Reflections Scribbled at Dusk on a Bus Ride into Ethiopia

Homelessness: that strange ache of nostalgia and déjà vu that you feel when entering a foreign land.

One that is not yours, nor has ever been yours, yet somehow, gazing out on its gently folded landscape, you feel a calling as if from the house of childhood years, and the man you might have become.

If only you could remove yourself from the current, descend from the ton of metal and plastic and engine fuel, have these evaporate around you until even the roar of motors and the squeal of brakes are no more than a dissipated echo, a mirage gently sinking into the moist earth below.

If you could walk barefoot through this earth and feel the pulse of its ancient rhythm, as soft and malleable as silt curled beneath your toes, then you would have found an origin, a starting point at least, a tap from which the soul trickles, spreading far, but always with the taste of this spring on its ephemeral lips.

Through the kind bushes and sunken ravines you would walk, over the mounds of soil and craggy rocks alike, until you would come out onto a surface, more alien than the stars above (your roof), more unnatural than the cathedrals built by insects (your neighbors), sliced across the horizon as if to subdue it, pulling the soul’s trickle faster, tugging it toward a mythological infinity that whispers, always barely audible, yet piercing through the low rumble of the earth, implanting a desire that cannot be fulfilled, yet begs satisfaction,

until the metal and the plastic, the rubber and the fuel with a destination to achieve, re-condense around you, forming smudged panes through which the eye hungrily digs, and in the belly, or behind it, barely audible over the motor’s hum, whispers an ache.

Ethiopian countryside outside the walls of the ancient city of Harar

Double Jaipur-dy!

This past weekend we set out on the road for a long awaited vacation and a much anticipated touring of some of the grand historic forts and palaces that lent Rajasthan its title as the Land of Kings. Awakening early (pre-safai) to set out on our bus trip to Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan, we "arrived at the ticket counter and purchase our passes, after which we settled into seats to await the call for departure at the station" aka, we walked out onto the road next to GDL and stood in the sand until a bus sped by us, which we ran after waving until it stopped and let us on. Some things in India are actually just more convenient than in the US, namely transportation, which you don't have to find, it finds you. We were lucky enough to flag down a private bus, for which the fare for the 5 hour trip to Jaipur is 85 Rupees (less than $2), while the government buses ran around Rs 120) The whole idea of the government owning things like bus lines, and even in the markets certain clothing shops, continues to miff me, especially as the government clothing shops tend to be more expensive and unwilling to negotiate their prices like the private ones will.

Anyway, we thankfully settled into seats (which were never a given) and sat back for the ride, which took us through much of Shakewati region and through the Sikar district, a nice traversal of this section of Rajasthan. I had been yearning to see more of this most acclaimed state of India (by some accounts) such as the famed palaces of Udaipur, India's "most romantic city" or the fantastic desert forts of Jaisalmer, or the blue brilliance of Jodhpur, unfortunately none of these places were closer than a 12 hour trip by bus, and thus, out of reach for the purpose of our weekend getaway. After settling in to the lull of travel (aka near misses with oncoming traffic, screeching stops to avoid cows, the rush of water and snack sellers at each of the innumerable stops yelling "pani pani paniiiii") I dove into the book I had picked up from the GDL storeroom, the account of Greg Mortenson's heroic adventures constructing schools in Pakistan's Northwest Frontier and Afghanistan's mountain border region, entitled Three Cups of Tea. The book enthralled me with its portrayal of Dr. Greg's travels and his constant struggle against the odds to bring education to some of the most remote parts of the world, and before I knew it we had arrived in Jaipur and I had to close the cover and deal with reality.

Fortunately we had with us local knowledge, in the form of Kamal-ji, who had worked at several hotels in Jaipur and had arrange for us to get three A/C rooms in his friends hotel for much less than the usual rate, so we traveled there to drop off our stuff before taking a ridiculously crowded bus to the Amber fort, arriving mere minutes before it was set to close, but deciding to go for it as our experience with things happening on time had lead us to believe we would have plenty of time to explore the passageways and many rooms of this fantastic palace/fort build on the side of a hill that the old king had moved out of when he built his new palace down on level ground and founded the old city of Jaipur.
After enjoying sunset from this venue we made our way back to old Jaipur, known as the Pink City because it was painted a shade of pink to welcome the Prince of Whales at some point way back in the day and the tradition has persisted to this day.

Walking along the bizarres in front of the towering building of windows known as the Hawa Mahal, Jaipur was a much more pleasant place to tour than it had been under the hot sun of midday and as we met up with our earstwhile companion Pankaj at a circle in the street we noticed a group of foreign looking folk across the way walking towards us while trying not to fall victim to the onslaught of traffic whizzing by them. These were none other than the Penn interns from Delhi who had ventured out into Rajasthan for the weekend as well, not with the intention of reunioning with their country and schoolmates, but lead by coincidence to meet with them amongst the palaces and the pink.

The next day we made an early start of visiting two other grand forts overlooking the modern city, Jaigar and Nahalgar, with old and faded palaces between their walls and grounds rich for the imagination to weave visions of court life as well as fabulous parties, or councils of war, or grand ceremonies that most have taken place high above the tumult of present day life.
Coming down from the heights we again entered the fray, intent on discovering a few more old gems before our bus back, but adamant not to pay the Rs 300 fee to enter the City Palace, though it be the grandest of the lot. Coinkydink struck again and outside the entrance we ran into the Chintan interns again, walking through the bazaar of kitchen appliances until we parted ways, ostensibly for the bus station where Sanghamitra was waiting having spent the day with some of her friends from school feasting on Pizza Hut and McDonald's Iced Tea. However Harsh's friend arrived with his air conditioned car just as we were about to leave to join her, and for the next two hours he ferried us to a shoe store owned by his uncle where we got a fantastic deal on the traditional Rajasthani camel leather shoes, a clothing store where Sarah found the perfect all white Kurta pajama she had been craving, the most famous sweets store in Rajastham, where we had the most divine cold coffee I have even tasted, and a Kulfi place where we feasted on multiple helpings of Saffron spiced indian ice cream sticks, before feeling pangs of guilt and tearing ourselves away to head to the bus station, a peace offering of Kulfi in tow for the long suffering Sanghamitra. A hot a sweaty beginning had given way to, if not the royal treatment in all ways, a decidedly regal experience for out stomachs, and as the bus, a double decker sleeper, pulled out, I settled in to enjoy the trip home, embracing the liberty the mind has to wander through long drives in the night, and hoping to get some rest before work the next day, an feasible task, except for the mango man...

The mango man i had met buying mangoes right before we set off, and as I boarded the bus with my bag in tow, I saw that he occupied the seat behind me with his own. At first we engaged in some basic conversation, where we were from, names (which i obviously quickly forgot) but as more complex topics arose we resorted to using Harsh as a translator. Harsh obviously had other plans for his bus ride and fell quickly asleep, leaving my mango man to tap continuously on my shoulder, and attempt to engage in the most protracted conversation imaginable, a sample follows:

Mango man: India is very..... very very very very very very ...... long pause ... bad
me: no
Mango man: no, uh, india is very ... long pause.... very very very very very very, best?
me: yeah
mango man: india is very very very ..... best, why?
me: uh, i don't know, its your country, you are indian, you would no why its best better than me right?
long silence
i, thinking he has given up, rest back against my seat, only to feel a tap again on my shoulder,
turning around he begins again, and this goes on for some time, until we finally shake hands and say goodnight, and I put in headphones. all is well until one is dislodged from my ear and the comment from behind: very good music!
india is, very.... (oh no not again)
when he gets off at his village, i finally decide to take the ladder up to the sleeping compartment, and lay in what feels like a coffin during an earthquake, until the arrive in Jhujhunu, home sweet home, or at least not too far from our adopted oasis of peace, Bagar.