Russians have a bad reputation in Goa for their unruly behavior. Many say they are unfriendly but it’s probably due to the fact that few speak much English and just appear to be standoffish. In the north several beaches are completely taken over by vodka drinking rowdy Russians – even the signage is is in Russian. Has anyone been to Brighton Beach in NYC recently?

We’ve heard stories of the Russian Mafia buying up large parcels of land in an attempt to launder money. Just yesterday we heard a story of an altercation breaking out between a waiter and a drunken Russian tourist. The Russian pulled out a knife and stabbed the unsuspecting Goan waiter. The culprit fled and was chased by an angry mob wielding bricks, bottles and stones. Narrowly escaping with his life, he jumped into the sea. After treading water for several hours, he was ironically saved from drowning by a local lifeguard!

But all of this is not the case for us – our experience has been completely different. We’ll start with Natasha, a Russian woman staying next door to us. An easy going, mellow yoga teacher back home. She’s the perfect neighbor never makes any noise in her room, comes and goes who knows where, and when we see her she’s always smiling and easy to engage in conversation. Natasha speaks good English because she lived in Sacramento with her husband for ten years. Not excited about returning to Russia two years ago, her first complaint was the long cold winters. But more bothersome is the pollution – with the rapidly expanding economy many people are now able to buy automobiles spewing out carbon monoxide. As in the US, the majority of the money seems to be held by only a few.We briefly met her two years ago when she was attending a yoga retreat and found Agonda to be as special as we do, and has returned now for a month. She’s even commented she likes the music she hears coming out of our room at lunchtime, predominantly jazz.

Another guest where we’re staying has also been here numerous times, but this is the first year we’ve become friendly. In her 40s, Tatiana’s a striking character – with long platinum blond tresses, often piled high on her head. She speaks very good English for a Russian. In only the last ten years, English has become the preferred foreign language taught in schools, over German and French, thanks to the computer age.

Tatiana spends a lot of her time traveling, financed by a smart move fifteen years ago. When property values were inexpensive, she bought a building with apartments and a shop in Moscow. Keeping a small flat for herself, she rents the rest of it which is more than enough to finance her excursions around the world. Staying two months in Agonda, she’s always on the go and has rented a stylish white motor scooter that goes well with her red swimsuit and blond hair. Tatiana’s a strong swimmer and semi-professional photographer – one of her photographs of a fisherman in Agonda won an online competition. With a lighthearted view of herself and life around her, she has a smile that makes it compulsory for you to smile back!

Tatiana’s winning entry

The Russian family who last year stayed next to us in the guesthouse have now rented a house in Agonda village, away from the beach. With a kitchen and several rooms this suits them much better and doesn’t cost more than the guest house. As mentioned last year they are a very serious couple, learning Aurevedic medicine, and working through the maze of mystic philosophy this country has to offer. At present they’re reading the sayings of Krishnamurti. Staying three months, Irina home schools their nine year old son and visits the beach only at sunset not wanting to spoil her soft milky white skin with a suntan. Irina’s husband Jalil, who is older, has had long talks with Gerard about what it was like living in the Soviet Union and more interestingly when the Union collapsed. He’d spent 18 years in the military and quit one year before that. Jalil said many people sensed that something was seriously wrong at least five years before the dissolution. When asked if he was a card-carrying Communist, he said, “Of course, I was in the military. But even as a child I felt a discrepancy between what the government was saying and the everyday reality. factory workers and other unskilled laborers, who earned little money but were taken care of by the state, suffered the most when the Union finally ended. They had nowhere to turn as factory after factory closed no longer subsidized by the central government. On the other hand, during the Soviet period, it was the businessmen who were under constant suspicion for being budding capitalists and had found it hard to survive. But later, they benefited the most from the gigantic economic opportunity. In fact, anyone with a business inclination did well.
Gerard asked, “But was there a sense of disillusionment?”
“Yes, of course, amongst the old guard. It was a very bitter pill for them to swallow.”

Jalil is the first Russian we’ve met who was old enough to go through this turmoil and see it from both sides. Our life is a little fuller from knowing these people who shared with us. They’re far from the stereotypical Russian tourist that come to Goa.

Frederic and I writing

Last summer Gerard saw a program called Secrets of the Dead that was about the Cuban Missile Crisis. He can remember the “Dive and Duck” practices they had to do at school then – as if ducking under a desk was going to give you any protection from a nuclear bomb! There was no doubt that the world was on the brink of nuclear destruction. But little did anyone know that this crisis boiled down to the decision of one individual! Kennedy had imposed a navel blockade around Cuba stopping any Soviet ships carrying war material. Both countries were sending their submarines to the opposing borders. But this story focuses around one diesel-powered Soviet sub which had reached the blockade. It had been submerged for some time and out of communication with Moscow. They were also running very low on battery power and needed to surface soon. The US navy destroyers were well aware of their presence and dropped depth charges trying to persuade them to surface. With no communications with Moscow it was not clear if war had been declared or not. In the sub they were not clear of the destroyer’s intentions and after a lengthy discussion the sub decided it would deploy nuclear warheads fearing that war had already been declared. In order to go nuclear the three top officers on the sub had to agree. Two of them were in favor of deploying, but the third said, ‘No!” The whole crew were against his decision, calling him a traitor for disgracing the Soviet flag and letting down the mother country. But he remained determined, saying, “ We don’t know for sure if war has already broken out. But then why are they bombing us? the crew demanded. Try as they may, they were unable to convince this officer and were forced to surface. Now realizing that there was no state of war, this lone officer was still in complete disgrace. The destroyer gave orders for them to return to Russia which they did. When the commander of the destroyer was questioned what his response would have been if the sub had filed its missiles, he said, “Do I really need to reply? Of course! All of the naval blockade would have deployed their nuclear weapons, no questions asked!”

Back in Russia, the dissenting officer was called a traitor – a disgrace to his uniform he was thrown out of the navy. Lived the rest of his life in obscurity, and died in 2002. Ten years later his wife decided to make his story public. This man should have been hailed not only as a national hero but a hero of mankind. He deserved the Nobel Peace Prize instead of living his life in disgrace! When Gerard told Jalil, he was not surprised and said this is how the Soviet military operated. You would think all Russians would know about this story – but they don’t. Gerard was so moved, he’s taken great pleasure in telling it to every Russian he’s met! The consistent reaction is the same as his – completely overwhelmed thinking how close we came to nuclear holocaust.

As much as we love our guesthouse, it’s still a concrete block that acts like a heat sink. But leaving the door open at night, created a nice cross draft which cooled the room off. Gerard hung our mosquito net as a curtain in the doorway and we secured it at night with a chair and a heavy jar of peanut butter. After six years in Agonda with no incident, we had developed a false sense of security. Our room, and two others, on the second floor has an exterior staircase, with the landlord or his son sleeping right underneath. What could be safer? We had heard rumors of theft a few years ago but nothing recently. And of course, as Frank Zappa used to say, “I’m telling you my dear, that it can\t happen here!” We believed it! Drank the cool aid and went to sleep.

Somewhere between 12 and 4 – the hours of which Gerard manages to sleep, the intruder stealthily did his business. At 4 am, Gerard wondered why the chair and peanut butter had been moved, but dismissed it as our new neighbors who had arrived that night may have needed it. But in dawn/s early light we noticed an empty space on the table where the computer used to lay. With heart in mouth, Gerard noticed the fancy recording device that he’d borrowed from a friend had also gone, along with my camera. We went down to tell the landlord and all he could say, was Shit! Oh, Shit! The landlady muttered something about paying us which we didn’t really understand. As more people joined the conversation, it became clear that going to the police would be no good. We would have two problems – one, our lost property, and two, the police! Whenever possible, DO NOT get the police involved. They would also insist that the landlord pay us some ridiculous amount as reimbursement. But why should they pay? They didn’t leave the door open. Others told us we should make a police report, but when asked have you heard of them recovering anything,they admitted, No.

Many of you expressed kind thoughts and they were appreciated. One dear friend summed it up by telling the short story of having his shoes stolen off the beach in Sri Lanka many years ago. He said for a short time the landscape became dull. We also felt the sun had gone under a cloud. But really as Gerard reminded me, all we needed was an attitude adjustment. The losses just made our life a little less convenient. I couldn’t write the blog while Gerard hovered over my shoulder doing his editing…and no morning raga with breakfast, or jazz hour at lunch. As the Indians like to say, What to do?

A French friend of ours from three years ago who we first met up in a little town in the mountains, arranged to meet us here in Agonda. He was not using his laptop and was quite happy to use his iPhone for email and let us borrow the computer for the rest of his stay. Our good fortune! Only thing is that getting used to his French keyboard is a bit of a hassle. So please excuse punctuation errors while I struggle to find the right keys. Who would have thought the letters would be arranged in a different order to qwerty! So for the time being our schedule has resumed quite interrupted.

We first met Frederic in Rewalsar – he was eating his dinner buried in his newspaper. When we asked if we could borrow his paper, he looked up over his wire framed glasses and gave us a stern look. It wasn’t particularly welcoming but the restaurant was the only one in town, so he couldn’t avoid us! A fiercely private person, we broke through the barrier. Over the next few days, we quickly struck up a relationship, spending a lot of time together in Rewalsar, and visiting nearby Manali together. He began telling us a fascinating tale = a true story of love, abandonment and reunion that began after WW1 and spans several generations.

Ten days later we met up at the Delhi airport, we were both on the same flight to Heathrow, and he continued to expand on this story about his girlfriend’s family. We both had hours to spend before catching our connecting flights. The idea was that I would write it up when I got back home. But when I started, I quickly realised it was way too confusing and I needed to hear the details again. Unfortunately our paths did not cross until this year. Frederick was very happy to retell this complicated tale, this time with even more sidebars! We sat together for several afternoons in the loggia at our guesthouse while I typed up copious notes. And then….as the story was finally taking shape, the computer was stolen. And of course I’d failed to back up. Maybe there’s a lesson here. But losing this writing was the hardest loss. Anyway, Gerard is helping me to start over. And as often happens, the rewrite is better than the original.

My good friend from Boston reminded me that Hemingway.had a similar experience. While he was traveling, his wife came to meet him by train. Without telling him she brought a novel he’d completed but only had one copy. She thought he might want to show it to people.  She went to the restaurant car to get tea and when she returned the suitcase with the writing was gone.  So all his work for months was erased. When she told him what had happened, he freaked out for a while and then decided it was a good editing tool – that he would remember the substance and start over again.

There are many stories in Agonda and some are not happy at all. A few days ago Gerard and Frederic took a rickshaw into Chaudi, the neighboring market town. The rickshaw driver agreed to wait while they shopped and then bring them back. On the return trip, the driver suddenly said, “One minuter, sir.” and stopped at a house. He called out, and a young girl came over to the rickshaw; he embraced her and said, Happy Birthday! Back in the rickshaw Gerard asked him if it was his daughter. ‘ No, it was my niece.” “Do you have children?” Frederic then asked. The rickshaw driver indicated that he had one. Struggling with his few words of English, and also it seemed his emotions, he resorted to sign language to indicate that both his parents and wife were gone. They didn’t understand what he meant and eventually it came out that his parents had died from cancer and his wife had also died – but he did not explain how. He also managed to convey that his daughter was living with her aunt 25 kms away and saw her very infrequently.

When they reached Agonda, Frederic joked, “Should we pay you or should you pay us for our wonderful company?” With a long face, he said, “No sir, I need the money.” Frederic gave him three bills. He kissed them and then touched his forehead with them. Frederic was now aware that the man was very upset, most likely from telling his story. Frederic reassured him. “This will pass and you will also have a life of your own.” He continued, “I had cancer two years ago and I survived it.” Out of the rickshaw and facing the driver, they could see tears running down his face. They both did their best to console him saying, ‘You have to deal with today only, and tomorrow will take care of itself.”And then Frederic cautioned, BUT NO ALCHOL! The driver clasped both their hands and thanked them.

When I heard the story, I immediately had terrible thought, that maybe his wife had been murdered and, God forbid, raped. This was prompted by of a horrific incident in the same town of Chaudi that happened last week and was reported in the newspaper . A fish seller, a woman of 51, was on her way to work early one morning when she was murdered and although the papers have withheld this, also raped. There has been a huge outcry and criticism for the police’s inability to arrest anyone. A few days later there was a strike in the town, meaning all commercial operations were stopped, no shops were open and no public transportation operated. There are demands for a public hanging. Beginning with the much publicised rape in Gurgaon last year, there has been a surge in the reporting of rapes. Every day there are reports of rapes in the newspapers. But it begs the question, are there more rapes or is rape just being more publicised? Women are becoming more confident in reporting abuse. In the past, they were afraid that their community would reject them and their family. A raped woman lost her good reputation and was no longer be able to marry. There is a history of abuse towards women in India that is finally receiving public attention. Women have had enough and want it to stop. Before much change can take place, however, there has to be a change in attitudes.

After six years of traveling in India with no real problems, a little bit of our luck has finally run out. Last night our computer was stolen. We’ve been leaving the door open because of the heat, and a sense of security – with a mosquito net and chair over the door.  Inspite of both of us being light sleepers the culprit managed to stealthily remove the chair and net and enter the room without waking us.  The background noise of the ocean was in his favor.  So from this point forward it will be more tedious for us to always write in a cyber cafe.  But we will stay in touch  The sun still shines and the water sparkles. 

On this our sixth visit, Agonda has changed more than any other year – more beach huts, trinket shops and restaurants. So much for the “fine balance”…crass commercialism wins out again. Along the road beside the beach, the last empty space has been developed. A long blur of oversized blue and white cottages have been squeezed in. Cows stand beside the new development in bewilderment wondering where the scrub land, their last patch of grazing ground, has gone. But the beach and sea remain the same, as lovely and empty as ever! The town does not seem any more crowded with tourists; the increase in facilities not matched by a larger influx in visitors. Once again, more people competing for the same tourist dollar! There’s talk that the Mumbai Mafia has arrived and the locals finally succumbing to the allure of developing Agonda into a more sophisticated resort like the rest of the coastal towns of Goa. As everywhere in India an increase in food and gas costs has caused a spike in restaurant prices – but even more so here.

At first I’m put off by the changes. Agonda’s lost its quaintness and tranquility – and I say, “This is the last time we come here!” But after a couple of days the therapeutic power of the environment works its magic and I feel so healthy – a tonic of sea water, sun and fresh air combined! And I’m not the only one to benefit; we’re personally aware of many who’ve come to Agonda with a variety of physical ailments, emotional wounds, and mental worries – they relax and feel better.

But against the backdrop of such physical beauty…this is the world after all, and tragedies happen…two fishermen were drowned this year, entangled in their fishing nets. In nearby market town, Chaudi, a construction site collapsed, killing over 30 workers. One morning, I saw a cow wandering on the beach with a huge bloody gash on his side…the next day it’s worse. Perhaps the crows have been pecking at the wound. At first it appears he got entangled in a barbed wire fence. But then someone says he was probably nosing to close to a restaurant and the cook threw boiling oil at him. This would never happen in Hindu India, and if it did, the culprit would suffer the same or worse fate as the cow. For Christian Goans the cow is not sacred, although most Goans would never inflict such an extreme act of cruelty. Animals in general are not treated with the same respect as in other parts of India. Stray dogs are kept at bay with sticks. The monkeys have been frightened out-of-town. They still return to steal the guava fruit from a tree in the garden of our guest house. But if Rita catches sight, she brandishes her stick and they hide muttering in the nearby trees. (The Animal Rescue League has stepped in to address the very disturbing acts of cruelty on the cows.)

With a little negotiation we manage to get our usual room overlooking the far end of the beach, at only a nominal increase in rent. Where everything is more expensive, we probably have the best value in town! We settle into our routine, framed by our meditation schedule and two swims a day. A cacophony of noise greets us at dawn – pigs grunting, crows squawking, a mocking-bird playing call and response with Gerard. Wandering down the beach before most of the town wakes up, I buy our breakfast and lunch. Over our morning chai we watch dolphins leaping high in the waves. Gerard disgraced himself by forgetting his swimsuit. How could he ignore such a vital item! But the swimming must go on – and after an intensive morning search, he manages to find a magnificent floral substitute in the tourist shop.

As we’ve mentioned many times before, one of our main interests in traveling are the people we meet along the way. And this year has been no exception. Especially interesting is meeting those who also experienced the ‘60s first hand and live to tell about it. We were introduced to another couple from the west coast who were immediately so likeable that within a day or so we were exchanging stories from back in the day. Gerard was particularly interested in her radical activism, divulging that she was a Weatherman for a couple of years. Leaving US just before the Weathermen and SDS became radicalized, Gerard did not know that much about the movement. From political activism she moved into academia and then became connected, and still is, with Maharaji, also known back in those days as the Boy Guru. We laughed when we realized her best friend back home happens to be an old acquaintance of ours we have not seen for many years!

And then last night I sat next to a woman in a café who lives in Totnes – my native place, as the Indians would say! She came there via Zimbabwe twenty-five years ago, lured by the opportunity for farming that she no longer had in Zimbabwe. But now sadly, the farms are even disappearing from Devon. Six degrees of separation?

Then there are the regulars: our English friends who rent a house above the beach each year, in our guest house, the older German couple, Andre and Isabelle from the south of France, the Russian family studying Ayurvedic medicine and Vedanta. And then there’s Christina who lives in Prague and her mother from Poland, who has Alzheimer’s but after three consecutive years in Agonda is acting and looking younger than ever. A tall lanky Swiss, who makes Gerard look positively robust, sits on his patio playing classical music on guitar and violin. An Italian octogenarian, Boom-Boom as he likes to be called, still rides by on his motor scooter, beginning each day with a shot of rum even though his dark tanned body is supposedly riddled with cancer. We all get pulled back for one more season!

Among the three Goan women we profiled last year, Geeta is back in her store with a new husband and three-month old baby. Although it appears that business is not great, she’s still a lot happier than last year, clutching her new born son. Lakshmi is still trying to figure out how to make a living from selling cheap tourist clothing that few want to buy. Her three youngest children help in the store when they’re not in school. One night, her teenage son is attacked by a drunken Indian right in the store, and the next day his eye is half closed and swollen. A CT scan reveals it’s not permanently damaged. Meanwhile Lakshmi’s brother-in-law is dying in hospital from cirrhosis of the liver caused by a daily diet of vodka. Alcoholism has not escaped Agonda. Lakshmi is a sympathetic figure – a hardworking woman trying to make a living in a highly competitive environment who still has to deal with the unexpected costly traumas of family life. With a husband who does seasonal work at best, her only financial stability is from her eldest daughter who now has a job year-round at a high end resort.

A fixer-upper for Gerard!

On all our visits to Agonda, we’ve never felt the need to visit any other of the resorts along the coast. But this time, we take a day trip to nearby Pallolum – a series of naturally beautiful coves but cluttered with restaurants and shops, making it feel claustrophobic.  It was a relief to return to Agonda.

We left Orchha early in the morning. Suresh, the cook, had promised he would get up and make us breakfast. But he was still fast asleep on the foyer floor when we were ready to go. An Indian family had arrived at 2 am with a baby but no milk for it, and the baby cried the rest of the night. But nineteen year old Suresh staggered out for us and made parathas and chai. When Gerard gave him a small tip he suddenly embraced him, exclaiming “I love you!” Then he said the same thing to me, and in the saddest, thickly-accented English, “I’m not going to like it when you’re gone.” It was such a poignant loving farewell, that for a minute I didn’t want to go either – despite the relief of escaping the bone chilling cold and damp.

We’d bought our train tickets over a month ago and one of the tickets was waitlisted. At the time that didn’t make us nervous – so many people make multiple reservations these days and only keep one if any of them. Wait list #3 seemed certain to materialize into a confirmation. Or so I thought! Gerard who never assumes anything was more apprehensive but could do nothing about it because these wait list confirmations are not posted until 4 hours before departure. In my usual complacency that everything would work out I had chided Gerard for continually checking for the list on the computer that morning, impatient for it to be posted. But it wasn’t until we were just about to board the train that we realized we still only had one confirmed seat – and an upper berth at that! For nineteen hours we would have to share the narrow space – even narrower than the lower berth below. We tried to grease the palm of the ticket collector to get us a spare seat, but he shrugged indifferently. “The train is full” – and indeed it was. There wasn’t a single empty berth in 2AC. Our berth was in a compartment with a middle aged couple and a single woman. Quite unusually, no one spoke a word to us the whole trip, in fact they barely acknowledged our presence – they did not make room for us to sit on the lower berth as is customary during the day or acknowledge our difficulty in squeezing into our skinny berth at night. Not that there was anything they could do, it would just have been nice to have a little sympathy. Gerard wanted to tell them when we all embarked at 4 am in Mumbai that they were the least friendly people we had ever traveled with on a train in India! They were such a contrast to the usual camaraderie we experience.

But we survived, and at Mumbai our host had arranged for us to be met by his driver. After a long night of squirming around trying to get comfortable, the spacious back seats of the car seemed positively luxurious. We’d come to Mumbai to attend a five-day meditation retreat that is held annually, though it was our first time. It is organized by people who follow the same meditation practice as us and was in remembrance of the spiritual teacher we visited frequently in Rajasthan before he passed away in 1997. We arrived one day before the retreat began and were given accommodation in an empty flat below our friends, the organizers. Held at a nearby public hall, the numbers at the retreat swelled from two hundred on the first day to over a thousand by the weekend. Some came from close by, some from afar. A wide spectrum of people, from a Mumbai businessman who was brought by his driver in a new Mercedes to a farmer from a remote village in Rajasthan. Families traveling a long distance stayed in dormitories above the hall where we followed a schedule of mediation and talks during the day. Delicious, simple food were prepared three times a day in the large kitchen area behind the hall and served by an army of volunteers to us as we sat in long lines on the floor.

Everything ran amazingly smoothly, due to careful organization and the endless efforts of a large team of volunteers. The family we stayed with took especially good care of us even though their flat was full to over flowing with visitors also attending the retreat. As more kept coming, furniture was moved out into the hallway outside the flat to make more space for sleeping! Despite the inconveniences everyone was very jolly. Before we went to the meditation hall in the early morning, we were requested to join them upstairs tea and biscuits. Everyone was trying to get ready gracefully coordinating with each other around two small bathrooms. But the mood was lighthearted. Our host’s elderly mother, positioned at the dining table, observed the activities with humour and a contagious deep belly laugh as she threw out a comical remark from time to time. The fact we couldn’t understand what she said didn’t matter!

We were the only westerners attending the retreat, very few people spoke English and there was no translation of the talks. And according to custom, men and women sat separately. This meant that it was not a social event. But the Indians often demonstrated how happy they were for us to join them and by the end of the retreat women in saris of every color of the rainbow would crowd around me jabbering in Hindi that I could not understand. “Nain Hindi!” was all I could say, chiding myself for leaving off my feeble attempts to learn the language last year. I hadn’t then anticipated that I would be spending five days with such sweet people who could not speak English. Gerard, meanwhile, sat in companionable semi-silence sharing a few words with the Sikh gentlemen from the Punjab, dignified in their white kurtas, and pink or blue turbans.

The five days passed surprisingly quickly. Once again, we cut the strings of attachment to the lovely people we had met and continued on our way.

Our first visit to Orchha in Madhya Pradesh was five years ago. This otherwise sleepy town sitting beside the BetwaRiver is unlike any other historical site in the country.

At a small crossroads you can see to the left over a bridge the giant palaces of the Orchha Rajput rulers sitting on a small island, on the right rises the Chaturbhuj temple, the pearl white complex of Raj Rama temple, Jhujjar Singh’s palace and Laxhminarayn temple. Straight ahead on the road leads you to the cenotaphs (memorials) on the banks of the river. From 1500 to the late 1700 Orchha was the capital of the entire region.

Jahangir Mahal, one of the two imposing palaces was built around Akbar the Great’s time at the beginning of the 1600s. Considering its age it is in remarkable condition. The other large palace, Raj Mahal, built around 50 years earlier boasts exquisite paintings on the walls and ceilings depicting scenes from Hindu mythology. The architecture is a blend of Rajput and Mogul.

Orchha’s history town lives on its remarkable preserved monuments which are clustered around within a two km radius. One of the things that attracts us to Orchha is the opportunity to roam freely from one monument to another, through pastures and open scrub land.

In the past five years not a lot has changed, with the exception of widening the main road through town, officially for the buses to come in and out more conveniently. The fronts of buildings were literally torn down to enable this, the rubble left beside the edge of the road. It’s ridiculous because the entrance to town is through the Royal Gate which is only wide enough for an elephant – or a tourist bus. The whole project is a disaster because it means once through the Elephant Gate traffic speeds too fast with horns screeching. Tragically, I also noticed an excessive number of limping stray dogs – evidence of being run over by racing traffic and living to tell the tale, but with only three working legs.

New Years Eve was remarkably quiet, largely because of heavy rain. Parties were hosted in the major hotels and at midnight a few firecrackers managed to stay dry enough to explode.

 But we weren’t aware that New Years Day was a bigger celebration than New Years Eve. This small town hosted between 30 – 40,000 visitors who paraded up the street to the temple, ate from all the food stalls that sprang up overnight along the way, stuck their feet in the cold river water …and then left. Some came from far away, more from neighboring villages. The noise and confusion drove us back into our hotel room. But the next morning miraculously almost everyone had left, and the streets had already been cleaned and the trash collected.

The countryside is full of lovely walks. We found a spot next to a babbling brook that was so universally pastoral with its soft mat of green grass reaching down to the water it took both of us back to our childhood. We sat in silence, a rarity in India, and appreciated the moment.

Another day we went looking for the fabled Baobab tree – the locals here believe they have the only one in existence. It’s true they’re extremely rare but there’s a number to be found throughout India. They have survived since prehistoric times, originating in West Africa and exactly how they appeared in India is unclear. Some say they spread across the subcontinent before India split away from Africa.

We found the tree quite easily sitting on the top of a granite knoll quite by itself.  It’s the strangest looking tree you can imagine, nicknamed the upside-down tree because its sparse branches look like roots. If you believe in reincarnation and that even trees have some level of consciousness, you can’t help thinking of the poor soul trapped inside this tree – they can live between three and five thousand years. There was something very haunting and melancholy about the way this ancient specie sat by itself.

mopping up after heavy rain

After one day of heavy rain the fog and damp sets in and it remains bone chilling for several more. Anyone who’s traveled in the third world knows how cold concrete buildings are! We drink a lot of chai to fight it off. There are a number of look-alike restaurants in town and we try them all before settling on one. They are all hungry for business and every time we walk down the street desperate pleas echo from the empty restaurants: “Good morning, madam, good morning sir!” But we stay loyal to Raju at the Milan. If the town, weather or schedule is not to our liking, we still manage to find a restaurant that serves up good food, and here is no different. At Raju’s, the more we go the warmer the greeting and the stronger the chai.

We’ve met a couple of interesting characters in their 70s who are English.  Of course, they have stories of old like making trips to India overland in the 60s… Oliver is half Belgian, and now lives in Buckfastleigh (near my hometown). An artist influenced by Flemish Masters and Victorian fairy painters, he spends his days drawing the forms of Indian pilgrims and beggars he sees sitting around the temple – fascinated by a fold of cloth, the position of a limb. Dressed in a self-designed outfit of faded beige-colored velour he looks like a Russian aristocrat from the turn of the last century. In fact we both immediately thought of Nicholai Roerich when we met him!  Traveling alone for several months he has an aura of both self containment and loneliness.  Because the town is so small and tourists few we frequently meet up with Oliver sitting under a tree out in the pasture his drawing pad in hand, on the street surrounded by stray dogs feeding Marie biscuits, or in the hotel in the evening over hot lemon ginger honey.

The day we arrived in Orchha looking for a hotel, Oliver appeared on the street, took us to his and thanks to him we found a gem! A large clean room, friendly staff, and an excellent cook who we later learn has no previous cooking experience and is a mere 19 years old. He began as the night watchman, sleeping on the floor of the foyer, but when the previous cook left, the owner persuaded him to take over. Since he probably doesn’t make much more, if any, in salary he’s not happy about the arrangement. But he still puts his utmost into the cooking.

Despite its relative cleanliness, Gerard still pulls out his bottle of Dettol and cleaning cloth and makes the room even cleaner. My good fortune!  The man who cleans in the hotel is equally impressed. He’s not used to guests like this. “I don’t need to clean your room!” After eight days, Gerard tells the hotel owner who lives with his family just beyond our room on the upper floor, “If we stay any longer we’ll become part of the family! “You are family”, he replies, “You are special guests.” Ironically, just two minutes earlier, I had commented that I didn’t like him or trust him! I guess I needed an attitude adjustment.

In the most sacred Hindu city in India, we did not expect to celebrate Christmas. But we were surprised – over two days we had no less than four festive invitations! First we met a Hungarian family with two small children who invited us to eat Hungarian Goulash with them on Christmas Eve. They are staying in Varanasi to have their two-year old son treated for a brain disorder which doctors in Hungary were unable to treat. So they’re now trying the Aurevedic route.

A few days earlier, Sanju the manager of our guest house announced that there would be a dinner on Christmas Eve prepared for those guests who wanted to participate. Veg and non veg options to be followed by home-made apple pie and ice cream. But unfortunately no one thought to order the pies in advance and they were all sold out! I was already salivating for a slice…A long table decorated with Indian flower garlands was set up in any empty guest room (next to ours) – the bed moved into the corridor.  Like a postwar British boarding house, we sat around the table – an unlikely cast of characters, including some “long term” guests staying several weeks or even months; a Spaniard with a passion for chess, playing his way across India, two Portuguese and Spanish girls learning yoga from the “best” teacher in Varanasi, our British friend David and a handful of French and German others. After the meal, the loud techno rave music began and that was the end of polite conversation at the dinner table! We retired because we had to get up early the next morning and fortunately for us they moved the dancing and loud music up on the roof.

On Christmas morning, the Hungarians, Uschi and ourselves gathered at a restaurant for breakfast. We first met Uschi, a Californian, a number of years earlier in Varanasi. She’d mentioned creating a work project for women but we knew little of what she really did.  But today she took us to out to a village east of the city so we could see what she was doing with the village women. First we stopped at the Krishnamurti Foundation which she has been involved in for many years and where she first had the idea for this project.  The Foundation is a peaceful estate sitting on an embankment overlooking the Ganges where followers can come to retreat. At the village nearby, the women were waiting for us sitting in a large work room where they sew and embroider clothes of beautiful fabrics for export.  Uschi finds the fabric, designs the patterns, and does the marketing in the US. She also encourages the women to express their own creativity in design and it’s obvious they take great pride in their work.  And rightly so; the clothes are a higher quality than the other ready-made we’ve seen anywhere in India. It’s taken years for the women to let their guard down and be themselves with her. Now there is a wonderful camaraderie between them all.

Uschi loves what she’s doing and it shows on the faces of the women. She gave a brief talk about the meaning of Christmas and then we sang carols in German, Hungarian and English. Chai, samosas and sweets were served afterwards. Uschi is so dedicated to what she’s doing and is an example of service before self. It’s not an easy life shuttling back and forth between California and Varanasi, as well as being an efficient business woman in a patriarchic society. A perfect end to the day was a very long boat ride back to our ghat.  In the late afternoon light, I took endless photos of life along the river’s edge.

Our fourth and final celebration was with Rajest, a CD stall vendor who we met on our first visit to Varanasi six years ago. He wanted to give us a special drink, called Thandai, that is sold every evening in a dark alley near the GoldenTemple. The curdled milk with swirls of lurid yellow and orange syrup has a consistency and taste that defies description, but makes you want to return every night to drink it again. Sadly it was our last night.

Last year, Varanasi was not my favorite destination.  But this year, it was hard for me to leave. We made some good friends: Uschi, Sanju our hotel manager…and David, from Elephant and Castle in London who we enjoyed long conversations with over leisurely breakfasts and cappuccino! We made a promise to meet again for tea in London when we stop there on our way back in March.

On Boxing Day, we trailed our cases through the lanes in the Moslem section, a short cut up to the main road and the rickshaws, and then to the railway station. Another over night train ride to our next destination, Jhansi Junction in Madhya Pradesh, and from there a rickshaw ride through country lanes to the village of Orchha.

Our train to Varanasi does not leave until 11.30 pm, but we cannot believe how busy the station is – where are people coming and going at such a late hour on a Sunday night? Woman dressed in finery, young girls in pale pink net party dresses, knitted woolen caps incongruously pulled down almost over their eyes to protect against the cool night air. I imagine they’ve been visiting relatives across town for Sunday dinner. A teenage Moslem boy holds the hands of his two timid younger sisters, leading them across the busy station platform. Tired porters stagger by us, their backs laden with luggage. It baffles us how much luggage a single family will travel with. A large group of adults and children settle down on the platform beside us, laying out blankets, unpacking food. I watch them…while they watch me. In India there’s full license to stare. They all do it – as do I.

Gerard disappears into the crowd to buy mineral water. Suddenly out of nowhere, I’m overwhelmed with the anxiety that he may not come back. If he had a heart attack and died right there on the platform, no one would know to come and tell me. What would I do? Who could help me? The elevator man at the Sunflower is very personable but what could he do? Maybe the organist could arrange for a funeral at St John’sChurch? But how do I find him? Where’s the church…without Gerard to guide me? Maybe that extra cup of chai was too much.When he finally remerges from the crowd, I say, “You’re not doing that again. If you go, I go with you”

Shortly after, our train is announced, and we get on without further incident. With the exception of a couple of over-excited children (at midnight?) followed by the customary loud snorer…the journey is uneventful and we’re able to get some sleep before arriving in Varanasi the next morning.

The gentle-faced waiter at Spicy Bites does a double take when he sees us. “So nice to see you again! But you don’t usually come in December?” It’s true; every other time has been in March or April. Varanasi feels different in December – quieter and less crowded. The foreign tourists are all in Goa for Christmas; the Indian tourists and pilgrims we’re told aren’t traveling because there’s an upcoming election and they need to stay home to vote. It’s also too cool for the pilgrims that come in droves from South India. The shopkeepers say business is worse than usual even for this time of year. “2013 has not been good,” we hear repeatedly. They protest against the inflation of food prices with onions hit the worst, as much as twenty times. Many restaurants no longer include onions in their cooking – samosa with no onions??

But the biggest impact in Varanasi was felt from the floods. We’d heard that it had been a heavy monsoon with landslides in the north of India with many thousands killed. Walking along the ghats, we’re shocked at the extent of the damage. The Ganges swelled so much that the waters rose up and flooded part of the city, leaving in its wake thick mud all over the ghats. To make matters worse, the city had done nothing to reduce the accumulation of mud deposits from the monsoons of the past few years. Now they are forced to address the problem, and a very primitive operation is going on, all day every day. Water is pumped out of the Ganges and then at high velocity used to wash the mud back into the river.

Gerard has a stomach/intestinal upset for a couple of days and not wanted to go far from the hotel room, so I’ve spent time wandering around by myself – a somewhat unusual experience for me when we’re traveling.  (He can’t leave me, but it’s all right for me to leave him!)  We’ve been in Varanasi so many times that I’m quite comfortable especially in the area where we stay. But the narrow maze of lanes surrounding our guest house, Shiva Kashi, are dark and chilly so I walk down on the ghats where the sun shines weakly through the December haze. The locals also like to hang out here in the open space and I’m dodging cricket balls, detangling my feet from kite strings, and stepping over playful puppies of stray dogs. Boat building, bodies burning, head shaving…there can’t be a more dramatic river walk anywhere in the world. A woman alone, I have to deflect an avalanche of requests – pushy Indian boys wanting to walk with me, ‘sadhus’ begging money, children selling postcard s. “Excuse me madam, boat ride?” “Where are you going? Would you like company?” “No thank you, not today,” I say firmly with a smile to everyone, and they move on. But I feel different walking alone. I see my surroundings in a more introspective light. The experience is mine alone… but when I return, I share it with Gerard.

Then a pleasant good-looking young man attaches himself and as we walk I steer the conversation to politics and the upcoming election. He tells me how hopeful he is about the BJP competitor winning, given the bad performance of the Congress Party incumbent who has done nothing to address the deteriorating economy. And then, respectful of an older woman perhaps, he folds his hands and we part. A few days later I meet him again, this time with Gerard who picks up the discussion. The man believes population is India’s greatest problem, and then corruption. “But first you have to address population.” When he marries in a couple of years, he will not have children. “You won’t? What about family pressure…your wife’s desire? “Well,” he backtracks, “at least not for two years, and then only one if I am financially prepared.”

On my way back, I meet a couple from Oregon. The following night Gerard and I have dinner with them. We immediately hit it off. Just a decade older than us, their lives have been uncannily similar. They were in high school in Idaho together, several years later met again in San Francisco and married, and now celebrating their 53^rd anniversary. Neither had the desire to have children and they were able to maintain a very free life style that was not career-driven. And like us, there was a lot of focus on traveling. Denis and Camile had some amazing stories such as spending 30 days on a tramp steamer to Casablanca. It sounds like they know Morocco almost as well as we do. And every time Gerard mentioned some place in India they’d say, “Oh yes, we were there 20 years ago.” They’ve been coming since the mid 80s and when asked why they continue to come (they’ve been 13 times) Camile said, “Where else can you go that’s so exotic and so cheap?” We couldn’t have said it better.

Camile started hitchhiking in the late 50s; following in the path of such greats as Kerouac and Cassidy making cross country sojurns. We all agreed that hitchhiking was the way to go, and like the 8 track, definitely a thing of the past! As the political landscape changed, they left US in the late 60s to live in England, and then Europe. For those who don’t remember, Gerard left under a similar cloud in 1968. And on it goes…they’re even vegetarians! Everyone is so unique with their individual history –even more so as we get older – it’s rare to cross paths with people who have such a similar background to ours. And as fate will have it, we will be seeing each other again soon on the beach in Goa and look forward to picking up where we left off!

It’s early afternoon and the restaurant is almost empty so Manoj the waiter has time to chat with us. For the second time he tells us his story – this time with more detail. He came to Varanasi from Bihar, the poorest state in India in 1997. The eldest in a family of four sisters and one brother, he left school when he was twelve years old. Envious of those who had more money and were able to stay in school, he left home without telling his parents and followed friends who told him how easy it was to make money in Varanasi. Fate was kind; the owners of Spicy Bites took him in, taught him the trade and sent him to school during the day. He learned English from the tourists and now sixteen years later he’s still living with the family and is working in the restaurant alongside the two brothers who own it. In addition to supporting his own wife and child, Manoj sends the money he earns home to his parents.

Contrary to what we’ve seen among our middle class Indian friends, Manoj makes a strong point that dowry is still a major requirement in marrying off women. With four sisters, and a father who is no longer earning an income, much of the financial responsibility has now fallen on the shoulders of Manoj and his younger brother, who works in Mumbai. The marriages are all arranged by the parents, but when Manoj went to see his future wife for the first time, and her father asked how much dowry was required, Manoj replied, “Only pay what you can afford, nothing more.” He liked the look of his wife and felt that she was a good woman and it wasn’t necessary to demand a lot of money like so many other Indian marriages where it’s all about money. He thought about his own sisters and felt that it was good karma not to request a large sum of money. Perhaps then his father also would not be requested to pay a lot of money to marry off his own daughters. On the other hand, when his parents heard what he had done they were very upset with him. “You could have used this money to start your new home,” Manoj replied, “In my heart I feel this is the right thing to do.” And four years later, he still believes this because he has a good marriage, a loyal wife who takes care of his parents, and has given him a healthy daughter.

Now his wife, Arti, is expecting their second child due in two months. And recently Manoj has been returning to his village every few months to accompany his wife on maternity visits to the doctor. Tomorrow he’s going for only two days to oversee the arranged marriage engagement of his youngest sister. He’s lucky he makes enough money to be able to do this. Based on the experience of himself, his siblings and his parents, Manoj believes that arranged marriages have a greater chance of success than ‘love’ marriage.

Varanasi is the other Indian city we love. More ancient than Kolkata, and not influenced by the British, it is also the most sacred in India. The morning sunrise on the buildings is captured in Gerard’s painting.

It’s only been six months since we were last in Kolkata, and the man who works the antiquated elevator at the Sunflower Guest House greets us with a formal bow as he takes us to our floor. His young wife and child used to sleep with him on the ground floor beside the elevator. I ask how they are. “Back in Bihar.” he says sadly. Like so many other restaurant and hotel workers, who are forced to leave their families hundreds of miles away in the impoverished states of Bihar and Orissa. The multi-floored Sunflower with its wide well-worn wooden staircase (an option to the elevator), has the shabby imperialism of a Russian apartment building before the revolution- surrounded not by silent snow but the dusty chaos of crowded streets. In addition to the guest rooms, each floor includes flats where families stay long term although, looking at the state of their rusty mailboxes in the entry way, there’s not many living here any longer.

Last March, in overwhelming heat and humidity, we spent our time on the publicized major attractions (Victoria Memorial, Botanical Garden, Park Cemetery, Flower Market etc.). Now, with cooler weather, we decided to just walk the streets. Like NYC the best way to experience Kolkata is on foot.

We took a walk along Chitpur Street (renamed Rabindra Sarani) which was the nerve center of Black Town during the starkly segregated days of the Empire. Along the way are mansions of the rich who patronized the British and embellished their houses with European arts. These decaying old buildings display architectural features from Greek Classical to French Gothic and everything in between. From street up you can see how the style changes– early English arcading, window carving in the Mughal style, and Gothic decorated stone balustrades, with small trees now sprouting from their moldy ledges.

The MarblePalace is the most opulent with Corinthian pillars and nymphs on the pediments. Built by the Maharajah of Calcutta around 1815 – some of the family still live in an annex. An art collection includes fine paintings from the West – a Gainsborough and Rueben, Ming vases and stone lions and goddesses. The ball room alone has 13 crystal chandeliers. Geoffrey Moorhouse, in his book, “Calcutta: The City Revealed,” was more cynical in his appraisal:  “it looks as if (the artifacts) had been scavenged from job lots on the Portobello Road on a series of damp Saturday afternoons.”

On neighboring small lane sits the home of Rabindranath Tagore, telling us much about the rise of the Bengali renaissance. He was part of a dynasty of wealthy merchants cum artists, intellectuals and religious reformers. The house displays some fascinating paintings especially by his uncle which look as contemporary as anything painted today.

At the turn of the century a nationalist movement was rapidly developing in and around Kolkata of which the Tagore family were very much a part. So the English in their wisdom, decided to partition Bengal to reduce the risk of the growing nationalism. The Tagores were very much against the division of Hindu and Moslem; for years they had stressed the importance of unity. But in 1910 the Queen reversed the partition because of the bitter resentment it created and the rift between Hindus and Moslems was a direct result of the second partition in 1947 when east Bengal became East Pakistan. Rabindranath attracted such distinguished supporters to the cause as Swami Vivekananda the prominent disciple of Ramakrishna, and Nivedita, an Irish disciple who devoted her life to the Indian independence movement. The museum also had a lot of pictures of Rabindranath’s travels especially to China and Japan where he felt a close affinity.

The following day we walked down the Esplanade to so-called “WhiteTown” – where the English governed. Today, it is still the seat of Bengali rule. There’s such a concentration of government buildings in the European style that for a moment you can actually forget where you are if it were not for the smog and the din of car horns at any given moment.

A whimsical twist to all the confusion at the intersections is the soothing sound of a woman’s voice singing a devotional song. We’re not sure what it’s about other than soothing the frayed nerves of the pedestrians. The next moment it changes to the tinny sound of 1920s Indian film music played on a hand-wound gramophone.

Day workers sit expectantly on the pavement their tools arranged in front of them indicating their trade.

The colonnaded wide pavements (sidewalks) along the Esplanade are crowded with retailers. Each morning they set up their stalls, True to the eastern concept of merchandising they’ll be fifteen stalls all selling shirts, and then past them they’ll be ten stalls selling belts, then sunglasses and so on…

While we walked through the crowds, We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, sang out from an electronics store and two boys held up their tea-shirts for our perusal!

Anticipating the advent of Christmas, young boys sell Santa hats with likely no idea what the red cone with its white pom-pom signifies. There are even a couple of stalls, in the Moslem area (!) with festive mock fir trees and garlands spilling onto the street.unpacking merchandise that has been stored in huge sacks who knows where over night.

St John’s Church is ready for Christmas with Santas hanging from strands of lights. A jovial dark-skinned man with thinning shoulder-length white hair in tangled dreadlocks greet us. He’s the resident organist and plays an improvised version of Silent Night for us. About our age, he can also play Pink Floyd on request. He’s lived in Kolkata all his life and tells us he grew up poor with a mother who had a Finnish last name. It is true – despite his dark skin he looks more European than Indian. He convinced us to attend the Sunday morning service. As we entered, I’m asked to read an Epistle from the lectern. It brought me back to England, attending the C of E. After the service we continued our conversation with the organist over tea and biscuits. He was very interested in black gospel music which Gerard is going to try and send him. Everyone gave us a warm welcome and seasonal greetings!

Gerard’s back has broken out in a nasty rash – significantly more angry than the first one. Hard to tell if it began with an insect bite, or if it’s just some allergic reaction. Out of my eye I catch a Homeopathic dispensary, so we walk in and a female doctor takes a look and prescribes sugar pills made up for us by the dispensing attendant. When we try to pay he says, “Oh no, it’s a government clinic, medicine is free!  They don’t do much so we return to our Moslem pharmacist friend from last year who recommends allegra and antihistamine lotion. This has more of an immediate effect

After six days, it’s time to move on to Varanasi. We could definitely have stayed longer. The city holds a strong fascination for both of us, and in a short space of time we’ve met some friendly people.