Sunday, January 30, 2000
Baby Changing Table Plans Free
Presentation Blog
Paris, September 21, 2010
Welcome to this blog, which recounts a journey of a year I did around the Indian Ocean.
I also posted at the end of the story to several news reports as and my background.
To access either of these texts, click on the corresponding line in the summary to the right of the screen (the indication of January 2000 is false, it only serves to simplify the presentation) .
If you want a photo, you can click to view larger.
A lighter version of this blog is also Travel in the section of the site of Liberation. http://www.voyages.liberation.fr/les-tribulations-dantoine
I currently reworking my manuscript to make a book out in May 2011 by Editions Phebus.
If you want to respond, please feel free to post a comment (with your address so I can reply) or email me at antoinecalvino@gmail.com.
Happy reading. Antoine
Paris, September 21, 2010
Welcome to this blog, which recounts a journey of a year I did around the Indian Ocean.
I also posted at the end of the story to several news reports as and my background.
To access either of these texts, click on the corresponding line in the summary to the right of the screen (the indication of January 2000 is false, it only serves to simplify the presentation) .
If you want a photo, you can click to view larger.
A lighter version of this blog is also Travel in the section of the site of Liberation. http://www.voyages.liberation.fr/les-tribulations-dantoine
I currently reworking my manuscript to make a book out in May 2011 by Editions Phebus.
If you want to respond, please feel free to post a comment (with your address so I can reply) or email me at antoinecalvino@gmail.com.
Happy reading. Antoine
Saturday, January 29, 2000
Acura Oil Change Cost
India Travel North (2006)
Preamble
This first book has not been put online in real time. This is a digest of messages sent to my friends during my trip in north India, from July 20 to September 15, 2006. Having begun by New Delhi at the center of the country, I went to Benares (today Varanassi) east and west Rajasthan and finally due north to Ladakh in the Himalayas. I completed this journey sick as I never had been, losing ten pounds before being hospitalized and placed on a drip, but sufficiently enticed by my overview of the country to start the following year.
Friday, January 28, 2000
How To Make Scooter Metal Cores
1 - From New Delhi to Varanasi
New Delhi, July 23, 2006
First Contact The first impression I have of India is the sultry, humid late monsoon falls down on me out of the plane. And immediately after, the smell, sticky and heady, with a taste of mold. On the airport car park, as the sun hits and already sweating begins to stick my clothes to my skin, I am struck against the crush of taxis that compete for customers. An hour bottling later, I discovered the district Travellers Delhi, Paharganj, with its muddy streets noisy agitation, its whiff of sewage and fried mixed with incense, its crippled beggars exhibiting their stumps, cows wandering among the cars and rickshaws, its competition and its horns drifting insane son on which electric crackle sparks.
visit the zoo
When taking advantage of a lull between showers warm, I go around town, I feel strange to find myself in a zoo. Or, more precisely, in the monkey cage delivered food to kids armed with peanuts jokers. It is I who have come to see the Indians, but they are the ones who look at me. They stare at length, sticking to me to know what's in my bag or watch how I take money to the dealer for a while they feel for me to check the consistency of my skin so clear. A little annoyed, I plant my eyes in theirs to show my disapproval, but that does not interfere in the least. Some m'adressent also speak, I much prefer. The conversation always starts the same questions about my country and my first name, but usually that is enough and they move away, or they sit there watching me, smiling.
Yes or No-Yes-No?
As I keep getting lost in this city, I ask my way at every junction. This is an opportunity to discover the famous nodding of the head that belongs only to Indians and that in turn means "yes" and "no" if not "cause always, you interest me." But this I do not understand until later. For now, between their gestures and their language undecodable, they seem to me just like aliens.
New Delhi, July 25
Scam, Indian
In Delhi, there are a category of people whose main activity is to rip off tourists in their descent of the aircraft. Though I am wary, the fifties, allegedly a father and brave railroader, who guesses that I'm lost and that shows me the way before dinner with me without asking me anything, ended up inspiring me confidence. Then the circus began. It brings the conversation so innocuous on the local clothing, meant that I ask myself where I can find and, miraculously, has just one store. He leads me and told me that I will be immensely satisfied if I travel in white pajamas Gandhi ... In addition, thanks to him I can get a discount monumental. Fortunately I do not leave me totally bamboozled, children across northern India probably laughing for generations of French tourist disguised as Gandhi. The next day I will learn all the same beast that brown shirt purchased in place of pajamas cost me ten times its usual price.
But in the meantime, my friend does not let her juicy fish and directs the conversation to Krishna, who is well known as a heavy smoker of hashish. I asked, with caution of course not to the shock given its great age, he knows where find. In fact, it is very progressive on the issue and, again, it's really too much luck, he has a friend two blocks away that proposes to sell me. We find it gets a little plastic bag, and history of not being caught by the constabulary, moved to close the transaction right now, right away, quick quick the police are everywhere. As I still want to see what I buy, he broke a small piece he quietly introduce myself, throwing quick glances right and left with the air of startled owl. It's actually a very good charas. I am about to give him the money, but unexpectedly seized by a burst of lucidity, I ask to take the whole bag in hand to verify its contents. He refuses, insist alarmed, I am going to the heart-cons and of course it's clay ... Exasperated, I give him his merchandise, which moreover it also almost cost me ten times the local course, as I will report later. I can not even shouting at him, since he passed his accomplice to the scam artist and pretends to preach to me.
Obviously, after such an introduction, it is more difficult to rely to strangers. If one day an Indian invited me home, I have to scroll? On the train, should we accept tea as other passengers suggested with a smile? And my backpack, I really do cling to my bunk with my huge metal chain under the astonished eyes of the gentle family sharing my compartment?
New Delhi, July 26
Exit Delhi manual
Originally, my idea was to escape the monsoon from west to the desert of Rajasthan, before back to Ladakh in the Himalayas. I'm going to the bus station buy me a ticket for Djululu, a small town lost that I can start my journey off the beaten path because I am a wise guy. But the task is more difficult than expected. The station is huge, it's pouring rain, dozens of buses are parked in every sense of the panels in Hindi and the tellers a jabber pidgin English vaguely permanently rendered incomprehensible by their accent. Whoever sits in the cabin 14 still sends me to 27 which tells me that my faith is very simple to turn away the 17, where it asks me to go see the first floor of the gentleman 62. It is still raining, but now he night. I arrive on the first floor, of course no one at 62. I ask the 63, who inquires with peers and eventually send me to 54. There, a pleasant surprise: I am very pleasantly received by the turnkey, offering me to join him even in his box to better explain my case. I ended up behind the gate with him and two of his friends. It gives me a strange smell tea, I drink not without a little apprehension, but hey I'm here to meet people. For cons, I refuse to extend it with its local whiskey. It begins with the ritual questions about my country of origin my name, my age, my marital situation, my job ... When he learns I am a journalist, his face lights up and he immediately m'entreprend foreign policy of India, the atomic bomb, relations with United States ... Now that I know I'll get my ticket, I'm relaxed and I take this moment a little confused still when, after much reflects his friends my views on the imperialist aims of Bush, he removes his dentures and gums mass length with his thumb yellowed by cigarettes. We chain the Pakistan, the system caste, sexual freedom in the West ... Seeing the time pass, I take my tea late to ask him my ticket. He dodges, I return to the office and he replies that he is finally on sale on the ground floor ... By cons, he would be delighted to invite me to dinner to continue this fascinating conversation. Mercy! I thank him, tears me from my stool, took his address and promised to remind my return to Delhi - no, not tonight because I'm gone, but thank you is very nice. And I come home empty-handed to my guesthouse.
Varanasi, August 4
Change My Plans
mishap finally good because the same evening, I change all my plans. On the roof of my guesthouse, I meet a French person posing as a vagabond filmmaker and musician, and a Belgian fully lit, which lead me to leave rather due east to the holy city of Benares, renamed Varanassi by the Indians for twenty years. The first has been there five times and shot, it seems, incredible images of sadhus for a film arthouse release at Cannes, while returning from a Belgian and a half months in an ashram the sigh of envy to French ... They tell me both of Varanassi as the Indian city par excellence, the one where I absolutely have to go on pain of missing out on my journey. So I ship the next night in a night train - after buying my ticket at the counter reserved for tourists, which is still good practice.
Welcome to the fourth dimension
Indeed, Varanassi is a mystical city. When the old Indian had a shot so well, unlike ours they are not rushing to the hospital to scratch a little rab, but come here to wait for death quietly, with a few hundred rupees in the hollow hand to pay for their stake. Their plan is to be incinerated on site and to scatter their ashes in the Ganges, to escape the painful cycle of reincarnation and go straight to Nirvana. Suddenly, the winding streets of the old city are continuously plowed by guys in orange, the color of Hinduism, which carry on the run and singing stretchers with bodies wrapped in gold fabric, which must be burned less than three hours after death. But how do you know if they are dead in a short period of time? When the doctor does not arrive in time, The mortician puts a mirror in front of their mouth, and if no condensation is formed, is that the case is settled. With such a system, although they had to make some move to the door by mistake ...
short, the ride takes them into bearers of the two main ghats (platforms) Homes located on the river bank. The one I visit has five stakes. The first four are devolved to the four main castes, the fifth is used to relight the others in case of failure. According to my informant, a pseudo guide so stoned that he must regularly remind him of what he speaks, the last outbreak burns continuously for 2500 years. All the surrounding houses, including a hospice run by the sisters of Mother Teresa, is covered with a thick layer of soot, which adds to the drama of the site. After a while, so I'm trying to get rid of the boy's breath encannabissée now drooling on my shoulder where he was almost asleep, I realize that once the cremation is complete, shirtless men give great blows of bamboo in the fire ended. Their job is to break the skulls, which the devils, too often refuse to burst with the heat thus preventing the soul of their owner to fly to Nirvana.
Pilgrims and sadhus
In addition to the dead, there is also Varanassi to do with the living. The entire city exudes faith, the rhythm of worship. Ghats on the Ganges, in the streets, in the ashrams and temples, processions of pilgrims in orange sing from morning till night the glory of Krishna, the god of the city. Even the slightest potter or seller of donuts flies the red dot of the third eye or white lines on the forehead. And of course there are the sadhus. They go around half naked, often with scant scare in dreadlocks, their gaze belies lost in limbo. At dawn, they mingle with the people to wash their stains by making their ablutions in the murky waters of the Ganges but sacred.
A French who lived in India for many years assures me that they retrieve the ashes at the stake to cover his body and they cook their sometimes downright chapati (crepe ) sizzling on the fat ... A smoldering corpses of those small pleasures of the palate, some yogis and Naga prefer those of asceticism sport. They spend their lives or even standing on one leg, constantly waving a clenched fist above their heads, suspended huge stones sex or I do not know what else as foolish thing, they have really good imagination. According to what I said, we can see more au gratin pilgrimage of Kumba Mella, where all sadhus meets every twelve years for a large ritual bath in the Ganges in the company of some thirty million people. It absolutely must go see this thing here.
Massage sticky
Obviously, here too the crooks are legion. It does not take me more than a few hours for me to land claimed by a Brahmin, a member therefore of the priestly caste, who offers me a massage. Reassured by the reputation of his white uniform and happy to relax from the fatigue of travel, I agree. A few minutes later, here I am lying in a hut infested with cockroaches. This is actually one of his friends, a big hairy dripping with grime, taking care of me. Fort evil elsewhere, as this disrupts the gross me back before I tear the skin with an oil-impregnated sand stinking, while his chief baratine me on the money that I'll have to pay. Idiot that I am, I cash a half-hour of this regime in order not to offend my hosts, while trying desperately to keep my visual field in the bag placed at the end of the mattress with all my papers and my money. When the ordeal is over, I'm still wise enough to reject the proposal of my Brahmin share it with a bang lassi, a sort of yoghurt drinks heavily loaded with THC.
New Delhi, July 23, 2006
First Contact The first impression I have of India is the sultry, humid late monsoon falls down on me out of the plane. And immediately after, the smell, sticky and heady, with a taste of mold. On the airport car park, as the sun hits and already sweating begins to stick my clothes to my skin, I am struck against the crush of taxis that compete for customers. An hour bottling later, I discovered the district Travellers Delhi, Paharganj, with its muddy streets noisy agitation, its whiff of sewage and fried mixed with incense, its crippled beggars exhibiting their stumps, cows wandering among the cars and rickshaws, its competition and its horns drifting insane son on which electric crackle sparks.
visit the zoo
When taking advantage of a lull between showers warm, I go around town, I feel strange to find myself in a zoo. Or, more precisely, in the monkey cage delivered food to kids armed with peanuts jokers. It is I who have come to see the Indians, but they are the ones who look at me. They stare at length, sticking to me to know what's in my bag or watch how I take money to the dealer for a while they feel for me to check the consistency of my skin so clear. A little annoyed, I plant my eyes in theirs to show my disapproval, but that does not interfere in the least. Some m'adressent also speak, I much prefer. The conversation always starts the same questions about my country and my first name, but usually that is enough and they move away, or they sit there watching me, smiling.
Yes or No-Yes-No?
As I keep getting lost in this city, I ask my way at every junction. This is an opportunity to discover the famous nodding of the head that belongs only to Indians and that in turn means "yes" and "no" if not "cause always, you interest me." But this I do not understand until later. For now, between their gestures and their language undecodable, they seem to me just like aliens.
New Delhi, July 25
Scam, Indian
In Delhi, there are a category of people whose main activity is to rip off tourists in their descent of the aircraft. Though I am wary, the fifties, allegedly a father and brave railroader, who guesses that I'm lost and that shows me the way before dinner with me without asking me anything, ended up inspiring me confidence. Then the circus began. It brings the conversation so innocuous on the local clothing, meant that I ask myself where I can find and, miraculously, has just one store. He leads me and told me that I will be immensely satisfied if I travel in white pajamas Gandhi ... In addition, thanks to him I can get a discount monumental. Fortunately I do not leave me totally bamboozled, children across northern India probably laughing for generations of French tourist disguised as Gandhi. The next day I will learn all the same beast that brown shirt purchased in place of pajamas cost me ten times its usual price.
But in the meantime, my friend does not let her juicy fish and directs the conversation to
Obviously, after such an introduction, it is more difficult to rely to strangers. If one day an Indian invited me home, I have to scroll? On the train, should we accept tea as other passengers suggested with a smile? And my backpack, I really do cling to my bunk with my huge metal chain under the astonished eyes of the gentle family sharing my compartment?
New Delhi, July 26
Exit Delhi manual
Originally, my idea was to escape the monsoon from west to the desert of Rajasthan, before back to Ladakh in the Himalayas. I'm going to the bus station buy me a ticket for Djululu, a small town lost that I can start my journey off the beaten path because I am a wise guy. But the task is more difficult than expected. The station is huge, it's pouring rain, dozens of buses are parked in every sense of the panels in Hindi and the tellers a jabber pidgin English vaguely permanently rendered incomprehensible by their accent. Whoever sits in the cabin 14 still sends me to 27 which tells me that my faith is very simple to turn away the 17, where it asks me to go see the first floor of the gentleman 62. It is still raining, but now he night. I arrive on the first floor, of course no one at 62. I ask the 63, who inquires with peers and eventually send me to 54. There, a pleasant surprise: I am very pleasantly received by the turnkey, offering me to join him even in his box to better explain my case. I ended up behind the gate with him and two of his friends. It gives me a strange smell tea, I drink not without a little apprehension, but hey I'm here to meet people. For cons, I refuse to extend it with its local whiskey. It begins with the ritual questions about my country of origin my name, my age, my marital situation, my job ... When he learns I am a journalist, his face lights up and he immediately m'entreprend foreign policy of India, the atomic bomb, relations with United States ... Now that I know I'll get my ticket, I'm relaxed and I take this moment a little confused still when, after much reflects his friends my views on the imperialist aims of Bush, he removes his dentures and gums mass length with his thumb yellowed by cigarettes. We chain the
Varanasi, August 4
Change My Plans
mishap finally good because the same evening, I change all my plans. On the roof of my guesthouse, I meet a French person posing as a vagabond filmmaker and musician, and a Belgian fully lit, which lead me to leave rather due east to the holy city of Benares, renamed Varanassi by the Indians for twenty years. The first has been there five times and shot, it seems, incredible images of sadhus for a film arthouse release at Cannes, while returning from a Belgian and a half months in an ashram the sigh of envy to French ... They tell me both of Varanassi as the Indian city par excellence, the one where I absolutely have to go on pain of missing out on my journey. So I ship the next night in a night train - after buying my ticket at the counter reserved for tourists, which is still good practice.
Welcome to the fourth dimension
Indeed, Varanassi is a mystical city. When the old Indian had a shot so well, unlike ours they are not rushing to the hospital to scratch a little rab, but come here to wait for death quietly, with a few hundred rupees in the hollow hand to pay for their stake. Their plan is to be incinerated on site and to scatter their ashes in the Ganges, to escape the painful cycle of reincarnation and go straight to Nirvana. Suddenly, the winding streets of the old city are continuously plowed by guys in orange, the color of Hinduism, which carry on the run and singing stretchers with bodies wrapped in gold fabric, which must be burned less than three hours after death. But how do you know if they are dead in a short period of time? When the doctor does not arrive in time, The mortician puts a mirror in front of their mouth, and if no condensation is formed, is that the case is settled. With such a system, although they had to make some move to the door by mistake ...
short, the ride takes them into bearers of the two main ghats (platforms) Homes located on the river bank. The one I visit has five stakes. The first four are devolved to the four main castes, the fifth is used to relight the others in case of failure. According to my informant, a pseudo guide so stoned that he must regularly remind him of what he speaks, the last outbreak burns continuously for 2500 years. All the surrounding houses, including a hospice run by the sisters of Mother Teresa, is covered with a thick layer of soot, which adds to the drama of the site. After a while, so I'm trying to get rid of the boy's breath encannabissée now drooling on my shoulder where he was almost asleep, I realize that once the cremation is complete, shirtless men give great blows of bamboo in the fire ended. Their job is to break the skulls, which the devils, too often refuse to burst with the heat thus preventing the soul of their owner to fly to Nirvana.
Pilgrims and sadhus
In addition to the dead, there is also Varanassi to do with the living. The entire city exudes faith, the rhythm of worship. Ghats on the Ganges, in the streets, in the ashrams and temples, processions of pilgrims in orange sing from morning till night the glory of Krishna, the god of the city. Even the slightest potter or seller of donuts flies the red dot of the third eye or white lines on the forehead. And of course there are the sadhus. They go around half naked, often with scant scare in dreadlocks, their gaze belies lost in limbo. At dawn, they mingle with the people to wash their stains by making their ablutions in the murky waters of the Ganges but sacred.
A French who lived in India for many years assures me that they retrieve the ashes at the stake to cover his body and they cook their sometimes downright chapati (crepe ) sizzling on the fat ... A smoldering corpses of those small pleasures of the palate, some yogis and Naga prefer those of asceticism sport. They spend their lives or even standing on one leg, constantly waving a clenched fist above their heads, suspended
Massage sticky
Obviously, here too the crooks are legion. It does not take me more than a few hours for me to land claimed by a Brahmin, a member therefore of the priestly caste, who offers me a massage. Reassured by the reputation of his white uniform and happy to relax from the fatigue of travel, I agree. A few minutes later, here I am lying in a hut infested with cockroaches. This is actually one of his friends, a big hairy dripping with grime, taking care of me.
Thursday, January 27, 2000
How Did Milena Velba Get So Big?
2 - Khadjuraho Rajasthan
Khadjuraho, August 5
Temples of Kamasutra
After a week in this city of lunatics, I am delighted to be back on their feet in the village of Khadjuraho famous for its temples with facades covered with erotic sculptures depicting the positions of the Kamasutra. In a country with a libido as restrained as India, it is quite pleasant to come across these spirited bas-reliefs depicting very explicit oral sex, orgies and even a few somersaults zoophiles. Many engraved figures for the education of young Brahmins of the X century, which visibly amused then and now.
Agra, August 8
palaces of Orchha the Taj Mahal
Leaving Khadjurao, I go through Orchha, a former Muslim capital provided with a half-dozen gorgeous palace, now a quiet village. I have two more days.
I win then Agra, where I discovered the famous Taj Mahal, a kind of Indian equivalent of the Eiffel Tower and more romantic. It is a mausoleum dedicated to his deceased wife by a sultan, a marvel of balance while finely carved white marble, the graceful dome flanked by four minarets, all placed in front of a long piece of water to 'in reflect the image. Its architect was even thought of elevating the building on a land-plain that he was silhouetted against the sky rather than on the campaign. Agra but has little interest elsewhere and touts for hotels and restaurants in town are really mad. After admiring the Taj Mahal, I'm leaving too dry for the palaces of Rajasthan and its maharajahs.
Jaipur, August 10
Palace and congestion
door Rajasthan, all guides will tell you, is Jaipur. I'm going to Jaipur. I visit the stunning palace of luxury, the collection of silver scimitars, the harem to the Arab fashion, the store drapes and panoramic restaurant that turns up on itself at the top of a tower.
But I am quickly annoyed by the types riders who take turns to try m'embobiner with their stories of smuggling precious stones. And faster still, I can not stand the jostling on the pavements and traffic jams in the polluted streets. By the end of the tour regulatory, I put the sails. Or rather, I fight a whole afternoon in the middle of the spray on the man who crashed the station ticket offices freeway before finally dig up a ticket to Pushkar, a small village sacred to the peaceful reputation.
Pushkar, August 17
Sacred Lake
I had not lied, the place is worth a visit. It's a cute traditional village built around a small lake surrounded by the magnificent Ghats chiseled white buildings, all overhung by mountains. It is the only temple in India dedicated to Rama, the god of creation. Suddenly, the place is inhabited by Brahmins, who are dedicated to his worship. These characters at the top of the hierarchy Indian to me are not very friendly. The haughty, they spend their days walking the ghats to sell puja, a sort of prayer, before leaving the pilgrims perform their ablutions. When entering the water, they hit the surface in their hands to scare away fish. As the lake is sacred and that fishing is prohibited, it teems with monstrous carp mutant sometimes measuring over a meter long, equipped some with long hairy fin, which gives hives and send electric shocks the unfortunate swimmers that affect ...
Anyway, pictures of landscape, it's going for a while. On the banks of the lake, it also crosses the big bulls and pretty lazy gypsy, which resemble those of a lot here, but in just over bejeweled ...
Curée night
As everywhere in India, Pushkar is located cows lying in the haggard munching a tuft of grass or a piece of newsprint, air wonder what they might think. But here they are accompanied by monkeys who watch the plates of tourists for their biting their pancakes, friendly donkeys resting in the shade, wild pigs which snoops in the mud, full of dogs copulate and fight alternating and a few cats that do not reduce, given the number of dogs. One evening, this bestiary gives me an amazing spectacle. Around midnight in the sleepy village, I saw two men grabbed the large bin of the main square on the floor ... and empty all its contents! In a few seconds while tumbling the dark mass of the whole menagerie teeming village who rushed to the detritus giving that a shot horns, a bite to better secure its place in the quarry at night.
meetings
A Good Pushkar, I also fell on a gently eccentric population. First, there is the Swiss with whom I am board, a hippie who converted to Hinduism lived here for twenty-five years, but never managed to be ever be accepted by the local Brahmins who openly despise. Her testimony is all the more interested she is the first person to give me a perspective of the Western side of the picture. Big fan of opium, it also gives some tips to happy customers. I met with her a very nice French who became his guru by renaming the name of Hanuman, the Hindu god bodybuilder headed monkey. There is also this very lean English studying traditional percussion for six years in a village near Agra. It is a cultivated and charming character, but then entered a spin when it comes religion. Adept Ari Krishna, he is convinced that his favorite god, Krishna therefore, is sitting on a serpent floating on the water surface, and that her every breath, he spits out thousands of Sneeze each containing a universe comparable to ours. And this is not an image, but a stark conclusion. To stay on good terms with him, I force myself to keep my gravity. Finally, I'm taking nagara, traditional drums from Rajasthan. I always wanted to bang on a drum and, although I'm absolutely not good, I laugh to play well every night with my small group of students to the lake, under the compassionate eye of a statue Krishna.
But the most curious person I meet in Pushkar is a Sufi Muslim equivalent of the sadhu, with whom I spend an afternoon talking about religion. He saw God and ganja, "he tells me cheerfully putting all my shit in four successive Chillum, where I had plenty to make a dozen joints. Then, of course, I am totally devastated and I have great difficulty understanding his explanations on the omnipresence of God, the sacred lake that lies before us, the marital infidelities of Rama and Krishna why would cut head of his son Ganesh before replacing it with that of an elephant. So after a while I stopped her flow of words by putting the headphones in the ears of my walkman Consumed with the sublime album super dark and minimal Plastikman. He is amazed to discover such a thing, but he loves and suddenly I have a good hour before me to regain my senses. Then we have dinner together before finishing the evening with a game of cards. In the photo, he discovered Kraftwerk.
Finally, there's this sadhu cul-de-bowl a bit eccentric, with whom I do not speak but who seems nice.
Jaiselmer, August 20
The early troubles
After one week I am going to Jaiselmer, a majestic fortified city walls in the desert to ocher the extreme west of Rajasthan. Unfortunately, again touts for hotels, shopkeepers and taxi drivers are so tourists are stupid that I finally get tired and move on.
But before climbing into my bus to the Himalayas, I have time to rent a bike and roam the desert for two days, a good idea which I will return later. It was then that I watch a dance performance, where musicians collide two pieces of wood, after the fashion of the Spaniards with their castanets. Below, the dancers they were accompanying.
Finally, Jaiselmer is also the city where I feel the first effects of diarrhea that accompany me faithfully until the end of my trip, getting weaker day by day and I progressively disgusting Indian food, Yet I found excellent so far.
Bikaner, Aug. 21
sacred
Rats After an overnight trip, during which I crossed Jodpur ...
... I stop in the town of Bikaner and take a little commuter bus to visit a temple dedicated to rats. It's everywhere. They converse in corners, climbing on the Trident of Siva, take a nap next to bowls of milk or trot between the feet of visitors. All bathed in a surreal atmosphere of devotion that the stench can not disturb.
Leaving the temple, a new mystery awaits in India: a true five-legged cow. It's true, I swear, there are five. The extra leg, all rickety, out of his left shoulder blade and goes around his neck, the shoe dangling limply in the air. The phenomenon is decorated with red ribbon and an elegant presentation in a sleigh pulled by flashy decor another cow. I'm so sawed that I forget to photograph.
A little later, I came across a meeting joyously colored. I do not know not what these ladies are here, probably a religious occasion, but here is the photo taken on that occasion.
Khadjuraho, August 5
Temples of Kamasutra
After a week in this city of lunatics, I am delighted to be back on their feet in the village of Khadjuraho famous for its temples with facades covered with erotic sculptures depicting the positions of the Kamasutra. In a country with a libido as restrained as India, it is quite pleasant to come across these spirited bas-reliefs depicting very explicit oral sex, orgies and even a few somersaults zoophiles. Many engraved figures for the education of young Brahmins of the X century, which visibly amused then and now.
Agra, August 8
palaces of Orchha the Taj Mahal
Leaving Khadjurao, I go through Orchha, a former Muslim capital provided with a half-dozen gorgeous palace, now a quiet village. I have two more days.
I win then Agra, where I discovered the famous Taj Mahal, a kind of Indian equivalent of the Eiffel Tower and more romantic. It is a mausoleum dedicated to his deceased wife by a sultan, a marvel of balance while finely carved white marble, the graceful dome flanked by four minarets, all placed in front of a long piece of water to 'in reflect the image. Its architect was even thought of elevating the building on a land-plain that he was silhouetted against the sky rather than on the campaign. Agra but has little interest elsewhere and touts for hotels and restaurants in town are really mad. After admiring the Taj Mahal, I'm leaving too dry for the palaces of Rajasthan and its maharajahs.
Jaipur, August 10
Palace and congestion
But I am quickly annoyed by the types riders who take turns to try m'embobiner with their stories of smuggling precious stones. And faster still, I can not stand the jostling on the pavements and traffic jams in the polluted streets. By the end of the tour regulatory, I put the sails. Or rather, I fight a whole afternoon in the middle of the spray on the man who crashed the station ticket offices freeway before finally dig up a ticket to Pushkar, a small village sacred to the peaceful reputation.
Pushkar, August 17
Sacred Lake
I had not lied, the place is worth a visit. It's a cute traditional village built around a small lake surrounded by the magnificent Ghats chiseled white buildings, all overhung by mountains. It is the only temple in India dedicated to Rama, the god of creation. Suddenly, the place is inhabited by Brahmins, who are dedicated to his worship. These characters at the top of the hierarchy Indian to me are not very friendly. The haughty, they spend their days walking the ghats to sell puja, a sort of prayer, before leaving the pilgrims perform their ablutions. When entering the water, they hit the surface in their hands to scare away fish. As the lake is sacred and that fishing is prohibited, it teems with monstrous carp mutant sometimes measuring over a meter long, equipped some with long hairy fin, which gives hives and send electric shocks the unfortunate swimmers that affect ...
Anyway, pictures of landscape, it's going for a while. On the banks of the lake, it also crosses the big bulls and pretty lazy gypsy, which resemble those of a lot here, but in just over bejeweled ...
Curée night
As everywhere in India, Pushkar is located cows lying in the haggard munching a tuft of grass or a piece of newsprint, air wonder what they might think. But here they are accompanied by monkeys who watch the plates of tourists for their biting their pancakes, friendly donkeys resting in the shade, wild pigs which snoops in the mud, full of dogs copulate and fight alternating and a few cats that do not reduce, given the number of dogs. One evening, this bestiary gives me an amazing spectacle. Around midnight in the sleepy village, I saw two men grabbed the large bin of the main square on the floor ... and empty all its contents! In a few seconds while tumbling the dark mass of the whole menagerie teeming village who rushed to the detritus giving that a shot horns, a bite to better secure its place in the quarry at night.
meetings
A Good Pushkar, I also fell on a gently eccentric population. First, there is the Swiss with whom I am board, a hippie who converted to Hinduism lived here for twenty-five years, but never managed to be ever be accepted by the local Brahmins who openly despise. Her testimony is all the more interested she is the first person to give me a perspective of the Western side of the picture. Big fan of opium, it also gives some tips to happy customers. I met with her a very nice French who became his guru by renaming the name of Hanuman, the Hindu god bodybuilder headed monkey. There is also this very lean English studying traditional percussion for six years in a village near Agra. It is a cultivated and charming character, but then entered a spin when it comes religion. Adept Ari
But the most curious person I meet in Pushkar is a Sufi Muslim equivalent of the sadhu, with whom I spend an afternoon talking about religion. He saw God and ganja, "he tells me cheerfully putting all my shit in four successive Chillum, where I had plenty to make a dozen joints. Then, of course, I am totally devastated and I have great difficulty understanding his explanations on the omnipresence of God, the sacred lake that lies before us, the marital infidelities of Rama and Krishna why would cut head of his son Ganesh before replacing it with that of an elephant. So after a while I stopped her flow of words by putting the headphones in the ears of my walkman Consumed with the sublime album super dark and minimal Plastikman. He is amazed to discover such a thing, but he loves and suddenly I have a good hour before me to regain my senses. Then we have dinner together before finishing the evening with a game of cards. In the photo, he discovered Kraftwerk.
Finally, there's this sadhu cul-de-bowl a bit eccentric, with whom I do not speak but who seems nice.
Jaiselmer, August 20
The early troubles
After one week I am going to Jaiselmer, a majestic fortified city walls in the desert to ocher the extreme west of Rajasthan. Unfortunately, again touts for hotels, shopkeepers and taxi drivers are so tourists are stupid that I finally get tired and move on.
But before climbing into my bus to the Himalayas, I have time to rent a bike and roam the desert for two days, a good idea which I will return later. It was then that I watch a dance performance, where musicians collide two pieces of wood, after the fashion of the Spaniards with their castanets. Below, the dancers they were accompanying.
Finally, Jaiselmer is also the city where I feel the first effects of diarrhea that accompany me faithfully until the end of my trip, getting weaker day by day and I progressively disgusting Indian food, Yet I found excellent so far.
Bikaner, Aug. 21
sacred
Rats After an overnight trip, during which I crossed Jodpur ...
... I stop in the town of Bikaner and take a little commuter bus to visit a temple dedicated to rats. It's everywhere. They converse in corners, climbing on the Trident of Siva, take a nap next to bowls of milk or trot between the feet of visitors. All bathed in a surreal atmosphere of devotion that the stench can not disturb.
Leaving the temple, a new mystery awaits in India: a true five-legged cow. It's true, I swear, there are five. The extra leg, all rickety, out of his left shoulder blade and goes around his neck, the shoe dangling limply in the air. The phenomenon is decorated with red ribbon and an elegant presentation in a sleigh pulled by flashy decor another cow. I'm so sawed that I forget to photograph.
A little later, I came across a meeting joyously colored. I do not know
Wednesday, January 26, 2000
Convert Swf Files To Jar
3 - The Indian Himalayas
Chandigarh, August 22
LeCorbusier India
the evening I took the train to Chandigarh, a new city Punjab built in the fifties by Le Corbusier. Its inhabitants are extremely proud to remain in this zone clean and orderly, which contrasts so incongruous with the unfathomable chaos engulfing the rest of the country. But for Europeans, this city to the tunes of a wealthy suburb with little retro pavilions in gardens and large public buildings in concrete did not much interest. I have two hours, the opportunity to take a shower in a kind of Soviet youth hostel, and go directly to the Parvati valley in the foothills of the Himalayas, at eight o'clock bus.
Manikaran, 24 August
A familiar scent
A few kilometers from the finish, a familiar scent makes me look up from my book. I look out the window and there I can not believe my eyes, bushes grass grow out of sight on the roadside. Not a bush from time to time, no good drunk on for miles and miles ... Two hours later, here I am in the village of Manikaran, a holy place for both Hindus and Sikhs. I take a room overlooking a raging river and a nice Sikh temple built on a hot spring turned into public baths. As Lonely Planet says that access is allowed to foreigners, I bathe me down, even a little intimidated when surrounded by all these big bearded men in turbans who stare with curiosity at the little blonde paddling in his red bathing suit.
Malana, August 27
Among the descendants of Alexander the Great
The next day I embarked on a grueling climb to reach Malana, a village perched atop a mountain, whose inhabitants claim to be descendants of Alexander the Great. They are a thousand, speak a language of their own and feel so pure that nobody the right to touch them, neither they nor their homes, or face a fine of one thousand rupees! When one crosses the village, it is recommended that a small stone path to be sure not to violate the rule.
This exacerbation of the rule by caste has a surprising impact on children of the village, which I do not chase as in other Indian villages, and for some, seem even looking at me with a disgusted mine ... But if physical contact is outlawed, people are cons very urgent for me to sell their famous cream of Malana, famous throughout India to be the best charas in the country. I stay two nights in a small guesthouse overlooking the village wonder, should not long keep its uniqueness to believe the repeated explosions of dynamite workers who build a road in his direction.
I'm leaving with two other passengers and a guide towards the valley of Kulu. The road passes through a collar at all there is to rush about twenty kilometers on trails sometimes very steep. We go from mountain landscape with trees and purple with large trays of heather, where large stones pierce through the fog. It very nice, by the ball against opium ingested the day seems not to happen, because I'm sick as a dog in the early climbs. I have no breath, no legs, fever, nausea constantly. I vomit, stop every half hour to recover, holding on to catch the other three, on the contrary, cavort like rabbits, it is the horror.
Vashisht, August 28
Spot hippie
After a long day of struggle, I manage to Vashisht, twin village of Manali, mythical spot of hippies in the '70s. But I only stayed the night-time dip in ancient bathhouses, a meal overlooking the mountains and a few moments of tenderness with a rabbit angora giant.
Because I'm anxious to reach Ladakh, the Indian part of Tibet, or I will stay for a while. About two o'clock in the morning, so I take a jeep. During the twenty-four hours of travel in the middle of massive Himalayan my condition gets worse, I have a raging fever accompanied by terrible bouts of diarrhea. But as I do believe that everyone is Driver Ladakhi Farting unabated, no one dares protest. I know is despicable.
Leh, September 13
Finally Ladakh!
When we finally arrive in Leh, the capital of Ladakh, I discovered a small traditional town built on a rocky plateau at 3500 meters. It is surrounded by monasteries to mountain slopes and surrounded by towering in the distance snow-capped peaks rising to 7000 m.
The atmosphere is so different from the rest of India that I feel have changed country, if not continent. The Ladakhi, who are Buddhists, are more quiet and more attentive, their clothes and architecture are much less exuberant. Below, some stupas, a kind of crosses.
The streets are clean and the only animals in the wild are donkeys and yaks. I even find a good bakery run by an old Sikh always smiling.
I arrive in full folk festival and the opportunity to attend a parade in traditional costume Ladakhi red and black with their small pointy boots embroidered, preceded by lamas wearing the same strange golden cocked hats they wear in Tintin.
The first night I met Juan and Hugo, two French perched just run the world on their motorbikes to assemble Ouroboros, huge snakes that bite the tail, before taking a picture satellite. They make me laugh to tell many anecdotes of travel, chanting each story of a chillum preceded by a solemn boom! .
The yellow eyes
Unfortunately, I can not enjoy my stay because I will becoming worse. I consult a doctor, who prescribed me antibiotics and aspirin to fight against what he believed to be a big burst, but the treatment has no effect. My strength continues to leave me, the fever is still strong and I have stomach pain that I twisted in two. I spend the next week at the bottom of my bed, barely able to stand up for the toilet. Soon I can no longer swallow anything, even if only to accompany my medication. When I look in the mirror, I have bad Mine, of course, but especially my eyes are all yellow, it's really disgusting. I am also becoming leaner, I lose everything in a dozen pounds. Fortunately, Juan and Hugo come and tell me jokes every day since the situation does not evolve, they eventually take me to the hospital. The doctor put me on bed rest and infusion of glucose and salt water before me that I caught hepatitis A smoldering probably from Pushkar. The worst is over, but I must keep two days in hospital. No treatment is required outside of energy supplements, but I'll have for two months before being tiredness really recovered.
When I left the hospital, I try walking in the street. It's pathetic, I walk at the speed of a very old lady and I am obliged to stop every ten feet to catch my breath. Before crossing, I must be very careful because I am quite unable to escape a car too fast.
A motorcycle in the Ladakh Himalayas
is primarily known for its beautiful scenery, conducive to long walks. In my state, there is no question. But after a few days I recovered sufficiently forces to rent a bike and go for walks. After I tested with shipments to the monasteries of Leh a few hours.
My hosts an evening.
I then passes Kardung La, the highest pass bodywork in the world with 5600 meters of altitude. At the top, I'm on the verge of turning of the eye due to the cold and lack of oxygen, but a hot tea and some sweets served in a hut was very timely call me straight.
On the other side, workers are working to rehabilitate the road, the gel continues to explode. I avoid the deepest crevices and rolls all day lunar landscapes amid monumental.
the evening, after passing a herd of wild camels arrive in the Nubra valley miraculously covered with fields of flowers and gardens.
I borrowed the only way to get there, the borders with neighboring China and Pakistan being cut because of border disputes, so the place is incredibly isolated and living in slow motion, almost self-sufficient thanks to its delicious vegetables. I only have a few more days and I'm procrastinating up in this little garden of Eden of the world's end. I walk, take the time to talk with people, give a hand to the kitchen.
Paris, September 16
Check
Finally , I need it off well under penalty of planting my return ticket. So I go back to Leh to my bike, flying to New Delhi avoiding bourgeois forty hours by bus, then, in the wake, take my plane to Paris. Glad to see my friends, but deep inside me a fixed idea again.
Chandigarh, August 22
LeCorbusier India
the evening I took the train to Chandigarh, a new city Punjab built in the fifties by Le Corbusier. Its inhabitants are extremely proud to remain in this zone clean and orderly, which contrasts so incongruous with the unfathomable chaos engulfing the rest of the country. But for Europeans, this city to the tunes of a wealthy suburb with little retro pavilions in gardens and large public buildings in concrete did not much interest. I have two hours, the opportunity to take a shower in a kind of Soviet youth hostel, and go directly to the Parvati valley in the foothills of the Himalayas, at eight o'clock bus.
Manikaran, 24 August
A familiar scent
A few kilometers from the finish, a familiar scent makes me look up from my book. I look out the window and there I can not believe my eyes, bushes grass grow out of sight on the roadside. Not a bush from time to time, no good drunk on for miles and miles ... Two hours later, here I am in the village of Manikaran, a holy place for both Hindus and Sikhs. I take a room overlooking a raging river and a nice
Malana, August 27
Among the descendants of Alexander the Great
The next day I embarked on a grueling climb to reach Malana, a village perched atop a mountain, whose inhabitants claim to be descendants of Alexander the Great. They are a thousand, speak a language of their own and feel so pure that nobody the right to touch them, neither they nor their homes, or face a fine of one thousand rupees! When one crosses the village, it is recommended that a small stone path to be sure not to violate the rule.
This exacerbation of the rule by caste has a surprising impact on children of the village, which I do not chase as in other Indian villages, and for some, seem even looking at me with a disgusted mine ... But if physical contact is outlawed, people are cons very urgent for me to sell their famous cream of Malana, famous throughout India to be the best charas in the country. I stay two nights in a small guesthouse overlooking the village wonder, should not long keep its uniqueness to believe the repeated explosions of dynamite workers who build a road in his direction.
I'm leaving with two other passengers and a guide towards the valley of Kulu. The road passes through a collar at all there is to rush about twenty kilometers on trails sometimes very steep. We go from mountain landscape with trees and purple with large trays of heather, where large stones
Vashisht, August 28
Spot hippie
After a long day of struggle, I manage to Vashisht, twin village of Manali, mythical spot of hippies in the '70s. But I only stayed the night-time dip in ancient bathhouses, a meal overlooking the mountains and a few moments of tenderness with a rabbit angora giant.
Because I'm anxious to reach Ladakh, the Indian part of Tibet, or I will stay for a while. About two o'clock in the morning, so I take a jeep. During the twenty-four hours of travel in the middle of massive Himalayan my condition gets worse, I have a raging fever accompanied by terrible bouts of diarrhea. But as I do believe that everyone is Driver Ladakhi Farting unabated, no one dares protest. I know
Leh, September 13
Finally Ladakh!
When we finally arrive in Leh, the capital of Ladakh, I discovered a small traditional town built on a rocky plateau at 3500 meters. It is surrounded by monasteries to mountain slopes and surrounded by towering in the distance snow-capped peaks rising to 7000 m.
The atmosphere is so different from the rest of India that I feel have changed country, if not continent. The Ladakhi, who are Buddhists, are more quiet and more attentive, their clothes and architecture are much less exuberant. Below, some stupas, a kind of crosses.
The streets are clean and the only animals in the wild are donkeys and yaks. I even find a good bakery run by an old Sikh always smiling.
I arrive in full folk festival and the opportunity to attend a parade in traditional costume Ladakhi red and black with their small pointy boots embroidered, preceded by lamas wearing the same strange golden cocked hats they wear in Tintin.
The first night I met Juan and Hugo, two French perched just run the world on their motorbikes to assemble Ouroboros, huge snakes that bite the tail, before taking a picture satellite. They make me laugh to tell many anecdotes of travel, chanting each story of a chillum preceded by a solemn boom! .
The yellow eyes
Unfortunately, I can not enjoy my stay because I will becoming worse. I consult a doctor, who prescribed me antibiotics and aspirin to fight against what he believed to be a big burst, but the treatment has no effect. My strength continues to leave me, the fever is still strong and I have stomach pain that I twisted in two. I spend the next week at the bottom of my bed, barely able to stand up for the toilet. Soon I can no longer swallow anything, even if only to accompany my medication. When I look in the mirror, I have bad Mine, of course, but especially my eyes are all yellow, it's really disgusting. I am also becoming leaner, I lose everything in a dozen pounds. Fortunately, Juan and Hugo come and tell me jokes every day since the situation does not evolve, they eventually take me to the hospital. The doctor put me on bed rest and infusion of glucose and salt water before me that I caught hepatitis A smoldering probably from Pushkar. The worst is over, but I must keep two days in hospital. No treatment is required outside of energy supplements, but I'll have for two months before being tiredness really recovered.
When I left the hospital, I try walking in the street. It's pathetic, I walk
A motorcycle in the Ladakh Himalayas
is primarily known for its beautiful scenery, conducive to long walks. In my state, there is no question. But after a few days I recovered sufficiently forces to rent a bike and go for walks. After I tested with shipments to the monasteries of Leh a few hours.
My hosts an evening.
I then passes Kardung La, the highest pass bodywork in the world with 5600 meters of altitude. At the top, I'm on the verge of turning of the eye due to the cold and lack of oxygen, but a hot tea and some sweets served in a hut was very timely call me straight.
On the other side, workers are working to rehabilitate the road, the gel continues to explode. I avoid the deepest crevices and rolls all day lunar landscapes amid monumental.
the evening, after passing a herd of wild camels arrive in the Nubra valley miraculously covered with fields of flowers and gardens.
I borrowed the only way to get there, the borders with neighboring China and Pakistan being cut because of border disputes, so the place is incredibly isolated and living in slow motion, almost self-sufficient thanks to its delicious vegetables. I only have a few more days and I'm procrastinating up in this little garden of Eden of the world's end. I walk, take the time to talk with people, give a hand to the kitchen.
Paris, September 16
Finally
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