The Shalla Women

Srinagar, Kashmir - I find myself having a hard time with the role of the women in the Shalla Family - and presumably every other Muslim family in Kashmir.
They wait on the men like slaves. The men don't even acknowledge the women when they serve them. It's quite revolting.
The other day Monzoor told me that many Western women fall in love in Kashmir and never leave. Whenever I head out to town, he says: "Don't come back married!"
That, I guarantee, is not a worry.

The daughter-in-law: I never saw her out of the kitchen except do laundry. She doesn't speak but a few words of English, but she is incredibly friendly. She's always motioning me to come join her in the kitchen. It must be a lonely life, the one she leads.


The matriarch: A hobbled 65, who is none the less subservient to all the males in the house, including the defiant 9-year-old grandson. She can't speak English either, but she has warm, earnest eyes. She often sits real close to me just studying my face and smiling when I make eye contact. She always wants me to have tea.



The sister: She was on holiday and therefore had a break from the daily chores of the home of her husband's family. Normally she would be the kitchen slave like her sister-in-law. Still, she spent a good portion of her "holiday" waiting on the men. She's taken a few days to warm up to me. I wasn't sure at first how much English she understands, but I now I realize she has a good grasp of the language. She was married at 30 and had the baby a year later. We chat while I play with her 16-month-old daughter, who clearly thinks I'm some weird alien creature from another planet.

Ignoring the State Department

Srinagar, Kashmir (India) - What a shame that war and political turmoil has plagued this beautiful place. Tucked into the Himalayas and centered on a great lake, Srinagar is lovely.
I'm staying with Monzoor's family on their houseboat, the Snow Goose. You enter from a dirt road through a metal door and walk across rickety wood planks fashioned into a narrow bridge. On the left there is a room and a tiny kitchen. On the right, a small bedroom and a large sitting room. Not much furniture, just carpet and pillows on the floor.
Walk a little further down the wooden bridge and you'll get to the houseboat. Rows of houseboats are parked along the lake, dividing the water into avenues. The boats have English names, such as Happy England, Star Ruby and Denver.

(The view from the House Boat Snow Goose, where I'm staying)


(The full moon rising over the Himalayas, as seen from the Snow Goose)

Three generations of the Shalla family live in this humble complex. The parents, two of their five sons, a daughter-in-law, and two grandsons. One of their two daughters is visiting for a while with her husband and 16-month-old daughter. The other daughter, her husband and two kids come by often. (In Muslim families, the sons stay with their family while the daughters leave and join their husband's). The other three sons live abroad.
I often daydream about my whole family being in one place, but I picture Sunday dinners together not every meal together. I couldn't imagine being on top of one another like that.
The Shalla Family is immediately endearing. They offer me a place on the floor of the kitchen and the mother puts a pillow behind my back. The walls are painted green and the cooking area is tiled floor to ceiling with little shelves of pots and cups and tins of flour. I'm fed an egg with tomato and an endless cup of Kasmiri tea.
The women don't talk much; they don't know much English. The men are fairly fluent.
They laughed at my hesitancy to come to Kashmir. I told them that the US State Department warns that it is too dangerous for travel. That my insurance doesn't cover me while I'm here.
They nodded, knowingly.
Like so many others living with political conflict, their sentences often begin with 'before'.
Before the problem, there were many tourists in Kashmir.
Before the problem, there was a bridge here, but it was destroyed by the Army.
Before the problem...
Monzoor didn't intend on staying in Australia for more than the three months on his tourist visa in the late 1980s. But "the problem" began while he was there. His family said they would send word when it was safe for him to return. Years passed and now he is settled Down Under.
Soldiers on the streets of Srinagar stand as guards and symbols of the precarious peace. This beautiful place has more than once nearly brought Pakistan and India to war, and though it's been quiet for a few years, nothing is settled.
Nothing, except that life goes on.

From 5-star to 5 dollars

My lovely room at The Imperial...

...and the Ringo Guest House

A Movie without a Ticket

New Delhi, India - Sitting in the atrium of The Imperial, enjoying high tea, I look up from my novel and catch the eye of a Westerner.
He and his friend start a conversation and soon join me at my table (though they drain a beer while I sip tea). Almost immediately they invite me to Kashmir with them. I smile and shake my head 'no'. I won't be joining the two strangers who just sat at my table and asked me to go with them to an area of India that has been plagued by terrorist activity for nearly two decades.
We continue chatting and they push Kashmir. I demure. But then one says, come with us to my cousin's shop in the bazaar (One of the men, Monzoor, is Kashmiri, though he has been living in Australia for almost 20 years). He'll drive you back to the hotel and we'll catch our train, they say.
I can't resist. Here's my chance to go somewhere in Delhi with a guide of sorts. Maybe this will shake me loose of culture shock's hold.
We head out. First an auto rickshaw ride to the metro (Delhi has a brand new subway system with one track. There's a metal detector and quite a groping by security as you enter).
As we exit the metro after one stop, I realize the craziness outside The Imperial is nothing. My senses are assaulted, leaving me without really taking anything in. I'm just jumping hurriedly from one sight to one sound to one smell...
The bazaar is narrow and crowded. There are cows chilling, eating trash, motorbikes whizzing by and people everywhere, selling, hawking, trading, buying, mingling and loitering. It smells.
We arrive after a short walk at Monzoor's cousin's shop, which is located, quite hidden, down a side alley.
Raqif has an easy smile and a welcoming demeanor. A French woman dressed in a bright pink sari with tattoos on her feet, is perched on a low stool. There are piles of shawls along the walls and a shelf with the ubiquitous but appealing Indian paper mache.

(Rafiq)
Rafiq dashes off to inquire about a plane ticket for me to Kashmir. I hesitate. I look at the shawls instead. No, I decide. I can't just fly off to Kashmir to meet up with two strangers.
But...why not? Spontaneous trips and adventures is what this journey is supposed to be all about. Staying with a family, eating home-cooked food and talking politics into the early morning - isn't that what I pictured in my head before I left?
Look around, Rafiq says, India is like a movie without a ticket. Enjoy it.


(impromptu dancing near Rafiq's shop to celebrate a new baby)

Going with the flow, letting your heart lead, that is what India is all about, the French woman says. Here, you aren't the driver, so relax and let yourself be taken, she says. Her love of India - she has been living in a small village four hours from Delhi, her husband and four kids in France - is calming.


(women watching the dancing)

I'm convinced. I buy the ticket.
Monzoor and his Hungarian friend, Gustav (also living in Australia), take off for their overnight train journey and then Jeep ride to Kashmir. And I sit on one of the low stools, drinking chai and talking politics with Rafiq.
Later, back at The Imperial, as I sit in a restaurant sipping Perrier and watching the musicians playing traditional Indian music, I realize I smell faintly of the bazaar and sweat - that sweet aroma of adventure.
And I feel like I am getting away with something, sitting in this impeccably decorated restaurant with its smartly uniformed staff and air of the British Raj.
I smile. Tomorrow I will leave the Imperial.

Oh my. Oh my, oh my, oh my.

New Delhi, India - There are two distinct Indian worlds for me right now: the calm, familiar one inside my gleaming, five-star hotel and the chaotic cacophony of unknown outside its gate.
I'm feeling overwhelmed and a little insane for attempting this trip. I arrived on Saturday morning. It's Sunday now and I haven't left The Imperial Hotel grounds but once and briefly. I'm stung with culture shock.
My plane from Tokyo via Taipei landed at the airport at 0130 Saturday. My plan was to crash in a "retiring room" at the airport for a few hours before going to my hotel in the morning, but despite my guidebook's listing I couldn't find the facility and no one seemed to know what I was talking about. So I huddled with my bags on the chairs in the arrivals lobby and grabbed some restless shut eye (sorry, Dad).
Six hours later, I set off for my hotel. I was hassled by touts offering rooms and taxis, but I made my way to the official pre-paid taxi counter. I was surprised, though, when I was handed over to one of the very touts that had been bugging me earlier! It was a good five minutes of discussion before getting in the car. Then I ended up with a driver who didn't know where my very famous hotel was. Strange.
We had to go to a tourist bureau to get directions. Using my guidebook, they called the hotel to find out the exact block (very important in New Delhi, they said). The tourism guy handed me the phone, and I was told I didn't have a reservation. It was all suspiciously like the scams I had read about in my guidebook, so I said I would come to the hotel anyway and speak to the manager in person. The man on the phone was a little rude and not at all like someone who works in a five-star hotel. He said it wouldn't do me any good to come by.
I think this is where the tourism guy would produce another hotel - one for which he gets a fat referral commission, no doubt - but I produced my confirmation number.
Speaking with the tourism guy once again, the "Imperial employee" said to call back in 10 minutes. We did and were told it was all a misunderstanding. I had a room for the night, after all.
I was tired and stressed, but I calmed immediately upon stepping into the lobby of The Imperial. It's filled with purple orchids and smells of lovely jasmine. A porter took my bag and I was greeted with a round of smiling good mornings from the staff.
My room wasn't ready, but would I care for breakfast? The receptionist took me to a beautiful sunlit room looking out with floor-to-ceiling windows onto the garden.
The hotel smacks of its namesake, but I don't care. I don't care that everyone who was eating around me yesterday morning was a white Westerner and everyone serving was an Indian in a goofy getup. For the first time since landing I felt comfortable.
Would I like my tea poured for me? How about some toast? The fresh pineapple juice is very good, I should try a glass.
But now, 36 hours later, I have stepped out only once. And I managed just to dip my toe oh so briefly before retreating to the still of the hotel. The longer I avoid going out, the more I start to feel the heavy weight of scaredy-cat inertia threatening to rob this trip of adventure. I was supposed to only stay one night, then move onto a backpackers' place down the road. But I've extended my stay for tonight, too.
I feel held hostage in this grand hotel by my own fears and insecurities. Feelings so alien to me. This is isn't like me at all. I booked this hotel for my first night to ease into India - a country I had been warned was hard. I had planned on doing exactly what I'm doing: nothing but chilling out and taking advantage of cheap luxury. But I thought that was merely a self indulgence, not a necessity. A rare treat, not a place to hide.
Vietnam was chaotic as well, but it never felt like it had to be managed. Here, I feel like its something that needs inoculating against. I better shake this trance or this trip will be a grand failure - and an expensive one, as five-star hotels are cheap in Asia but would still break my budget.

Saying goodbye and the art of the geisha

(Sorry to jump back in the timeline, but I wasn't able to post this earlier)

Kyoto, Japan – I have taken just one step on this six-month road through Asia, yet I can’t help but feel like this first stop is an ending.
Although I know I'll be back in Japan this spring before heading home to the US, it's like I'm saying goodbye to the country for a good while. I’m trying to soak up all of the country I can, flex my Japanese vocabulary and knowledge to ensure my memory of this place is strong. To prove that yes, I am worthy of claiming to have spent more than a year here.

Here are a few random things I'll miss about this country:

1. Talking appliances - most amusingly, the toilet, which also plays music and the sounds of flushing for those who suffer stage fright in public restrooms.

2. Vending machines on every corner - one never goes thirsty here - with both hot and cold beverages. And beer!

3. Jasmine tea

4. The nearly in-unison, loud greeting from the entire staff of a restaurant as you enter. And the plastic food in the windows out front, depicting each item on the menu.

5. Quirky and hilarious instructions on decorum at public places, such as at the roller coaster near the Tokyo Dome, which, during the what-to-expect video as you wait in line, instructs for the ride: "Please refrain from excessive shouting."
....

Temples, temples, temples! Kyoto is a rare city where you can turn a block and truly, astonishingly feel like you've been transported centuries in the past. Here, the ancient art of the geisha thrives. In a little area called Gion, east of the river that runs through the city, there are cobbled streets lined with short sliding doors - doors that seemingly never open. The area is quite deserted - quiet, like there's a shared secret. But as dusk falls, starkly white-painted faces with bright red lips appear as the doors slide open. Out steps a woman in full makeup with elaborate up-styled hair and an amazingly beautiful kimono. Teetering on four-inch tall wooden flip-flops, she shuffles hurriedly to her assignment for the evening. Or she welcomes a Japanese man, inevitably in a suit, into her garden (behind those tiny sliding doors emerge huge, candlelit gardens and tatami rooms). Only the very wealthy can enjoy the company of a geisha, as their craft is very expensive. The rest of us just stare mouth agape at the brief glimpse.

Arrived in Delhi

After a long night of travel (preceeded by a long night of drinking in Roppongi with Tokyo friends), I arrived in India. I'm at the beautiful Imperial Hotel trying to find my feet here in this chaotic country.

Photos of Kyoto to come.

More later...

I love sushi chefs!

Tokyo, Japan - There's something about sushi at 9:30 in the morning that makes you feel a little more like a local.
But this Tokyo a.m. didn't start out that way. I couldn't have been more of a tourist.
Six days a week before most people even get up, fisherman haul in their latest catch to sell at the Tsukiji Fish Market, and I, like many other visitors, went to catch the action and check out all the weird creatures for sale. It was the first time in Tokyo I didn't need a map. The smell took me right there.
The market is a vast, covered jumble of stalls with small forklifts zooming around narrow pathways to load purchases on the backs of trucks. It was pungent and claustrophobic and totally great (Note to self: there's a reason the workers all wear those tall, rubber boots).
I realized right away I had no chance of blending. You were either supposed to be there or you were a flash-happy tourist. After a few awkward nods to the sellers and sort of shuffling along trying not to get run over, I decided to embrace my gaijin status and just click away unabashedly ("gaijin" means outsider in Japanese; most often used derisively to describe a foreigner).
The day at Tsukiji starts out at o-dark-thirty with an auction. It's a cool scene, but it's roped off because of said camera-wielding tourists. Later in the morning restaurateurs come to purchase their selection for the day. You can actually watch them buy a giant hunk of tuna, for example, follow them back to their establishment and eat toro nigiri (fatty tuna sushi) from that very piece of fish. Doesn't get much fresher than that.
I wasn't sure my stomach could handle such a breakfast, but after a couple hours of wandering I was famished. So I stopped in a sushi place just off the market. I took a seat at the bar next to two men in tall, rubber boots who were, presumably, enjoying a meal after a hard morning's work (beer was their drink of choice).
I ordered up a big set of sushi. I love watching sushi chefs do their thing, and I had a prime seat. Sushi chefs have a swagger about them and amazing skills with a knife (how a finger placed neatly on a pile of rice hasn't ever been served I'll never know). The head chef kept peering over the glass at me as I ate, nodding approvingly at my progress and searching for my feedback.
Here's the thing, though. There were some unknowns on my plate. Sure, there were the typical tuna rolls, which I gobbled happily. And shrimp and toro nigiri - savored every bite. But to the right. To the right, there was a roll overflowing with tiny orange pods that I knew to be salmon roe but which I had successfully avoided ever before putting in my mouth. Just below that, there was some unidentifiable fish that looked unsettlingly like brain. And then there was a 7-inch slice of unagi.
Now, eel probably counts as one of my favorite creatures of the sea to eat. But typically it's charcoaled or flamed slightly on top. Not this morning. It was totally raw, which is not an issue for me normally. I eat raw fish all the time.
But this...this was so like a piece of uncooked eel.
I was surrounded by locals. The mostly endearing elderly woman to my left - she had ordered me green tea and eagerly showed me how best to dunk my sushi in the soy sauce - was staring at me and my remaining sushi as if she had bets with the others about whether I would go through with it.
I was not going to be the wimpy gaijin. I was going to eat every piece of sea thing in front of me. Salmon roe? So gross. The still unidentifiable fish? Okay, but wouldn't order it even if I did know it's name. The completely raw unagi? Swoon. It was incredibly delicious. I was sorry when the 7-inch sucker was finished.

And so it Begins

My journey begins where it all started: Japan. I came out to the tiny southern island of Okinawa in June 2006 for a 13-month reporting contract with Stars and Stripes. Now, as I leave employment behind, I head first to Tokyo and Kyoto to kick off my backpacking odyssey.

From Japan I go to India. But that's where my known itinerary ends. I'll likely travel in the most logical eastern geographical direction - returning eventually to Japan for a flight to the US - but I have no real plans. Oh, the intoxicating freedom. I'll country hop on whim, staying for as little or as long as I like (well, as long as my visa will let me). In Vietnam this spring for a two-week vacation, I met a Brit who was touring Asia. He said he stayed in Goa, India for 16 days because he had a good book to read. That's the kind of traveling I'll be doing.

Although I spent the last six weeks bumming around Okinawa without a job and fully embracing unemployment, I have found it's hard to turn off my reporter eye and turn down a story. So I'll be writing and shooting the occasional freelance article while I travel, covering, perhaps, events such as the UN Conference on Climate Change in December to be held on the lovely Indonesian island of Bali.

So...welcome, enjoy and please feel free to comment. There's - hopefully - a splendidly bumpy road ahead.