere which expects single women, never-been moms and men to attend. Why in the name of Lord do we Indians have to do this? Our traditional bangle ceremony is so cool...some little prayer, bangles, loads of good food and no games! West, please look at the East in this aspect.<br /><br />So I am big time trapped and dreading this upcoming baby shower. I have volunteered to help with the games with the intention of making it bearable for me. I am seriously considering strip poker. Worry not, pregnant lady will be excluded from game!Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-90531636287269729882009-07-11T01:20:00.005-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.985-06:00On the road to Timbucktu<em>March, 2009</em><br /><br />If losing your baggage is on your travel to-do list, please refrain from doing so in West Africa. In almost all situations it isn’t your fault, unless of course you feel your camera and the various lenses are more important than an extra set of clothes that you could have packed in your carry-on luggage. So there I was in the market in Bamako, haggling for underwear from a wicker basket with my translator Sekou Camara waxing eloquence in native Bambara. At that point, I failed to comprehend who was more hassled; me, who had never worn anything that was covered in a four inch layer of dirt or Sekou, who probably never ever bought lingerie for any of his three wives. After taking care of that awkward detail, we proceeded to buy the rest of the ‘outerwear’. Sekou, who had an idea what I would care to wear, took me to a section of the market loosely known as ‘Dead Toubab’s Closet’. Toubab meaning ‘White Man’. These clothes are donated by the west and are sold in the streets as 'dead white-man’s clothes' because Malians are convinced that nobody in their right mind would discard their clothes unless they are in the grave. One of the many eye-openers I would witness in the world’s fourth poorest country.<br /><br />So from a huge pile of T-shirts ranging from second-hand Tommy Hilfiger to Levis, I chose a green T-shirt that said, ‘MARDI GRAS PUB CRAWL’. It came with some gentleman’s body odor (is all, I hope) as an add-on bonus. I found a fabric for a native skirt, which was basically a colorful wrap-around that was to be tied around the waist. After a day of frolicking around in my skirt all over Mali, I was politely reminded that the slit should be on the left to signify a lady of decent standings. ‘I am sorry, where I come from, we don’t wear skirts.’ I tried.<br /><br />We boarded the Bani bus to Segou on this 100 some degree afternoon (It gets hotter in May). Just before embarking on this four hour journey, Sekou asked me to buy myself a hand fan. ‘I have a book to keep myself busy,’ I assured him. I wish I had listened to him and bought two. Now this bus was supposed to be Belgian import and the Belgians didn’t design it for Malian conditions. The A/C had stopped working eons ago (to save on diesel) and the windows were sealed shut (for A/C efficiency of course). To make sure the passengers didn’t die of suffocation, the officials had punctured a few holes on the roof of the vehicle for inadequate ventilation. The whole scene reminded me of a frog in a bottle. Very soon, I started to feel dizzy and very uncomfortable. If not for the umpteen stops the bus made (for checkpoints, prayer sessions, food breaks, toilet breaks, god-knows-what-else-thanks-to-language-barrier), I would have definitely perished in this very unglamorous way.<br /><br />Outside the bus, poverty was in open display everywhere and even in the capital city of Bamako, infrastructure is limited to the main roads and a few brick and mortar structures that are used as government buildings, hotels, shops and restaurants. Most of the buildings were made entirely of mud and held together by sticks and tin roofs. Garbage was being burned in every conceivable open space and many plastic covers survived the cremation process. Some kids rummaged the vast fields of garbage for treasures such as a used plastic bottle. What they needed was a good waste management program. Fortunately for Mali, the population was under control and they didn’t produce much trash as the reused almost everything. The scenery was really nothing much to gloat about…just vast stretches of brown and some dirty green (occasional baobab and acacia trees). Every check-point greeted us with a surge of hands of young women thrusting grocery on our faces. You could buy anything from a choice of water-pouches, boiled eggs, carrots, meat, cakes, peanuts, juice, apples, bananas etc.<br /><br />This was my second trip to Mali on this Engineers Without Borders Project and the tragedy of the most friendliest country hits me each time. More to come..Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-45660268790289533532009-07-07T09:20:00.004-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.985-06:00Crime, Sex and Book Clubs. Lagos, Nigeria.<em>Alpha's diary- January 19th, 2008</em><br /><br />With a population of 24 million, crime rate hitting the roofs, corruption and huge environmental concerns, I guess I can say I am feeling completely at home. From the sky, this sea of a city looks flat except for the occational cell phone towers that rise higher than the modest sand-color settlements. While driving us to our home from the airport, the driver says that if you don't know the 'blood-language' of the locals, you would be termed as 'goats'. 'You know that they do with goats right? They slaughter them.' I just hope to learn the blood language sooner than later.<br /><br />Huge population of Christians in the south of Nigeria, this part of the country is not really conservative by any standards. I wonder why I brought only long skirts and kurtis while women are walking half naked. 'Oh, she is a prostitude,' said Dennis, the driver. I saw another skimpily dressed woman and expressed my concerns about a city laden with sex workers. 'Oh no, can't you see, she isn't one. She looks like a Goddess. The last one we saw was my ex. Hence I call her that. That bitch, she slept with me and now says she is pregnant.' [I could write a book on this driver and his shenanigans]<br /><br />English speaking and trying hard to make a living, the city is distinctly poorer than many Indian cities I have seen. We live in a real nice part of town called Ikoyi Islands. The place has fairly new roads (paved) with open drains. This is due to the fact that the governor is our neighbor. Nigerian food is definitely not the greatest I have eaten and the sentiment is shared by all. They eat pepper soup and interesting bread that needs acquired taste. They eat this bread for breakfast (a whole loaf) with water. I am sticking to my honey bunches of oats. They live on cassava that is eaten in the form of gari (cold and flowy) or eba (hot and lumpy). Jolof rice (tomato rice), fried plantains is something I liked. I don't eat meat and they have a variety of suspicious looking (and highly suspect smelling) meat dishes.<br /><br />I am spending my time exploring the city on foot. It's not that unsafe as people had scared me. Yes, in the nights you sometimes could be looking at a barrel of the gun and handing all your valuables. But that is in the night. Even our Nigerian driver pees in his pants if he has to drive at night. Daytime, its fine, especially in the neighborhood when we live. I sometimes ride on the 'okada', a two-wheeler public transport that gets you from place to place for a dollar. So you hail an okada like you hail a taxi, he hands you a helmet (safety first always) and expertly weaves through the traffic, sometimes crashing to the asphalt as we avoid a mini bus with more people than there are in Pittsburgh and its suburbs. Most of these bikes interestingly are Indian makes like Bajaj. People are not overtly friendly like the Malians, but are friendly enough if they trust you. Once they do, they are loud, funny and very friendly. There is a general mistrust among the expats…and its both ways. The resentment is due to the fact that even after colonialism, they feel that they end up being subordinated to the wealthy Expat community. You will not see an expat walking alone on the streets. They get carted by cars everywhere and do their shopping in Dubai. They socialize with other Expats and this is but natural. Most of the crime in Lagos is towards the expats by the poorer locals. Just for a few bucks, they apparently kill.<br /><br />Interestingly I went to this book store where I got chatting with the book store owner and Tundum (her name, I just like saying it) hooked me up with the African Book Club of Lagos and today I was in a room with 20 women, all expats. As much as that was not the Nigeria I came to experience, it definitely helps me gain some perspective on what the 'oyibos' (white people) think of Nigeria. And also get me to read a lot of African Literature.Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-54043664053488146082009-07-01T16:19:00.008-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.985-06:00A little bit of India in AfricaLast four months I spent in Africa. I met strange people, ate stranger food, walked into juju markets of Nigeria, lost baggage in Mali, danced and sang with Nubians in Egypt, got lost in the medinas of Morocco, dined with Zulus of South Africa, made eye contact with the Mountain Gorillas of Rwanda, relaxed in the beaches of Ghana, cheered for the lioness as she pounced on the wilder-beast in the vast Serengeti plains, and managed to completely avoid winter in Pittsburgh. And here I am, kicking myself for not seeing Ethiopia, Namibia and Bostswana. Life is calling me an ingrate!<br /><br />I may or may not get into all the details of my trip in this blog, but you shall hear snippets for a long time to come. I met lots of Africans and this was their reaction to India:<br /><br /><em>Nigeria</em><br />'Man! You Indian people never part with your money even though you sleep in golden beds. If we get one Naira (equal to $1/150) from an Indian, we throw a party. By the way, if you didn’t get it, we don't like Indians.’<br /><br /><em>South Africa</em><br />'My great-grandpa was Indian; from Madras. Is Aishwarya Rai from there? One of these days, I would love to see what India is like. We Indians have thrived here from generations, keeping our culture alive. If you think Cape Town is infested with Indians, go to Durban. Can I offer you some chai? '<br /><br /><em>Mali</em><br />'India? Hind? aaahh! (glazed far away look) Where ever you are from, your skin color and hair is great. Wish all Malians could have brown skin and straight black hair.' (touches to see if I am real)<br /><br /><em>Tanzania</em><br />'Indians control all big businesses and keep to their own community. They never let their daughters marry localites and are forever suspicious of us. but you both are very different and friendly.'<br /><br /><em>Egypt</em><br />'You know Amitabh Bacchan? You look like heroine! What eyes! What body! Be my wife. I will give your husband 1000 camels in exchange for an Indian bride. He can have my fat sister too for free. '<br />[I plan to go to Egypt everytime I need ego boosting]Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-3872933986089146492009-06-30T00:47:00.010-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.986-06:00Ode to Ignatius‘We’ll have a driver, cook, maid, laundry-boy and even a gardener’, said Pi in order to entice me into following him to Lagos, Nigeria. What he didn’t mention was there was also a pool-boy for the private pool in the backyard for the bungalow. Fume away, fretter all you want, you lesser beings in Western countries who clean your own bathrooms. I was dying to be waited on by my own Men Friday.<br /><br />Our pot-bellied chef, Ignatius, walked in majestically with a white coat and a chef’s hat. Mentioned he went to chef school. My gastronomic cells jumped in glee. I learnt very soon that Ignatius couldn’t cook. In fact, Ignatius and the word ‘cook’ should never be in the same sentence. But he cooked nevertheless. He had all the signs of a person who wanted to do the right thing – as in cook a decent meal. But he failed every time he tried. His food tasted like something, but we are yet to ascertain what. Some say donkey tastes like that. Even his fried items tasted like cardboard soaked in oil. What he was adept at was making something terrible out of perfectly good ingredients (oil and flour. How? How?). He mixed up coffee and tea; salt and baking powder. After he cooked, the kitchen would look worse than the garbage truck filled with road kill. On top of that, he was a little slow for a human being. It took him three days to comprehend that we were vegetarian.<br /><br />‘No meat.’<br />‘No chicken madam?’<br />‘No, Ignatius.’<br />‘Oh. I understand madam- o. I know one lady vegetarian. She dey eat no chicken.’ He said in perfect Pidgin English.<br />‘I am glad you have encountered such species.’<br />‘Tomorrow I dey make pork chops madam with white sauce.’<br /><br />What ensued was an hour class on vegetarianism filled with drawings and actions. I gave him a cue cards and cheat sheets. ‘Nothing with eyes.’ He nodded his bulky head. He went shopping muttering 'no eyes..no eyes' and came home with Carp.<br /><br />‘Ignatius, we don’t eat fish. I told you no eyes.’<br />‘They cut the head off. See.’<br />ARRRRGGGGHHH!<br />‘Oh, madam! You say no chicken, I dey understand. No pork, I dey understand. No beef or mutton, it is very hard. What I dey cook if I dey no cook fish. You come to Nigeria to starve?’<br /><br />I spend the next two hours showing him how to cook dal and cabbage with whatever I could scrap from the kitchen. Everyday after that, we had decent food except for the fact that dal and cabbage started seeping out of our nostrils every time we breathed. ‘Ignatius, please put a stop to this. If I have one more meal of dal and cabbage, I will combust in my own fart. Ask Alpha madam to give you some recipes. ’ Pi warned and left to work.<br /><br />So while I was busy working on some project and looking more important than I needed to be, Ignatius waddled up to me, sweating and breathless (he always managed that look even if he was watching TV on the couch),’Madam, Pi sir told me to ask you for recipes.’<br /><br />Patience wearing thin, I wrote down good Indian recipes and even showed him how to make a few things. Considering he was being paid, I had no intentions of doing the job for him. No one finished my design report for me when I taught chefs how to cook. ‘Ignatius, you better improve, or else!’ He had signs of panic in his eyes and stuttered something about making a decent meal for dinner after he is done grocery shopping. Palak paneer was laid out.<br /><br />Relishing it, Pi commended my training and said he would congratulate Ignatius the next day. I beamed with pride for my new ward.<br /><br />That is when I saw empty packets of MTR ready-made palak paneer in the garbage.<br /><br /><em>[Part of my 4 month stint in Africa after taking a break from work. Now I'm back in Pittsburgh]</em>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-72180189315206245682009-06-28T22:58:00.005-05:002009-06-28T23:13:18.114-05:00Back to being meHello there!!! Anyone still lurking? This feels like coming back to a house you abandoned because life handed you a mansion of experiences in exchange for this little hut where you saved memories. I couldn't stray away too long as a familiar sense of happiness dragged me back. On a very bad day, I read my blog and it made me want to be more like Alpha. I just realized how much money I saved by being my own shrink.Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-26447470084218885352008-09-15T11:37:00.013-05:002011-08-25T11:53:30.044-05:00Should you run?For all the years I have known myself, I have wanted to do many things like being able to sing, dance etc.
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<br />But I never wanted to run. I hate running. I can't run. I had mixed feelings regarding people who run- pity plus indifference. ‘Tsk tsk, whatever dude’. Sane people run when chased by dogs.
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<br />‘Congrats!’ I effused to my friend who completed the Marathon.
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<br />‘You can do it too,’ obligatory punctuation followed.
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<br />‘Why should I run? No marathon shit for me! In the end what have I achieved? Breathlessness? Naah! ’ I tried to sound positive and sensitive to what he had achieved.
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<br />‘Try a half marathon,’ my friend would besiege assuring me that I could definitely do it considering my fitness level and so on. As pandering as it was to my ego, I couldn’t see myself indulging in such a mindless activity.
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<br />‘Half Marathon? Yikes! Why would I ever do half of something when I can very well do the full? I would rather run a 5K than something that is called ‘half’ of something. So demeaning!’
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<br />‘Call it a 13.1 mile race then.’ He was postively giving me a headache.
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<br />‘Bah! It doesn’t just sound cool. I would rather bump my head on a railroad track.’ I despised running.
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<br />Just a day (24 hours) after this conversation, I signed up for the half marathon on some whim proving that I can't stand up for what I stand for. I had discovered runners high. I couldn’t stop running and couldn’t explain my predicament to the other non-runners.
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<br />Between my training sessions, I had to make a two week trip to India. And I had to run.
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<br />The first day my mom was shocked to see me up at 5 am, tying my shoe lace. The last time I woke up at 5 am was when …ermm.. there was no such recorded incident. It was required as it gets too hot after 6 am. Before she could stop me, I was out of the door running in the community feeling on top of the world. This would be great. Being used to run in long stretches on a trail along a river (in my backyard) with squirrels and deer scrambling past, in Bangalore I was encountered with roads that led to other people’s gates. I would have to make an abrupt U-turn just to face another dead end. I was running in a freaking maze- in the dark, bumping into the same house again and again. Out of nowhere, seven neighborhood stray dogs congregated and ran after me. There suddenly seemed to be a point in my running...and running fast! I somehow found my way and bolted into my house, breathless, just after scaring the living daylights off an aunty walking with Nikes and a head scarf. I just barely managed 15 minutes and had enough for the day.
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<br />My mom was wringing her hands in fury, ‘What is wrong with you? Why are you running like a mad woman? What will people say? We have to live in this neighborhood you know. You didn’t even have breakfast. What if you fainted?’
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<br />Day 2- I decided to run outside the gated compounds of this colony to keep my sanity and my mom’s name intact. So I snuck out early and ran along Bhanerghatta road towards this Shiva temple I knew to have a long secluded road. As I ran, people stopped what they were doing and their eyes followed me till eternity or till the awkwardness stopped (whichever came faster). I almost got run over by a few autos. Avoiding running over some kids sleeping on the ground, I leapt into a garbage dump. If I was training for hurdle race, this would have been so worth it. The secluded road did give me a few jitters when strange people appeared out of nowhere. But I managed a good run that day inspite of the locals wondering what ‘Goddess’ got inside me. I got back home to a livid mom.
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<br />‘Where were you? Its 2 hours since you left! I sent your mama in search of you. Stop running. Or if you have to, you better not go before the sun rises! It’s not safe.’
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<br />Day 3. Out of despair, I called up a few elite runner friends in Bangalore and got their advice on options. ‘We usually drive to Turali (which is 1 hour away) and then run along this beautiful stretch uphill. Sounded good to me. Plus I would have human company.
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<br />‘Can you pick me up from my place?’
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<br />‘South Bangalore eh? Then we’d have to wake up at 3 am.’
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<br />‘Holy Bambolee! I don’t think I can get permission to leave home that early. You see my mom is more used to me staying out till 3 am. She is having a hard time dealing with this. Plus the watchman would think I am eloping. Too much drama. ’ I was bummed and thought about Pittsburgh fondly when I could run in abandon anytime I wanted.
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<br />Day 4. My mom piled on pooris and aalo subzi on my plate and insisted I eat before going off to the gym. The gym, we decided, would be ideal given the situation. I sauntered off whistling towards the community gym letting my mind wander over the feeling I was going to get after the workout. There were at least dozen men in the gym and the swimming pool just sitting around in their hunches staring at me, some brushing their teeth with neem twigs. I smiled and they all just froze mid activity. They were caretakers and not gym users. I walked into this empty gym with rusting equipment. I opened the windows to let some breeze in and walked over to the treadmill. Hmmm….no treadmill. I looked around in vain and went out to ask one of the guys about the mystery of the missing treadmill.
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<br />‘Woh andar hai memsaab’ (It is inside)
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<br />‘Accha, Dikhta hai kya?’ (Is it visible to naked eye?)
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<br />The guy (who is apparently the caretaker or manager of the gym) walked in and scratched his head.
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<br />‘Kya bola apne?’ (What did you say?)
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<br />‘Treadmill on which you run.’ I did some running action to drive the point.
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<br />‘Agar aap kehte hai, toh nahin hoga.’ (If you say so, it probably isn’t here) ‘Aap dumbbell kar sakte hain memsaab’ (You can do dumbbells)
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<br />‘What do I do now? Can’t run outside, can’t run inside.’ Crestfallen face met puzzled face of Bahadur Singh.
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<br />Bhagna zaroori hai? (Should you run?)
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<br /><em>PS: In spite of the Universe trying to conspire against me, I finished the <a href="http://www.runhigh.com/2008%20Results/2008%20Results%20B/R090608BD.html">Pittsburgh IKEA Half Marathon</a> on Sept 6th in 2 hours 34 min. I wasn’t the last person to finish. There was a 10 year old. Yippee! Now if I had dogs following me, I would have had much better timing for sure. </em>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-50322520156972496962008-09-14T20:51:00.007-05:002008-09-14T23:11:17.538-05:00Extraordinary people can't be related toSay Godzilla decides that he wants to have some Indian today. He carries you off and places you on the buffet tray in Taj Mahal Indian restaurant. Definitely a worrisome proposition. You need help. Whom would you turn to?<br /><br />a. Superman, the guy who paid too much for his chaddi and now needs to show it off.<br /><br />b. Priya, the girl who flunked in Social Studies- just like you.<br /><br />If your answer is <strong>b</strong>, you must be a white Republican suburban hockey mom! Just because you dimwits relate to <a href="http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/NO-Sarah-Palin">Sarah Palin</a>, doesn’t mean she can save you from the Godzilla. Go have some paani-poori with this woman and please vote for someone capable. [hint: <a href="http://www.swamppolitics.com/news/politics/blog/2008/09/barack_obama_on_david_letterma.html">Obama</a>]<br /><br /><em>This advertisement is paid by the polar bears, moose, wolves, pigs, gays and people who would like to see less of the bleached wax statue called McCain on TV for the next four years. I might be forced to watch the E! channel (excuses excuses).</em>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-21224115886090705352008-08-27T22:29:00.014-05:002014-06-26T12:04:23.228-05:00Smile Please Madam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We went to a friend’s house to congratulate them on their newly wedded status. They showed us their wedding album. It was a tastefully done coffee book with pictures that didn’t garishly shock, but rather sublimely blend. The pictures showed the bride and groom laughing into each others eyes looking lost in love and there was a picture of their silhouettes walking on the sands of Kovalam beach hand in hand. At the wedding ceremony the people were not even looking directly at the camera. The photography was brilliant and the lighting natural. The album brought a tear in my eye. A tear of abject jealousy and self pity.<br />
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‘That sucks!’ I said swallowing back more tears. ‘No, I mean it really sucks’ I tried explaining to the visibly perturbed hosts. ‘Not your album, but ours.’<br />
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‘Oh, come on…I bet it is awesome. We must see it sometime when we are your place.’<br />
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Both Pi and I cried in unison, ’Nooooo!<br />
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I shuddered thinking of the photos and the cameraman from hell (or rather Triplicane). On the album cover was my face, almost murderous, and around the photo was a message in golden letters ‘<strong>Heven shower blissings on the happy coupple</strong>.’ Next to mine was Pi’s face with his eyes closed…hoping no one could see what he saw.<br />
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If he hasn’t burnt them already, Pi guards the photos like a crazed watch dog. His figure not being a perfect ten during those days, made him protest vehemently against the cruel treatment given to Brahmin bridegrooms. ‘Sorry, you can not wear a shirt and the poonal (sacred thread) over that. You will have to go bare-chested.’ they said.<br />
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‘Can we wait for a year longer to get married? I could go to the gym or convert to Christianity.’ he begged.<br />
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Unfortunately no one even considered it; Pi had to pose without a shirt. I believe the constipated look on the guest’s faces was actually shock mingled with sympathy for me.<br />
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So there he was consciously half naked exposing chest hair to open fire and there I was telling him how his tummy was making the priest jealous as I poured some ghee into the flame. At that time, the the cameraman would call out loudly, ‘Madam, look here madam. Can you smile please? Tilt head towards him please and point that little pinky towards the Jupiter if you don’t mind. And while you are at it, could you move to the right so we can get the mapilai’s (groom) love handles in our frame.’<br />
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When Pi tied the mangalsutra, the camera guy made me shake hands with Pi and pose. *Click* At first I thought it must be the first kiss equivalent of Indian weddings, but later when he made my brother shake hands with Pi after my brother poured puffed rice into the flame, I was a little confused.<br />
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Some things perplex me to date. First, why should there be a videographer in a reception? Second, why is there a band on a stage singing ‘<em>Gemini Gemini Gavani Gavani?</em>’ Third, why should there be a reception at all?<br />
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On Pi’s insistence, who was now more comfortable in his Sherwani, I decided to stop making faces at the cameraman. ‘It’s alright. Just deal with it today. Cooperate with him so you look good in the pictures.’<br />
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‘Madam, don’t grin. Please look here. Smile saar. Saar, look here saar. Aiyoo Saar, here here!’<br />
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‘Ok, who hired this moron!’ Pi was livid.<br />
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Video guy would pull people who were in the middle of greeting us and rearrange them beside us and make them stand straight and look directly into the camera while he rolled his video camera to take action shots. The camera guy clicked a still picture to accompany the action shot just in case we missed who presented that plastic tea cup set.<br />
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Ohm… Ohm… Ohm! Slow breaths. There will be an end to this. All I have to do is believe in it.<br />
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I protested against the filmy poses and he finally gave in. If I lived to tell this tale, I want to retain some dignity. Not a single wild horse was going to make me hold Pi's cheek with one hand and throw my head back in coy abandon. I told him not to bother with any graphics and just do a simple album and video. 'No frills pa.'<br />
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‘Aiyoo, how is that possible madam? For all that money, you will have to get all this only no?’ I considered handing him all my jewelry to disappear with the photos forever.<br />
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He wanted to do real time computer simulation and dazzle the crowd. It definitely was a crowd puller as we turned around and performed a fake puja to the screen behind us; he morphed the screen with an image of Thirupathi Balaji Yelumalai Venkatesa of Govinda Govinda fame. The audience could see all this and we had no idea what was happening. As we offered flowers to the screen and folded our hands in devotion, the crowd was yelling how close I need to go to the screen to get the flowers falling in the right angle. Next we had to stand with our side profile to the camera. We were being flown to Singapore on this Honeymoon Airlines with our faces sticking out of two windows, one behind the other. Even they were prudent not to get us booked on adjacent seats.<br />
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After a few days 3 humungous albums in sets of three and 3 sets of DVDs arrived at the door in a truck. I left my copy back in India giving the airline-baggage-limit excuse. If they ever needed an extra bed, it would come in handy. My mom teared up as she watched the video for he 10th time on the same day. Now I realized who this was for. <br />
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Shudder.<br />
<br />
I had no courage to watch the video for the longest time. When I finally did in the company of a few drinks and persistent friends, I was pleasantly surprised to see most of our footage replaced with Simran and Surya’s dancing. Then there was the whole computer graphics deal that would put Spielberg to shame. My head splitting into ten and forming a little trajectory into Pi’s eyes. It’s quite possible I actually performed that stunt under those circumstances. I wish he could have turned me into Kali mata with blood dripping from the corners of my mouth and tongue sticking out. Oh well, that wasn’t necessary. From what I saw of myself in that red saree, I came close.<br />
<br />
A year later back in India, just as I walked into my parent’s house, I saw a gigantic laminated picture of the both of us looking completely hassled in our wedding garbs, hanging on the wall. The very picture I detested as my hair was all frizzy and Pi was er... fat. Horror of horrors!<br />
<br />
‘The nice fellow that he is, Popular Studio guy presented us with two such laminated pictures, for free!’ my mom gushed. ‘The other one is at your in-law’s.’</div>
Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-55326312874494379252008-04-29T23:29:00.013-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.986-06:00Kilimanjaro Hakuna Matata<p>(February 17th)- At breakfast, all of us were so upset that this was coming to an end. The porters sang the Kilimanjaro song and the Hakuna Matata song with high spirits. I can't stop humming it even now.<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxxY2FNbpxZUxVFizkbded6P2FlmzI3nymQCLbYd31kaxhgEySXZng-Qh4_X3USxXh4h09cn-aMvBs' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>KILIMANJARO KILIMANJARO KILIMANJARO</em></span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>KILIMANJARO MILIMA MREEFU SANA,</em></span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>NA MAWENZI NA MAWENZI NAMAWENZI</em></span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>NA MAWENZII MILIMA MREFU SANA.</em></span></p><p><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;">-------------------------------------------------------------</span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>JAMBO JAMBO BWANA, </em></span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>HABARI GANI? </em></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>NZURISANA </em></span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>WAGENI MWAKARIBISHWA</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>KILIMANJARO HAKUNA MATATA</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>TWENDE KILIMANJARO HAKUNA MATATA </em></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><em>TWENDENI POLEPOLE HAKUNA MATATA</em></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">MLIMA WA KUPENDEZA HAKUNA MATATAA</span><br /></span></em></p><p>We gave tips to the porters and they were quite jubilant as it was the day they would go home to meet their families after working so hard for us. One of the porters hollered just as we were breaking camp, "See you tomorrow!" like he would do every day. We laughed. I wanted to say 'Hope not', but I knew that I would miss them even in the comfort of my home, my bed and an attached bathroom. Our <a href="http://www.goodearthtours.com/">Good Earth </a>crew did everything to make us feel comfortable in the harshest situation and for that I will be eternally grateful. </p><p>The air in Mweka camp was very festive with most of the campers heading back after a successful climb. By 11.40 am, Pi and I reached the Mweka Gate after 45 miles of walking in the wild and that’s where we had our first tryst with the modern world- clean flushable toilets. </p><p>Kilimanjaro in the end wasn't just about the mystical mountain with snow in the middle of Africa. It was about the Chagga people, swahili music, the abundant wildlife, the cheer in the air, the strength of people of all ages who attempt to climb Kilimanjaro, the humility of the best at the face of adversity, the shimmering African sky, the unbelievable vegetation, the hot masala tea, and a pletora of memories that will take me to Kilimanjaro whenever I want to be there. </p>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-6827681145937468882008-04-29T23:16:00.005-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.986-06:00On Top of Africa!<div><div>Mweka Camp (February 16th) </div><div></div><br /><div>It was brilliant! I was so happy to see the stars and at that point nothing else mattered! No storm! I grinned for an hour straight as I looked to the right at the beautiful silhouette of Mt Mawenzi that we completely missed in the last morning’s storm. Mt Mawenzi is the second tallest peak after Kibo on Mt Kilimanjaro. Everywhere I looked there were little dots of light. The unpolluted African sky with its million stars, the headlamps of resolute people moving in a single file. When you looked up in the darkness, you could mistake the headlamps for the stars, which is well and good. We had a long steep climb. But that didn’t bother me a bit. Instead of being in the tent and counting sheep, I was just happy to be out here, in a place like this, with people like this. This was better than the dream I dreamt about Kilimanjaro. I never felt better than I felt now. I followed Herment and just kept going. Somewhere along the way, Freddie brought out some hot tea in a thermos and we had tea in pitch darkness sitting on rocks. We saw some people returning as they couldn’t go on. It was probably heart breaking for them after having come this far. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195214781365105794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4VOkNMVIDdvGJUATZaoiQMiowstE2fITrYhbvEX0JSpVXSLUXpMS_tfzJSdOlAAlymEad4hCuykOF0v3UrCDIUoaFCdnWTEoJWMcZ7yc4fLowzbYdxfwItXLYau30DEw2BjfJ/s400/tz+331.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div></div><div>We reached Stella point as the sun rose over Mt Mwenzi and the clouds way below us. If I could hold my breath any longer, I sure would have. A sun rise that will stay with me for life. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195214789955040402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDDmuVihBb_lEVKPYKGX0wtDxAd-H6M7u1hL3LVEVAEniU2WlY7NTxnhfSipu3R5xofpjJdy2ZL5oMpz8UoQI9WcNu5WLeOJ4tlHE_s7avokHmTJXBjKEt3sWkfuM_nTCauP4h/s400/tz+335.jpg" border="0" />Sat down and enjoyed the moment and then continued on to Uhuru peak (which is the highest point on Kilimanjaro). We were almost there. To the right we could see the Reusch crater and to the left was the Furtwangler glacier. None of the photos that I have ever seen of this place does justice, which is why we went there to testify that. I just can’t imagine what Kilimanjaro would look like without the ice cap. We were there- on the Snows of Kilimanjaro, leaving our foot prints. Sadly, the foot prints and the snows are all transient. By 2020, it is said that this would all disappear due to global warming. But what would remain etched permanently in the Rosetta stone of my mind are these memories. I couldn’t stop taking pictures of this unbelievable sight. </div><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195214798544975010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pwj4R7qVXadavO-iedykDd6FvqcmUdFMUHY64G1H2GRUczSwdTkt__81YOztdjgYqgu6H2EC-nm4SsT7dRSldqFYX-KHpuWA84-4M5mJwmc9PJaFWVKtkhT0SRrbqfDMAXSD/s400/tz+352.jpg" border="0" /><br />The last strech was the most grueling and killing. I had to keep stopping to take a breather. The dawg was walking like Shankar Dayal Sharma had got into him. Pi had severe headache and was squinting and would sit down every 10 meters. Lee kept moving towards the goal, ‘I just want to get this done with!’ and she kept going with the kind of determination that is so characteristic of her. </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195214802839942322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjte4KsljzBhDLVBSCP9m40dt3OglWRZxmdeTrlleAberbXt9EHZu22AQRKwa5ctkpJFBrgBXqM7EUCRve1f1vbWVZh05qi2Nfq-1S8s2LUB8OMSMxM5BCeScGVihO8zDsRoqGS/s400/tz+395.jpg" border="0" />The four of us reached the famous marker on Uhuru peak (19,340 ft) together at 8.45 am that day. As I approached it, my weariness withered to give way to a strange kind of sadness. When you know you have reached the top and there is no where else to go, but down. The jubilation was in the journey and not the destination. Somehow for me, seeing the final point didn’t hold the significance it held for everyone else. I know Pi shed a few tears of joy. So did Lee. We spent fifteen minutes on the top of Africa hugging each other, clicking pictures and generally hanging around. Suddenly everyone regained their energy. The power of achieving something was incredible. There were times on this mountain when I felt I couldn’t have come this far. All that was forgotten now; we had done it! The view from the top of Africa was stupendous! I could see years of bragging rights apart from the vast African plains. And mountains that once looked formidable when we were on them, looked like mounds from up here.<br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195214807134909634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJDiBeOc9eh4ZpzWSWC0AhGYmdWt7dZSVqLy_UPoC5oDG6i5z7bYYzPPSZBcXbBb7t0ngpdnfeGjSuoriMbVgAvcxogu3f81nbjOwiMt_p7EOCuus17pS6Bhyphenhyphen9VcOX4XXse9z/s400/tz+367.jpg" border="0" /><br />We started descending quickly so as to alleviate any symptoms of altitude sickness. We reached Barafu camp for lunch after sliding on loose gravel for most of the way down. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195215928121373906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2TPeKJjGb8-8o8pZbIveKUjnOcn0Uuy5KTWNYLAmF7du1Wn9IWk1SzfUpOAh30SfAjkuUN8GZ-DgARY1EMFm1N8N3bfqEzXhf-huqN0MxP9u7DHODIbDDS4qGQV140OQNjVv/s400/tz+401.jpg" border="0" />Layers were being peeled as we headed down. After we reached Barafu Camp, Professor brought out our celebratory pineapple juice. It was a wonderful feeling to be congratulated by all. Feeling accomplished and in good shape, I decided to venture out and brag to the climbers who were yet to summit. Just then, I had a horrible fall on the rocks (face first). I was lucky to have not broken my skull. I looked like I had a small bar fight with a cut lip, a slit on the forehead, bruised hands and feet. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195215932416341218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG6qODL9E3b_KnGC1BkZo0KW4mdwQYadBkQn7HSjFkAT9Dg1W-GQatRm6ITSlMMDYlodQTSFP9HrStc5tpT90EYz1oJLqtF9aZUHXOJFpjvqvaqXChIK_OKcoIzTwptlKL0ZF-/s400/tz+435.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>Leaving the gloomy miserable Barafu camp, we limped down to Mweka camp (10,101 ft). Since we had a late start (with everyone feeling out of sorts) and stopping for Kilimanjaro beer, we reached Mweka camp at 9 pm in the dark after maneuvering some treacherous downhill (slippery granite rocks). I fell three times again and by that time I was aching from butt to head. At one point I just sat down in the middle and refused to move. Somehow after the summit, you don’t expect anything more difficult, but this downhill part butchered me.<br /></div><div>We had our final dinner in the mountain after 17 hours of constant hiking without a wink of sleep. It was the toughest, yet most exciting day of my life. Every part of my body was badly hurt, but sleep evaded me and for the first time in 6 days, I was out like a lightening. With the summit in our pockets, I guess nothing really worried me now. I could sleep.</div></div>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-32600153417362848142008-04-29T23:07:00.005-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.987-06:00Highest Camp on KiliBarafu Camp (February 15th)- Steep uphill, but only 5 hours long to Barafu Camp (15,000 ft) which is also called the base camp. The weather was very bad- Freezing rain and sleet all the way to camp. Visibility was at an all time low and so was our spirits. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195162021986841666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vD6CKfSVzof3kY3qucGJ-yfi8iclgzxEMOGEahzlDKmiGM_7NVq9a1hRPapaeU_EFZEFqKmU5kQfZkg500k57q7s2PmO85yztPeDsQN0RW_ImiFBxFekbR1Xn1sp3JItQpc0/s400/DSC03848.JPG" border="0" />With our gloves wet, our hands were freezing. The climb was unrelenting. Oxygen was rare and we were left gasping for breath after every step we took. It would have been a cake walk in lower altitudes, but at these altitudes everything became hard- even saying ‘Damn!’. So we moved slowly and very quietly. For once I didn’t feel compelled to chatter on. Herment gave a silent prayer of thanks. We saw many others struggling here for a good measure. Chipped and Broken rocks that looked like shale were all over the place and beyond that all we could see was an engulfing curtain of haze. We reached Barafu camp in these conditions and were completely spent. We make the summit push tonight, in the dark. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195162034871743570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjbbnfQeVnSO6QukAfYAK1BvqxcZn3_PiPNpC8OjkXA-A87_8NaRrs7d3-qiJIZ5YBFkutkZkMyX9iEvsbw4IwMT_0ZQ0OOHpWD9bTOQeUgN5Kv0VlX-2SK1RMPfrZuXgy2k3B/s400/DSC03854.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We saw many people who had just summited and come back to base camp by mid day. They didn’t look too cheery either. We were too tired to even talk to them. Barafu camp was on a desolate exposed ridge with a huge clutter of tents placed uncomfortably on huge boulders. There was garbage strewn in places and toilets in inaccessible areas. To get to a toilet, we had to climb over huge boulders and scramble with our hands. This took every ounce of our strength. And then there was the activity of defecating itself. On top of that we had to drink and eat more to combat AMS and couldn’t avoid the input-output cycle. This was way too much work.<br /><br /><br />We were told to sleep in the afternoon when the sun came out for a brief time and solarized our tents as we baked inside with our 5 layers. As we started peeling the layers, it started freezing again. If anyone was complaining that they weren’t getting enough exercise, I think they were well taken care of. We were woken up at 6 pm for dinner and made to eat a hearty meal. Herment warned us about ‘Loss of Appetite’ at these elevations. Pi wondered what he meant by that as he hoarded the third helping of pasta. Loss of appetite was one side effect of Altitude none of us experienced. The food was just good. Herment, Freddie and Anthony (the head honchos) all walked into our tent as we were finishing up with dinner and stood solemnly. Hermant began to speak (for he knew English) ‘The moment is here my friends. We are finally going to make it to the summit and you all should be very happy to have come this far. I am sure you are very excited for the final summit push that will start at 11 pm tonight. Does anyone have any concerns?’<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195162043461678178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCoYK3Gllfc84F5H7JXvqwpUP4CplLctPR91pJoze07hL_6Ldzb6p4MGnGBF0gOcrW2W9uz3iyhBqPf_mWcz2ifUCaBRYgjtbgjP9bSdVgnKeCIAdh-0gVCz59S88WObAwSbCh/s400/DSC03900.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br />‘Will the storm go away?’ I asked like a 10 year old.<br /><br /><br />‘I think it is better if it rains as the temperatures will be warmer.’ This was Herment’s way of putting my mind at ease and seeing the positive of something as horrid as the weather outside. This time I thought he was mad and so I prayed hard for the skies to clear up. I tried sleeping, but was too damn excited and anxious. We nibbled on some snacks at 10.30 pm, wore all clothing we had including 3 pairs of socks and pulled ourselves out of the tents with our head lamps. The Dawg had a hard time moving, let alone pulling himself out of his tent. Looking like well fed polar bears; we were ready to hit the trail. Barely able to move, our guides led the way. Herment offered to carry my bag as he had nothing on him. This one time, I gladly obliged. I can’t thank him enough for this. Even that little pack with water and rain gear became a huge burden as we crawled higher. Better to conserve my energy than to act heroic, I thought. The Dawg spent the majority of his hike calling me a cheater for offloading my bag on Herment and when Herment offered to carry his bag, he happily obliged.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195162674821870706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhchBCXlIlvObv07hoqGlcgEg0zuPLRcIOIMU_IKQJr9293Ue8Gw1NJ60Eo5BUllgckEXBUJuEUAgP84MDGWT25UUEeZY-ZbOwAUv7wtOlCdeWBZv9NIXcFyOWTj9C0Dqzyk2Ar/s400/tz+323.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Ready for the midnight summit push</span></em>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-54351834743719386072008-04-29T22:58:00.005-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.987-06:00Valentines Day DrillKaranga Camp (February 14th)- Valentines day! We acknowledged it by going, ‘Guess what, its Valentines Day.’ That’s as much energy we were willing to part with for this day. I was forced to take a picture with Pi and that was that.<br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195146130607846418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmgBOJdyErjQ-QuyJGKuvFhly-mlAO-a9Io4BHbz3CxhOYYiDnNozksJ3IOTdNacXihm4cGXT57c0u9WVMjflNG5znVZwUrE2WYfh9HxZTM80uWtec9UW14DQ_FaTn-mdgf4bq/s400/ktz+236.jpg" border="0" /><em> <span style="font-size:85%;">Freddie with his transistor</span><br /></em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195150331085861938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3qBsLrARuKsJ4f-mPGiHPB3EsFiErQRxGN7uHiXn4-VrtqYkUPO0QNo5ktywMRwcUUIkQYoh1mtfLDwnTbKSuvch0Wpfg4RzWFdREuQIka_kXI7rlhc-ZyCIszx5mRKLpbx6H/s400/tz+239.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em> The Dawg dancing to Swahili music</em></span><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br />Herment pointed at a vertical wall next to our campsite that we would be climbing to get to Karanga camp. ‘Its very easy hike today’ he said. I had stopped believing this guy..for a good measure too. Last time he said it was easy, I was willing to trade my life for a day in Hell.<br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195150326790894626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ik7ZXmiuwpjy-WWJaGZDKGzAzgAwZSxHZZ74yQQXIjkCtcT_9yzSe5jX6AJAnCL1mrIspeS0eSdgQ6yHrHh3zBh3KWBZn5nqsT3nXrTfuI-ERr90SY_DIFC1AjWFrS4eCXxj/s400/ktz+237.jpg" border="0" /></p><p><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Fearless leader- Herment</span></em></p><p>So there we were, scrambling up the ‘Breakfast Wall’, which is a rather tame name for something that needed all the four limbs to maneuver. Very scary in parts, almost vertical but mostly fun. Gained altitude pretty quick and passed some lovely valleys walking amidst the clouds. Had to stop and look back to sigh at the pretty sight that we would leave behind. After we caught sight of the Karanga camp (which seemed like we could reach it in 5 minutes), there was still an hour of downhill to Karanga valley and uphill.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195146122017911810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaVXMhyihaCIWZCMeBBdl0PTOrNE7DOvAPfvsjX-PnG-WTzFESDCTpjTDH8syjDjZtbft45Q0E70TmjnC6C-NVGJSFXF4NVn41zuEDi-W0wm9zMh7kArvvK-7MJddqOBremjgt/s400/ktz+211.jpg" border="0" /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Antony helping Lee</span></em><br /><br />Karanga valley was the last source of water. So from now on, porters would carry all the water for the rest of the days. We would be very prudent with our usage. No more water balloon throwing activities.<br /><br />We had hot lunch at Karanga Camp ( 13,300 ft) and spend the afternoon playing cards as hail and rain pounded our tents. I had a terrible headache that wouldn’t go away, so I took Tylenol. The headaches subsided, but came back with a vengeance at night. The weather calmed down and the clouds parted to reveal Kibo for maybe 10 minutes. I watched with awe the symphony of ice and rock, intertwined in harmony. Even as we neared the peak, I had a sense that Kibo was mocking our unwise fortitude. That night when I came out to take a pee break, I could see the city lights from Moshi and Arusha under me, the stars shining over me and the moonlit peak of Mt. Kilimanjaro. There was a lightening and for a brief second, the place lit up to reveal the other tents in the Karanga Camp. I shivered as I plowed my way into the tent and spent sometime doodling in my little dairy. I switched off my head lamp to conserve the batteries and spent some hours flopping like a seal unable to sleep. With depleting oxygen levels, every activity including eating became hard. I would yawn and spend the next few minutes panting and puffing. Acclimatization was in progress as we spent more time in the mountain. It was definitely getting tougher to remain upbeat.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195146113427977202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_EVRAYpb7sx_KywbhmCzgzv0iwTB3dsm4AECocsrraJ221TVzrob4sPdOGiqJI6PrBoU_Kcv9j7UB2vS__37NCAWuHAIQr-2u5faQ63VcrG2afZ_TgKnUM4m9HqRMGsFOilt/s400/tz+290.jpg" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"> The peak from our tent and the toilet</span></em></p>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-9781221250438286072008-04-29T22:56:00.010-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.987-06:00Doubts creep inBaranco Camp (February 13th)- Thank God for the Ziploc, I could sleep better (one full hour)and not make half a dozen trips to the stinky bathroom in the middle of the night. Wish it was simple as ‘going to the loo’. It’s a HUGE process. Unzip yourself out of your sleeping bag, quickly wear your outer layers (inner fleece-outer fleece jacket-down jacket-rain pants-winter hat), zip yourself out of the tent, yank on stuck zipper, wrestle with it for 10 minutes, give up, squeeze yourself out from a 10 inch hole like toothpaste, fall in a heap outside, shudder at how cold it is, collect yourself, orient yourself to the general direction you want to travel, move towards origin of smell, trip over rocks in pitch dark, turn on your head lamp, get blinded and trip again, reach bathroom, remember you forgot to get toilet paper, curse, rewind, play, make way back in freezing rain holding nose.<br /><br />Ziploc- I owe you my life.<br /><br />Sometimes, I would be mesmerized with the beauty of the night. The zillion stars that light up the African night, like no other place I have seen. The serenity of the mountain, as it is suddenly seems to belong to me alone. Solitude was a treat in Kilimanjaro. Seeing the rounded peak against the moonlight validated my being there, in the night, all by myself, going to pee.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194902910904841170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhln5dHIacNZv7XfDIYylS6XDdIkK5EFTQXn70j6SNZzGD3knH2ZWfadvNRvQY5mO46VZzUhDMvgMlTmS_Gg-Co0USTQWPtwNMKTjEzTmu4Wc2_Pc5yMCcY_sUAmQ3ix6OGIwm1/s400/DSC03752.JPG" border="0" /><br />The morning, just when I was declaring how well I slept, I had some symptoms of altitude sickness. I felt like puking while eating breakfast. The Dawg suddenly came to my recue,’ Hold it in! Hold it in! Do not puke!’ I tried tilting my head backwards, then suddenly I ran outside the tent and emptied the contents of my bowels, Malaria pill included. What the?! How does one hold puke in? </p><p>I felt very apprehensive about the rest of the days to come. Especially since I couldn’t hold the puke in as I was supposed to. Leela told me not to let this get to me and that sometimes achieving something is just a state of mind. I nodded weakly while lying on the tent floor getting my energy back. Herment, our guide, came to my tent and told me not to worry and that this is quite common. ‘I get sick too’. Herment had this uncanny way of putting people at ease at the most grueling times and I thank him for it even though sometimes we knew he was just saying things that he really didn’t mean. He did it very nonchalantly without creating a fuss. ‘Also if you feel like throwing up again, don’t try to hold in!’ That does it! I am convinced The Dawg is has been sent to twart my plans of making it to the top!<br /><br />I felt instantly better as we moved away from the camp and Kibo came to full view again. We walked though some amazing expanse of Moorland vegetation (consisting of some huge cacti) and some black volcanic boulders. The vast starkness of the landscape was mind-blowing and we continued to prod on as the air became thinner. We reached an altitude of 14,000 ft after which we would descend to 12,850 ft to camp. This is the best mantra to acclimatize- Climb High and Sleep Low.<br /><br />The Dawg declared that he was developing cerebral edema and we laughed at him like good friends should. ‘Dude, that's your Gatorade spilling on your ear.'<br /><br />In fact his delusions in the mountain didn’t stop there. Every time he came back from the shithouse panting and puffing, he would declare he just had childbirth. His kids surely didn’t take after the mom.<br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194901987486872466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbc6FbgauhNATEUYWTwFU8nWS6bIogT8RU9aUt7TIOOFlPy_xDcFgDoKttGtsx8uSf_vcO7E5njCAHm4SjvPDNVZ_Yq1Rp7XimeiPgJf8DeMYxZE4qmgn86SopgvLJEce9t7y/s400/ktz+180.jpg" border="0" /><br />I had lunch in a hailstorm. That’s one thing I would advice you not to put in your list to check off. It was brutal till it lasted. Though it was pounding with all kinds of white substance from the skies, it didn't last long. Downhill usually doesn’t bother me and I had a wonderful time admiring the snow covered landscape and then all of a sudden the clouds parted to my left and we got the glimpse of Kibo yet again, suddenly so close and so majestic. My heart skipped a few beats as I looked up. Nothing could be so perfect and nothing could take this moment away from me. I just sat down on a rock and admired this wonderful creation on earth. I could see the Heim and Kerstein Glacier , beautiful, though receding. A few glacial streams that cascaded down as little waterfalls adorned the path. The giant cacti (Senecio Kilimanjari) surrounded the landscape rendering this picture very illusory. I wished hard for one thing. I hoped to remember this for a long time to come. We had walked for 8 hours straight and were completely exhausted when we reached Baranco Camp (12,850 ft) right under the shadow of Kibo. To the other side was the vast plains of Africa and could spot the city of Moshi way below us. We felt very high and very cold.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194901991781839778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8jKQxRVJ9S3j4-BbLlaM0KhtGemWnHRugbUb7bblqQUkE1zek2oWTP-Vi0jmQBzsgF3tcpjx3tuhpc1NPvwgW8HZqmAa8lvQhGiEAyNC_qY4hU7oRQHMDv4rOKlhOOab-KT5I/s400/ktz+178.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194902004666741698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihVjTVGaSsZlNctdPSDby-mvIhJFXYl-srl6ywFQhQgQML40pnSrAsFmRstN2HmhpZYUEZxpxjhRL2PKyascEKGXiRr7Nj-awHxEZxrFo09N4Sj7QQdzuPCMGYoqswG6YtT0rQ/s400/DSC03739.JPG" border="0" />Pi and the Dawg staggered into camp an hour later looking completely drained off every ounce. The Dawg collapsed in his tent refusing to come out for dinner. We literally dragged him out. The Dawg suddenly realized that this was not easy and for the first time he started having self doubts. He started talking fondly of his wife (This was highly concerning). He was in pain and had slight fever. Pi had a terrible headache, which is usually associated with high altitudes. Lee’s feet were hurting from an ankle sprain. But luckily everyone could speak two words before they retired into their sleeping bags. </p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194902000371774386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWTkmy8z8duJfvU2cogUJAl2ze0OZy_EBqqukx5ZeVj1hE7gjbvimJt3_XWHWftuGLyXxR6lacgUfURVpGJI_WBtCLyZJpoYKhmq_P9DEvNjiwunAKgRYFfa58IR6hexxKyB_/s400/ktz+191.jpg" border="0" /></p>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-14085716629611520422008-04-28T09:39:00.002-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.988-06:00To Pee or not To Pee<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji-OdZNYzG01LJwZ0KPXOWgF4QqEnyqI37-EYfowMCjGN1bSHjsvuQ09F_6JVT4jVOEJSem1rWqdIc4G6W1Nm3S_n_ytN71FqTIzZGNcHlq8oOwaVaafuXA2Z3fVNpHP3-wxKr/s1600-h/Document+(2).JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194307731516830578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji-OdZNYzG01LJwZ0KPXOWgF4QqEnyqI37-EYfowMCjGN1bSHjsvuQ09F_6JVT4jVOEJSem1rWqdIc4G6W1Nm3S_n_ytN71FqTIzZGNcHlq8oOwaVaafuXA2Z3fVNpHP3-wxKr/s400/Document+(2).JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-15986762057427423262008-04-27T09:06:00.009-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.988-06:00High with no AlcoholShira Camp (February 12th)- 'Good Morning ladies!' We heard a booming voice followed by some vigorous shaking of the tent itself. It was still dark. The tent shook again. In my troubled state (I was thinking of lions all night remember) with sore muscles, I managed to open the tent zipper to encounter a cheery Professor with a tray of tea and biscuits. Yikes! I was aghast. I probably died and went to heaven. No I was sure I hadn't, I still felt like I was hit by a truck. We were (or rather Lee was) woken up with bed (in this case sleeping bag) tea every morning by Professor. Ewald is a porter who is also known as Professor as he knew three extra words in English compared to the others. He was quite a sincere and likable chappie who moved on to Pi and the Dawg's tent...'Good Morning brothers!'<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194118022811366002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ibuRPFYeZZgrjLpfAUoWsYVFWWnVpqwGeP9ftRIvPxk0oFAbTCXQVG4X8eM-VvRki5SSkxudtfNDCiIzU05UdN_OpSccgkNP0OniYRsmGL9K4Z7lr51VkoqDVCkfRiu6veiu/s320/DSC03631.JPG" border="0" /><br />As we were about to head out of Machame camp, my water bottle started leaking and spilling most of its content on my pants. Sleep deprived and butt freezing wet, I wasn’t feeling too pleasant as we scrambled through terrain that was steeper than the previous day. The path being very steep and narrow made us stop and let the harried porters pass by. They passed us in huge numbers and we saw ourselves falling behind every group. There were hundreds of porters. By day two, without shower and change of clothes, the stench of body odour was overpowering. There were times when I felt I would throw up. I mean it was sad and all to see them carry 1/2 their weight (sometimes more than their weight) uphill. But my condition was definitely sadder. They at least got paid for this madness. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194115613334712930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXgfLZ4kJyiNPzzS20PZmPtt2fRysozgC8RBXDuXtZ8IEFHQoKSJ2EgzSd8UskSh63hW5sAuLcRiyFbhyphenhyphen5NNAiB_kQRRIBvjjf5FF5Cw7uASGOaZ_05Rr7jcbPorro5pywdeQ/s320/tz+142.jpg" border="0" />Herment offered to carry my bag , but I refused feeling silly about having difficulties on the second day itself. I also remembered Herment saying todays hike is comparitively tame to what is in store! Couldn’t deal with the fact that the Dawg was racing up the mountain like it was a molehill. Must have been that extra omelette he thulped off my plate. I was out of breath every few minutes and had to stop to catch some air in my lungs. I got loads of advice from Pi from changing my wet pants to keep moving as I was slowing him. If I had some energy, Pi would have been a dead man. I would have regretted that act later of course.<br /><br />Thick vegetation was replaced by Stoebe Kilimandsharica (twiggy trees covered in cobweb like lichens) <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194119294121685698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXoBTqlITLCcur-51rnk0VcRuiYrYbOGcGbFRoA6Ghj5e8Z0woy-Uh1vNRPhgFVCK8ecBHG3aWKMYkQIMgJ5A5IpFmIkmT-qYy_lj9u3rovOE5zO4rZS1gAIHND50_g9P26QGD/s320/tz+141.jpg" border="0" />Lunch break was on a breathtaking landing where we could see the neon green expanse of Heatherland extending as far as the eye could see. Well fed ravens came for scraps and regaled us with some amusing acrobatics in the air. Mood was elevated instantly. We reached Shira Camp (12,600 ft) soon after and could catch the glimpse of the highest peak of Kilimanjaro (Kibo). Kilimanjaro consists of three peaks- Kibo, Mawenzi and Shira. Uhuru Point on Kibo is the highest point on this mountain that we were aspiring to reach. It was a sight to behold and we watched mesmerized the Snows of Kilimanjaro. Like a massive scoop of chocolate ice-cream with vanilla sauce. The destination seemed so far away and daunting, so high above us that I felt ridiculous to think I even dreamt of being there. Yet Kibo seemed so alluring and beautiful that it would be ridiculous not to be there.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194118027106333314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNbUxrM7sQ5xzjnuhWQikIuFKgCYoVPoC7Lmin-M2DyxcpoWosyh-0nmQyD-kX0kYS2V7limvAiHg54UZni-JjOyz-mTKH1tL6CZ3w_ENlaaBQpsn4fPLf6-z6jPfKs30C4Jmr/s320/ktz+126.jpg" border="0" /><br />Shira Camp itself was on an open expanse with the perfect triangular outline of Mt Meru looming behind.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194118039991235234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIpVobpyVnAw8zI3jDQm8e-5tkjJ8ZgR5dpwHIsBV_b-oKvadzIsSGlJMLL4MQ2KLKqWjDoFOrFIGgndABXgaL7ys3Y3O9kMLs197aPk69-w86tZFr-jcv9hv-w1g3TLyMpXL0/s320/ktz+145.jpg" border="0" />Some people were shaving their underarms outside the tent! I couldn’t even think that far- my immediate worries were regarding sleep. Will I be able to catch a few winks tonight? If I had more energy, I would have shaved everyone's underarms and doused it with deo. Sleep came in spurts and by then I decided not to worry myself about it. Agonizing is my forte and I knew that would be something I had to let go in this mountain.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194118035696267922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_aeZVk2vBbkSSNW412OsrlAseR2Kl9CddzEZEVEL-bevPpOf0h9ZLZNHiWhpuTfqOi2vrN3RTD9GndodqZsTN40t90tiSCBt3m0_94IMOmZjMtBizZqgrGnb68TjO5avEjXT8/s320/tz+197.jpg" border="0" />Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-50975161840449509442008-04-16T16:44:00.006-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.988-06:00Hold it or Bold it<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-LCX-3y73qApPE7lP7bsAq1J2g4tGyN0qoH0xqOguNTGTa5UOtbjtfRixRWWmx5QYXcfxu4H6aYb0q32i7HtWH15y6sUuKBdFDMiDnwMzhFrew1milVhCiIufHLWAynPReKO/s1600-h/Document.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189962760568103570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-LCX-3y73qApPE7lP7bsAq1J2g4tGyN0qoH0xqOguNTGTa5UOtbjtfRixRWWmx5QYXcfxu4H6aYb0q32i7HtWH15y6sUuKBdFDMiDnwMzhFrew1milVhCiIufHLWAynPReKO/s400/Document.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em> </em><span><em> click to enlarge</em> </span></div><div align="left"><span></span><br />I do not miss the pit toilets of Kilimanjaro. It was mandatory we use them as the sheer number of people shitting anywhere can be disasterous to the fragile environment. As much as I value that sentiment, never again! Corporation toilets in Madras smell like green apples in comparison. I 'm bringing my own shit bag next time. It was an adventure, especially the time when there were strong winds while you were at it. Some details even I can leave out.</div>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-32357642811732598262008-04-13T13:59:00.018-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.989-06:00On the slopes of Kilimanjaro<div align="left">Machame camp (February 11th, 2008): When I finally got some sleep battling with the power cuts and the mosquito net, it was time to wake up. In fact we were still in bed when Lee and the Dawg called from the reception area all ready. Jumped out of bed and thought about skipping a shower when it dawned upon me that we won’t be having a bath for the next seven days. I acceded to the indulgence and got really late. All packed up, water bottles filled, and slathered with sun screen, we definitely looked like we were ready to ascend the mountain of our dreams. At the new Arusha Hotel, we boarded the Good Earth bus filled with our guides, porters and cooks. Our Head guide introduced himself as Herment Mosha and then he proceeded to introduce us to the others in the Good Earth team. By the time he finished, I had forgotten everyone in the crew except for Justin. Just couldn’t point to him. There would be enough time to figure out everyone as we go. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188818289222672962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhplNs5M0HxShTm1ccBTg_CNqOutK6juFicuh25P3DQyUFFcI0Ny9q3hJT02YCapijRw3J24db8EGnnUkIloIfSbmB9zV3DYRuUEgTNdZVqQsgvzIKaQaWJSzd7bzKM8n_jZEQg/s320/ktz+016.jpg" border="0" /><br /></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="left">We passed through the city of Arusha and some dotted villages along the Savanna and couldn’t help notice how similar the landscape was to India. Villagers sitting in a group, talking, combing each others hair, buying vegetable, cycling and some marathoners preparing. So you really don’t see runners in a typical Indian village. We also saw a few drive-through orphanages. As we reached the foothills of Mt. Kilimanjaro and drove up the slopes through the village of Machame, we were greeted with lush green cultivation of predominantly banana trees. We could never see the mountain even though we strained our eyes in that direction as it was always covered by a veil of clouds, frustratingly so.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188817309970129442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJ_mx9umpUl2QDAh4UfQ3zd9UjNYRYlLH0qx_VoP_8uCNVvTkWJSK1UZr5k0qs3k7I3JhkqDZU8V8m3p4sQBKk2QtoXsEnUKrLB8BPHyFPcPCz_IvJPEF5ZfBxJVAKDiRhpUB/s320/tz+050.jpg" border="0" /><br />At the Machame gate, suddenly there was a population explosion injected with a flurry of activity. The place was filled with people who came to climb the mountain and the guides and porters who took these people up. European tourists in their brand new mismatched clothes and the porters with their hand-me-down mismatched clothes. We being the only brown people were definitely outnumbered by the whites and the blacks. Other than in Thirupati, I am not sure where I saw a bigger crowd. I had no idea Kilimanjaro was so popular. I heard only 50% make it to the top. Well of course, that guy with pink tights can be ruled out right away. There were touts selling rain gear, bandanas and walking sticks at the gate. The guides were busy registering us for the climb, porters were packing and weighing the stuff they would carry, while the we hikers ate boxed lunches and waited for the go ahead sign. Before we were about to ascend, the guide told us that this is no competition and that we must walk extremely slow (pole-pole in Swahili) so we acclimatize better. We started at around 1 pm and walked through the equatorial rainforest, mostly uphill, and mostly difficult. The forest was very lush and beautiful. Endemic trees consist of Macoranga Kilimanjarica and the flower Impatiens Kilimanjarica. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188818576985481810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifoId6eAyZRNrEWPtxdj25H59oB2xa6shyphenhyphenYvMyFRTEUn4W7OORwT6xYJoGJdPRFzxi9JEK7Ozp6Nqzc8DkQEcG_EzcFno5sWAwAn0WRoP8wJUbCG73oUWASi8UQXC6yKEyex0b/s320/ktz+020.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br />Thankfully our guide, Herment, could sustain long (3 min) conversations in English after which he would lapse into animated Swahili with the assistant guides, Freddie and Antony. They all were good friends and hailed from the same Marangu village on the mountain slopes. Most of the porters and guides belong to the indigenous mountain tribe called Chagga who migrated to the slopes on Kilimanjaro from West Africa many years ago. They are essentially farmers, but have been drawn into the lucrative tourism business lately. Swahili is a very sweet sounding language that I grew to like and learnt a few key words like Jambo (Hello!), Caribu (Welcome). The Tanzanians we met had a very easy going attitude towards everything in general and were cheerful people who never complained. In any situation, you’d hear them say- Hakuna Matata! (No worries!) Everytime I stopped gasping for breath, Herment would say Hakuna Matata! 'Oh come on! I will hakuna.. I better hakuna...its not normal for me to feel like I am going to die.'<br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188819264180249186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyqUTAEMw563Sdb4MFTGDsEDvDkXYpmOyWfHJPRFsez4FkKUWs_TSa8jnARrculUjZ1JDIqKlGFifDrzIE4LFJdlOFivmVvrUWp2uS7CPxnoFo8elhBHq0y-7ZZCbFCf_3Xy7E/s320/tz+106.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br />When I did have energy, I would probe Herment about his family and the mountain that drew us to Africa. He was very knowledgeable and gave us a lot of pertinent information. Freddie spent most of the time in mountain with a transistor that played loud Swahili music, which seemed to entertain other groups along the way too. The Dawg would suddenly lapse into dappanguttu (South Indian folk dance) for 2 minutes after which he would collapse as he probabaly spent his last ounce of energy appeasing the African Gods. But Swahili music did something strange to him everytime. Antony was the quieter guide who usually led the way. Anytime Antony sensed some trouble, he’d turn around and ask casually, ‘You are Ok?’ It didn’t take me long to understand that any answer he got from us would have resulted in the same reaction from him- to turn back and walk on. One time when Leela was struggling, he turned around and expanded his vocabulary,’ You carry my bag?’ Leela gave one look at his humungous backpack and shuddered. She instantly felt better and moved on without a sigh.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188820591325143666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kpmMV-V5D1Zj6YN9Amxix9xQV5PnyGhMtlE_wiOZ7Fml85obPmN_TAWJspK10b-t40N1TpJKWF_UEnIx8d2GxIElzrmfZUqmXsDyz932AACB0_yYBGga7Ts4aeT55fJBuPjc/s320/tz+110.jpg" border="0" /></em></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Our first glimpse of the peak</em></span><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br />We reached Machame Camp (9,900 ft) at sun set and found to our surprise that the porters had already set our camp for us. Sumptuous dinner was served and we ravenously consumed it. Soup, Rice, Vegetable stew, fruits and of course the famous hot tea that they insisted we drink all the time. Having backpacked in the US a lot and not being used to porters and cooks, we felt all this was way too much luxury in backcountry. Pi went on about how terrible it was to have a chair to sit on when we could very well manage sitting on the floor of the tent and eat. Infact, after day 3, the same Pi wanted a ski lift to get him to the top of the mountain. Tired and aching in every joint, we tried to stretch a little, but eventually fell into our sleeping bags and tried to sleep. I am a light sleeper and have trouble falling asleep in the best of the situations. I spent the most of the night reading a book that spoke about Sudanese children being eaten by lions on their way to refugee camps in Kenya. In detail. Now whose great idea was this book? I sat up all night counting Sudanese kids and watching Lee sleep like a baby. How would it be if a lion came and ate her?Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-34068606381780583582008-04-01T08:54:00.016-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.989-06:00Exploring ArushaI decided to step away from the breakfast bar (where the three of us seemed to be hovering around for hours ) and explore the gardens while enjoying some solitude with my camera. There was Raphael standing among the flowers beaming at me. I grinned back wondering if I should strike a conversation. ‘Do you know what this flower is?’ he asked.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184416248351630114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVS3BXmpaM8EE7MDcd_VqqYCOj6Azz9hrVdCSZChr4-JelHFEx4tTqpW8bMkpiPe7FS1xgxW5z9iUrNntQWFoCuwyJp732mblwKHSeA3iSIBtI5vI0y6RBegiG3WIoYTNXLyq/s320/tz+026.jpg" border="0" /><br />I was confident about this one.’ I don’t know,’ I said. I like to imbibe life without having to remember names, whether it is an album, movie, book or a freaking flower. Checked off from my list of career options are Taxonomist and horticulturist.<br /><br />He looked hurt and said it was called the Bird of Paradise. He repeated it once more so I remember.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184417760180118338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RnwdehA06XvUyQMhIaLMsq0bxzo04am-K4LlDH9Zh-m9uPGEUx6ID46B15INME58E7mcq-hA9FyBkZgxuiqhkxdC4dlazdbOwGSZaIJpn6fkRL_venNDc6TMR7rhjNpoPvHr/s320/tz+008.jpg" border="0" /><br />Then he grabbed me by my hand and took me to another corner of the garden, behind a bush. Just as I was about to scream for help, he asked me to name another flower. Slightly perturbed, I examined the flower. ‘It could be…..’ Before I could complete the sentence, he pulled out the little flowers from the stem, crushed them in his palm and thrust it into my nostrils.<br /><br />“Ahh, Lavender” I said profoundly.<br /><br />He blushed and looked very proud. He introduced himself as the head gardener. Now I understood this over-the-top behavior as it had had me perplexed for a minute. So the botany lessons went on for a long time till he moved on to chameleons and squirrels. Raphael had put his blood and sweat into this garden and it was evident in the way he spoke about his plants. He didn’t know the names of his daughters, but remembered obscure plant names like Patenestasia. I gave him a couple of dollars for this unexpected tour and he beamed again. Its amazing how much Raphael had managed to grow in this area. Its amazing how much of variety actually grows in this equatorial climate.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184416609128882994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNPW2yHccfJ5RxnnuQYrfKDAvuzRw0WM1WePAJHp-YwkXu8R6kWvulXgWE4sqiN5L4r0RyoZDdeA0PzgXx6Ut3SvOahRKd0NnRth_PLjZ9HMd5SZ2ZAI0cFYhGK7-9TFJFVVS/s320/tz+018.jpg" border="0" /><br />Walked up the Dawg’s room where the party apparently was. Both Pi and the Dawg were watching Aljazeera TV and all over the floor were the Dawg’s hiking stuff. ‘Hey di, pack this up for me no. My wife gave up last week in Philly and now I have no one to do it for me.’<br />Took a few deep breaths. Congratulated myself for marrying a saint like Pi. Thanks to the Dawg, my marriage suddenly looked bright. I started the packing process. Remember I had even walked him to the store and helped him buy this <a href="http://topofafrica.blogspot.com/2008/01/gear-list.html">shit</a>. And he couldn't even pack!</p><p>‘Where are the rest of the socks?’<br /><br />‘That’s all I have di.’<br /><br />‘What? You need a pair of socks a day! You have only 2 pairs for 7 days! You need to really look after your feet or you’ll get blisters.’ Going by the fact that he hadn’t even changed his T-shirt from the time I saw him in the Detroit Airport (which was 35 hours ago), I didn’t think socks really mattered.<br /><br />‘You didn’t even tell me to buy the socks.’<br /><br />‘So then why do you have freakin six bags of trailmix (nuts and raisins)? Are you panning on eradicating all the hunger in Tanzania?’ I yelled. ‘Why did I spend three hours making a list and emailing it to you? To wipe my virtual ass with it?’<br /><br />‘But you never told me to buy the socks that day.’<br /><br />‘Arrrrgggh! Ok, where is the hiking pole that I had you buy for Lee?<br /><br />‘I didn’t bring it. It’s at home!’<br /><br />Next he looks at my bandana and wants the same one. ’Why didn’t you get me something like the one you have? I am taking it. You can have mine.’ He grabbed mine and flung his bandana away.<br /><br />That does it! I took some painkillers and sprayed some insect repellent on him hoping to get rid of the pest.<br /><br />We decided to walk into the city of Arusha and maybe I can hire some local thugs for this job. If his wife becomes a widow and his kid becomes fatherless, even the devils cant make me guilty at this point.<br /><br />Just as we walked out of the gate, a guy approached me and started talking about Abishek Bacchan in good English. ‘Very good actor. By the way madam, you must look at these necklaces. They will look so good on you.’ He pulls out some trinkets from his pocket and tells me, ‘For you 20 dollars!’ I shake my head and walk on. We are met with many more and they just follow us, bargaining and lowering the cost. I looked at the guy and told him to leave us alone. He stopped abruptly, turned around to the rest of the touts and sternly said,’ Can’t you see fellas, Madam is getting annoyed by your constant nagging. Could you all please leave?’<br /><br />They all did except him. He followed us to the restaurant and ushered us in and then said he would wait outside. In the restaurant, we decided to order ugali. But it so happens that we are in the midst of some African conspiracy and had to order from the various curries and chappatis available. Very tasty, very Indian. My bet is that there exists no African dish and hence no ugali.<br /><br />As we walked around Arusha (which reminds you of a city in Kerala), I jumped up with joy pointing at a distance. There it was, behind the buildings, rising above the clouds, Mount Kilimanjaro! A shiver ran down my spine. The first sighting! We gaped at it for a while mesmerized. A local passed by and we smiled. We asked if he had been on Kilimanjaro.<br /><br />‘No, that mountain you see is Mt.Meru’.<br /><br />‘Erm, Yeah yeah, it does not look like Kilimanjaro of course.’ To think we were planning on climbing Kilimanjaro the next day.<br /><br /><a href="http://absoluteleela.blogspot.com/">Leela</a> finally arrived late that evening from an adventurous bus ride and cancelled flights. This was the first time I was seeing her, I was eagerly waiting her arrival on the hotel steps. Her bus pulled in and I ran to hug her. Shocked, disheveled, completely disoriented and 4 feet tall. Under the circumstances, she was still very cheerful. Yeah, inspite of her height. Her stories of the bus ride had me in splits even though I probably should have shown some sympathy. She started emptying her really heavy suitcase to repack into the duffle bag- 50 notebooks (did I mention she is a journalist sort), 100 pencils, 30 wet wipes (She is also a clean freak sort), 2 torch lights and a headlamp (a paranoid sort), sandals and wollen scraves (a confused sort), 2 cameras (a rich sort) and of course world famous dates from Dubai. </p><p>We started to pack her duffle bag with the stuff that she'll actually need on the climb. It seemed like this packing would never end for me. If someone gave me a death wish or pack wish, I would have gladly walked into the diamond studded coffin. But then I had to make a good first impression on Lee and the poor thing had a stressful journey. Also her case was excusable as she could not have packed her stuff before. I had brought most of the hiking gear from Pittsburgh.*halo* Since Dubai has no concept of outdoors, they don’t sell outdoor gear (except wollen scraves). She just had to order everything in the US and take a huge leap of faith that it would all fit her. In fact, most of the stuff did as she tore out the labels and wore them one by one before packing.<br /><br />That night I was quite excited about the climb that I could hardly sleep.</p>Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15121629.post-31631751393980688222008-03-30T15:41:00.006-05:002010-02-10T21:54:20.990-06:00Setting Foot on African SoilWe saw ‘The Dawg’ at the Detroit Airport fully geared up with all the regalia to be worn during the actual climbing. With a water tube jutting out of his backpack and swirling around his neck to finally hang precariously near his nose, he looked more like a patient wheeled out of the ICU. I was quite shocked to see more of him that I had imagined. He was easily 30 pounds heavier now.<br /><br />'Dude, are you wearing all your layers too?'<br /><br />‘One website advised to load on carbohydrates before departure. They didn’t say from how many months before departure.’<br /><br />‘Well, did the website say anything about training for this climb?’<br /><br />I should have realized The Dawg has limited comprehension. Even when it comes to emails. In reply to my 300 words email, I would get an answer from him that would consist of three words that would bear no context to the mail itself. ‘I am Bored!’<br /><br />Or maybe it did have a context.<br /><br />We reached Nairobi after flying over America, Europe and Africa. The snow-covered Alps in Switzerland was a huge contrast to the vast dessert of Libya. We met a bunch of hikers in Nairobi who we would meet up again in Kilimanjaro. We learnt that <a href="http://absoluteleela.blogspot.com/">Leela’s</a> flight got cancelled from Dubai and she would try to get on the next flight. We felt so bad for her, but all that melted away when we learnt that she would be taking a private chartered plane from Nairobi to Kilimanjaro. Next thing we learn the chartered flight was full and she was going to take an armed vehicle. Finally she managed to get into a rickety bus and got to the destination just in time. Her journey to Arusha from Nairobi is probably going to become a best seller right away, so I will withhold from giving away too much of the plot. She was holed in a bus with a mad woman, a rapist, a thief and a lion wrestler.<br /><br />At the Kilimanjaro airport, The Dawg was detained for not having taken Yellow Fever vaccination. He was hoping to slip through the cracks of the Tanzanian health department that was checking for the documents. Since he was overweight, they caught him and finally poked him. He came out simmering and was convinced that the whole world was out to get him. From then on, he stopped trusting. He complained that I had not told him about the vaccination. Pi had to hide my pocketknife quickly.<br /><br />Warm air, starry night, gulmohar trees- Tanzania did feel a lot like South India. Outside the airport we were greeted by David, the computer guy from <a href="http://www.goodearthtours.com/">Good Earth Tours</a>. He took us to our hotel in Arusha (the nearest town to the mountain). David spoke in his lovely African accent about the different tribes in Tanzania and how Christian missionaries helped them get to where they are. They are now Christians and have names like David. He seemed very proud about this. This topic has been debated to death between Pi and I (with Pi very skeptical about the intensions of missionaries). I wanted a pleasant ride and wanted David to do much of the talking. I started sending frantic signals to Pi not to began some heated discussion on this topic when the Dawg jumped up and went, “So David, don’t you think these missionaries are buying you in the name of charity?”<br /><br />So you can just imagine what ensued. I just closed my eyes and prayed that our tour company wouldn’t<br />a) poison us while we are on the mountain<br />b) throw us off a cliff<br />c) take us the wrong way and leave us to fend for ourselves like Hansel and Grethel<br />d) do all of the above unless we all converted<br /><br />After this awkward discussion, The Dawg tried to do damage control by asking David to give him a list of great Tanzianian music. <em>Kuch kuch hota hai</em> and <em>Oops I did it again</em> featured in the top 10.<br /><br />At 2 am, David took leave after dropping us off at the <a href="http://www.utalii.com/Hotels/newarusha.htm">New Arusha hotel </a>where Bill Clinton had apparently stayed- probably when he was trying to hide from paparazzi. Actually speaking it wasn’t bad at all. One of the nicer hotels with a lovely courtyard garden, an uber rich desi owner and an inefficient front desk. A few towels missing, the mosquito screen fluttering away from the window shouldn’t be that much of a concern. It definitely confused the mosquitoes. And oh, we had to start using our headlamps in the hotel itself whenever there were power outages. Sometimes rudely in the middle of watching Aljazeera on TV. The hotel was still very welcome after the 24-hour flight from Pittsburgh. We went up to our rooms salivating for local fare and decided to order some ugali that David was talking about. From the choice of Burger, pasta and steak, pasta seemed as close to African food as it could get. Pi looked at the dessert menu and did a little jig when he noticed chocolate mousse. When the order arrived, we saw some guey pink mass. ‘Sir, that’s passion fruit mousse. We didn’t have chocolate mousse. It’s one and same.’ We got billed for it.<br /><br />A little observation on passion fruit- it’s better inside a face cream than a fruit.Alphahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12847330212442513441noreply@blogger.com10