Departures - Delhi, India

My bags were packed, but I wasn't ready to go. The sweat dripped down my spine, lingering, before soaking into the mattress. I hated it. I loved it. In 3 hours time I would be leaving this complex maze of a country - India, and I didn't want to go. 

Sleep evaded me as I realized I was resigned to my fate. Soon, India would fade into the backlog of my mind, and be just that, a memory.

With a heavy foot, I walked out the door, down the stairs, and into the misty streets of the capital city. I walked by the dozens and dozens of bodies sleeping on the pavement, and heard the not so distant scowl of a pack of dogs, even more territorial at this early hour. I looked for a stick to prepare myself for one last battle. The dogs with their ribs protruding, lunged at me from the shadows. Each step closer meant another pack of dogs, another challenge. I felt like I was walking to my death. 

Or perhaps, I was just being melodramatic. 

I got to a clearing looking for transport. The taxi wallahs sleep in their vehicles, I just needed to wake one up. A man quite eager to make 300 rupees, showed me to his cab. Again, I stepped through the trash, around the cows, and kept my stick in hand, ready for attack. A man came from behind, grabbing my bag, begging, no demanding rupees from me. His breath smelled of fermented dog shit. I still had my stick. My driver came 'round, shoving him away. Delhi, had almost got the best of me. Almost. My driver flew past red lights, at 80mph, eventually landing me at the airport. I had made it, just barely.

My clothing stuck to my sweaty body. The dust, grit and grime from 7 months of travel through Asia remained under my finger nails. I slung my backpack on, and walked away from this beautiful, infuriating, amazing, incredible continent. 

Definitely not for the last time.

Ego at 16400 Feet - Stok Kangri, Ladakh, India

I had a 25Kg monkey on my back and I wanted it off. 

Our objective loomed above us, dominating the skyline, beckoning Richard and I nearer. At 6130 meters (20, 112 feet) Stok Kangri was the highest peak in the area. According to the Indian Mountaineering Federation our target was merely a high altitude ‘walk in the park.’ Our journey began in the town of Stok at an elevation of 3600 meters. Feeling confident, fit and limber we shunned the use of donkeys and packhorses and starting walking up. 

And up. And up. And up.

Unbeknownst to me, the effects of altitude had started to set. As well, with my 25kg backpack progress was slow, incredibly slow. A supposed 4-hour journey turned into a 7-hour affair. We reached Mankarno at 4400 meters, exhausted. An acclimatization camp was set up and a tasteless meal of soggy rice and dhal sent me into a deep, yet restless slumber.

I awoke in my ‘German made’ Indian tent and set myself a goal. I was determined to eat at least a kilogram of food. Surely carrying 24kg, instead of 25kg would give my body the relief it so desperately wanted. I scoured the landscape looking for a donkey, a pony, a packhorse or porter. Anything, I said to myself, that would make the journey to base camp less arduous. Alas, it would be me, myself and I that would carry my bag to base camp at 5000 meters (16, 400 feet).

I felt pathetic.

Walking one hundred meters took about an hour, but I had finally made it to base camp. I hadn’t lost site of our goal of summiting Stok Kangri. We set up our tent and decided on a well-deserved rest day. 

Tomorrow we said, we would get to the top. Tomorrow.

A constant, persistent headache developed. My bowels and stomach felt like erupting – and did. My appetite suffered. And lastly, my emotions became more erratic than a menopausal woman’s. General knowledge of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) dictates that if one develops symptoms of AMS than the only way to relieve it is to descend, descend, descend. But I wasn’t prepared to do that. I popped another Diamox, chugged three litres of water and called it a night. Tomorrow was summit day, and come hell or high water I was getting to the top.

Or so I thought.

I woke up the next morning feeling equally as poorly as the night before. My headache greeted me. My bowels turned inside out. And I was angry. I threw rocks with all my might into a stream, and that made me angry because by the time I was finished I was out of breath. I ran to the shit box and that made me angry, because yet again, I was breathless. I ascended to 5100 meters ‘just to check’ and thought I was about to puke. I came down from the pass even angrier. Richard started planning his summit attempt and that made me filled with rage. My emotions were bewildering me. I didn’t know how to deal with my anger, so I cried, feeling pathetic, alone in my tent. And that too, made me angry.

I didn’t think I had an ego. At least if I do, it’s normally in check, but not at 16, 400 feet. Altitude is a funny, funny game. I was fit. I was healthy. I had the will, the talent and the means, although, my headache persisted. The only obstacle I had was that invisible enemy – altitude. Something that even experts don’t quite understand. With my safety in mind I opted out of the summit attempt, and simultaneously squashed any remaining ego I might have had. Richard made the summit of Stok Kangri. I was still angry. I had judged my self-worth on a mountain and was quelled by uncontrollable circumstances. I was acting bizarre and erratic, not my normal self. I felt defeated and pathetic. It was the altitude. Poor Richard.

I packed up my tent, my 25kg bag, and my ego and put them on a packhorse, leaving Stok Kangri behind. Another time, another time.

- Tossed Sallard-

Glue - Kathmandu, Nepal

I used to sniff glue.

I was 8 years old and intrigued by my Alymer's "super duper fun" purple glue stick. It smelled of grapes. It didn't stop there though. Inquisitively I took my tiny, sticky hands, wrapped them around the tube and begin to twist.

Twist and sniff, twist and sniff, twist and sniff.

But it wasn't enough. I thought if it smells of grapes, looks like the colour of grapes then surely, and without a doubt it must taste like grapes. It didn't. And neither did the next stick. Or the next.

17 years later, at the age of 25, I walked through the streets of Kathmandu.

Kathmandu is filled with smog, cycle rickshaws, pashmina shawl shops, chai wallahs, temples, tourists in barefeet finding their hippy karmic ways, sadhus and babas, a crazy legless man, dozens of urchins offering charas, lsd, cocaine, mushrooms, ganga and the lot, and street kids - over 1200 of them.

We (Richard and I) walked through the dark deserted streets of Thamel, the downtown and main tourist area of Kathmandu. We stepped around sleeping bodies and trash heaps, dodged the one cycle rickshaw vying for our rupees and came crashing into a body. His hands groped our pockets as he head-butted our torsos. He spat out nonsense and as we checked our pockets gave him a swift shove into the shadows. To our left another person appeared out of nowhere, accept it wasn't nowhere, it was a trash heap, piles high, with a little boy covered in it, sleeping - his home for the night. In the commotion we had woken him, and he had come to defend his mate or take us on. We ran around the corner under a street lamp, our pockets still full of rupees.

They, these kids, no more than 10 years old, homeless, parentless, shoeless, and in rags were higher than kites, their hands sticky with glue, and definitely not with the non-toxic, 'super duper purple fun stick' of my youth.

The next day I see excited, happy, boisturous kids. I smiled wandering what they had pilfered. Glue. Their hands, shirts and faces smeared with toxic brain cell killing glue. Happy as hell, and high as kites.

1200 street kids in Kathmandu. 95% sniff glue. I didn't know what to do. I don't know what to do. What can I do?

Holy Mao(ists)! - Kathmandu, Nepal

It was Sunday.

Richard, Betsy (the bike) and I were surrounded by a sea of red. Thousands of Maoists and their supporters had taken to the streets, shouting slogans, waving flags and pumping their fists into the air. The streets were blocked by a mass wave of angry protesters and we were in the thick of it.

Our options were slim. To the left was a drop, a path impassable with our 350cc Enfield. To the right and infront hordes of protesters blocked our path.

A man once said, "choose your battles wisely."

We had tried to plow through, using our horn as a warning. The mob was slightly more aggitated and slightly less than amused. A middle aged man yanked the keys from our bike. Richard started a tug-of-war.

Who were the Maoists to take away our transport?

I got angry. We were undersiege. A man started to beat my bike with a large wooden stick. I started to push. I yelled obscenities. Richard got the keys, started the bike, I jumped on, we pushed through the crowd and left the Maoists in a cloud of dust.

It was Sunday. Usually reserved as a day of rest, or more importantly, Sunday Roast Dinner. Not in Nepal, definitely not in Kathmandu.

The Ghats of Death - Varanasi, India

The Bangalore-Patna 'Express' it was not.

We had survived enuchs (India's answer to Lady Boy's), Fakirs (holy beggars), blind singers, lepers, men with snakes, +45 C in a non-ac compartment, little boys urinating on my shoeless foot, and 'Sleeper Class.' Sleeper Class; not a mobile slum, but not exactly the Hilton either. I was okay with this, for $10 Canadian you can't really go wrong.

51 hours after a 44 hour train journey Richard and I staggered off the train into North India, Varanasi to be exact. The site of the Hindu's holiest river, the Ganges, the place where Hindus wash away their sins, but more importantly, where Hindus go to die.

We were sweaty, filthy, and sick. Very sick. Varanasi and its burning ghats loomed heavily as the ash of human flesh singed my nostrils. We spent 3 days sweating in bed sheets in a room with sporadic power in +45 degree weather feeling like death in a place filled with death. The thought that Richard and I had accidentally taken a pilgramage to the Holy Ganges was not far from my mind.

Bodies are wrapped and humbly carried throughout the winding alley ways of the Old City. Drums bang, Doms (Outcasts) stoke the fire, and men sit silently on the stoop, watching their loved one burn. 24 hours a day. 365 days a year.

To describe it seems peverse, and to watch silently in the shadows of death is surreal.

In the end I didn't die, nor did Richard. Even after excited boys splashed their beloved, Holy, absolutely filthy river Ganga on me.

I'll be back to Varanasi one day, but definitely not too die.

Another Day in Laos - Middle of Nowhere, Laos

The man sat, hiding in the bushes 100 metres away from us. His lackey, a 16 year old chain smoking boy was pacing back and forth. Under his loosely slung jacket was a semi-automatic assault rifle. He was the 'man' in charge. We were on the side of the mountainous road with a smashed up bus, somewhere between Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng.

The man was pissed. Smashed. Inebriated. Completely and totally drunk. He was our bus driver and was hiding from his vehicle and passengers. I should have known by his swagger, which was more like a stagger of his state. Or, after the driver's 10th smoke and piss break.

But I didn't think anything of it.

The bus' side had ripped through the concrete guard rail as we rounded a corner. We came crunching, grinding and screeching to a standstill. Richard stood up in defiance and yelled, "you're drunk! This man is drunk!" and knowing smiles came from the assault rifle wielding boy and his coworkers.

We were stranded.

By now the driver had done a runner, abandoning his crew, and deserting his vehicle and passengers. The boy with the gun reassured us, however reassuring a trigger happy boy with a gun can be. It became dark. A bus came. We got on and drove. Vang Vieng's bus station eventually emerged, eleven hours later. I smiled. Richard grumbled.

It was just another day in Laos.

Up the Nam Tha - Laos, South East Asia

I thought we were going to crash, though it didn’t concern me that much.

The boat was heading directly towards a large tree, jutting out from the banks of the Nam (river) Tha at full speed. Avoidance seemed impossible. The local man stood firm at the head of the boat with a long bamboo pole trying his best to steer up river through rapids. I was contemplating the inevitable crash and its potential outcome, when with sudden finesse the boat took a sharp right, narrowly missing impact. A large whoop came from the boatman and his wife and a collective sigh of relief from the rest.

We had escaped disaster.

I had thought that in order to charter a boat, one must be a fat, cigar smoking, and champagne swilling rich man with no less than three ex-wives. That, or Jay-Z. It turns out you can be a 24 year-old unemployed traveller.

Richard and I had just crossed the border from Thailand into Laos and were anxiously awaiting adventure. Wanting to avoid Falangs (foreigners/tourists) like a bad rash we decided to charter a small fishing boat up the rarely travelled Nam Tha. We pounded the pavement and eventually convinced three intrepid travellers to split the costs, effectively taking people on our very first tour. * Richard and I walked past Immigration and down to the river. A price was negotiated in the sand with sticks. We would set sail in the morning.

It was 8am. Our bags were packed and we were ready to go. We wished ourselves a bon voyage and left the confines of solid land. For the next two days the river would be our road.

Life is simple on the Nam Tha.

We spent the first day gob-smacked by the beauty around us. The river carved its way through limestone cliffs, rice paddies, forested land and villages. Water buffalo lazed around in mud pits. Pigs ran amuck through waist high blades of grass. Chickens ran away from the grasp of mischievous children and ducks waddled around with their ducklings.

Roads don’t exist along the Nam Tha. Instead, narrow footpaths connect the villages sporadically dotted along the river. Goods and cargo, including live chickens and goats are transported on handmade boats, no bigger than a canoe. Men and their young sons dive in their underwear for supper with homemade spears.

Night was upon us and our faithful fisherman and his wife stopped along the shore. They beckoned for us to follow the path into a village – his village. We spent the evening eating bamboo shoot soup.

Day two and we continued up the river. We eventually reached our destination. Life was good. Life on the Nam Tha was simple. And beautiful. And I liked that.

-Tossed Sallard-

Asia - Chennai to Bangkok

I thought I was going to die. Again.


I was stuck in the middle of an intersection for the third time that day. Four-wheeled rust buckets were hurling themselves in my direction. Barefoot rickshaw drivers were on a kamikaze course to who knows where. I didn't even have the pleasure of blinding headlights in my vision, half the time they don't even exist. I crossed my fingers, took a deep breath and ran.

The traffic doesn't stop in Chennai, at least, not if you're human.


I was cringing, bitter and annoyed. India was getting under my skin. Chennai is the fourth largest city in India with a population of 5 million. It's home to a less famous than Bollywood, but equally as popular film industry.


This isn't Hollywood.


I spent the day wandering around the city, counting the minutes until I was to depart. Trash heaps supported a cow farm just off one of the main streets. Another turn down that street brought Richard and I into a pretty little slum, filled with children in panties running rampant down the lanes.


I was leaving for Bangkok, Thailand, and that day, I couldn't have been happier. Never mind the last time I was in "The Land of Smiles" pleasant customs officials spat on my face, called me a piece of shit, took my money and threatened to send me jail. Thailand was going to be an Oasis.


Richard and I got off of our flight, went through customs, picked up our luggage and entered into a different world. It was posh. It was clean. The roads were paved. The taxis had air-conditioning. Road signs directed you to where you had to go. I was shocked. I didn't quite know what to do with myself. Bangkok is a bustling, vibrant, cosmopolitan city, not far off from the great cities of the Western World.


Asia seemed like a distant memory.


Richard and I had time to kill, so we took a Tuk Tuk. Our only objective was to eventually reach the Grand Palace. The man offered us a rate of 20Baht - what a steal! We jumped in, expecting to do the rounds around gem shops and tailors, we wouldn't be fooled. We were going to waste his time. Two tailor shops later the pleasant Tuk Tuk driver suggested a visit to a travel agent. Don't worry, it is the Tourist Authority of Thailand. We agreed. The shop looked professional, in fact there was even a Farang (foreigner) working in the offices. We told the agent where we wanted to go. He disappeared and reappeared a few moments later. Our week long excursion was going to cost £200/person. We scoffed, laughed and walked away...


"Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" He screamed. I turned around, the agent was throwing out his finger at us, and screaming, beckoning for a fight. Richard, without thinking, jumped out of the tuk tuk chasing the man back into his hole. The man lacked balls. We tore off down the road with echoes of "Fuck you farang, fuck you!" trailing behind.


I smiled. Yes, we were still in Asia.

This is India (rolling heads and flaming lips) - Mammallapurum, Tamil Nadu, India

Down the hill, in the distance beyond the ancient ruins drums were beating and voices were chanting with vivacious intensity. 

We were in Mammallapurum, Tamil Nadu, a World Heritage Site renowned for its rock carvings and temples. It had also been seriously damaged by the Boxing Day Tsunami. The coastline is littered with crumbling houses neglected and deserted in the wake of the disaster. Almost everyone Richard and I speak with has been affected, but the locals are resilient. Relief work and life continues. We had arrived here more or less on a whim, an excursion before embarking for the Andaman Islands. My expectations for Mammallapurum were neither high, nor low.

Richard and I followed the music. Sweat soaked through my shirt as the sun pierced my skin. It was hot. The drums became louder. We were near. I started to run, closer and closer. A smile crept on my face, I was positive we were about to crash an Indian wedding. Richard and I approached the crowded mass of Indians. A local man saw us, nodded in approval and encouraged us to enjoy the celebration. 

The chanting echoed in my ears. The drums vibrated throughout my body. I squeezed through the crowd. A man wielding a machete had it above his head, ready for attack. He struck. The eyes of a terrified goat met mine, mere seconds before his death. It's head rolled to the side like a football. Blood squirted and sprayed from its neck and into the crowd. I jumped back to avoid contact. 

There wasn't a bride nor groom in site. This was definitely not an Indian wedding.

The Sadhus brought another goat to the alter, and another, until 5 or 6 lay still, their bodies detached from their heads. Men and women in trances yelled in a foreign tongue, their bodies collapsing to the floor. The scene was manic. More bodies wriggled about like earth worms into the temple, another man collapses. This time I don't think it's "normal." The locals huddle around, rinsing the Holy Man with water. Another Sadhu places a large flaming tablet on his tongue. It's burning and I could see the intensity coursing through his body. He swallowed the fire and collapses in an exhausted heap. They pour water on his burnt mouth. 

I was surrounded by drumming, chanting, Sadhus, blood, goats' heads, men, women and children. No, it wasn't an Indian wedding Richard and I stumbled upon, but a celebration, for what, however, I've absolutely no idea. This is after all, India.

Coffee - Ooty, Tamil Nadu, India

Blood splattered across the room, narrowly missing my cup of coffee. By my feet I could hear the 'thump, thump, thump' of death. Smiling men surrounded me; Richard, the immensely proud owner, and two men – one with a rusty knife, the other with blood on his hands.

The room was filled with glorious pictures of Mecca - a place I will never be allowed to step foot in. They didn’t seem to understand, but instead, one of the men proudly gave me a trading card, a pocket Mecca if you will.

The thumping stopped. Death was upon us.

 
They picked it up by his feet, showing the carcass to Richard and I. It was skinned with surprising efficiency and whilst in the process I heard a noise. It’s last living breath squeezed out of him. I expected more, but that was it.

It was laid on a tree stump, a tree stump with pools of blood collecting in the cracks. It had clearly been used many times before. The man with the rusty knife hacked it to pieces, sawing off the tough bits.

 
And that was that.

 
We left the Halal chicken coup/stall afterwards. My coffee was finished, the sun was setting, and Richard and I were hungry. We went out for dinner. I had a chicken dish.

It was delicious.

Hoelkere and the White Man - Hoelkere, Karnataka

We were in Hoelkere. 

Five or six hands groped the chain links of our lock. I could hear murmurs of "no India, no India." And they were right, our motorcycle lock was definitely not made in India. A little girl of 6 or 7 tugged at my trousers, she looked up at me with big brown eyes. I said hello, and she ran off terrified. Clearly I was a monster. Richard was trying to kick start the bike to no avail. He was sweating in the midmorning heat, justifiably frustrated. Why wouldn't the machine work? The bike was wheeled away, almost stripped from Richard's possession. Endless bodies were trying to push Richard off, each wanting the glory of fixing the white man's bike. I looked up, left, right and around. Dozens of eyes stared back at me. Over 50 bodies poked, prodded, stared and hung off of each other, smothered in themselves. The police were now involved, randomly whacking people with their sticks and clearing people away. They just wanted a better view. And then the crowd got closer. A giant man asks us what we believe in. Richard hears and says Christian. "I am a Christian." This giant man starts preaching the Word of God to us amongst this sensational crowd. A man runs off, he can fix the bike. Richard has let him do what he wants. The man comes back with a sawed of clutch rod. Meanwhile the giant preacher asks for an email, instead, I ask for his. 

The bike starts. Finally.

The crowd starts to disperse, and, as everyone is leaving I look down at the business card the priest has given me. His name was Louis. Handsome Louis.

We were in Hoalkere. A town where a white face hadn't been seen in over a year. Richard kicked started Betsy. I swung my legs over the back, and we left Hoalkere in the dust. 

The Road to Hampi - Central Karnataka, India

The road to Hampi is not paved with good intentions, in fact, it's barely paved at all. 

Richard and I left Goa in the early hours of the morning, while the sun was still rising, and the locals spat their toothpaste into the main roads. Syanara we said, and hit the dusty trail, literally.

We had already crossed through 3 river crossings before we hit National Highway 4. NH 4 looked as though the D-Day invasion had taken place and no one had thought to pick up the pieces. If it was paved, you wouldn't have known. Crater sized potholes dotted the road, as red dust kicked up into our faces. Looking into the distance my eyes were blessed with the sight of dozens, and dozens, and dozens of trucks, each vying for their space on the road. If we managed 20km/hr it would have been a successful one.

It was only when we reached NH 63, that a thought occurred to me. With over 200 national highways, India must have a system for maintaining them. NH 4 had probably not been touched since the day of India's independence over 50 years ago. Which would explain the pleasant-ish journey along NH 63.

We reached Hampi.

Hampi is a World Heritage Site, amongst the big guns, like Angkor Wat and Banff National Park. It has huge boulders thrown all over the landscape, like if God were playing marbles. The main Bazaar's focal point is a temple, with loads of cows, mangy dogs, cheeky monkeys, and little boys selling post cards. 

Hampi is also a religious town. Free from sinners (at least until Richard and I arrived) and sins, like that blasphemous meat we call chicken. Oh, and its dry. Drier than the Sahara dessert dry. It was like the days of prohibition, except during those days, you could still get your hands on a piece of steak or a chicken wing. 

Hampi though, is a really cool place, one of best places I have passed through. The locals are relaxed, illegal bootleg booze and chicken is available - if you ask discreetly, and the temples throughout the area are nothing short of impressive.

The road to Hampi may not be paved with good intentions, but the town itself sure is.

Helloa from Goa - Arambol, Goa

Goa is the final resting place for hippies. It's also filled with people "finding themselves," tourists with Om tattoos, Westerners that forget to bathe, Israelis fresh from the army, Europeans in speedos...

It's not really a place where you "do."

If you have been to a sandy beach, with salty, wavy water (the ocean), sunshine and coconut trees swaying in the nonexistent wind, then you can probably figure out what the state of Goa is all about.

Not quite.

Add in holy cows, scrappy dogs, trash, more trash, hawkers more persistent than the zit on your forehead, women doing laundry in the stagnant creek filled with animal fecal matter and more trash, 2 roving holy men with a cow jumping on their heads, corrupt police officers, horrendous traffic, a small colony of wild pigs foraging in heaps of even more garbage, backsheesh, more Royal Enfields than you can shake a fist at, and you have Goa.

Traveling has been taxing and difficult. For example getting my laundry done by other people, choosing what to have for breakfast, lunch and dinner, deciding whether or not to have pineapple juice or orange juice, being in 30+ weather... All these decisions really make it difficult for me to relax on the sandy beach, while Indian versions of Cabana boys bring me water. I was busy doing nothing and then something happened while in Goa.

Richard and I bought a beast. She's big. Like 163kg big. She's cumbersome, and graceful isn't really an adjective I'd use to describe her. But boy, is she one hell of a machine. She's a 1992 Royal Enfield Bullet. Her name is Betsy and I don't think she knows what's in fore her...

-T.Sallard-

Arrivals - Mumbai, India

I was prepared to enter into a war zone, or at least what I thought a war zone might look like. This is after all, India. I'm not sure what I thought was going to happen when I got off the plane, however, the general consensus was comparing one's arrival into India like childbirth - painful. So with an ounce of gusto and a smirk on my face I left the confines of the airport into Mumbai.

I was shocked.

I was expecting uniformed officers to be beating men with sticks, bullet holes in the walls, taxi wallahs vying for my attention, limbless beggars grabbing at my legs and hands, and a full on assault of the senses. Instead, Richard and I left the airport seamlessly, we found a place to stay with relative ease and I discovered that squat toilets aren't the worst thing in the world.

I spent three days in Mumbai, and I liked it.

The city is dirty, but not grimy. Public transport is relatively efficient and easy to use. Food is good. It was crowded, but I didn't feel squished. There were slums, families of five sleeping, eating and living on the pavement, settlements directly beside the railway tracks, dead rats in the small lanes of Bandra Bazaar, and many, many people with curious eyes. People, however, wherever we were, went out of their way to help.

Yes, I liked Mumbai, and that surprised me.

-Tossed Sallard-