I like spicy food.

I know you didn't expect to hear that from me. I know that we've eaten together at Mexican restaurants, and you've seen me avoid the salsa with my chips. I'm sure you've watched me gulp water like a labrador after eating something with too many onions or too much pepper. You were probably there when I was preparing for this trip, too, and I bet what comes to mind is that list I made of ways to deal with food that is too spicy - milk, bananas, bread, breathing heavily, etc.

But that's different now, friends. Last night, I went out to dinner and found that the food was not spicy enough. Yes, I reached for the pepper and the salt and then the pickle, a magical, neon orange Indian sauce that literally opens your sinuses when you look at it. I ate whole onions.  And then I wondered what living in this country has done to me.

There's something about being relatively independent in a place where you only kind of speak the language, I guess. There's something about taking sleeper trains to the Taj Mahal or riding a camel through a desert in Rajasthan. There's something about squeezing your bike in between a cow and a school bus that is actually a rickshaw packed with children lined up like crayons in a box that is being pulled by a man who is a little bit thinner than the last ironing board I encountered. There's something about drinking mango smoothies on the street and planning a trip upriver for some swimming in the Ganga and elbowing your way into a temple at five in the morning. And there's something about India, about the way people live here.

It's extraordinary, really, how extraordinary things are. Imagine a flash of hot pink salwar peeking out beneath a burka. Picture a teenage boy on a motorcycle with knitting needles for his mother clamped between his teeth. Close your eyes, and see mustard fields - miles of golden flowers - and the woman in a sequined sari with a basket of water buffalo chips balanced on her head. And the woman next to her with a television on hers; remember those stiff-necks, those slow steps, and the way they never look down. Watch the kites dance over the city and realize that there isn't a breeze, drink chai standing on a street corner, listen to the bells from the temple next door. Smile at the rickshaw drivers who remember you - "Hello madam! Ravidaas Gate, bus hai, na?" - and check on that shopkeeper who had a heachache last week. Teach classes on straw mats under mango trees. Dance when there's a festival going on and they are blasting the same song - "Har HAR maha dev!" - from speakers on every corner. Listen to a sitar concert and feel that familiar "Kya bat hai!" bubbling up in your throat, an univited exclamation of awe.

Imagine being constantly stricken with awe, constantly. Imagine teaching a woman to crochet who can only use one of her hands; imagine the way she grips the hook in between her toes as though it's nothing, and then picture the neat rows of her first project - a hot pink purse. Imagine realizing that limitations aren't that limiting after all, as long as you don't let them be.

In the past few months, I’ve found myself tasting culture in the same way I sampled dishes at dinner: tentatively for the first few months, asking myself if this bite was safe, if it tasted good. I also spent a lot of time saying, “Not too spicy, please.” Now, however, I put chili sauce on everything, I drink pomegranate juice and omelets from street vendors, I no longer peel apples, and I’ll try anything my friends bring from their villages, especially if it is spicy. This doesn’t indicate a lack of caution, however. Instead, it speaks to a newfound love of discovery and a perpetual desire to live extraordinarily. I traveled India in the same way; for the first few days, I moved with my bags locked, my arms crossed, and my eyes on the uneven pavement, but now I will bike anywhere in the city, attend any event, teach class in any location - even the sand under the playground - and listen to any story.

It is difficult to make peace with the fact that I only have about two months left here. It is hard to realize that in that time, I need to say goodbye and adequately thank all the people who have made me laugh, made me practice my Hindi, made me realize how beautiful this world is, and helped to make me who I've become. I'm not sure that I've changed a whole lot - we'll talk about this later - but I do know that my life in India has been anything but mild. And it is becoming clear that the rest of my life won't be either.

Please pass the chili sauce. . .

The view from here is spectacular.

We just had to close the large bay windows of our dining room as the wind began to pick up this morning but even through windows the view down the Sorata valley is perpetually stunning. From here we look down to the canyon that sits below Tutuacasa, where four students live, and the granite cliffs on the other side of the valley. One looks like a little guinea pig crawling up the ridge, and we’ve named it cuy subiendo (climbing Andean guinea pig).  Moving back to the house from those distant landmarks we have the confluence of the valley’s two major rivers, trails passing through fields of maize across the way, rows of pine and cedar on our own land, a donkey grazing below a molle tree next to our ceremonial fire ring, our two goats by the donkey’s side, and the chacara of beans, corn and squash with student-made scareparrot (parrots are more the pest here than crows) flags flapping above the field. Following the slope up we have the 40 peach saplings – the beginnings of our orchard – and the same number of newly planted tuna fruit (prickly pears) growing poco a poco, leading up to more corn, peas, rows of brilliant poinsettias, a couple of cherimoya (bread fruit) and then to the small plot below our avocado tree – brimming with fruit – where we have lettuce and onions and then a small terrace with coffee seedlings, a quince bush and garlic. And finally, lining the house below the window we have our row of agave, aloe vera and some other important cacti. It is here that we look straight down from our bay window and our gardener Ermundo is weeding and clearing the terraces with deft speed and care. Parrots are starting to come back for the season and the sun is intense, beating down in an early dry season kind of day, where skies are blue the heat is on.

Inside the house we began the day with a brief talk about the Ancient Andes, Modern Andes course before diving in to Spanish classes for the morning with Juanqui, Yasmine and Alan, our itinerant teachers from La Paz. Us instructors then sat down for a breakfast of mango, papaya and prickly pear and some dark coffee (well, I did). Another hour of Spanish and this afternoon students get to dive deeper into their ISP’s, studying with music and weaving teachers (Keenan, Sharon and Hannah P, respectively), baking bread (Dana), volunteering at the hospital or visiting with local natural healers (Hannah S and Alyssa), learning from the town butcher (Dylan), further understanding ceremony and shamanic/meditative initiation (Nick), exploring Andean mythology (Mia) and making a critical inquiry into large the role of international financial institutions and development orgs in Bolivia (Chan).

We have one more week here in Sorata and things seem to be speeding up toward our leaving next Tuesday so we’re trying extra hard to slow things down and appreciate where we are. Tomorrow we have a visit from Calixto Quispe an Aymara priest to engage us in a workshop on Andean ceremony and religion as well as the subtleties of traditional offerings to the earth. Visits from him are always intimate and insightful, and he is a true teacher of Andean ways, having written books and given workshops around the world on the subject.

And with that brief cross section of this time here in Sorata, les dejamos for now. We hope this finds you all well and enjoying the nascent spring up in the north. Our thoughts from the Andes and Amazon,

T,G and B

_{Last Saturday, we attempted to decipher a palace.  Results were mixed.  Montana, Susannah, Dougie, and I visited Narayanhiti, the main royal residence in Kathmandu.  Only recently opened as a museum following the 2008 abolition of the monarchy and forced retirement of King Gyanendra, the palace supplies fewer answers than questions.} 

_{Requisitely massive doors conduct us into the main hall, where portraits of past kings inspect us from high on the walls. Crowding through a strictly choreographed procession of rooms -- only 19 of the palace's 52 rooms are open to the public -- a shuffle of Nepalis, Indians, and a few Westerners peer around.}

_{The succession of rooms dedicated to the visiting head of state soon outgrows our interest and we press onward more quickly, eager for the next room, hoping that this one will contain something of what we seek-- a hint of the personalities which not-so-long-ago inhabited this place. But the single-sentence placards sterily identify the purpose of each room and nothing more.}

_{Finally we find something of more interest in our quest for new understanding -- the throne room, the king's study, and the bedroom of the royal couple. Here we pause for longer, searching the titles of the books, the sparse paintings, for hints. But the rooms feel emptied of personality; constrained; censured.  I wonder to whose reign the rooms are reconstructed --that of the popular King Birendra, gunned down in the 2001 massacre, or his unpopular and lately deposed brother, King Gyanendra?} 

_{Many of the walls are strangely bare, and I wonder how much was removed from the palace following the transfer of power. The bedroom of the king and queen is particularly small and austere --it could be the master bedroom of any middle-class family.  The fabric-covered headboard matches the coverlet of the king-sized bed that broods under a single painting.  To each side is a nightstand and above, two shelves containing precisely arranged photographs.}

_{The lack of ostentation confuses me. Am I simply importing foreign preconceptions at odds with the economic and historical Nepali reality?  Am I over-analyzing, uninformed, or simply unworldly enough to observe properly?  There is such little ostentation compared to the European palaces I have visited -- is this a concession to modernity, in keeping with the baldly '60s architecture of the palace?} 

_{Yet, any further ostentation would feel unbearably at odds with the poverty beyond the isolating walls of the royal compound.}  

_{Outside, we follow the signs to Tribhuvan Sadan, site of the 2001 massacre of nearly all the members of the royal family, allegedly by Crown Prince Dipendra. (The prevailing conspiracy theory, on the other hand, insists that Gyanendra orchestrated the massacre and framed his nephew, whose gunshot wound to the head kept him in a coma until he died a few days later).} 

_{The building was demolished shortly afterwards, and now only the stone outlines of walls remain. Grass sprouts around signposts morbidly identifying with large Nepali numerals the exact spots where each royal family member was killed. In the midst of the garden under the intense spring sunlight, I can get no sense of the tragedy that took place here.  The scene has a surreal quality, rather in keeping with the rest of the palace.}

_{Articulating our reactions to the palace has been difficult.  The excursion was another instance in which I only realized what expectations I held after the fact; a common theme in this last month.  Some part was disappointment -- as Americans we have a tendency sometimes to romanticize, to aggrandize the concept of royalty -- we arrive with Western expectations born of fairy tales and eyes jaded by summer tours of medieval European grandeur.  What greets us is another Nepal conundrum, another instance in which we are forced to reevaluate, to consider the head-spinning melding of past and present; West and East; knowledge and perception.} 

The Search for Chinatown

Never ask a Kolkatan taxi driver to take you to Chinatown.  If you do they will assure you that they have heard of it and know where it is, convince you to get in the cab, and then drive you to a neighborhood that is not Chinatown.  When you get out of the cab they will give directions that are incorrect and in fact lead you farther away from Chinatown.  Eventually, you will find yourself asking a crowd of people on the street where Chinatown is, only to discover that it is six kilometers in the other direction.

To be fair to the cab driver, Chinatown is not a popular tourist destination.  The Lonely Planet describes it as “ragged” and “little,” but it also mentioned some cool Chinese temples and massive garbage dump with houses built into the garbage, so after finishing our visit at the Victoria Memorial, Kolkata’s most famous tourist destination, we decided to get in a cab and head across the city in search of Chinatown.

Half an hour later we found ourselves being told by a crowd of men that Chinatown was still six kilometers away.  After consulting our map, however, we realized that this crowd of men was as wrong as the cab driver had been.  Chinatown was not even close to six kilometers away,  and thus we decided to go back to the main road and take one of Kolkata’s ancient trams to our desired destination.

When we arrived at the main road there was no tram to be found, and so discouraged by our previous experience with cabs we decided to walk.  As we began to make our way along Kolkata’s congested streets we quickly noticed that we were very far off the tourist track.  Thus, we did what we do best in India and blended in, spoke Hindi and enjoyed the life on the streets.

Our act as non-tourists lasted only a couple blocks, however, because we noticed communist posters  (the state of Bengal has a communist government) hanging on the sides of the streets and had to stop a steal some because, honestly, who doesn’t want a poster with a hammer, sickle and Bengal tiger for their dorm room wall.  Much to the confusion of the various vendors on the street we went to where the rope holding the posters was lowest, stood on our tip-toes and tore a couple off the line.

Only minutes after grabbing our new wall hangings, we discovered heaven, in the form of a street vendor’s stall.  Much to Andrew and my chagrin most street vendors in Banaras are relatively vegetarian and will only cook eggs (we had bad experiences with the couple who do make meat), but right in front of us was a street stall with every kind of meat you could imagine.  Confused about where to start, we took what the man offered us, Kolkata’s street food delicacy: the egg roll (this consists of bread with an egg fried on one side rolled up like a burrito around vegetables sauce and, if you chose, chicken).  After devouring one each, we began to sample the vendors selection, until we had consumed solid quantities of chicken pakora and chicken momos.  With full stomachs, we set off to resume our search for Chinatown.

After walking  for a while and not encountering any street signs or landmarks that could have steered us in the right direction, we decided to ask a policeman for directions.  After registering his surprise at our knowledge of Hindi, he informed us (incorrectly) that Chinatown was still six kilometers away and that we would have to pay a taxi driver 150 rupees to take us there.  Realizing that he was incorrect, we politely declined his assistance and made some jokes in Hindi before walking away.

Further down the street we decided to ask a paan-wala for directions.  Unfortunately, the paan-wala like everyone else had never heard of Chinatown and told us it was far away.  Just as we were about to move on, we heard a voice behind us yelling “mujhe rasta maloom hai” (I know the way) and turned to find a drunk man staggering towards us.  He began yelling directions, gesturing wildy at us and told us to follow him.  Needless to say we decided not to follow him (a mistake as we later discovered that he was taking us in the right direction) and resumed our walk going the opposite way.

Eventually, when we were on the verge of giving up, we found a street sign and were able to locate ourselves on the map.  Realizing the drunk man had been right, we began to walk purposefully in the direction he had indicated asking everyone “kya aap Sun Yat Sen Street jante hain?” (do you know Sun Yat Sen street) until we encountered a man who told us we were standing on it.

From there the journey was easy, just around one more corner and there was Chinatown, in all its glory, right in front of us. The only problem was Chinatown appeared to consist only of an open square with a few chairs and stage set up for a Chinese New Year celebration and a closed restaurant.  Dismayed we  quickly ran around the next corner to see the wondrous garbage houses and the rest of town, only to see a couple small shacks no different from tens of houses I pass on my bike ride to Hindi class everyday in Banaras.  After snapping a picture or two of our surroundings, we took note of the fact that it was time to head back and meet the others and decided to take a cab back to the hotel.

While the state of our destination, or lack thereof, originally disappointed us, a further assessment of the day led us to deem it a success.  The walk had been excellent, we had seen a neighborhood most tourists in Kolkata never see, eaten the best street food we have found in India, got communist memorabilia, and even though it was unimpressive, we had found Chinatown despite the conspiracy perpetrated by sober Kolkatans to keep it hidden.  In short, it was an excellent adventure, and, despite my previous advice, the next time I go to Kolkata I am definitely going to ask a cab driver to take me to Chinatown, but only after making sure that he doesn’t know where it is.