Bali Redux

With a bare minimum of days left in the warm confines of Bali, the three of us rented a private villa for two nights on the southern tip of Bali, near the five star resorts of Nusa Dua. While the villa’s décor left something to be desired, its service level did not, and we thoroughly enjoyed having a private staff at our beck and call. We especially appreciated seeing our clothes magically laundered, pressed with the scent of baby powder and left neatly folded on the bedside by day’s end.

We used the time in Bali much in the same way as before, allocating the hours between shopping excursions, massages and indulgent meals. On our last night at the villa, we dined at the highly-touted Spice restaurant housed in the minimalist chic Conrad hotel nearby. By the time we began our seven-course chef’s tasting menu on a terrace overlooking lush, manicured walkways and lounge pools, Kaberi had already decided where she and Vik would spend their final night in Bali. The 5-minute ride home turned into a 30-minute misadventure where poorly-chosen landmarks and questionable navigation conspired to disorient us before Kaberi finally found the way back.

The next morning, after squeezing in three ludicrously-inexpensive sessions with the villa’s private masseuse, we bid Jason farewell after ten tropical days together. Jason didn’t leave empty-handed on his return to Chicago, however, as Kaberi enlisted him to be her personal courier for everything from local purchases to journals and location-obsolete guidebooks.

An hour or so later, we collected our things and hitched a quick ride to the Conrad for the final night in Bali. Much to our surprise and delight, the Conrad’s nonsmoking king-bed rooms were sold out and we were upgraded to a beachfront suite with two private terraces. After luxuriating in our palatial environs, we used the remainder of the day to actively lounge by the pool, grab sunset cocktails at the Legian Hotel and have a waterfront Italian dinner in Seminyak.

The precious few hours before the next day’s early afternoon flight to Cairo elapsed at lightning speed, leaving us time only to share a morning champagne toast on the balcony before packing our things and checking out. On the cab ride to the airport, we both agreed that Bali would be one tough act to follow.

Drive-Through Buddhism

When we awoke the next morning, Kaberi committed herself to getting us off on the right foot by leading us to a Rough Guide-recommended breakfast spot, the Ministry Of Coffee. Her efforts proved worthwhile as we collectively enjoyed hearty servings of banana chocolate pancakes, egg croissants, espresso and vanilla lattes. Rejuvenated with a satisfying meal, we continued on to Yogyakarta’s Sultan’s Palace to catch a traditional shadow puppet rendition of the Ramayana strongly recommended by Kaberi’s father, who had spent a number of years in Indonesia on business.

Kaberi had wisely chosen to sample a Saturday morning practice-cum-performance of walat gaoneg at the Sultan’s Palace because her ability to successfully convince her travel companions to sit through a daylong puppet show would have been tenuous, at best. After an amusing taxi ride to the palace (during which we discovered that our Indonesian cabbie shared Vik’s love of the cheesy 1970’s cop show, CHiPs), we were able to walk the palace grounds and observe the puppet show at our leisure before Jason and Kaberi were mobbed by a crowd of excitedly-giggling young Indonesian girls wanting to have their picture taken with the two Midwesterners. Standing off to the side, Vik hadn’t seen such a surreal example of faux celebrity worship since his 30 minutes playing Pluto at EuroDisney in a prior life.

We opted for a hurried McDonald’s lunch before driving north to the Buddhist temple ruins of Borobudur in a dilapidated taxi leaking gasoline and literally coming apart at the seams. Upon arriving at the site an hour later, our terse cabbie indicated that he would see us back at the dropoff site at a time of our choosing. Checking our watches, we realized we had three hours to spend in Borobudur’s majesty before needing to return to Yogyakarta to collect our bags before catching an evening flight back to Bali.

Unlike our peaceful visit to Prambanan one day prior, Borobudur was teeming with Indonesian visitors – especially excitable schoolchildren – on a pleasant Saturday afternoon. Keeping our wits about us while dodging the occasional stray youth running by, we approached Borobudur via a flat pathway that led directly to the temple steps. Originally a Hindu temple site, Borobudur was laid on a stone foundation that was sinking into the soft earth below. This led to a UNESCO intervention where the temple was dismantled piece by piece in order to allow for the reinforcement of the foundation with concrete.

As we scaled the reconstructed temple, we had the privilege of walking alongside 504 1,200-year-old Buddha statues and 2,672 elaborate friezes. The temple was composed of six ascending levels, each representing stages in the Buddhist path to enlightenment. When we finally emerged at the top, representing nirvana, we were met by stunning 360-degree views of the countryside. Borobudur’s setting was as impressive as its architecture, with sweeping vistas of volcanic peaks intermingled with lush foliage and flatlands scattered with small towns. After taking account of our surroundings, we dodged the camera-mugging and walked through the 72 bell-shaped honey-comb statue coverings representing nirvana-attaining disciples.

After accommodating a smattering of photo request from young admirers, we headed back to the original drop-off point, only to find that our taxi was nowhere to be seen in the expanse of a massive and largely-desolate parking lot. With only a couple of hours remaining before our flight was set to depart and 100 kilometers separating us from Yogyakarta, we began to get nervous. After waiting an additional 20 minutes, Vik started exploring our other logistical options – ferrying us via horse-drawn cart to the nearest bus station or hiring an available private car and driver who would invariably sense our mounting desperation and demand from us a round trip fare.

In the midst of frightfully one-sided negotiations with an opportunistic car owner (translated by a helpful bystander), our cabbie returned, unapologetic and apparently unavoidably detained by a pressing oil-related issue. Adding insult to injury, he had neglected to refill his gas tank during the process, leaving his three passengers to apprehensively watch the fuel dial until we found the nearest gas station, some fifteen minutes away. Sixty minutes thereafter, back in Yogyakarta, we were quite enthusiastic to find a new taxi to take us to the airport.

As luck would have it, our flight to Bali was delayed, leaving us time to indulge in not-exactly-gourmet curbside meals at the KFC and Dunkin’ Donuts in Yogyakarta’s diminutive airport. Troubled that her cardinal travel rule of not patronizing U.S. chains while abroad had been broken twice in one day, Kaberi ordered a durian-flavored donut. It proved to be the appropriate capstone to the day – all three of us took a bite and cringed. An hour or so later, we were in the air enroute to Bali. To our surprise, we had managed to check in for and board the flight without a single person asking to see any form of ID. Our VIP status in eastern Java notwithstanding, we could not wait to make landfall back in Bali.

Yogya Make My Brown Eyes Blue

The following morning, we were roused bright and early at 4:00 am by a nearby imam’s eardrum-shattering call to morning prayer. After numerous efforts at stuffing the corners of a pillow into his ears proved ineffective at muffling the intrusive, wee hour Arabic wails, Vik stormed off muttering with laptop in hand to seek refuge in a spot offering some relative peace and quiet. By his own account, Vik made the best possible use of his time by watching the Lost season finale on the Slingbox (he still wonders why Charlie couldn’t just close the hatch door behind him). In the meantime, Kaberi and Jason each tried to fall back asleep but soon had to concede defeat to the persistent, immutable sonic forces at hand.

Shortly thereafter, we returned to the airport to catch a short but bumpy flight to Yogyakarta, a city in eastern Java and the most appropriate conduit for traveling to the ancient temple ruins located nearby. Upon touching down, we hailed a taxi to drop off our bags at our hotel – an oddly-expanded French colonial mansion in the center of a rather unremarkable town – before setting off again to visit the Hindu temple ruins at nearby Prambanan.

We were conveyed to the temple site within a half an hour and found ourselves in the unusual position of essentially having a UNESCO World Heritage site entirely to ourselves, save for a lone shepherdess allowing her flock of sheep to roam free through some ruins. By entering the site almost exactly on the one year anniversary of a powerful earthquake that weakened the main temples’ foundations, we were rendered unable to enter into any of the most prominent Prambanan sanctums.

The three of us contented ourselves with a thorough stroll across the entire complex expanse, comprising 224 temples and representing the largest Hindu temple compound in southeast Asia. The Prambanan temples were constructed nearly 1,000 years ago, making them older than their more famous cousins at Angkor Wat in Cambodia. We were especially impressed to learn that Prambanan's dynastic creators specifically constructed the Hindu temples without demolishing any nearby Buddhist sites as a gesture of religious tolerance. After wandering Prambanan, we made a subsequent visit to nearby Buddhist ruins featuring intricate stonework.

Having toured the temple ruins in the height of the afternoon sun, we whisked ourselves back to the hotel for a leisurely – and ultimately frigid – dip in the pool and a late lunch in the shady courtyard. The duration of our lingering, however, was sharply curtailed by the overwhelmingly-loud, throbbing guitar screeches emanating from a few yards away. To our considerable surprise and dismay, our hotel was hosting what we could only assume was an Indonesian rock showcase punctuated with live jam sessions. Shaking our heads in disbelief, we appreciated the irony of being inconvenienced by loud, unrelenting wailing twice in the same day.

After a few hours of downtime, we regrouped for dinner. As it turned out, the remainder of our evening unfolded in a seemingly-unending comedy of errors. With a restaurant recommendation billed as "the best place in town" by our hotel’s youthful combination front desk staffer/receptionist/concierge in hand, we drove halfway across town in search of the place. Once there, after what felt like an eternity, our cabbie declared that the venue was closed for renovation. Exasperated, hungry and increasingly impatient, we drove to the nearest landmark on our vague map, the erstwhile Radisson hotel. Inside, the friendly night desk manager directed us to the nearest eatery.

Trudging around in single file on dusty, unlit and poorly-marked streets, one or more of us began to question the wisdom of getting advice from a hotel that could not even successfully maintain the Radisson banner. At the very moment when it appeared that we were hopelessly lost, Kaberi found the restaurant to which we were directed. As we set foot inside, we realized that we had entered a low-end Indonesian university food court. While Kaberi was game for sticking around, Jason and Vik opted to bring us back to our hotel where we knew a satay buffet awaited us.

Ultimately, the decision to return to the hotel for dinner was the crowning folly of the evening. Midway through picking through the very mediocre offerings, we discovered that the satay chef appeared to be averse to keeping the meat on the grill for longer than two minutes. After each of us found soft, wet, salmanella-inducing flesh in the middle of our satays, we collectively lost our appetites and decided to cut our losses for the evening. We hoped that better luck would grace us tomorrow.

A Hit Of Java

After a luxuriant week in Bali’s cozy confines, we caught a morning flight west to Jakarta, Indonesia’s capital city situated in the northwest corner of the island of Java. Vik made sure to book us on Garuda Indonesia, the country’s national carrier boasting a much newer fleet and a far less dubious safety record than several of its upstart, discount competitors with such confidence-inspiring names as Air Adam and Lion Air.

Much larger in size and breadth than Bali, Java is not only the most populous of Indonesia’s 13,000 islands, but also the most populous island in the world. It domiciles some 60% of the country’s 200 million plus residents (a scale of citizenry that ranks Indonesia as the world’s fourth most populous country after China, India and the U.S.). Java also contrasts sharply with Bali in that it is overwhelmingly Muslim, like the vast majority of Indonesia proper. Before taking off, we were surprised to learn from Jason that Indonesia is on the U.S. State Department’s Travel Warning list because of past violence targeting western tourists and embassies not only in Bali but also in Java.

Upon touching down in Jakarta an hour later and making our way out of the terminal, we were conspicuously reminded of the veracity of Indonesia’s anti-drug policy (as if recent incidents involving Australian tourists weren’t reminder enough). Stopping us in our tracks, a large, conspicuous billboard displayed the mugshots of five apprehended smugglers, each captioned with the quantity of illegal narcotics found on their persons and the associated follow-on punishment administered, almost invariably being a death sentence.

Sufficiently sobered (in all respects), we stepped outside to catch a cab. After struggling mightily to locate a roadside taxi willing to take us downtown for a fair price and then discovering that Vik had absent-mindedly left his pocket travel notebook on the plane, we were forced to regroup. Fortunately, the exceeding courtesy of the Javanese came to the fore in short order. Within minutes, Vik was handed his notebook neatly wrapped in Garuda’s Lost And Found office. Shortly thereafter, a helpful airport hotel representative escorted us to an awaiting air conditioned Silver Bird taxi equipped with a fully-functional meter.

For a city of its size and scale (the metro area holds 23 million people), Jakarta struck us as remarkably open and manageable. To our eyes, the cityscape lacked the overwhelming urban density of other Asian cities like Bangkok or Hong Kong, and seemed liberally peppered with expansive green space. When we finally arrived at the hotel, we were riveted by the elaborate and thorough security process which involved opening all of the doors of the car to be visually inspected at the beginning of the hotel driveway and then passing through an airport-caliber metal detector at the hotel’s front entrance.

After enjoying several hours of downtime in the hotel (mostly characterized by repeated stealth raids of the executive lounge’s cold beverage arsenal and Kaberi’s and Jason’s complete fascination with rebroadcast American Idol episodes and unusual Indonesian game shows), we made arrangements to meet up with our gracious Indonesian host, Anin, for dinner. Having not seen Anin in over six years, Vik left early to meet his friend for a pre-dinner drink and to catch up on happenings since their time together in California.

After some time, a svelte and very stylishly-dressed Anin and a not-so-svelte-or-stylishly-dressed Vik were joined at the bar by Yuri, Anin’s childhood friend and current colleague, and then, Kaberi and Jason. Soon thereafter, the five of us sat down together at the colorful and exquisitely-appointed Lara Jonggrang restaurant to enjoy a mouthwatering feast of Indonesian dishes personally selected by Yuri. The night’s menu consisted of an extensive sampling of melt-in-your-mouth satays and copious amounts of full-bodied red wine.

Our dinner conversation comprised observations about our travels, perspectives on life in Indonesia and elsewhere in Asia as well as enthusiastic retellings of Vik’s and Anin’s Stanford exploits (Vik’s account casting Anin as the party animal and Vik as the studious bystander was summarily dismissed out of hand by his friend). Just as in Bali, with the amazing food and the great company, time flew by all too quickly. As the evening came to a close, we decided to hold Anin and Yuri to the promise that our evening together was merely an appetizer for the compulsory follow-up visits to come, either in Indonesia or back in the States.

Balilujeh

With our visit to Tibet concluded, we made our way back to Hong Kong to recover from the long, arduous journey. Once back in the big city, we had a chance to spend a few pleasant days with our friends Suvarna and Shiv as well as Shiv’s adorable parents visiting from Pune, India. After a week of eating uninspiring Tibetan cuisine, indulging in delicious, home-cooked Indian meals (featuring Maharashtrian specialties) was nothing short of divine.

From Hong Kong, we flew Singapore Airlines to Bali via Singapore. This flight represented our first time flying on Singapore, and we were both curious to experience the carrier's famed service level firsthand. Despite our initial dismay with the airline’s do-nothing telephone reservations customer service from before our trip had started, we had to admit that Singapore’s onboard flight attendants were remarkably attentive and friendly, almost laughably so relative to the norm to which we were accustomed back in the U.S.

With a slight delay, our connecting flight arrived at Bali (an enclave of Hinduism in the predominantly Muslim Indonesian archipelago) at about 10:00 pm. By the time we had purchased Indonesian visas on arrival, recleared security (Bali, presumably because of the senseless bombings in 2002 and 2005, is the only airport where we had to go through a security screening to gain access to the baggage claim carousel) and collected our luggage, it was nearly 11:00 pm. Making our way outside to hail a taxi, we were immediately reintroduced to the tropical humidity that we hadn’t experienced since leaving Thailand over a month ago. At this point, we still had a one-hour ride awaiting us before reaching our lodgings on Bali’s western coast.

A few minutes before midnight, we reached the town of Tanah Lot where Vik’s Stanford friend, Anin, had generously arranged for us to stay at his family’s private villa. To our surprise, we were met onsite by the villa’s personal butler, Bagiana, who escorted us to our rooms via golf cart. When we awoke the next morning, we discovered that we had landed in our own personal paradise. From our posh quarters, surrounded by tropical flora, we had 180-degree views of vivid aqua waters beyond a black sand beach, fronted by the manicured green carpet of a Greg Norman-designed golf course. During our first twenty-four hours in Bali, we were more than content to simply lounge in our private pool and dine al fresco with jawdropping views of the waves crashing along the black lava rock-lined shoreline.

The next day, Kaberi’s friend Jason arrived from Chicago to meet up with us. With Jason’s company, we easily fell into a rhythm that prevailed for the remainder of the week: Kaberi and Jason welcoming the morning with coffee on the patio, Vik going for a run after sleeping in until the early afternoon (a practice which he claimed precluded his ability to blog, both from a time constraint and energy level perspective), the three of us partaking in sunset chats over wine and cheese, and Jason's trusty Bali Luxe guide leading us to a different, fabulous dining venue each night.

Our week in Bali proved to be heavenly. Picture perfect weather accompanied our vantage point of Bali’s beautiful scenery of tiered rice paddies, lush foliage and pristine beaches. Nevertheless, we were most impressed with the genuine warmth and gentle graciousness of the Balinese. We were quite literally greeted at every turn by a warm smile or a hands-clasped namaste-style gesture. And almost every one we encountered (after invariably apologizing for not being more fluent) spoke excellent English, welcomed us to the island personally and asked how we were enjoying our stay.

On several occasions, we were charmed and touched by local taxi drivers (with nicknames like “Smiley”) who thanked us for giving them their first business of the day. It was a bit heartbreaking for us to learn that the aforementioned terrorist bombings had wreaked havoc on Bali’s tourist-dominated economy, particularly in the offseason, by driving tourist visitation down 50% or more. This dropoff has taken a disproportionate and unfortunate economic toll on the island’s hospitable and respectful denizens, who clearly deserve much better for their troubles.

Our time in Bali also gave us the chance to partake in a number of compelling local experiences. One morning, we made our way north to the middle of the island for a whitewater rafting excursion. Our time on the river (which was characterized by Jason and Vik doing most of the paddling for the 5-person raft while Kaberi was banished to the no man’s land center) afforded another view of the island’s distinctive topographical nooks and crannies. Midweek, Bagiana escorted us on a sunset tour of the nearby Tanah Lot temple, which involved a barefoot walk across both plush golf greens and razor-sharp, pebble-strewn paths.

Together, we also indulged our inner hedonist by having decadent (but not inappropriate) four-handed massages at the luxurious Chedi Spa, eating sinfully across a number of cuisines and observing a small sample of the local nightlife, the highlight of which may have been spending forty minutes guessing as to the correct gender of a rather talented bartop dancer at MixWell, a festive gay bar (the dancer improbably turned out to be a she).

Not content to let a spare minute go by, Kaberi and Jason also found time for other pursuits, including a Balinese cooking class featuring a tutorial on local spices and preparation of a ceremonial menu, a traditional and dramatic firelit Balinese dancing show portraying the Hindu Ramayana, numerous shopping outings to the boutique centers of Ubud and Semiyak and daily afternoon cocktails with prerequisite pre-dinner desserts. During their outings, they also discovered (and eagerly supported) Threads Of Life, a local non-profit that worked with women to preserve and promote traditional weaving techniques. In the meantime (and to his considerable glee), Vik was far less active or productive.

Our week in Bali passed far too quickly. Each of us, to a person, was completely taken with the island, its traditional -- but still accessible -- culture and the leisurely pace of life. We enjoyed everything from watching the local women make morning offerings at temple to discerning the ubiquitous night-time aroma of clove cigarettes. And when the week came to an inevitable close, Bali had, without fail, moved to the top of our list as our favorite destination of our far-flung, globetrotting travels.

Rooftop Ruminations

After recuperating from our Namtso journey by sleeping in until 8:00 am the next morning, we set off on an overnight journey to Shigatse, the second largest city in Tibet. At the midway point of our westerly itinerary, we began a winding, stomach-churning foray over impossibly-high peaks that managed to rise well above the thick, shrouded cloudline. While Kaberi curled up for a nap in the back seat, Vik took in the magnificent visual of sod-covered rockface stretching up toward the heavens against a backdrop of foggy gray skies.

After an hour of undulating curves, we found ourselves standing at the muddy banks of the turquoise waters of Lake Yamdrok Yumtso, the second largest lake in Tibet. Unlike Namtso’s expansive scale, Yamdrok Yumtso was thin and long as it stretched northwest and southeast. Nestled into a mist-covered backdrop of mountains, Yamdrok Yumtso’s setting very much reminded Vik of the view of the Crystal Springs Reservoir from interstate 280, about 30 minutes south of San Francisco.

According to Tibetan legend, Lake Yamdrok Yumtso was created when a goddess descended to earth. Her husband followed suit, and transformed into the mountain anchoring the lake. Yamdrok Yumtso is also the location for a controversial hydroelectric power plant centered at the lake’s western edge. The power station is the largest in Tibet, and its construction is contributing to a precipitous fall in Lake Yamdrok Yumtso’s water level.

From Yamdrok Yumtso, we made a beeline for Shigatse by traversing a valley ensconced between an endless line of stark brown Himalayan peaks. Staring out the window at the magnificent passing scenery, we both found it quite easy to lose ourselves in our thoughts. Vik used the drive to come up with a formal business plan for an investment partnership while Kaberi considered the seemingly-overwhelming adversities facing the Tibetan people. Soon, we happened upon the outskirts of Shigatse with the distinctive Dzong Fortress coming into view. Our day ended with a quick meal shared with Phuntsok and an evening spent in an unremarkable Shigatse hotel catering to tour groups (we lost power for most of our brief stay).

The next day, we headed to Shigatse’s old city to tour the Tashilhunpo Monastery, founded over 500 years ago by the first Tibetan Dalai Lama. The monastery was closed by the Chinese army in the 1960’s. In response, Tibetan exiles built a new Tashilhunpo campus in the Indian state of Karnataka (where Vik was born). Before its closure, Tashilhunpo was the traditional home of the Panchen Lama, the second most influential lama after the Dalai Lama and the figure responsible for identifying the next Dalai Lama.

We first visited the Maitreya Chapel, which houses an imposing 86 foot tall golden Buddha statue. Also during the visit, we saw three stupas commemorating the graves of the three Panchen Lamas. Given the context, we couldn’t help but wonder about the plight of the most recent Panchen Lama. Sadly, the 10th Panchen Lama has been imprisoned by the Chinese for a number of years now (both his whereabouts and condition are unknown). In an incredibly-impudent move, the Chinese government has gone so far as to recognize on its own a young boy as the 11th Panchen Lama. To no one’s surprise, the Tibetan people refuse to accept or recognize him as the real Panchen Lama (in an ironic recent event, the visit of the 10th Panchen Lama’s daughter to Tibet significantly overshadowed a concurrent formal visit by the Chinese-recognized Panchen Lama). Nevertheless, the attempted polarization of Tibetan Buddhism by the Chinese government is both notably galling and infuriating.

From Shigatse, we retraced our route to return back to Lhasa. Once back in Lhasa, we celebrated the conclusion of our grueling Tibetan travels and the imminent end of high altitude living by sharing a decent Indian meal in the Jokhang and a Tibetan beer on the rooftop of our hotel.

Winter In May

When we awoke the next morning, we found all of the surrounding mountain tops to be caked in snow. A late evening rainstorm had passed, leaving low, overcast skies in its wake. Without the resplendent sunshine of the day before, Tibet seemed darker and more forbidding. Setting off from Lhasa in the early morning hours, we made our way northwest to Lake Namtso, the largest lake in Tibet and the highest salt water lake in the world. The 200-kilometer drive took about four hours and vaulted us to a peak altitude of 5,190 kms (15,000 feet). We found the pace of the drive to be a bit unusual. Phuntsok explained that we had to register at several Chinese government checkpoints along the way. In so doing, we would receive permission to continue provided that we arrived at the next checkpoint within a specified timeframe. This often led us to pull over to the side of the road to kill time so as to not arrive at the next milestone too early. The other alternative would have been to just drive slower, but that proved to be an anathema to our noncommunicative Chinese driver. When we arrived at Lake Namtso, we were a bit disappointed that the weather hadn’t cleared. As a result, the lake appeared as a dark, grayish-blue expanse instead of the sparkling emerald hue it takes on in bright sunshine. By the lakeside, we managed to snap a few pictures of the magnificent surroundings in between the waves of Chinese tourists exuberantly mounting sad Tibetan yaks with harnesses threaded through their nostrils. As it turned out, we were fortunate to see and capture what we did when we did. Within minutes of walking back toward the car, the skies opened to unleash a downpour of hail and snow. We quickly ducked into a small family-run restaurant for lunch. Once inside, an unusually-lightheaded Vik took the opportunity to inhale some oxygen while Kaberi took inventory of the locale. The restaurant was housed in a medium-sized tent supported by two large poles and boasted a small burner, a few tables, and a charming family staff of four adults and three kids. For lunch, Vik wanly ate ramen noodles while Kaberi gamely followed Phuntsok’s lead to order yak meat with capsicum and rice. We both sampled the yak butter tea which to us conveyed both the taste and consistency of salty, concentrated chicken stock. On our return, about ten miles away from the Lhasa outskirts, we spied a group of four Tibetans on pilgrimage. The group was distinguished by its commitment to doing a full body prostration with every step. From Phuntsok, we learned that Buddhist pilgrims are not allowed to spend money during their journey, and must depend on the generosity of local townspeople or simply sleep on the side of the road. Apparently, some pilgrims travel with a small cart of provisions. In such cases, they will push the cart ahead, backtrace their steps to complete the necessary prostrations and repeat the process all over again, and so on. Within five minutes of our passing the pilgrims by, a heavy rain began to fall, leaving the four cold and wet souls to persevere with the ultimate demonstration of their faith.

Whole Lhasa Love

After dealing with endless travel obstacles for two weeks, we found ourselves elated to be finally commencing our much-anticipated trip to Tibet. After changing planes in Chengdu, we began a spectacularly-scenic and not-especially-bumpy northwestern flight over the cloudpiercing Himalayas. In a little over two hours, we made groundfall on the Tibetan plateau, some 3,650 meters (about 12,000 feet) above sea level.

As we deplaned from our aircraft, we immediately felt the palpable effects of the altitude. Slowly ambling toward Lhasa’s lone baggage carousel, we felt as if we were bearing twenty-pound weights around each of our ankles. Nevertheless, clear sunny skies and temperate weather greeted our arrival, and we were pleasantly surprised to discover our smiling Tibetan guide, Phuntsok, standing in the arrivals hall with a discreet placard in hand that simply read “Banerjee.” After enduring three months of signs bearing “Murthy,” Kaberi took it as an auspicious sign of good things to come.

During the one-hour ride to our hotel, Phuntsok shared his background with us and provided a quick orientation to Tibet. Born and raised in Lhasa, Tibet’s capital and most populous city, he had worked as a tour guide for 20 years. He counted among his clients Uma Thurman’s father, a long-time Tibetphile who gave both of his daughters Buddhist names. Phuntsok spoke matter-of-factly, and without emotion or judgment, almost always leaving us to fill in the blanks for ourselves during the conversation.

Over the course of the drive, we inferred that in an effort to more rapidly assimilate Tibet (officially, a special administrative district) into the mainland, the Chinese government was compelling ethnic Han Chinese villagers to relocate to Tibet. As a result of these efforts, Tibetans were now a distinct minority in Lhasa. In a further effort to control foreign impressions of Tibet (again, our takeaway, not Phuntsok’s), the Chinese government was delicensing Tibetan tour guides and replacing them with their Chinese counterparts. Today, Tibet’s tourist economy disproportionately boasted Chinese tour guides and drivers.

Learning all of this did not endear the Chinese government to us, and made us realize that a candid blog entry on the matter would need to wait until we were out of China. We were also enormously thankful to have found an endangered species of sorts, a native Tibetan tour guide (although we do not begrudge the rank-and-file Chinese settlers in Tibet, many or all of whom are just trying to make a better life for themselves and their families).

Riveted by the conversation and the passing scenery of towering, distant sand-colored peaks reflecting in modest indigo streams, we found that the hourlong ride to Lhasa flew by. The Chinese government was rapidly upgrading Tibet’s infrastructure (earthmovers and dumptrucks were seemingly omnipresent) to the mainland’s standards, and the new airport road which at one point tunneled smoothly through a rather sizeable mountain reflected formidable Chinese engineering prowess. As Lhasa neared, Phuntsok pointed out several examples of houses rebuilt in traditional Tibetan flatroof style and we caught our first glimpse of Tibet’s official animal mascot, the yak (which appeared at first blush to resemble a fuzzy water buffalo).

Making our way into Lhasa, it was difficult to distinguish the city from any other Chinese urban outpost. The wide, main thoroughfare was flanked by commercial establishments catering to a Chinese sensibility including boldly-advertised Chinese restaurants, clothing shops and electronics stalls. The sight led Vik to quietly whisper that the Chinese would invariably rule the world, but they would preside over a much cheesier one. Only upon turning down a small, cramped alley leading to our “boutique” hotel did authentic Tibet introduce itself. The smell of yak butter and incense assaulted us as Phuntsok escorted us around one corner and then another full of staring and weathered Tibetan faces.

We had chosen the hotel, the House of Shambhala, based on lavish praise from the New York Times travel section and the NPR website (two sources which provide an unambiguous window into Kaberi’s political persuasion). Situated in the old section of the city known as the Jokhang, the hotel boasted an expansive roofdeck with clear views of not only the proximate street life, but also the prominent mountaintops encircling Lhasa on all sides.

We spent our first afternoon adjusting to the altitude by drinking (on our Beijing friend Werner’s recommendation) copious amounts of hot ginger water and moving around slowly and deliberately. We soon found ourselves shocked and dismayed to discover that the mere act of climbing up three flights of stairs to the rooftop restaurant was the basis for a near hospitalization. Huffing and puffing, with our fast-beating hearts in our throats, we were forced to come to terms with the notion that we were essentially spending the next several days conducting our lives as if we were on top of Mt. Hood.

The next morning, Phuntsok met us with tickets in hand to see the Potala Palace, the Dalai Lama’s former residence, at exactly 10:30 am. As we approached the distinctive structure high atop a central hilltop, we saw masses of Tibetan pilgrims either prostrating themselves before the building or rotating clockwise Tibetan prayer wheels in their right hands. Due to the political sensitivity (pictures of the current Dalai Lama – the 14th of the line – are prohibited in Tibet), admission to the palace was strictly regulated by the Chinese government, which exactly specified both an admission time and a departure time not to exceed one hour therafter. With Phuntsok’s expert guidance, we managed to tour the palace in a cool 59 minutes. This was no small feet, considering the excruciating several-hundred step climb up to the main entrance.

Unable to take pictures inside the Red Palace (the ceremonial wing) and the White Palace (the residential wing), we focused on the experience itself. As we walked from one dimly-lit, but elaborately-colorful room to another, we were exposed to the rich symbolism of Tibetan Buddhism. As conveniently self-described Indians (our U.S. passports were neatly tucked away out of sight), we were charmed by several Tibetan priests who, upon asking Phuntsok where we were from, would smile at us warmly and proclaim India as a good friend to Tibet (by way of context, after cleverly evading capture by the Chinese in 1959, the 14th Dalai Lama was granted refuge by India in Dharamsala, a town located in the northeastern state of Uttaranchal).

Feeling a responsibility to preserve the warm feelings, we always took care to respond to the priests by respectfully clasping our hands together in the traditional Indian namaste pose. As our tour progressed, it was also quite clear that Tibetans shared a spiritual connection with their southwest neighbor, with several prominent Buddhist teachers (potentially including Buddha himself) emigrating north from India. The act of walking through the home of generations of Dalai Lamas with the knowledge that the 14th Dalai Lama hasn’t been allowed to return there in nearly 50 years made us both sad and angry.

After leaving the Potala Palace, we made a beeline to Lhasa’s outskirts to see the Drepung Monastery before it closed in the early afternoon. Founded in 1416, Drepung once housed over 10,000 monks. After a tractor ride up the monastery’s winding entrance road, we saw Tibetan monks of all ages in their distinctive red attire. We were particularly amused by a couple of young monks who chose to pair their robes with Nike sandals.

Making our way through the monastery complex, we saw the large kitchen where the monks cook (with ample amounts of ghee butter on hand) as well as dark, cramped living quarters. Moving along, we were particularly struck by the beauty of the main prayer area which was adorned with colorful silk banners hanging from the ceiling. We then made our way to the repository for the Tibetan texts, which do not represent complete sets of works, but, rather, only what monks and loyal believers could save from destruction by the Chinese.

Our final stop of the day was at the Jokhang Temple, namesake of the oldest Lhasa district, and the holiest of all temples in Tibetan Buddhism. Our late afternoon arrival (designed to afford us with a few hours to recuperate from the dizzying effects of our otherwise-ordinary physical activity from earlier in the day), translated into sighting fewer prostrating devotees than at daybreak, leaving Kaberi to return on subsequent mornings to take more pictures. At Jokhang, we were disappointed to learn that all of the images and idols had been recreated in the recent years because the originals had been destroyed by the Chinese during Mao’s deplorable Cultural Revolution.

As our first full day in Tibet came to a close, we had a chance to reflect on the previous hours. While we appreciated the scale, grandeur and cultural significance of each of these three Lhasa landmarks that we had visited, we were most struck by the persistent faith and devotion of the Tibetan people in the face of such considerable adversity. It was hard not to be humbled by their spirit and perseverance.

Beijing Redux

After docking in the smoggy Chinese metropolis of Chongqing (by some accounts, the most populous city in the world with a reputed 36 million+ residents) early the next day, we took a brief, but harried, cab ride to the local bus terminal. From Chongqing, we made our way five hours southwest by bus to the Sichuan provincial capital of Chengdu, famed for its pandas and spicy regional cuisine.

Upon arriving in Chengdu, we spent the entire afternoon furiously calling local travel agencies in a last-ditch effort to obtain a Tibetan entry visa. After a few thankless hours on the phone, it soon became apparent that the local travel agents were using the present circumstances as an opportunity to gouge foreign visitors. At that point, Kaberi suggested that we simply return to Beijing where our hotel owner friend Shauna was likely to have some local influence and expertise, particularly in the travel agent area. After conferring with Shauna via phone, we summarily booked a flight back to Beijing 30 hours hence.

We had planned to get up early the next morning to visit the Panda Reserve located 45 minutes away. Our plans were sidetracked, however, when Kaberi came down with a nasty and incapacitating stomach bug. Convinced that she had contracted food poisoning from an otherwise forgettable noodle lunch a few hours earlier, Kaberi spent a miserable, sleepless night and day commuting to the aft-located porcelain goddess. After being sedated with a cocktail of Dayquil and Tylenol PM, Kaberi was ushered onto the flight to Beijing. Once in Beijing, she collapsed in a heap at the Cote Cour SL hotel, our newfound home-away-from-home, leaving Vik and Shauna to tend to Tibetan visa and trip logistics (which they managed successfully only because of Shauna). Meanwhile, Kaberi recuperated in style, as Shauna had greeted us with wine, tasty Chinese snacks and an upgrade to a roomy suite with high ceilings and a small terrace.

When she awoke the next morning, highly-motivated and with her mind set on traipsing to the city’s antique fair, Kaberi had to be physically restrained by Shauna and Vik. Resigned to her temporary house arrest, Kaberi settled back into bed to watch reruns of Alias on the hotel TV and Grey's Anatomy on the trusty Slingbox. By nightfall, she had largely recovered, allowing us to pay a visit to yet another of Shauna’s divine restaurant recommendations, the laughably-misnamed My Humble House.

With many Beijingites out of town for the Labor Day holiday (known locally as Golden Week), the city was relatively-quiet, allowing us to hightail it to downtown in record time and have the swanky restaurant completely to ourselves. Blessed with prime seating directly before an indoor water pond, we enjoyed a scrumptious Asian meal of tuna tartare, white miso cod and spicy noodles (from which Kaberi respectfully excused herself). After dinner, we strode to the nearby Oriental Center shopping mall to see the newly-released Spiderman 3. Halfway through the flick, and no doubt the result of having to stomach Kirsten Dunst’s witless performance, Vik started to feel ill. In an hour, we were both in bed, having self-administered generous doses of NyQuil and very much hoping for the best.

The following morning, Kaberi felt close to normal but Vik found himself much worse for wear. While administering a much-needed doseage of DayQuil, we remembered that we needed to start taking anti-altitude sickness pills in advance of our impending Tibet trip. After doubly medicating, Kaberi exchanged places with Vik by hanging out with Shauna and attending to the final details of the Tibet tour. In the interim, Vik stayed in bed and caught up on episodes of Lost and 24 on the Slingbox. Kaberi made her way over to Beijing’s weekend antique fair and refrained from buying anything, so as to not sap Vik’s strength further. From the antique fair, Kaberi moved on to the Na-Li district, boasting one girlie shop after another, where her best purchasing effort was thwarted by the availability of 0 and 2-sized clothing.Vik roused himself in the afternoon, and we had an early dinner at Alameda, an upscale Brazilian restaurant in a hip eastern Beijing neighborhood.

Upon returning to the hotel, we discovered that we had inadvertently taken Kaberi's anti-inflamatory medication earlier in the day. To compensate for Kaberi’s oversight, Vik gave us a double dose of the anti-altitude sickness tablets while concurrently administering a long rant on carelessness and irresponsibility. Exhausted and grumpy, we both fell asleep early at about 9 p.m. The next morning, we were surprised to be awakened by Michael, the assistant manager, who was calling to make sure that we were okay. Puzzled by his concern, we wearily peered at the room clock and discovered that it was almost noon! Apparently, anti-altitude medication is also a strong sedative that is never, under any circumstances, supposed to administered in a double dose. After being informed of this, Vik was astonishingly silent on the matter.

Despite the late start, the day ended up being relatively fulfilling. We first ventured over to Silk Road where Vik used his bargaining skills to secure us inexpensive t-shirts to replace thoroughly worn-out predecessors. When we returned to the hotel a few hours later, we found Shauna and her travel agent waiting for us with Tibetan entry permits, plane tickets and a confirmed trip itinerary in hand. That evening, we introduced Shauna to a fellow Beijingite, Werner, who we had befriended on our Yangtze River cruise. Shauna identified another amazing dinner venue, and the four of us enjoyed an pleasant and authentic Chinese meal at an open-air courtyard table.

Before we left the next day, Shauna told us that we felt like family to her. As we bid Beijing farewell for the second time in two weeks, the feeling for us was very much mutual. Our much-anticipated journey to Tibet was next on the agenda.

Start The Presses

Management is pleased to report that our work stoppage is over and all efforts by any employee or employees to form a union have been summarily quashed. We would also like to make clear in the strongest terms that the timing of the work stoppage exactly correlating with our fabulous two-week holiday in Bali are entirely coincidental.

An Update

Given the explosion of interest in this blog (total readership now stands at 5), an explanation of our virtual absence is long overdue. Truth be told, we are experiencing a work stoppage. Vik has formed the Hindu Blog Editors Guild (Local 99) to collectively bargain and raise awareness of the deplorable working conditions (forced unpaid overtime, etc.) to which he is currently being subjected. Management and labor are currently at an impasse. We are now in the process of conducting lengthy negotiations, with Mssr. Jason Heeney serving as a somewhat-but-not-really impartial arbitrator. These meetings are being held in Bali. We hope to come to an amicable resolution in short order so that we can assume full operations. We apologize for any inconvenience this has caused the five of you (actually, make that four of you since Jason is here with us).

Slow Boat To China

After a five-hour ride on a creaky bus – the highlight of which was watching The Matrix simultaneously dubbed and subtitled in Mandarin – we set foot in Yichang, a small city by Chinese standards with only one million inhabitants. A few mundane hours later, we found ourselves ensconced in claustrophobic quarters on an undistinguished tourist ship. We wondered how we would manage to make it through the next five days.

As the next morning beckoned, we found ourselves surprisingly refreshed. Something about the cabin bedding in combination with the gentle rocking of the waves below us made for an extraordinary night’s sleep. After taking decadently-long, hot showers, we decided to approach the day with an open mind. Our newfound positive attitude was almost immediately rewarded at breakfast. We were seated at a table of friendly, gregarious fellow voyagers, including two Californians, Jackie and Grant, in China for a combination of business and pleasure, and two Germans, Werner and his 16-year-old son Gregor, stationed in Beijing for Werner’s official duties with the German Embassy.

After breakfast, we met the remaining non-tour group passengers – the Lees (Malaysian-Australians May and Kwang, Irene and Ming), Malaysian-Kiwi Jin, and Germans Manfred and Hejki. We immediately bonded with our newfound friends, sharing anecdotes about our travels and wisecracks about the current adventure. Seeing herself as the group's de facto PR spokesperson, Kaberi nicknamed the thirteen of us "The Independents." Together, we immersed ourselves into the various cruise activities, and had much fun in the process. Even Vik, not usually a social butterfly in the best of circumstances, took every opportunity to hang out with the gang (even rising early once for 7:30 am tai chi lessons).

Our first shore excursion was to see the Three Gorges Dam, the largest hydroelectric power plant in the world on a volume basis. Touring the facility, we regretted that Kaberi's father hadn't joined us, given his 30-year career as a globetrotting hydroelectric engineer. Even in the backdrop of a gray, overcast day, the massive scale of the Three Gorges complex -- comprising ship locks, a ship elevator, 16 turbines and various tourist pavilions -- was an eye-opening testament to Chinese ambition. Our local tour guide enthusiastically touted the project's success with regard to flood-reduction, energy production and economic development while glossing over the widespread, heavy-handed relocation of local villagers and negative ecological consequences.

Once back to the ship, we gathered on the front deck to hear Curtis, our outstanding river guide, give a narrated tour of the first two gorges. We sat with the Lees and enjoyed both the company and the scenery in equal measure. Ming and Kaberi took turns venturing outside onto the gusty stern to take pictures of the mist-strewn mountains. Kwang reminisced about visiting the Yangtze River -- the third longest river in the world -- some 20 years ago when the water level was roughly 75 meters lower than the 156-meter mark of today. Curtis informed us that the river will rise further to 175 meters by 2010. The planned flooding has rendered entire communities obsolete. This notion was reinforced for us in short order when we saw a red "175" painted on the side of a modest house. In three years, that house will be entirely submerged.

The desire for a quick nap overcame the two of us, and we skipped an introductory Chinese medicine course. When we rejoined the Lees two hours later, we learned that Kwang had been the guinea pig for the acupuncturist. When we asked how he felt after the treatment, he boasted that he could now hit a golf ball 30 yards further than before. Without skipping a beat, Jin quipped that the length of Kwang's drive was now a grand total of 30 yards. With the jokes flowing in rapid-fire fashion, we lost track of time as our ship bisected the rocky formations passing by on either side.

In the evening, a family-style Chinese dinner lent itself to sharing both platters and anecdotes with Jackie, Grant, Werner and Gregor. Vik's various dietary restrictions were the source of much amusement for the table, particularly because the ship's chef seemed intent on spiting him through the liberal use of both pork and beef as spices. When a tofu dish arrived adorned with ground pork, Vik was beside himself. Nevertheless, our good mood sustained. Our group reassembled to enjoy the ship's Fashion Show, which turned out to be a cultural show showcasing music and traditional dress from various periods of Chinese history.

After breakfast the next morning, we boarded a hydrofoil to coast through the Three Lesser Gorges. While we basked on the stern, Kwang drew upon his experience as a civil engineer to explain to us the logistics of securing bridges into mountainous outcrops and the means of protecting cliffsides from erosion. After taking turns with Jackie and Grant mimicking Leonardo diCaprio and Kate Winslet in Titanic-like poses, we made our way to the Emerald Gorge. With the overcast skies beginning to clear, we were able to enjoy the various vivid shades of green in the waterways. Under the capable direction of our local guide, we were able to discern wild monkeys, mountain tracks and hanging coffins in the periphery. Afterward, we transferred to a small wooden boat to tour the Mini Three Gorges (at this point, Vik mused that Three Mediocre Gorges would be next on the itinerary). Amidst the din of tribal songs and local horns, we enjoyed the remote serenity on a more intimate scale.

In the afternoon, we partook in the ship's two planned activities, Dumpling Preparation and Mandarin 101, with the Lees. That evening, after a talent show featuring the crew, seven of us commandeered the ship lounge for karaoke purposes. May proved to be our fearless leader and, soon enough, all of us got dragged before the microphone. Kaberi's favorite memory of the evening was watching Ming and Irene lovingly dance together. She's hoping that she and Vik can follow in the Lees' footsteps.

On our final day aboard the ship, we joined our compatriates to see the ghost city of Fungdu. Vik was insistent on foregoing the apparent tourist trap, but Jackie and Grant talked him into coming. With a giggly tour guide leading us through the attraction, we found ourselves getting into the spirit in short order. We even participated in some of the silly diversions. Grant and Vik both paid to light candles and incense sticks to please the Chinese god of prosperity. The entire group cheered on Vik as he tried unsuccessfully to balance a four ton ball onto an iron point. All of us successfully performed the local "tests of character" by making our way across a small walkway representing longevity without tripping and standing one-footed on a rock for three seconds. In spite of it all, the outing proved to be a much better alternative than remaining aboard the ship.

The afternoon passed quickly with different configurations of folks hanging out together. Vik talked business with Grant while Kaberi communed with the Lees to hear about life in modern China. After dinner and drinks with our respective tablemates, we all convened in the evening to take pictures robed in the royal outfits of the Emperor and Empress. The camaraderie that we enjoyed as a group, even while participating in a variety of seemingly-ridiculous activities, was a truly affirming and enriching experience. And we were thrilled to have walked away with so many new friendships with amazing people from around the globe during our five strange and wonderful days on the Yangtze.