Ole Oman!

While Dubai was fun and engaging, any destination with food court bearing mega malls was not quite the type of travel for which I was looking. Thankfully, my traveling companion would agree. Like two ships (actually airplanes) passing in the night, Jim prepared to return home while my friend Jason arrived after spending a week in London. It was good times on my amigo train as we prepared to head off to the lesser known country of Oman.

Before Jim’s plane departed at 3 a.m. on Saturday night, Jim crash landed his head on a pillow in our room. Setting my alarm so Jim could wake-up at 12:30, I knew I was setting myself up for no sleep. Along with my chronic light sleeper condition, I also have “pre-alarmitis middle of the nightus”, which in non-medical speak means if I know that I or someone in my proximity has to get up at an odd hour (i.e. middle of the night or very early morning), my mind will stay awake waiting for the time to come to ensure that I, or someone else, in this case Jim, does not miss their plane.

Alarm set, Jason zonked out immediately and Jim seemed to catch his REM stride fully clothed (even with shoes) on the uncovered couch bed mattress. I, on the other hand, was in the middle twin bed, tossing and turning, counting the minutes one by one as if waiting for Santa Clause to arrive. It was made worse by the fact that neither Jim nor Jason stirred from their deep slumbers. And if that wasn’t enough, just to ensure I didn’t even pretend to sleep, flat on his back, Jason began to play his epiglottis horn so loudly and generously on the inhale AND exhale, that I had to pulled a pillow over my head, half trying to drown out the noise and half trying to smother myself to sleep. I was officially in sleepless in Dubai.

Sometimes the good thing about time is that it passes, but most of the time I find myself searching for ways to slow it down or stop it altogether. On this night, I was mentally ushering time forward, at least to 12:30 so that I could stop thinking about Jim’s impending airport departure which no doubt would cause some rustling in the room.

When 12:30 finally rolled around, the alarm sounded. I had not slept a wink. Jim popped up, grabbed his bags and was gone in minutes. Deep in another world, Jason remained undisturbed and added a bonus “cooing” sound to his sleeping band repertoire. With Jim gone, I felt I had a better chance to get some shut-eye, however there was a lingering problem, we had an early morning flight to Muscat, Oman requiring us to leave the hotel no later than 5 a.m.. Now I was pressured to get to sleep which really flared up my pre-alarmitis middle of the nightus.

The remaining 4 hours before the alarm was set to go off would be ten minutes of sleep per hour interrupted by 230 minutes of tossing and turning. It seemed that even my alarm was sleeping, comfortable and confident in knowing that it would awaken at the designated time. To add insult to insomnia, as Jason reported happily the next morning, he would have his best night’s sleep in years.

When the alarm sounded at 4:40 a.m., I was waiting to silence it with a swift Cool Hand Luke maneuver. I popped out of bed, half glad to leave my sleep deprivation chamber and half disgruntled knowing that the “chamber” was also the solution for my REM woes. Within minutes, we were in front of the hotel, hailing a taxi to Sharjah, one of the Emirates next to Dubai. Initially, I felt alert and ready to tackle the trans-country hop, however, as the hours, even minutes wore on, my eyes couldn’t fight the closing bell. Ten minutes into the taxi ride on pre-dawn desert highway, my head was doing the bobble and shuffle with intermittent jerks as my heavy head swung side to side on my lazy neck.

Buckled into our seats on Air Arabia, a recording came over the loudspeakers as we taxied toward the runway. “Allah, something, something, something, Allah and more something,” that I did not understand, mostly because my Arabic was not up to speed. But if it had been, I would have understood that this was not the monotonous and obligatory safety regulations being read, rather, it was a prayer for a safe flight. This worked for me as I secretly say a prayer everytime I speed down the runway anyhow (I guess it’s not a secret anymore). Now the whole plane was praying. This flight really was on a wing and a prayer.

Arriving safely under God’s watch in Muscat, Jason and I formulated an impromptu plan at the small airport. After briefly searching for a bus to the center of town, the mid-day heat perspired us into negotiating a taxi to the center of town. Twenty or so kilometers later, after dosing off repeatedly and despite the taxi driver complaining for the entire ride that we were paying too little fare, we arrived in Muscat, a modest (and odorful) fishing town hugging the Gulf of Oman.

Our second encounter with an Omani (after the taxi driver) national led us out of Muscat almost immediately or so we thought. While checking into a small, but habitable room, I noticed some brochures behind the counter. Before signing into the room, I inquired about car rentals and self-drive desert safaris. Within minutes, the man (whose name I never got) had booked us a 4x4 and a night at a desert safari camp. All we had to do was get to a gas station in the middle of the desert by 3:30 p.m. to meet a guide and we would be set. While this meant we would miss the Superbowl later that night/morning, the 49ers weren’t in it, so I was off the hook for the home team.

Despite my eyeballs threat to strike, I hopped behind the wheel of the white Toyota 4x4 and we sped out of town with an idea of the general direction. Afterall, there are not that many roads in Oman so how hard can it be to find our way? The answer to that question would not be revealed for several hours, but looking back, the answer is that without a local in the car, even with a map, navigating around Oman is like using the North Star to guide you on a cloudy night. Road signs were prevalent near town, but of little use as none of them displayed our destination and British influence still reared its ugly head as roundabout after roundabout left me dizzy and wondering how to get out of dodge.

Less than an hour into the drive, we figured we were headed in the right direction on one of four major roads into and out of town. Jason took over at the wheel as the sleep piper laid claim to my eyelids. I’m not sure how long I was asleep, but gauging by how unrested I felt, it wasn’t long before Jason woke me to explain that he thought we were headed in the wrong direction. This was a trifecta of bad news. First we were going to miss our rendezvous with our guide in the middle of the desert and second, there was no one within fifty miles that could tell us how to get where we wanted to go. But third and most importantly, my plan for sleep was thwarted once again.


Hour after hour, roundabout after roundabout, Jason and I read all of the signs into and out of Muscat three more times each. We retraced our steps over and over again with the same determination as when you check the same drawer over and over again looking for that something you know you placed in there and despite having opened the drawer once already, you open it three more times to make sure it is not playing hide and seek on you.

And while I am reluctant to admit to it, yes, we stopped at a gas station. In fact, there was little debate the issue. We rationalized that we needed to use the bathroom and pick-up drinks for our long desert drive. Unfortunately, even with the maps sold at the station and assistance of the two cashiers, our stop revealed nothing more than the fact that gas stations around the world are becoming more and more alike. If you kidnapped me and dropped me in the middle of this particular convenience store, I would have first guessed Barstow, then Louisville or maybe even Omaha.

Back on the road, silence sat between us in the front seat after hours of driving and talking in circles. When the digital clock display in the dashboard read 3:00, we knew that we had missed our desert guide and most likely our chances to spend the night with a Bedouin family. Returning to Muscat proper disappointed, we found a room for the night, however before nightfall arrived, I laid my head to rest for an afternoon nap while Jason went out to explore the nearby beach.

My head still fuzzy waking out of my afternoon nap, Jason came bursting in the door at midnight. Actually it was only six in the evening, but it felt like midnight to my whacked circadian rhythms. He was excited as the front desk hauncho, hereinafter referred to as "hauncho", had put him in touch with a local guide (aka "friend that can show you around for cash") that could take us into the desert the following morning for an overnight trip. That meant one of two things, either 1) hauncho and the guide were going to take everything we had and leave us to die in the middle of the desert or, 2) we hit the jackpot and would be able to see all that we wanted despite on our tight schedule.

After a brief discussion of popular choke holds and a quick hostage run for your life drill, we decided to go with it and trust that hauncho's friend would both take us into AND out of the desert. We set the game start time for 7:30 the following morning.

The New Promise Land

(Burj Al Arab. Hotel in Dubai)

Boarding the Boeing 777, I couldn’t help but notice that seventy percent of the plane’s passengers were male and a majority of them appeared to be of Indian heritage. A three and a half hour skip from Bombay across the Arabian Sea is a relatively new "oasis" in the desert. In an area of the world traditionally viewed as a political hotbed, this oasis attracts both tourists and foreign investments from around the world.

Dubai, or “do buy” as may be more accurate, with a population of 1.2 million is situated in one of seven emirates comprising the United Arab Emirates or UAE. With a liberal banking system (like the Swiss banks of yesteryear), no taxes and duty free zone, multi-national developers, designer clothiers, commercial coffee and restaurant chains and major auto makers are taking advantage of the latest global gold rush. With Beirut’s politics up for grabs, Dubai is the new playground of the Middle East.

Hopping into my taxi from the airport, a meter was running, the AC was on cool and a TV monitor, suspended from the ceiling, played commercials. This was everything India wasn’t. There were no visibly poor, no animals in sight and drivers stayed in their lanes. Large billboards lined the streets with mostly western looking models advertising the latest Rolex or the new luxury meditarranean looking villa development opening soon. I was back in the land of the Jones’ where krishna consciousness was substituted with image consciousness.

Where were all of the Indian men on my plane headed? To work, plain and simple. As I would learn from many Dubai visa holders, very few are actually native to the UAE. India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Egypt, Lebanon, Palestine, Saudi Arabia, the U.K., Belgium and even the U.S. are just a few of the “feeder” countries, lending their citizens to the UAE for a few years or forever, often away from their families, where they find at least one thing they cannot find in their own country, a job.

Driving to visit a friend on the outskirts of the city, it seemed the entire skyline was filled with cranes as billboards boasted the construction of new mirrored towers for use as condos, apartments and/or office space. One resident explained that sixteen percent of the world’s cranes are in Dubai. To me it looked a lot like a crane convention as in some parts of town, every building was topped with a crane. Under construction as of this entry, and already reaching into the clouds, Dubai is set to be home to the world’s tallest building, "Burj Dubai", scheduled to be completed sometime in 2008.
(Skiiing in the desert? Indoor skiing at Mall of the Emirates, largest mall outside of the U.S.)

The burgeoning metropolis rises out of desert terrain much like Las Vegas. When I joked with one ex-pat living in Dubai, he told me that plans for construction of a ten kilometer Las Vegas style “strip” were already underway. Gambling is still not legal here, but one gets the sense that it won’t be that way for long.

With the bulk of oil deposits located in its emirate neighbor, Abu Dhabi (the capital of the UAE), Dubai is pulling out all stops to become an international city with a combination of the best known attributes of Vegas, Switzerland and Monaco. When the black gold spickets run dry, Dubai plans to remain a top destination in the world by becoming a power broker in the world of high finance.

Unfortunately, the rise to financial adulthood is coming at a human and environmental cost. Indians, Sri Lankans, Egyptians and others are working long hours, away from their families and with relatively low pay, but most are happy to have a job. And unlike the U.S. if you were born in the UAE, you do not receive the benefit of citizenship, rather you inherit the national citizenship of your father.

In some ways, Dubai reminds of me of Einstein, at least one of his more well known theories, relativity. Everything in the world is still relative. Not only are many of us relatives on some level, but each of our realities are relative. Why would an engineer leave his/her country to become a taxi driver in Dubai? Because being an engineer in Pakistan is not as lucrative as driving a taxi in Dubai. It is the most basic rule of economics, do what puts food on the table and a roof over your head.

Friends Unite

One of the most charing or recharging events on an extended trip can be meeting up with old friends, or rather young friends I have known for many years. Such would be the case with Dubai where ultimately I would meet up with three amigos. The first was my long time travel buddy (and former roommate), Jim Howard. Jim was in town to sell sand to the sheiks. Ok, maybe it wasn't sand, but if you know Jim, he could have sold them sand.

As it turns out, his timing in Dubai was quite fortuitous. He was attending the Arab Health Conference and I wasn't. On the day of my arrival, he had already been at work a few days and secured a hotel room in the center of old Dubai, known as Deira. Fortunately for me, he allowed me to crash in his room (paid for by his company). Unfortunately for me, there was only one queen bed and despite being one of eight kids, Jim was not into sharing.

I made do with a hide-a-bed that was hiding in a couch with exterior fabric screaming for replacement . . . about 20 years ago. Vivid flashes of "blue light" from episodes of CSI came to mind, only this time I recalled the actual "news magazine" programs where they walk into four and five star hotels, turn out the lights and then turn on the blue light. They never find any "good" fluids. The primarily red and gold couch was not as coy as the five star joints. It freely expressed many of its stains right on the surface. In a way it was ideal, I knew what I was getting myself into. The couch wasn't hiding much, if anything from me, and neither was the floor beneath the couch, where pieces of food remained undisturbed since California had an actor for governor. Wait a minute, I mean since California had its first actor governor.

Anyhow, off the couch and back to the first days in Dubai. After reconnecting with Jim, I reconnected with a traveling friend of mine who lived just outside the limits of central Dubai. She was working on a project in Dubai. Sofia is a British citizen of Pakistani origin working for a Beligan company selling air time and ad space in the U.S. while living in Dubai. She is quintessential Dubai.

Sofia invited Jim and I to attend a birthday party that night at the Park Hyatt where the attendees represented at least 20 nations. It was a like a birthday party for Kofi Annan, only the birthday girl was much younger, no one had ear pieces listening to translations and much more fun. Luckily for Jim and I, English was the common speaking ground. On that warm evening on the patio under the stars it was crystal clear that people around the world are far more similar than their differences.

Return to Mumbai - One Year Later

Since my arrival in India, I delayed calling Bharat, Shubi and Simran even after learning of Roopa’s transition. What would I say? Was it culturally appropriate to call? Should I go to Mumbai and skip the Palace on Wheels? These were a few of the questions on the hamster wheel in my head.

The last time I saw Roopa was on March 31, 2006 at her home in the Serenity Heights building in the Malad West section of Mumbai. She was on her bed resting from a chemo treatment and there were many other family members in the room. It was hot and muggy as the lone air chiller in the room worked at maximum output to offset the effects of so many bodies in a 10 x 12 room.

I recall thinking that, given her diagnosis, this could be the last time we would see or even speak to each other. Still, hope springs eternal and Roopa was just beginning her fight. She was optimistic and still busy taking care of me and everyone else as was her nature. Sitting on the edge of her bed after a chemo session, we held hands and I expressed my appreciation and gratitude for all she had shared with me. She knew I was grateful, but took no credit, dismissing her actions as those charged by a higher energy. Affirming her commitment to battle cancer, Roopa said she looked forward to seeing each other at the wedding. Sharing her sentiment and remembering that she was very much alive, I smiled and said that I was already looking forward to my return to India.

Almost one year later, my plane’s wheels once again hit the asphalt in Mumbai. Unlike last time, instead of anxiety over what to expect and how to get around the vast subcontinent, this visit was in part, a return to a second home, one that held many heart felt and soulful memories.

Luggage on the yellow and black taxi’s roof, my head scraping the velvet lined taxi ceiling, and my Mom in the back with the windows rolled down (no AC) we inched our way through the gridlocked city streets. Cows, dogs, motorcycles, pedestrians, buses, ox carts and dump trucks moved together in chaos around us. A 15 kilometer drive could take anywhere from 15 minutes in the middle of the night to 2 hours during commute times.

That evening we waited at the hotel for the arrival of my friend Marc, who had traveled with me on part of my first trip to India. It was on that trip that Roopa had directed us to the Art of Living Basic Course at Sri Sri’s ashram, 26 kilometers outside of the Bangalore city limits. Marc, who had since become a vegetarian, was familiar with Roopa’s invisible spiritual hand in his life. He had also come for the wedding that was now postponed for 2 months. That night I phoned Shubi. After inquiring as to when I arrived in India, her next words caused me to pause, “When are you coming home Todd?”

A few seconds passed as I fumbled over interpretations of what I had just heard and whether I had heard her correctly. Then it dawned on me. She was asking about when I was coming over to her house where we had spent many days together and Roopa had declared me the son she never had. Her words struck a chord deep inside me as a flood of memories came to my mind. “I’ll be over as soon as possible. What time is good for you?”

The following day my Mom, Marc and I took a cab to meet Shubi at her condominium. It was my first visit with Shubi since my departure from Mumbai. Walking into her home, familiar faces appeared from the kitchen like a cast of characters from a play I had seen before. There was Krishna, Manosh and Ashok to name a few of the Gupta’s servants, all of whom had played a role in my well being on my first visit. By the time I left in March, they were calling me their “fair brother”, no doubt due in large part to my lighter skin and the fact that I had spent a few weeks around them during which time they had begun teaching me Hindi.

I was home, but somebody had rearranged the furniture, or had they remodeled? There was something missing. It wasn’t long before I realized that the only thing that had changed was that Roopa wasn’t bursting out of her bedroom with her trademark smile and beaming energy. Staring around the well appointed family room with a Japanese flair (from Roopa), more vivid memories flooded my mind. I could hear Roopa’s upbeat voice saying my name while sitting at the dining table where she had planned my trip as if it were her duty.

Lunch was served as the four of us sat at the glass table where we had enjoyed many meals together. As before, a buffet of sumptuous Indian food was on the menu as Krisha spooned fistfuls of fresh homemade spicy concoctions onto our plates. Our fingers eagerly dug into the rice, yellow daal, black daal, eggplant, potatoes and roti. We were eating Indian style and that didn’t mean sitting in a tightly crossed leg pose, in this instance we used our god given utensils (fingers on the right hand) to eat.

As I watched my Mom discover the true meaning of “finger food” as she stared at the motley collection of food under her fingernails, the conversation at the table ranged from the food to the latest updates on all of the family members to my travels in southern Africa. It wasn’t until the plates were about to be cleared that Shubi began a monologue that would hold us captive for the next hour.

Directly across the table from me, she stared straight into my eyes as she casually shared the events of Roopa’s final days. I was not prepared for the graphic detail and visual details that Shubi revealed, the majority of which I will not recite here. Suffice it to say that in her last month and a half on earth Roopa suffered immense physical pain.

Shubi spent every night in the hospital and Simran took the day shift. Ultimately, Roopa was put on a ventilator, something Roopa saw happen to her own mother and something she never wanted to happen to her. She was unable to speak and her hands were tied to the bed to prevent her from pulling it out.

Sitting transfixed in Roopa’s living room I was slowly being sinking in my chair with each sentence of Shubi’s story. Her heartfelt dramatic delivery tightened a noose around my heart. I did not want to imagine Roopa’s vibrant, electric and magnetic spirit being put through such misery.

Drained and mentally bankrupt, we adjourned from the table and moved to the living room where Shubi finished her story. Two pearlized fans whipped overhead as I stared outside the 13th floor of the condominium holding back my tears. I felt like I had just gone through Roopa’s final weeks in a matter of hours.

Unable to speak to Shubi I stood from the dark brown leather chair and walked to the sliding glass windows to look out across smoggy Mumbai. Eight sets of wind chimes dangled melodically in the warm breeze from the balcony. Salty tears streamed down my cheek as the realization that I would not see Roopa again sunk in.

For whatever reason, I was only to know Roopa for a very short time. Her impact on my life is still unfolding and her daughters now consciously contemplate carrying out her legacy. Roopa lives on in them.

Before we returned to our hotel, Bharat, Roopa’s husband came to the condo for a brief visit. Traditionally performed by the eldest son in the family, his head was shaved and he was wearing a white flowing kurta and pants. He was sullen and moved slowly toward the couch. When I asked how he was feeling, he replied, “O.K.” and completed the sentence with his right hand as he tipped it from side to side palm facing downward.

Toward the end of my reunion with the Guptas, Shubi explained that on the 10th or the 16th day following the transition of a family member, close members of the family meet in the main household for a puja to pave the way to “heaven” for the lost family member. The next day would be the 16th day and a puja for Roopa was planned. Shubi was quick to extend the invitation to all three of us.

The Puja

The following morning, just moments after opening my eyes, my Mom said she was not going to attend the puja. She too had felt Roopa’s palpable presence and was drained from hearing Roopa’s struggle the previous day. Although I was not sure I was ready for the puja, I knew there really wasn’t a choice, not because the Guptas required my attendance, but because it was for Roopa.

Marc was eager to attend, intrigued by the ceremony and also for Roopa, as he explained, she had touched his life too. He purchased a white kurta for the puja and Shubi let me borrow one of her Dad’s kurtas for the function. Dressed in white from neck to ankles we removed our shoes outside of the Gupta family home where each of the three stories was occupied by one of the Gupta families (uncles, aunts and cousins).

Inside the puja had begun. A shirtless Bharat sat in the middle of the floor with a non-descript tweed string wrapped from one shoulder to the opposite side of his waist. Incense smoke rose in the air from two sticks lit before another man sitting in all white with a thin and short pony tail held by a rubber band against the back of his otherwise shortly cropped graying hair. This was the priest who was leading Bharat through each stage to prepare the spirits (my words) for Roopa’s arrival. Before Bharat lay seven stainless steel plates with rice, oranges, banana leaves and Indian sweets, offerings to the Gods (which were eventually collected into one bucket and dispensed with, presumably to some nearby cows). Bharat carefully repeated after the priest as instructed (in Hindi).

Unsure what to expect I watched each step as if I would have to perform it myself later. While I didn’t want to be obvious in this intimate ceremony, I also wanted to learn more about the puja. After about 15 minutes of intense focus, a man whose face I could not see moved in close to Bharat. Unable to use his hands, sticky with ceremonial rice, the man held a cell phone to Bharat’s ear. Bharat spoke unhurriedly and even cracked a smile. I thought it was unusual to take a call in the middle of what I thought would be a sacred time. However, as I would witness, people casually came in and out of the room for the hour and a half communiqué with the gods. Later I would learn that in all the preparations, like most families, the Guptas had had a miscommunication and failed to invite Simran’s new in-laws to be. Midway through the ceremony, Bharat called to extend an invite. Without Roopa, the family was missing its leader.

Rather unceremoniously the priest collected his belongings and everyone changed out of their “puja clothes” and into casual wear, except for Marc and I as we were unclear on the post puja protocol. After the priest collected his fee in rupees and gifts from the Guptas, the family again provided a scrumptious feast, and being the consummate hosts, invited Marc and I to dig in first at the homestyle buffet. Once again, I was reminded of Roopa’s words, “In India, guest is God.” And the Gupta family consistently demonstrated their firm beliefs in those words.

Post Puja Roundtable

Back at the Gupta condo with Shubi and Simran, it was an opportunity to visit with Simran for the first time. The older of the two daughters, Simran was tasked with a lot of responsibility for the Gupta family business and had a lot on her mind with the transition of her mother and the excitement of spending time with her fiancé.

Sitting around one of the glass coffee tables, Simran shared her perspective on her mother’s final days and her own plans moving forward. She was glowing with excitement about her pending marriage and spoke with a smile when referring to Roopa.

“She planned everything. She made sure every little detail was complete. She took us clothes shopping, picked the location, the flowers, everything. She left nothing undone. The whole wedding is planned. She made sure of that.” Simran spoke with a twinkle in her eye knowing that while her Mom would not be physically at the wedding, she would be there in spirit.

Over the next few hours Simran shared moments that stood out in their minds on Roopa’s final days. Simran approached her Mom for advice on a matter in Roopa’s last two weeks as she lay ailing in the hospital. Uncharacteristically, Roopa did not offer advice, but instead replied, “I am detached, you must solve the problem yourself.” Admittedly Simran was initially taken back, but soon realized that her Mom was preparing her for life after her Mom’s transition.

Both daughters believed that their Mom hung on for 11 extra days before leaving her body. While the doctors could not medically explain Roopa’s continued survival, those that knew Roopa suspected there was a reason. And her daughters felt it at the deepest level. Roopa was preparing everyone else for her departure. Only after her transition did a select few reveal to the family that Roopa had explained she would not be in her body for the wedding. Kidneys, liver, lungs, the majority of her body’s main organs were completely failing, except for one, her heart. And it was her heart and spirit which permitted her to exit when those closest to her were ready.

Simran continued sharing, “In her hospital bed she (Roopa) explained that she was not coming back.” When Simran asked her Mom to check in on them from time to time, Roopa replied, “I have a lot of work to do, I’ll see what I can do.” That was Roopa. With strong conviction, her soul knew that it was not returning to live another lifetime. She made no promises to her daughters as her higher spiritual calling meant that she would be in the service of all. Fortunately for Simran and Shubi, Roopa had prepared them to be self reliant and independent with a strong sense of spirituality.

During our visit there were many more anecdotes and remembrances that brought smiles to our faces. We agreed that the puja wasn’t really for Roopa as she was not particularly Hindu as much as she was of the spiritual world at large, something for which others sometimes held her in contempt and envied her for simultaneously. She was real and widely accepting. And now, free of the body, she was having the most fun of all, following her true bliss, selflessly helping others without judgment and with that great big beautiful smile from her soul.

A "Blogette" from my Mom

“Nothing can fully prepare you for India, but perhaps the one thing that best encapsulates this extraordinary country is its ability to inspire, frustrate, thrill and confound all at once.” (Lonely Planet 2005)

Ever since I read Far Pavillions by M.M. Kaye, a romantic epic taking place in the 19th century, India has held a fascination for me. It is not a country to visit with just anyone---and a “tour” is not the way I wanted to see this fabulous country. A decade or so ago when Todd & I visited Kathmandu we talked about going to India together someday.

I didn’t think it would actually happen until Simran (Roopa’s daughter) invited us to her wedding. Like a fly on flypaper, I was on it! So here we are---and this is my “blogette”.

Palace on Wheels---gourmet dining at Camp Curry (Yosemite Valley tented campsite) on Wheels. I loved the movement of the train. The food, which I will bring back with me as additional girth, erased any delusion I was going to lose weight on this trip. The ease with which we were able to visit magnificent palaces and forts---imagining the life during the time of the maharajas, highlighted by the Taj Mahal---no picture can do it justice! Camel riding through the desert pretending I was in another lifetime was FUN!
(Getting ready for an elephant ride to the fort in Jaipur.)
After seven days we ended our sojourn in Delhi. I experienced my first cycle rickshaw ride around old Delhi stopping to buy a couple odds & ends. Where is all the traffic and hoards of people Todd had described?

Two nights later we flew to Mumbai (Bombay) and met up with Todd’s friend Marc. Okay, now we are talking INDIA!!! After three taxi rides and a tuk tuk venture---I have aged five years. If I wanted to play bumper cars I would’ve gone to Disneyland. If the horn on their automobile (or tuk tuk) were to stop working, they might as well have no brakes.

(Left: On a cycle rikshaw in old Delhi.)

If you need an ambulance it might take six hours to get to you. Mumbai is a city that needs to be experienced first hand --- there is no way to comprehend from my description.

Possibly due to the religions, Hindu and Muslim, it appears more male dominated than anywhere else I have been. Yes, it is crowded. Yes, there is poverty—more evident here than anywhere else I have been. Yes, the shopping is fun. After that, it is hard to put into words. All six senses (yes, six) are brought to attention. Being in the moment is obligatory if you want to really experience this city.

A special day with Shubi (Roopa’s daughter) at her home yesterday. (Todd will write more in his next entry).

Who knows what is around the next corner. Todd is pretty well making all the plans.
We will be headed south to experience a different India. Mumbai is a city I need only to visit once---and am glad I did.

A highlight for me is sharing this time with Todd. His patience, spirit of adventure, and love of humanity continue to remind be how blessed I am!

Meals on Wheels

Seven months ago when I learned of Simran’s (Roopa’s daughter) engagement, my Mom capitalized on the wedding invite to make her first journey to India, a journey she had looked forward to for many years. After I returned from my travels in July 2006, her Virgoness commenced a research campaign that would put even the best travel analysts to shame.

“Shall we fly in to Delhi or Bombay? Go early before the wedding or stay later? Where should we stay? Want to book airline tickets?” were a few of the pressing questions on her mind. But just getting used to my own bed again and suitcase still sitting on my bedroom floor, I was not quite ready for “the Mom” full court press.

True to form though, my inaction would not dissuade her from moving forward with travel planning. Sometime in late August I got the call, “Palace on Wheels had a cancellation. Ordinarily they are booked a year or more in advance. We can go one week before the wedding. The timing will work out perfectly.”

If you believe in signs or things happen as they should, then this surely was a sign. Palace on Wheels (POW), afterall, was one of the 1,000 places to see before you die. While I didn’t plan on dying soon, I didn’t know when the planets would align again to make a trip through the colorful cities of the state of Rajasthan via train.

The POW is a luxury train that stops at the hot spots of Rajasthan. In a whirlwind tour of 7 days, the train travels thousands of kilometers, many of them at night while, theoretically at least, passengers snooze under comfy duvets in their cabin suites. By car, the POW route would surely be a test of nerve and back bone, not to mention it would take many more days.

Arriving at the train station to find our mobile home for the next week, most of the 104 passengers were seated, listening to a three man band play traditional Indian music on an elevated platform draped in orange cloth. Scanning the crowd, it was immediately apparent that the POW was not on the youth hostel circuit, one because some people brought enough luggage to cross the Atlantic on a schooner, and two because there were few actual “youths” in the waiting area.

An “Amazing Race” sentiment filled the air as the strangers on the train platform took in the faces of their new soon to be train comrades. Whose team would we be on? With whom would we share a train car? Were there alliances to be formed? Eye beams crossed like an infrared pattern at Fort Knox.

When the registration cart opened, the race was on. Members of the quietly seated crowd stood from their seats and moved in to claim their boarding cards. More than a kilometer long, including dining cars, lounge car, staff car and engine, the train was a cruise ship on wheels. And like boarding a cruise ship, the orchestration of luggage and locating cabins was equally chaotic.

Kishangarh was the name of our train carriage. My Mom and I were assigned Cabin No. 1 of four total in the car. Boarding Kishangarh, we were greeted by two moustached men dressed in colorful head dress and traditional Indian kurtas. Girdher, around 55 years old, was to be our chief cabin attendant for the duration. He was the senior staff member on the train in his 24th year of service and did double duty as head of one of the dining cars. Om Prakash, in his mid-thirties, was our assistant cabin attendant, serving on the POW for the past 11 years. Both men worked three or four weeks straight and then received one week off for nine months of the year. During the remaining months (monsoon season), they worked in five star hotels in various capacities.(Left to right: Om Prakash and Girdher)

Sliding the door to our cabin open, Girdher gave us the tour of the 10x12 shiny wood paneled room with ruby red carpet occupying the little floor space that was not covered by the beds. Red and gold drapes adorned two large windows next to my Mom’s bed. The adjoining bathroom was 2x4 and contained a shower with enough hot water for a 7 minute shower. Actually converted from an older steam train, the POW’s amenities exceed 99% of other trains in India, however, the train had seen grander days since its first year of service in 1982. These days the POW relies more on 24 hour service for its reputation than its plush accommodations.

Before leaving the New Delhi Cantonment station, the passengers in Kishangarh were asked to meet in the car’s lounge, a 4 x 6 area with three small couches and folding tables where breakfast was served each morning. Two couples from Wisconsin and one couple from Philadelphia were to be our breakfast crew each morning. Out of the eight people in the car, four were lawyers. If there was ever time to start getting rid of the lawyers, a convenient train derailment or food poisoning incident would take down four in one shot.

Despite the 24 hour kitchen on board, six of the seven nights, dinner was served in an early (7 p.m.) and a late (8:30 p.m.) seating. Still a bit jet lagged from our flights, my Mom and I elected the early seating for our first night. Having heard mixed reviews on the food and wanting to maintain our good health, we were particularly cautious when the pre-set menu began parading through the swinging kitchen doors. Continental, Chinese and Indian, seafood, chicken, lamb or veg, the POW kitchen made it all. And unfortunately for our waist lines, all of it was superb.

Our first night in the cabin post dinner, my stomach was stuffed with daal, basmati rice, assorted vegetables and tasty naan. In the tight quarters of the cabin, there was little to do, but lie on the bed as the train rocked back and forth. Getting ready for bed required my Mom and I to move around the cabin, astronaut style. One person moves down the aisle between the beds while the other docked to the bed or hovered in the bathroom. The advantage we had over the astronauts was that one of us could wait outside the cabin while the other prepped for sheep counting.

“It’s going to be great sleeping on the train, like a sailboat,” my Mom had repeated many times throughout the day. Having slept on two trains, once in India and once in Vietnam, I was not convinced. When the time for sleep arrived, I set up the pillows as close to my pillow configuration at home for maximum comfort. The train jolted back and forth, swinging from side to side, train horns whistled in my ear as other trains passed and the tracks below used wheel to track contact to mimic the sound of fingernails dragging down a chalkboard. For the light sleeper, this was the equivalent to sleeping in Penn Station during a 9.8 earthquake.

As I prepared to trick myself to sleep by reading, I glanced over at my Mom, iPod headphones in her ears, covers up to her chin and far far away in dreamland. This was a familiar position for me, always the last to fall asleep. And for some reason when someone else is getting the best sleep of their lives, it makes it harder for me to fall asleep. It’s like I already lost the race so why try. Plus it only gets more frustrating as I know that person will probably get up early and inevitably I will wake up just when I hit my early morning stride behind closed eyelids.
(Camelback in Jaisalmer)

Eventually with the help of Ambien, my new best friend for the week, I did fall asleep, but with a strict touring schedule for the upcoming week, there was little time for the late riser to get those much needed zzzzzzs. Our first morning on the train we were up at 6 a.m. for a 6:30 breakfast and a 7 a.m. bus boarding. This would be the general routine for the week. Eat most meals on the train, board a bus in the morning at our new destination and sleep while the train pulls or pushes us to the next destination overnight.

By day 2, the familiar schedule and tasty carb loaded cuisine was leaving many feeling like veal in preparation. Without a gym on the train and with the train, buses, elephants and camels doing all the leg work, none of us were getting much needed cardio. This was an anti-Atkins train.

(Right: Palace of the Winds built in 1799 by a Maharaj).

The seven day itinerary stopped at key tourist spots with a camel ride across the dunes of the desert city Jaisalmer, an elephant ride in the pink city of Jaipur, a tiger safari in Ranthambore National Park, walking up the steps of an unconquered 500 year old fort in the blue city of Jodhpur, boating around the Lake Palace in Udaipur and making a final stop in Agra, home to the Taj Mahal. There were hundreds of years of war torn history at most stations, involving a fort that was captured by Moghul armies or a palace where Maharajs (akin to governors of states in the area of Hindustan (pre-India)) once lived with several hundred, or in one case, more than a thousand wives.

Between the guide’s accents and sometimes monotone or lifeless delivery, most of the specifics of each Maharaj, conqueror, fort or palace escaped my memory banks. My mind was a cup that ran way over with new information. Instead, I soaked in India through my pores, somewhat voluntarily and somewhat not. Sights, sounds and smells constantly find their way to your senses in India, whether it be three dogs cleaning the carcass of a cow laying railside or the fresh curry smell wafting from a local restaurant or the sounds of the second national language in India, the horn.

Over the course of the week, the POW passengers moved from strangers to acquaintances and new friends. Eating, drinking and sightseeing together, names, addresses and e-mails were exchanged as the tour came to a close. At 7:30 a.m. we "de-trained" and the POW moved to tracks nearby for its weekly cleaning in preparation for picking up a new load seven hours later.
(Backside of the Taj at dusk).

Soul Transition

"I am blissed out," she kept repeating shortly after I met her. I remember her entry into the dining room last February as if it were yesterday. Like a few other seemingly random points in time, that moment will always seem like yesterday. It was so vivid as the room literally became brighter as she entered. I remember thinking, "Who is this woman?" and "Where did she come from?" I had been in India for 4 days and had not yet met Mrs. Gupta. Not knowing Bharat, her husband, well enough at the time, I did not ask his family's whereabouts.

Full of energy and excited about life, Roopa had just returned from the Art of Living 25th Anniversary celebration just outside of Bangalore. She took a seat at the dining table and from that moment forward, whether I liked it or not, I was under Roopa's care and spiritual education, both from a Hindu and world religion perspective. Roopa was not trying to be my teacher, she was just being Roopa. In the course of her being, she was an unexpected teacher in my life.

Arriving in the Mumbai airport at midnight yesterday, the familiar scents brought India screaming back to the forefront of my memory. It wasn't a bad smell, it is just a smell that I associate with India. Waiting at the Mumbai airport for four hours for my connecting flight to Delhi left me time to hear the familiar clearing of the back of men's throats as they coughed up pollution choking phlegm from the depths of their esophagus and most of the time spit it into the airport garbage can.

At the Delhi airport I waited an hour and a half for my Mom's plane to arrive. Many months earlier we planned a trip to India, spawned mostly by the wedding of Roopa's daughter, Simran. We built a trip around the wedding to take advantage of the long trek. On our way to the hotel from the airport a dense fog loomed over Delhi. It was daybreak and the sun appeared deep in the fog like a smoky Van Gogh painting.

The streets were the least crowded I had ever seen. A few cows lingered on the roads and people wrapped in clothing from head to toe moved about quickly on the streets as the chill of winter gripped Delhi. Walking into the hotel lobby, another good reason to travel with Mom occurred to me. It was the nicest hotel in which I had stayed in any of my solo travels, especially in India. A large welcoming lobby with doormen, roomservice and plush padded carpet in the rooms, this was a new experience in India for me.

Jet lagged from our overnight flights, we kicked off our India tour with a nap. On the streets outside the hotel, the familiar symphony of horns played as I drifted off to sleep. It was the India I remembered and loved. Still, there was one question nagging at the back of my mind. How was Roopa?

Since I had been traveling for several weeks, I was unable to call Shubi, Roopa's daughter, to check on Roopa's condition. Last I had heard, Roopa was getting dialysis in a surprise turn for the worse. Up and until that time, Roopa had been exceeding doctor's expectations. It was in the two weeks prior to my departure that Shubi's tone sounded less optimistic. Shubi had been at her Mom's side since she was diagnosed with liver cancer last March. Day in and day out, treatment after treatment, Shubi was intimately involved in coordinating Roopa's care.

At 4 a.m. this morning, India time, unable to sleep due to the time difference and earlier nap, I checked my e-mail where I found an e-mail from Prakash, Roopa's nephew who initially introduced to me to his family, responsding to my inquiry on her health. Three days before my return to India, Roopa transitioned on January 5. After a long and strong fight, Roopa's body was finished with the strain and drain from the large dosage treatments.

Back in India, I feel as if I could call her today and she would answer with her usual joyous tone. That is one of the strange aspects to death for those of us who are still among the living. Of course, with Roopa and consistent with many other beliefs, she may still be among the living, just on a different plane. And if anybody was ready for a soul graduation, it was Roopa. She had reached a space within herself self described as "pure bliss". Ironically, not long after that point in time, she was diagnosed with cancer. It was as if she was being called home. Tonight she is home. For Roopa, home is the light of her spirit transitioning to the next phase, whatever that phase may be.

She was a modern, well educated Indian woman from the state of Bengal. Her spiritual beliefs/understanding was a blend of religious/spiritual practices to which she had been exposed and studied. Not a stereotypical Hindu woman, Roopa defied traditional roles without acting defiant. She was just herself, strong, independent and determined.

Why she went out of her way for me I may never know. What I do know is that it was life altering and mind opening. I am deeply saddened that I will not be able to sit with Roopa this visit as it was worth the trip alone. For the brief weeks that we spent together I am grateful.
(Roopa shows me "Krishna pose").

Roopa's spirit lives on in the lives of those that she touched, of which I am one. Riding in the backseat with her across traffic ridden Mumbai and outside of the city limits on several occassions, we had a lot of time to talk about life and death. Roopa feared neither. She had found inner peace and it could not be contained. It was a contagion of the highest order.

Over the past year, many of you e-mailed me or asked me about Roopa's condition. You told me you were praying for her recovery and were touched by her spirit despite having never met her. I shared those sentiments with Roopa, who never let it go to her ego, but smiled and was appreciative. She was touched that people whom she had never met were saying prayers for her. For me, it was touching because the bond of the human family was at its best, always a beautiful feeling.

The world lost a big soul in the physical world, but if Roopa has her way, her generous spirit will continue on its path spreading unconditional love and joy. May her spirit continue to experience the bliss in her transition.

Gardening Through South Africa

(Above: Top of Table Mountain, again.)

Cape Town Fireworks

On top of the highest point in Cape Town was a great way to spend the last day of 2006. A world heritage site, its flat top rises an impressive 3,300 feet from the nearby ocean. A ten minute "cableway" ride in a gondola from the bottom and presto, you have a 360 view, from the Atlantic Ocean to many miles inland from Cape Town. Many visitors brought cheese and bottles of champagne and wine to bring in the new year early at sun down.

Since I extended my stay at the Blue Peter for a night, I had a thirty minute drive from Cape Town drive back to the hotel which left me little time to change and get back to town. A quick changeroo sans shower and I was back out again, this time heading to the V&A waterfront in Cape Town where the masses gather to view fireworks at midnight.

On the wharf with ten minutes to spare, there were thousands of people electrifying the cool sea air. The bars were bursting at their seams, spilling onto the sidewalk. Local bands were belting tunes at various clubs and the night sky was clear overhead. At the stroke of midnight, the anticipated pandemonium erupted as people cheered, hugged and screamed. On cue, a rather light fireworks show followed. 2007 had arrived and my first order of business was to get some rest for the following day’s activities.

Garden Route

After a few days touring Cape Town, it was time to hit the road for greener pastures. Fortunately, this time I was able to find a car that I could actually take one way to Johannesburg. My plan was to drive the Garden Route from Cape Town to Port Elizabeth and then head north to Johannesburg for my flight to India.

It was refreshing to see Cape Town fade in my rear view mirror. Although Clifton Beach and Camps Bay were beautiful, I was ready for something less urban. An hour into my drive, the landscape changed dramatically, reminding me of a combination of Sonoma mixed with Cambria. Dramatic fog covered mountains rising in the distance with golden fields in the foreground.

With no reservations and no real plan as to where to stop, I drove until dark when I found myself in a town named “Wilderness”. I followed signs to a backpackers hostel and inquired at the desk for a room or a bed. A familiar, but unwelcome refrain sounded, “we are fully booked.’

“Can you recommend another place?” I asked, afraid that I was going to run into the same lodging problem I encountered in Cape Town.

With a blank stare in return, either from the late hour or from the fact that moments earlier she was serving drinks behind the bar, she explained that she did not know where else to try. Heading back down the driveway I elected to stop at any guesthouse, B&B or hotel on my path. Although I had no difficulty finding places to stop, the answer was the same each time, “fully booked”.

Finally one woman suggested I go back where I came from. She was smiling when she said it so I didn’t take it personally. Anyway, what she was really suggesting is that I back track to the nearest big town where I might have better luck finding a room. Now 10:00 at night, I took her free advice as a better option to knocking on B&B’s doors, rousing the proprietors from their bedrooms.

By 11:00, I found a “Road Lodge” willing to steal my money and take advantage of a 90% occupancy rate during the "high season”. I was willing to pay because I needed to regroup and plan the next few days. One night of highway robbery I could accept, but I vowed not to let it happen again and booked each night’s stay a day in advance thereafter.
(Plettenberg Bay)
Next day I was driving through the beautiful countryside, at times paralleling the coast much like Highway 1 on the west coast of California. Plettenberg Bay, Stormsriver and Jeffries Bay are just a few of the beautiful spots along the Garden Route. They are quaint towns dotting the coast similar to that of Carmel or Monterey. Each of them offered kayaking, mountain biking or sipping wine on the beach. As I came to find out the hard way in my search for lodging, many South Africans travel here on holiday.

My final stop was Port Elizabeth, and true to its name, as the morning light revealed, it is a big port and South Africa’s fifth largest city. Unless you’re in love with tankers and cranes, the coast of Port Elizabeth leaves a lot to be desired. Imagine recreational beaches right next to massive rusty oil leaking steel ships. But “PE” as the locals refer to it, has a pass time enjoyed by many, gambling. Comprised mostly of slot machines, the local casino, about an eighth of the size of a Vegas casino, was packed. Vegas baby, Vegas. Like moths to a light, people were feeding rands (SA currency) into the hungry machines in the hopes of hitting it big.

Even though I’m not adverse to an occasional gaming trip, this was not that trip for me. For one, there was no pool and two, I had enough trouble gambling with chips in dollars, much less a foreign currency. Cutting my stay in PE short by a day, I decided to head north early making it a two day trip instead of a straight 12 hour drive.

On the morning of my departure, I asked the girl at the B&B where to stay on the route to Joburg. When she replied with “Oliver North”, naturally I smiled. She looked at me quizzically and I repeated after her, “Oliver North?” She nodded and I explained why I thought that was funny going into way more detail than she cared to know or remember. On her assurances that there was a lovely lodge on the river in “Oliver North” I decided that I would find it along the way.

Five hundred kilometers into my drive I began to doubt my ears. Had I heard her say, “Oliver North”? During my entire drive I had not seen a single sign showing me how far it was to “Oliver North”. Pulling a tourist map from the passenger seat, I opened it up on the steering wheel while the countryside whizzed by. Tracing my finger up the entire N10 route, I did not see a town named “Oliver North”. I was stumped and needing a rest break. Driving on two lane roads with constant “close call” passing of trucks and slower cars required alertness, or as Homeland Security might refer to it, Red Alert Status. And with my handicap of driving on the right side of the car, but left side of the road, I needed every brain cell I could muster.

Then, in a stroke of luck, I saw it and laughed to myself (mostly because there was no one else in the car). There was a town on another route (the N6) named “Aliwal North”. Between her accent and the fact that it was on another route from East London and not PE further confused the matter. I was relieved just to put the matter to rest and that South Africa did not name a town after Oliver North and that Oliver North was not named after a town in South Africa. Now I could find any town along the N10 and stop, perhaps Donald Rumsfeld has nice hotels?

Goodbye Again

The last sunset of my first trip to southern Africa happened moments ago in Joburg. I paused on my way to eat to feel the last dry warm summer breeze until summer at home. Southern Africa is beautiful and this visit has only wet my appetite for countries like Botswanna, Zimbabwe, Mozambique and Madagascar. South Africa is the most modern African country that I have visited. It has the most developed infrastructure, i.e., potable water, nicely paved roads and is well signed. That said, for me it somewhat takes away from what I love about Africa, the continent that is more raw, soul to dirt (either the soul of your feet on the soil, or your soul of your spirit connected to the planet without interference). Sometimes the comforts of home make me lazy, but not so in developing Africa. In the wide open space I can hear the wind speak and watch the animals exercise their stunning intuition in the wild.

Though apartheid has officially ended, there are still glaring divisions. There are not only color lines drawn, but also lines between the “haves” and “have nots”, a situation that is like a heating crock pot clamped down with rubber bands. It’s not going to blow immediately as tensions are released through small outbreaks of violence. Most white neighborhoods I saw had homes behind large walls with three electrified wires on top and private security/alarm signs posted in front. Conversely, all of the townships I saw, where corrugated metal and brick or plaster are pitched up wall to wall, were predominantly, if not entirely, black neighborhoods.

How long will those living in material poverty continue to live across the freeway from large Mediterranean homes with views of the ocean? How long will they provide the homeowners with gardening, cooking and cleaning services before they move to break free from the leftover chains of an archaic system? Your guess is as good as mine.

Die Another Day

(Above: Bloukrans Bridge)

I gave God an easy out today. After driving across the Bloukrans Bridge, I parked my car, walked to the middle of the bridge and jumped off. There was only a shallow stream below and the Bloukrans Bridge is the highest in Africa. I figured I had made it this far, let’s see what happens. If I am meant to continue on then I will live, if not, then it is a good day to die.

But the jump was not as suicidal as it sounds even though it is identified by the Guiness Book of Records as the highest commercial bungee jump in the world. First I was weighed and my weight was written on my hand as it would determine which bungee cord to use. I told the woman weighing me to add a few extra kilos for good measure. I wanted to fly, but I didn’t want my inaugural flight to be my last either.

Next, I put on a nylon harness to which two bungee cords would be attached, one to my ankles and another to my chest. The second cord was really a back-up as the main line was to save me from certain death by suspending me upside down from my legs. Walking out to the bridge the guide explained that he had jumped 19 times before and to top it off, the outfit had a 99.7% safety record. Ok, actually it was 100%, but what if it was only 99.7%? Does that mean someone lost a finger or a limb, but didn’t perish?

I felt safe walking across the catwalk below the road way. Cars zoomed by overhead, tires bouncing on the seams in the concrete. A cool breeze blew threw archway beneath the roadway. Clouds prevented the sun from warming the air.

At center stage, it was game time. Techno music played to inspire me and the other jumpers. Thoughts raced through my head from, “This sure would be a stupid way to die” to “I think I still have life insurance, I wonder if jumping off a bridge is covered?” to “I hope I don’t chicken out.” There was no turning back, I was beyond the point of no return. One of the guide’s shirt read, “Fear is temporary. Regret is forever.” It inspired me to push forward, but then it occurred to me that I would forever regret jumping if I didn’t live beyond the jump. Nevermind, too late.

“Number 127” was written on the dry erase board. I looked down at my hand and saw a match. Unfortunately, this was not Bingo or Keno, this was bungee jumping. I kicked off my flip flops and walked on the cold cement to a box near the jump zone where I took a seat. Two red velcro wraps, like the kind used to take your blood pressure, were placed on my calves. Subsequently, my legs were sinched together, knees knocking and heels touching. There was little margin for error.

Two guys surveyed my harness, the straps and the bungees, yanking and tightening, making final last minute adjustments. Safety check was over and the moment of truth was here. I stood up as the guys each took an arm to help me hop to the ledge. The wind was blowing by ears as the music faded from my awareness.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1,” the guys yelled in unison. Bombs away.

Air whizzing at my face, silence all around, my body was in a free fall from almost 1,000 feet, it was the craziest 60 seconds of my life. Hurling toward earth, disappointment set in. Despite my childhood fantasies, I was not superman. Nor was I the Greatest American Hero, at least I didn’t have my cape on. Batman utility belt non-existent, I was left only to rely on the bungee cords supposedly strapped to my ankles.

Reversing at 120 kilometers per hour is difficult in a car, with just your body it is even more challenging. And that is exactly what happened. After several hair raising seconds of free fall, I went from a dead drop to my first recoil launching me back toward the bridge about half the distance I had just fallen. “Oh no, not this again,” I thought to myself.

For another minute, I would recoil 3 more times before coming to some semblance of a stationary position. I felt like meat hung to dry, suspended some 200 meters from the bridge. Blood rushed to my head as I had now been upside down for at least 2 minutes as I shaked and baked on the bungee.

A man from the bridge lowered himself to my position and rearranged my bungee so that I would be semi-upright instead of hanging upside down for the trip back up to the bridge. Another minute of hard hand over hand work by the guys on the bridge and I was back on deck. It was a rush, one that I would eagerly do again.

So today was not my day to die. God had his/her chance to make sense of it all, but it was not to be. Thank God!
(Left: Dried Meat on a string.)