Fresh Lesson (salted)

One of the lessons that you learn real quick-like when you live in places where most people's language isn't yours, is 1. double check your tickets and 2. do it again. In Japan, i chalked this one up under "lesson learned" after missing a Green Car (first class train) ticket home from Tokyo. But sometimes even though you know your lessons, you need a reminder. I thought I had that one done in Beijing when we were lolling around the hostel with 30 'till departure at a train station that was an hour away, during rushhour.

But after Beach Blanket Bingo 'till the early hours, our facilities were less than razor sharp when we went to board our "3x the normal price cause you bought it from the owner of the guesthouse and besides today and tomorrow are holidays and i'll have to buy it on the black market so it'll be 1500 rupees" tickets from Goa to Bombay. So somewhere it was decided that 1. double check you tickets and 2. do it again ought to be learned one more time, or at least have a little reinforcement.

Reinforcement came at 10:00am in the form of a train with "Bombay - Margao" emblazoned upon the side. Our tickets were for 10:00 (ish). A train stood in front of us. It was 10:00 (ish). Our destination was clearly written on the panel of the sleeper.
When we woke up in Margao to the conductor saying "end of the line" we realized 1. double check your tickets and 2. do it again is real important. It then made sense why we could snooze out on the train and why there was nobody in our compartment, let alone the train at all.

So, 600 rupees and 6 hours later, we boarded the overnight bus to Bombay from Margao, with some cashew nuts, some mango paste, and a handful each of fresh Lesson (salted) to tide us over for our 14 hour ride. Luckily we were in the front of the bus, right next to the driver, who was trying desperately to walk it out via the bus' airhorn.

Walk it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozXTu8tHZ18

Sunrise

Sunset

Where you Goa-in?

After 2 months and countless miles (kilometers, leauges, whatever) the soles of our feet have become as rocks, solid as the railroad rails which have carried us across this great (in) continent. Which is why, after about 30 seconds of discussion, we decided to purchase a fare on the democratising airline known as "SpiceJet."

Delhi to Goa by train= 42 hours.
Delhi to Goa by SpiceJet = 3 hours.

60 bucks for sanity and two days, no question.

So Don and i abandoned our westward snails pace for a birds-eye-view, and a three hour tour straight to the beach.

If you're looking for your random uncle who got lost somewhere in the 60s and hasn't turned up since then, i found him. Not only him, but also all the people who thought the "rave" scene was not only a viable subculture, but something that ought to be perpetuated. I found them too. Either that or Barnum & Baily dump the has-been clown costumes in the second hand stores around here, cause people are looking downright silly. Checker pants with a matching vest. 50 year old men with thongs. I though people recognized that the ambiguous tribal tattoo was pretty grunge 90's, maybe they didn't catch the memo in Eastern Europe.

But the beach is beautiful, the water warm, and its snowing in Chicago (be safe). So there.

Thanksgivin' !!

We spent Thanksgiving in Delhi. Sacrelidge though it may be, i must admit, we visited one of Ray Croc's entrepreneurial establishments, since clean and cheap (if not good, plentiful and nutritious) for the Maharajah Mac (value meal). It was bogus. TO make up for it, our friend and fellow Semester at Sea alumni AJ (currently residing in Delhi, working as an industrialist) took us to the almighty NIZAM's KEBAB.

Heavenly. No picture would do justice to the "Double Mutton Double Egg" rolls, which were put away with a fierce-ness. Carnivourous we became, rapidly raptoring the remaining remains of such a fine feast. In fact, in honor of the Turkey sandwiches we would be eating for days to come, we spent 3 of the next 6 meals there. Beats the rat head.

Sikh It Out

When i did my TEFL certification course at the wonderful Boston Language Institute (yes, of "T" fame, beantowners) our headmaster dude was a fella wearing a turban and a white mundu. We all thought he was an Arab. "Actually" he said, "I'm from Philadelphia." He continued to explain that he is a Sikh, and that they are definitly not Arabs. Don and i went to the Sikh holy city of Amritsar, right on the India/Pakistan border. It was a 24 hour train journey from Varanasi to Punjab, one made much more uncomfortable buy some stomach bug i picked up somewhere along the line in Varanasi, which kept me moving between the bunk and the toilet. You really get acquainted with those things, toilets. Like the train varity which have two metal footprints to show you where to place your feet when you squat.
But Amritsar was beautiful, the Golden Temple is fantastic, and the Sikhs seem to have a great thing going on. We also made a stop by the border to watch the ceremonial Closing of the Border. The biggest Indian and Pakistani army men are chosen to huff and puff at each other while they lower the flags and officially close the border to traffic for the evening. People gather on both sides to cheer and jeer at the soldiers below. Check it out!