This is my last quick entry before heading off for the trek. Lauren and I arrived in Pokhara day before yesterday and have been frantically stocking up on trekking gear (headlamps, fleece, iodine tablets, socks, rental boots, sunglasses). I got sick last night after eating a tomato, onion and yak cheese salad and still don't feel so hot. Given Lauren's and my tempermental health, we opted to skip the longest and most difficult trek in the area (Annapurna Circuit, which encircles the entire Annapurna mountain range) and are instead connecting together some shorter treks to suit us. We'll carrying our own packs (most people hire porters and/or guides) and we'll reach altitude of over 4000 meters so it won't be easy!

Yesterday we sat in a small local restaurant eating momos (Nepal's answer to potstickers or gyoza) and watched the biggest hail storm in 30 years. For nearly an hour, marble-sized hail and rain drove down in torrents. The temperature dropped to near freezing, the streets flooded and the locals went nuts. When it stopped, the streets, sidewalks and gutters were laden with huge piles of accumulated hail, which people collected in buckets for hail-ball fights. Lauren and I immediately went and bought matching rain ponchos for the trek, though in a storm like that one they wouldn't do much good.

There's no internet on the trail so you'll hear from me when we return to Pokhara (around May 7?). I've also been having trouble accessing my email since I left Kathmandu, so I apologize if I owe you a reply.

Wish us luck. I'll miss you, my blog faithfuls!

"Watch out for the bricks," a local Nepali man warned Lauren, Chris, Mary, Mike, Val, Matt and I before we taxied to the nearby town of Bhaktapur for the closing day of Bisket Jatra, a 9-day New Year festival that Chris had been talking about for weeks.

On a restaurant rooftop safely above the madness below us in Taumadhi Square, we gather to witness the festival's climactic event, the chariot pull and tug of war. As the sun sets, hundreds of men and boys hoist a huge, beautifully painted wooden chariot with 6' wooden wheels up a hill until it reaches the edge of the square. Then, the tug of war begins between the residents of lower and upper Bhaktapur.

These proceedings do not always go smoothly. The chariot wobbles and bends dangerously as the two sides tug in what appears to be a completely uncoordinated effort with no regard to laws of physics. Thunderous cheering escalates and tension mounts as the two sides pull feverishly. The sky grows dark as an electrical storm brews around us. With a final heave, the chariot enters the main square and the upper side of town is deemed victorious.

Suddenly the ropes are dropped and thousands of people scatter in every direction to avoid being hit as the first bricks are thrown. Most whack the chariot. Some hit people. Directly beneath us we see men twisting bricks out of the street, gathering ammo to huck violently at their opponents. Teeth are knocked out! Fights break out! Blood spills!

Dozens of police in full riot gear emerge from hiding on the temple steps and throw tear gas at the chariot. They cause a stampede. Within a minute the entire square is empty. It's dark now and we can barely make out what's going on down there but it appears that the riots have stopped as quickly as they started. The storm is gathering and we watch lightning dance silently from cloudtop to cloudtop. Thunder clashes and it begins to hail. Hard. Any mischief makers left outside run for cover. The chariot sits hail-pelted in the quiet square until the storm stops. A couple hundred people representing victorious Upper Bhaktapur emerge to claim their prize and slowly pull the chariot to rest in their side of town. It was biblical I say! Truly biblical!

I love Kathmandu. This town is a shopper's paradise and I've spent way too much money on way too many extremely cool things. I've eaten entirely too much good food I haven't seen in months (mole chicken enchiladas and margaritas!?). Best of all, I've been spending my time with some of my favorite people. My favorite Brit and Goa partier Mary is here along with her brother Mike. Mary's good friend from France, Val, was here until yesterday. Matt, another member of my Goa contingent is also here, and of course, Chris. Lauren has been sick all week and mostly getting bedrest, but tomorrow we leave for the town of Pokhara at the base of the Annapurna mountain range where we will begin our trek.

About time for some new photos. There are new ones up of Rajasthan (deserts, forts, camels) and Uttar Pradesh (home of the Taj Mahal and the holy city of Varanasi). Go on then, have a look.

Sorry I've been a blog slacker. Here's a recap of my last week.

I spent 8 days in a town called Fatehpur Sikri (where most travelers spend about 2 hours) with Pappu, a local tour guide who helped me explore a bit off the beaten path and became a good friend. I liked Fathepur Sikri with its gorgeous mosque, ruined city and Moghul palace, but mostly enjoyed hanging around with Pappu and his family and friends. Abandoning the tourist trail in favor of some cultural immersion felt like the right thing for me at the time, though I found myself getting restless and missing the companionship of other travelers (specifically, people who can understand more than half of what I say).

Off to Varanasi where I met my friend Lauren, a lovely Kiwi I met in Japan 6 months ago. We explored and got lost in the musty maze of alleys in the Old City but spent most of our time taking in the sights of the city's holy ghats. The city is set on the Ganges River, which is lined with dozens of these ghats (steps leading down to the river) most of which are for bathing. At sunrise and sunset, the ghats are aswarm with people who come to bathe in the river's holy waters, pray, get blessed, get massaged, meditate, read, practice yoga, sell flowers, get a shave, play cricket. In the dawn light illuminating the ghats and the Old City behind it, the atmosphere is palpable.

Varanasi is an auspicious place to die since it is believed that to do so releases one from the karmic cycle of birth and rebirth. (I figured this would mean the streets would be crawling with low-caste people knocking on death's door, but I was surprised to find this not the case.) It is also where many people in India send their dead to be cremated on the city's burning ghats. Just upstream from where hordes of people swim, wash their hair and brush their teeth sits one of these ghats.

Lauren and I spent an hour watching bodies burning at sunset. Towering piles of wood provide fuel for the nearly 100 bodies per day that will be cremated here. Family members (men only) sit on the steps, praying, mourning, but never crying as tears are believed to hinder the release of the deceased's soul. The body is removed from its ceremonial stretcher while still wrapped tightly in a white sheet. Outcaste workers place the body atop a fire where it is consumed by flames over the course of about three hours. The purifed remains are then collected and scattered in the holy river. Pregnant women and babies (because they are considered to already be pure) as well as victims of cobra bites (because of the chance they may only be comatose) are not burned, but rather weighted down with stones tied to ropes and tossed into the river (not sure what a comatose cobra-bite victim would do to save himself in this case). Sometimes the ropes break and bodies surface, but thankfully I did not see any of these.

Watching the burnings, I was surprised to find myself completely unfazed, even when one body's foot fell off and a worker snatched it up and placed it back on the fire somewhere near the poor guy's head. Watching this process was curiously satisfying to me as it confirmed what I've always believed; that the body is merely a shell for our soul. To venerate death by purifying the body and releasing the soul, well, it just makes sense to me. It felt good to leave India after three months with a bit more understanding of this fascinating and often perplexing culture. I'll be back to learn more in the summer, but now, Nepal!

Lauren and I arrived last night in Kathmandu after a long, hot and extremely uncomfortable three-leg journey from Varanasi (overnight train, bus to Nepali border, incredibly uncomfortable 12-hour bus ride on shitty roads to Kathmandu). Within an hour of arriving, Chris came knocking at my door. So good to see him again after three weeks on our own.

First impressions of Nepal: more relaxed than India. Not as dirty. Communication with locals seems easier, even though their English doesn't seem to be as good as in India. Crappy roads underfunded by the corrupt government. Thamel, the tourist hotbed in Kathmandu is a traveler's wet dream. Bars! Clubs! Incredible restaurants! (sushi anyone?) Fantastic shopping! (everything I saw in India but for cheaper) A real grocery store! (with wine!) Fast internet! Cheap North Face knock-offs! And best of all, a gaggle of other travelers. None of this will expand my cultural horizons, but dammit, I'm ready to have some fun. We'll leave for our trek in a few days.

Today I am having random thoughts and am short on time so forgive the disjointedness. Days like this I look around me and realize what's going on here. This place is so different from anywhere I've ever been and dare I say, I am getting used to it. Before I become too jaded, allow me to jot some of this down.

- Personal space and privacy do not exist in this country. A woman fell asleep on my shoulder on the train today. No one waits in lines; those who shove the hardest and thrust their money-clenching fists the fastest get service the quickest. I rode in a Mahindra (India's answer to Jeep) to Agra from the nearby town of Fatephur Sikri; 22 people somehow squoze themselves into this vehicle designed for 10. Wrestling with infants, shopping bags and each other, people elbow, squash and jostle for space. No one complains.

- Babies rarely cry. While children are coveted and adored, they are completely unspoiled and accustomed to a life of noise, chaos and sensory overload. Diapers and strollers are luxuries reserved for very few. Bare-bottomed babies cling quietly to their mothers bosoms, peeing and pooing at will.

- Most places smell like shit. All the time. The good news is, most of India is vegetarian and unlike the foul stench of the shit in a country where the diet is flesh-filled like, say, Brazil, the shit here is not quite as offensive as one might expect. But I did see two small children eating grapes floating down the sewer two days ago and it made my stomach turn.

- Saris are perhaps the most graceful and beautiful attire I've ever seen on women, but men with their tight-fitting high-waisted belted pants with collared shirts tucked in remove the possibility of India ever becoming a world fashion center. I've taken to wearing another variety of local dress, salwar kameez (a long blouse over loose-fitting pants with a scarf, or dupatta) and am amazed at how people treat me. More respect. Less hassle. More smiles.

- Current grope count: five. I've learned how to say "mother fucker" in Hindi and have employed this useful verbiage twice. I accompanied it both times with a nicely-timed whack to the head.

- Hinduism must be the tackiest religion on earth. I admire how devout Hindus are, but gee, their presentation could use some work. This morning I went to a temple marking the birthplace of one of the most important Hindu gods, Krishna. Vendors aggressively peddle clocks, postcards, coasters, dishes, keychains and other schlock with ugly portraits of the god-of-your-choice. Large, gaudily painted, foil and flower covered likenesses of dieties sit in recessed alcoves with collection boxes placed prominently in front. Murals depicting important religious scenes painted in typical Rajasthani style (rediculous head-to-nose-to-body ratio, almost always in profile) cover the ceilings. Lifesize plastic statues of the men who built the temple stand with palms together in a gesture of "namaste" to all who enter. Walk down a narrow, dark corridor with a sign indicating the "Way to Birthplace" and feel as if you're being born yourself-- right into a nasty yellow and burgundy painted room with more hideous portrait montages and, *shock*, another collection box. All is accompanied by the cacophonous clang of over-amplified off-key Sanskrit mantras.

Well that's about enough musings for now. I went to the Taj Mahal two days ago and had one of those rare special moments when I feel the energy of a place and it overwhelms me. It is truly magnificent. Got "the shot" of the Taj reflecting in the big pool out front, which I suppose made the $17 entry fee worth every penny.

Plans are volatile these days but the current one is to head to Varanasi, the holiest of holy cities on the Ganges River, and then into Nepal for some late-season trekking. It's getting unbearably hot where I am and it's time to head for the hills.

A 17-year-old boy across the street died a few days ago. He was a passenger on his friend's motorbike; a helmet would have saved his life. I met his older brother the morning of the accident; he is deaf and dumb, but all smiles when I take a photo of him with two rats he's holding in a cage.

The boy's body arrives from the hospital in a Jeep parked directly beneath my guesthouse window. I see nothing but commotion as my eyes strain through closed curtains. His family sleeps outside while the boy's body awaits cremation inside the house. I force myself to fall asleep but am awakened at dawn by the sound of sobs and screams from the street below as the funeral procession begins. I see it this time; the men hoist the sheet-covered body above their heads and begin their long walk through the town market to the burning platform designated for their caste (Brahmin). The women go to the lake for prayer. In three days they will collect the remains and send them to Varanasi to be scattered in India's holiest river, the Ganges. The men will shave their heads in his honor. The family will mourn constantly for 12 days, the women wailing with shawl-covered faces while the men sit separately. Out of respect, we turn off our music and keep conversation down.

Jacob, Kirti and I decide to escape the somberness weighing heavy in the neighborhood and go on a camel safari. We take a bone-crunching Jeep ride out into the sand-duniest part of the nearby desert, about an hour from Jaisalmer. Unlike Jacob who opts to walk the majority of the way, I like riding the camel, particularly the part when the camel stands up and sits down; I swear these animals have hidden hydraulics.

We stop at a beautiful mud-hut village where children barrage us with usual cries for attention and sugar. An enterprising woman is quick to offer candy to buy so I could turn around and give it to the children; I decline (heartless, I know). We ride some more and then watch the sunset over the dunes with our farty, spitty but long-lashed and adorable dromedaries. I roll sideways down a dune and forget to shut my mouth. We eat a mediocre dinner with the other (much older and much more posh-looking) tourists while crappy off-key live music keeps us marginally entertained. We sleep out in the dunes under the stars, definitely the most romantic and wonderful part of all.

I am addicted to makhania lassis, a yummy saffron-flavored variant of the famous Indian yogurt drink, and have had them daily since I arrived in Jaisalmer. Last night I arrived in Jodhpur, the town that made them famous, and have had two already today. Jodhpur also made jodhpurs famous but I think they may be out of fashion.

When I arrive at 9 PM my guesthouse of choice is full. Fortunately the guesthouse clerk, a young hot guy named Mitu, is quick to offer me the 'emergency room,' which turns out to be his room. When I see the CD system with sub-woofer, private balcony and yellow painted walls covered with framed photos of Switzerland, I don't argue. He sleeps on the roof and I play some Ben Harper.

Rajasthan is the land of warriors and kings and like many towns in the state, Jodhpur is built around a giant fort. While the fort is not a 'living' one like in Jaisalmer, it's larger, better-restored and costs $5 to get in. From the fort, it's easy to see why Jodhpur is known as the "blue city." Blue was thought to deter mosquitos and more than half the buildings in town are painted a rich, gorgeous bright periwinkle. As it turns out, blue actually attracts mosquitos. Those wacky Indians.

While wandering around town I stop to take photos of an adorable alley lined with old blue houses. A woman in a pink sari emerges from her doorway carrying a baby, gesturing for me to come over. I spend the next hour talking to and taking photos of this woman and her children, her sister and her children, her sister-in-law and her children, the neighbors and their children, and the grandmothers. She invites me inside to take a photo of the newest household addition, a newborn boy named Krishna and then feeds me chapattis and sweets. There are no men around and I lose track of whom is related to whom but it appears there are at least twenty people living in this house. Indians love their families and it's not hard to see why.

A week in Jaisalmer with Kirti, Jacob, Daryl, Mangal Singh, Gomen Singh and all their friends leaves me feeling like I have a second family in India. Chris and I have parted ways (he went to the Kumbh Mela, a giant sadhu festival up north in Haridwar while I opted to go to Jaisalmer but may be meeting up again soon in Varanasi or Nepal) and I am once again on my own. I leave in an hour for Agra, home of India's most famous landmark of all, the Taj Mahal.