The Art of Non-Conformity: Unconventional Strategies for Life, Work, and Travel

If you're new here, you may want to learn what this site is about. I encourage you to subscribe to my RSS feed or sign up for free email updates. Thanks for visiting!

Sometimes it seems that wherever I go in the world, I’m always too early or too late to the party. One week ago today I was hanging out in Beirut, Lebanon, walking all over what I found to be a beautiful city, stopping for cappuccino along the waterfront and then having 40-cent falafel for lunch.

Today in the news, Beirut is under siege and the airport is closed. I’m usually disappointed when I find out I’ve missed a party somewhere, but this situation is serious enough that I’m glad to have missed it, and I’m concerned about the people I met there.

Compared to what’s happening now, my time in Beirut was extremely uneventful. My biggest challenge was finding a place to do my laundry. I also got in trouble for taking these photos (click to enlarge), but I wasn’t told to delete them.

For those who are interested, this guy is writing an hour-by-hour account of what’s going on over there this week.

Syria

A couple of days later, I headed out to Damascus, Syria by minibus. For only $7, the three-hour trip is a bargain. I had heard rumors of an incongruous Dunkin Donuts on the Lebanese / Syrian border, and I can now confirm that the rumors are true. It is perhaps the most oddly located Dunkin Donuts in the world (I’ll keep looking elsewhere in case I’m wrong), but unfortunately our driver wasn’t interested in stopping, so I was unable to sample the local Bavarian cremes.

Along the journey, I met up with two travelers from Toronto, Jessica and Ildar. The three of us ended up hanging out in Damascus for the rest of the day and on into the evening over late-night drinks near our hostel.

Simply put, Syria is amazing. After just a few hours on my first day, I knew it was definitely going on my “Top 10 Countries” list whenever I get around to writing it. I felt completely safe at all times, was never hassled or pressured for anything, and genuinely felt welcomed by many of the people we talked to.

In the evening we visited the Umayyad Mosque, one of the oldest and most historical mosques in the world. We went at sunset and enjoyed learning about the building’s history from a local guide.

I don’t always feel this way about places I visit, but I wished I had stayed longer in Syria. It exceeded expectations that were already high, and I would love to go back sometime.

Tunisia

My last stop on the trip was Tunisia, where I stayed with the family of a Tunisian friend I know from Seattle. It was great to experience Tunisian life up close and personal. Over the course of a weekend, I saw most of the city and surrounding areas including the historical city of Carthage. I also attended the semi-finals and finals of the Tunis Open, a challenger event on the world tennis tour.

On Saturday, my new friends had arranged a Tunisian blogger meet-up at a local café. We talked about the role that Tunisian bloggers are trying to fill in the country and blogging in general.

Tunisia was the last real stop on this trip, but on the way back I traveled through Amman (again) and Rome. In Amman I went out to dinner with another friend from Seattle, and in Rome I had to sleep in the airport for a night before catching a 6:40 a.m. connecting flight.

I don’t really enjoy sleeping in airports, and in fact I try to avoid it whenever possible. But with the tremendous expense of the euro and the fact that I would have to get up at 4:00 a.m. anyway to get to the airport, it didn’t make sense to stay in a hotel. I picked a relatively quiet spot by gate B-9 and made a sleeping area with some blankets I had saved from the last flight.

I didn’t sleep much, but thankfully I wasn’t kicked out, so the next morning I was able to stumble on to the 6:40 connection to Frankfurt. By the time we got there, I was more awake and didn’t mind the 11-hour flight back to Seattle.

***

This trip involved a lot of flying and overland travel at a faster pace than I usually prefer, but it was also a lot of fun. I’m now back in Seattle for several weeks before the next trip in late June.

While I’m here I’ll be finishing up the final draft of the upcoming manifesto, “A Brief Guide to World Domination.” The manifesto will be free, 100% non-commercial, and available for everyone in mid-June.

We were mentioned in a New York Times blog last week, and the interest for the site is really picking up. More than 4,000 people have been coming by every day this week, and I’ve appreciated hearing from many of the new readers.

Thanks for following the journey!

###

Popularity: 3% [?]

Related entries:

Trip Update: I haven’t had a lot of time to post reports from my trip to South America and the Middle East, so while I’m hanging out in transit today, I thought I’d post this report instead of the usual Wednesday work essay. We’ll go back to regularly scheduled programming next week.

If you are a Twitter user, you can also follow my real-time updates here.

***

Photo credit: Chris

Before the plane takes off for the 10 ½ hour flight to Santiago, the LAN Chile flight attendant wants to take my entire food and drink order while we’re still waiting to take off at JFK. I tell her I’ll have the pasta, but I can tell she’s waiting for something else.“Do you want bread with that?” she finally asks. Sure, OK. “Brown or white?”

“Uh, brown is fine.” Dinner is three hours away, but I need to place my order now in great detail.

This conversation goes on for a while in a mixture of Spanish and English. She asks if I’ll want breakfast in the morning, which is nine hours from now. “What kind of cereal? Café con leche or tea?”

I find it amusing that I have to order everything I want over the next 10 ½ hours before we even leave the ground. What if I want a Diet Coke in the middle of the flight—should I page the attendant again to let her know now?

***

It takes a while to get to Easter Island. Five hours from Seattle to JFK, 10 ½ to Santiago, and five more to the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Thankfully, under the terms of the OneWorld Round-the-World tickets I travel with, each of these long flights counts as just one segment each, the same way that a San Francisco-L.A. flight would be one segment each.

The trick is to maximize value by taking long flights to remote places that would ordinarily be prohibitively expensive to fly to on a single ticket. Later on in this trip I’ll fly from Buenos Aires to Chicago, and then Chicago to Amman, Jordan—once again just one segment each for 10+ hours of flying each time.

So anyway, on to Easter Island.

It’s hard to write about a place like this without using the tired clichés of travel writing. Phrases like “in the middle of nowhere” and “undiscovered” and “the ends of the earth” are overused to the point of becoming trite. People who live on Easter Island don’t think of it as the middle of nowhere, and few if any places in the world remain undiscovered.

But while acknowledging all of that, I may lose the war against clichéd writing when trying to explain Easter Island. It really is a long way from anywhere else. It takes five hours to get to Chile in one direction, and six hours to Tahiti in the other. Those are the sole connections, on just one airline that has four flights a week.

The LAN Chile 767 looks enormous on the tarmac of the tiny airport. The other passengers and I descend the staircase to the ground and walk straight off onto the road. There’s no shuttle bus, and only a tiny terminal for those who have checked bags. We’ve already cleared immigration in Chile, and since I have no bags, I take a few steps from the airplane to the small parking lot.

As I walk away from the tarmac, I realize that if I were to suddenly change my mind tonight or tomorrow and want to leave, there’s no way off the island until the plane comes back from Tahiti in three days. This isn’t like my normal stopovers in places like Frankfurt or Hong Kong, with dozens of flights taking off every hour to countless world capitals.

I’m staying in a guesthouse about two miles out of the only town on the island. Each day of my trip, I walk back and forth at least twice, and the slow shuffle along half-paved roads reminds me another two-mile trek I took recently. A few weeks ago I was in L.A. for a downtown conference, and to save money I stayed at a small motel two miles away. Just as I’m doing here, I walked back and forth each morning and afternoon.

The paradox is unmistakable. Except for the Spanish language, downtown L.A. and downtown Hanga Roa don’t have much in common. There are no buildings taller than a couple of stories here on the island, and you can walk the entire town in fifteen minutes. There is one bank, which I hurry to get to for money changing since they close at 1:00 p.m. every day.

Opting out of the $30 prix fixe menu offered by my guesthouse later that evening, I head out to town in search of food on my first evening. After I ask for the menu (la carta) at a few restaurants, I realize that the guesthouse meal was not overpriced. Virtually everything on every menu starts at $20, and the restaurants don’t look that nice. At first I think I must be calculating the exchange rate wrong, but no—the local beers really are $8 and small cheese pizzas are $24. What is this, Monaco?

I end up getting a tomato and avocado sandwich for $13. I don’t like tomatoes or avocados, but it’s the cheapest thing on the menu. I decide I won’t do much eating until I get to Argentina a few days from now.

***

My tour around the island the next morning is nice. I learn more about the history of the island, better recounted by Wikipedia than by me here. I visit the mysterious row of 15 moal and stand in front of them for a while. I go to the quarry where the moai were carved. My guide tells me about another moai nicknamed “the traveler” because he was sent to Japan on a publicity tour a few years ago.

The traveler, what a great name. I decide I should have a photo in front of him, and my guide offers to help. While he is taking the picture, I’m wondering if he knows what he’s doing, since he’s pointing the camera away from the traveler moai. He smiles and gives back the camera, which contains all of me and only the very edge of the moai I wanted to be seen with.

Oh well. It’s kind of funny.

I ask if there’s a prison on the island, and my guide laughs. “We have a jail,” he says, “but we call it ‘the university.’” The few prisoners are allowed out to go fishing during the day, and the one guard leaves at night without locking up. There isn’t much crime here to begin with, and when someone is sent to jail, there’s no where to escape to.

***

Back to the undiscovered part. Here is the thing I’ve realized about hanging out in far away places: they may not be undiscovered in the broad sense, but to any single traveler, they are in fact undiscovered until you see it for yourself.

I realize further on one of my walks to town that even among people who have traveled a fair amount, the overwhelming majority of them almost never come to places like Easter Island. This, for me, is one of the things about long trips to these far away places sometimes known as the ends of the earth—I can walk on this island that most people never give a moment’s thought to, and I can look up at the stars that I have never seen from this part of the planet. I can observe how people live their lives, and here on Easter Island, they live their lives in a hybrid Latin American / Polynesian culture.

Another thing I realize as I write these notes after coming back from town my second evening:

I will never come here again.

OK, it is technically possible that one day I could return. But it’s very unlikely; in fact, the idea seems implausible. This is the kind of place you visit just once. Even though I don’t love it here, the realization that I will likely never return makes me a little sad.

I remind myself that I have one life to live. This is my sole chance to visit this remote island, and I’d better appreciate it while I have it.

***

Over the next few days, I go back to Chile, then to Buenos Aires for a couple of nights, and then another couple of nights across the water in Montevideo, Uruguay. At the end of the time, I take a bus back to Colonia (two and a half hours), a ferry to Buenos Aires (one hour), and a taxi to Ezeiza International Airport. I’ve cut it fairly close due to misreading my flight time when I booked the ticket a week ago, but in the end I make it with twenty minutes to spare by the time I check in.

I fly out to Chicago overnight, and after hanging out in the Belmont neighborhood for my transit day, I take another overnight flight to Amman, Jordan, and then a quick late-night connection to Beirut, Lebanon. After all the flying, I’m back in the Middle East for the first time in a year, and the second half of the trip begins.

PART TWO – Lebanon, Syria, and Tunisia

###

Popularity: 5% [?]

Related entries:

After I leave India and go to Tokyo, I pick up my OneWorld Round-the-World ticket at the American Airlines counter in Narita airport. This ticket has 20 flight segments, which is the maximum you’re allowed under OneWorld rules. Like most tickets these days, any Round-the-World ticket under 17 segments is issued as an e-ticket. When you use segments 17 through 20, however, the ticket has to be issued on paper stock.

I mention that because I am now in possession of the thickest plane ticket I have ever seen. I have 20 flight coupons, naturally, and all the required documentation, stapled together in a huge mass of paper. When I check in for my first flight, NRT-HKG, the Cathay Pacific agent is suitably impressed.

“You have so many flights!” she says.

Yes, I do. And I like that.

From Narita I travel to Hong Kong for a 20-hour layover before returning to Los Angeles, where I began this trip a couple weeks back. In Hong Kong I always stay at the Lee Garden Guest House, a tiny place on the 8th floor of an unassuming building in the TST district of Kowloon. Charlie Chan, the owner, provides rooms for a fraction of the cost that most travelers pay when staying in the notoriously expensive city.

Even though his guesthouse is still relatively cheap, Charlie Chan has raised his prices recently. Maybe it’s just the long downward spiral of the U.S. dollar, but the $400 HKD ($60 USD) seems like more than I paid last time. Still, to stay in central Kowloon for under a hundred bucks isn’t the easiest thing to do, so I’m content.

***

The last time I was here, I had just moved to Seattle in late 2006. I traveled via Seoul on Asiana Airlines, and by the time I finally reached Hong Kong, I was exhausted from the 22-hour trip that included a three-hour delay in Seoul. As is often the case, I couldn’t sleep despite being so tired, and I woke up at 2:00 a.m. with the strange jet-lagged feeling of being awake but not having any energy. At 4:00 a.m. I finally went outside and walked up the street to a 24-hour McDonald’s for pancakes.

I walked around Kowloon, which was surprisingly awake at 4:30 a.m., until ten. I returned to the guesthouse for a two-hour nap and immediately fell asleep for eight hours. That was not part of the plan, but from then on in my travels I stopped worrying about jet lag. Whatever happens, happens is my theory. Eventually it sorts itself out and I end up on local time, usually just before it’s time to go somewhere else.

***

I frequently find myself in places that I’m ready to leave soon after arriving. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with them; it just means that I get bored easily and crave the sense of movement to a new place.

Hong Kong is different—I could stay for weeks, or maybe even months without going anywhere else. I didn’t even get to see one of my favorite cities in the world for very long this time, and I resolve to stay longer when I come back this way again.

Ready or not, it’s time for me to say farewell to Hong Kong, city of shopping centers and skyscrapers. On a quick metro trip to the other side of the harbor, I stand next to an elderly woman playing a pink Nintendo DS, oblivious to the world as she presses the buttons.

A few short hours later finds me leaving the city far too soon, riding the hour-long A21 CityFlyer bus from Chattam Road back to the airport. We pass by Nathan Road in the TST district and gradually pick up more passengers.

My bus pulls in to Terminal One at Hong Kong International Airport and I begin the process of a new journey. Check-in, immigration, hiding the liquids and gels I’ve smuggled from country to country, security check, lounge visit or terminal wandering, gate-waiting, and boarding.

Thanks to the free wi-fi, I check my email and see that many of you have joined my email list. There were more than one thousand visitors to this new site yesterday, and I’m surprised at all the nice feedback.

My thanks go out to every one of you for reading; I am truly honored. Please keep leaving comments and writing in to say hello.

HKG-LAX

On Cathay Pacific Airways, the flight crew is the epitome of sensitivity that I imagine the British strove to inspire in Hong Kong. Upon departure the captain says, “Cabin crew, please kindly prepare for takeoff.” How thoughtful. When I get up to visit the lavatory before the seat belt sign is off, the flight attendant notices me and asks, “Excuse me, sir, but did you notice that the seat belt sign is still on?” I am politely shamed into following all of the in-flight rules for the rest of our twelve-hour flight.

I watch a documentary on climate change in Africa and enjoy my penne pasta with merlot. I sleep for a few hours and wake up in U.S. airspace. Four hours later, I’m in Los Angeles, sleepwalking through immigration in the middle of the afternoon and getting ready to hang out at a downtown conference for a few days.

It’s been a good trip.

###

Popularity: 7% [?]

Related entries:

Part I - Getting to India
Part II - India Travel Journal I

After traveling around by land during my first week in India, I arrive in Calcutta on a late-night Kingfisher Airlines flight from Hyderabad. The flight is great, and serves as a good model for what U.S. airlines could learn from if they were interested in learning anything. Everyone receives a full meal on the all-economy flight, we have Bollywood movies on our own individual screens, and the flight attendants are extremely gracious. It’s just like Jet Blue, except they actually deliver what they promise.

Due to air traffic control delays (something all too universal, unfortunately), we are about an hour and a half behind schedule, putting us getting into CCU airport close to midnight. I think Pico Iyer once wrote that all flights to Calcutta are destined to land at 3:00 a.m. By that standard, I suppose, we’re three hours early.

I stagger out to the arrivals area, book a pre-paid taxi, and meet my driver for an hour-long ride to nowhere. After he stops to ask three or four people for directions, we finally find my guesthouse. I check in, arrange for breakfast, and fall fast asleep after a quick shower. (I’m still working off the effects of the 12-hours of jet lag from Seattle the week before.)

Prior to coming to Calcutta, my Indian experience has been mixed. In Mumbai I loved the food but didn’t enjoy the lack of decent budget lodging options. I went to Hyderabad next, which had both good food and cheap hotels… but something didn’t feel right. I’m the first to admit that it could be totally subjective, but for whatever reason, I didn’t love Hyderabad.

From my first day in Calcutta, everything changes for the better—even the things that were pretty good before. My guesthouse is perfect, and even includes free wi-fi that allows me to catch up on life back home. The food in the city is great, and I regularly eat full meals for under $1.50.

Happy Holi

The second day is even better. I discover that I am in Calcutta for Holi, the Hindu festival that celebrates the arrival of spring. On the first day of Holi, nearly everyone covers themselves in body paint from head to toe.

Upon exiting my guesthouse and heading for the nearby metro, I quickly learn that I am not exempt from the practice. A group of excited young me come up to me with fistfuls of the powder that turns to paint as you smear it on your body. “Hello, sir!” one of them says. “Happy Holi!” There’s no getting out of this, and it’s nice to be the center of attention from people who want nothing more than to share their culture with you.

“Okay,” I say as they extend their hands to my face. “But small, please.” No need to go overboard like some people do at these things.

They smear yellow and purple powder on my face and hair. I think to myself, I hope I’m not converting to Hinduism. I ask for two pictures—one of them by themselves and another with me. They immediately agree, and everyone crowds in for the photos. I say goodbye and walk off with all of us laughing.

The metro is closed for the holiday, so I walk the three miles into town. It’s a long trek in the Indian heat, but the walk is made better by countless people stopping me to wish me a Happy Holi. I get my face painted a couple more times at the insistence of festive Calcuttans, and finally make it to Park Street, where I cool off in an air-conditioned café. I drink a liter of water and head back outside.

Lunch costs 25 cents at a sidewalk vendor. I get dumplings and hot soup, which is ironic considering the heat, but it tastes great. After wandering through bookshops and city streets for two more hours, I’m ready for the highlight of the afternoon: a trip to Mother Theresa’s house.

Mother House

I walk to Mother House, as it’s known here, and get directions along the way from several helpful Calcuttans. When I arrive, it turns out I’ve come at just the right time—the 3:00 p.m. Good Friday service is about to begin. Before I go upstairs, I walk around the small visitors’ area. Reading the information about Mother Theresa’s life and the work of Missionaries of Charity around the world is truly inspiring. This has got to be the only tourist destination in India that does not offer anything for sale or ask for donations. Despite the dozens of foreign visitors that come every day, there’s no bookshop, souvenirs, or mementos to buy.

Upstairs there are at least 100 nuns at the service, along with a small crowd of Western and Japanese visitors. We sit on one side of the room, across from the nuns. The service is nice. Just before communion, I try to sneak out—I’m not a confirmed Catholic, so I’m not supposed to take communion—but I’m stopped at the door by a sister who politely asks me to stay. I learn later that they have a rule: once you’re inside, you stay inside until the end of the service. No one comes late, and no one leaves early. Despite being ready to go after an hour and a half, I’m impressed with this policy. I don’t know any churches in America that would try doing that.

I leave Mother House (after the service ends, twenty minutes later) and spend some more time walking. The metro is open now, so I take it back to South Calcutta where I’m staying.

South City Mall

Before leaving Calcutta the next day, I visit the new South City Mall upon the recommendation of the guesthouse owner. This gleaming five-story building is certainly incongruous with the image of Calcutta as a center of urban poverty. I’ve been to some big Asian malls before, in Bangkok, Hong Kong, and Singapore, and most of those were probably superior in a strict shopping sense—but this architectural Mecca of the city’s elite is still something special.

I enter at the ground floor and sit on a bench for a full half an hour, taking it all in and journaling. Outside I was covered in sweat from the heat; inside, I’m shivering from the arctic blast of the a/c. The music is blasting too, and I have no choice but to enjoy all the great Top 40 hits of the 80s on repeat.

“It must have been cold there in your shadow…” Bette Midler sings as I sit on the bench with some Indians. Next up is Tina Turner, followed by Sinead O’Conner, and I finally head upstairs as Rod Stewart comes over the system.

I check out the shops on each floor, and find it strange to see The Body Shop in the same city that Mother Theresa’s house is in. I go back and forth between worlds all the time, but this is a stretch even for me.

There’s an Australian cookie shop downstairs and another place called Kookie Jar in the food court upstairs. Strangely, the Kookie Jar sells curry and cakes, but no cookies. Otherwise, the food court boasts a wealth of world cuisine choices. I debate between Pizza with Friends and Not Just Dosas before settling on Hat’wich, the Indian version of Quizno’s. Unlike Quizno’s, there are real vegetarian options here—a grand total of seven different sandwiches to choose from. Thanks, India. I appreciate that about you.

After a sandwich I go to The Juice Bar, but a sign informs customers that they are out of juice today. A juice bar out of juice, how perfect. I have a sweet lassi instead and spend an hour reading my book.

I leave the mall as Eternal Flame is belting through the sound system. I go back to my guesthouse, get my bags, and take a taxi to the airport. I’m headed back over to Mumbai, where my trip will end in two day’s time. The airport is as frantic as it was the last time, but I’m able to smile at the frenzy. I pay my driver, go inside for the boarding pass, and head off towards the security checkpoint. In three more hours, I’ll be in Mumbai.

***

Update: My trip to India is almost over. I’m now at the Mumbai airport, getting ready to fly back to Japan. Next stop: Hong Kong, and then back to L.A. for the weekend.

###

Popularity: 8% [?]

Related entries:

I’m having an Indian coffee in the Churchgate section of Mumbai, roughly 15 hours after my arrival here. Since then, I’ve come in from the airport, crashed at a sad hotel, changed hotels, changed money, and tried to begin the process of acclimation to a culture that is new to me.

Mumbai is not a good place to show up without a room reservation. I knew this from reading the guides, but despite a few late night Skype calls and two email attempts, I have no reservation.

I check out the option of booking a room at the airport kiosk, but I don’t have a good vibe about it. All of the hotels have names like “Supreme” and “Emerald” and “Majestic.” The booking guy keeps saying, “Trust me, sir, trust me.” In my experience, when someone at the airport keeps saying “Trust me,” you should start looking elsewhere.

I decide to take my chances in the city, and hire a taxi to take me into town. It costs $8 for a 90-minute ride, but the 90 minutes pass slowly with no a/c and a crazy driver. I pass a billboard that says “This New Year’s, don’t drink and drive.” It’s March 15. Then I see another one that says “Give blood at the blood bank, not on the road!” This seems like wise counsel to me, but my driver doesn’t speak English so I’m not sure how the message gets through.

The No-Star Hotel

After 90 minutes of riding along, we finally get to the Colaba district where I hope to stay. The first place I check is closed, the second place is way too expensive, so when I come to the third place I’m pretty much ready for anything. It’s nearly 6:00 a.m. Seattle time and I still haven’t slept. At the third place, I ask the porter how many stars this hotel has. (When I’m not staying in guesthouses, I try to stay in 2 or 3-star places, which are midrange in price and often a good bargain.)

He laughs. “This is a no-star hotel, sir,” he says in the very Indian way. Well, what choice do I have? I pay an incredible $55 to stay in the no-star Strand Hotel, which turns out to be fairly rated. I don’t think the Travel Board of India will be calling at the Strand anytime soon to award its first star.

But I’m able to sleep for seven hours, and that’s what matters. At 4:30 a.m., I get up and walk outside. For two hours I explore my new neighborhood, visiting the Gate of India and watching the city wake up. I find the local Salvation Army, which has a guest house I had read about online. I’m able to book a single room including three meals a day for $20. Even though it’s an equally basic property, I’m much happier there. I move my bags from down the street and have an Indian breakfast at a nearby restaurant for $1.30 in celebration of my new room.

I spend the rest of the morning in other parts of the city, visiting bookstores, watching street cricket matches, arguing with taxi drivers who lie about knowing where my destination is and then try to overcharge me. It’s all part of traveling, I remind myself.

Day Three – Immigration, Dhavari, and the Train

Check-out time at the Salvation Army is 9:00 a.m., so I leave my bags in the cloakroom and head out to spend another day in the city before going to Hyderabad late tonight. My first stop is for coffee at the Indian version of Starbucks. It’s called Barista and is a third of the price of Starbucks, for great coffee too. The clientele is half Indian and half foreigners. I read the hilarious Bombay Times and get ready for my day.

In the morning, my main task is to visit the Bureau of Immigration. Back in Seattle, I applied and paid for a multiple entry visa for India, knowing that I intended to cross over to Bangladesh before flying back to Japan from Mumbai. Three weeks later, I was dismayed to receive a single entry visa with no explanation. I called the San Francisco consulate to complain, but they had no sympathy. All I could do, they said, was to speak to the immigration officials after arrival in India.

I first tried discussing the matter with the immigration guys at the Mumbai airport when I came in, but they were not encouraging. There is no such thing as a transit visa in India, so apparently it is at the discretion of the authorities to let you in or send you back where you came from if you try to come without a valid visa.

This was not good news. I have a lot of experience traveling without visas in West Africa, but as I feared, India is far more efficient. There is a real chance that my trip to Bangladesh could prevent me from coming back to Mumbai. This would set off a whole series of unfortunate events—my Frequent Flyer ticket back to Japan would automatically be canceled, leaving me no way to get back to Tokyo. In Tokyo I’m scheduled to pick up my OneWorld Round-the-World ticket, which has a specific departure date. If I missed the first flight, the rest of the ticket would also be canceled. On and on it would go, and to top it all off, I would be stuck in Dhaka, Bangladesh for an undetermined amount of time. I haven’t been there yet, but the reviews of Dhaka aren’t very good.

For all these reasons, I need some assurance from the Indians before I set off. I hail a taxi, make sure the driver knows where he’s going, and ride out to the Bureau of Immigration at the Mumbai Police Department.

Unfortunately, the news at immigration isn’t good. Basically, only the head office in Delhi can change my visa or get me a new one. Delhi is 33 hours away. They give me a phone number I can try, but I’m not optimistic. The official tells me that if I try to do it without a visa, I will almost certainly be denied entry.

I leave feeling a little sad. My rule is to never pass up a country that I’m close to, and Bangladesh isn’t exactly on the way to anywhere else. Nor is it a Star Alliance or OneWorld hub, nor is there any practical reason why I’d need to go there in the next year or two. I decide to enjoy the rest of the day and think about this problem later.

This afternoon, I’m going on a tour of Dhavari, which will require me to be in a different frame of mind than worrying about whether I’ll get to Bangladesh or not.

Click to enlarge any photo:

Dhavari

I head out to Dhavari by local train. I’ve arranged to take a tour of the area by this group, which is one part business and one part NGO. On the walk out from the train station we get the brief overview: Dhavari is Asia’s largest slum tenement (no one likes that phrase, including me, but it helps you get the idea), with more than one million people living in a two square kilometer radius.

For three hours we walk through the city, talking with residents and learning about their way of life. Our guide, Krishna, does a great job of accenting the positive aspects of Dhavari life along with the negative. An amazing number of entrepreneurial projects have sprung up in Dhavari, and most of the population is involved in making something or tearing something down throughout the day.

Among other things, the city has set up a major recycling operation to break down the tons of plastic that come in from Mumbai and overseas. I think about the four large water bottles that I’m drinking every day while in India.

I find the experience of visiting Dhavari to be mostly encouraging, although of course there is still a great deal of poverty for most residents. Some of the New Yorkers from our group were a bit overwhelmed, but compared to a lot of places in Africa I think that Dhavari is developing well. The main problem seems to be how the government can provide better housing and sanitation for the one million residents, and that does not seem like an easy problem to solve.

Click to enlarge any photo:

Final Night In Mumbai

After the trip I take the train back to Mumbai, and head for dinner. I end up at another great local restaurant where I am the only foreigner and a large meal costs $1.80. What a great place.

Afterwards I have an hour before I head out, so I stop in one of Mumbai’s few pubs for a drink. My one beer costs $3, and I smile at the irony of the beer costing 60% more than the whole meal did.

The server in front of me is dancing and lip-syncing along to Hotel California. It’s comical to watch, but it’s also the only entertaining part of this bar. We move on to Piano Man and Stairway To Heaven before I decide I can’t take it anymore.

I leave the pub, walk back to the Salvation Army to get my bags, and hire a taxi to take me to the Central Train Station. I buy water and settle down to wait. I’m amazed at the throng of passengers waiting to travel—apparently 800,000 people pass through this train station every day. It seems that all 800,000 are here right now, but there’s little confusion and everything works remarkably well.

The train arrives promptly, ten minutes ahead of schedule, and I find my name posted outside the assigned carriage. I set up my bunk and say hello to the other travelers, all Indians. There are six of us in our compartment, but after the long day, I don’t spend much time being social. I go straight to sleep, wake up for the passport check and the guy who takes our order for breakfast (I have no idea what he’s saying, so I just answer “yes” to everything), and then sleep fitfully through the night.

At 5:30 I’m still sleeping, but the guy below me turns on the overhead light, waking up all the rest of us. Oh well. After I lie in the bunk for a while, I wake up and read. This morning I’m reading the Mumbai Mirror (headline: 93 of 95 Policemen Fail Fitness Test!) and a copy of The Atlantic I brought with me from the States.

I’m looking forward to getting to Hyderabad, and then to Calcutta a couple of days later. This time I have a room reservation, and I’ll be arriving at a reasonable hour with no jet lag.

The breakfast guy from last night returns with my order just before nine. It looks like I have some bread and a small omelet, which isn’t bad at all for the low price of 54 cents. 13 hours down, 4 to go.

Part III – Three Days in Calcutta

###

Popularity: 13% [?]

Related entries: