“India? India? India?

The Nepal-India Sonauli border? Insanity.

It’s been 10 days since we’ve crossed over into India, which was no easy feat in itself. I thought the brazilian couple we met in Nepal were exaggerating when they made references to Apocolypse Now.  If you ever make the trek, remember to bring enough cash. We found out the hard way that there wasn’t a working ATM in a 10-mile radius.

Another thing to remember: Not all immigration officers find it funny when they ask you for the purpose of your visit and you respond, “to steal your women.”

While all the foreigners are purchasing traditional Indian clothes, locals are buying Western clothes across the bazaar.

How dirty is it here? Well, let’s just say you won’t feel bad for littering.  The chaotic border crossing was not a culture shock but more of a culture-drop-kick-in-the-nuts.  It’s been about 10 days and four cities — and one helluva roller coaster ride.

We were warned numerous times to not accept any food while on the train. Many foreigners are drugged, then mugged.

Tiff at Connaught Place, the center of Delhi, during Diwali

A fireracker exploding in my hand. Kids don't try this at home. Check out the little 'uns scared expression.

One day, you can’t get enough of it: Celebrating Diwali from a hotel rooftop, chowing on good food, watching fireworks explode, musicians drumming, all while some crazy Rajistanian puppet master depicts Kamasutra acts with his dolls.

Then the next day, your stomach starts a civil war, and everybody you meet looks at you like a fantastic ATM and tries to scam you in every way imaginable.

Holy moly: Festival of Kartik, hidden in the valleys of Jaipur.

“The Great Indian Rooster Coop…A handful of men in this country have trained the remaining 99.9 per cent…to exist in perpetual servitude”
- The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga

One thing that’s rubbing me the wrong way is the caste system here.  Head honchos at bus companies, counting their cash with fat fingers wrapped in gold rings like drug kingpins.  The rest of his employees, angry, unhappy in life — but finding some satisfaction in ripping us rich poor bastards off. I try not to blame them, but if anything, India has given me the itchiest trigger-finger on my anger.

Taj Mahal: A symbol of love. And now, a symbol of embarassment for Tiff, who is being dipped in front of hundreds of conservative Indians.

And miraculously, Tiff and I are still together through all this. We have been tandem-traveling for half a year, in each other’s company every freakin’ waking minute. I don’t think married couples will even be able to relate — I’d have to have a chat with siamese twins at this point. And even after a somosa-throwin’ fight, we are still very much together — however, platonically in public. We have been in hotels where they have a rule against public hand-holding or kissing.

Oh yeah, visiting Taj Mahal was a surreal experience. The love palace looked like it was made out of sunshine kisses and butterfly tears and the stuff of 13-year-old girl dreams.

Charmin'. But with a bite.

Anyway, I’m picking my battles now. The one I chose today was over bus seats. No matter which bus you take here (local or tourist) or how early you reserve, foreigners always get assigned the back rows. Your ticket can read a low number — Hell, it can read “Seat Negative 2, on the Driver’s Lap” — you will get pushed to the back. Today, I made my stand, wanting a seat between the wheel axis for the bumpy ride.

Yes, I am Rosa Parks in India.

Monkeying around at the Temple of Sun God, or Galta

And Tiffany is Mother Theresa in Calcutta.

Look at her handing out bananas to the poor. Amazing.  Every Saturday and Tuesday at dawn, Krpa Shanker visits the Monkey Temple with two large bags of bananas and feeds the wild monkeys.

It was just our luck to run into him and for the better part of an hour, just the three of us handed out fruit.

Commanding an army of monkeys.

Once the last banana was given out, we were more than happy to leave. The large pack of monkeys were beginning to go apeshit — one even jumped on my back.

The Pushkar Camel Fair.

We’re now in the holy city of Pushkar, attending their annual Camel Fair, India’s biggest showcase for cattle. I wanted to purchase a few of these humpty-dumptys, but Tiff, forever my accountant, wouldn’t allow it. I’ll try to use her denial as leverage when I ask for a schimitar tomorrow. I’m thinkin’ either a sword or 100% silk full-body outfits, one in each color of the Power Rangers.

The fair is divided into three sections, one for camels, horses and cows.

A few early complaints: We are so tired of every single local shouting, “China? Korea? Japan?” I am beginning to answer back with the question, “India? India?” Also, We need to stop going to holy places; no restaurants here serve meat. I was salivating looking at their sacred cows today.

Sun setting over the city of Jaipur.

Next up for us? Hindu exorcism, more holy shit and this hippy-ass 10-day meditation retreat, which honors “noble silence,” that Tiff is making us attend. I wonder if I have to bring my own flying carpet.

But inner peace doesn’t sound that bad; it might save me from killing somebody here.