More photos.

I never know what do with my shoes.



We lived in this giant cake for a week.



This is the god of golden spray paint who watches over elephants made of porridge.



This flower was as big as my torso.



Outside the Taj.



Indian medicine cabinet.



Check out the biker with the water cans.



View of the blue city from Gala, the monkey temple.



Boats on the Ganges.



There was a monkey living in this boat.



The bookstore didn't have the second Dune novel.



Pictures of invisible gods.



Bathroom walls.

Feeding the camera.

Tea Drinkers taking a work break.



The color blue keeps Djinns and mosquitos away.



For when you run out of candles.



Another dude about to ask me if I want some "golden quality" hash.



Makes you wonder why the power surges every 20 minutes.



These doors are ram-proofed from elephants.



This spot is probably more comfortable than my bed at the guesthouse.



Right after this picture was taken these kids asked me if I wanted some hash.



Indian gay bar.



You can buy hash here.



The barbed wire keeps the monkeys and pterodactyles away.



These dogs are playing dead because they're afraid of white people.



These things should come with passenger helmets.



Juicey teats.

Jaisalmer

Every myth, fable, yarn, fairy tale and epic has a fortress on a high, craggy hill. This one was the first (or, at least, half of it in this picture).



The entryway is ridiculously massive in the way ancient kings used to hit you with the first impression of inserting yourself into a place of unspeakable strength and power. My fort is bigger than your fort.





I'm sure it seemed a lot more intimidating when it wasn't lined with carpet salesmen and internet cafes.



I'm sure that dog died while waiting for his internet connection to go through. It would probably be faster to shove a letter up his ass and throw him in the ocean and let the waves bring him across the sea.



Did I mention the whole fort is intricately carved out of solid stone?



And did I mention big, juicy boobies? That kid peeking over his shoulder would probably stab me for a quarter and wear my skin like a suit to hide from the sun.



If you can't read Jaisalmeranese, the writing above this door concisely states:

"Entry of ladies during monthly course period is strictly prohibitted. They are requested to maintain the sanctity of this doorway."



And always there's cows. A barbeque pit, seasame seed bun or silver belt buckle will never come into contact with any part of this holy mother fucker. He'll shit on a picture of Ronald McDonald and then float a puddle of piss towards your shoe like it's nothing.

When lost, always ask the smartest looking person around for directions.



And, yes, Salazaar smokes hash. He played music for us every night at our hotel, and by "us" I mean he sang directly to us. He would look us in the eye, move his carpet so it was directly facing us, gesture at us during the songs with his whole arm, and explain lyrics via hands signs and mouth noises. The last night of our stay I asked him if I could take his picture. He said, "I smoke. Smokey, smokey". Then he made a gesture that looked like he was making a pipe of his fist with his thumb out and near his mouth (I hope it was a smoking gesture!), then primped up the sides of his mustache into curls and made his "pretty face" (you can't make that shit up):



Hands down, the coolest guy I've met all trip long. . . and speaking of smoking. . .



I swear that's not a hash bar. But here's Missy drinking a tastey cup of tea with datura, opium and goat urine.

Trains, Pains and Auto Rickshaws with a side of Violence

After another overnight train sentence, we are safely in Kolkata. The train travel we planned in abundance (from Dehli to Agra, Agra to Jaipur, Jaipur to Jaisalmer, Jaisalmer to Jodhpur, Jodhpur to Varanasi, and finally, Varanasi to Kolkata) was probably our most ignorant, first-time-world-traveler mistake. The train schedule is always a complete mystery to everyone involved. If you're lucky, you can maybe find a transit official who speaks a slightly understandable version of English who will end up telling you something to the effect of, "fifteen minutes before the train arrives we can tell you what platform to be on". Considering every platform is connected by an overground maze of steps, planks and chain-link walkways, this information does little to sooth your weakened mental condition . . . and your mental condition will be weakened. Trains run anywhere from fifteen minutes to eight hours late. Waiting time is spent looking for ground space to rest your luggage that is not soiled by any number of unwholesome ingredients, including, but not limited to: garbage, urine, beetlejuice, phlegm, toddlers with no pants on begging for rupees while peeing freely near your shoes, train-wounded cows that are collecting a puddle of blood beneath them, and/or rickshaw drivers harassing you for paid services. Once your luggage is down there is the matter of the constant computerized arrival announcements that are in Hindi first, then English, each preceded by a four note chime tone, "For your kind attention please, train # 3006 barriggity walla walla mol rhumpity to super fast express Kokata, will be 15 minutes late on arrival at platform # . . . ". They always leave off the platform number.

During this time, every single person in the saturated crowd immediately surrounding you will be staring directly at you as if you where balancing a goat on your forehead and juggling torso-sized flaming monkeys. Always being the center of undivided attention tends to be unsettling after a couple of hours. The stares remain unbroken as old men in zebra striped hats and furry neon green vests empty their noses of congested snot, while staring you directly in the eye. Groups of little girls in multicolored saris, sitting on their luggage, holding crying babies with tear-stained faces from their infant mascara are staring you directly in the eye. Teams of beggars with their miniature, unusable limbs folded neatly underneath them on rolly carts, walking on their hands or shuffling crab-like around you in an uncomfortably close radius are staring at you directly in the eyes.

"For your kind attention please, train # 3006 barriggity walla walla mol rhumpity to super fast express Kokata, will be 30 minutes late on arrival at platform . . . #". Again, no platform number.

So you concentrate on the animals. The train platforms are populated like a petting zoo. To your relief the animals pay no attention to you. It's a calming relief to see a profile. The monkeys compete with the dogs for scraps of garbage. The cows compete with the goats. The parrots compete with the crows. The chickens compete with no one. The rats are seldom seen, despite the audible proof of their proximity. You can almost make a game of searching for an un-maimed animal. They say that within each cow resides 30,000 gods. You would think one of them would possess the power to heal it's semi-connected leg that you can see light shining through in places.

"For your kind attention please, train # 3006 barriggity walla walla mol rhumpity to super fast express Kokata, will be 60 minutes late on arrival at platform. . . "

Surprisingly, the 5 rupee chai tea is delicious. To cut down on unrecyclible waste, the tea is served in bisqued ceramic cups. Customarily, the used cups are smashed against the train tracks or against corners or near garbage cans. Every garbage can is almost empty and surrounded by trash and smashed tea cups. After most stays at the train station, I can peer into the half-buried can and see only what we've disposed inside it. The down-side to the delicious tea is the pay toilets. I have never been inside a pay toilet. I will never be inside a pay toilet. No amount of intestinal pressure could validate the confirmation of possibilities to be found within it's tiled, beggar-tolled entryway. It's a mystery I have chosen to cherish.

"For your kind attention please, train # 3006 barriggity walla walla mol rhumpity to super fast express Kokata, will be 143 minutes late on arrival at platform. . . "



But we are here, and we are safe. You may have heard about the riots in Kolkata:

"The first major flare-up was reported from Ripon Street-AJC Bose Road crossing, a stone's throw from the residence of CPI-M state secretary Mr Biman Bose, with a mob brick-batting police and damaging private vehicles. Police initially tried to counter it with lathi-charge, but it angered the protestors more. The mob started throwing tube lights, soda bottles and bulbs at officers. As the situation started going out of hand, police lobbed tear gas shells to disperse the mob. The protestors retaliated by lobbing back the unexploded shells.

Mob fury soon spread to other parts of the city, including Park Circus, Padmapukur and Topsia. Agitators targeted police and private vehicles. Pool cars and ambulances were not spared either. The lanes and by-lanes off Park Street, Sundari Mohan Avenue, and AJC Bose Road were littered with broken bottles, slippers of pedestrians and labels of spent tear gas shells. A tear-gas haze hung low over the area.

When police failed to rein in the mob, the state government called in Army, whose officers staged flag marches in the violence-hit areas. Even though the protestors retreated as the Army kept advancing, they turned violent again, torching a police jeep in Topsia. Brick batting and retaliatory lathicharge continued till late in the evening."

-from www.thestatesman.net

We missed this scene by several minutes. The blockade started at 9:00. It was 10:30 when we drove through downtown and by 12:30 we were safely tucked away inside the walled compound of our residency. We may have seen the initial onset of the protests but, really, in India who would know the difference. It's always chaotic and mob-like. A burning bus surrounded by teams of people throwing bottles at the police would have been preferable to spending any more time at the train station.

And we have servants now.

Qtub Minar

Approaching the Minar we see the usual sleeping dogs all around us.



The Minar was built in in 1193 from the stones of 20 Jain temples that were demolished by Qutb-ud-din Aibak, the first Muslim ruler of Delhi.





This is not Qtub Minar. This is a tiny little sister tower that was never completed beyond the first unfinished level.



Here is Qtub Minar from a distance. We have to walk through dozens of archways and temples to get to it.



The temple walls and archeways are completely covered in writing.









The base of the Minar measures 14.3 meters wide.



The Qutub Minar is 72.5 metres high (237.8 ft) with 399 steps leading to the top.





I am not a super genius and I don't carry a gigantic tape measure on me at all times. Most of this information was taken from Wikipedia.