The long and winding road to Shimla

11-ish a.m.: We're on a bus, driving down an amazingly twisty mountain
road. The young man sitting across from us just pointed out his
university out the window - apparently the largest buildings in the
state, perched on a ridge with an commanding view. Folks are amazingly
friendly here, even to strangers. He's already asked our names so he
could friend us on facebook. Kwazy.

Yesterday, while at Humayan's Temple in Shimla (look it up on google;
it's cool), we met two young Indian men, one a soldier and the other a
banker, both on holiday. We'd been hesitating about entering the
temple as non-Hindi, but they said there was no harm in entering, so
we left our shoes on the cold paved walkway and followed them in to
the smoky little building.

OK; had to stop writing for a while as I was getting carsick because
the road was quite possibly the windiest I'd ever been on, and 120km
to boot. We're in our room in Chandigarh now, waiting for the
restaurant to open for dinner at 7 p.m., about 30 minutes from now.

Anyway, getting back to yesterday, those two guys offered to take us
up to Kufri, a little town about a dozen km north of Shimla, a bit
higher in altitude, and home to a wildlife preserve. I was somewhat
reluctant, but Laura accepted and we walked with them down from the
temple and another 1.5 km to the army base, where we got their car and
started driving.

As soon as he started the car, the stereo started blasting a live
version of Bryan Adams' "Cuts Like A Knife," and they didn't turn it
down, although they did shout back to key us know they loved loud
music and hoped we did, too. Turns out the banker dude was a hobbyist
rally driver, so off we went, speeding up the narrow, crowded
Himalayan road to the awful caterwauling of Bryan Adams. It was
appropriately surreal, and I'll post the video once we're home.

Stopping frequently for directions, sometimes in the middle of the
road such that the pedestrian helping had to shout over the din of
honking horns from the drivers stuck behind us, we eventually made it
to the preserve. Much like everything we've seen, it's simultaneously
awesome and decrepit. There were lots of barking deer, but they were
mangy and didn't bark. The bears were stuffed into a little cave-like
pen while two workmen tried to pull down a tree in the enclosure using
a rope tied to the top such that the tree just swayed around a lot; a
saw would have been more efficient, and it was apparent there were
saws available.

The wolves looked tired and sad. The bright spot was the snow leopard
- it looked healthy and active and was quite lovely to watch. There
were also several pens of local pheasants and other gamebirds, all
quite spectacularly plumed.

The drive down was done to the strains of an Enigma's Greatest Hits
CD, which seemed far better suited to the circumstances.

So, on to today, from where I left off on the bus, feeling a little
queasy. We got into the station at Chandigarh just fine, and my wife and
I had a brief grumpy exchange that apparently left us both with
expressions such that the touts left us mostly alone; I'm thinking of
picking a fight with her in the airport tomorrow to see if it's a
workable tout-avoidance option. It did take four auto-rickshaw drivers
to figure out where the hotel was, though - the facade is hidden
behind an enormously bushy palm tree.

Tonight's hotel is The Kaptain's Retreat, smack in the middle of a
strip mall. The hotel is owned by cricket star Kapil Dev, who has
surprisingly good taste in furnishings, as well as food - the hotel
restaurant dinner was dee-licious.

Before dinner, though, we took a cab to Chandigarh's Rock Garden,
built over time by a nutty artistic guy on what had been vacant land.
It's a cross between Gaudi's Parc Guell in Barcelona and South of The
Border on Route 95 in South Carolina. It's a maze, decorated with
stones, sculptures, and walls made of recycled porcelain, pottery,
crockery, and the like. There are small armies of figures made of
pottery shards, clay, and zillions of old bangle bracelets. We only
had an hour there as we arrived close to the dusk closing time, but it
was a very cool experience.

On the way back to the hotel, our driver got lost and we asked someone
in an adjacent auto-rickshaw for directions at a stoplight. They
thought about it for a bit, then the light changed and our driver
zoomed off. The guy behind us had his driver flag ours down, ran up,
asked if they could join us, then directed our driver to our hotel.
The guy was on his way to work, but still took the time to help.

Anyway, Le Corbusier is responsible for much of Chandigarh's city plan
and quite a few of it's buildings. Too bad we don't have time to check
them out, as we fly out to Udaipur first thing tomorrow, where we'll
settle for the next six days.

Time for lights out. There's a construction project along with what
sounds like a factory right outside our window, complete with loud
music and barking dogs. My wife is already sound asleep.

Day 14, India

Today's coordinates: the Lemon Tree Hotel, Muhamma, Alleppey, Kerala,
India

Time: 2009-12-23 18:29:38 +0530
ISO6709: +24.611789+73.661613+0/
Google: http://maps.google.com/?q=24.611790,73.661613

This morning we left Udaipur at 6:30, our ancient cab winding though
the dark, narrow streets, which were surprisingly empty at that hour,
save for all the dogs, cows, and motorcycle milkmen.

Airport security seemed a bit tighter than on our last internal
flight, no doubt due to the approach of Christmas. The flight was
smooth, although the pilot set us down in the middle of the runway in
Mumbai, necessitating an overly exciting stop at the very, very, very
end of the runway. You'll learn more soon about Indian driving habits.
At least they're all consistent.

The connecting flight left 90 minutes late, all of which was spent
sitting in the plane at the gate, as the airport was temporarily
closed for an unnamed VIP's arrival. At least our seatmate was
pleasant, so the conversation helped pass the time.

Once airborne, it was somewhat surreal to find myself aboard an Indian
aircraft, flying low over the jungle, listening to Muzak Christmas
carols playing over the plane's PA system. Feliz Navidad, ... Feliz
Navi-dad, ... Namaste. This is your captain speaking (in Hindi).

Once in Cochin, we hired a taxi for the 90km drive to the resort.
Sweet Jeebus. The drivers in southern India make the rolling circus in
Delhi seem comparitively civilized. No one really seems to like their
side of the road, instead crossing into opposing traffic at 90+ km/h
for no apparent reason, blowing their horn, perhaps flashing their
lights, perhaps not. Our driver managed it all in tit-for-tat fashion,
swerving out of the way at the latest possible second, never using
more than a couple of fingers to manage the wheel, and refusing to
shift any lower than third gear, which made for painfully labored
starts in the tiny, underpowered Tata hatchback he piloted.

Even better, it is 90F and humid here, and the little extortionist
wanted an extra 500 rupees to turn on the car's air conditioning. You
all must understand that my level of self-restraint is worthy of a
statue somewhere, as I managed to say "no, thank you," instead of
exposing him to the volumes of unsavory language I've acquired over
the years. The little opportunist even tried to wrangle more money out of
us because he failed to get proper directions before we left, and thus
overshot the turn to the resort by 6km or so. Watching him stop every
few hundred meters to grudgingly ask pedestrians for directions was
somehow enjoyable, although we seemed to understand the Hindi
directions better than he did.

He was the first taxi driver we've encountered who wore his seatbelt.
Encouraged, we looked for ours, only to find that the buckles had been
cut out. I asked the whereabouts of the rear seatbelts, and the driver
shook his head, smiled, and said, "not required." I then asked why he
wore one, and, in true Hindi fashion, he smiled and said nothing more.
Life is apparently cheap here, and ours must ring up at even less than
his.

We eventually found our way to the resort, which is a couple
kilometers down an unmarked road (no big deal there, though; *all* the
roads here are unmarked; if there ever were road signs, they've long
since been stolen and used as building materials), we again had to
surrender our passports for a couple hours to the innkeepers so they
could photocopy them and register us with the local police station.
It's been the same drill in every town.

All foreign tourists are under very close scrutiny these days because
of it coming out that the mastermind of last year's attacks in Mumbai
was an American citizen, albeit of Pakistani origin. Another classic
case of closing the barn door after the horse is long gone. They're at
least polite about it all, though, and are treating all foreigners the
same regardless of nationality so as to properly inconvenience
everyone equally.

And the room is nice, with the resort being on a lovely lake of
dubious quality. However, if the hotel's pretty little swimming pool
is half as chlorinated as the water that comes out of the shower tap,
it's going to be as sanitary as hell.

We'll explore more tomorrow.