Middle of Nowhere

I am in the middle of nowhere.

Such a place, we all know, doesn’t exist as far as geography is concerned. You are always in the middle of somewhere or at the edge of some place. But it always sounds better to say that you are in the middle of nowhere. That phrase has certain expanse; some more width than your exact location. It creates that mystery and sprinkles a sense of romanticism to whatever description may follow the phrase.

So, I am in the middle of nowhere.

The boat I am on, is anchored here, in the middle of the water, the late afternoon sun sparkles diamonds all over the water and coconut trees lean over, as if to peek and see what I write in this post.

Rest of the family has had a wonderful lunch and are now lulled into sleep by the slow rocking of the boat. I am out on the deck, looking at the sneaky trees and listening to the silence that surrounds our boat.

Far away, in the fishing village that I can barely see, a few colourful boats are anchored, devoid of any activity. Perhaps someone else is describing this feeling in his or her own way.

Nothingness is a difficult state to be in. Even such thick and opaque calmness outside does little to calm the ruckus in your head. Earlier today, as I walked through the market street in this town, I imagined the townsfolk looking at me and being able to recognise that ruckus in my ahead – ah, city folk – they must have said. I have been here for a few hours now, and the calmness is taking over.

Nothing matters now, though it won’t be like this for long.

But, for now, I am in the middle of nowhere.

*

E&OE; Moblogged
Malvan Backwaters, April 22, 1625hrs

On Anger

It is not people, circumstances, or situations that anger us – as much as we believe. It is our own thoughts.

Try this – the next time you feel angry – or even afraid for that matter. Forget all that counting from one to ten. What really made you angry? What were your thoughts about that situation that made you angry? You may notice that it eventually comes back to yourself – in a way. It is always a thought in our mind – based on something that we have known and not liked. We do not like those bad things to recur – so it makes us angry. Our thoughts are only derivatives of what we have experienced and our ability to build concepts from the knowledge that we have. It is a useful thing that our mind does; we don’t put it to very good use, however.

And the anger is only, in a way, an expression of helplessness. When we encounter a problem – we tend to solve it – when we can’t – we get angry and afraid. We imagine bad things will befall us – which obviously is not a pleasant thought.

It was Sinhagad Express from Mumbai to Pune in the early days of my career. I met a bohemian gentleman on the train. We talked of Hindi Film Songs, soon after Karjat, a few hours from Mumbai, because he heard me humming to an old favourite Mukesh song. He asked if I knew that Mukesh was one troubled singer because he was often asked to do a retake on his songs more than once. I said I didn’t know that. He told me, that it was not because he sang wrong. It was because people in the studio loved to listen to what more he could bring to the song.

It was a beautiful conversation.

That person with the long hair and funny clothes is a distant memory. We talked of life after that – about what we do. I don’t recall now, what he did for a living.

As we approached Pune, the man said to me, “Do not celebrate your success too much; do not shed too many tears on failure.” It probably should have meant a lot for a young person who had just taken the train on the entrepreneurship track. I felt good about that learning. I somehow forgot about it on the longer journey that I have embarked upon.

I randomly look for answers where they may be. Here is what I find.

From the Bhagvad Geeta, Chapter 6, Verse 7

जितात्मनः प्रशांतस्य परमात्मा समाहितः।
शीतोष्णसुखदुःखेषु तथा मानापमानयोः ॥७॥

The Supreme Soul of him, who is self-controlled and peaceful, is balanced in cold and heat, pleasure and pain, as also in honour and dishonour.

Inception; of Sorts

(Almost), exactly, three and a half years ago:

That image of you on a cushion-less leather chair near Gate 13 at Barbara Jordan Terminal in Austin, TX, cross-legged, chin resting on your hand, elbow delicately balanced on a thin armrest, an open notebook with scribbles ambitious of being the words that will be your history someday. Will you be able to confine that image to permanent memory?

Yes, it was confined to permanent memory. I remember it like I remember a photograph that I have seen a few minutes ago.

And we are back to airports. In a way that it used to be. It’s nice to know yourself the way you knew you were. It’s like meeting a friend after ages. Like John Travolta (Face/Off 1997) said, “It’s like looking in a mirror. Only… not.” It is like the experience in Coach 78519:

“You are the same too – except a few crinkly wrinkles that have become permanent after years of laughter – the only sign perhaps – of how much you laughed once upon a time.“

And in between the meeting of the then-you and the now-you, there’s a third self, a ghost of the in-between adventure. But he isn’t present, as such. You can’t see yourself, but (the now-)you know that your smile has changed. What was once only a dream is now buttressed with with a calm resolve. The blinding speed, scattering of effort, the running around in circles have all vanished. You don’t just see it; you experience the space.

This slowing-down-thing is working very well, I must say.

It’s a lovely day.

Travel Episodes

The first word in the slug-line of this blog is travel. And that’s what I have written very less off in this blog. Hopefully, I will do justice to that first word, this year. And it starts with the first episode of my recent trip to South India. To help you find my travel posts, they now have their own shiny button on the menu, above. The first episode is up. More, to follow, soon

Episode 1

Episode 2

 

The Long Drive: Episode 2

My best friend, DJ, and navigator by my side (all of them is one person), we have made it to the mouth of the Mumbai-Pune Expressway in under an hour.

Mumbai roads, that early morning can be quite alien. Most of the traffic comprises of unusual trucks and hired SUV-kind of vehicles dropping off and picking up folks who work shifts. All of them drive fast; a couple of hours later, these streets will be filled with other and many familiar vehicles.

One big advantage of having a dual carriageway is that you need to focus just a bit less on the road. And since this road is quite familiar, it works better for me. It didn’t matter whether it was Rajasthan or Karnataka. I wanted a conversation. With my best friend. The expressway helped us set the mood for the next few days. We talked.

I am happy. My plan, beyond the routes and the reservations is coming true.

We had breakfast at McD’s. I like their muffins better than their burgers.

I have been thinking about highways and dual carriageways for a while now. They are efficient. They are fast. But, they do not expose you to the environment in which you drive. Flashback: c 2002ish, I am at my friend’s house in Virginia. He is a proud American. Like you and me, you know – proud about our country. We were discussing how the highways and expressway have changed the scenery on a drive like this. We killed a little bit of romance at the cost of speed and efficiency. Years later, I saw Cars (2006) – the movie – and we spoke again.

Today, I do not mind the speed. But I do not want it all through this trip. I am out here, to slow down. The 59th Street Bridge Song starts playing in my head. I wonder, how I will make the morning last. The best I can do, is capture that moment. The tea is laced with masala and the morning, with happiness.

The more or less uneventful, but enjoyable drive continues. We passed Kolhapur. It’s the first time I have passed it by. In less than an hour, we are at the border of Maharashtra and Karnataka. The road quality changes. It becomes better. I have thought about this before – and it comes back to me. How can the quality of a road change at state borders when the road is a national project?

We make our way by-passing Belgaum, Dharwad and reach Hubli. I have been warned that credit card machines are rare, as I leave the highway. The first ATM I go into has the ATM software’s equivalent of the BSOD. The second ATM seems to be working. And for the first time in my life, I see angry graffiti at an ATM; a severe accusation of not delivering. The language that was employed was very different, but I’ll let your imagination take over for that. I am a bit concerned. It would be a shame to have your debit card sucked-in at this point of the trip. We drive away, finally find an ATM that (a) worked and (b) did not have a bad review.

It’s time to leave the GQ. We take a left towards Hospet, onwards to Hampi. The road is not as bad as I had thought it would be, and apart from the ongoing road works, it is in good condition. But more than that, the pleasure of being off an Expressway is now in view.

The sun prepares to leave for the day, and my calculations, about reaching Hampi while it’s still daylight, have been wrong. I had even accounted for the shorter December days. We reach Koppal just after sunset. I have been asked to call from there, for the directions to the Anegundi Road. We stop at a “Tiffin Centre” – my favourite places to eat when I am in the peninsula. A few kilometres ahead and we take a turn onto what is obviously a village road. My concerns are happily devastated as the road tuns out to be quite good and small hamlets pass us by every 5-odd kilometres. We are to reach Basapur, where someone will escort us to the place we are to stay.

It is 7:15pm. There’s a buzz in Basapur even though it’s not brightly lit. There’s smell of street food, dried grass, mixed with country liquor wafting in the neighbourhood.

We get our escort on a bike, and in less than 5km but almost 20 minutes, we meander through a rocky dirt road to Hampi’s Boulders. A very warm welcome and we are told we are just in time for a campfire & barbecue. It’s been fourteen hours for the 740 kilometres to get here. A campfire and a barbecue are very welcome. We quickly checked in to our room that was perched atop one of the largest boulders I had seen, and went to the campfire.

It is 8:20pm on 23rd December, 2011 and little did I know; campfires were to be a prime theme of this trip.

The Long Drive: Episode 1

I haven’t slept very well. Perhaps it was the excitement. I have never driven more than 500-odd kilometres in a day. This one is going to be more than 700. The last time I tried something closer, we were stuck in a traffic jam for a few hours. In the night; we slept in the car. Am I unable to sleep because I remember that?

The road today is well-known and often travelled. Almost all of it is a Dual Carriageway and three-fourths of my drive is on the Golden Quadrilateral. After Hubli, I am not sure what’s in store for me. The place I am supposed to reach, is not even on Google Maps. I feel quite comfortable about driving till Hubli. The adventure, I suppose, will start when I take left after Hubli.

It’s almost one in the morning, and I still do not feel sleepy. I have been planning this for the last three months. Routes on Google maps, asking for feedback on Twitter, tips from friends who have recently been to Rajasthan and the like. And after three months of rigorous planning, I have a completely new plan – in the opposite direction. We are going to South India, instead of the North. And I am now wondering, how I got this route and the locations in place in one week. Perhaps, that’s the reason why I don’t feel sleepy. I am surprised wide awake.

These thoughts go on, they occupy every crevice in my mind nudging their way back and forth to my attention. And I am still not asleep.

“It’s already 4:30,” she says, “you said we’d have to get out by 5:30.”

I wake up, and that seems to be proof enough that I did get some sleep. All my thoughts, who had slept with me, wake up with me. The excitement buzzes in my head. I take a minute for the buzz to settle.

We are ten minutes late. It’s 5:40am on the 23rd of December 2011.

We are off.

My Darling, Angel

I was in Goa, a couple of weekends ago – with Mahendra. As one thing led to another, we talked of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (ZAMM). That is one book I never bought. I inherited it – one amongst a treasure that was bequeathed to me; one that I cherish. I did buy Mr. Prisig’s other book – Lila – and read it – even. So, while we were talking of ZAMM, I was at loss in the conversation.

Elements of that conversation made me want to access the treasure that was bestowed; and I picked up the book as soon as I returned. The book has more personal meaning for me, than its content. As I moved through the pages, I realised that I had started reading it long ago. And it struck me, why I had never crossed the first few pages. While the book isn’t about motorcycles, as such – it did make a case against cars. It was a strong statement – about the joy of travelling in a car vis-à-vis a motorcycle.

Indigestible.

Then, and now.

The last three years have been beautiful with her. Today is her birthday. We have been on many adventures together. Most of them have been pleasant and enjoyable; some risky and dangerous, even. Many friends and acquaintances have come and gone and we have been places. Some chose to look out the window; some chose to sleep all through. We have been on mountains and along the sea. We have been on the best roads and – believe me – worst roads. Mostly, I have been with my angel and my artist friend – and we have painted wonderful pictures using thoughts, ideas, and experiences for palettes, brushes, and paint.

I do not have a specific memory of every inch on the road with her; I have a collective memory, though, of my experiences and my dreams becoming real. And she has helped me — see. In a way that I could never have, otherwise.

The road is a lover
You never recover
Not now or any time soon
My head starts to spin
When I think where I’ve been
Playin’ twin to an old fiddle tune, oh
As the wind chases after the moon

Through the kindness
Shown me that day
I gave him this melody
And we sang in duet
`Neath the stars in the sky
And the shadows of dancing trees

~ The Road Is A Lover; Alison Krauss & Union Station

She has opened my eyes to the world. And, now, she is all mine!

Heritage Hike: Daulatabad

Pico Iyer resurfaced in our conversation as soon as I told him about our plans for the weekend. We discussed this blog. It was meant to be a travelogue when it was started. I had very high hopes of high frequency travel and high availability of time, when I started the blog. Like my relationship with Twitter now, I knew how different people used blogs, but was not sure how best I would use my blog, then. So I told him, how, over the years this blog had changed complexion and texture, but weathered all the climate change. He was sympathetic — he gently assured me that this blog was indeed about travel — not the kind where we use trains and cars and visit real places, but travelling through and to thoughts and memories. I smiled at the assurance and said, it’s good destiny any how — I could never write like a travel writer.

It seems redundant to write facts about a place, when there is so much available on Wikipedia and million other people are repeating the facts all over.

What to see? What to shop? Where to stay? How to get there? Tips for travellers. Sameness pervades our lives.

Templates are the curse on the variety that we have in life.

What was supposed to be a drive in my car, turned out to be a Xylo bouncing across the NH3 chauffeured by a short, young, and able driver of good disposition. I was upset about not being able to drive, but was suitably compensated by the chance to take photographs from a moving vehicle, which, really, I don’t enjoy. But you do get to catch a few winks, and not pay attention to the road, but miss the experience of a drive. So you can imagine the number of times the emotions were smoothly changing directions on the almost straight road to Aurangabad.

*

700-odd steps. That’s how high up we’d have to go if we wanted to get to the peak at Daulatabad. 700-odd fort steps. Not your consistent byte-sized, apartment-style steps. Some dreadful glances were exchanged at the base of the fort between us. We had much more to travel and walk at our next stop. We went in, the 700-odd steps looming heavy over our heads — deciding to leave the climb/not climb decision when got to the steps. Cannons greeted us at the base of the fort, in an enclosed, but a large open space. To my sense, the scene was jarring. I imagined a smart ASI officer (or a consultant) who must have had the bright idea to bring down the cannons from their original location, and placed incorrectly in an enclosed space — all directed inside. Pop-Tourism, is a curse, when you want to discover history. Artefacts are removed from context to give you your money’s worth. Small and temporary pleasure of having seen a cannon and perhaps the gross gratification of touching something a few hundred years old, completes our tryst with history.

There’s a lot more to see in and around the fort — thoughtful architecture, stones that have onyx embedded in them, an impressive Chand Minar, small sculptures embedded in the walls, dual moats, triple walls, and many labyrinths. You will also see a few manicured lawns that almost make you feel you are in a monument in New Delhi. Apart from those exceptions, you are reminded soon enough that this is monument far from the capital and does not receive the kind of maintenance, support and attention due to its distance from the centre.

As we walked slowly from a wall here and a small temple there to a large tank there, for a good hour, we reached the decision point. It was a massive arched entrance that invited and challenged us at the same time. Being in the fort for an hour had made us feel at home, in a sense.

We embraced the challenge.

Of the 700-odd steps, we climbed a few hundred, crossed the dry and the wet moat with considerable ease, unlike what it must have been when the fort flourished under Tughlaq, the Mughals and the Nizams.  To my dismay, we were in the fort for most of the late morning and the early afternoon, when sunlight is the worst. For humans, as well as for good photography.

*

Forts, somehow, are silent storytellers. A guide or an accompanying book can give you a lot of facts. An enthusiastic guide can even (and usually will) sprinkle myths that are very creatively meshed with the facts. But the fort, with its irregular textured walls, falling tiles that expose the rough underneath, remnants of prosperity, carvings that have dulled by weather and human abuse, will always tell a story. All you need is imagination to watch that story unfold before your eyes. When the imagination takes flight in the strong breeze on the top of the hill-fort, use the facts to control the story, if you must. These places are the best to time-travel.

I indulged in a flight of fancy, at the Chini Mahal, here, where Abul Hasan Qutb Shah was imprisoned for 13 years. To be imprisoned in a section of the fort that was adorned by encaustic blue china tiles, yet never ever see it.

*

We saw a lot of inscriptions of love along the walls, mostly made in chalk or inscribed by stone, of undying love. Most of these were made in the last fifty years. I could imagine these lovers coming from far and nearby on their bikes or gaudy-coloured tourist buses, where they are given an hour to see the fort. And since you can never finish seeing the fort in an hour, these lovers, instead of expressing their love for each other had to leave a mark on a heritage site. I have become quite numb to this crass expression of permanent presence, sometimes just initials, invalidating the purpose of graffiti; sometimes with spelling mistakes: perhaps in the future, it may become the subject of an anthropological study.

*

It so happened that we did not get to the top — the last few hundred steps were sacrificed to manage our schedule that we had packed too hard. There was much walking to be done ahead at the next heritage site: Ellora. I left Daulatabad with a promise to lay a longer siege some other day. The fort is no stranger to a siege, but I believe it will welcome mine.

*

These photos (and more, soon) are available on my Flickr

People in 1732kms

A follow-up post to Tea in 1732kms.

The one thing that you cannot escape on a long drive, is people. No matter what secluded place you drive to, you will encounter them. Sometimes a few, sometimes many. But you will always see them.

They come in various shapes, sizes, colour, accents and moods.

They sit at toll booths and pass out the exact same ticket for the exact same fare for the duration of their shift. They are walking by to a village close by, and you duck your head out of the window to confirm the right turn – usually after you have taken that turn. They might offer directions with a nod of their head, sometimes they will want to give you more details than you care for – sometimes they ask you to drop them on the way for offering you directions. They might make tea for you, serve food, or help you get to your designated room for the night. They smile at you: sometimes a fake trained smile like the one we see in airlines or hotels; sometimes the smile is genuine, for no other reason than just to have met you. Sometimes they stare at you – because city folk in a village usually stand out like, well, city folk in a village; sometimes they ignore you. Usually, folks I have met on my way are helpful; a few times, they didn’t bother. As we go into the interiors we see them wear very colourful clothes, which often hurts our overly sensitised sense of bland attire. They become gaudy sometimes, and we are quick to be sarcastically humorous. We see labourers on the highway, levelling it out for us in the heat and dust, while we are quick to roll-up our windows and switch on the AC.

We forget almost all of these people when the drive is done. We usually never take these portraits to remind us of these people when we upload photographs or blog about them. One wayfarer’s face in over seventeen hundred kilometres, however,  has stayed with me like a photographic impression.

We had just left Dhar, off Indore, on our way to Surat. The road up to Dahod is in a very bad condition, with very small smooth patches in between. Where I could, I was speeding, to make up for lost time. As one smooth patch was coming to an end, I slowed down. Green fields on my right, with tall hills somewhere far watched me with patience. In the foreground, close to my car, I saw him. He wore a light blue soiled kurta that still saturated itself well against the blue sky. His back was turned to me. As I came to an almost halt to go through a deep pothole, he turned – he wore a tightly wrapped white turban and a white dhoti, wrapped in a way I have never seen before. As I surveyed him from his bare feet to his face, I think, that’s when the mental shutter released. It was a face, lush with character and marked by deep, confident wrinkles for the years. The thick regal moustache ended somewhere, but was hidden by where the sideburns waved towards his ears; the facial hair a sharp contrast to his sun-worn dark skin. I’d like to think and even say, that our eyes met, but I was too mesmerised by what stood there, to remember. Yet, I remember those big, dark, sunken eyes, which were the source of the hypnosis of that brief moment. As if to complete this vision that I was beholden to, he moved his right hand slightly for me to see the most beautiful axe in his big hands.

The car moved on having climbed out of the pothole and found a semblance of a road. Both of us were speechless for a few minutes.

Most of your memories can be captured with a camera. Some memories, however, you are meant to capture and preserve in your heart.

Forever.

Traffic in 1732kms

A follow-up post to Life in 1732kms

Some of my friends, who have left the country for a while, often tell me that “India is happening” and I am lucky to be in the right place, almost saying that it was a good idea that I chose not to leave the country, when it wasn’t as happening. I usually agree with them, don’t quite argue on the situation that really exists, feel good about it and let them feel good about it.

I often wonder, how the guys during the Renaissance felt. That is, the folks who lived and were young when it occurred, not for those who read about it later. While I will never know it, I think I feel the same way. I live in a country that is at the crossroads of being the best place to be live in (in the future), but isn’t there yet. And since it is a crossroad, for various reasons, if it takes the sharp left (or right), we’ll have a very interesting could-have-been story.

Most of the 1732kms that I travelled in the last week of the December of 2010, were on roads that wanted to be more than they have always been. Not just to bear more vehicles, but to be smarter, faster and smoother. Some of the roads have already achieved that, some are in the process and some are only yearning for it. I had a good share of the best and worst roads that week.

One of the worst patches, was from Indore, MP to Dahod, GJ. Work is on along this patch to make this into the short-sighted dual carriageway that is a hallmark of NHAI, but it is bone-crushing in it’s own way.

The highlight of these 1732kms (and why we took an off route) is a different story altogether. No suspense; it was approximately a 20+km traffic jam, just as we left the border of Maharashtra into Madhya Pradesh. Starting at Hadakhed and ending just before Sendhwa, all through Borghat. Analysing traffic jams is fun, if you aren’t the kind that gets frustrated easily – it is an academic exercise, but when you have nothing else to do, it serves useful purposes.

In the five and a half hours that I spent in Borghat, I learnt that there are three levels of complexity that cause such traffic jams.

For one, trucks in India are overloaded to no end. The limit of loading a truck is very well-defined, actually. If it will stay on the truck, load it. What would usually take three trucks to transport, we manage in two (sometimes, horrifically so, we manage in one.) So the traffic jam problem, really starts with cost cutting – at the cost of safety. Don’t get me started on cost-cutting; it is a synonym of short-sightedness: let that suffice for now. Overloaded trucks have a tendency to topple, and two of them did, on this patch. I saw one overloaded truck trying to get out of the way for us, doing a wheelie — and I am not exaggerating. It, no doubt, was a factor of the overloading.

Secondly, we have a very inefficient and untrained traffic policing system that is grossly underpaid to even think twice about refusing bribes. I am sure (but I don’t know this for a fact) that there is a law that disallows a truck to be overloaded. Weigh-bridges at every possible junction stand witness to the potential existence of such a law. Further, (in most places) we have no limits or scheduled times regarding when certain types of vehicles are allowed to ply on certain roads. I remember, way back, in the ’70s, I believe, the Khambatki Ghat, used to be closed at night to avoid accidents. It was a single carriageway then.

Finally, you and I are the one who screw up the most in a situation that is such trucks make worse. We cut lanes, disrupt traffic coming from the opposite side — because we have overwhelming faith in our small and manoeuvrable vehicles. When all the trucks are lined up like an army, we break ranks with gay abandon and rush to meet the oncoming traffic. This, unfortunately is not a highway phenomenon: I have seen this happen even in Mumbai – which I believe has one of the most disciplined traffic etiquette. I am not against overtaking, but the manner in which we do it – defies logic and reason.

Just after Hadakhed, NH3, Mumbai-Agra Highway (Photo taken between Sangvi and Palasner)

But, being there – for those five-odd hours was cathartic for me. Late in the night, with a few headlights directing rays in an almost laser show, a part of me felt peaceful. The other part was utterly frustrated – but I ignored that part. I was able to imagine this under-construction-road, how it would be when it was all done, when we would not give another thought to the travails of those that tread this path when it was being built. I allowed it to become a forced instance for me to stop and think of all the things that have bothered me for long. My friend, tired from navigating for almost 14 hours took a nap. I shut down the car and got out to watch the stars. To be on the incline of a tall hill at night is a revelation. The stars don’t really talk to you; they don’t send messages; nor do they have answers. To get out of your car (because you have no choice) and sit on a ledge that overlooks a far away city, identified only by the lights that it chooses to leave on at night, and wonder at a life — is a privilege. It is a rare experience. To be with a group, but distanced by vehicles that came between us, and therefore be alone — is a privilege. As I sat on the ledge — I remembered what my driving license said on the back cover: Driving is a privilege, not a right. I felt thankful.

A truck driver had got out his kerosene stove and was cooking food. I asked him how long he had been in this jam. He said, “12 hours.” I smiled. I asked him what he would do if the traffic started moving suddenly, with a dart of my eyes to his stove. He shrugged, said nothing. In the moth-eaten blanket of a sky, my life reflected an image, mocked me.

I was sure we would not be able to reach our destination in good time. By the time we would reach Indore, we would really have to wake up hoteliers to give us rooms. It didn’t matter much to me – I was not so sure of my friend and his family in their vehicle, a few trucks behind. (Later, I was to learn, to a happy surprise, that we shared an interesting DNA for adventure — the matter for another post)

We of course, as you may have seen in the map in the earlier post, chose not to return by NH3, and chose to come through NH8 via Vadodra and Surat. The Indore-Bhopal highway, however, was a pleasure – a driver’s dream come true. Somehow, all through the trip though, a line of truck made our hearts sink, bringing memories of that Christmas night that we spent stuck for no reason. Luckily we didn’t encounter any jams as severe as the one on NH3. But it left a lasting impression.

Part frustration – part experiential. And while I am not sure how my other five co-travellers experienced it, I choose to remember the experiential part of it.

What’s an adventure, if you have already decided what to expect out of it.

Related Articles

• Life in 1732kms (gaizabonts.wordpress.com)
• Chinese Drivers Stuck in Traffic for Nine Days (athingforcars.com)