India 2025 – Andrew Rich

It was January 27, 2025, cold and clear and one week prior to our planned departure for India. Like so many of our travels, this one occurred extemporaneously over a glass of wine and a look at a Lonely Planet book with must see places. The decision was made, our air fare was purchased, and we sat back to wonder what we had done. And little wonder because as we delved into the details of where we wanted to go, we found that getting around in this huge country is difficult. Trains and air are available, but getting tickets and reserving seats is difficult. Getting around by car is, in many cases, the most practical solution but common sense dictated that I wasn’t going to drive and finding reliable drivers proved to be yet another obstacle. So, we turned to a travel guide for help, the first time we’ve done this sort of thing since we first began to travel. We selected India Unbound, a decision that turned out to be excellent.

This trip proved challenging in other ways. Western Civilization was a required course of study for both of us in undergraduate school, a one year regimen. There was no similar requirement that we learn anything at all about the East. It was if as though only Europe and North America had any relevance. One consequence is a huge hole in our understanding of the geography, culture, language, and religion of parts of the world where billions of people have lived. Of course, over time we’ve both acquired some knowledge that has been helpful, and we’ve traveled to China, Thailand, Viet Nam, Indonesia, Japan, and South Korea. Still, India presented a lot to comprehend. I set about trying to summarize a little bit about what we might encounter.

The Indian subcontinent is a term that describes a physiographical region in South Asia, i.e., one that is independent of political boundaries. In this sense, it includes the political areas of Bangladesh, Bhutan, India, the Maldives, Nepal, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka. The term is often used interchangeably with South Asia although Afghanistan is sometimes included. It is vast geographically and culturally. I have been able to merely scratch at the surface.

India occupies the vast majority of South Asia. It is comprised of 28 states and eight union territories, the distinction being significant. States have their own elected governments while union territories are governed directly by India. India is bordered on the west by Pakistan, which abuts along the northwest, and by the Arabian Sea toward the south. Directly north and along the northeast are China and Nepal. A finger extends eastward, with China and Bhutan to the north and Bangladesh and Myanmar to the south. The Bay of Bengal forms the remainder of the eastern side with Sri Lanka lying off the southeastern tip across the Palk Strait.

India is the seventh largest country in the world, only surpassed by Russia, Canada, the US, China, Brazil, and Australia. There are three major relief areas, the Himalayans to the north, the Indo-Gangetic Plain below, and the Deccan or plateau region to the south. The Deccan, a name derived from Sanskrit meaning “south,” describes a plateau marked on either side by “ghats,” or escarpments that meet at the tip of the peninsula.

On December 31, 1600, the East India Company, a joint stock entity, was created by royal charter in England. Its purpose was trade in East Asia and India. It controlled much of India until a revolt in 1857 that led to a good part of the Indian Subcontinent coming under the direct control of the British crown, the British Raj. It continued until 1947 when a subdivision occurred leading to the creation of India and Pakistan, a partition driven largely by religious differences but also by numerous other complex issues. Pakistan is largely Muslim and at the time of the partition it included Bangladesh; India is largely Hindu, although there are large populations of Muslims, Sikhs, Jains, Buddhists, Christians and smaller groups.

Religion in India is a bewildering mix of Hinduism, Islam, Buddhism, Sikhism, Christianity, and Jainism, along with many other belief systems. The vast majority of Indians, some 80 percent, are Hindu with Muslims comprising the second largest group at about 15 percent. India is the birthplace of Buddhism, Hinduism, Sikhism, and Jainism.

The origin of Buddhism is typically attributed to Gautama Buddha who may have lived in the fifth or sixth century BCE. While his teachings spread throughout the eastern part of the world, Buddhism began to decline in India almost disappearing after the collapse of the Gupta Empire in the seventh century CE. Some recent censuses estimate that there are more than eight million Buddhists in India, a large number but only a very small percentage of the total Indian population.

Islam came to India as well as many other parts of the world in the seventh century CE, originally by way of Arab traders and then later by invasions. The 1947 partition that ended the British Raj led to the displacement and death of large numbers of Indians. Today, it is estimated that more than 200 million Indians are Muslim, the third largest such population in the world.

Sikhism is relatively modern, originating in the 15th century CE in India at a time of religious persecution. Sikhs typically do not proselytize and reject the argument that there is any monopoly on absolute truth. Sikh men do not cut their hair and typically wear a turban. It is estimated that worldwide there are between 25 and 30 million Sikhs most of them in India.

Hinduism, practiced or observed by vast numbers of adherents, is perhaps one of the oldest religious belief systems in the world. It is also one of the most elusive. The Supreme Court of India has described it as follows:

“Unlike other religions in the World, the Hindu religion does not claim any one Prophet, it does not worship any one God, it does not believe in any one philosophic concept, it does not follow any one act of religious rites or performances; in fact, it does not satisfy the traditional features of a religion or creed. It is a way of life and nothing more.”

It embodies beliefs that range from theistic to atheism, centered on “dharma,” a cosmic order that is maintained by living righteously and exercising various rituals.

As we waited to be pushed back in Seattle for departure to London, we had a beautiful sunset to watch out our window.

We arrived in Delhi in the early morning hours of February 6 and were confronted with an antiquated Indian system of passport and visa protocols that seemed to take a very long time. We had all the necessary documentation, and passed through to the outside where we looked in vain for transportation to our lodgings. Although someone was there, we never connected and so we hired a taxi. It took an hour to navigate from the airport to Old Delhi where we would spend spend four nights including the first one that was quite abbreviated.

DELHI

Our introduction to India was a mixture of disbelief, shock, and apprehension. Our driver stopped at a point where the road narrowed and then stopped, and he pointed down a narrow lane not more than six feet wide and told us in broken English that our lodgings, Haveli Dharampura, were “down there.”

Marsha at the entrance to Haveli Dharampura.

We refused to get out of the car, and so he left on foot and returned fifteen minutes later to report that he had successfully located our hotel and that we should follow him. It was 4 a.m. and the lanes were full of people preparing street stands where they would sell produce and other products. There were people sleeping in the lane, dogs roaming, and piles of debris, all suggesting a world we were unprepared to meet. Soon, a man met us with a hand truck and we were then soon escorted to Haveli Dharampura, a nondescript opening that led to an inner courtyard area and several levels. We were offered a welcoming drink and greeted with Indian gestures and cordiality, and after our passports had been processed we were escorted up two floors to a room secured by a huge padlock. Inside were comfortable lodgings, a soft bed, and some welcome respite.

After two or three hours of sleep, we ate Delhi omelettes and ventured out into a third world that rivals many of our earlier adventures. Our first destination was the famous Red Fort, constructed by Shah Jahan in the 17th century. It is huge, celebrated today as the site where the Indian flag of independence was raised in 1947 when the British relinquished control. There was a decent museum devoted to the history of Indian efforts to become emancipated and atrocities committed by the British over its period of dominance.

To get there, we had to cross through Chandi Chowk, an area of unbelievable chaos that can only be appreciated by trying to navigate it.

There is a Main Street that is virtually impossible to cross on foot without steel nerves, careful attention, and at least ten other people trying the same thing that offer some cushion and moral support. Along either side are streets and alleyways that are open bazaars, navigated by tuk tuks, bicycle taxis, motor cycles, and vehicles. Everyone has a horn and everyone uses it as often as possible so that it is impossible to hear anything or make sense of what is endangering you. All one knows is that death or permanent maim is imminent all around. There is street food everywhere, some of which we will experiment with under the guidance of our hotel, hawkers, touts, people sleeping in awkward conditions, turbaned Sihks, muslim women, very few western looking people, and tangles of electrical wires. We stood out, Marsh being asked several times if she would pose for a picture. It is a gawker’s paradise for so long as one can stand the noise and threat of collision.

We negotiated all of this to find a place to eat lunch, Al-Jawabar, where we dined on Dal Fry, a paneer, and naan washed down with filtered water.

Diwan-i-Am, the Hall of Public Audience inside the Red Fort.

I would have gladly imbibed a cold beer but none was offered. Marsh reported on the toilet, as she always does, with a detailed description of the the “squatter,” the need for a large pitcher of water to make it all go away, and her belief that it was probably a better system than the one we have in our hotel. I smiled and tried to act interested because I know this is an important issue. Easy for me to say, I suppose, because I always get to stand and I never consider – ever – a public “sit down,” my belief being that some things are always better done at home.

Not far from the restaurant is the famous Jama Masjid Mosque, also constructed by Shah Jahan, a fabulous structure that accommodates 25,000 people. We climbed one of the minarets where we had splendid views of Old Delhi and a lot of wind. It has only been here and in Indonesia where we have been able to enter a muslim mosque.

Upon return to our lodgings, we were invited to watch kites being flown from the top balcony,

Marsha, highly amused, flying a kite off the roof of Haveli Dharampura.

an endeavor practiced by many Indians as evidenced by failed flights that littered the roof tops around us. Marsh flew one for a time and was immensely amused. We had dinner at the hotel, entertained by Indian singers and instrumentalists performing music unlike anything we would ever hear in the West. And, then it was off to try and adjust.

On our second full day, we took an extended guided walking tour through Old Delhi, a conclave of more than 7,000 “streets.” Some of them accommodate automobiles and trucks but most are narrow passages where people walk, are transported by rickshaw, ride motor bikes, or are carried about in tuk tuks.

It is a thriving, chaotic environment. Our guide told us that on certain festival days or holidays, it is impossible to even walk these lanes without being carried about by the movement of the crowds.

Our tour took us to three temples where we were granted entrance under the tutelage of our guide who professed to be Hindu. The first was a Hindu temple where we were required to remove shoes and socks and walk through a din of cymbals and bells on top of marble walkways that were sometimes covered in tattered throw rugs. We were introduced to a pantheon of gods and a smattering of the belief system, but I know from my own research that defining Hinduism is virtually impossible. We were “blessed” at one station by someone with authority who placed a yellow marking on our foreheads followed by a garland of flowers around our necks. The nature of the blessing is obscure although I can say that so far, many hours later, I’m not yet sick from eating street food. The environment was a din, with debris everywhere and with people worshipping in public ways we don’t understand. It is a form of religious observance that lies at the extreme opposite of what we see in Christian setting in the West.

We were transported by rickshaw for a portion of our Old Delhi tour.

Our next temple was devoted to Jainism, another religion that significant numbers of Indians subscribe to. Again, we removed shoes and socks and meandered through a labyrinth where people worshipped by spreading items of food, burning incense, and ringing large bells sometimes very aggressively. Jains are committed to preserving all forms of life including insects, many wearing masks to prevent the accidental inhalation of a flying bug. Again, the rituals, the din, the setting were foreign and difficult to comprehend.

Our final destination was a Sikh temple, by far the most beautiful and well maintained. Once more, we removed shoes and socks, this time cleansing our feet in a small pool before entering. Inside, a large area was reserved for those seeking meditation, encouraged by music being performed by three performers, one who sang, one who played a harmonium, and one who played drums. I was personally unable to even hear myself think so meditation was out of the question. I was fascinated to watch the performers. Upon closer inspection I could see that while they were dressed traditionally and appeared as though they might have a century ago, they were relying on an iPad.

From the temples we returned to Chandni Chowk where our guide promised us that we could find anything. And, indeed, in the spice market we found spices and teas that were, well, mind bending to the tune of something in excess of $600. Marsh was aware all the while but I was astounded to learn what we had spent. It was a colorful, mind bending experience.

We turned to street food, and our guide introduced us to an extraordinary culinary experience, one where there was a complete lack of any ambience or comfort, but one where the tastes and variety of food were simply divine. Our first exposure might have been the best, a concoction of food that we ate standing up in the midst of cacaphony with no napkins or other accompaniments. We ate with small wooden spoons and fantastic naan. At another “establishment” we sat at a small table that only accommodated us, eating real yoghurt and naan swabbed in ghee accompanied by a cottage cheese that had been deep fried. A man stood on the cooking area that I could touch in bare and pretty dirty feet to reach an implement high over head. It was not an experience for the finicky.

There were monkeys everywhere, running along roof tops, crawling along wires, and sometimes down in the street. There were cows that wandered the roads and lanes freely. The cows have owners, we were told, and they have to be found and tethered for the night. If not, they are taken to a “shelter” where they are cared for while the owners are located and fined. Still, when you are walking along and confronted with a big cow with horns, it’s disconcerting. Dinner was yet again in the hotel, a safe haven, where we were entertained by dancers dressed in traditional garb.

On our last day in Delhi, we ventured south into New Delhi, the eighth and final iteration of this fascinating city. Most scholars agree that there are eight historical cities of Delhi, New Delhi only coming to fruition in the early 20th century. We reached it using Uber.

I think a personal injury lawyer might at first think that working in Delhi would be a gold mine given the way people operate anything with wheels. It’s curious that in a nation where life is revered and religion reigns, once anyone gets hold of a steering wheel or handle bars, the meaning and purpose of life is consumed by a loud symphony of horns and a desire to squeeze anyone and everything out of a line of travel.

My conclusion is that a personal injury lawyer would have a hard time here because everyone is at fault from the moment they’ve started moving. Our last ride of the day was the worst, our vehicle appearing as though it had been mauled in a junk yard and our driver telling us nonchalantly that seat belts were “not necessary,” (even though he wore one), good advice since there weren’t any. Our way home was hair raising and I just shut my eyes more than once and hoped.

We spent a good part of the morning and early afternoon at Qutb Minar Complex, an ancient ruin that celebrates Muslim rule. It includes the Qutb Minar, a 12th century tower or minaret that stands 73 meters tall, the much more ancient Iron Pillar, and the first mosque ever constructed in India. Our visit was fascinating.

We spent a good portion of the afternoon at Humayun’s Tomb, said to be the inspiration for the Taj Mahal. His tomb is huge, beautifully proportioned, and elaborately decorated. It employs the strict rules of Islamic geometry and the six sided star, yes, the Star of David, is prominent everywhere.

The tomb lies within a huge area where other tombs and mausoleums can be viewed, none as spectacular as Humayun’s but all impressive and beautiful.

Our ride home left us a bit rattled. Given the state of traffic, our driver suggested that we walk the last few hundred yards, one that Marsh had strong words for that she only expressed after we were walking. We found ourselves stumbling along a road over run with noise, debris, people, tuk tuks, touts, fires, carts, stray dogs, and a monkey or two. It was an experience.

The next morning, we were introduced to Indian Unbound by a young man who introduced himself as our “assistant,” who accompanied us down the lane with our bags to a waiting car that whisked us off southward toward Jaipur.

JAIPUR

Cows in India are controversial, considered sacred by Hindus and some Jains, generally safe from being killed intentionally, but incredible problems. We encountered a few in Delhi wandering around in the midst of traffic and we saw many more as we traveled south toward Jaipur. They congregated at garbage dumps and consumed whatever they could find. They are the cause of many highway accidents. They are sometimes unfriendly.

As we drove south, we passed through miles and miles of dreary countryside, marked at times with fields of blooming mustard seed. Villages dot the landscape, always dirty and overcome with garbage and debris. Huge trucks take up the highway, decorated often quite elaborately with dangling baubles of one kind or another that are intended to confer good luck. There are lane lines, but no one pays the slightest attention to them, and the horn reigns supreme. Our driver expertly drove all over the available lanes, sometimes more or less in one and more often following a line that would allow him to squeeze into a narrow opening that offered brief respite ahead. He was a liberal user of the horn, and he told us that three things are required in order to drive: good brakes, a good horn, and good luck. And, I believe it. All who drive here must wake each morning with a confirmed belief that they will rise the next day with intact organs and limbs.

We passed through an area where monkeys congregate on designated days to be fed by people who believe that it brings good luck. There is abject poverty everywhere, people living and eating on the streets, begging, but also working very hard at something. Often, it’s selling trinkets at a traffic stop, sweeping a sidewalk, or carrying an enormous load. It’s a stark reminder to us of how fortunate (lucky) we are.

A Purple Sunbird that frequented a tree outside our room. Our charming host called it a hummingbird.

We arrived in Jaipur in the early afternoon and were introduced to our host, a charming, voluble man who regaled us with stories of wildlife he had encountered, how to photograph a hummingbird, and when a gin and tonic might be appropriate. Our room was splendid.

The Hawa Mahal, the iconic structure that once provided a means for the royal family to watch processions without being seen.

We were in the middle of old Jaipur, the Pink City. Dera Mandawa, located within walking distance of the Moon Gate,

The Moon Gate, one of many that once provided access to the city. It is painted “pink,” a reddish color required by law.

is a small boutique property built by Thakur Jait Singji of Mandawa for his visits to Jaipur to attend the court of the Maharaja. Over the years it has been further developed as each generation added new wings, rooms and arches in architectural styles prevalent during their time. The property is a mix of influences, adorned with Rajasthani jharokhas (awnings) and arches together with British inspired door frames, colorful local motifs, and quiet nooks and corners.

We took an afternoon photography tour with a young man who was much more interested in talking to us about the history of Jaipur and himself than taking pictures. He loved this city. Between my poor hearing and my inability to understand an accent, I understood a small amount of what he was saying. But, we saw a monkey temple, yes one dominated by the little critters, and bazaars in the midst of the old city.

From a rooftop, piles of turbans are piled for delivery to a vendor.

Working elephants sauntered down a main street In Jaipur while we watched from a nearby rooftop.

At one point, two working elephants meandered down a main road.

Our evening meal occurred outside under a glorious moon and was followed by a colorful marionette show accompanied by an indigenous woman who played a drum that was laid across her lap and strung on both ends. She “sang,” or rather screeched a tuneless wail. Our host periodically stood to remind us what was happening.

Jaipur, the Pink City, gained its proper name from its founder, the great warrior and astronomer, Jai Singh II. Initially, an orange-pink paint was used to adorn the city walls to make up for a paucity of good facing stone. In 1876, the Prince of Wales visited and the city was freshly painted pink, and this color is today compelled by law.

Our first morning began with porridge – a palatable cereal made more so with honey, milk and a banana – and an assortment of eggs, fruit, toast, and coffee. We met a second guide. On our way to the Amber Fort, we stopped to photograph the Hawa Mahal, an iconic structure first built to provide a means for royal ladies to watch the processions and city festivities.

On a street, a man plays an oboe like instrument and causes a cobra to rise from a basket nearby.

On the sidewalk were two snake charmers who played long oboe like instruments and encouraged two cobras to rise up and threaten all who dared approach. We were assured they were harmless, but I declined an invitation to sit next to them.

The Amber Fort, located some 11 kilometers outside of present day Jaipur was once the capital.

The Amber Fort, a stunning spectacle from across a lake.

It is a magnificent structure built of sandstone and marble and rises high above the environs below. It is difficult to reach, but the intrepid can walk, those who care little for the welfare of animals can ride an elephant, or a jeep can be hired. We chose the latter and clattered our way up to the very top stopping briefly to examine and photograph an ancient step well. The well was originally fed by monsoon rains that filled its cavernous basin.

A step well filled during the monsoons. In the dry season, as the well level lowered, access to water was possible through steps. Here, a wedding couple pose.

The walls contain multiple steps that allowed patrons to go downward to the surface of the water as it receded during the dry season.

The fort itself is a magnificent architectural achievement. It is surrounded by a long defensive wall built to protect inhabitants from muslim invaders. Eventually, the fort was abandoned and a new city built following ancient Hindu geometric ideas. The result is a precise city built on a grid that lies on east to west and north to south streets.

Along the way to and from the fort, we saw much more. We are regaled every few hours by the call to prayer that is issued from loud speakers strategically placed throughout the city. It’s not that disruptive in the midst of the cacophony of the daytime city, but in the middle of the night it’s not that pleasant.

Our second full day began with another dose of porridge. The call to prayer occurred earlier, at the hint of daylight, determined by carefully calibrated calculations of the angle at which the sun is positioned. A muezzin “sings” the call through loudspeakers that are attached to the tops of minarets that are found throughout the city. This assures that no one will escape it.

After breakfast, we went to a large wholesale market area where vegetables and flowers are sold.

A chaotic and colorful morning market devoted to vegetables and flowers, one of the most interesting we’ve ever seen.

Without much doubt, it’s the most colorful market we’ve ever seen, and we’ve seen many all over the world. Fresh vegetables are brought here early each morning and there is much haggling, shouting, and gesticulating in which large quantities are taken off to restaurants, large households, and the like. Women of all ages carry huge loads on their heads, a sight that is unbelievable unless you see it. The loads are often huge, weighing 80 kilograms – that’s 176 pounds. Two men lift huge bags placing them on top of a padded device on top of the woman’s head and off she goes to deliver it.

The flowers are immensely colorful, largely confined only to the actual bud itself. This being the wedding season, they are in high demand. They are laced into necklaces and used in other ways. They are also very important for festivals that appear to occur all the time.

We returned to Hawa Mahal, that beautiful, iconic structure where we started our adventures yesterday, and walked some distance toward Isarlat, the Victory Tower,

which we climbed for magnificent views of the city. We passed through and along shops devoted to kitchen wares and sewing machines. Each shop is tiny and faces out to the street. The walkway is over run with people, debris, and noise.

Later, we walked again from our hotel toward the Moon Gate, one of seven that allow entrance into the old city. It is difficult to adequately describe the chaos, the noise, the throngs of people, the horns, and the variety of vehicles that are in use. Crossing a street is an exercise in determination and a profound belief that it’s not yet your time to die.

We were constantly hounded by tuk tuk drivers. Occasionally, we were accosted by a beggar of some sort although not as often as we sometimes are in Portland. On all sides in the meanwhile were the vendors of anything you can imagine, sometimes on the walkway, often atop any available wall, always in the actual shops, and frequently on a cart of some sort being pushed along. In the street were cars, motorcycles, horse drawn carriages, an occasional camel, an elephant or so, bicycles, buses, and a stray dog or two. One must use extreme caution when placing a foot on any area of any kind.

We walked in areas where there were no westerners or tourists. Children of all ages smiled at us, waved, and said “hi” or “hello.” Many other adults smiled or waved or greeted us. While most or all of these people live in a poverty we can’t begin to imagine, they have been gracious and welcoming. We both have been overcome at times with what a remarkable people they are.

GOA

Before the sun rose in Jaipur, we were being whisked to the Jaipur International Airport. Alas, no porridge at that hour. We had to settle for hot hard boiled eggs and a little salt.

Our flight to Goa was just under two hours, this tiny state being located about 1,000 miles almost due south. It lies on the coast

A lengthy beach, not all that picturesque or pleasant, that lies along the Arabian Sea.

and was dominated colonially by Portugal until 1961, years after the British had ceded most of India. We drove for about an hour to our new lodgings, Vicenda dos Palhacos Villa, operated by an English couple who have lived in Goa for many years. The property was eclectic, full of photographs, over run with Basset Hounds, and not far from the Arabian Sea. Our rooms included a spacious, very old bedroom, with a bed on a raised platform covered in mosquito netting and a separate bath area with an antiquated shower hidden behind plastic drapes. The water was warmed by solar power. Our hostess expressed dismay at the election of Trump and the potential damage he will do.

A common House Crow visited us at the pool.

The current capital of Goa is Panaji located on the banks of the Mandovi River about an hour away from our lodgings. As the river nears its mouth before entering the Arabian Sea, the waters are full of huge floating casinos. They are frequented largely by Asians who come here to gamble. Europeans, particularly the British, flock here to lounge on the beaches and shop. We took a long walk through the old Latin Quarter with a guide we had difficulty understanding where structures many hundreds of years old still stand many rebuilt to house modern business and homes. We were both left with the impression that the areas we visited were an Indian version of Cannon Beach.

We had excellent red snapper for dinner, the best I’ve ever had, at a restaurant that looked out toward the sea. It was a bit of surrealism to think we were in this exotic and romantic locale. Our table was placed in the sand not far from a gentle surf. There was a quiet sunset, a martini that wasn’t, and a very pleasant evening.

The principal languages are different here as is the mix of religions. Hinduism is subscribed to by some 60% of the population while 30% are Christians. The Muslim population is minimal, and there have been no calls to prayer.

Instead, we were escorted to the Church of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary, the title of which informs all of us that our origins were brought about by that nasty business that hopefully occurred behind closed doors.

After a leisurely morning breakfast of scrambled eggs on Indian toast, we went north again, this time into old Goa where the capital was once located. Known as the “Rome of the East” in the sixteenth century, with a population that exceeded that of London and Lisbon, it rose in power and influence for over 100 years until cholera, malaria and episodes of the plague brought widespread misery and destruction. The capital was moved downstream to Panaji where it remains today.

There are numerous towering cathedrals and churches that remain and that are maintained, but only are still in use. There is a sense of what the city must have been like. The highlight of the area is the Basilica de Bom Jesus where the body of St. Francis Xavier is entombed inside a windowed casket. The story, as I understood it from our guide and a little research, is fascinating.

One of the cathedrals, carefully maintained but not used as a place of worship.

St. Francis Xavier’s missionary forays throughout the far east were legendary, but they came to a tragic end when he was stricken with illness in China and died. His body was covered in lime and buried but some time later a decision was made to exhume the remains and return them to Goa. But, when his tomb was opened, the body was there as though he had just died, without rigor or stench. Obviously, it was a miracle, a fact established by a litany of people who witnessed and examined the body.

A “surgeon” removed an arm so that it could be taken to Rome and displayed as a relic in the Church of the Gesu where it is today. It was apparently a good will gesture of some kind to spread the wealth. Meanwhile, during an exposition of the body, a woman bit off a small toe while kissing a foot, and its whereabouts remains unclear as is an explanation for how and why that occurred. The identity of the woman is unknown. In any event, the body was returned to Goa and entombed inside a casket that can be seen through and then placed on a high pedestal where glimpses of the still intact corpse are possible.

At certain times, the casket is lowered so that people can pass by and view the body. Our guide reported that he twice stood in a lengthy line and viewed the corpse himself, showing us a photograph as proof. Sure enough St. Francis Xavier is there as though he might awake at any moment. It is an extraordinary story, made more so by the legions of believers including our otherwise very knowledgeable guide who subscribe to the miracle.

The many cathedrals and churches that we visited are typical Romanesque style structures, some with beautiful teak wood, local limestone, and soaring towers. They are certainly a testament to the influence of the Portuguese. But, on the whole they pale in scope and scale compared to the many European cathedrals we’ve seen.

There are three languages in wide use here, Konkani, Hindi, and English. All three are required in schools. I was again humbled as I encountered people much less fortunate than me who are fluent in my language and their own.

We made yet another useless effort to acquire a real martini, this time being served something that appeared to be largely vermouth with a tiny splash of gin. Marsh ordered olives, and she got eight or ten, that made it all the worse. At lunch, I ordered Eight Fingered Eddie, an Indian IPA that was obviously fake. But, Indian wines are quite good and they know how to make gin and tonic if you dare ask for ice. The food has ranged from mediocre in a few cases to just excellent, real Indian food being incredibly imaginative, flavorful, and typically hot.

We walked to the beach, an endless stretch of sand mixed with a silica that gives it a certain shine. Along the way, Marsh bought two dresses for 800 rupees after dickering the poor vendor down from 1,200. That amounts to about $10. The Arabian Sea stretches outward and the wind blows. It is beautiful in its own way, but after experiencing an Oregon beach it’s hard to be overwhelmed.

HAMPI

After a breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast without the toast and an Indian version of a pancake that isn’t a pancake, we departed for Hampi by car. Our original plan was to take a train, but construction problems meant that we had to go by car. It was an arduous journey, beginning with narrow and windy roads, hundreds of motorcycles, numerous huge trucks, and endless small villages where we passed roadside vendors, women in saris and burqas, debris, rubble, lots of cows, many dogs, men in turbans, and an occasional monkey.

The subcontinent is remarkable, the Western Ghats (a mountain range) and the Eastern Ghats defining the coastal areas and meeting at the southern end. We climbed through the Western Ghats, with an average height of 4,000 feet, by way of narrow roads that sometimes deteriorated into nothing more than a dirt track. We emerged, finally, and found ourselves on the Deccan Plateau, a large area that covers a good part of central India and averages about 2,000 feet. The roads began to straighten and the landscape changed dramatically.

At Hubbolli, we stopped for lunch in a place recommended by our driver where we were served thali, rice accompanied by eight or ten small dishes of something vegetarian, as well as a lime/mint beverage. And, then it was onto a freeway of sorts that was concrete laid by people who were intent on creating havoc. There seemed to be waves so that when we reached 120 km an hour, there was a somewhat rhythmic jolt that threatened neck injury for the sleepy or a severed tongue for those asleep and gaping.

On either side were fields of peanuts, chickpeas, sorghum, melons, and vegetables. Herds of water buffalo, goats, and sheep were tended by crowds of people that seemed immune to a heat which was in the mid 90s. As we approached Hampi, small fields of rice began to appear, lush and green, tended by people wading in bare feet.

The fantastic, other worldly landscape of Hampi.

We arrived at Hampi Boulders Resort in the late afternoon after seven long hours in the car.

It is situated at Narayanapet, Karnataka, on the banks of the Tungabhadra River in the Yamini Hills some seven kms from the Vijayanager era temple ruins. We were ushered into a delightful room that looked out over the river, and the site of Hindu history. Alcohol was not allowed in the dining area, a crisis that we dealt with by turning to a supply of whiskey. The setting was spectacular. The resort is characterized by a fascinating network of water eroded boulders. There are just 16 cottages and an effort had been made to construct the cottages in harmony with the environment.

A UNESCO World Heritage site, Hampi is famous for the ruins of Vijayanagara (“City of Victory”), which formed one of the core areas of the capital of the Vijayanagara Empire from 1343 to 1565. The landscape is one dotted with heaps of giant boulders that are piled upon one another sometimes precariously and always in stunning, picturesque vistas. In any open area, brilliant jade colored rice paddies and banana plantations provide a stark contrast to the brown and rust of the strewn about boulders. The Hindu epic, Ramayana, describes Hampi as Kishkinda or the realm of the monkey gods. And, indeed, Anjaneya Hill is dedicated to Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god. In 1336, Harihararaya chose Hampi as the site of his new capital Vijayanagar. Over the next two centuries it grew into one of the largest Hindu empires in Indian history. Two hundred years later, it was a thriving metropolis of more than 500,000 people. But, then a Deccan confederacy of Muslims razed almost everything to the ground, a stroke from which the kingdom never recovered. What was left is a stunning series of temples, halls, bazaars, baths, and sculptures all exhibiting a wondrous imagination. While the Muslims tried to destroy everything, they left, interestingly, structures that employed Islamic idea, certain arches, for example. We are the beneficiaries.

Salmon Rushdie wrote Victory City, an allegorical account of the creation and ultimate demise of Bisnaga, the capital of what is known as Vijayanagara. I’ve tried, without a lot of success, to read and understand it. It was recommended to me by an Urgent Care physician’s assistant who told me I would be fine just before we left for India.

A group of school boys surrounded Marsha, intent on having their pictures taken.

On our first day, after an edible but uninspired breakfast served by surly young men who didn’t seem to have any sense of hospitality, our driver took us to a wine merchant that he recommended where we were able to replenish a liquor inventory that was by then exhausted. The establishment was a small, dank room with perhaps 40 bottles of wine on shelves behind a counter, all encrusted with dust. The room was full of what I presume were infidels but I didn’t dare ask. There was an incredible din, and our vendor happily climbed on top of the counter before guys in bare feet to reach our selections.

Our guide was knowledgeable and interesting, speaking with a lisp that made his language difficult to understand. He spoke at length with our driver in the local language called Kannada (K-uh-na-da).

A typical carving in stone, at the entrance of one of the temples we visited. the depiction is so elegant but also one that conveys an appreciation of life and happiness.

The Stone Chariot, an image on the 50 rupee note and an iconic representation of India’s cultural heritage.

A dancing arena where various pillars are “tuned” to make specific sounds when struck with a mallet or long stick.

There are at least 26 different languages in India, many of them sharing the same script derived from Sanskrit. We visited numerous sites, all fascinating, all ancient.

We passed through numerous villages where cows wandered at will, goats wandered along the streets in large herds, bulls pulled large carts, and the Indian people milled. Many were workers on the farms and could be seen crowded into tuk tuks or larger trailers being pulled by tractors. The heat was over powering. There were rice paddies everywhere, and we learned that most people eat rice two or three times every day. The paddies were brilliantly green and carefully tended. It is a labor intensive effort, all the planting and tending done by hand, the harvesting done by a small machine, and then loading and transporting all done largely by hand.

Late in the afternoon, we took a “river walk” guided by a man who spoke only three or four words of English, the major one of which was “come.”

A walkway, constructed haphazardly with bamboo, wire, and posts.

We followed him out along a pathway that crossed the river by way of long walkways constructed of bamboo, long poles, and wire. After crossing, we climbed up through a series of tunnels cut into a pile of rocks to reach a summit where we had marvelous views of the valley. He lit our way with a small flashlight that was inadequate. The whole experience was an American lawsuit about to be filed, but of course we were in India.

The following morning, we were again “guided” by the same man who took us along a long arc that passed through two adjoining properties, around several bodies of water, and then back to our accommodations. We explored some of this further detail on our own after breakfast, seeing monkeys, Ibis, a crocodile, herons, and a host of other birds. We checked out in early afternoon and departed with our driver to again meet our guide who took us to see more of the monuments and introduced us to a fabulous stroll along the river.

We had a full day of wandering the property where we stayed in Hampi. At one point we came upon a crocodile sunning itself on the pathway. There are flocks of white Ibis, monkeys, and a wide variety of other wildlife. Brilliant green rice paddies occupy every available space that is arable. The river was much higher and we were told that a release had occurred at an upstream dam.

A Macaque monkey along our morning meanderings.

A crocodile, all but submerged, floated effortlessly along the pond.

The water, vegetation, and sky were brilliant.

Our afternoon was occupied with more monuments, several climbs up to vantages that provided splendid vistas, and an 11 story Hindu temple that we visited. The day was extraordinaryly hot, typical for this time of year. We tried to be cautious by consuming copious amounts of water, sometimes infused with hydration tablets. We are among a very few westerners, the vast majority of the crowds being Indian tourists.

We had lunch at a place recommended by our driver where we sat in a sweltering area arranged with long tables that we shared with local people. Many of them, particularly men, ate with their hands, scooping gobs of rice mixed with various sauces and sometimes rolled into naan. At the end of the room was a large washing area where people went to clean themselves.

Inside the Hindu temple, we encountered a group of monkeys, numerous young people who wanted to greet us or have a photograph of us, and an elderly man with poor dental hygiene who insisted that Trump was a good guy. That exchange did not go well. We passed through a line where we each were given a blessing that included a daub of red paint on our foreheads.

From a high point, we watched a beautiful sunset, so different this close to the equator.

A typical Indian sunset, happening quickly and often through a haze that turned the sun a brilliant red.

The sun seems to sink so very rapidly turning a brilliant yellow and gold, with complete darkness following shortly thereafter. We found an evening meal at a very nice restaurant not far from the train station where we had excellent food, a huge quantity of water, a bottle of wine, and a pleasant breeze from artificial fans placed not that strategically.

From there, it was off to the night train, an experience I wasn’t looking forward to and I can say without reservation in retrospect that my feelings of angst were fully justified. Our very kind and helpful driver stood with us on the platform to assure that we were in the right place at the right time, assistance that we wouldn’t need in any other train station. Here, knowing where to be and when is an art.

MYSORE OR MYSURU

Our night on the train was miserable, although we managed to board and find our berths without too much difficulty. Our accommodations were spare, including a bench that was long enough for me to lie down upon and an upper berth where Marsh able to access with a little help. There were clean pillows and a blanket, and the door locked. There were no other creature comforts. The train moved laboriously with periodic lurches that made sleep all but impossible. The train was electric, but everything about it suggested that we were on a stage coach traversing a rutted, uneven, broken road. But, we were secure, and all that was required was endurance.

We arrived in Myrusu after a very long 12 hours, most in the dark so that any hope of spending time watching a passing landscape was out of the question. As we approached our destination, I went to find the nearest exit and found a door wide open. There were no warnings. It was on the wrong side of the train, the door that we needed for exit being securely locked. If there had been earlier doubt about being in a different world, all was erased. We had earlier been advised to avoid train food, a suggestion we took seriously. As the day began to lighten, we watched a brilliant sunrise.

When we disembarked a new driver met us and suggested that we hire two porters since a flight of narrow stairs had to be negotiated. Each lifted a bag up on his head, weighing nearly 50 pounds, and balanced them there for a long walk to the car. They were barefoot. Soon, we arrived at Efkay’s Home Stay, a large estate nestled among hundreds of trees and set on three acres of land situated in the very heart of the old Mysuru (Mysore) city. We were welcomed and offered a late “real” breakfast that was greatly appreciated and then ushered into a temporary room that was spacious and elegantly appointed where we had time to shower and meet the day. Later, we were ushered into an even larger suite of rooms that included a large study area, a huge bedroom, and a large bathroom. The grounds were interesting and pleasant. rooms. The entire house was decorated elaborately with paintings, knick knacks, memorabilia, china, masks, and other items, an eclectic collection. A young man in bare feet waited on us hand and foot, first serving us a traditional English breakfast that included barely cooked bacon, a lukewarm tomato, eggs, toast, marmalade, and yogurt and then an Indian lunch that included mutton (Marsha refuses anything that smacks of a sheep), assorted vegetables, dal, naan, and white wine.

Above the Debaraja Market, a minaret can be seen. A call to prayer is issued from here several times each day.

After our lunch we joined a young female guide who knew more about American and European history than most of us. She took us to the colorful Debaraja Market, a large structure that houses nearly 800 small vendors who sell everything from vegetables to flowers. Most of the men and women were barefoot and sat in a lotus position where they assembled flowers or arranged fruits, or interacted with passers by. Some carried enormous loads of vegetables or banana leaves or other produce always on their heads.

While a flower vendor works on a display, a cow forages in leafy debris.

Typical flower garlands hung for display.

Cows could be seen wherever there was garbage or possible pickings. They left “cow pies” so that walking was hazardous. They rummaged through piles of debris and they eat anything that was once vegetable. At night, after the huge indoor market closes, cows are allowed to freely roam and they act as “cleaners.” They are sacred and no one bothers them in any way. We ate street food that included sweets, a potato concoction, a cone of puffed rice, and other items. Upon returning to our lodgings, we shared a short time with a fascinating couple, two doctors, who had lived and traveled all over the world.

Myrusu, or Mysore as it was known before 2014, is the site of a palace which is the second most visited place in India, bested only by Agra where the Taj Mahal can be found. It owes its name to the mythological slaying of a demon by the goddess Chamundi in Mahisuru. From 1399 the Wodeyar dynasty reigned. The city is dotted with palaces and monuments, but we returned to the Devaraja Market on our next morning to see it at the beginning of the day. Almost as soon as we got out of the car a young tout approached Marsha and almost immediately convinced her that a puzzle he was selling was something she absolutely had to have. He quoted what I considered to be an outrageous price. Marsh was undeterred. What followed was a series of not so subtle body language movements on my part that more or less screamed NO, all to no avail. Marsh, the usual haggler, soon caved to a price that nearly depleted our available cash and we left with prizes in hand. After finding an ATM, another tout approached with the same puzzle and tried to get my attention with a suggested price that was a fraction of what we just paid. There is a moral to this story.

The market was as colorful and noisy as it was the night before, but fewer people were there, the routine being that supplies are often bought later in the day. The varieties and amounts of flowers are beyond imagination.

Colorful dyes used in weddings and festivals.

We learned that many people have flowers delivered to their homes along with milk every morning. The cows were not yet on hand, so we didn’t have them to contend with. We learned that most of them are domestic and must be taken “home” each evening. If not, they are taken to a shelter and the owner is fined.

The Mysuru Palace was our next stop, royal buildings that are among the grandest in India. The original palace was gutted by fire and the current structure was completed in 1912. It was designed by an English architect, but it embodies Islamic and Hindu ideas. It is in some ways garish, but clearly one can understand why it’s visited.

We had lunch at the Metropole, a big hotel, where we had excellent Biryani, chicken in a rice mixture that included fiery chiles that we were advised to avoid. Our afternoon was consumed by a visit to the Jaganmohan Palace now used as an art gallery. It is a three story, musty, poorly arranged collection of Indian art.

One of the magnificent, some might argue garish, rooms inside the Mysuru Palace.

A hall or room inside the Mysuru Palace.

Our driver tried to convince us to visit a sandalwood factory where we knew we would be given various demonstrations and subjected to an elaborate sales pitch. We declined, particularly in light of Marsh’s earlier performance.

KABINI

Our last evening in Mysuru included an Indian meal at our lodgings, a variety of foods none of which I could identify and none of which I could really eat. The quantities were enormous, but the taste and quality left something to the imagination. The cook did, on the other hand, present a very decent gin and tonic. After an English breakfast the following morning that was quite good, we left for Nagarhole National Park about two hours south of Mysuru. It is flanked by the Kabini River that empties into a huge reservoir that provides a source of irrigation and a watering hole for wildlife.

We passed through numerous small villages where impoverishment is the rule. Dirt is everywhere along with piles of garbage, most of it plastic. The roads were clogged with vehicles of all kinds. Motorcycles or scooters are the mode of transportation for many. A family of four or five will climb aboard, with a two year old standing or sitting in front of the driver, a woman or two sitting sidesaddle, and another clinging to the rear. You might see someone with a goat straddled in front, a victim of something about to happen to it. Or, the scooter might be loaded with produce, gunny sacks filled with something, or in one case two men holding long metal pieces each supporting part of them on a shoulder. Tuk tuks are also common, sometimes filled with six to eight people somehow crammed in or clinging to the end or at other times filled with produce or other product. Cows were everywhere, often strolling down the middle of the road, often with no one in attendance and at other times on a leash. Crowds of women dressed in brilliantly colored saris walked along the road, some with heavy loads on their heads. Men, many barefoot, dressed in typical Indian fashion, walked about with no apparent aim. It is a life we cannot begin to imagine.

We arrived at our accommodations, Kaav, and found ourselves in a comfortable room that that looked out over a dry, featureless landscape. After a decent lunch, we were off on our first jeep safari, crammed into an Isuzu vehicle that hauled about eight of us to the park. From there, we boarded a larger vehicle that was uncomfortable and off we went in search of big cats and elephants.

An Indian Paradisse-flycatcher, a small bird with an impossibly long tail, greeted us upon arrival.

We’ve been on quite a few wildlife tours, and this one won’t rate very high. I ate at least a quart of dust and I’m certain that I avoided a crushed disk only by pure happenstance. We drove up and down and back and forth on roads that were meant only for billy goats looking for tigers and leopards. Alas, we didn’t see any although we did have some brief looks at Langur monkeys, Indian Peafowl, Water Buffalo, an odd bird or two, and a small elephant. The park was a mixture of dry underbrush, some areas of tangled growth, and trees that were mostly leafless.

A Water Buffalo grazed not far from our vehicle.

A small elephant foraged for food just off our roadway.

After three of four tiny bananas, a cookie apparently made with shredded cardboard, and a fast cup of coffee, we left for the morning jeep safari in pitch black. We assumed that temperatures would be temperate and dressed accordingly only to find out that we were driving into a dense fog and that it was suddenly quite cold. For the next several hours we bounced around on roads unfit for vehicles and saw very little that was all that interesting. Our driver did all he could to find a big cat or an elephant but all was in vain. We did experience several hairpin turns, numerous ruts deep enough to drown in, and one backward maneuver when he was convinced that something was up.

The forest we were in is not jungle. Rather, it’s a dry forest with open areas beneath mixed with tangled underbrush. We did see plenty of deer, one variety of which barks like a dog, as well as wild boars, peacocks, monkeys, spotted deer, and some interesting birds. Our return to the camp was a welcome reprieve where we had a good breakfast and a bit of rest.

Our safaris have passed through small villages that try and survive largely on agriculture. Cows, not known for their intellect, wander aimlessly and at will, totally ignoring the horns that are used to suggest they move over. Dogs and people are not that much better. The roads are in a sad state of disrepair so that when there is pavement there is room only for one vehicle and it is therefore obligatory for the outside wheels to use the unpaved part of the road. This combined with numerous potholes, deep cuts across the road, and ubiquitous speed bumps makes for a ride that isn’t really all that superior to the goat tracks we used in the forest.

In the afternoon, we took our third safari, this time on a boat that took us up toward the end of the huge lake that has a been formed artificially by a dam. Again, all hopes of seeing big game were for naught. But, we saw a wide variety of bird life and so it was my day. I wish I could include more photographs because many of the birds we saw are so interesting and colorful.

We’ve had mixed success with safari guides. Some are nearly mute and only suggest something with body language. They might suddenly gesture or become alert and look a certain direction with no explanation. They might suddenly drive backwards at unreasonable speeds scaring anyone with sense into the middle of next week. Others have been more connected to the human psyche, using real words to convey what we might want to see. It’s all been interesting.

Two boys wash an elephant lying on its side in a shallow, muddy waterway along the road.

CALICUT

We left the National Park just after the sun rose to begin a very long drive southwest, descending from the Western Ghats to the coastal plain. At the top, we passed through stunning tea orchards spread over the hills. From areas of extreme poverty, we drove through villages and larger communities that were clearly more prosperous.

A portion of the Western Ghats as we began a long, tortuous descent that followed a narrow road that switched from one direction to another.

Our real destination was Alleppey where would board a house boat to explore the backwaters of western India, but a stop over in Kozhikode was necessary given the distances. Still widely known as Calicut, this bustling city has been a trading center since at least the 14th century. Today, it’s mostly a jumping off point for travelers going to other parts of the country.

Most of the men in this part of India, including our driver while he wasn’t driving, wear a Mundu, a rectangular bolt of cloth often white that is wrapped around the waist. It is worn long, reaching to the ground, but often lifted above the knees and tied so that it provides a form of shorts.

Our accommodations were a home stay in a sprawling, old house where people come to meditate, do yoga, and eat vegetarian food. We were greeted by a woman who daubed our foreheads with oil and ushered us to an eating area for a late vegetarian lunch. Large banana leaves served as plates. We were served a traditional meal that consisted of 12 or 14 different foods including beets, a root that really doesn’t belong on a culinary list of desirables. Some of it was quite good, all topped with tea. Alcohol was strictly forbidden.

After lunch and a brief rest, we took a tuk tuk tour of the city, accompanied by an older man who walked at a glacial pace and mumbled rapidly in a form of English that was incomprehensible. We sat in the back of the tuk tuk, three abreast, our guide adopting the universal posture of the “man spread” so that there was little room for anyone else. I cannot really recommend the tuk tuk, unless you enjoy breathing exhaust fumes, have no fear of imminent death from larger vehicles trying to either block or get past, and are immune to the incessant use of the horn by everyone who has one. For some reason, I sat in the middle, squeezed on my right side by Marsha and my left by our guide who seemed oblivious to any idea of personal space.

Our first stop was quite literally a sweat shop where a small group consisting of several women and a very thin older man operated large, wooden looms. The process involved pushing large wooden pedals with both feet, pulling a rigging forcefully with one hand that caused a shuttle to fly back and forth, and pulling another device with the other hand that pulled the fabric tight as the weaving went along.

A real “sweatshop” where a group of women and one frail man operated looms, an unforgettable sight.

It was astounding to watch. Their goal for a day, depending on the final product, was three to four meters of cloth. They were paid about 500 rupees a day, an amount that comes to about $6. I cannot imagine a more dreary existence, boring and dull, with the prospect of long term damage to tendons and muscles from the repetitive motions required to operate the looms.

We visited a place along the shore where boats were being built for fishing.

A large, colorful boat lies on the beach with numerous fishing boats in the harbor behind.

Numerous men surrounded us to shake our hands, ask us where we were from, and practice speaking English. From there, our guide took us to various places where we could read information signs that had been constructed. The “tour” couldn’t have ended sooner. Because alcohol was strictly forbidden at our lodgings and because we weren’t enthusiastic about more banana leaves, we found an outdoor area at a large hotel where we could order food and drink. Because the martini is universally misunderstood, Marsha ordered “double” gins with ice cubes on the side after confirming that they were produced using purified water. The gins were cooled off sufficiently and we pretended we were drinking extremely dry martinis.

We rose the following morning to religious chants being broadcast over loudspeakers, tunes that were not tuneful. Our morning routine did not include room coffee, and there was a bare amount of hot water that drizzled out of an ancient shower head. There was apparently quite a lot of controversy over whether we could get anything to eat, our driver insisting that we were going to get something and our host steadfastly refusing to comply, having informed us the previous afternoon that breakfast would not served until 8:30. At last we were ushered into the room where we had been introduced to banana leaves as plates where we were given a very small cup of coffee. Staff stood in the doorway looking at us like we were lepers. Our departure was an unhappy affair with the male host looking on sullenly and refusing to wave goodbye. In their defense, the establishment is a committed retreat for Ayurvedic endeavors that include meditation, plant based medicines, yoga, and massage. All we wanted was a bed, a decent cup of coffee, some eggs and bacon, and a glass or two of wine.

ALLEPPEY

After a somewhat unpleasant departure from our hosts, we boarded a more modern train, with a lot of help from our driver and two porters that he hired who took our bags and then disappeared, dropping off the platform and crossing several tracks to reach the correct platform in order to avoid the stairs. I hoped we would see them again, and fortunately we did. The porters were dressed in the Mundu so that hiking it up was required to drop to the tracks and then climb back up. It was a sight. They remained with us until the train arrived, and the driver and the two porters then made certain that we boarded the right car. It was quite extraordinary. Once boarded, we found our seats and had to evict someone who hoped to ride first class. A very nice man helped me hoist one of our bags over head, and I managed to get the other one up by myself. The train was very comfortable, fast, and reasonably on time, another reminder that third world countries can do things the US cannot (will not).

As we travelled south, the countryside became more lush, covered in jungle, rice paddies, corn, and other crops. Of a sudden, after reaching Calicutt, there seemed to be a paucity of cows. There were no monkeys. And, we found ourselves in the midst of what is commonly known as the backwaters of India.

We arrived and disembarked in the little town of Alappuzha where a new driver took us under his wing and drove us to a dock where our houseboat was located, one among dozens of others. They were nothing I imagined, long, sleek, and covered in a woven reed material. Our boat, made to accommodate only two or three people, was approximately 60 feet long with one bedroom. At the front, the captain operated the boat sitting at the bow and using a large wheel and a long gear lever.

A typical house boat, this one tied to the dock from which we departed.

Two houseboats tied up to our departure dock.

Above him, a small deck could be accessed using a steep ladder like stairway where two lounge chairs and a couch like item were shaded by an overhang and from which we had splendid views. Our room, air conditioned, was reasonably spacious and comfortable with a generous bathroom. It adjoined a small eating area where our meals were served. At the rear was a kitchen reigned over by our cook who was assisted by a young man responsible for serving, cleaning, and other miscellaneous help. Our arrival and departure were prompt, the boat driver expertly backing up our craft and pointing it off into the backwaters.

So, it was off to explore a bit of the so called “back waters,” large influxes of water that might more properly be called estuaries or brackish lagoons and canals. It is a labyrinth of lakes, canals that are sometimes natural and other times man made, and natural waterways all interconnected. They cover a good part of southern India on its western side, the better part of the Western part of Kerala. Soon after boarding, we were served lunch that included a whole fish that had been fried head and all. It was excellent. The houseboat moved leisurely to the north toward a large lake along with numerous other house boats and other craft.

We stopped after leaving the large lake at a point where a small canal connected, boarding a small boat with another couple to traverse a small waterway occupied on either side by residences. People bathed and washed clothes in the water, coming to steps built for that purpose. Bathing occured fully clothed for women and mostly clad for men, and it occured regardless of who might be passing or watching.

A woman stands in the water performing a domestic chore of some kind, oblivious to us passing and watching in awe.

Washing, cooking, cleaning, all done at the water’s edge.

A man bathing as we passed. It seemed like an extraordinary invasion of his privacy.

A woman vigorously slaps clothing on a rock, a routine we saw repeatedly along the banks of the waterways.

Small children freely entered the water to swim or frolic. Women, for the most part, did the laundry by slapping items of clothing on flat rocks in a violent manner that worked like the agitation cycle in a western washing machine. It was intensely laborious.

After rebording our houseboat, we traveled some further distance before docking alongside an area reserved for that purpose. We share the bank with one or two other house boats. We were bothered by a few mosquitoes, but the insects were not terrible, and the setting was extremely peaceful and quiet. Our dining experience was just a bit less satisfactory, but entirely adequate. Our cook and his young assistant were attentive and caring. As the sun set we retired to our room that was cool and comfortable. We rose the next morning to an acceptable if not all together satisfactory breakfast and soon we were again off. Not far

Where there are no homes, huge rice fields can be seen, and they were being harvested as we passed.

Two men in a small harvesting machine cut rice and wave to us enthusiastically as we passed.

While rice is planted and tended by hand, a tedious, back breaking endeavor, it is harvested by small machines that resemble a western combine. The rice is piled into large heaps and then placed inside gunny sacks. I’’m estimating that each bag weighs 150 plus pounds. These bags are loaded by hand onto long, flat boats that transport the bags to a crude dock where the bags are then unloaded by hand onto trucks. Two men lift a bag onto a man’s head, and he then walks a plank onto or off the boat and then onto the truck. Many of these workers greeted us cordially with smiles and waves, with no apparent resentment of our wealth and status. It’s quite extraordinary.

Men loading sacks of rice in extraordinary heat and humidity, each sack weighing more than 110 pounds. All waved and shouted to us cordially. We felt so privileged.

Cormorants and Pond Herons abound, but Kingfishers, Egrets, Eagles, Terns, and a variety of small birds can be seen and heard. But, there are no monkeys and scarcely a cow.

Our food has been decent, although mutton, a common and popular dish, doesn’t quite make it. It’s not necessarily as undesirable as a beet, but it’s on the same scale. It’s tough, full of gristle, and bony. Marsh rejects it on grounds that it was a former lamb and therefore off limits, somehow making a distinction between the lamb and the little chick that becomes a chicken. Anyway, I’m rejecting it from here on on grounds that it’s inedible. We have passed through numerous “duck farms” where little ducklings in the thousands congregate and follow each other around in the water. They’re very cute and quite noisy, all apparently doomed to the table.

Indians are religious people, and here there are swaths of Christians, many Catholic. We stopped at a large basilica where mass was underway. Worshipers had removed their shoes and sat inside and along the outside of the sanctuary. I was impressed by the numbers in attendance. We’ve seen many masses in Europe where there were as few as two or three in the audience.

We docked again for our second night, and again enjoyed a very quiet and peaceful evening and night. The food became less palatable as the days passed, and I wondered why we couldn’t have had more of the fish we had for lunch the first day. We spent our evening on our little deck where we were again the following morning. The scene was unimaginably evocative.

In the morning, a man visits his nets and gathers whatever he had caught over night. The light and setting were incredibly evocative.

A man navigate by poling a long, narrow craft across the waterway.

COCHIN

We rose the following morning to a glorious sunrise, the sun not yet up far enough to make things unbearable and the light so soft and pleasing. After another breakfast spread, we unleashed and started the trip back to port. In about an hour we arrived and immediately transferred to a car driven by a very nice man who had a twitch in his right foot that seemed to accompany a similar malady in his right hand. The twitch caused him to accelerate and brake at odd and intermittent intervals. It was like a form of Chinese torture where the repetition over several hours began to have a psychological impact. I didn’t know whether to scream, try and say something nice, or grab his right foot.

From Alappuzha to Kochi (Cochin) is north approximately 70 kms, but it took nearly three hours to navigate road construction and traffic. It was tortuous but also educational to see how roads are built in India. OSHA would disapprove.

In Kochi, we had yet another guide who gave us an abbreviated tour of this interesting city. There is a large Christian population here and so several cathedrals were on the list. The Portuguese, the Dutch, the English, Jewish people, Muslims, Hindus, and others have co-existed here for hundreds of years, and the locals are proud of an amalgamation that honors different beliefs.

The Jewish community was once much larger, today consisting of a single elderly man who is all that remains. An ancient synagogue is still used by this man and visiting Jewish people who wish to worship, and nearby is an area that surrounds the synagogue that is proudly named “Jew Town.” It’s apparent that there was a failure to appreciate that this might be pejorative. But, it’s like one of our previous trips to Jakarta where we walked down a modern, Western style mall where we saw signs that said “HUGE FUCKING SALE,” or a trip to China where we ate family style in a restaurant that advertised “GOOD FUCKING FROG LEGS,” and other like delicacies. Language can be so enlightening.

We began the day on the huge inlet to a bay where huge nets were attached to a lever contraption that lowered them into the water. Not far away, men threw nets out into the water in hopes of a reward. Along our way we stopped at a laundry where mostly men but some women labored hours each day to wash, iron, and starch clothing and other fabrics. Like the looms we saw earlier, it was humbling to see people who spent their lives in a labor that seems so fruitless and boring.

A huge levered pole is attached to nets that are lowered into the water to capture fish.

Fishermen and women of all persuasions work along the shore in hopes of a catch.

A laundry where mostly men used large, heavy irons to produce an end product. On one wall, a modern television had been installed to provide a bit of respite.

A young man gathers a net into a ring that he could fling out into the water.

Our trip has been truly rewarding, and we now face a difficult return home to reality. I won’t bore you with the details, but it includes roughly 20 hours of air time, a significant time change, a very short night before boarding, and airline food. I suspect that no one feels that sorry for us and rightfully so. We are always so immensely grateful that we have these opportunities and that we’re still healthy enough to exploit them.

BANGALORE

We met the end of our journey at the conclusion of our day in Cochin, and it was indeed interesting. We were driven for several hours to an international airport where we could likely have used for our departure. That’s another story related to how these trips get planned. Anyway, we arrived and found a huge airport that was entirely serviced by solar power. It was modern, clean, and extraordinarily impressive. We had to fly from there to Bangalore where our actual flight was to depart the following morning. We found a “bar” of sorts where Marsh again ordered the double gins and where we “dined” on something I can’t remember. We flew out at some point after 9 p.m. and arrived in Bangalore about 45 minutes later. By the time we arrived at our hotel, it was past 11 and we had to rise to meet our shuttle by 1:30 a.m. Marsh declined bed, opting instead to address those myriad details that go with the daily presentation. I tried to sleep unsuccessfully while Marsh flooded the bathroom. We rose, “refreshed,” and caught the shuttle to the airport and boarded in time for a 5 a.m. departure. It was a very long flight to London, with a three hour or so layover where we had a pretty good beer, and then another very long flight to Seattle. Without any doubt, this was the most difficult time transition we’ve had in all of our travels.

And so, our trip came to an end. We are incredibly fortunate to have had this adventure. We are hoping for many more.

India 2025