We arrived to the tiny international airport within an hour of each other and were in a cab by 11:30pm.

25 minutes later we were being greeted by Alegria, a petite Colombian with welcoming smile with only a hint of weariness from the day.

From the minute she said hola, she had a way about her that made you put complete faith in anything she said, a matter of factness mixed with a warmness that made you feel like you’d been friends for years.

We found ourselves being ushered into the best room in the house as all the other rooms were full. With huge windows on both sides we had a panoramic view of the city. That and a ticket to la villa, a bar about 15 min away in taxi.

It was midnight, I was dead tired not having slept for 2 days and to be honest going out was the last thing I wanted to see before a pillow, but how could I not rally with the woman who rose from the dregs of a Zanex induced coma in Bangkok the year before.

By 1 we had a cocktail and had already begun swapping stories with a few travelers from the hostel an some locals. A bottle of Johnny Walker red surfaced while a loose footed Colombian passed out shots. Thankfully, it was only a few hours before the lights came up signaling it was time to head back.

Not even 24 hours passes and I can’t help but remember te first lines of Charles dickens, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It started innocently enough. A leisurely walk through La Candeleria off carrera 2 we came across a lovely little vegetarian cafe called quinoa. Having no tables available we meandered on and found a typical columbian restaurant serving ajiola. A traditional Colombian dish made with shredded chicken in a potato broth topped with creme.

Sated and wanting to explore the city more we walked to the square off carrera 7. Llamas, ponies, Santa clause, shriek, and a grouping of protestors filled the square that seemed littered with pigeons. As the crowd seemed a little denser as we walked on, Emele warned me to put the camera on an inside pocket. Since we wanted easier access to it I told her to put it in her purse…well, it wouldn’t be a missadventure if it didn’t entail a robbery of sorts.

I turned around, seeing we’d passed our destination and looked back to hear Emele in the face of a Colombian woman yelling give me back my camera. I darted back and grabbed the thief’s wrist. Emele trying to open her jacket which she had zipped up and would not remove claiming she had no shirt on. She thrust her chest forward, but not wanting to grope the woman there was little left to do. She walked away just minutes before some police showed up.

Feeling bad for us the officer decided to give us an impromptu tour of the city enthusiastically pointing at sites of interest, concerned that we not leave bogota with a bad impression.

While Christmas is a great period to get vacation time, it’s also a time when crime is on the rise, the poor, struggling to make ends meet with the added burden of gift giving. Turns out we could consider ourselves the lucky ones as two Germans came back to the hostel after having been held up at gunpoint and machete, escaping with no violence but having lost all their valuables.

We arrived to the hostel with our evening plans set by Alegria who informed us that we’d be heading to a concert close by. What transpired was nothing short of magical. Each moment seamlessly flowing into the next. We walked into the concert and found ourselves on stage with the band a song later. The energy was palpable, intoxicating even.

Later we’d walk through candle lit streets dancing to a live Mexican mariachi band as Alegria passed out shots of aguardiente. More people joining the group as the night continued. An hour later and we were inside a bakery/market turned night club dancing salsa and ended early in the morning at a jam packed apartment of Cesar. Apparently everyone knows Cesar…

Muchas gracias a Alegria! Por un tiempo que no podemos olvidar.

Let’s be completely frank, the full moon party has nothing to do with the culture of Thailand, it’s an adult playground where thousands of 20/30 something Europeans roam the fire dancer filled beach with literal buckets of alcohol and a mushroom shake or two and dance till the sun comes up only to sleep the day away to do it all over again the next night. I still marvel at how the locals can cope with the constant influx of tourists looking for their next drug induced good time. wooden booths line the beach touting buckets of thai whiskey and red bull. each vendor trying to outdo the other, “no bucket, no boom boom,” “fucking buckets cheap,” “me love you long time bucking fuckets.” The atmosphere is more than palpable, it practically thumps through your body and clobbers you over the head till your unconscious.

After 3 days I’d had enough. Bags packed, ferry tickets bought, music still pumping from the beach at 10:00 am I was ready to get the hell out of there as was Emele.
Was it a good time? Of course it was…do I ever need to do it again? No, can’t say that never stepping foot on that island again will covet any response more than the nostalgia of time well spent and thankfully behind me.

For those dying to visit the largest full moon party in the world a couple of helpful tidbits:

1. Neon paint does not come off of towels and sheets and guesthouses may charge you extra for it.

2. While it’s almost inevitable that you’ll need to put your bucket down be wary, many a traveller winds up drugged only to awaken on the beach with no memory and no money from the evening before.

3. take only what you absolutely need. enough money for a couple buckets and if you dare your camera. I’d donned a belt with small pockets which worked out well. so far this trip, muggings/ theft 0 (though the moped dealer might as well have had thief tattooed on this forehead)

4. if you want to get any rest ear plugs are essential. All the resorts lining Haad Rin on sunrise beach are susceptible to the drum and bass beats of the seemingly endless party scene.

4. the bungalows towards the edges of the beach tend to be quieter with cactus bar at it’s epicenter, though when full moon comes about there is no escaping so you might as well consume a red bull and dance off some alcoholic calories till the sun rises.

5. If you are a new couple beware, the number of travelers who arrived together only to depart alone or with someone else was evidently quite commonplace.

I had scoped out parts of the island in the morning since Em, a little tired from a late evening was napping so I went to return my moped first. The nonchalant dealer, who’d seemed so easy going was quick to point out a small scratch on the side of the bike, literally less than a cm in width. I told him i hadn’t noticed it and it was probably there before, but he was insistent. Not wanting to be there too long and knowing we’d be back to return emele’s bike I said we’d discuss it later, thinking at worst I’d have to pay another 10 bucks or so. fast forward an hour later and we would come to find out my estimate was far from accurate. He wanted 6000 baht, close to 200 dollars. I was floored and in no position to shell out that kind of cash for something I’d not even done. our first tactic was frankness, it was a small scratch and there was no way such a thing would cost that much to fix, he dropped the cost to 3500, which was still ridiculous. so we resorted to the “I’m a poor student tactic and have no money” with a couple of tears thrown in for good measure. little did I know I could put on such a performance, Emele put her head down trying to mask the laughter, but when it became clear that wasn’t going to work either, she flipped and tried yet another tack. “GIVE US OUR F’iNG PASSPORTS!” she screamed. it was enough to get the old obese woman in the corner out of her chair. he returned the volume telling us to F’ ourselves. at that point we decided to leave, regroup, and try to talk with the police, which was a complete waste of time.

With his shirt unbuttoned the officer simply pointed to a sign warning tourists about renting vehicles and asked why we didn’t think more about it. We were obviously not going to get any help there. After another pow wow we decided I would return alone since em’s outburst was probably not quite so helpful and try to offer all the money we had in our money pouch, which amounted to a little over 30 usd.

I would ultimately burst out in tears, amazing even my own self with my Oscar worthy performance and plea with the con artist about how with only a few days left he would be taking all the money I had left, which technically was sort of a truth. it was all we had left in our pooled monies. after rounds with the owner, a police officer, and the sleazy moped dealer I would ultimately leave $30 poorer but with passports in hand. But not before witnessing the same scam on two incoming Brits who got slapped with a 3000 baht bill and a group of Aussies who were told an entire part would need to be replaced for the bargain price of 11,000 baht. they would fork it over and demand the part for a keepsake. what they would end up doing with the slightly dented metal piece who knows but it makes for an interesting souvenir.

it’s a bit flooring to realize someones entire career is built on shamelessly extorting money, but then again it wouldn’t be a missadventure without some instance of theft, robbery, or con game.

I leave off with a few tips for those traveling to these parts:
- Never give your passport as collateral, at one point the Max Rental attendant blatantly admitted he could sell my passport for more money.

- If you plan on going to Ko Phangan stay away from Max Rental located across the street from Same Same.

- Regardless of the outcome, don’t let it ruin your holiday. The bitterness of the event passes quickly and at the very least you’re left with an entertaining story.

It’s hard to describe the city, which seems to oscillate between third world poverty and 5 star western opulence. The ride along the single straight main road has you passing everything from massive modern tour buses to motorbikes strapped with pigs bigger than the bike and driver put together. With all four legs in the air, strapped back to the bike, we’d thought the pigs were already dead, but upon opening the window to get a better look, the unmistakable high-pitched squeals of an animal off to slaughter could be heard. Apparently the animals are tranquilized for transport, but that doesn’t mean a stray kick or squeal doesn’t escape every few minutes…the scene stayed with Emele who later declared, “I think I’ve now seen it all.”

Siem Reap, the capital of northwestern Cambodia, is probably most famous for it’s jumping off point to the Angkor Temples, ruins made famous by Angelina Jolie’s movie Tomb Raider. We’d grabbed some bicycles and rode to the temples taking in the surrounding environment and marveling at how quickly scenery changes from street to street. Go to Pub Street in the middle of town and the manicured alleys make you feel like you could be in Vegas, walk two blocks in another direction and you’ll come to a pot-holed riddled dirt road and dimly fluorescent lit shops of knick knacks, which all seem to cost $1.

We’d walked through Angkor Wat, doing the usual photo shoot and making a little bit of a spectacle of the moment, to the amusement of other visitors…pics to come…but while worth the visit, it somehow lacked a bit of the majesty that had been built up in our minds prior to entry; maybe it was the line of Japanese tourists that snake through every path, hall and courtyard, or the bombardment of children with their postcards and bracelets on exit, but somehow the memory doesn’t pull with it that same sense of awe that came with viewing the Taj Mahal or the Pyramids of Giza…it was, well, “same same but different.”

When we finally got to the large open air market, the sun had already set and some shops were packing up for the day. We meandered through the aisles of produce coming to what appeared to be the meat area and figured we were in a good spot for it. Equipped with cameras and our note, we approached a seated gentleman and politely presented our handwritten message, snake side. Not quite certain if what we were doing was ill-advised or not, we were hesitant, but when he approached a security guard who gladly pointed us in the correct direction, we were relieved and excited all in one breath. Guided by another on looker, we reached the “cobra heart” vendor, which was pretty much a street stall restaurant, where 3 seated army officials sat peering at us.

We’d learn that the live cobras had sold out earlier in the afternoon, but that a dried variety of the same quality was still available. Rather than miss the opportunity in it’s entirety we sat with the military officials and ordered up a blended cobra heart whiskey.

A shot and cab ride later, we’d find ourselves marveling at its effects. Granted Emele’s heart was pounding out of her chest as we approached the market and the adrenalin mixed with a strong shot of whiskey might have also had a role in the euphoric after effects, but we’ll definitely be back for the real thing.

The Temple of the Ashram.

Surrounded by the Arabian Sea on one side and the backwaters of Kerala on the other, Amma’s Ashram simultaneously dwarfs the surrounding village while being engulphed in a sea of palm trees. Amma, aka the hugging mother, appears to have become a sort of institution, her books, cds, calendars, and pamphlets are everywhere. Followers, don sandalwood beaded necklaces adorned with her picture. I don’t know what my mind had anticipated before arriving but what we’ve gotten ourselves into is definitely far from my imagination.

Kept running by a system of volunteers and donations, the Ashram houses over 2.000 people, making it quite literally larger than most villages in the area. Currently “on tour” in the West, Amma returns sometime in December. It seems the Ashram itself slows down in her absence but not having been there or even heard of her prior makes it hard to judge. It’s difficult to describe the poeple here. We arrived by taxi from Varkala, a small cliff-side beach town full of aging Europeans and couples. We entered the gates of the ashram compound wide-wyed, almost gaping at the white draped ashram occupants. Literally tripping over ourselves. I stop to survey one side, Emele’s head turned to the other still walking, coming to a standstill only after bumping up against me. The white clad, head shaven monastic asked and then thought better of himself and told us to head to the international check-in area at the temple with a nod and smile.

Once there, we were given a tiny pamphlet on the ashram rules and code of conduct, which we were already in breach of having shorts on. We checked in for a mere 150 rupees per night and headed to the room to change. The rooms are simple with a single bed, desk, and a few plastic chairs. Though, it’s just the two of us on check in, as Amma’s arrival nears, the room will hold up to four, which is hard to imagine given that with just two the room seems pretty full. Though the days vary slightly, the general schedule is as follows:

4:00 Prayer/chanting

9:00 Breakfast

10:00 Seva

1:00 Lunch

2:00 Seva

5:00 Meditation

6:00 Bhaman Singing

8:00 Dinner

11:00 Gates and buildings are locked

View from the dorm of our escape route...over the bridge to freedom!

Each resident/guest is required to do 1-2 hours of seva, or selfless service, each day. Emele’s on temple duty while I’ve been relegated to the compost area by the elephant, Lakshmi. I wouldn’t say scraping dried woods shavings off the top of huge mounds of food and cow dung my dream job but it beats the monotony of temple floor sweeping. Lorded over by a beyond zealous sweeper supervisor, dubbed the sweep nazi, it almost makes two hours of shoveling shit preferable…almost.

Mihae and her friend Lakshmi.

Despite the seemingly anti-Western Westerners, we’ve met some really interesting women, all brought to the ashram for varying reasons (none to become a follower, which is probably why we were drawn together) and surprisingly all traveling as single females.

Emele and new friend Ana.

We first meet Cathy, a petite twenty something English lass who’s just finished a teaching assignment in Vietnam. Blond curly hair with a few, newly woven dreadlocks frame her round cheeks. Her blue eyes sparkle with a sweetness that becomes apparent in her personality the minute she says hello. She tells us of some of her travel stories, one including a crazed, drunk man who stabbed her backpack repeatedly, believing she was sleeping with his girlfriend. She recounts the drama with an almost everyday reference. We like her immediately. Next is a young German girl, Sarah, who’s at the tail end of her month long trip through India. We both marvel at her audacity; arriving in bus and train stations alone at 4 in the morning, with no place in mind to stay. Her typical German frankness with her anything goes, laid back attitude is an unlikely but entertainingly enchanting combination. Next is Aurelie, a full bodied French woman with an appetitie for life that matches her equally indulgent diet. Her blunt French humor and vivacious personality is balanced out with her body soothing hands that seem to mold the body, like a sculptor of clay. It’s not long before we are all lining up for massages. Then there’s Vera, an older red-headed, slim German woman, who’s lone wanderings seem to echo a painful past, despite which she’s got a kindness in her eyes and a sincerity of inquiry that’s almost childlike. We meet Rebecca, a transient soul and Buffalo, NY native at breakfast the next morning. Getting meals feels almost prison like, with lines of people grabbing tin dishes to hold the liquidy rice and curry/vegetable mix, that’s altered ever so slightly for lunch and dinner. Lastly, there’s Ana, a raven-haired Columbina, who’s long wavy locks make me long for my recently chopped off tresses. Full bodied, with a bosom to match, it isn’t long before she’s told to cover up more, despite having a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Recently laid off from her job in Spain, she’s been traveling for five months and still has six to go.

It is by far the most unlikely mix of women, but it isn’t long before we’re all lingering outside the Ashram walls smoking cigarettes and swapping stories.

You couldn’t help but notice the small, slightly dilapidated markings – discrete and yet so out of place in this ancient city by the sacred Ganges River. I do believe it is the work of the french graffiti artist known as Space Invader.

The Parisian born artist started invading in 1998 having hit to date over 39 cities. Using mosaic tiles, the artist began tagging cities with the iconic imagery of the 1978 video game of the same moniker.

I’d first come across his work while researching for the upcoming New York City restaurant Tacombi, that focuses on street food, naturally I’d sourced some street art for inspiration. Little did I know that my travels through India would have me puzzling over the above images linking them to those I’d viewed from my laptop at a NYC cafe a few months earlier.

I’d snapped a few shots and came home to follow up and see if I could confirm my suspicions and while I was able to find out that yes, he did indeed “invade” Varanasi, his official website doesn’t include this particular tile mosaic…

After 10 years, the mission and medium remains the same, going from city to city, invading public space much the way big business advertising does, but the mosaic subjects have evolved. One of his latest pieces, also located in Varanasi, incorporates QR codes and data matrix codes. Common in Japan, QR or “quick response” codes can contain data such as hyperlinks, text, or contact information. The codes are readable with specially-equipped cellphones like the handy iphone, as seen here

RELATED LINKS & RESOURCES:
http://www.space-invaders.com
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPbIs40rxmQ&feature=player_embedded
http://www.canned-goods.co.uk/graffiti-pictures/tag/space-invader/143
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/QR_Code
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Datamatrix
http://www.i-nigma.com/CreateBarcodes.html

Searching for bodies during a morning boat cruise

Emele had heard about the bodies being dumped in the river. Having a slightly morbid sense of curiosity, it had been one of her main resasons for wainting to come to India. The long overnight train ride, which waqs supposed to arrive at 8:45 am, pulled into the station at close to 1:30. Getting out of a train station often feels like lambs being led to slaughter. Completely disoriented, weary from travel, you’re thrown into the clutches of rickshaw drivers and touts, each urging you to take their vehicles, however dilapidated. We consulted a passenger on the train prior to deboarding, who’d said it should cost about 40-60 Rs to town, we managed to settle on 70 but wound up giving him 100 for lack of change.

Visitors have been surprised by having their laundry washed in the Ganga.

Old Town is a series of small winding alleys. Our driver walks us directly to the hotel. Imagine, the hilly, uneven paths of Santorini, mixed with the dark backways of Venice, then throw in a whole smattering of cows, dogs, and paan shops and you’ll get just a taste of Varanasi’s Old Town section. The city’s name, like it geographical positioning is a convergence of 2 rivers. We’d befriended a lone female traveler who put it well wehen she described the city as one of such intermingled contrast between life and death. Our hotel or rather guest house is just a few steps away from Marnikarnaka Ghat, the place where Hindus come to cremate the dead, escaping the cycle of rebirth. The smoke from the fires can be seen ceaselessly, save for one hour at midnight, from the small dust covered window of our equally dusty room. It’s not much to look at, but at 550 rs per night you can’t expect much. The cement walls are covered with a peeling yellow paint. What was once a red carpet is more of a maroon brown, well-trodden and darkened from wear. But the sheets are clean and there’s a private bathroom, so all in all there’s not much to complain about.

Never a dull moment in Varanasi.

Our first night is spent marveling on the steps of the ghat at the Ganges, watching as the dons (untouchables) place wood onto several fires, preparing the heat that will release the spirits of those who have died natural deaths by incinerating the flesh of their bodies. There are 3 tiers, each devoted to a separate caste, but the ceremony is the same. The body is wrapped and placed on a stretcher to be brought to the river for a final cleansing. The husband/son or other male relative is dressed in a single white sari and his head is shaven. Once the body is burned, he’ll crack opent the skull of the departed, enabling the final release. All of this occurs around the clock, 365 days a year, but what’s most staggering is how this holy river survives at all because virtually any dead thing will find its way into the river – cows, dogs, bodies that aren’t burned (children, pregnant women, holy men, those bitten by cobras…) add to that the 30+ sewers that are emptied into it, the 60,000 daily bathers, and of course those doing their laundry and well it’s a marvel at all that everyone doesn’t drop dead just by proximity. And yet the river is home to dolphins and surprisingly has no foul odor. We even took a boat to the opposite bank and dipped our feet in.

Carefully arranged cow patties for sale along the Ganga River.