It's been three months since last I wrote in here, and a large reason for that is how powerful and diverse the experiences of the last three months have been. First was India, and I found myself struggling with how I could possibly summarize the complexity and intensity I went through. And so I didn't. I let this blog linger and just kept putting it off. Now, three months later and having experienced even more powerful and trying times in Nepal, I've come across a compromise that I hope offers a reasonable resolution to this issue: I won't try to summarize, but instead will simply offer some of the more notable journal entries from the last three months in the hopes that they can convey some sense of the world I've encountered both among these countries and within myself.
First: India. Before I go on I'll admit that most of the following stories are negative experiences (including strong language and one or two graphic descriptions-- be warned!). It should come as no surprise that the most memorable experiences are unpleasant: there's simply much more there to tell. However, I don't want to give the impression that India as a whole is a terrible place. If anything, it's an incomprehensible potpourri is beauty and misery. There are delicious flavors, beautiful temples, and colorful clothes. I can't convey flavor via the world wide web, but as for beauty, there's photos on facebook. So with that said, here's a snapshot of my September in India.
September 8
More than any other country, India grabs your attention. In less than 50 yards you might go from delicious scents of Indian curries to the smell of stale piss, then back again. In fact, I think the smell that I will associate most strongly with this country will be stall piss. You smell it literally everywhere; no place is exempt. Then you have women in all manner of colorful saris, Muslim women completely in black, and beggars or children naked, covered only in a grit-gray dirt.
The abundance of garbage is sickening -- huge piles along streetsides, gutters and alleys so fully suffused with it that the pavement can't even be seen. And now and again you'll see some poorly-clothed person wading through these piles, picking through them (even barefoot!) to find cans or other things they can sell for a pittance.
Garbage cans are a public novelty. When you have some trash you just throw it on the ground wherever you are. Well, actually, when first that situation arose I asked my couchsurfing host in Delhi, Chandan, "so I just throw this anywhere?" to which he said, "no, just dirty places." This as we passed along one of the innumerable piles of trash.
Another way that India has struck me -- or it'd be better to say affected me -- is that up till India I'd stuck fast to my toilet-papery ways, using squatty-potties but never wiping with water and my left hand. This changed. Chandan had a squatty-potty of course; and no toilet paper, of course. I had my own (as per my Southeast Asian means of avoiding the hand-water alternative), but when he said I'd have to leave the toilet paper in a nearby basket, I decided that it'd be a bit gross for him; better for me to deal with what I considered gross and to adapt to the local culture in the process. And although the first time was indeed disgusting, it gets to be pretty normal rather quickly. You end up with a fantastically clean, non-stinky butt, which is great. Unfortunately the trade-off is a very stinky, dirty left hand. Trade-offs! Soap and water can't erase the smell or the memories, and it's strange to look at any Indian and know how many hundreds of times he's scooped shit from his butt.
As for the specifics of India, so far I've only been to Delhi, Amritsar, and Dharamshala. I spent five days in Delhi and saw a lot of large, impressive locales -- Humayun's Tomb, Red Fort, Qutub Complex, and Purana Qila. I saw the filth, experienced the chaotic bustle, and felt the kindness of the locals. I also had the best lassi of my life from a chanced-upon shop near Red Fort. The air pollution in that place left my nose constantly running though and I developed a type of cough whereby I could feel myself dislodging a sludgy mucus in my throat. My eyes would occasionally burn and, as for visuals, the greatest horror was that anytime I scratched my neck my fingernails would come away covered with a thick, black tar-like gunk. Worst pollution of my life. That alone made me anxious to leave quickly.
September 7-11
Dharamshala was... unexpected. I think I appreciate it more in retrospect than I did at the time. Cool and cloudy, often rainy, it offered beautiful views and I could sit and watch the rise and fall of the mists all day as they skirted along the mountain slopes.
[...]
Near 11 pm on my first night there I began a bout of food poisoning. I was up roughly every 1-2 hours to vomit or crap. I vomited in my room's waste basket and then carried it to the communal toilet, which was maybe 20 meters away by covered balcony. I remember the poetic and humorous case of lumbering to that bathroom in only my underwear, cold and nauseous beneath the light of the full moon. Between bouts of vomiting or crapping I'd look out upon the valley and see the mountain slopes lit up beneath that moon... kinda nice. Overall it was just another case of food poisoning* and it passed over me with little to-do.
*note: I estimate I've had food poisoning some 10 or 12 times in the last 10 months, largely because I have no scruples in what or where I'm willing to eat. It's also a calculated risk: as I'll be traveling a long time, it makes more sense to try to garner immunity than to constantly fret over cleanliness and hygiene.
September 12-15
[...]
Agra has so many things to see: temples and tombs and forts and mosques, etc. It took me several days to decide that most of it's not worth it. Maybe I'm just temple'd out. Really, though, most of it is that damn town. You couldn't walk out the door of your guesthouse without getting harassed -- for two days in a row I was getting yells from tuk-tuk drivers before I'd even crossed the threshold. I recall vividly spending two mornings lying in bed for a half hour, staring at the ceiling and trying to work up the strength to head out of the hotel and into that so-trying town; I've never to my mind felt like that in any other place. It was so miserable as to render all that history and culture nearly moot.
The one exception is the Taj Mahal. Harassment, aggression, unfriendliness, and on top of that a 750 rupee entry fee ($16-17)-- somehow it's still worth it, though I'll admit the hassles very nearly outweigh the majesty of the place. Still, the incredible beauty of that building is almost surreal; I've never seen a building so breathtaking. And the size of it is really a huge surprise (though I'd been made aware of that in advance).
[...]
It was as I passed through the imposing red entrance gateway that I first saw the Taj, rising majestically above the throngs going in and out. It was like those movie scenes where a knight or similar person passes through to the courtyard of the castle and first espies the immense size and glory of the place, when they play some drumroll that culminates in blaring, Arab horns or the crash of a steel gong. I could hear those horns in my head as I entered, or at least it seemed that way.
The place looked like it arose out of 1001 Arabian Nights or "Prince of Persia," so like the mythical, mystical Arab castles does it appear. There isn't much to do but stare and try to get a stereotypical photo with the Taj, but those two things take up enough time as it is.
[...]
Once that obligation was dispatched I was able to fully devote myself to oohing and ahhing. There's something about marble, maybe the smoothness and shininess of it. Add to it the gorgeous contours and shapes of the Taj and its delicate in-laid gem art as well as Arabic script and, well, there's a lot to ogle.
It rained soon after I'd arrived (I chose a shitty day for my grand Taj visit, it seems), and the standing water only further enhanced the mystifying shininess of the place. I don't know that there's much more to say of the Taj Mahal, actually, except perhaps of the interior mausoleum. It was near itch black inside (why are all tombs so damn dark? Wouldn't an eternal monument and consecration to your deepest love benefit by a bit of sunshine?), and to stave off full darkness hung a solitary lamp, well ornamented as befits such a place. All that was cool.
The entrancing, otherworldly aspect, though, was the sound in there. Marble must reflect everything, because the inside had that incredibly soothing din that large, old cathedrals carry where the cacophony of human sound blends into a harmonious, low-pitched kind of hum. Above this sonorous hum came every word and whisper, the sounds resounding off the shining walls, bounding about in the damp, still air. The place was magical. I could have spent hours there, and as I stood for some 15 or 20 minutes I thought that, if I were to listen to one sound for all eternity, I'd want it to be this.
Beyond the Taj Mahal, as I said, Agra offered little more than headaches. I did meet two solo travelers though, who each proved interesting for a bit. [...] The other single traveler was a Hungarian who failed to take a decent picture of me (despite several opportunities) from Mehtab Bagh, across the river from the Taj. He offered me a ride back in the tuk-tuk he'd hired for a few days and I acquiesced, in part to see what kind of scam he was being run through (he'd already told me how much he'd paid and he'd paid a world too much).
The situation was more laughable (or pathetic) than I'd imagined: not only did he pay too much but his driver was taking him to shops left and right so as to earn commissions and fuel stamps. So we ended up at a shop where the owner told us he employs 4000 employees (cough) and that everything in the shop was handmade (I'd see identical wares in other shops throughout this tourist route). The owner tried hard to get me to buy while a worker worked on the Hungarian. No matter what he did he could make no headway; I was viewing the place as an art gallery, appreciating all but with no intention to buy. Each time he'd start his pitch on something -- a marble table, a marble candle-holder, marble ornaments -- I'd say how beautiful it was but that, no, I wasn't interested in buying. He must have been quite frustrated by the end because he said something like, "all you do is look! Everything is pretty but you don't buy! Then why don't you get out of my shop?" I was pretty happy to do so, and lo-and-behold our driver dragged us to a second shop! Ugh. Had it been just me I would have told the driver to stop with this shit or he wasn't getting paid, but as this was the Hungarian's chosen misery and I was just an interloper I decided to deal with it.
In we went for more pestering. Luckily I found a way to defuse the situation: I asked one of the workers about a figurine of a Hindu god. Which god was it? What was he the god of? In such a way I spent ten happy minutes in friendly conversation, learning about Hindu culture and not getting pressed to buy stuff.
The driver then took us to a tasty and quiet restaurant where he earned a commission and then headed to drop me off. I'd agreed to pay him 70 rupees to bring me back but he drove to an intersection, pointed at a road, and said it was a 2-minute walk that way. Luckily, I didn't have enough money on me to pay -- I had to get some from the bag in my room -- and so I told him and, amidst much complaining, I got to see his "2-minute walk." The fucker had tried to leave me 20 minutes from the place we'd agreed on so as to save some money on fuel. All during this last bit he harangued me for being so stupid as to not carry enough money on me, but seeing his cheat I felt pretty smart actually.
Then, when I got the money -- and all I can think is that I was in a good mood from the good conversation with the Hungarian and the singular aspect of this experience -- then I decided to tip this cheating fuck. So I brought down two 100-rupee notes, one for him and one for the Hungarian, from whom I'd borrowed money for dinner. I tried to give the hundred to the Hungarian and the driver literally started screaming, "my money! my money!" and snatching at it. The Hungarian pulled it away and I revealed the other note, which the driver ripped from my hand without a word of thanks. I started to say that we'd agreed on 70 when he screeched about how he'd shown us the two stores and the restaurant (how gracious of him...) and that he deserved it, that it was all his.
I was stunned by all this. I told him that I was going to give him that as a tip but that I knew how he'd cheated us and that it was wrong to do that, and I begged him to please, please stop cheating people. He didn't give a shit. He feigned innocence with some statements like, "you not happy? Why you not happy?" before eventually leaving with the Hungarian. This story epitomizes the Agra experience.
As an aside, this was the third and last tip I gave in Agra; in none of the three instances did the driver so much as acknowledge my kindness let alone thank me, so I stopped tipping. Actually, I've pretty much stopped tipping all tuk-tuk drivers on the Indian tourist route as a result. If they can't so much as say "thank you" then perhaps the money is better spent on better people.
September 16-17
Khajuraho was a disappointment. I know part of it is that I'm temple'd-out (or notable building'd-out) -- I've just seen too many buildings in the last month to be very impressed by Khajuraho's Jain temples. But still, the town and people could make the place enjoyable. The issue is that they don't; they do the opposite. In the town center -- or at least the scammy center -- which is right in front of the temple, you have significant tourist harassment, not as much as in Agra but still enough to annoy and discomfit you.
The bigger thing is that, away from this area, the townspeople are really friendly. While at first in India this is kinda nice -- interacting and conversing with locals -- the conversations you end up having with Indians are always the same. It's like a checklist:
First: India. Before I go on I'll admit that most of the following stories are negative experiences (including strong language and one or two graphic descriptions-- be warned!). It should come as no surprise that the most memorable experiences are unpleasant: there's simply much more there to tell. However, I don't want to give the impression that India as a whole is a terrible place. If anything, it's an incomprehensible potpourri is beauty and misery. There are delicious flavors, beautiful temples, and colorful clothes. I can't convey flavor via the world wide web, but as for beauty, there's photos on facebook. So with that said, here's a snapshot of my September in India.
September 8
 |
| Squatty Potty! Note the bucket to clean your hand with. |
The abundance of garbage is sickening -- huge piles along streetsides, gutters and alleys so fully suffused with it that the pavement can't even be seen. And now and again you'll see some poorly-clothed person wading through these piles, picking through them (even barefoot!) to find cans or other things they can sell for a pittance.
Garbage cans are a public novelty. When you have some trash you just throw it on the ground wherever you are. Well, actually, when first that situation arose I asked my couchsurfing host in Delhi, Chandan, "so I just throw this anywhere?" to which he said, "no, just dirty places." This as we passed along one of the innumerable piles of trash.
Another way that India has struck me -- or it'd be better to say affected me -- is that up till India I'd stuck fast to my toilet-papery ways, using squatty-potties but never wiping with water and my left hand. This changed. Chandan had a squatty-potty of course; and no toilet paper, of course. I had my own (as per my Southeast Asian means of avoiding the hand-water alternative), but when he said I'd have to leave the toilet paper in a nearby basket, I decided that it'd be a bit gross for him; better for me to deal with what I considered gross and to adapt to the local culture in the process. And although the first time was indeed disgusting, it gets to be pretty normal rather quickly. You end up with a fantastically clean, non-stinky butt, which is great. Unfortunately the trade-off is a very stinky, dirty left hand. Trade-offs! Soap and water can't erase the smell or the memories, and it's strange to look at any Indian and know how many hundreds of times he's scooped shit from his butt.
 |
| From a run-of-the-mill scratch on the neck. You could do this thirty times a day and it'd always be like that. |
September 7-11
Dharamshala was... unexpected. I think I appreciate it more in retrospect than I did at the time. Cool and cloudy, often rainy, it offered beautiful views and I could sit and watch the rise and fall of the mists all day as they skirted along the mountain slopes.
[...]
*note: I estimate I've had food poisoning some 10 or 12 times in the last 10 months, largely because I have no scruples in what or where I'm willing to eat. It's also a calculated risk: as I'll be traveling a long time, it makes more sense to try to garner immunity than to constantly fret over cleanliness and hygiene.
September 12-15
[...]
Agra has so many things to see: temples and tombs and forts and mosques, etc. It took me several days to decide that most of it's not worth it. Maybe I'm just temple'd out. Really, though, most of it is that damn town. You couldn't walk out the door of your guesthouse without getting harassed -- for two days in a row I was getting yells from tuk-tuk drivers before I'd even crossed the threshold. I recall vividly spending two mornings lying in bed for a half hour, staring at the ceiling and trying to work up the strength to head out of the hotel and into that so-trying town; I've never to my mind felt like that in any other place. It was so miserable as to render all that history and culture nearly moot.
The one exception is the Taj Mahal. Harassment, aggression, unfriendliness, and on top of that a 750 rupee entry fee ($16-17)-- somehow it's still worth it, though I'll admit the hassles very nearly outweigh the majesty of the place. Still, the incredible beauty of that building is almost surreal; I've never seen a building so breathtaking. And the size of it is really a huge surprise (though I'd been made aware of that in advance).
[...]
The place looked like it arose out of 1001 Arabian Nights or "Prince of Persia," so like the mythical, mystical Arab castles does it appear. There isn't much to do but stare and try to get a stereotypical photo with the Taj, but those two things take up enough time as it is.
[...]
Once that obligation was dispatched I was able to fully devote myself to oohing and ahhing. There's something about marble, maybe the smoothness and shininess of it. Add to it the gorgeous contours and shapes of the Taj and its delicate in-laid gem art as well as Arabic script and, well, there's a lot to ogle.
It rained soon after I'd arrived (I chose a shitty day for my grand Taj visit, it seems), and the standing water only further enhanced the mystifying shininess of the place. I don't know that there's much more to say of the Taj Mahal, actually, except perhaps of the interior mausoleum. It was near itch black inside (why are all tombs so damn dark? Wouldn't an eternal monument and consecration to your deepest love benefit by a bit of sunshine?), and to stave off full darkness hung a solitary lamp, well ornamented as befits such a place. All that was cool.
The entrancing, otherworldly aspect, though, was the sound in there. Marble must reflect everything, because the inside had that incredibly soothing din that large, old cathedrals carry where the cacophony of human sound blends into a harmonious, low-pitched kind of hum. Above this sonorous hum came every word and whisper, the sounds resounding off the shining walls, bounding about in the damp, still air. The place was magical. I could have spent hours there, and as I stood for some 15 or 20 minutes I thought that, if I were to listen to one sound for all eternity, I'd want it to be this.
Beyond the Taj Mahal, as I said, Agra offered little more than headaches. I did meet two solo travelers though, who each proved interesting for a bit. [...] The other single traveler was a Hungarian who failed to take a decent picture of me (despite several opportunities) from Mehtab Bagh, across the river from the Taj. He offered me a ride back in the tuk-tuk he'd hired for a few days and I acquiesced, in part to see what kind of scam he was being run through (he'd already told me how much he'd paid and he'd paid a world too much).
The situation was more laughable (or pathetic) than I'd imagined: not only did he pay too much but his driver was taking him to shops left and right so as to earn commissions and fuel stamps. So we ended up at a shop where the owner told us he employs 4000 employees (cough) and that everything in the shop was handmade (I'd see identical wares in other shops throughout this tourist route). The owner tried hard to get me to buy while a worker worked on the Hungarian. No matter what he did he could make no headway; I was viewing the place as an art gallery, appreciating all but with no intention to buy. Each time he'd start his pitch on something -- a marble table, a marble candle-holder, marble ornaments -- I'd say how beautiful it was but that, no, I wasn't interested in buying. He must have been quite frustrated by the end because he said something like, "all you do is look! Everything is pretty but you don't buy! Then why don't you get out of my shop?" I was pretty happy to do so, and lo-and-behold our driver dragged us to a second shop! Ugh. Had it been just me I would have told the driver to stop with this shit or he wasn't getting paid, but as this was the Hungarian's chosen misery and I was just an interloper I decided to deal with it.
 |
| The mausoleum of the Taj Mahal. |
The driver then took us to a tasty and quiet restaurant where he earned a commission and then headed to drop me off. I'd agreed to pay him 70 rupees to bring me back but he drove to an intersection, pointed at a road, and said it was a 2-minute walk that way. Luckily, I didn't have enough money on me to pay -- I had to get some from the bag in my room -- and so I told him and, amidst much complaining, I got to see his "2-minute walk." The fucker had tried to leave me 20 minutes from the place we'd agreed on so as to save some money on fuel. All during this last bit he harangued me for being so stupid as to not carry enough money on me, but seeing his cheat I felt pretty smart actually.
Then, when I got the money -- and all I can think is that I was in a good mood from the good conversation with the Hungarian and the singular aspect of this experience -- then I decided to tip this cheating fuck. So I brought down two 100-rupee notes, one for him and one for the Hungarian, from whom I'd borrowed money for dinner. I tried to give the hundred to the Hungarian and the driver literally started screaming, "my money! my money!" and snatching at it. The Hungarian pulled it away and I revealed the other note, which the driver ripped from my hand without a word of thanks. I started to say that we'd agreed on 70 when he screeched about how he'd shown us the two stores and the restaurant (how gracious of him...) and that he deserved it, that it was all his.
I was stunned by all this. I told him that I was going to give him that as a tip but that I knew how he'd cheated us and that it was wrong to do that, and I begged him to please, please stop cheating people. He didn't give a shit. He feigned innocence with some statements like, "you not happy? Why you not happy?" before eventually leaving with the Hungarian. This story epitomizes the Agra experience.
As an aside, this was the third and last tip I gave in Agra; in none of the three instances did the driver so much as acknowledge my kindness let alone thank me, so I stopped tipping. Actually, I've pretty much stopped tipping all tuk-tuk drivers on the Indian tourist route as a result. If they can't so much as say "thank you" then perhaps the money is better spent on better people.
September 16-17
Khajuraho was a disappointment. I know part of it is that I'm temple'd-out (or notable building'd-out) -- I've just seen too many buildings in the last month to be very impressed by Khajuraho's Jain temples. But still, the town and people could make the place enjoyable. The issue is that they don't; they do the opposite. In the town center -- or at least the scammy center -- which is right in front of the temple, you have significant tourist harassment, not as much as in Agra but still enough to annoy and discomfit you.
The bigger thing is that, away from this area, the townspeople are really friendly. While at first in India this is kinda nice -- interacting and conversing with locals -- the conversations you end up having with Indians are always the same. It's like a checklist:
- Where you from?
- What's your name?
- What work you do?
- You married?
- Where your girlfriend?
- Why no girlfriend?
- You travel alone?
- Where you come from?
- Where you going?
So after 30 or 40 of these boring exchanges you stop wanting to engage in them. When a group of people yell, "hey!" and wave me over I think, "you're the ones who want to talk to me, why don't you move your damn selves?" Often I'm just impassive: I don't respond and keep walking by.
In Khajuraho this was particularly true since I had a few of the above interactions which, a few minutes in, swung into sales pitches: "come see my shop" or "I'll show you around. I'm a tour guide," etc. The first exchange in town was in a ridiculously overcharging restaurant I gave a chance (bad call); one of the workers or workers' kids, not more than eight years old, came and sat at my table. I wasn't in the mood to talk but thought I'd humor him a minute or two. He said he just wanted to practice his English, that he learns it by talking to tourists. He jabbered through The Checklist (see above) and I unhappily conversed. When my meal came I told him I wanted to eat alone, without talking (incidentally I had two other people come up and try to start conversations while I was eating-- what was with that restaurant??). After I was done, had paid, and was leaving the kid stopped me and was like, "you haven't given me any money yet." And I was like, "for what?" "For talking with you." Ha! The fucker wastes my time and annoys me to "improve his English" and then demands payment. Course I told him, quite politely, to go to hell. But after that and one or two more conversations I wasn't interested in humoring anyone else with a friendly conversation when half the time they sucked and half the time it turned into a scam.
September 20-22 [I think-- no dates written]
They say Varanasi is the epitome of India, India distilled and exaggerated. It's rather true. Traffic was terrible, people everywhere and scammers at their worst (as well as touts). Ok, to be fair there was only one scammer I came across but his tactics and aim were so incredibly reprehensible.
 |
| Dirty, dirty Varanasi. This street is rather wider than most-- probably twice the size. |
The first day I went to the burning ghat and this guy told me I had to go up to a viewing area because the closer area was for family only. So I followed him, we get to a balcony overlooking funeral pyres, and he tells me all about the ritual and customs of the burnings. He says he works for the hospice here. His good English, tour guide-like explanations (too well-rehearsed), and convenient do-good profession all have me on high alert. Actually, I guess I'd been on high alert since the moment he pulled me aside because I'd immediately told him I had no money on me (though apparently he didn't hear that). Well, as I grew more suspicious I snuck my billfold from my breast pocket into my satchel, leaving only my 1-rupee coin in the breast pocket.
The guy soon starts laying it on: many of the people that come to the hospice are poor and you need some-such number of kilograms of wood to burn a body and it costs 300 rupees ($6) per kilogram of wood (I asked someone later -- it costs about 5 rupees for a kilo of wood). Anyway, he says how most tourists that visit are kind enough to donate a few kilograms of wood. Before I can answer he drags me over to this old woman, makes me kneel down. She puts her hand on my head and they do this lame blessing. He then says, "now, how much would you like to donate? Five kilograms?" For perspective, that's over $30, more than most people make in a week.
I tell him sadly that I have no money on me. His tone immediately changes. Bitingly he snaps, "what do you mean you have no money? How do you travel if you have no money?" I tell him I don't carry money on me out into the streets (just for note, he's conveniently blocking my way out by standing in the doorway). He seems at a loss. Angrily he again says, "how do you travel if you have no money?" I tell him I don't carry it on me; I leave it in my guesthouse. "Where are you staying then? We'll go there and you can give me the money." Here I get frank with him, tell him that this isn't how you go about asking for a donation, that his angry tone and insistence have made me suspicious and that I see greed in his eyes.
I don't recall if it was right then or after one or two more attempts that he then switched from barring my way to literally shoving me out, yelling, "then get out! You can't stay here! This is bad karma! Bad karma!" All while he pushed me down the stairs and out and amidst his yelling I kept coolly saying, "please, please learn what karma is. Money does not give karma." I told him I'd come to learn and experience one of the Hindus most holy rituals -- surely that was an act of good karma. I should have saved my breath though; he was just a greedy conman.
What bothered me so much about his scam, though -- and still bothers me -- is that he was doing it at such a sacred place. He was disrespecting both the Hindu religion and the deceased and their families that had come to observe this ritual I still think his conscious, clearly daily disrespect and scamming there is one of the vilest, most reprehensible acts of humanity I've ever personally witnessed in my life.
Beyond this Varanasi lacked any other memorable anecdotes.* This shouldn't be too surprising: so filthy, unfriendly, and unpleasant was the city that nearly every backpacker I met or saw would only leave the guesthouse for an hour or two each day, just to walk around and feel like they saw some of the city. I'd quickly met two Ozzies my first night, Tom and Liam, and so spent most of my afternoons and evenings hanging out with them and a French couple I'd met on the train coming in. The guesthouse had a rooftop restaurant with damn good food at decent prices so you'd pretty much see all the hotel's guests up there all day, socializing and avoiding the disgusting maze of alleyways six floor below.
*journal footnote: though I did end up seeing the funeral pyres from up close. Like, within a foot and a half. They were intensely hot and smelled like meat being cooked on a campfire. I saw brain dribbling, boiling from a burning skull... I wasn't too affected, really.
Te escribe tu pasado de Guadalajara para decirte que leerte... de alguna forma es vivir tu presente... please keep writing...
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