Winter in Reykjavik

I arrived in Iceland and promptly messed everything up. I knew there was a bus (flybus) that went into Reykjavik from the airport in Keflavik and also that there was no "blue lagoon layover" possible having arrived at an ungodly early hour. I immediately headed to the duty free shop to load up on cheap booze and smokes. You can never know when those will come in handy due either to extreme partying or cultural desirability. I mean if coffee and tobacco are the only real currency in jails worldwide, it goes to say that there is a strong possibility that cigs might be the difference between making friends and choking to death on expired nicorette after a night of heavy drinking.

Disappointing after the impressive display of local and exotic booze varieties, there's a 1 liter limit per person. I mean WTF? I went with the standbys: the local Black Death and whiskey. I found some limited edition camel cigs that might make good souvenirs for my committed smoker friends in NYC.

Before the coffee had kicked in I realized I was the only non-employee in the airport. I asked at the counter when the next bus would be. I had missed the one perfectly timed for the more 'with it' members of my own flight. Luckily, there was 1 other guy who had somehow convinced the bus to make a trip and I could piggy back on this tremendous good fortune as the difference between the deluxe Mercedes bus and a waiting taxi is about $100 usd.

Even after reading extensively, the landscape was still shocking; barren, volcanic, windswept and black. I expected more snow, or more land. Somehow the horizon and a great sky had become 60% of the visible dimension. I was stupid enough to travel without a power converter and had only one charge on my fancy camera battery. Instead I took it all in, a living IMAX nature show. The sheer Nordic-ness of everything was deeply impressive, even as it became clear that Reykjavik is a very little city. I tried to imagine living there, in tastefully painted metal sheet buildings with heavy wooden windows all reminiscent of a fishing village from another century.

The apartment-hotel that I had booked for a few days in the city was not to be ready until 2pm and I had 6 hours of trying not to fall asleep carting around too much baggage and looking for the address of the place. Somehow I found a gated black house, something that looked more like the inspiration for a painting than a functioning building, and rand until I was buzzed in. No one appeared to be home except a gentle old black dog. The doors on all the first floor were locked. The entry inside with stairs leading up seemed a bit rude, but after 5 minutes and no answer I climbed up to find a very young, very blonde boy looking at me with bright blue eyes. My first instinct was to wonder what language I could speak, since I hadn't even bothered to try to learn any Icelandic. English then.

"Hello. Is your Mommy home?" He turned to run, like a boy messenger warning of an approaching army. His mom, the proprietress, was busy on the phone. He returned to his room, a beautiful pastiche of blue walls, dark hued books and a rainbow of wooden toys. In the stairwell a sculpture of books, glued together in a spiral, had English titles and upon closer inspection some were stamped with, "San Francisco Public Library." The main room, a dining room, leading to the open kitchen was a perfect blend of art and design from Latin and Nordic cultures. I stood stunned taking in the visual ghosts of the late 1990's San Francisco Art Institute. The paintings on the walls were exactly like those my friends had been making then. An attractive middle aged woman in black appeared and began to apologize. She looked Icelandic, her clothes definitely were. Even her English had a cute Icelandic accent.

She explained she was alone in managing their growing stable of apartments and rooms. She could do nothing until 2, but I was welcome to leave my things and she would direct me to anything I might need or want, which considering the city was inevitably within a 5 minute walk. I asked about the art. She had been there just before I had, knew the same painting professor -the legendary one- and had married an Icelander. I asked if she'd known a woman named Madia who I had known from that time. Madia had moved back to Reykjavik around 2000. Since then I’d only heard from her once, a phone call in which she described hooking up with a rock star that she couldn't name but was a household name internationally. It was all very exciting for her and sort of depressing to watch. We gossiped about the epic motorcycle accident in Italy of a mutual acquaintance and lost touch. It was a small city, even with a confusing lack of surnames there couldn't be more than 20 Madia's in the phonebook and why not try them all?

Instead I found an adorable tearoom, experienced my first sudden Icelandic hailstorm, the delicate protocols of the Reykjavik hot pots and waited to 2pm. My fellow alumni surprised me with a car ride the several blocks to the apartment, which was a considerable upgrade from what I'd actually paid for. It was the brand new apartment designed to house five significantly more affluent individuals than myself. First there was a vintage armchair placed artfully under a skylight with custom upholstery that had a repeat motif of either a clown or Barack Obama, the detail of the weave made it impossible to distinguish which. On either side a massive coat closet (no hangers) and a beautifully tiled bathroom with a huge oval shaped bathtub sculpted to look like a vase. Wandering through the great expanse, heated to a perfect level of comfort, I began to feel a kind of elation that my efforts had lead me here. Two bedrooms, both luxury foam mattresses, one with a patio overlooking the harbor and classic Icelandic architecture. The massive front room was a modern studio with white leather sofa, fake velvet deer heads arranged in a row, awesome new kitchen appliances far more space age than anything I'd seen in real life. I slowly sat in each room, looking over each piece of wall or tile and considered that everything had to have been imported by boat from the harbor, driven over here and installed with precision by the same generation of Polish immigrants who artlessly slapped together countless condos in NYC. What a difference a culture makes.


My second day the time difference and massive clock failure between various laptops, clocks, cell phones and other devices left me late and pissed about having missed the city tour I'd arranged in advance. Having already mastered the DIY stumbling around, I figured it couldn't hurt to do the tour with the idea of saving time and increasing the likelihood that I'd learn more than the aesthetic composition of buildings in general. Alas. The second half of the day I managed to be picked up in time for the "Golden Circle Tour." And if ever there was a non-stop whirlwind of must see sights made way awesome for the gentle voice over by sing-sing Icelandic English, this is it. Everything was amazing, but more so because of the variability and violence of the nature that is more than a backdrop, but a participant in the history and experience of Iceland. It started snowing and I was amazed to see the buss plowing through the massive snow like a modern Valkyrie, which has been almost uncomfortably captured by the Iceland Expeditions flash ad.

Sanity Check

Since December, I'd been working in the gray open maze of the 7th floor of the midtown Manhattan version of Art Deco; which is to say endless slick black surfaces, chrome trim and rounded edges. It was a first in terms of hard core mega-corporate employment and initially my feelings were an incredulous mixture of confusion, joy and mind-numbing disappointment. It's not that my work was horrible, just overly simple (in task and concept) and overly complex (down the corporate rabbit hole/directory in execution). Definitely less colorful than South India, but I had a committee of managers (supervisor/boss') that respected me as a human being and professional, plus the HR department never failed to mail a paycheck. I got to wear cute business clothes when I felt like it, and dressy jeans when I didn't.

I worked the holiday season in complete solitude; and endless gray cubicals. Not the operatic hardship and disaster of the last Hungarian Christmas seasons. Apartment searching was a lesson in the futility of trying to live in NYC with a less than 90K income. Thankfully one of my best friends works in the exciting world of wine reviews and that managed to keep my experience yellow hued and blurry at the edges. Things weren't great, weren't terrible.

January I moved into a gorgeous Harlem Brownstone and assumed that my new life in corporate technology marketing to the publishing industry would be the foundation for a new settled life. Until the quarterly budgets came in. In review it was apparent that I had been lucky to be hired after layoffs, spared an additional round, but that the end was clearly visible; even if I hadn't actually accomplished anything yet. I hoped to prolong the inevitable as long as possible after I got a VPN key and a blackberry that let me keep up with the office chatter without having to be sitting in my chair pretending to smile. I started to appreciate the people I liked and forget the incidental office gremlins I didn't.

Still the stress of trying to keep everything together was getting to me. I didn't really like anything about my life, it was just an experiment in finally doing the thing that I was supposed to in the first place. I missed trying to survive in foreign countries. I hated having to do the same things everyday with no variation.

Initially the idea was to travel with Niki, a fixed gear head I'd done the R1 with in 2005. He's now a lead developer at a video game company in NYC and, as it happened, also needed a vacation. Our birthdays are both in March and we agreed it was time to escape the GRAY city, GRAY offices and go somewhere shockingly different.

Since my wine expert friend is always waxing poetic on the wonders of Spain, I thought I might drop in on the Madrid boys from the last adventure. Niki was up for it and we planned a Madrid-Barcelona tour until the weather reports issued a depressing GRAY forecast. At about that time, the Icelandic economy and political structure became a dissolving meteor before the world stage. My various pals in fashion photography and other hipsters couldn't shut up about how great it is. I obsessively checked internet sites before proposing a change in venue. Niki was down.

Unfortunately so was his new girlfriend.
We tried to meet up as a three legged albatross with the idea of a 'group trip,' but in their new love they were impossibly smitten teenagers and my bitter old lady persona couldn't stomach it. Whatever it was, it wasn't working and suddenly the great idea of an expensive vacation split with a charming travel companion was bust.



I printed up a map of the country and affixed it above my office phone, made the tiled background of my corporate laptop a misty picture of the blue lagoon and started collecting maps, books, PDF's and other research materials that I promptly left in a mad rush to make it to the airport after work on a Friday. My manager had already left and benevolently let me leave early as well.

I was off to the land of Bjork, elves and glaciers! HOORAY!

The Finale

Day 14: August 14, 2008

Alibagh to Mumbai

The last day and the shortest distance was complicated by the three separate flag down and flag off points designed to keep the teams tightly together so that we could all chat with the press, enjoy a snack on the beach and then arrive to the luxurious JW Marriott in a grand procession –all without disturbing the legendary Mumbai traffic ordinances. Thankfully with all of our newly acquired practice navigating, getting lost, staying together and wandering off; all of these things happened, perfectly of course.

Entering Mumbai was quite the experience, teams had to avoid the appearance of staying too close together, and the urban roads and distractions, including a major accident were difficult to navigate. But not impossible; impossible wound up being trying to order a coffee and a sandwich to be delivered within 30 minutes at the Park Hotel. Alas, better things were waiting for us in Juhu.

The Norwegians got the charming experience of witnessing an accident with a man's brain spilled all over the place. One of them might have gotten sick, apparently brains don't get smashed & exposed a lot in Norway, the way they do through television in America or through violence & civil mayhem in Central & Eastern Europe. How will Norway survive the coming apocalypse? At least the Lost Vikings have some practice now. 

The Park was nostalgic for me, the Chennai Park hotel had been a great experience... the Mumbai Park? Not so much. Still anything super modern is a nice change of pace, even if highly out of place in general.

The next stop was a “flyover” or highway overpass, overlooking the Arabian Sea and the vast expanse of Mumbai. 

Home to over 20 million people, it’s a lot to take in after roaming around the rural wilds for two weeks. Suddenly the sun came out, a few journalists appeared and participants started sharing snacks and jokes, flaunting their outrageous costumes and doubtlessly breaking the rule of not distracting passing traffic. Once almost all of the teams arrived, we were off again to our final regrouping point a large dirt parking lot in Juhu, with massive Bollywood billboards contesting our own fantastical costumes but by the attention of the locals and press, it was clear who would be the winner that day. Waiting for the last of the group, we made it to a beachfront hotel/restaurant to sneak in a quick drink before the final procession began.

The beach stop was my favorite part of the day. I got a snack and watched as one of the girls cried over the impending loss of her holiday romance, while Steve & Oscar chatted about trips to Spain and what was waiting back in their respective versions of reality. I'd been invited to switch rickshaws back with the lovely team 18, but those Madrid 2016 boys were getting more insane as we entered the metropolis and Oscar took the wheel. Some story about having been a taxi driver before a lawyer. Whatever it was I was almost sure he'd spin us into an accident and I wanted to be in it.... I don't know. But it was great fun.

Participants were warned - it was also India's Independence day celebration and to avoid any potential conflict during a highly nationalistic time we might, as highly visible foreigners, feel behooved to display the Indian flag. Great. More shake downs.

And what a procession it was. Glorious, all the teams in full regalia entered the ultra-luxe Mediterranean style rotunda of the JWMarriott, flanked by waiting press and the screams of excited locals from other cars, the street and buildings. With a final group photo, teams checked into the hotel. 

I was rushed to my room, so I could figure out the winners for various papers. And it was hard. And mostly arbitrary. There were technicalities. And politics. 

I had been waiting to debu my gold accented black silk Saree for the occasion, but being an incompetent American, i needed a helper to drape the thing. As some kind of classist revenge the woman was totally late and then did it wrong. I had no alternative, so I ran out in my heels to catch a cab. The hotel's were a pain. Something about time or money, it always is no matter where you are, so I ran out into the street to get a black taxi. Argued the location and fare, almost identical to the same experience in Manhattan. Classic. But less comfortable. Yet more glamorous...

That night we also had our beer session, where participants volunteered to take care of managing the Adopt-A-Village charity and funds to be properly used in the schools visited. A large buffet with cocktails managed to put everyone in a great mood until the grand prize winners, participant stories and CEAT Mumbai Xpress 2008 Finisher’s Certificates were distributed.

And Now: the Grand Prize Champions of the CEAT Mumbai Xpress 2008: Team #3 Two Tukkers in Tukxedos; Alex Jones and Stephen Milford from the UK. Congratulations gentlemen, you’re officially number one!

What could possibly be their secret to success?

Dangerous Waters, Anorexic Ponies and the Team Point Totals

Day 13: August 13, 2008

Mahad to Alibagh

Though it took most teams several days to get into the mindset of traveling and living in India as long haul autorickshaw drivers, by day 13 everyone had grown nostalgic and a little disappointed that it would all end so soon and regular life would take its’ place. Luckily there was also a fantastic extra excursion to Kulaba (Island) Fort in Alibagh Beach after the flag down.

Day 13 was like the last week of school before summer vacation: no one who isn't valedictorian gives a shit about anything except partying and trying to get with that one girl. I'm not naming names, but apparently the holiday hook ups had already turned into something of a soap/pop drama. Funny. I was busy figuring out international calling on the 40INR crap cell phone I'd been saddled with. The hotel was a disappointment in terms of food and the bar was like a foot locker filled with dirty old men, a place even foreign white women were not welcome. I decided to extract my revenge on Aravind by ordering the most expensive food and drinking as much booze as possible. Pretty much everyone knew things were a bit... unhinged. 

The funniest part came when I opened the door to the room I had to share with the little brown butter ball. It was the honeymoon suite, complete with a heart shaped bed and hand embroidered coverlet. Where I there with a lover, I would have been delighted. Given the circumstances, I had us moved immediately and asked for the beds to be moved to opposite ends of the room. Then I had to figure out some scores, all of which were mostly ridiculous. 

Some people cared too much, most not at all. The sheets had been lost for the first teams back in Hassan, which had the effect of kicking the strongest teams down to a big pack of whatever. But it was almost over. People wanted a winner, they wanted the idea that if they just do something fantastic tomorrow, they might walk back into their offices with a ridiculous trophy and some artificial pride at having conquered the subcontinent, again. The wanted a rocky. Unfortunately as things looked according to good behavior and luck, it was down to the british tuxedo kids and the creepy kiwi couple, who having shunned everyone the entire trip began being painfully friendly -at the last possible moment when it was announced that you get points for being liked. Hm. 

The day itself was peaceful, the roads became less densely covered by jungle and more agriculture, towns and open spaces filled the view. Still overcast in the wake of the passing monsoon, the island was still not reachable by 4pm, the time when the tide should have gone out. The two usual options for making it out to Kulaba Island are simply waiting for low tide and walking, or taking one of the horse carts. With storm clouds threatening, it became obvious that only the poor swimming horses would be able to make it, even at the lowest tide.

Good God, I've lived in rural Romania and my former shock at the poverty of those animals is entirely eclipsed by the poor beasts that pulled these ghastly little wood carts through freezing monsoon tidewaters. The tide still deep, yet people paid to have them make the attempt and the poor little bastards had to swim before mostly giving up -only at the urging of the tourists who couldn't watch it anymore. I was disappointed, but the horror of it and the cold wind made me happy to just go back to the hotel and try to catch some of the olympics that might be on the big screen in the dining hall. We gave the Spaniards a ride back & Abdul got lost. It was funny & I was determined to ride with them on the trip into Mumbai. Those guys are nuts!

This is one of those moments, when you realize how delicate nature is and even when something is repeated, like the CEAT Mumbai Xpress, nature often makes each experience totally unique. Last year there were hardly any monsoons, as the CEAT Mumbai Xpress 2007 chased the lingering monsoons. This year we were right in the middle of their fury. A wild and intense experience, but unfortunately not so good for the view this time around.

Luckily the Hotel RaviKiran had a flat screen television in the restaurant and teams got to soak in the Olympic fever with beers and local cuisine before resting up for their final day on the road to Mumbai. Before leaving the next morning the scores were posted. In the competition category, team 15 Wheelie Wheelie Mad from New Zealand was clearly in the lead, but with competition only counting for 55% of the total scores, who would be the winner? The question lingered on everyone’s minds.

The other thing about that night, besides getting a surprise international call and staying up all night doing the accounting for the scores that would wind up being largely arbitrary anyway, was how happy I was with the hot water. No, really. I had a great time in the shower with the bright blue tiles and the candy colored plastic bucket. Not the nicest shower at all. But I guess by day 12, hot water alone is enough to make you sing in the shower. 

The Mists of Imagination; the Amputees of Raigarh Fort

Day 12: August 12, 2008

Ratnagiri to Mahad

The morning flag off started with a group photo, The Engine team 13’s Steven and David in Sari’s borrowed from Team Compact Pussycats. 

Their lovely imitation of a traditional dance in the girl's fake neon Saree's left everyone coughing with laughter and hoping that the locals would be flabbergasted enough not to do anything. India, for all the male hugging & affection, is enormously homophobic. Would they not understand? Would they give the paying white tourists a pass? I briefly looked around in case. Thankfully, the only thing that happened was their repertoire of dance moves to imitate came to an end and with that everyone shoved off. Somewhere it's on video.

Without any late sleeping officials to flag us off we enjoyed careening out of the hotel flagged off by the mechanics. Everyone, but the Spanish Team #16’s the Thirsty Riders, took off with a roar. With the bad mechanical luck and good humor that had brought them along this far, they were just about to experience their best mechanical accident

 yet: a flipped rickshaw landing both of them into a very muddy ditch. 

When the mechanical team arrived, they appeared to be covered head to toe in mud yelling at each other like creatures from the black lagoon. Eventually, even they found it quite funny.

The biggest adventure each day, from the pace car, is where to eat lunch. Though there are not many variables in outcome. Still somethings like the euphemistically named Swiss Restaurant are a good time while today's was a red earth, brutal chicken hut with omshanti played on repeat, until nauseous, on the inside of a dirty porch eating the usual spiced dishes and trying not to worry about Hannes, murder Aravind with a blunt object or start crying over one of the impossibly poor and skinny children working like a pack horse. The intensity of everything required long stretches of silence, but Aravind kept yaking away about his incredible knowledge of everything. Checking the blog comments. Abdul, the ever silent driver was my solace. At least he knew how to appreciate the scenery and shut the fuck up.

Despite the rains, teams had a fairly easy day and everyone arrived to the flag down in time to visit the incredible Raigarh Fort at Mahad. Lost in a deep mist with scattered rains, a vast rock face covered in lemongrass, moss and gently swaying greenery that appeared almost electric in color, the fort is at the very top.

The tram seems impossible, it sways and I was almost certain that if the other tram didn't go spiraling to the riders demise, then it would be mine. When we arrived at the parking lot, there had been a fee. At the tram we had to pay a fee. Then at the top, there was a wet stone hut with no electricity where an amputee demanded another fee for the fort. Everyone began arguing. 

Typical india. Everyone there is desperately poor. I felt bad for everyone. All they can do is try to extort money, their neighbors are less ripe as targets than we are, but westerners are sensitive about being hustled when there isn't a tag attached. I was frustrated and figured them men would either come to a solution or fisticuffs and in either case I had a fort to explore. The steps were very steep, cut into the rock and enormously fun to climb up with my goofy plastic shoes. One of the pussycats followed me as I climbed past the social scene and up into the trail. 

Only in medieval movies about princesses have I ever seen a sight quite as fairy tale as riding up the tramway into the mists of the mountain to see the crumbling turrets and stonework, a human sized maze of stone overwhelmed by moss and water. The fog was the thickest that I have ever experienced and had a density, like walking into cotton. Aravind even seemed to be purposefully nice and trying to give me space. Stepping into the dreamworld alone I felt very happy. A brief return to the secret garden of my girlhood, filled with impossible places & stories. No one followed me, but I could hear their voices. Wandering around until I found the throne, or a reproduction of it. I stood in the center and played emperor of a few minutes and hopped down when I heard the others approaching. 

On the way down, it was the first time that I felt sad I was seeing this alone. What better way to explain the delicacies of my heart than to show someone this? Funny that such an open valentine is here, not in one of the neighborhoods of my childhood, but in the closest physical manifestation of that imagination.

 Teams climbed into precarious little boxes on the rope way that leads up in groups of 8 or 9. Despite the hilarity of arranging transportation in regular jeeps that broke down anyway (thanks team 6!) and the mysterious Indian fees for things you never imagined for things from parking to gate fees, taxes, entry, etc. It was incredible, the stuff of fantastical medieval movies and dreams. Waterfalls gushed out of the green mountains everywhere with delicate little flowers struggling against the elements on impossible slopes.

The fort itself was huge, covered in moss and filled with rainwater. The throne and various look outs called for more exploration, though the fog was so thick you could only hear the voices and steps of friends nearby but anything more than 10 or 15 meters disappeared.

The nice people at the Hotel Kuber Palace assured us that there would be a pool next year, though we aren’t so sure that’s the improvement we’d most like to see. Still the people were very nice, the service was unusually good and the restaurant was really what you’d want to tell people about when describing the more exotic experiences along the way.

I liked that the hotel had an extensive walkway of shades that kept most of the monsoon rains out. That was nice. The bedbugs? Not so much. The restaurant staff was the fastest, most accurate & helpful of any so far. 

The Kilometers and Monsoon are Merciful - Mostly.

Day 11: August 11, 2008

Tarkali to Ratnigiri

After the extreme monsoon, driving, accidents and late night the teams started off humbled and determined to get to the evening’s hotel with as few breakdowns and

 problems as possible.

I had become, not unsurprisingly, sick. Possibly it was the damn Indian moonshine whiskey, but later in the day it was confirmed to have been simply being stressed out in the middle of a monsoon, freezing and later being locked outside while my fat little Indian boss refused to get off the crapper to let me into the beach front hut room. I remember wonder

ing if, after the day I had, I was more or less able to physically beat him to death. No, better to wait for a hotel with nice ammenities. 

 Thankfully the weather and the roads seemed to hold out. Waterfalls made regular appearances and so did troops of monkeys.

Sitting in the pace car, happy to not be in an autorickshaw, happy to not be in the monsoon, I was happy I'd gone shopping in Goa. The resistance to all things India was broken. I began wearing the traditional clothes, starting with the blue and gold salwar suit. Kausar became more friendly and the pretty sash was a nice distraction to meditate on. 

I sat in the passenger seat and concentrated on the absorbing everything that could be seen. The road and water. The million shades of green and the strange new variations that each village had. Goa had looked like the army base it had been, covered in black and green fungus. The jungle villages began in much the same way that other south Indian villages did, but there were always small variations. We stopped at a clinic for more medicines. The building felt like a dark doll house, an old woman quietly sitting in the front room looking out. How often is there something to see?

Close to the final destination the route took us past some of the largest mango plantations on the planet, but in the heavy greenery of the season, it was hard to make out what could have been a mango tree and what was part of the kaleidoscope of green that covered the earth. To consider that only in a few months time the whole scene should change to fire tones of yellows, oranges and reds seem almost incomprehensible. Though there may not be active nightlife in the villages, it’s easy to see that the seasonal cycles provide enough distraction to remain fascinating.

It's true. The landscape changed in that day, from being under the canopy of jungles to being in the rolling hills, which though lush and green bore the faintest look of what the hot dry season might bring. Changing of the season, watching the earth go through the season remains one of life's greatest pleasures, a rare phenomenon after years in New York City. Though I'm grateful to be passing through, I want to return to this spot to see these trees become pregnant with fruit, see the harvest and understand what survival feels like here. Presumably at some point it even stops raining.

In happy contrast to the day before, everyone made it to the Flag down on time. Several participants rushed out to the pool with a huge twisted red slide and a hot tub that overlooked epic cliffs and the beach view from the Hotel Kohinoor Samudhra. The storm clouds gathered again and most made it back to the nice hotel rooms or dining hall while a few stayed back to experience sitting in a hot tub on a cliff in monsoon rains, which is different than sitting in an autorickshaw.

Each night, when we reach the lobby, I have to haul out my briefcases with my laptop, files and not so secret bottle of vodka that the lovely Hungarians had bribed me with. That night as I'm shuffling to the front desk to find out where the hell I relax for a moment, Aravind happily accepts a bouquet of flowers from the front desk clerk. He opens the note and almost throws them disgusted to the floor. Instead, he hands them to me. Nice.

In it, a lovely note, thanking me for the day before. Anonymous, though I have my suspicions. It's not a particularly thoughtful or a resourceful group and the list of suspects is exactly 1. I'm thrilled. The key is mine and I haul off with Abdul carting the printer behind me. I get into the room, sweep away the curtains and find that the bathroom has Bollywood tunes piped in. Fantastico! I'm entranced with the bathroom and spend as much time as possible freshening up before deciding to jump into the hot tub perched on the cliff overlooking the ocean. If we can drink cocktails in there, even better. It turns out to not work out so much, but that's India. 

Later at dinner, the waiter ignores me, then loses my order and I wind up chasing the guy into the depths of the kitchen and screaming at the cooks. Steve, the almost silent tech contractor from Colorado, working in Iraq, seems greatly humored by the whole thing and I momentarily wonder if I've gone insane or if it's really just India. In either case I get my food. 

The Thin Line Between Adventure and Disaster

Day 10: August 10, 2008

Panjim, Goa to Tarkali, Maharashtra

I've written the official daily blog entry for each day of the Mumbai Xpress 2008.  Day 10 was the day in which the "official" version was a triumph of PR professionalism over reality. I was not sure if I should publish the 'real/personal account' quickly after so as to create a potential controversy or wait. As much as I hope CEMS & owner die a long slow traditional death, it's less drama for me to quietly publish an obscure correction, such as this.

If there is one day that everyone present for the CEAT Mumbai Xpress 2008 will remember most, it is very likely to be Day 10. After almost all 18 teams got their chance fighting with the hotel over ruined or stolen laundry, or change not received, burglarized autorickshaws and the late flag off due to late sleeping officials, it was a frustrating way to begin a long day that promised more brutal monsoon rains. With all the good humor and determination of elite troops, teams set out knowing that there would be a beautiful and incredible road ahead.

Ha, ha, Ha. Oh, I'm funny. The truth is that the morning was a painful monsoon disaster. Everyone was hungover and it hadn't stopped raining for more than 5 minutes since around 2pm the last day. The grey stormy morning destroyed many of the rickshaws and most of the mechanics had to be practically beaten to death to hammer shit back into place. But it didn't help much, since the breakdowns became more aggravated with the impending monsoon & less than ideal circumstances.

About at the boarder between Goa and Maharashtra teams began being turned away due to a washed out bridge. At the bottom of the hill a road was barricaded and a large lot with shops was filled with villagers curious to see floods reported to be the worst seen in 20 years. Of course when 18 rainbow colored autorickshaws driven by internationals showed up, it became a wild and potentially dangerous gathering. Children and drunks began trying to enter rickshaws and provoke participants. Vehicles were lined up and the crowd kept at bay before a restaurant was identified as a safe stop point where everyone could wait before hearing what the alternate route, or embarrassed trek back to Goa, would be. In a tight convoy the autos left the village and waited at the stop point before being re-routed.

Check, please. Actually, the bridge was a low lying flat patch of road that was enormously washed out. The level of the water wasn't rising like a tide gently rolling up to the shore, but like an opaque gas that instantly filled everything at a certain ground level and without any indication of speed or origin simply became higher. The road was elevated as we drove down to the washed out road and small village. 

I was in a rickshaw with 2 unusually adventurous types who had a lot of experience in 'out of the way' places, who happened to work for a security firm, also providing myself a mysterious kind of security. We are in the first 5 vehicles to get to the wash out, to see villagers streaming out of flooded huts onto the road and into a large parking lot type enclosure, slightly out of the flood plane where a few food huts are doing the best business they can remember in recent memory. I jump out and talk to the guard about the road & the possibility to pass or how long we might need to wait. As far as I have heard from the morning's briefings with local authorities there is only 1 road and this is it. The option is returning to GOA, where everyone from participants to organizer's have told the Hotel Fidalgo staff to go fuck themselves -in no uncertain terms. Some people even briefly thought back to their jobs in far off countries and the loved ones they might miss if they became stranded & the whole thing went to shit.

One of the policemen is patiently turning everyone off of the road, driving away any curious persons with the bored acknowledgement that to wade in these muddy flood waters is not good because the blue crabs are "very poisonous."  Rick, though over six feet tall and looking quite battle ready, still manages to jump a little and speed up.  India, particularly outside a metropolis, is not a good place to have medical problems. We look up at the closed road and see more rickshaws arriving, more villagers surrounding them & the party like sounds of kids in one language and the British party brothers blasting music and trying to figure out what's happening in another.

Quickly it occurs to myself and my unusually savvy companions that the locals are young, drinking and entirely too intermixed with the rickshaws. It's prime riot-vandal conditions and the whole thing looks rather stupid on the white tourists' part. The lead organizer is no where to be seen.

I moved the rickshaws into a semi circle on the outside of the parking lot. A modern day circling of the wagons, trying to remember any general Custer or wild west stories that might also have some survival anecdote. Nothing comes to mind. One of the teams is eating gummi candies and I notice that if the kids see it, they will swarm & attack them. The plan is to hide anything but if it gets out of hand, toss & drive away. In a rickshaw, that's kind of like throwing a fish head at a Grizzly bear & crawling away with the rest of the fish in a wheelchair. More hopeful than practical.  There's some full sized school buses on the opposite side of the parking lot and some of the participants climb up it to take aerial photos and video of everything. Notably Stephen and Oscar, the two most fearless members of the challenge. 

About 30 minutes later the CEMS owner calls to say that another route may have been found but to pull everyone back to a rest-stop/restaurant 3 kilometers back. We all go together in a tight formation as the monsoon begins to kick up again. Everyone loads into the well covered food shack, hitting up the remaining beer stocks, when the call comes that a new route has been found & to pull everyone 5 kilometers back to where the first overpass had been. Considering the rain & the newly opened beers, no one wants to move. But it's a long day & we're behind. I have the mixed sensation of wanting to let everyone stay where they are. Stay here for days, ruining holiday plans, getting everyone fired and starting a new Jones Town cult of alcoholics who left society in favor of avoiding driving through the rain. Instead, I do my best General Patton.

The new route looked to be a million times more glorious than the intended one; curved hilly jungle roads with ever more beautiful scenery. Even the monsoon seemed to begin cooperating a bit. The first accident hit Team 13, The Engine, resulting in the loss of their front windshield, a particularly uncomfortable problem during a monsoon with 100 kilometers left to go. Mechanics drove the autorickshaw into Tarkali through everything.

At the gas stop where several teams fueled up and the windshield disaster forced the team to hand over the driving duties, Rick & I decided to find a toilet. In rural India, finding a toilet is always an adventure, but this one was the best that either of us have yet to come across. First we had to step in between the alley separating the petrol station to an outdoor market, covered by tin sheeting. The rain was relentless and the market labyrinth daunting. Before the toilet building could be found we agreed that nothing in life had more closely resembled a scene from Indiana Jones as this. The toilets looked like a long neglected railway waiting room, smelled like death and cost 5 rupees. Bargain. On the way back I couldn't be sure if the snakes were toys or real, and felt the incredible anxiety of wanting to draw the experience out while also wanting to make it out alive. 

What the official version neglects to mention about the busted front windshield is that the nice British boys didn't have to suffer driving it through what would become horrific conditions. The emaciated Indian mechanic did. Alone. Eventually after 12 hours of fighting it out through the passages that follow, he shows up at Tarkali, shaking cold wearing a t-shirt and starving. Eventually he gets some leftovers & to sleep on the floor with the other mechanics. CEMS is an Indian company and reflects the traditional hierarchy and concern for the employee.

Bah. But what I said about the beauty of it. It can't be overstated. Somehow as things became more dangerous, the roads we were on completely unknown and off the daily itinerary, everything became almost mystically beautiful. Never a straight road, the lines curved and twisted, rose and fell until the rhythm of moving and gaping at the idyllic jungle transitioned to the least possible expected landscape: Ireland. 

Somehow we managed to leave the coastal jungle and wander smack into open fields, hemmed and boarded by dense black rock and country roads. Hills of intense green and piles of things that looked a bit like hay. Like everywhere else in India, no matter how remote, some amazingly skinny fellow was wandering around, as if looking for a shoe left somewhere along the road. The Monsoon became so heavy the sky and the fields were blanked out by a steel grey color, impossible to see through.

The road signs stopped bothering with English anymore. And no one had any idea where we were or how far off the original route we might be. The lead organizer was in a mini-van somewhere behind us, likely obsessing over his online profile and new treo. 

The big disaster came about 30 minutes later in a curvy downhill section of the road where the jungle becomes field. Team 17, Luft der Freiheit, lost control of the vehicle and crashed into a ditch. For reasons unclear, the autorickshaw then burst into flames from the front. Hannes, the driver of the auto experienced several injuries, including trauma to his ear and hand that later required over 30 stitches. Despite this, he was able to pull his stunned partner, Niraj, out of the flaming auto before other teams could show up.

The vision of a flaming autorickshaw, bloodied and shocked friends is enough to unnerve anyone. The teams that were first on the scene, however kept calm and collected, despite also being out of cell reception and being in an unknown area where none of the signs had been in English for several kilometers. Team 18 Northland Control’s Grin N Bear IT, found an ambulance in the next town, team 6, Screamin’ Cheetah Wheelies and 7, Compact Pussycats provided first aid, team 8, The Bald Spots, the GPS coordinates and team 5, The Jokes of Haphazzard, drove back and kept everyone moving. Organizer Nona Varnado was with Team 18, and took both injured participants to the nearest hospital, where lead mechanic supervisor and translator Kausar Baig was also on hand to provide assistance and transport to Mumbai if necessary.

What linguistic concision! What 'don't alienate the sponsor & any future paying customers' class! And to think I wasn't the Wall Street Journal Reporter paid to gloss over the situation. In direct contrast and perfectly embodying the complete loss of journalistic standards; either due to the reprint rights situation since the late 1990's preventing professionals from being able to get paid for a well-honed craft or the infamous LCD that is the inheritance of being recently acquired by Rupert Murdoch, aka 'News Corp'.  Instead the WSJ reporter, a young man recently out of Stanford university, purposely played up the fireball and general extremeness of the event. Of course, that would happen after it was apparent that everyone would survive -parts mostly intact.

By the time the crash happened, it had already been a long & difficult day. But the beauty of it, the dozen or so trouble free kilometers had restored some energy. The year before a team of greatly hungover and possibly drunk girls had driven off a cliff, saved only by vegetation & luck. One of the girls almost lost a foot and required Kausar driving her directly up to Mumbai for surgery. Remembering the photos still grosses me out. Like Icelanders, you give people one day off to party and they have a rough time behaving themselves or performing early the next day. Plus comfort is disarming. The little golf carts on speed seem harmless by day 10. So it was not without some level of apprehension that we came over a perfectly green hill to see a teal blue rickshaw in flames in a ditch on the side of the road, flagged down by the British party twins. 

Hannes was standing around with his hand on his head when I found him. I couldn't see the wound, just that he was bleeding, it was that deep red almost black that happens only when something is deep and he began to shake. Someone approached me to say that it looked extremely bad and there was the implication that it might be life threatening. We all knew we were in the middle of nowhere, in a monsoon. In a dead zone for cell reception. I had him lie down on his back, with the others wrapping him to keep warm and raincoats overhead to keep as much rain as possible off. His team mate appeared physically fine but was clearly in shock. You can't really blame him, but it didn't help matters any.

The situation was this: no cell phone reception, we had no idea where we were or even what road we were on exactly. From what I could see the main injury was that the ear was almost completely severed and required being held in place. I had no idea how far ahead the nearest village would be or where the nearest hospital would be. The remaining participant rickshaws would also make for a particularly horrible ambulance and might not be capable of making it to where ever we needed to go if time was critical. For a second nothingness stretched in every possible direction.

But the road only goes 2 ways.

So I had Team 18, my capable security professionals, continue down the road, while the twins & I would drive back until we could contact the pace car/mini-van or the back up SUV or Kausar and the mechanics. First, we found two participants clever enough to have their own GPS. I finally got the coordinates and a few meters later, cell reception. I called Aravind who seemed irritated. He didn't have GPS, that's a toy for white people apparently. He had no idea where we were either.  I tried to explain the exact route that all the front autos had taken & how to get to us. Then, another call. Team 18 has found a gigantic old land rover type ambulance in the next village that has no outward appearance of being an ambulance. Quickly, we get team 17 into the car. Luckily Raj also speaks Hindi, so we feel mostly prepared for whatever is going to happen next. In between moments of semi-calm the rain comes. 

We're in a big hurry to get to the hospital that is apparently in the last village we past. The driver knows where he is going. But everyone who has stayed to see things through are all standing on the side of the road, dazed. It's getting late. They're still only 1/2 to Tarkali. I tell them to get back on the road, drive safely and finish the day. Go. 

When Raj offers a cigarette, I suck it down, cracking the window open for the rain to pour in and the smoke to stay in the large back space of the old vehicle, wishing there were some shocks on the thing to prevent Hannes from being jostled anymore than he needs to be. One of the pussycats is coming with us, as she's been holding his hand and seems to be calming everyone down, even while wearing a neon pink faux Saree. We get to the clinic. 

Up until that point I felt like I had things under control; that options like the road were still open. The clinic is typical of a jungle village and anyone who has traveled or lived in these places, knows what this looks like. A museum of dirt. A quietly dying elderly body tucked along a wall. Diminutive nurses handling trays of unsterilized medical stuff unfit for a basic emergency kit. 

First the cleaning. One of the nurses collects some things from an open cabinet that looks like it belongs in an auto body shop. A few precious cotton gauze squares that fall to the dirt floor and placed back on the tray before being handed to the doctor who begins to use them after briskly grabbing the ear flesh, holding it back and rinsing it down with alcohol of some variety. His movements are coarse, he tells us that today is supposed to be his day off. That he shouldn't have to be working right now. Like the mysteries of empathy, self-absorbed assholes seem to be available universally. I panic, not sure if I should stop them, stop everyone from this filthy catastrophe and find a way to go somewhere else. But where?

Both Emily and myself take turns holding Hannes' large hand. He's lying down on his side as the other hand is cleaned & the gash on his palm is stitched. He's given painkillers by injection and for a second I wonder if I am also in shock. The needle and tube with the painkiller looks antique, or like something out of a Victorian horror film. Hannes is making pleasant conversation with the doctor and mentions that his father is a vascular surgeon. A small, giddy sensation happens when I assume that Aravind will be sued out of existence by the poor boy's family. They begin sewing the ear back on with what looks like shoe laces and crochet needles. 

His team mate is quietly freaking out on the next chair and I mention that it's okay to squeeze my hand as the pain must be quite intense. It's Hannes that smiles at me and declines as he could easily hurt my smaller hand if he did so. My admiration for his character doubles. KK shows up and quietly talks to the hospital staff and relays the location to the other organizers before Kausar shows up drenched and looking like a prize fighter who has just entered the ring. He probably hadn't slept in 5 days or more and was expecting to perform a repeat of last years' Goa-Mumbai sprint to the hospital. It probably would have been the better idea. He's loud & I have to remind him not to freak out, but it's much better to have him around. The two team mates are talking themselves through the procedure, how things look and staying unrealistically optimistic. Raj uses his multiple smart phones to photograph the stitching. The doctor, after hearing his patients' father is a German surgeon had become far more interested in the task and ordered that they show his father his handiwork and have him send him an email. Yes, he wanted an email.

And payment. KK paid the fee, which included some pills for antibiotics, pain and something else -maybe clotting? It all looked like dirty street crack, but it also might have been a welcome placebo. We were happy, very, very happy to get into the heated, sealed SUV with KK to finish the trip. Kausar & the mechanics had to haul the wreck out of the ditch and attach it to the mechanics van, a miniature thing that can be found only in southeast asia and was also constantly breaking down, just to make things more challenging. By that time many of the teams were also breaking down and the mechanics were more than an hour before they could reach anyone. Even with the hand drawn map they had given us in the hospital-hut we had to have Raj ask for directions every 10 minutes. 

How everyone else got there, I have no idea. As night fell, roads were washed out, bridges underwater and we ran into Batman & Robin camping out under a shrine, trying to keep dry and figure out how to get their rickshaw moving again. There wasn't enough support cars or mechanics to help everyone, they had to save themselves and make it to the resort. Under the circumstances it looked like the Lord of the Flies set. I decided to begin drinking.

Though Team 17 would be okay, other teams were still far from Tarkali with a major monsoon already flooding out the only roads available. Autorickshaws crossed roads just before, during and after rivers swelled into gushing floods. Only 4 teams made it to the hotel in time for the flag down, but all arrived safely before the next day’s flag off.