Return Trip to India – by Larry Brown (the Beekeeper), India III

Written in 1989, edited slightly in 2012

                  In February 1989, I took a trip to India and I thought you (India III) might be interested in a few of the impressions, events and costs of such a trip these days.  I began writing this soon after returning and fully intended to send it to all of you in a 1989 Xmas card.  I'm one year late, but what's a year ± when you get to this age.  Merry Christmas.

Intro

                  I finally got back to India.  I had been going to do it since we left.  The time we spent in India in the Peace Corps was challenging, exciting, trying, interesting, educational [and a whole bunch of other adjectives] and I had vowed I would return someday to see the country again.  Here's how the trip came about.  

                  The mining company I worked with for 12 years (AMAX Inc.) laid me off in 1985 so I went into business for myself.  Since then I have been consulting to the mining industry on environmental matters and business has been good.  A lifelong friend of mine was working on an AID project in Shimla.  My work slowed down for the first time toward the end of 1988.  I learned of a conference in India entitled "National Seminar on Protection of Environment and Ecology by Mining Industry."  I am an ecologist working in mining and I wanted a trip to India - this was a natural. 

                  In typical Indian fashion, the conference notice indicated the date of the conference to be "Jan/Feb - hell of a definite date to plan for.  It’s pretty hard to make airline reservations to arrive on Jan/Feb.  I wrote for more specific information on the conference in November and received a registered, certified reply on December 22, complete with a brochure and a nice letter from the "Member Secretary" of the Federation of Indian Mineral Industries informing me of the exact dates and inviting me to present a paper.  Attending a conference is one thing, which provides me with a return trip to India at a discount because it is tax deductible, but here the man was offering me the opportunity to get more involved by giving a paper.  I even thought I might be able to drum up some consulting work in the country.

                  Knowing how Indian conferences are run, I knew better than to put a lot of effort into preparing a presentation specifically for this conference.  I expected the conference would be disorganized, and I expected that the invitation to speak had not been given much consideration as to what I should say, or when, or for how long.  Anyway, I determined to simply present a paper I had presented many times through the years at a number of conferences.  The paper was all prepared and typed, the slides could be organized in a matter of minutes, and I even had brochures to pass out.  The brochures had been prepared by AMAX after the project had won various environmental awards through the years.

                  On looking through the conference information I noticed that there was one other American scheduled to speak at the conference.  By chance, he was from Denver.  His name was Ray Lowrie, and I figured there couldn't be too many Lowries in the Denver phone book so I looked it up and called him at home on a Sunday afternoon.  It turns out he works for the U.S. Office of Surface Mining and Enforcement, and although I had never met him, I did know a few of the people that work for and with him.  I was curious to find out what he knew about the conference and he was curious to find out a little about India, so we set a date for lunch.

                  One of the bits of information Ray was able to provide me was what shots the government had made him get.  I had been so busy that I had not had time to worry about shots so I called my doctor after lunch and stopped by the clinic to get the necessary allotment.  I got gamma globulin, typhus, and typhoid (I think).  Of course, I contracted a slight case of typhoid from the shot and ran a fever for a few days, much like what happened to us back in Minnesota. 

                  When we were in India, Pan American Airlines was the direct link home.  As I remember it, there were two Pan Am flights (#'s 1 & 2) that left New York each day and flew around the world, one going east and one going west.  India being approximately halfway around the world, both flights stopped in New Dehli.  On this trip I tried to fly something besides Pan Am for the simple reason that I belong to three or four mileage plus programs and wanted all that mileage to accrue on one or the other of them.  No such luck.  All the other airlines had longer layovers or cost more.  There is no Pan Am 1 and 2 anymore, but Pan Am still provides the most direct trip to India.  The round trip ticket from Denver cost about $1,600 - not bad at all.  I'm paying $702 to go to Kansas City and back tomorrow.  The airlines are making their money these days on the businessman who can't make advanced reservations.

                  My passport was current from my days with AMAX so all I needed was a visa.  Nowadays, if you're in a hurry, you can hire someone to walk your visa through.  My time was short, and I simply told the travel agent to go that route.  It cost $60 +, but was well worth it.  The process consisted of Federal Expressing my passport and visa application to someone who provides the service in a city that has an Indian Consulate.  The service then hand carried the application to the consulate, waited for the visa to be issued, and Federal Expressed it back to my travel agent.  No problem.

The Trip Over - Jan 29 and 30, 1989

                  I left Denver the morning of January 29th, and changed planes in Washington D.C. and Frankfurt Germany with short layovers in each city.  All planes left essentially on time, and I arrived in Bombay at about 2:00 a.m. on Jan. 31st.  The way I figure it that is about 29 hours of continuous travel.  Not too bad.  (Returning took me something like 48 straight hours.)

                  The Frankfurt Airport and Pan Am were still very much in the news by the time I was passing through.  The Pan Am 103 disaster had occurred on December 21, 1988, barely one month earlier.  Although there are probably no statistics to support the contention, I think an airline that has crashed or been bombed recently is probably safer than one that has not.  They are certainly more safety conscious.  In fact, the Pan Am security at Frankfurt even included interviews of selected individuals during boarding - including me.  The interviewer (a lady) politely asked who I was, where I was going, why, etc. 

                  The Frankfurt Airport reminds me of what a military airport should look like.  Everything is mechanical, including the people and the board displaying the incoming and outgoing flights.  The waiting area was jammed both going and coming, and essentially all of the people are laying over for some connecting overseas flight.  There are no rooms to rent to lie down and catch some sleep.  This would appear to be a natural as some of the layovers are 6 or 8 hours.  There is nothing to do except look at the merchandise in the tax-free shops and watch people. 

                  Lazing around an airport is a drag, especially and international airport after a long flight when you have had very little sleep and jet lag is setting in.  [By the way, science has now figured out how to minimize jet lag and reset your biological clock fairly painlessly.  The basic requirement is to spend at least five and one-half hours in the sun on the day of your arrival.  That means go to the beach or walk around town or do anything that keeps you out-of-doors for at least that length of time.  The prescription goes on to indicate that more severe cases, such as traveling halfway around the world, may require an additional day or two of the five and one-half hour exposure to bright daylight.]

                  I essentially followed this prescription by wandering around Bombay all day on my first day in India and it worked rather miraculously.  I experienced essentially no jet lag, which is pretty amazing since it can debilitate some people for many days.

Jan 31 - Bombay

                  My arrival in India this time was very much like our arrival 26 years before.  In 1963 we arrived in New Dehli in the middle of June during the coolest part of the day, i.e., just before daybreak.  Stepping off the plane and into that heat got my attention. I distinctly remember it was like stepping into an oven. I was also impressed with the air conditioning system in the airport - coolies throwing water onto burlap curtains, and then manually fanning the curtains.  But, that was only the beginning.  There were no problems, it's just that arriving, and getting through customs, and the bus ride from the airport to our hotel left quite an impression. 

                  That bus ride at dawn taught me boatloads about India. Indians (and perhaps most people) are particularly active in the morning.  They are cooking breakfast, bathing, partaking of toilet, going off to work or school, blessing their abode, sweeping their living space, hitching up the bullock carts, cleaning up the dung deposited during the night, etc., etc.  I remembered observing all of this and countless other things on our bus ride from the airport to the hotel 26 years earlier.  We had supposedly been prepared for India through ceaseless lectures, language training, movies, etc., during our training, but the biggest problem with the training was that you couldn’t smell and feel lectures and movies.  Putting it nicely, the smell of urban India is bad.  It smelled of urine and feces in 1963 and it smelled the same in 1989.

                  Remember the train rides?  It took about four days and three nights to get from Mysore to New Dehli.  Third class train trips during the sweltering heat of summer were a good test of stamina and patience.  Nearly all of the locomotives were coal-fired steam engines.  There were no windows on the train cars and, by the time you really got settled on your bench (if you were fortunate enough to have a place to sit) the sweat would make rivulets of charcoal running down your body through the soot.  Sometimes showers were available during the trip, even on third class, but my memory doesn't recall that luxury to have been very common. 

                  This time I arrived in a different city at a different time of the year and I was by myself, but The Wonder That Is India was just as forceful this time as it was the first time.  I arrived at 2:00 a.m., it took one plus hours to get through customs and more to get to the hotel.  It was quite comical.  By 1989 I expected India to have significantly improved from what we experienced in 1963-64.  I expected far too much.  It was my impression that, in many ways, the country has regressed rather than progressed.

                  I had my travel agent make (supposedly) reservations at the Ramada Inn on Juhu Beach in Bombay for this first night.  I made reservations at a fancy place for a number of reasons.  First, I wanted a prominent hotel that anyone could get to by telling a taxi driver.  Second, I wanted to stay on Juhu Beach again as we had done before.  And third, I knew I was arriving at 2:00 a.m. and did not want the hassle of selecting a hotel at that time of the morning.  And, the tourist book said that the Ramada Inn had a free shuttle bus to and from the airport.  That would eliminate hassling with a taxi driver very near the crack of dawn on the first day after flying halfway around the world.

                  The only happening in making it through customs worth mentioning is that, as is typically Indian, another American and I were the very last people to get through customs.  Why? - Because we let everyone else crowd in front of us in line.  We didn't let them - it simply happens.  It's one of those things that can be observed only if you watch for it very carefully, but relax one second, and BAM, someone is in front of you.  Where there is no deadline or limited number of seats, the process is harmless.  I resolved, however, to be careful to not get squeezed out of a seat on a bus or plane in the future.

                  After customs I expected, as in every other airport in the world, to find a phone to call the Ramada and have them send the free shuttle.  Not correct.  Instead, I found a booth manned with people with signs listing which hotels they represented.  One was the Ramada, I stopped to ask about the shuttle, and the man phoned the Ramada to see if I had reservations.  The phone actually worked, but there were no reservations.  I can only assume that I looked to be capable of paying, and they assigned someone to take me to the shuttle that was already waiting. 

                  The shuttle was not only waiting, the bus driver and his assistant were sleeping in it in a dense fog of incense with the windows closed.  All I can figure is that they must have had some sinus condition they were trying to clear up.  The Bombay air is bad, but the inside of that bus was like the inside of a smoke house.  It took some minutes to wake them and clear out the smoke.  I was, of course, the only passenger.  

                  The drive through the dirty dingy streets of Bombay at 3:00 a.m. was almost as much an eye opener as the trip in from the airport 26 years earlier.  I don't know how better to describe it than to say that it was as though I was being transported through some Hollywood movie set like Indiana Jones and The Temples of Doom.  Mist was rising and the streets were vacant except for the skinny stray dogs scavenging for food.  I love such experiences because of the stark contrast with our "normal" life in America. 

                  On checking in at the hotel I was told that the nightly rate would be Rs. 660 + Rs. 184 of add-ons such as taxes.  At an exchange rate of about 15:1, this Rs. 844 converts to about $57.  This was, of course, higher than the rate quoted in the travel catalog and reserved by the travel agent in the states.  Getting squeezed is not peculiar to India, but in India it seems to happen during essentially every transaction.  And here in my first transaction in India it was already happening. 

                  I expressed some minor displeasure to the lady behind the desk and she asked if I thought the price was too high or too low.  She graciously gave me some explanation and charged me the $57 anyway.  Next, knowing that hotels start the day sometime early in the morning, and since it was by now about 4:00 a.m., I thought it might be possible to get that nights lodging free.  You can guess the answer.  Yes, I would be charged.  However, no sooner had I gotten to my room and crawled into bed, she called (yes, there was a phone in the room, and a TV) and informed me that she was very pleased to announce that I would not be charged for that night's lodging because indeed it was past the time at which the next hotel day began.  Great!  I had been wrong.  Not everyone in India was a shyster after all.

                  I was up to see the sunrise at 7:00 a.m., showered (actually had warm water), ate (toast, preserves, and coffee) explored around the hotel, bought some maps, etc.  I also tried to make additional travel arrangements.  In the states I had made reservations to fly from Bombay to Goa on February 1st, so I now made airline reservations to get me from Goa to Bangalore on February 5th and Bangalore to New Delhi on February 9th. 

                  I had telegraphed Rita from the States to meet me at the Ramada Inn at 10:00 a.m.  Rita is the youngest daughter of Thomas, my cook while in India.  I think Rita was actually born while we were there, and I think I actually saw her as a tiny baby.  We had never met.  Then, some years later, at about age 12, Rita wrote me a letter informing me that her father had died and further informed me that I would henceforth be her father.  I believe the direct quote from the letter was:  "My father has died, you are now my father, Dear Father:"  (Rita couldn’t write, of course.  She was/is Catholic and had her priest write the letter for her.)

                   It would have been pretty hard to not be moved by this.  This little girl expected nothing and asked for nothing.  I had kept in contact with Thomas after leaving India.  I had received letters from his wife and one or more of his other children asking for money, bicycles, radios, business investment money, etc.  As with many people, this type of approach is the least effective way of getting money out of me.  Rita, however, seemed (and was) absolutely sincere in indicating that all she wanted was a father.  I answered her letter, and many more through the years, and she never asked for or expected anything.  I fairly quickly established a habit of sending her a little money for Christmas.  I have normally sent $50, which isn’t much, but that still buys quite a lot in India where it may represent a month’s wages, or more.

                  Rita arrived at the hotel at 10:30 a.m. and it was great to finally meet her after all these years.  She didn't really know what she was getting into by coming to meet this guy from America, so she brought a friend along just in case she needed support.  We talked and compared photos and I gave her photos I had taken and letters I had received through the years from her father.  She told me how her father had died, about her boy friend, her job, her life, etc.  We rode the commuter train to Bombay hospital where she worked and visited with her friends and co-workers. 

                  We had lunch for about 20 Rs. each.  I had Chinese food and it was quite good.  [Chinese food can now be gotten all over India.]  Then we went to The Gateway to India and to The Taj Hotel for tea.  The Taj is a very exclusive hotel right at the gateway.  Going to the hotel was an adventure for Rita.  It is very plush and tea and some crumpets cost Rs. 48, equivalent to nearly a full days pay for Rita, whose salary is probably quite a bit above the average Indian wage.  I’m pretty sure the employees at the Taj thought Rita was a hooker – and one they didn’t even know at that.  A 26-year old Indian girl with a much older foreigner got lots of semi-quizzical/semi-dirty looks from the waiters, et. al.  I brushed it off and Rita survived. 

                  We walked all over downtown Bombay and Rita bought some Indian jewelry and (she called them baubles) for Anne, Heidi, and Molly (my wife and daughters).  I left her at about dark and caught the commuter train back to the hotel.  Walking around downtown Bombay was some experience.  I finally figured out what it felt like - it felt like I was an ant in an anthill.  Do you recall riding through the slums of Bombay on the train from the outskirts to the city center?  I remember going through hovels for miles.  That's the way it still is, and it’s still a shock - sidewalk hovels by the thousands - everywhere.  These must be some of the poorest living conditions in the world.           

                  At that time, Rita was a nurse in the heart surgery department of the Bombay Hospital.  She has since gone to Saudi Arabia and gotten married to her Indian boyfriend.  In Bombay, she worked, I believe, 6 days a week, I think 8 hours per day, but was on call 24 hours a day throughout the week.  She was single, lived in the nurses quarters at the hospital, and had a kind of housemother that looked after them.  She was paid about Rs. 1,000 per month, plus room and board.  At the exchange rate of about Rs. 15 to $1, Rita is paid about $67 per month plus room and board, for about 210 hours work - $.32 per hour.

                  Rita is another example of “The Wonder That Is India” (remember that book during training?).  Myself, I find it difficult to imagine how the average person can survive in India, let alone grow up in India, let alone break loose from the bonds of poverty and caste, become educated, and move up in society.  Rita has done all of that.  I don't give India much credit for anything, but I must give India credit for allowing this to happen.  She has confidence in herself; her eyes shine bright and she has a brilliant smile. Some way or another she is overcoming much of the hardship thrust upon the common person in India.  With the help of the Catholic Church, she worked her way through secondary school and nursing school and now represents a successful, if not liberated, professional female in India.  She also says my meager contributions at Christmas helped significantly.

Feb 1 - Bombay to Goa

                  I resolved to not get sick and let that spoil my trip so I was very cautious about the food and water.  I got in the habit of having toast and preserves and coffee for breakfast and I ordered garum pani (boiled water) for drinking in the room.  If you ask for drinking water in India these days they give you filtered water.  Filtering is a great improvement over what they used to do (which was nothing) but I was told (even by the Indians) that filtering was not good enough, that even if the water is filtered it still must be boiled to be safe. 

                  Basically, my itinerary was to go to Goa to give my paper; fly to Bangalore (still no way to fly to Mysore); go to Coorg to visit a family I had kept touch with; travel through Delhi to Shimla to visit a friend of mine from the states; and, hopefully get back to the Kullu Valley some way.  As it was, I only had reservations to get from Bombay to Goa.  I worked with the hotel travel agent to see if I could rent a car in Bangalore or Mysore so that I could drive to Coorg.  Rent a car in India?  Not a chance.  There are no car rental agencies, but if you look hard enough you can rent both a car and a driver.  Of course you are stuck with paying for his time and room and board in addition to the car.  The going rate was anything from 4 to 6 Rs. per kilometer, plus room and board for the driver.  On checking out of the hotel I miraculously (or perhaps in error) got a discount by paying with a Master Card.  The total bill for the hotel was Rs. 881 ($59) including the meals I had charged.  Not bad for one plus nights in one of the better hotels in Bombay.

                  Rita arrived at 9:30 a.m. and we took a walk on the beach in front of the hotel.  Twenty-five years ago, Juhu Beach was pretty much vacant.  I can remember walking along the beach in the middle of the day and being completely alone.  John Reid told said he learned how to sing by singing into the breaking waves on the beach.  I tried – failed.  Juhu Beach is no longer unused.  It is now very touristy.  Hawkers with cobras, mongooses, camels, horses, and monkeys (and, of course beggars) are stationed all up and down the beach and they descended on us in droves.  It was some funny because Rita, not being used to it, had very little idea of how to handle it.  One of the hawkers had a fairly good bunch of four cobras and some other snakes, so I had to take some pictures.  He wanted Rs. 10 per picture, after the pictures were taken of course.  I think I gave him Rs. 5 or 10 and he was delighted.

                  We caught a 3-wheeler scooter taxi to the airport by 11:00 a.m. for my 12:30 flight. We went early so I could pick up and pay for the airline tickets the hotel travel agent had booked for me.  The ticket counter consisted of a number of ladies in saris making reservations behind a counter in a fairly large waiting room.  This was Indian Airlines and I think they had computers.  It was one of those deals where you take a number and wait.

                  But, the first thing the lady informed me was that there were no Indian Airlines (the government airline) flights on the 5th from Goa to Bangalore, as reserved by the travel agent.  That route was flown on alternate days.  The lady told me to first check in for my flight to Goa, then check Vayudoot Airlines (the only private carrier in India) to see if I couldn't get a flight with them from Goa to Bangalore on the 5th.

                  I checked, found Vayudoot Airlines, and they informed me they do not fly to or from Goa at all.  So, back I went to the Indian Airlines reservation lady.  I had to either cut the conference short or cut my visit to Coorg short.  I decided the conference was lower in priority so I booked a reservation for February 4th to Bangalore and made reservations to go from Bangalore to New Dehli on the 9th. 

                  Having had a good first experience paying with a charge card in India, I tried to pay for the airline tickets with Master Card.  This time I was informed that the price would be 50 percent more if I charged it.  What's going on?  I got a discount at the hotel for paying with a charge card.  I never did figure it out.  The cost of the tickets (Goa to Bangalore to New Delhi) was about $136.  

                  Now, knowing that in the past 25 years India would certainly have become modern enough that I could use any commonly accepted charge card for big items like hotels and airline tickets, I had decided to rely on my card and not load up on too much cash or travelers checks for the trip.  Consequently, I only took $500 in traveler’s checks, plus about $100 in American dollars.  And, here I was only two days into my trip and I had to spend $136 in traveler’s checks for airline tickets.  Actually, I was lucky to ever be able to use my charge card.  I was to find that not only could I not use my charge card much of anywhere, cashing travelers checks was to prove impossible at times - even at banks.  Impression - India is more bureaucratic that ever and is not nearly as gracious to Americans (and perhaps all foreigners) as it used to be. 

                  I said good-bye to Rita.  It was sad - I hate good-byes.  She said, and I felt the same, that she felt like she was losing someone.  I told her I wanted to give her a big hug and asked if it would be all right.  She said no, that everyone would think badly of her.  After a few moments reflection she indicated that a hug would be all right if I really wanted to.  I refrained and simply shook her hand. 

                  This first flight in India was another adventure.  I passed through security into a waiting room occupied by a large number of people.  Naively, I had assumed that the plane for the short flight to Goa would be a 20-40 passenger puddle jumper.  After all, Goa was not an especially popular place to go, and it was only one hour away.  Surprisingly, when the flight was called, everyone in the waiting room moved.  Instead of a puddle jumper, the plane to Goa was an Air Bus 300, which (I assume) meant that 300 people were to be packed in, and we filled it like sardines.  Welcome to modern India.  I remember flying around India in a DC-3 25 years ago. 

                  There was a big sign at the Goa Airport terminal welcoming conference attendees.  I contacted the man in charge and was provided transportation to Panjim with the recently retired director of Coal India, who was also one of the chairmen of the conference.  The big sign was not there the next day when Ray Lowrie arrived.  In typical Indian fashion, they had put up the sign only for the arrival of the Chairmen.

                  I stayed at the Fidalgo Hotel in downtown Panjim [Rs. 350 per night ($23)].  It looked OK, but it smelled like urine, the toilet wouldn't flush, it was badly run down.  It had TV, swimming pool, bar, craft shops, coffee shop, room service, health club, travel agency, dining room - the works, and all in pretty good taste, but all filthy.  The best part of the hotel was the little almost sidewalk cafe next to the lobby.  Beer was Rs. 15 and you could watch the action on the sidewalk outside the window.  The waiter called himself Captain B Ram.  I took his picture pouring us a beer and sent it to him inside a Christmas card. 

                  I bought a map of Goa and Panjim, sent some post cards home, had a beer, and went for a walk down to the river and around town.  I specifically recognized nothing but generally recognized everything.  The bridge north to Calangute had collapsed and was being rebuilt.  In the meantime everyone was being ferried across the river on continuous ferries free of charge.

                  I bought a safety razor, shaving cream, and some Old Spice after-shave as my 110-220 electrical converter/adapter for my electric razor did not work.  The converter didn't work because the voltage was simply too low.  Everywhere I went in India, with the possible exception of New Delhi, the electrical demand far exceeded the supply.  The lights were always dim, dimming, or going out, because the demand exceeded the supply.

 Feb 2 - Goa

                   I walked around town (asking now and then) until I found the post office.  It cost 4.00 Rs. ($.23) to mail a post card home.  Ray Lowrie was due to arrive that morning.  I figured I would kill some time until he arrived, and then see if he would like to go to Calangute Beach with me.  I found R.K. Sharma's hotel.  Sharma was the Member Secretary of the Federation of Indian Mineral Industries and the main organizer of the conference.  I didn't find him, but found some people in charge and gave them a copy of the paper I planned to deliver at the conference. 

                  At about 9:00 a.m. I asked the travel agent at the hotel about the status of Ray's flight from Dehli which was supposed to have arrived at 8:30 a.m.  He said there was no such flight and I wondered how I could have been misinformed about this flight also.  Communications.  You must know how the other party thinks in order to properly communicate.  Actually, in this case it turned out that the flight in question was not supposed to arrive at 8:30 a.m., it was supposed to arrive at 8:00 a.m., hence, there was no 8:30 flight and hence there was no flight.  Either that or he was jerking my leg.

                  Ray arrived on the nonexistent fight.  He had traveled from Frankfurt to New Dehli to meet with various people the U.S. is giving money to. Captain B. Ram served us a beer and some Tandoori Chicken for lunch, and then we walked to the ferry, crossed the river, and caught a taxi to Calangute Beach.  The cost of the taxi was 40 Rs. (less than $3.00) for about a 20 to 30 minute ride to the beach.  Calangute was farther from Panjim than I remembered.

                  As with everywhere else, things at Calangute have changed dramatically.   The only recognizable thing was the old platform portion of the old hotel with the steps leading down to the beach.  During our two Christmas holidays at Calangute Beach in 1963 and 1964, at least as I remember it, essentially no one except us used the beach for pleasure.  Remember the miles and miles of glorious white sand beach and no one, except us, used the beach or swam in the ocean.  Ray and I stood and watched a group of 50 ± school kids playing in the surf and I wondered aloud to Ray how whoever was in charge was keeping track of all of the kids.

                  We wandered down the beach and found a Fenny Shop.  I remember one thatched Fenny shop on the beach when we were there, but that one was quite different from this one.  The old one was at least run by an Indian, and consisted of a wooden board for a bar with no stools or anything.  Now, the hippies (or whatever they’re called these days) have pretty well taken over Calangute Beach, and the overall atmosphere was one of pretty hard-core drug usage.  The bartender at this Fenny Shop was a buxom young girl from Switzerland.  I had to ask something like "Where are you from and why are you tending bar in a Fenny shop on Calangute Beach in Goa, India?"  (In other words, “what’s a nice girl like you doing in such a dump?”)  After I said it I was surprised that she didn't tell to *&?# off.  She informed me that she was from Switzerland and the reason she was there is that she had come to Goa on a trip, had pretty well run out of money but wanted to stay on a little longer and had to find some sort of job.  Ray and I bought a bottle of coconut fenny about one-fourth full for 6 Rs ($.35).  It was just like I remembered - terrible - but we drank it anyway.  I asked about toddy and was informed that they could get it if we ordered it in advance - just like the good old days.

                  We then walked out to look at some of the old outrigger fishing boats pulled up along the beach just like they used to be - in fact, some may have been the same ones as 26 years before.  Then the atmosphere changed.  There was some excitement down the beach with people running around.  They were pulling a boy out of the surf.  They administered artificial respiration and pumped him and there was salt and sand coming out of nose and mouth, and his eyes were open and glazed.  At first I thought he was gagging on his own and would be all right.  Very quickly, however, it became apparent that the perceived gagging was due to the people working on him.  The kid had probably been dead for some time. 

                  Up the beach a similar commotion was going on and another group of people had pulled another boy out - there was talk of a 3rd dead boy and the paper the next day said 4 boys had drowned in the surf - all due to ignorance or stupidity.  These were kids from the group of 50 we had wondered about.  They were on a school trip to the beach from inland - in fact they were from Hubli.  The person in charge, a teacher in this case, simply had no knowledge or experience with the ocean and the dangers of the surf.  It was a small surf with 2 to 3 foot waves but the kids apparently would get knocked down, get a lung full of water, get knocked down again and probably stepped on by their unknowing friends, and finally simply not be able to get back up, and nobody would notice them because there were too many kids all crowded together.  The newspaper indicated that the teacher said the kids that drowned had returned to swim on their own after the group swimming was finished.  Not so.  The teacher was simply covering his ass.  It was very sad.  

                  We (at least I) saw quite a bit of loss of life during our months in India.  I can remember a Tibetan child getting run over by a bus and the only people who felt bad were the Tibetans.  The Indian’s attitude seemed to be that Tibetans were outsiders and it was ok if one got killed every now and then. 

                  Ray and I sat in the Hall/Bar of the old original hotel (the same one when we were there) and drank a couple more beers.  We walked around and found what I thought may have been the house we used to rent.  However, I took a picture of it and, when later comparing it to a photo from before, found that it was not the same house.  Mary Lou, what did we rent that house for?  I think it was Rs. 15 or 20 per day and we split that 8 or 10 ways?  That was cheap rent.  Of course there was very little furniture and no beds that I remember but that didn’t matter to us. And, Mary Lou and Connie would bring their cook to shop and cook for us.  Those were wonderful Christmas’s.  

Feb 3 - Goa

                  Transportation was to be provided at 8:00 a.m. sharp for Kala Academy (still in Panjim) where the conference was to be held.  In typical Indian fashion, the transport did not arrive so we caught a Taxi to the conference.

                   The conference was pretty much as expected - no, it was exactly as expected - completely and totally disorganized.  The entire first session was directed toward politics and BS - grandiose speeches by the wheels from the Central Government.  [One of the notables in attendance was listed as the "Chief Expert".  Now, that is some title.  As a scientist, that's about the highest title and rank I can think of.  Now I have a new goal in life - to become the Chief Expert - it has a nice ring to it.]  The conference was in English.  It was quite clear that the organizers did not know who was and who was not to speak, what they would say, or how long each would speak.  In addition, the question and answer period following each presentation broke down to a soapbox session for people in the audience wanting to make points, some of which actually evolved into uninvited presentations.

                  This 1st day of the conference was "scheduled" to last until 4:30 in the afternoon.  In typical Indian fashion, it lasted until after 7:00 p.m. that night.  When I say disorganized, I mean disorganized.  At the end of the day I volunteered to not give my talk to help get the conference back on schedule.  My offer was declined. 

                  We returned to the Hotel Fidalgo and had a couple of beers and dinner with a guy named Ed Watkin.  Ed is an Englishman who I had originally run into at a reclamation conference in Arkansas in 1974, and had run into again in Sudbury, Ontario in 1976.  At that time, he was a professor at a university in Canada.  Small world.  He is now consulting, and is administering some British AID contracts to India.

                  Ed had brought a pint of Johnny Walker Red, but couldn't drink it because of an ulcer, so he gave it to Ray and me.  After dinner we went out to the pool and we got to talking with a group of Russians on holiday from the Ukraine.  It was very interesting - 2 teachers, 1 travel organizer, 5 or 6 of them in all and probably not more that 3 words of English in the bunch - and we knew about 3 words in Russian.  We tried talking with them for at least an hour and got along pretty good.  It’s amazing what can be communicated, even with zero understanding of the others language, when all involved are patient and work at it. 

Feb 4 - Goa to Bangalore

                   I helped Ray meet with his chief Indian contact in the morning to help assess his sincerity, etc.  I didn't expect to be impressed with him, but I was.  The paper I gave was on the URAD Reclamation Project.  I had given various versions of that paper to just about every major professional conference in the U.S. over a period of years and thought it would be of interest in India.  I gave a simplified version of it and got some reasonably good questions and comments. 

                  I took off at 1:00 before the conference broke up for lunch and checked out of the hotel so I could get on my way to Bangalore.  I needed to make contact with my friend in Shimla to find out how to find him.  I only had the phone number of AID in Dehli.  To call Delhi I had to go to the telegraph office where they also have public phones.  It was Saturday but, some nice lady did answer the phone and got at least part of a message before we were cut off.  It cost 170 Rs. to make that instant (std.) phone call.  Calls they put through on the spot are referred to as Standard Calls.  Other calls (I've forgotten what they call them) might take an hour to get through, but are much cheaper.  This phone connection was bad, but it was not impossible.  The process is to go to the Telegraph office, fill out a form, pay a token amount, and then the call is made for you and transferred to a phone booth in the "lobby" of the office.

                  I caught a taxi to the airport.  The plane (a 737) was only about one hour late.   On arriving in Bangalore I went to a Tourism Booth at the airport and they suggested a hotel.  The hotel was also mentioned in one of the books, so I took the suggestion.  Actually, this was quite a good service for someone arriving in town that did not know where he wanted to stay.  I think I paid the people at the booth for the hotel, and then got on the "Coach" that delivered everyone to the various hotels they had selected for a nominal sum. 

                  I selected the Harsha Hotel, Rs. 140 per night plus tax.  The Coach to the Hotel cost Rs. 10.  After checking in, I went to the front desk to place a phone call to Mac in Coorg.  When the opportunity presented itself, I went directly to the hotel operator and worked with him to get the call through.  The call was very important, as I did not know where Mac and his family lived and might have great difficulty in finding it without directions or someone to meet me.  Still, I felt the chances of getting through were probably pretty slim since I didn’t even know a phone number.

                  Miraculously, after about an hour, the call went through.  However, the conversation was not as successful.  I had told the hotel operator I would be in the bar having a beer.  Picture yourself in a bar receiving a very important phone call and you can not understand one word the person on the other end of the line is saying.  Equally as important, he cannot hear you.  What do you do?  You shout.  Picture yourself shouting (screaming) as loud as you possibly can into a phone for some minutes in the middle of a public place.  I got only one bit of information out of the entire conversation.  I got Mac's phone number, which I would call the next day upon my arrival at the bus stop in Kushalnagar, the village nearest his farm.

                  Mac is the son of the man who, single-handedly probably doubled the quality of my PC stay in India.  Mac's father, I.M. Mandapa, befriended me and other volunteers in our group and in later groups.  I had some problem with associating with Mandapa as a PC Volunteer.  He was rich, and PC Volunteers weren't in India to rub elbows with the rich.  He was effusive, honest, sincere, etc. etc., but more than that, he was probably the most generous person I have ever met.  He took us to Rotary Club parties, North Coorg Club parties, relative’s homes, weddings, temples, shrines, festivals, and big game hunting in the jungle.  He took us to tourist attractions and game preserves, and he was doing it because he enjoyed our company as much as we enjoyed his and because he wanted to do it.  In return he, knowing we had no money, grudgingly let us have him and his family over to dinner a couple of times.

Sammy and I lived together for a short while until the Monsoon abated and I could move off into the jungle and Mandapa lived within a mile of so from where Sammy was stationed.  Besides Sammy and me, I can remember at least Maryanne, John Paul, Dave Sanshuck and John Murch getting to know this man and his family at least a little.  

                  Mandapa was the manager of Consolidated Coffees' Kushalnagar Works, which processes (dries and grades) coffee.  As such, he was provided with a beautiful bungalow to live in and car to drive.  He was the eldest of seven sons and a daughter and was therefore the family patriarch.  When we were there he was developing a smallish coffee plantation and a farm for his retirement.  He developed these properties, retired (in about 1970) and died the same year from complications with diabetes.

                  Mac, his only child, took over the family holdings and built his home on the farm.  I only vaguely remembered the location of the farm because it was jungle at the time and the only time I went there was to hunt jungle fowl and deer.

Feb 5 - Bangalore to Coorg

                  At dawn I watched across the street from the hotel as the servants cleaned the sidewalk in front of the residences and blessed the houses at the start of the day.  Watching stuff like this (life) is very interesting to me.  I had my toast etc., caught a 3-wheeler to the bus station, and caught an express bus that was to go directly from Bangalore to Kushalnagar.  This was easier than it had been 25 years earlier.  I don't remember direct buses, let alone express busses, going from Bangalore to Kushalnagar without any changes.  There were express busses in those days, but mostly by name only.  This really was an express bus. 

                  I rode with a Tibetan, and as with my earlier experiences, this Tibetan was a well-educated and successful businessman.  He and his family ran a restaurant in Bangalore, but he was going home to the Tibetan Refugee Camp at Kushalnagar for some holiday.  [Hank - I asked him about the little place downtown where we (you) used to drink beer.  I can't think of the name of it now, but I could then.  Anyway, he had never heard of it.]  We talked a lot about Tibet and the Chinese invasion and the revolution.  He said the Tibetans had not given up on the gorilla warfare (now nearly 40 years old being fought by the second and third Tibetan generations) but were simply waiting for the opportune time to really revolt.  He said they would never give up.  The Panchan Lama had just died and before he died he had made some public statements in support of the people that really angered the Chinese.  He had been a Chinese puppet up to that time, for 40 years.  The Tibetans have always impressed me – more than any other people I’ve ever been around.

                  The road out of Bangalore took us along a river of sewage - an entire river of sewage.  Imagine if you can a relatively significant river, perhaps 40 feet across and 3 feet deep, flowing quite rapidly, comprised entirely of raw sewage.  Imagine also the smell.  As in the old days I bought some bananas at one bus stop and some tea at another, photographed an elephant walking down the road, all pretty much the same as 26 years earlier.  I didn't recognize much in Mysore because it had grown so much.  Mysore was terribly crowded and terribly congested, much like Bombay only on a smaller scale.  (Maryanne - I never did get to see the missionary hospital where you worked, but I was told it’s still there and operating.)

                  A kid met me at the bus stop in Kushalnagar with a note saying I should go with him.  We took a 3-wheeler taxi to Mac's farm where I met him and his family, including his mother.  His mother, my friend's wife, seems to be timeless.  She appeared almost exactly as before and she is a wonderful lady.  Mac's wife is named Guyathrie, and he has two sons - I.M. Mandapa, nicknamed Dyan, and I.M. Bopana, nicknamed Ben.  Mac's real name is I.M. Machaiah.  "I" stands for the family clan name of Iychettira.  "M" is for his father's name, Mandapa.  The oldest son (Mac was the only child) keeps the family clan name of Iychettira and takes on the father's name of Mandapa.  So, Mac's eldest son's name is Iychettira Machaiah Mandapa, and Mac's next son's name is Iychettira Machaiah Bopana. 

                  Mac took me on a walking tour of the farm.  It’s 30 acres, has a family of servants who work for him year around.  He has to hire additional help during the busy parts of the year such as harvest time.  His main crop is coconut, but he also raises a variety of other things like rice and spices.  Mac is particularly partial to coconuts because literally every part of the coconut and the coconut palm is valuable.  No part is wasted.  I can remember his father preaching that to me, and apparently he preached it to his son also.  Can you imagine it requiring 2 + families to run a 30 acre farm in the US?

                  When his father died, the inheritance tax was very high and Mac was just getting that settled with the government 10 years after his father’s death.  He had to hire an attorney etc., to help him negotiate the settlement with the government.  In the meantime, Mac and his family have not lived an especially rich life.  As would be expected, there was not sufficient cash to pay the inheritance tax, so Mac had stretched out the payments over the years and was able to make the payments from his annual income.  Finally, after he pretty well got it all paid off, the government has pretty much done away with excessive inheritance taxes.

Feb 6 - Coorg

                   Mac took me to Kudige to the government-training farm where I had stayed with Sammy Mitchell for about 3 months upon our arrival in the country.  Sammy ended up staying there for the duration, while I went to Bhagamandla and Kullu, etc.  We found the building that we called home for that period of time.  We went to the Kushalnagar Coffee Works where Mac's father had been the manager and got a tour from a person who didn’t have any idea of how to explain anything to anyone.  In the old days, the plant manager would have given the tour himself. 

                  We went to the Tibetan Monastery at the Refugee Camp and I tried to buy a carpet but they were closed for a festival and using the opportunity to de-moth the place.  So, we went instead to an Indo-Tibetan Handicraft Centre in Kushalnagar to buy a Tibetan carpet.  The selection was not too great so I selected a size and design, ordered it and paid for it.  It was supposed to be done and in the mail within 45 days, then allow about 6 weeks for delivery.  The cost was Rs. 700 ($47 including postage) for a small carpet of, I think about 5 feet by 3 feet, but it has been too long ago for me to remember correctly.  Now, nearly two years later, still no Tibetan carpet.  I sent the receipt to Mac to have him check on it, but still no carpet and no explanation from Mac.

                  Mac owns a car but it's too old and decrepit for anything except running to town and back.  So, he hired a car and driver to take us around Coorg.  We first went to Mercara, the capitol of Coorg District.  We stopped at Rajah's Seat on the top of a hill overlooking Mercara (because the maharaja used to hold court there in the olden days - remember that Maryanne?) then we proceeded to the bank to try to cash an American Express Travelers check.   Mac even knew the vice-president of the bank, but do you think we could cash a bonafide worldwide American Express Travelers check?  Not a chance.  He said we would have to go to the central bank in Mysore City.  I should have tried to obtain some cash on my Master Card but the thought didn’t cross my mind because that would appear to be far less likely to succeed. 

                  We toured the fort, saw the North Coorg Club where we used to go to parities, and went on to Betageri Estate for lunch.  Betageri is on the way to Bhagamandla and Mac’s uncle owns the estate.  Mac had to telegram them we were coming because the phones wouldn’t work.  We had a big lunch, and were provided a quick tour of the coffee plantation.  They were extremely gracious.  The lunch consisted of 13 different items, but it was not prepared for me because I was a foreigner.  It was prepared for guests, which is what we were.  I'm fairly sure they would have put up pretty much the same lunch even in my absence.  The setting of their home, and Mac's home, is textbook idealistic.  They are in the middle of what was, not very long before, a rain forest jungle.  They are far enough from roads that traffic cannot be heard and the only sounds are of people and farm animals.  The people and animal sounds mix and produce a very serene setting. 

                  After lunch Mac and I left Guyathrie and the boys at the plantation and took the car on to Bhagamandla.  You may recall that Bhagamandla was supposed to be my main post during the Peace Corps stint.  I was to work in beekeeping extension at the Government honeybee research center. 

I must say I wasn’t very successful in the extension work.  They had been keeping bees for 2,000 years and the species was/is quite weak and difficult to domesticate.  When I took Beekeeping in college I remembered the professor saying that he would love to import some American bees to India to see how they fared because the American species (Apis mellifera) is about 10 times as productive as the Indian species (Apis indica).  So, early on I decided I would attempt to do that.  I proposed that to my in-county host and he said no, it would be too dangerous because we have bee diseases in America that they don’t have in India and I might introduce a terrible disease.  I thought it could be done safely so I worked my way up the chain of command to his boss and his bosses boss, etc.  I got nowhere all along the way – everyone said no, that is until I worked my way up to the top man in the Federal Government.  He was approximately equivalent to our Secretary of Agriculture.  His name was Sadar Singh.  He had a PhD from somewhere in the US and he thought importing bees was a great idea - as long as I took them to the Kullu Valley.  So, I got some support from the Ford and Rockefeller Foundations and some PL 480 funds, and ordered 10 colonies of bees from a well-known beekeeper in Davis, CA. 

Bees are shipped in a screen package and will die quite quickly if subjected to the wrong conditions.  They were shipped from San Francisco on one of the Pan Am flights in a climate-controlled environment. The condition of most concern in India was the terrible heat.  So, when the bees were to arrive, Dr. Singh sent a man from the central government (with huge clout) with me to the airport and amazingly, he got the bees through customs with zero delay.  And, Terry Heipp whisked us all away in her air conditioned van to the air conditioned PC Office until the DC-3 flight left for Kullu in a few hours.  On the flight to Kullu I just rented 3 or 4 seats for the bees and me and sat by them to control their temperature by sprinkling water on them.  In Kullu, I hitched a ride to Tom Arens and Roger Banks digs in Katrain/Patlikuhl.  Tom had finished getting the hives ready for the bees and we put them in with no problems or delay.  As I recall, we lost almost no bees, which is pretty amazing considering they had been shipped half way around the world. 

 My job then was to take care of the bees, do some experimenting with them, and generally see how they did.  They did not produce 10 times as much honey as the Indian bees.  The American bees got a great start in the spring and were going great guns until the monsoon hit.  That really knocked them down.  Then, they had to recoup and get in enough honey in the fall to survive through the winter.  Basically, they survived, but did not thrive as hoped.  A few Apis mellifera queens had been imported successfully through the years for experimentation but I was told later that no one had ever before successfully imported full colonies of bees - and - it had been tried, I think someone said, some 26 times.  I was just too ignorant (ignorance is bliss) to know better and succeeded. It was probably best that no one told me of the previous attempts – I’d have probably done something wrong. 

Back to the trip:  In Bhagamandala we visited the old Inspection Bungalow where I lived.  The IB used to be about two Km. outside the village.  The village has now grown out and engulfed the area, but the IB was essentially unchanged except for the addition of electricity.  We visited the temple in the village and drove through town but did not go up on the mountain to the source of the Cauveri River.  We retrieved the rest of the family and traveled on to Virajpet, Gonicoppal, and Arture Farm where JP and Dave Sanshuck lived.  Arture Farm was farther from Gonicoppal than I remembered.  To think of the number of times JP and Dave walked in to get the mail, not to mention the number of times I walked with them.  All of the old trees on the farm are gone and new ones planted.  We found JP's old house, which was brand new when he moved in, and actually found someone who remembered us.  (JP and Dave - do you remember A.T. Bopiah?  He said to say hello.  He must have been young then too.  I don't remember him.)

                  We visited more of Guyathrie's relatives near Gonicoppal.  They were very successful coffee growers and were building a new house.  It was to have a dual-purpose swimming pool.  The pool held irrigation water filtered for use in drip irrigation of the coffee plants.  The house was to be quite luxurious with lots of marble, and I believe the cost was estimated at about 9 lakhs or Rs. 900,000 ($60,000).  I estimated that in Denver, that finished home as is (without heat) would probably sell for $300,000, and Denver's real estate is quite depressed. 

                   It was a long day with lots of miles, but it sure brought back lots of memories.  I travelled those roads so many times by bus and tote goat.  Remember the tote goat scooters some of us were provided?  Wow, was that scooter a ticket to my freedom of movement. I used it extensively to travel all over Coorg visiting bee apiaries, etc.

Feb 7 - Coorg

                  Mac kept the car and driver for another day and invited two of his friends to go to the Nagerhole Game Preserve.  We had gone there a couple of times 25 years before.  There were supposed to be tigers then, and I expect there probably were but we never saw one; and there are supposed to be tigers now, but I think they are kidding themselves now.  Mac's father took us one time, and we rode through the jungle on elephants.  This time we rode in a bus, and this time we saw more than we did the first time because all the animals are used to people looking at them.  Another time we took Dr. Wonderlick and the driver Francis.  I remember we went somewhere to get some illicit booze, had a few drinks, and Francis went to sleep with a lit cigarette and caught the mattress on fire.  That was exciting for a while.  Mattress fires are not easy to put out. 

 Feb 8 - Coorg to Bangalore

                  Mac kept the car for yet another day and had it take everyone except Mrs. Mandapa to Mysore to visit more relatives and take me to the bus.  On bidding my farewell to Mrs. Mandapa, she, bless her heart, asked when I would return for another visit.  Rather flippantly, I replied that I would return in another 25 years.  She is probably in her seventies or eighties, and knowing she probably would not be around 25 years hence, she was embarrassed by my statement.  I felt bad for making the comment.

                  I believe the car was costing Rs. 2 per Km. (about $.22 per mile) plus meals for the driver.  This was much less than I would have had to pay if I had "rented" a car. 

                  Guyathrie's parents are retired in Mysore so the trip to the city served the duel purpose of providing a visit with them and giving me the tourist tour.  As Mandapa had done 25 years earlier with me and Sammy and Maryanne, Mac insisted on showing me all the tourist things.  We went to the Maharaja's Palace, Charmondy Hill, and he took me to the same crafts shops as 25 years earlier to purchase some things to bring back.  We stopped in exactly the same spots his father had stopped in earlier.  It was almost as though he was doing everything in his power to live up to the expectations of his father and show me the very best time possible.  Maryanne - You would be appalled at the Mysore nowadays.  

                  I caught an express bus to Bangalore.  Express buses leave every half-hour.  This service was a definite improvement over the bus service provided before.  However, another thing that has not changed is the bus station latrine.  While waiting for the bus with Mac I asked where the latrine was and was told there was none.  I could see something across the compound, so went to investigate.  Sure enough, it was a latrine and the entire floor was heaped with shit, just like the good old days - The Wonder That Is India. 

                  Besides unchecked population growth, cleanliness (or the lack thereof) is my biggest criticism of India.  I do not mean that everyone and everything in the country is dirty.  What I do mean is that India is generally a very dirty country.  And, after much consideration, I think I may be so bold as to say that, even under the oppressing population and living conditions that exist in India, I do not believe it is necessary that India be so filthy.  Other countries and cities have equivalent population densities, climates and living conditions, and they are clean by comparison.

                  I had been quite pleased with my treatment at the Harsha Hotel so went back intending to spend the night there.  They were booked, so I ended up at the Ashraya Hotel, which was about the same as the Harsha. 

Feb 9 - Bangalore to Dehli

                  I got up at dawn again and watched the construction workers families wake up and get to work (rather than go to work) since they live at the job site, wherever it is.  At the airport I tried to make reservations to fly Vayudoot from New Dehli to Shimla but it could not be done.  You could make reservations on Indian Airlines remotely, but not on Vayudoot.  There are no reliable phones, no computer link, and telegraph would have been too awkward.  You must simply be at the place from which you wish to fly in order to make reservations, and then not be too sure whether the seat will be available the next day anyway.

                  Rita had a boyfriend she wanted me to meet.  He lived about 10 hours by train from Bangalore so she telegraphed him to meet me at the airport before my plane left for New Delhi.  I had no idea whether or not he would be there, or how I would pick him out of the crowd of hundreds of people, so I just lounged around.  They called my plane and I checked through the screening (no x-ray, just frisking you in an enclosed booth) and then I heard my name being announced over the public address system.  I went back out and found Rita's boy friend paging me.  His name is Frank and he had traveled all night by train just to meet me.  We visited for 5 to 10 minutes only, and I had to go.  He had to get back on the train and go all night again – a lot of effort for a 10 minute visit.  Basically, Rita was serious about this guy and wanted me to give her some assessment of what I thought.  He seemed bright and industrious, much like Rita, and they have since gotten married.  

                  On the plane I visited with an older English lady who wanted to go to Kullu by plane the next day.  That would mean booking with Vayudoot as I had to for my flight to Shimla.  Being a seasoned traveler by this time that really knew the ropes, I thought I might be of some help to her in finding the Vayudoot office and making the reservations.  We got separated in disembarking and I found my way about as fast as I thought possible to the Vayudoot office, only to find that she had already beat me there.  She knew the ropes better than me.

                  I had to spend the night in New Delhi and since checking in at the tourist booth in Bangalore had worked so well, I thought I would simply do the same in New Delhi.  The hotel I selected was called the Ashok Yatri Niwas.  It was located in downtown New Dehli on the outer fringes of Connaught Circle. 

                  The Yatri Niwas Hotel was really something.  It was a government hotel; therefore it was replete with bureaucracy and devoid of pride.  The employees literally did not care to do anything, let alone do it right, and the bureaucracy was a sociologists dream.  Check-in involved at least four steps.  As I recall, I first waited in line to ask for a room.  When they decided that indeed a room was available, they gave me a slip of paper and sent me to a second counter.   The person at the second counter assigned me a room, gave me another slip of paper, and sent me to a third counter, the cashier, to pay for the room and put a deposit on the key that would be issued.  The cashier provided another slip of paper and sent me to the fourth counter where I was to be assigned my key.  The key was very large and important and the rule was to check the key at the desk before leaving the hotel.  The room was small and dirty, but as I indicated earlier, it was fairly cheap - Rs. 120 ($8).

                  After getting settled into the hotel I called one of my old friend's co-workers at AID on the phone.  His office was in the old Ashoka Hotel about 1 or 2 miles away.  This time I used a pay telephone that was available in the lobby of the hotel.  The phone required np. 50 coins.  Upon discovering the requirement and discovering that I did not have any of the proper coins, I naturally went to the counter to get some change.  Not a chance.  They don't make change.  So, I went to the cashier for the cafe.  Not a chance, he didn't make change either.  Only the main hotel cashier made change in this place, and because he was so important, there was a long line waiting in front of his window. 

                  What I wanted was two 50 np. coins, but when it was finally my turn, all I had was a Rs. 5 note.  What did I get?  Of course I got ten 50 np. coins.   This phone call was to prove almost as frustrating as the other calls I had made in India.  I simply could not be heard by the party I was talking to, nor could I hear him, and I was yelling as loud as I possibly could.  Actually, if one were to live in India, it would appear to be far better to not have a phone.  If you had one, you would surely expect it to work, at least a little bit.  The only message I got across was that I would go to his office the next day.

                  After the disastrous phone call, I found a young English couple I had checked in with in the bar having a beer.  We got to visiting and ended up going out to dinner together.  We ate somewhere near the center of Connaught Circle in a place favored by foreigners that had pretty good food.  I don't remember the name.

                  Why is it that everyone you meet on such a trip, like this couple, is so interesting?  They had been traveling around the world for a full year and this was the last night of their last stop.  The very next day was the last leg of their journey back to England.  Knowing India was a pit, they had saved India for last.  It seems they had purchased a house in England, fixed it up and sold it for a good profit, and decided to spend the money traveling around the world.  They were not traveling first class.  The Yatri Niwas, at $8 per night, was the most expensive hotel they had stayed in on the whole trip.  They were "working class" and had resolved during the trip that they would enter school upon their return and obtain an education, no matter what.  They were tired of performing the menial tasks and seeing the sights of the world had solidified that resolve.

Feb 10 - Dehli to Shimla

                  Breakfast at the hotel was an experience unto itself.  It consisted of going first to a cashier and paying for what you wanted, sight unseen.  He then gave you a slip of paper that you handed to the cook (there were no waiters) and you watched him cook whatever it was you had paid for.  He then served it to you on a dirty plate and you took it to a dirty table and ate it with dirty silverware.

                  As arranged by phone, I went to meet with my friend’s (his name is also Larry) Indian co-worker at the USAID offices in the Ashoka Hotel.  Access to the offices was afforded by way of an airport x-ray security system.  [They don't have x-ray machines in the airports, but they do at US offices.]  After a short visit during which I found out how to locate Larry in Shimla, I became somewhat enthralled with the splendor of the old hotel and wandered all around it.  It contains numerous shops and multiple restaurants.  I even cashed a traveler’s check there with no trouble. 

                  Checking out of the Yatri Niwas was almost as exciting as checking in.  I had to return my key, get a slip of paper, and go to the cashier to retrieve my key deposit, after which I was, of course, issued another slip of paper.  Not being used to having such important documents in my possession, I immediately tossed them away and preceded to leave the hotel.  Not so fast.  There was an armed guard at the entrance of the hotel who, seeing me carrying my luggage surmised that I must be leaving, and asked me for that last important slip of paper.  I informed him I had thrown it out, whereupon he asked me for one of the other terribly important slips of paper that had been issued to me throughout the course of my one night stand in the hotel.  Low and behold, I had thrown those out also so I told him I would be glad to reclaim the last one from the spittoon if he really wanted it.  I finally convinced him I was not absconding with any of the hotel valuables, especially the key to the room, and he let me go on my way.

                  The plane to Shimla was a puddle jumper.  It held about 15 people but it was fully equipped with a stewardess.  It's nice that India continues to hold to the tried and true tradition of hiring beautiful stewardesses, as we used to in the U.S.  This lady was gorgeous and being gorgeous was about the extent of her duties.  She passed out little packets to each passenger that contained two pieces of cotton and a piece of candy.  The cotton was to plug your ears.  It seemed like every rivet on the plane was loose and it was noisy.

                   The flight to Shimla took about an hour and the scenery was beautiful.  Working in environmental matters for the past many years, I was very curious to see for myself and assess the environmental problems of a third world country such as India.  The plane flights and drives through the rural areas gave me my best indications of environmental degradation.  Although I really don’t know (because I haven’t investigated the question carefully enough) it’s my observation that India probably doesn’t have the CERCLA type of problems with hazardous and toxic wastes that we in the U.S. have created.  (CERCLA is the acronym for the Superfund Law, more formally referred to as the Comprehensive Environmental Response, Compensation and Liability Act of 1980.)  Instead, India has people pollution.  Aside from the rivers of sewage, etc., the most obvious problem was air pollution.  Flying into and out of Delhi, serious smog was evident for in excess of 100 miles in all directions from the city.  The source of the smog is the diesel and 2-cycle engines used in so many of the vehicles. 

                  The Shimla airport is a flattened ridge top about an hours drive from town.  I caught a bus for the trip, but a busload of soldiers had driven off into the ravine ahead of us so the trip took about three hours.  Shimla was a terribly congested mess.  Shimla is so congested that automobiles are almost totally useless.  Because the town is situated on a hilltop, there is simply no room for development or expansion, and the city has just gotten more and more congested.  The beautiful summer capitol of the nation is no longer beautiful. 

                  Since I was in the north (Kullu Valley) when it came time for our debriefing at the end of our PC tour, I had my debriefing in Shimla with the Punjab volunteers.  Besides being told what a great job we had done in saving India, about the only other thing I can remember about the debriefing was the language tests.  My language career was interesting if not fruitful.   During our training, I studied Kannada, but was sent initially to Coorg District where the main language is Coorgi and most everyone spoke English anyway.  Consequently, I developed very little expertise in Kannada or Coorgi.  Then, I shipped from Mysore to the Kullu Valley to import bees from America and was forced to become somewhat competent in whatever was spoken up there - a mixture of Punjabi, Hindi or Hindustani.  At any rate, of the two Indian languages I wrestled with, I could at least get along (gutter fluent) in Hindustani, so, when asked whether I would like to be tested in Kannada or Punjabi during our debriefing I said Punjabi, of which, of course, I knew essentially nothing.  I recall my score and I may still have the certificate we were issued at the time.  I flunked the test dramatically.  I think the certificate indicated I had "no practical application" or "no practical knowledge" in the language of Punjabi.  What a low blow.  I had flunked.  What a kick in the ass.  I should frame that certificate.

                  I admired John Briscoe for working hard at Kannada both during training and during his stay in India.  As I recall, his debriefing test yielded the highest score possible (bilingual), and I thought he was the only PC Volunteer to have achieved that score by that point in time but it turns out that Mary Lou also achieved that score. Good for both of them. 

                  I found my USAID friend (also named Larry) by going to a hotel where he had stayed, and they gave me a taxi to his apartment.  This guy really is well traveled.  He joined the PC after he heard my tales and was sent to the Philippines.  He then got a PhD and did stints in Egypt, Pakistan, Malaysia, Ceylon, etc.  He, of all people, should know how to work with bureaucracy but the Indian bureaucracy was getting the best of him.  He was supposed to be working on an irrigation project, but simply could not cut through the red tape.  He couldn't even rent a reasonable house in Shimla, and he had essentially no monetary constraints.  He and Kathleen (his wife) were living in a concrete apartment in Shimla, at elevation about 7,000 feet I think, and it was winter.  Shimla is not terribly cold, but it does snow occasionally.  The problem is that the apartments have no heat.  Therefore, the temperature inside is the same temperature as the average day/night temperature outside.  The temperature in the house varied from about 50° to perhaps 55° F.  Now, that's not too bad for a day or two, or a week or two, but how about months?  The Indians do it, and that explains part of the reason they’re always sick.  Larry and Kathleen were miserable.  The only heat was from portable electric heaters, but they didn’t work because the electricity didn’t work. 

                  They did have a car - a Toyota.  I wanted to revisit Kullu and visit with them both; they had never been to Kullu, so they simply took some time off and we all went. It was great!

Feb 11 - Shimla to Kullu

                  It took a full day to drive to Kullu and Manali via Mandi.  The scenery was more beautiful than I remembered, but again, there are so many more people that the valley is not at all the same.  Much more of the forest has been cut, and there are roads and people and houses everywhere.  Kullu (the village) is a pit and Manali is almost as bad and both are Mecca’s for downtrodden hippies.  We did find one cafe in Manali that was warm and served good food.  It was called the Mayor Cafe.  The thing that made the cafe great was its potbelly stove. 

                  [The population of India when we were there in the early 60”s was about 450 million.  From then to now (1990), it doubled to something near 900 million. The change caused by that many more people, with the concomitant buildings, roads, motorcycles, sewage, clear-cut forests, etc., was the most striking change I noticed in India.]

                  It was getting late by the time we got to Kullu and we started looking for lodging.  We had stopped and looked at two or three places that were unacceptable when we came onto a nice new appearing hotel called the Preet Hotel.  The fact that we were the only guests gave us some cause for concern, but it was late and we needed a place to stay.  What a miserable night.  The hotel was made of concrete; it had snowed some 5 or 6 feet the week earlier; the snow was melting down through the 4-story hotel saturating everything (puddles in the halls, etc.); and, there was no heat.  They got out the little electric heaters for us, but the temperature was below freezing, and the heaters were totally ineffective because of the low voltage.  Worse, the bedding was wet - not wringing wet, but wet.  Once in bed I naively thought that if I laid in one place long enough, that place would eventually dry out and warm up from my body heat and I would be OK.  Not a chance. 

Feb 12 - Kullu Valley

                  We spent the day driving around upper Kullu Valley; went to a small ski area; went to the house where Roger Banks and Tom Arens lived in Katrain/Patlikuhl and where I stayed with them for about six months; went to the old palace above the valley; revisited the Tsar of Russia nephew's house and gallery whose name was Nicholas Roerich (Geisel - do you remember the time we stopped and visited with him and his wife?); found the old Hindu temple at Manali again; and, visited the Tibetan Monastery.  Lastly, in Patlikuhl and almost as an afterthought, we asked someone about Roger and Tom's cook - Hari Singh.  Amazingly, his little brother was summoned and was there within a few minutes, and in typical Indian fashion we were invited to tea, etc., etc.  It was very nice.  We were told Hari Singh lived in Kullu proper and we stopped to visit him the next day on the way through town.  Instead of the grouchy young man he used to be, he is now a grouchy old man. 

                  Being from Colorado I had an inherent interest in mountain climbing.  Lo and behold, I found myself in the middle of highest mountains in the world.  I did a number of treks during those months - some by myself, and some with other volunteers. Geissel went on at least 3 trips with me.  Our first trek (Ken Lyvers also went I think) took us to the top of Chandarkhani Pass.  On another trip we went up what might have been Hamtan Pass and looked into Spiti, which borders Tibet.  On yet a third “afternoon hike” we got so far away on a loop tred by dark that we had to sleep on the rocks by a stream with no food or bedding and the next morning got shunned in a village because we were viewed as Untouchables.  Ron Amend, Harold Willson, Tom Arens (I think) and perhaps someone else went over Rohtang Pass (about 13,000 ft.) into Lahaul and caught one of the two vehicles in the entire valley to the IB in the capitol of Keylong.  Pat Canton and I climbed Deo Tibba (about 19,500 ft.) and I climbed Geo Deo Tibba (aka Indrasan - about 20,500 ft.) by myself another time.  All were great trips. 

Feb 13 - Kullu to Shimla

                  We spent the day driving back to Shimla.  About the only thing of interest that happened is some union went on strike and blocked the main road for an hour or two protesting over something.  We simply took the opportunity to go to an IB for some lunch.  This IB was similar to many others in the country.  We were, of course, the only people there.  It had a beautiful somewhat secluded garden, and we had our meal served outside where it was much warmer than inside.  India has it over us when it comes to beautiful idealistic spots.  We don't seem to have such beautiful/relaxing places in this country. 

Feb 14 - Shimla to Dehli

                  Before going to the airport, Kathleen and I went to the bazaar.  We first stopped at a Tibetan shop Kathleen knew of and purchased three Tibetan necklaces for Anne and the kids.  Then proceeded to walk all around Shimla.  We found the Oberoi Clark Hotel where we had P.C. debriefing.  It was one of the most famous hotels in India at the time, and is now one of the most famous hotel chains in India.  An Englishman named Clarke built the hotel.  When he left India after partition he gave or transferred the hotel to his favorite Indian assistant Oberoi, who then put his name first and created a chain of successful hotels throughout the country. 

                  [I sometimes work with another consultant here in Denver who was born and raised in Shimla.  He is English, is nearing retirement age, and had been planning for years to retire right back in Shimla.  However, he had not been in India for about 35 or 40 years.  Last year, he and his wife took an extended vacation to India to lay the groundwork for their retirement.  They were in Shimla for two days before they decided they wanted nothing to do with it.  It took only two days to change their minds from what they had been planning for years.  India really is not a nice place.  It is extremely interesting, but it’s not nice.]

                  I also looked for the hotel I had stayed in 25 years earlier on arriving the night before the debriefing.  I was curious to find it because it had the distinction of having the worst rat problems I experienced during my stay in India.  The rats were so numerous and made so much noise that I had trouble sleeping, not because of the rats, but because of the noise.  I never found the hotel.  The rats probably ate it.

                  It was a pretty gray day and I was concerned that the Vayudoot plane for Dehli might not come.  We dropped by the Vayudoot office and they said the plane had a 90 percent chance of coming.  I was worried because this would be the first of a many leg journey home.  We met Larry for lunch at the Fantastic Cafe, returned to the Woodville Hotel, said our good-byes, and took the Woodville taxi to the airport - Rs 150 ($10).

                  The plane was only about one-half hour late.  As you know, India has always been security conscious, but they appear to be more so now, perhaps because of the somewhat accelerated Sikh and Muslim conflicts.  At any rate, they have a fairly unique security process at the airports in India.  The check-in follows something like this:

1. Normal check-in to get your seat;
2. Take all luggage through a fairly thorough search and check the luggage;
3. Go thru security for personal search - remove batteries from camera, all carry-on luggage must have a tag - even a camera around the neck;
4. Then, just prior to boarding the plane, each individual must temporarily reclaim his baggage by pointing to it.  Any unclaimed luggage at that time is left sitting on the tarmac.  I inquired of a fellow traveler the reasoning behind this and was told that it was to assure that no luggage was coming on board that did not belong to someone.  The rationale was that it was unlikely a person would carry a bomb aboard a plane he was riding.
5. On disembarking, each claim check was always checked.

                   I had a good flight to Dehli in a smallish, 16 passenger plane.  This time the stewardess, in addition to being gorgeous, served juice, earplugs and candy.  Sometimes the juice is canned, sometimes not.  The Indian Airlines juices were canned.  The Vayudoot Airlines juices were made with water from powder - definitely a no touch food.

                  Having nothing better to do, and not really knowing anyone in Dehli, I simply caught the "Coach" to the Ashoka Hotel, checked my luggage with the porter, checked out some of the jewelry shops, wandered around, had a beer or two, and ate dinner.  I had about 6 hours to kill.  I made various attempts to confirm my reservation on Pan Am flight 67 to Frankfurt.  On my first attempt no one answered the phone.  On my 2nd, 3rd and 4th attempts, someone answered who simply agreed with everything I said.

                  I ended my revisit of India appropriately by sipping beer (at Rs. 42 per bottle) in the Ashoka Hotel Garden Bar and pondering my trip, The Wonder That is India, my past, my future, and whether or not I would have a seat on Pan Am Flight #67.

 Feb 15 - Dehli to Denver

                   I killed time in the Ashok Hotel lobby until 1:00 a.m., and then shared a taxi to the airport with a lady from Bangkok.  We arrived at the airport two hours early, which turned out to be none too early at all.  Getting through the very thorough security, immigration, and customs, took two hours.  I had borrowed about Rs. 2,500 from Larry and I tried to exchange what I had left before departing the country.  They wouldn’t exchange the rupees because I didn’t have receipts showing I had cashed travelers checks for them.  The important slips of paper I had gotten when cashing my own checks had been thrown away, instantly, much like the receipt for my important key at the hotel in Delhi.  If you travel to India, keep those important slips of paper.  The rationale for not exchanging the money without receipts is that the money could have been stolen or gained by selling something I shouldn't have sold.  Another reason they won't exchange the money is because they want to keep your money and send you home with rupees.  

I’ll spare you the gory details of missed flights and lost luggage, but, beginning with the taxi to the Shimla airport, the trip home had six legs and took me about 48 straight hours.  I was pretty much a vegetable.

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                  The purpose of the trip was mostly pleasure, but I wouldn't really call it pleasure - it was more the fulfillment of a vow. Attempting to accomplish something in India in 1963-64 was difficult and my success was marginal.  I went with much enthusiasm but India wears you down and I had vowed then to return to "see it through different, more mature, eyes".  Hence, this trip, and it was great.