We awoke this morning earlier than we would have liked after a charming evening with two ravishingly capable Indian women. I mean, of course, the lovely Mendakini and Jagruti, newly christened members of the AsiaWheeling team, and official Pondicherry field command. So you, dear reader, may find it no great surprise that we were awaking at this ungodly hour to have a fine breakfast with those same two women to commemorate our last moments in beautiful Pondicherry. By the time we got a call from Jagruti, we were sipping strong south Indian coffee, chasing it with Malarone, and reading the newspaper in the courtyard of the l’Orient.

We parked our bikes outside a french restaurant, just as the two of them arrived on motor bikes. We dined like imperialists, with more strong coffee, soft-boiled eggs and homemade bread with rich butter and jam. We dropped off the bikes with some tinges of sadness. They had served us well in this city and we would surely miss them. Who was to know what unruly, or easily spooked cycles might lie in our future? We rode back, the four of us, on the women’s mopeds. It was not the first time that I thought it might not be so bad to simply spend the rest of my time on earth clinging to a hurtling chunk of metal, piloted by a beautiful woman. But nay… there is more more wheeling to be done before I sleep.

We packed quickly, and, in my case, somewhat frantically. Both Norton and I have been paying no small attention to the mounting evidence that malarone has a somewhat jittery anxious effect of the psyche. We settled the bill and made sure to leave our mark in the guest-book before we went outside to meet our driver.

The cab company, Selvi Travels, is was started by Scott’s former colleague Maran (we thoughtfully approve if his lack of a last name) so we were given a king’s treatment. It was our first time in an AC cab, and to be honest, I prefer to sweat, windows open, and feel like part of the world which I traverse. Regardless, it was the safest I have ever felt on the insane, lane-less roads of Tamil Nadu. On the way, our driver, a tenacious man named Shiva (the name of our last driver also… more data needed before we draw conclusions here, though) pulled off at a ruined temple complex, which had turned into a tourist bonanza. The temples themselves were stunning, and Shiva walked us to the beach via a secret back rout, so as to avoid paying the 250 rupee entrance fee. Instead we made our way to a beach where a little bazaar had been erected, and a a crowd had formed around the shore where largish waves crashed, disrupting the trajectories of the many swimmers which chose to enter those treacherous waters.

This was also my re-introduction to the world of panhandling children. In my time in Russia, I had developed some utility in the navigation of aforementioned emotional and delicate situation. But these skills had all but disappeared and I found myself heartbroken and guilt-ridden as we were pestered by adorable starving children. Shiva did his best to keep these children at bay, but as we left, a child was still tapping on the window of our cab, and a thin woman was begging at Scott through the glass. It was about then that we realized the aforementioned drug interaction –perhaps between Malarone and caffeine?– was in full engagement. The two of us began to get nervous (about getting sick: India is many beautiful things, hygienic is not one of them), finding a place to stay in Agra, the looming vastness of the trip, our own fortitude. We stopped for a thali at a vegetarian restaurant by the side of the road, and Scott and I sat at the table, gripped by the mild, but persistent hysteria, and ate giant piles of rice.

A full stomach was no solution, though. What we needed was progress, a feeling of accomplishing something, of bending just some modicum of the randomness of infinity to our will. We needed the internet.

So we asked Shiva to take us to an internet cafe in Chennai. Though, he spoke essentially no English, the man was able to communicate to us that he had no knowledge of Chennai and wouldn’t know the first thinga about finding an internet cafe. Our cell rang and it was our good man from the clock and breakable nick-nack shop, calling to tell us that our Jaracks (the card proving that we had a residence and some legitimacy in India) was not 2 sided, and necessitated our return to his shop for some reconnoiter of the situation.. This, we attempted to inform him, was not possible due to our imminent departure on the grand trunk express towards Agra and the Taj Mahal. Upon hearing this he promptly hung up. At this time we still know not what the situation is with the insufficient jaracks, and whether at any moment, Airtel may simple cut our service. Please, dear readers, pray with us that this does not happen. For our mobile is our only lifeline to Tamil, Hindi, and Bengali speakers that may approximate directions to our motorized vehicle drivers and paternalistic civil authorities.

As our cab drove deeper and deeper into the throbbing and scattered nervous system Chennai, Shiva began to pull over and roll down the window, asking people in Tamil/Hindi/English where we could find an internet cafe. We asked pedestrian after pedestrian, each giving us uncorrelated directions. Twice we arrived at a cafe only to find it closed on Sundays. At our wits end, we finally rolled into Chennai’s swankiest, most sprawling, most confusing, beehive of a mall.

Inside the mall we found a microscopic version of the days earlier meanders. Shopkeeper after shopkeeper pointed us in conflicting directions, across multiple floors and “phases” (your guess is as good as ours) of the mall. Finally, though, we got there. It was like a drink of cool water after days in the heat of the desert.

Refreshed and re-fueled by the interwebs, we bid Shiva farewell at the Chennai train station, tipping him a sum that must have been close to his monthly wages, just as a 10 minute summer monsoon began to pour down in heavy curtains over the expanse pavement outside. We ran through the liquid onslaught and into the station. Indeed it too was a sight to behold, and another chance to sharpen my tolerance and composure under the assault of heartbreaking child beggars. As Scott once, I believe very wisely, said “giving money to panhandlers supports the market for panhandling.” Put another way, if one wants to help those less fortunate than he, that person is much better off giving money to an organization whose business it is to redistribute, invest, and create wealth, than to attempt to do such a fragile operation at the random whim of your choice. Such a philosophy seems sound to me, and paired with the fact that, once you have given a rupee to one child beggar, you are soon swarmed by the all the rest in sight, becomes attractive enough to simply embrace.

Now, laden with 1 box of English digestive biscuits, 4 huge bottles of water, 1 Sprite, 1 Pepsi, 2/5 bottle of Indian scotch whiskey, 10 pounds of digital technology, and a 1st AC room on the Grand Trunk Express, we are settling in to blog, rage on php/kml/css, eat the Indian snacks that are being sold by fellows wandering the train, and engage in our own special blend of railroad intrigue.

What are we listening to? Scott’s digging Luke Harris’ Day for Night Mix and Woody’s chiefing out on Cha by Steven Bernstein. Oh and of course our Tamil Classics.

Loading image

Click anywhere to cancel

Day 2 in Pondicherry began with us donning our new Khadi shirts. Khadi, as I understand it, is a symbol of Indian independence from Britain. In the days when India was a British mercantile colony, the Brits would grow and harvest cotton in India and take it elsewhere to be spun into garments. These garments, often ill fitting the heat of the Indian climate, would then be sold back to the Indians at unreasonable prices. Mahatma Ghandi, as part of the Indian independence movement, promoted Khadi, or homespun cotton garments, made by surrounding villagers. These garments were much thinner and well suited to the hot and humid Indian summers. They are also, by the same token, rather translucent. So it was with only mild self consciousness that I left the hotel and joined Scott on our bicycles headed for his old office when he lived in Pondicherry in 2006.

The Business was called BookBox, though it was their non-profit side-project, planet read, that Scott worked on. We pedaled through the streets of Pondicherry, which where eerily empty. It was a Saturday morning at 10am, so we figured perhaps things were just sleepy. We stopped into a favorite restaurant of Scott’s, Bombay Meals, which, unlike many around it, appeared to be open. The owner, was lounging in the empty interior, but sent us away saying he might be open at 7pm, but no earlier. Somewhat confused, we decided to postpone breakfast and ride over to PlanetRead. When we arrived, I was impressed with the operation, and their admiration for Scott was clear. The office cook made some nice hot south Indian coffees for us and we retired to a comfortable room in the back of the office to examine some of the new products. BookBox creates digital storybooks in many languages, to be used as language teaching materials. We spoke also of new plans for expansion into language tools for the hearing impaired using the same technology. As we finished the coffee (which was splendid), we were asked if we wanted to sit in on the noontime meeting, and whether Scott would give a short speech (no particular topic was suggested). Scott of course agreed and we also agreed to join them for lunch (despite warnings of possibly excessive spice levels).I consider myself a hardened eater of spicy food, but I was expecting to be blown out of the water by the intensity of Indian spicy-ness. Not so. While the food here bursts with flavor and balanced spice.

It is far from gratuitous, and, in fact, more often than not milder than the raging food we used to cook back in Providence for “Sunday: Chicken and Bowling.” Though you, dear reader, cannot see, I have become choked and weepy at the mere mention…Scott’s speech was great. The highlight for me was when he quoted Henry Ford, “If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said they wanted a faster horse…” Had he asked me, I’d have said I’m perfectly happy with my 30 pound steel atlas bicycle and panama hat.The meal was splendid: a rich chicken biryani, a stainless steel pot of curry, and splendid raita. At least here in the south, raita is nothing like the thin glop we have come to know and love at Indian restaurants in the united states, rather it consists of just two ingredients: chopped onion and yogurt, each in about equal proportion, and it is thick like coleslaw. Also it is ridiculously delicious. On the streets of Pondicherry and Chennai you can see men slicing onion with such furious precision, sweeping onion after onion aside into a giant pile waiting to become raita.Also during our visit to the BookBox headquarters, we discovered the reason for the empty streets and the closed restaurants. The entire nation had been called to strike that Saturday, in protest of recent increases in patrol prices. So we set out for our wheel, unimpeded by the usual traffic and mayhem which adhere to the city streets. Our wheel took us out into the fisherman’s neighborhood.

As we rode, the road changes from concrete to sand, and the building changed from crumbling brick and cement to palm leaves, jagged sticks, and bits of plastic. Though everywhere we go we get plenty of looks (two attractive young men in panama hats and oversized sunglasses riding bicycles –also we are the only white people), but this was a new level of attention. As we rode people called our to us in Tamil and children came over to touch the bicycles and babble at us or just wave. Most of those we passed simply stared though, with expressions ranging from mildly interested to confrontational.I must admit the experience of visiting the fishing village was emotionally tiring.

And to boot, we had been riding in 100+ degree heat with no water since all the shops were closed. As we rode back into the city we passed an ashram called Sri Aurobindo.

We parked the bikes and removed our shoes in the designated area on the other side of the street and walked across the burning hot cobblestones to enter the ashram. Not a word was permitted to be spoken inside so we simply followed the person ahead of us to a large stone table upon which an intricate image had been assembled from different cut flowers. A man walked ceaselessly around the table, waving a bundle of burning incense. All around us were small gardens and stacks of potted plants. A man with two long wispy brooms wandered sweeping dust and dried leaves from here to there, so that people could sit on the stone ground.And this we did. Again, I enjoyed the experience. I am not sure if I can say that I meditated, but I certainly found the experience to have a calming and centering effect which linger some time after the experience itself. With all the shops still closed, we left the ashram and rode the city searching for water. After some time we found a nescafe stand on the beach which sold us some bottles.

The effects of the water on my system were every bit as strong as the sit we had in the ashram. And for this first time in many hours we resumed laughing and joking, while we made our way back the the hotel.

This morning we awoke to the sound of our room phone ringing. Still disheveled I passed in to Scott, who transitioned instantly from deep sleep into business mode “Yes, hello, put it through.” It turned out that for today’s activity to have any chance of working, I would need to go consume an orientation film (or “flim” as they say it in Tamil since the “lm” phoneme is difficult), and this would require we arrive by 2:30. So be it, we thought. It was to be our first full day, waking and retiring in India. Spirits were high in our fine room at the hotel l’Orient and we bustled excitedly. We had a breakfast of masala dosa –a kind of crispy flapjack filled with spicy potato– and a very tasty south Indian coffee. How’s south Indian coffee made, you ask? Play the video below.

With full stomachs, we vetured out into the steamy day. We had, as you dear reader are no doubt aware, acquired a cellular telephone and indian sim card the day before. And we find here a perfect example of how india continues to surprise me with its strange mixture of bureaucracy and ambivalence. Though we were technically required to present a passport, a passport size photo, and proof of residence before we could get a sim card, the owners of the fine shop which we entered. Mobile phones did not seem to be thier main business, rather they sold clocks, watches and breakable nicknacks.

They did a number of head wiggles and just gave us the phone on no more than an almost unreadable passport copy and a set of AsiaWeeling business cards. So providing them with these materials was the first order of the day. We stopped to buy some $3 shirts and flowing Indian pantaloons on the way back the l’Orient.

We arrived back at the hotel (or “hotle” as the Indians would say it) to find our friend Jagruti and a white ambassador waiting to take us to a Utopian-style cashless society which exists outside of Pondicherry called Auroville. I had the night before been introduced to� the beautiful Jagruti and her devastatingly charming friend Mendakini when we took them out for seafood tandoori at the rooftop restaurant of the hotel Promenade and she had promised to the next morning to do what she could to get us into a meditation session in what I had only heard was rumored to be a one of a kind structure, housing the worlds largest crystal in the world (I mean here the kind one makes nice wine glasses out of– not the regimented molecular kind). The cab ride was delightful. Our driver was significantly older and more cautious than the previous days’, though I am still unsure which was the more dangerous of the two rides. As we neared the expansive grounds of the community, the crumbling fruit stands, nicknack shops and patched together houses dissolved into beautiful jungle, the road transitioned from cracked cement into deep red packed dirt, and soon we were passing into Auroville. We followed well marked signs towards the visitor center and arrived just as a crowd was forming outside. My first impression of Auroville was attributable (as many first impressions of places are) to the architecture. It was phenomenal, proving that despite the cashless society there was plenty of money here.

Our driver left to go park the car and relax while we entered the orientation. The first part was just about the Matrimandir, an orbular building located in the center of the very much still under construction community of Auroville. The community is shaped like a galaxy, centered around a very special banyan tree, and just to the side of the banyan tree was the Matrimandir.

During the film, a photo of the Matrimandir dissolved into a schematic of the interior. Inside there were spiraling walkways and a smaller orbular room in the top. Giant mirrors on the roof collected sunlight and focused it into a beam which shown down through the center of the building and through the giant crystal ball in the central room. I was honestly stunned. I thought such places only existed in science fiction novels. The second part of the film detailed the philosophy and history of Auroville, with regards to which I will refer you elsewhere for details.In the interim between the end of the orientation and the beginning of the meditation, we had a breakneck tour of the campus.

Everywhere we went, we saw healthy looking European and light skinned Indian people lounging or doing administrative work, all very peaceful, most were smiling. We passed outside the entrance the the inner circle of Auroville, where the great golden dome loomed over manicured lawns and curving brickwork. We were told by the woman at the gate that it was likely we would get in but only be able to stand, but Jagruti worked some magic and before we knew it we were holding deep blue translucent tokens which were to redeem our passage into the Matrimandir. We strolled around the grounds of the inner sanctum, freshening up, drinking water from a large tank with a single metal glass atop it to be used by all who wished to drink, and in no time we were in a large group of Indians and foreigners heading for the golden sphere. We stopped outside to wait until 4:30. At that time the workers )mostly dark skinned indians with singular dress and large turbans were to finish their work. We must have total silence inside the matrimandir. The crowd was given explicit instructions: do not say a word; remove your shoes; put on the socks that will be provided to you; do not cross the inner concentration room, walk only along the parameter, touch nothing but the handrails, move nothing but your own body.

So this we did. As I walked towards the great sphere, it became apparent that its many gold panels were made of smaller gold panels, forming an intricate and glittering design. At the entrance of the matrimandir we we descended a great sloping walkway of red brick, great walls of the same material rising smoothly on both sides. We silently arranged our shoes along this walkway and entered the golden door.

Inside it was cool and dark. In the antechamber, which was lit in a deep red light, we donned the socks we were handed by a smiling woman and began to file into a white marble doorway. Inside the matrimandir there was more marble, arching skyward towards a second sphere, which floated high above us. From the bottom of this sphere, a brilliant ray of light shown down into a tall obelisk, with a lens at the top. All around us were the elegant curves of the interior support structure, all lit in cool blues reds and yellows. Fountains ran along the walls, next to plaques with inscriptions in Hindi and English.

We heard only the trickle of the water was we ascended the ramps. Our feet made no sound on the ramp which, upon steepening slightly, became thickly carpeted and gripped the foot. As we neared the top of the ramp, we could see the great dome, with its single door. At this point I had become separated from scott, and was near the head of the line, so I entered an almost empty space. Once again, the temperature dropped as we entered the interior of the inner orb. The room was very dim, lit only by the light which reflected from a great crystal ball which sat atop a golden stand made of four six-pointed stars. A brilliant beam of light shown in from the sealing, so bright that the light scattered by ambient dust was stark and purest white. The beam fell directly into the center of the crystal, and passed out the bottom of the marble floor on which we walked.I took a seat with a cushion that leaned against a pillar, and sat down. I must admit, the sight of this great orb and the beam so bright as to seem almost solidified, had a profound effect.

It was the entire experience, the architecture, the silence, and the inner room itself, which transformed the consciousness of those who chose to “concentrate” as they called it. I sat town and stared into the light. I know that meditation is supposed to be about clearing ones mind, but I have never had any luck at that. The closest I can get is wheeling, or swimming laps with a snorkel… but oh… the torrent of processing that I had. in that room My mind began to churn over so many things: from Asiawheeling logistics to the meaning of existence. It seemed like only a minute later that the lights flashed silently in the room, telling us to leave. I stood and followed orders, thinking: perhaps this is indeed a step towards mind like water…

I believe when we last spoke, your humble correspondents were pack tidily into a Korean airways flight to Mumbai. In what seemed like no time, said flight landed in Mumbai at what we were forced to begin calling 1:30 am. The first impression I had of India was that it was disorganized and completely ok with it. Also there was the head wiggle. It’s everywhere. It seems to translate roughly as “no problem.” And everyone does it. So after much confusion, wandering, and waiting around, we were shuttled from the expansive, and very much under construction, international terminal over to the domestic terminal. We waited around and drank tea from the “cafe coffee day” (as I understand it, a Starbucks competitor) until they opened up the domestic security scan around 5 am. There were separate lines for women and men, so we entered the men’s line and got scanned, then entered the gate. I say “the gate” in the same way that some might say “the terminal” because there is only one gate, which is gigantic, with multiple lines for different flights all fighting to get out the same exit. Then, passengers are bussed to different parts of the runway where their flights are waiting. The sun was just rising as we piled on the bus towards our flight, and in no time India was unfolding beneath us.

All the while, I succeeded in trouncing Scott repeatedly at whist. We walked out of the Chennai airport and into he morning heat and the midst of a giant crowd of drivers, waiving names written on cards.

We found ours at the end of the line, a young man who drove like a demon and spoke very little English. I quickly realized that driving like a demon was a prerequisite for any hope of navigating the boiling veins of traffic in Chennai. At first it was an intense fear of death by traffic accident which held my attention, but as near miss after near miss became the norm, I became transfixed with the sights around me.

The road outside the airport was busy, and crammed with cars, trucks, auto-rickshaws, bicyclists, and from time to time a spurt of pedestrians, forced into the road for lack of a decent sidewalk. Our driver spoke little, but honked often. It quickly became apparent that the honk of the horn in India holds a very different place than it does in the US and is polar opposite of Iowan horn etiquette. Here, the horn is used as a sonic pulse, sent out to alert other drivers of your position; in Iowa, it’s like the button like that which holds the potential of nuclear holocaust: right there in front of you but never to be touched. Slowly the scenery changed from crumbling urban proprietorships to open views of the ocean and and grass huts. As the air around us began to heat up, the driver asked to stop for a little snack, then again to wash up, we agreed and added in a stop of our own to photograph a salt producing operation.

We also passed school after crumbling school, all focused on technology and engineering. Our driver dropped us off outside the Hotel de L’Orient in Pondicherry, and we were immediately greeted by a man in flowing robes who served us a sweet and slightly salty lime tonic.

Refreshed, we were shown up to our room. The hotel is breathtaking, with a beautiful courtyard restaurant and a French colonial theme.

After no more than 5 minutes of collecting ourselves, we hit the streets. First thing’s first: we rented bicycles. The entire rental (two people; three days) was only 180 rupees, or about 5 dollars. Wheeling in Pondicherry, is quite the wild ride. Bikes, like the cars, must use their bells to alert fellow traffic of their position. The road is busy with the same assortment of vehicles, and one rides on the left to boot.

So naturally, I was frightened of dieing on this first day of wheeling in Asia, but as we rode, stopping to perform errands (buy a cellphone, some shirts to sweat up, handkerchiefs, visit Scott’s old pad), I began to feel what Scott describes as a “more heightened humanity” among the Indians. Each person that we interacted with was friendly, willing to chat, helpful, and seemed to give off a carefree stressless air. We stopped at one of Scott’s favorite restaurants for a thali, which was the tastiest thing I have ever had the pleasure of shoveling into my mouth with my bare right hand. By the end of the wheel I was ringing my bell like a madman and beginning to relax my fears of bodily harm. Sweaty and tired, we arrived back at the hotel to relax and write this post, grinning like buffoons, when we were confronted by the man at the door of the hotel, “a man in a jeep arrived at 1pm to talk with you, he is still waiting, let me go get him.” After some searching we finally found this fellow, who turned out to be the courier, send by our illustrious chief snake charmer and head of the Bangalore office, bearing our 1st A.C. tickets on the grand trunk express (stay tuned) to Agra, Delhi, and later to Varanasi (ditto).

After our long, parabolic flight across the Atlantic, you faithful correspondents strode somewhat bleary eyed into Seoul’s Incheon international airport, though I in retrospect I am unsure if “airport” is really the correct term. Indeed planes did land and unload/load people, but the entire international terminal was more like a spotlessly clean shopping mall, occupied exclusively by expensive European retailers and East Asian eateries than anything I have come to know as an airport. We strode through the gleaming terminal surrounded by well dressed Korean business men and young Russian couples, where the burly men struggled to keep up with giant spindly blonds. Also striking was the silence of the place. While American malls (or airports for that matter) subject their patrons to an assault of musics, screaming people, and crowded visual stimulus, this place was quite, minimal, silent, and colored tastefully in deep sea greens, stark whites and dark grays. We stopped into a food-court-type enclave and ordered a pair of Erdinger weissbeirs amidst children dressed in Pier Cardin sweater vests slurping pungent noodles from bowls of broth. We left the cafeteria in much revived spirits and we on our way the gate when we noticed this sign:

and thought perhaps this was exactly what we were looking for. We ventured in to inquire and inside we met a very kind representative who informed us that we did not have the sufficient time to make the little hand painted fans which were the activity of the day, but we stayed to chat anyways, and (don’t tell anyone) were given a free couple of fans to boot. She explained that she had visited the States once: Las Vegas “for the slots” she said; won $400. May we one day be as lucky.

As we were boarding the plane we struck up a conversation with a Gujarati diamond merchant, with manufacturing operations in Surat. As we descended on the escalator, he explained he was a Jain, which among other things means he is forbidden to eat anything which grows beneath the earth: potatoes, onions etc… so while he liked Korea, or “KR, a very good place” as he put it, it was hard for him to eat there. When we finally reached the bottom of the escalator, ready to board the plane to Bombay he bid us farewell and mentioned, “I told my wife I missed my flight and I’m not coming home tonight… but I am!” May we one day be as lucky.

I awoke today somewhat groggy from our working late into the night finalizing the geoblogging software and no small time spent packing and unpacking our belongings, struggling to leave behind all but the most essential materials. I stumbled out of bed and peered over Norton’s shoulder to find to find him deep in the Unix command line, trying to download his capital markets training materials via recursive wget, just as we we were having some luck piping a list of urls into the wget procedure, the succulent aromas of fried ham, scrambled eggs and pancakes wafted upstairs. I donned my lucky shirt given to me by my good David Harrington friend We followed it like lemmings. After a delightful breakfast and an fascinating introduction to stem cell and cancer research by the illustrious John Norton, we realized it it was time we left the comfortable womb of Scott’s most gorgeous house and set forth into the unknown.

I was completely unable to contain my excitement, and grinned like a fool even throughout the entire “secondary screening” I was asked to endure by airport security. Beaming from the inside of a great glass box, I heard a soothing mechanical voice coo, “engaging air jets.” Suddenly I was hit by a barrage of tiny puffs of air, from every direction. After some whirring and clicking, a light turned green and I was told I had passed and could proceed. I walk out of security, still grinning and babbling, and joined Mr. Norton, headed for gate A7.

Korean Airlines is adorned with splendorous luxuries. I recommend the experience without a shred of reservation. For the flight attendants, in their delightful sea-foam uniforms of the flight attendants, complete with leather blazer and multiple dramatic sashes.

The food was also splendid and came often. We were given a beer and nuts course, followed by a futuristic bibimbop, with seaweed soup.

Desert was a round of clonozapam and a fitful sleep as we sailed through the north pacific towards Korea.

AsiaWheeling Mobile Offices: Emerald Hills, Northern California

After a brutal headwind kept me airborne for some 7 hours, my flight from Boston arrived in San Fransisco, and I pulled open the door of a gleaming silver Acura to see Scott smiling at me behind a pair of giant sunglasses.

The California shown bright and warm all around us. Immediately, we set about taking stock and charting out our last couple days in America. We needed to change currency, acquire some Panama hats, and spiff up the blog.� Notice the delightful new theme? (notice the even newer theme?) a� Scott Norton original, buy travel insurance, go wheeling hard, mail off AsiaWheeling t-shirts, pack, chill, breath, and gird our loins in general.

I found Scott’s home to be gorgeous and comfortable and his family both gracious and friendly. We borrowed a fine bicycle from a Dr. Jeff Norton (no relation) which served us well on a savage wheel through Scott’s Woodside, Portola Valley, Stanford, downtown Palo Alto, and back up to Emerald Hills.

While its true we technically leave the country tomorrow, as you can see, AsiaWheeling is already well underway…

The Bangalore office, till the point this post was started to be written, was practically dead. Except for the occasional rising to life to perform something worthwhile – booking the train tickets for the India part of the wheeling and rickshaw-ing to the Jet Airways counter at the now closed HAL Airport in Bangalore to reschedule the Principal Wheelers’ tickets from Kolkata to Hong Kong, life here has always been dull and subdued. While the Chief Snake Charmer would like to conveniently blame the inclement weather in Azerbaijan and the reduction in the diameter of urban water supply pipes in Kosovo, he now has every reason to believe that there was no need for him to be that slothful. Be it the lethargy in booking the train tickets or the inordinate delay in sending the text in Hindi for the t-shirt and the business cards, the Chief Snake-charmer did not quite do justice to the august company he is in. The Chief Snake-charmer has every mind to kill himself, but is hoping to redeem himself by playing a good host to the Principal Wheelers’ while they are here in India. The train ticket booking happened just in time to get confirmed tickets. The Wheelers otherwise would have had tickets in RAC or in the Waiting List. That’d have made for a great adventure and a couple of interesting blog posts, but the India bureau would like the Wheelers to have better adventures and not the ones which would involve haggling with the Ticket Examiners on The Great Indian Railways. Neither does the Chief Snake-charmer, based on his previous experiences, looks forward to such adventures in the near future and nor does he want the Wheelers to go through those.

The India Bureau would like to thank the ever-so-dependable Mr. Srinivas of Venkateshwara Travels, Domlur, Bangalore for his kind help in booking the train tickets. Though like every honest Indian, he charged a commission slightly higher than what he is entitled to, his promptness in booking the tickets on being informed by just a phone call reposes our faith that if one knows the right people in India, things can be arranged and fixed without much worry. No doubt these services come at a slight premium, but there’s also a lot of relationship building that goes into cultivating such contacts. So be it any kind of tickets – bus tickets to travel back home to Dharwad, movies tickets to watch movies with Adi, train tickets for the North East Trip, help is just a phone call away in the form of Mr Srinivas.

Ladies, Gentlemen and the gentle ones among the ladies, here’s presenting to you Mr Srinivas and his modest office.

Mr. Srinivas majestically seated on his throne!

Only God and The Chief Snake-charmer know what earth-shattering work The Chief Snake-charmer had that made him sit over the e-mail from one of the the Principal Wheelers Mr. Norton for over a week. As Mr. Norton mentions here, it was regarding the re-scheduling of their flight tickets from Kolkata to Hong Kong by Jet Airways. Blessed was the earth that Saturday, the 12^th of April, that the Chief Snake-charmer finally mustered enough energy to reach the Airport. Calls were made to the Jet Airways counters to confirm if such transactions could happen at the Airport counter, otherwise the Chief Snake-charmer would have to go the Jet Airways office for this. It was only after pressing the first eight combinations of the numbers on the key panel of the mobile phone that the Chief Snake-charmer was able to get through to a human on the other side. Such are the funny ways of these IVRS systems. On being explained of the transaction to be done, it took ten minutes and eight seconds for the Customer Care Executive to get back after confirming from her officials. Get back she did, and also confirmed that the Chief Snake-charmer could get the re-scheduling done at the Airport.

What followed next was eventful indeed but not as difficult as exaggerated by one of the Wheelers in this post.

Enter Nakil Kulkarni, head of the AsiaWheeling Bangalore office, and Chief Snakcharmer for AsiaWheeling global. As always, Nakil’s reputation precedes him, in the same way lightning precedes thunder. So you, dear readers will find it no great surprise that, against fantastic odds, Nakil traversed miles of treacherous terrain and plunged himself into intense negotiations on our behalf with officials at said airline. After some hours a deal was struck, and AsiaWheeling once again enjoyed the calm which precedes an upcoming storm.

There’s only one way of getting things done in India – that of getting them done. It doesn’t matter what the means is, but if something is to be done, it will be done. And a word given is a word given and will be kept at all costs. Unknown people turn up at unexpected times to offer help, and what use is it of being The Chief Snake-charmer if one cannot do something as simple as rescheduling airline tickets? The Chief Snake-charmer felt very humbled and slightly humiliated after coming across glowing praise of him and issued the following press release.

First things first, The Chief Snake-charmer’s name is Nikhil, and not Nakil! The Chief Snake-charmer is deeply disturbed at the blog post titled Our Bangalore office proves invaluable once again posted on the Asiawheeling blog on April 22, 2007. The blog mentions of how Chief Snake-charmer – against fantastic odds, … traversed miles of treacherous terrain. The Chief Snake-charmer would like to mention here that there were no odds set on this airport trip of his as the betting houses in Bangalore were closed that Saturday. Hence the mention of odds is misleading and readers are advised to take note of the same. Also, the terrain that the Chief Snake-charmer had to traverse was not treacherous, but was a smooth, well-laid road from 13^th cross in Indiranagar to the HAL Airport, covering the Double Road, the 100 Feet Road and the Airport Road. Yes, it took some negotiations and a few hours for the deal to be struck at the Airport, but the tone of language in the blog posts suggests that a Herculean effort went into getting the re-scheduling done, while it was not so. It was difficult no doubt, but that’s the best part about getting things done here in India, of getting things done. Wheeler Mr. Norton would know of this best, having been a part of the team that pulled off the spectacular cultural performance at the Hebballi School, while it seemed totally impossible the previous day. The Wheelers are henceforth requested to refrain from using such humiliating language while writing about the Chief Snake-charmer. The Chief Snake-charmer wishes to remain as humble as ever and continue to quietly serve AsiaWheeling in his capacity as one of the members of the Board of Advisors.

Ok, that was a lot of crap. 276 words, 1346 characters with no spaces, 1621 characters with spaces, 2 paragraphs and 18 lines to be precise. To put it in a nutshell, the one who has completely gone nuts, The Chief Snake-charmer, is glad that he could be of some help.

Here is the photographic evidence of the preparations the Chief Snake-charmer made for the smooth(hopefully!) organisation of AsiaWheeling.

1. See the e-mail from the Principal Wheelers for the 234th time. Finally decide to move one’s arse.

2. Move one’s hands also and make the Hindi text for Chief Snake-charmer

3. Dig out an old image for the business card –

4. Hire an auto-rickshaw, reach the HAL Airport

5. The Jet Airways counter at the airport

6. Being the gentleman that the Chief Snake-charmer is(are any ladies listening?!), he writes a Thank You note to Laxin, the helpful lady at the counter.

7. Tickets done!

8. The auto-rickshaw ride back

This is news just in!

Looks like the Chief Snake-charmer won’t be able to travel to Agra with the Principal Wheelers, but there’s something about Agra he wants the Wheelers to know about and insists that they do this while they are in Agra. This comes from a book the Chief Snake-charmer is currently reading – India In Mind edited by Pankaj Mishra. It’s a collection of excerpts from works of mosly ‘foreigners’ who’ve written about India. It’s a piece by Pico Iyer from his novel Abandon.

The Chief Snake-charmer hopes the Wheelers will see what others don’t see. Better still here’s a glimpse of what it might look like, at 1:44 in the following video from The Bucket List –

[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/v/OltHNarHA9A]

The Chief Snake-charmer wishes he could join the Wheelers on the trip to Agra and see the Taj for the first time, but commitments at work are holding him back. But he’s glad his good friends are doing it and looks forward to joining them in the later part of the Wheeling.

PS. Just so that we know, Wheeler’s, A H Wheeler & Co rather, is a book chain selling books across railway stations in India.

PPS. Don’t know what the problem is, but was not able to embed that video!

Update: we’ve closed down shop on the asiawheeling pilot study t-shirt orders.

Time is just raging by here in providence, and the aforementioned has come to send the orders to our t-shirt man Bradely Thompson, at Row Apparel. Thanks to all who ordered. The trip continues to loom ever closer. I can barely contain myself…

As much as anything else, this trip will be an experiment in rolling with the punches. While we have spared no time in the meticulous planning of this endeavor, we recognize also that much must be left to chance. Our first flirtation with that fickle mistress occurred some days ago when your corespondent Mr. Scott Norton received an unexpected communication informing him that his subsequent employer would be requiring his services, beginning at the unanticipatedly early date of July 13th.We immediately set to reformulating the plan.Some things were for sure: we could not cut our visits to Varanasi, or the Sunday market in Kashgar. So we began to assemble a new itinerary.The gods were with us for the time, as we were able to construct without too much difficulty a new itinerary, which achieved these goals. Major components to be cut were the entire west and norther components of the India portion of the trip and bicycling across South Korea.

Having already purchased tickets from Kolkata to Hong Kong on Jet Airways, we needed to change those reservations. Yet, after some conversation with Jet’s customer service executives, we discovered this task could only be done in person. Enter Nakil Kulkarni, head of the AsiaWheeling Bangalore office, and Chief Snakcharmer for AsiaWheeling global. As always, Nakil’s reputation precedes him, in the same way lightning precedes thunder. So you, dear readers will find it no great surprise that, against fantastic odds, Nakil traversed miles of treacherous terrain and plunged himself into intense negotiations on our behalf with officials at said airline. After some hours a deal was struck, and AsiaWheeling once again enjoyed the calm which precedes an upcoming storm.May we, your humble correspondents, never cease to be reminded that we ride only on the shoulders of such giants as comprise the AsiaWheeling board of advisers.