Author: D. Scott Clark

Since December I have barely spent any time in my apartment. I went to West Bengal, Gorkhaland, and Sikkim for two weeks, then I was sick for a week and half before spending my new years in Hampi, Karnataka. I came home for three days before spending a week and some in Andhra Pradesh, shooting the project for HMRI in Hyderabad. Again I was back for three days before leaving for Belapur and a rock climbing competition. Back for three days before I left for Bangalore and Hampi. I came home on the fourth, got wickedly sick, and left on the 10th for another climbing destination, Badami in Karnataka, where I am writing from now.

The views and climbing here are incredible, but they will be highlighted a little later. I want to showcase my climbing photos from Hampi, but I am submitting some of the photos to magazines and sponsor and they do not like accepting photos that have already been published somewhere. As I showed in an earlier post, Hampi is an unreal beautiful historical and magical place. Here are some more photos of the scenery.

click to see larger

I just really like this rock. What do you see?

 Thanks to Michael Fuselier I got a picture of myself climbing on a picturesque boulder on the Junglee plateau.

More after the break –>

I met the beautiful yoga instructor and healer, Lucy Jones from the UK, who wanted to practice her yoga on this beautiful rock near Lands End on the Tungabhadra River on Hampi Island.

It’s been a while since I’ve written. I’ve got some things in the works, a lot has been going on. Mostly I’ve been rock climbing and taking pictures of rock climbers. I soon will be leaving again to take more pictures of rock climbers in the sandstone sport climbing center of Badami, Karnataka.

One short (unproofed) article about the climbers from around Mumbai has been published on Climbing Magazine’s website, Climbing.com.   Other images, already shown on here can be seen as well. Images from two trips to Hampi and a bouldering competition will be submitted to magazines. I have already gotten some interest from two professional climbers’ sponsors for use of images, which is very exciting.

Anyway, this post is more about the updates to my portfolio website with the addition of the “adventure” tab that will eventually incorporate everything from rock climbing to skiing and hopefully kayaking. So far only climbing has images. I have also added the 09Travels page to the India subtab.

I will hopefully have some more updates soon. Cheers.

I really want to draw more. I enjoy using that part of my brain, and it doesn’t get used nearly enough. I wish I had the time/patience/money to paint. I miss the days in High School of experimenting with new painting techniques (new to me at least). I guess I really thrive on being creative. I know I have to be creative in my photography, but somehow that is not enough.

More Sketches After the Jump! –>

I write. I’ve written music for years, playing small shows with just me and my acoustic guitar. At fifteen and sixteen I would write short stories modeled after my favorite author, Kurt Vonnegut. Going back and reading what I wrote then I am impressed, and I feel like I lost something in my writing as I grew (in my creative writing, not my music – I just laugh when I think about the songs I used to play for people).

I film. I have wanted to buy a video camera for years after making short films in the woods with the guys I played paintball with as a kid. When it came time to upgrade my camera this last time, I was delighted that Canon had included HD Video as a key feature in the new camera. This opened up the possibility of high quality video recording using my DSLR and my professional lenses (which saved me from having to invest in a whole new system for video). I posted a short film in November of an experiment using my studio strobe modeling lights. This short was well received and I’ve been asked when I will do more films. I have started writing a script for a completely different kind of short film. I am enjoying writing the script, working in fiction and making someone else’s life come to…well, life. It’s also possible put your own problems and experiences onto someone else, looking at how funny or stupid the seem from the outside. Not sure it will give me any answers, but it helps looking at it from different angles.

I sketch. I like to sit in public areas and draw, quickly sketching people and their actions. As I said before, I want to do this more often. These images came about while I was sitting in the back of a car driving from one village to another on this last assignment. The road was incredibly bumpy and I decided to see what my sketches would look like if I closed my eyes and tried to draw. These are the result.

These are supposed to be women.

This is supposed to be a bottle.

This is supposed to be a landscape.

Last week I worked on a project for HMRI in Hyderabad. There tagline is “Health For All”, something I can appreciate. They provide a variety of service including a 911-like emergency ambulance service and a hotline to get medical advice, connecting you directly with an actual doctor. The hired me to take photographs of their mobile health clinic vans that go to every village in Andhra Pradesh that is further than 3kms from the nearest health clinic. I traveled non-stop from Friday night at 8pm till Wednesday morning at 6am. I would get off one train, get in a car, go to a location shoot, go back to train station, sleep on the train, get off and get in a car, go to a village and shoot. It was a long four and some days.

My assistant from Bombay that I planned on using missed the train from CST station, so I called my friend and great photographer, Shashi Khan, in Hyderabad to see if he could recommend any assistants. An hour before I left Hyderabad he confirmed that Suman, a young photo student, would meet us at the station. He warned me, though, that Suman doesn’t speak much English. Madhu, my contact from HMRI, and I meet Suman and start our journey Saturday evening. Four in the morning comes and we exit the train to meet a driver who takes us to our first village. After a stop for breakfast we arrive around 9am. I told myself I would keep track of all the villages we went to, but I cannot even tell you one. (I really need to get better at recording details surrounding shots, like…the person’s name.) Back in the car and back on the train. The days bled into one long experience that I can hardly differentiate between days and villages.

Fortunately, about an hour before I left Mumbai the package I had been waiting for came. The package contained replacement Cybersync radio slaves for my flashes which made most of these images possible. Also, my mom packed the box full of junk to make me sick and fat (I have a habit of eating all of something before I can move on to something else, which works fine for dinner, but bad for a big box of sweets).

Some of the images I used my Orbis ringflash to light the subject, but some others are bare flash. My assistant worked as my moving light stand. I prefer working this way. The light changes exposure, angle, and distance by voice command. It’s great!

This is mostly what I was doing, showing the team in action. I bounced the flash off the big white van to the right.

More Photos after the Break!












I did not notice until one of the workers pointed it out that she did not have a foot on her right leg. She was walking on it like nothing was wrong.

It happens with bad days; one thing compounds into the next. But this time it rained work. I came to Hyderabad for a shoot for a company that tries to send mobile health clinic vans to every village that doesn’t have access to a medical clinic within 3kms. Then someone requests model portfolio shoot. I get asked to submit a quote for a fashion shoot for a Celebrity News magazine. I establish contact with Climbing Magazine, and they want me to submit a portfolio. I’ll get to those in a bit. All exciting. I ended up shooting almost everyday last week, which is good but exhausting. Even on Sunday I ended up taking portraits of my friend Emmanuel, something I had wanted to do since I met him.

The friend of a friend I was staying with allowed me to use his all white room for the photoshoot, which I am extremely grateful. It worked perfectly and allowed me a lot of freedom when working with only two speedlite strobes. I could bounce light off anything, it was great. Here are some of my favorites.

More Photos After the Break!

You could say I was looking for something different. This year I didn’t want some drunken New Year party topped with poppers and horns blown after a boisterous countdown. On this holiday away from home I didn’t want to waste away hours soaking in the sun on an overpopulated beach. After a rough several months I wanted to finish off the year amongst stunning scenery and an eclectic gathering of rock climbers literally from around the world.

Only semi-sleeping for 15 hours on the “semi-sleeper” luxury Volvo A/C overnight bus, I stumble through the touristy main road of Hampi past towering ancient temples down to the river and wait for the small motorboat to ferry my friend, Vinay, and myself across to the more peaceful side.

Goan Corner Guest house is surrounded by rice and fields and palm trees but only a five minute walk to the impressively chaotic granite boulder fields. Grass roofed huts encircle a relaxed open-air cafe serving everything from traditional Indian cuisine to falafels and Israeli dishes.

Nishit and Shyam greet us as we enter the compound. I have been climbing with these local climbers in the mountains outside of Mumbai for the last few months. They are powerful and dedicated climbers, some driving over two hours every weekend to train on newly discovered bouldering problems and classic sport routes. Everyone is excited to be in Hampi, made famous by Chris Sharma, Nate Gold, and Katie Brown.

The vast granite boulder fields provide endless possible routes; you could realistically spend a lifetime climbing here. Anyone who finds themselves standing on the Rishimukh Plateau looking over countless boulders of varying sizes, some balanced unnaturally on top of others, naturally wonders how the landscape possibly got to be this way. Neither of the two common explanations satisfies my wonder. The scientific account says the world’s oldest mountains eroded over millions of years leaving only individual boulders remaining. The Hindu myth says two gods threw pieces of the mountains at each other in a fight over a woman. Somehow the mythical account seems more logical.

The heat during the day keeps everyone sitting in the shade of the cafe or resting in a hammock by their grass roofed huts. Around 4pm groups start to venture towards the rocks carrying their shoes and crash mats confident they will flash the new route someone just told them about. As the sun disappears from the Rishimukh Plateau Shyam Sanap from Mumbai sends a reachy V5 boulder problem with only two big moves that requires great balance. Mangesh Takarkhede, also from Mumbai, sticks The Shield, a challenging route with a cramped start and a dynamic throw to a crimp finishing with a moderate top out.

Unnamed V5 on the Rishimukh Platea. Climber: Mangesh Takarkhede
ISO 400, 1/80, f/2.8, 16mm 

More Photos and Story after the Break! –>

Climber: Shyam Sanap
 ISO 400, 1/80, f/2.8, 16mm 

Climber: Amirut
 ISO 400, 1/80, f/2.8, 16mm 

Mangesh working on The Shield V4
ISO 400, 1/60, f/2.8, 16mm  

The Rishimukh Plateau lit beautifully by the almost full moon.
ISO 200, 122″, f/5.6, 16mm  

Nishit gives us the answer to life.
ISO 200, 99″, f/5.6, 16mm  

Nishit having an after midnight climb on the Heart Boulder.
ISO 200, 76″, f/5.6, 16mm 

The sun wakes me from my sleep on the terrace of The Goan Corner on New Year’s Eve and I make my way to the boulders shining with the morning light. I wander around just taking in the scenery, glad to be out of Mumbai for a while. I hear climbing noises coming from behind a nearby boulder; a group from Australia and Finland has found a climbable route encroached by large bushes. Every boulder provides a possible climb, many waiting to have a first ascent.

The beautiful morning light on Rishimukh overlooking palm trees and rice patties.
ISO 100, 1/60, f/8, 16mm  

ISO 100, 1/60, f/8, 16mm

Another view of Rishimukh
ISO 200, 1/125, f/8, 16mm

ISO 200, 1/125, f/8, 16mm

On the Rishimukh Plateau several groups of boulderers progress from one boulder to another. Oyvind Blaker and Eirik Thorsrud from Norway send a couple of problems on The Shield boulder, and Tomi Lindroos from Finland and Petter Kattstrom from Sweden work on the Classic Crack, a V3 crack in a small dihedral.

Eirik Thorsrud of Norway working on a problem on the Shield Boulder
ISO 200, 1/125, f/8, 16mm

Oyvind Blaker also of Norway getting ready to stick the classic face of The Shield.
ISO 200, 1/200, f/8, 16mm

The topout
ISO 200, 1/200, f/8, 16mm

Petter Kattstrom of Sweden working Harry’s Traverse
ISO 200, 1/125, f/8, 16mm

Tomi Lindroos of Finland works on Classic Crack on the Shield Boulder V2
ISO 200, 1/125, f/8, 16mm

Petter Kattstrom of Sweden on an unnamed highball on the Rishimukh Plateau.
ISO 200, 1/200, f/8, 16mm

I feel a bit ADD when bouldering compared with my usual sport climbing. I’m not stuck to one route or wall for long periods of time and not even paired with one climbing partner. I act like a vagabond, wandering from boulder to boulder to see what everyone else is climbing. I see a group in the distance climbing near Cosmic Caves and I follow my urge to see what they are climbing. Lan Yao of Canada works on Classic arete on the Cosmic Friktion boulder, an overhung V6 arete with a difficult sit start, and she and Stephen from Norway work on Cosmic Friktion, sliding off the balancy slab V5. Shyam Sanap strolls up and climbs Cosmic Friktion like a ladder to the frustration of the others and joins Pete Marriott from the UK projecting an unnamed problem just opposite at the Cosmic Caves. The overhung start on the picturesque boulder has great holds, but after moving your feet you must either make a big throw to sharp arete to the left or to small crimp directly above the start, neither being easier than the other. The move to reach from either the arete to the crimp or the crimp to the arete pulls your feet off and sends both Shyam and Pete swinging uncontrollably off the route. By the lack of chalk marks you know no one has reached any higher recently. By noon it is too hot to be in the sun and everyone meanders back to the Goan Corner.

Lan Yao working on her project, Classic Arete on the Cosmic Friktion boulder.
ISO 200, 1/500, f/5.6, 16mm

Pete Marriott of the UK grabs a sharp crimp on an unnamed route at the Cosmic Caves
ISO 200, 1/400, f/6.3, 16mm

A large group gathers at Cosmic Caves for the afternoon climb. The fading sun casts a beautiful orange glow across all the boulders on the landscape. A few more people work on the unnamed problem but no one seems to be able to advance from the second move. As dusk moves in everyone meanders through the “caves”, spaces between the balanced rocks. On the east side Kevin from Canada sends Japanese Samurai, and Pranesh T from Bangalore sends a highball route just to the right that gave Katie Brown problems when she was here. The light is all but gone and he pulls himself over a slopy top out with nonexistent holds that he has previously fallen from three separate times, but this time out of fear or pure adrenaline he pushes through. With merely the full moon lighting the path at only 6:30pm we make our way back to the guesthouse.

The view from Cosmic Caves of Rishimukh just before sundown
ISO 200, 1/200, f/8, 16mm

Click on image to see larger
ISO 200, 1/100, f/8, 16mm

Adi wearing his “New Year’s Tights” to climb a route opposite Cosmic Friktion
ISO 200, 1/320, f/2.8, 16mm

The Goan Corner provides a buffet for New Years Eve, and everyone gathers in a large circle around a campfire. Excited voices chattering in a multitude of languages mix with the sounds of the night. Climbers and travelers from all over the world talk about the day’s climbs, past memories from the last year, and hopes for the future. Pranesh T entertains the crowd by spinning his flaming poi poi giving all of the shutterbugs a chance to play with long shutter speeds and moving light.

Angie from Canada shows off her skills in Poi Poi on New Year’s Eve

Pranesh continued to impress the crowd with his flexibility while using Poi Poi

Tensions are high as the countdown till 12:00am, January 1st, 2010 starts. I set my camera up on the Rishismukh Plateau and wait for the fireworks to start going off above (and around) me that several of the climbers had pooled their money to buy. I unknowingly set up next to part of the display and am blinded by a blaze of fifteen foot high sparklers set off only a few feet in front of me. The night is bright with the light of the full moon; bright enough you can walk with no help from additional lights, but the rockets exploding over my head light up the boulders even more. I get pelted with debree from some of the large blasts. The finale finishes with an impressive series of sixty rockets from a single box and two of the largest rockets soaring hundreds of feet before creating spectacular colored chandeliers.

ISO 400, 30″, f/4, 16mm

ISO 400, 30″, f/4, 16mm

Breakfast at the cafe at 8:00am is sparsely populated on New Years Day. In the distance two Norwegians work on the boulder problem called The Goan Corner visible from the cafe, a challenging V8 overhanging arete. I make my daily ritual trek through the rice fields, which at night sound so loudly of bull frogs its deafening, to the Rishimukh Plateau where I meet up with a couple from London. Gerj and Georgina are working on the Toulouse Ka Kallus Boulder, and I warm up on a few easy problems. My skin, not used to Hampi’s wickedly sharp granite features, left a hefty chunk of my right pointer finger’s pad on my first climb of the day, an easy V1. I take them to Cosmic Caves and flash an unnamed V1 route on the boulder to the right of Cosmic Friktion. I see a possible route about five feet to the right of the V1 that has no chalk marks and decide to give it a go. The climb starts with overhung tiny feet and a stretch to two painful crimpy holds. Cautiously move your feet higher and make a big move to a small crimp with your left hand. Once you’ve moved your feet up you can reach a positive pocket and the topout is easy. I failed repeatedly to make the big move to the left crimp. Only when I thought I did not have the strength any more to keep trying did I stick it. I do not think I have ever climbed such painful rock. I would rate it somewhere between V4 and V5.

It’s funny, in most sports I excel in sprinting. In high school track I ran the 100-meter dash and the 110 hurdles; I swam the 50-meter freestyle; I could steal any base in baseball and in soccer I would outgun anyone for a loose ball. But when it comes to climbing, I have always prefered the endurance of sport climbing, though I guess I never gave bouldering a fair chance before Hampi. Here you really have little choice; you either boulder or you highball. Hampi did something to me, pitting my strength, skill and pain tolerance against these short but hyper-intense climbs. I didn’t want to leave. For the first time I was enthralled by bouldering, I couldn’t get enough – if only the skin on my fingers agreed. (Now as I write back in Bombay my fingers have properly calloused over and all I can think about is climbing, but regrettably I won’t be touching another rock for at least two weeks because of a work trip)

The perfect way to reward myself after sending the new route, I join my British friends for a lazy float in the Hampi Lake, about a 20 minute drive from the Goan Corner. We rent inner tubes from the Whispering Rocks Guesthouse and trek up into the hills from their parking lot among hundreds of untouched boulders. Fifteen minutes later I am enjoying the crisp cool water, relief from the sweltering sun. What better way to relax and watch the sun recede from the sky?

Gerj and Georgina, “George”, meet me for breakfast on the January 2nd and we head back to the Rishimukh Plateau. We climb just about every possible route on the Heart boulder including two wonderfully challenging slab routes on east side. Slab is not my forte, but I enjoy the struggle, the technique, and balance it takes to complete such routes. I have to push myself through my weaknesses, a learning experience every time. We move to TV Boulder, which overlooks the river valley full of rice patties and the Goan Corner Guesthouse. On the V3 Classic Face you stand up from solid right hand and right foot holds and stretch to a crimpy left hand. Bump your right hand to a positive undercling and work your feet up. Your left hand crosses to a small crimp and with high feet you make a big move to the jug with your right hand; the topout is straightforward. It all seems so easy when I write it out on paper, but I was having an off day, I couldn’t even climb routes that were easy for me the day before.

Tomi Lindroos invites me to join their group heading to Small Cave for the afternoon session. Above the bend in the road Small Cave is a series of boulders leaning on each other creating passageways between them. Tomi works on an overhung arete that starts with a heel hook, and after you walk your hands up the arete to a knob pull yourself onto the slabby finish. Lan Yao and Rachael, also from Canada, project an interesting unnamed V3/V4 problem inside the cave that finishes through a skylight. On the overhung start, with a high right foot and flagging your left, catch a positive undercling for your right hand and a good crimp for the left. Slap to a crimp on the right arete and, depending on your height, reach to a sharp Gaston crimp on the left. Shorter ones have to add another move to get their feet higher. After the Gaston, either cross with your right or bump up with your left to a jug directly above the Gaston then squeeze through the tight skylight to finish. As the light fades the girls decide to save the problem for another day.

Rachael from Canada stretches before attempting the climb up through the sky light
ISO 200, 1/125, f/2.8, 35mm

Lan Yao sticks the Gaston Crimp on the route through the sky light at Small Cave
ISO 200, 1/125, f/2.8, 35mm

Tomi Lindroos gets set to do an off balance move from the Gaston Crimp to a positive pocket on the Sky Light, as I am going to call it.
ISO 200, 1/125, f/2.8, 35mm

Tomi squeezing through the finish of Sky Light
ISO 200, 1/125, f/2.8, 35mm

A climber enjoying his reward after sending a challenging problem
ISO 200, 1/200, f/8, 16mm

After another quick breakfast on January 3rd, I head back to Small Cave to show Gerj and George the great routes there. I try a nice V1/V2 that has a terrifying slash non-existent landing but a satisfying topout and then work on the problem in the cave. I get to the Gaston but am unable to complete the sequence to get the cross with my right. I have to continue working on improving my clumsy footwork, depending less on powering through with my arms.

Three Israeli girls I met at the lake want me to show them how to climb in the afternoon. They find discarded climbing shoes with holes in the toes to wear and follow me up the trail to the plateau. I show them the basics on easy boulder and they continually ask for more challenging routes. Each one excels in a different way: Tzolia with sheer power, Joelle with dancer’s grace and natural ability, and Saria with amazing flexibility. Tzolia with determination attacks the slab on the Heart Boulder, loving the challenge despite repeatedly failing. Several strong climbers gather around and try the problem, many not used to working on such minute balancy moves. Starting with a high right foot and a crimp left handhold slowly stand up using only friction holds with your right hand. Match your left foot to hand and with your weight into the wall and no hand holds to speak of, stand on your left foot and grab the peak. Accepting the fact that they need a decent pair of shoes and more experience, the girls move on to another project.

Cake Man, a local with a large golf-sized tumor on his face that wanders among the boulder fields carrying a cloth bag containing a variety of newspaper wrapped ‘cakes’ and saying “I am Cake Man. I have banana cakes, coconut cakes, chocolate cakes, everything cakes, special cakes. Do you want some cakes?”, comes to offer the girls his baked goods and decides to show them how to climb the problem they are working on. At small caves two days before he had claimed he was a good climber; said he climbed this climb and that climb without shoes. I have to say I didn’t believe him. With quite a bit of skill he showed the girls how to smear your feet on no holds, only using the rough wall to get weight off your hands. I became a believer in Cake Man, though I never did try one of his cakes.

I bought a train ticket for the afternoon of January 4th from a station called Hubli, so I have to leave Hampi around 9:30am to get there in time. I wake up early so I can get in some last minute climbs. I do not want to go from this beautiful place; I never tire of looking at the incredible scenery. Every time I turn away from concentrating on a climb it takes my breath away (I am used to climbing in forested areas where the only good view is from the top of the climb). I love the climbing community, such a positive group always pushing everyone to better themselves unlike the competiveness of most other sports. I am inspired being around such excellent climbers from around the world and mingling with other climbing photographers. I love the climbing; it awakens a part of me I’ve been missing for a while. There are not many things that can convince me to put down my camera, but here in Hampi, despite the incredible possibilities of photographs, I realized I wanted to climb more than photograph. And so it goes, the eternal struggle of a climbing photographer.

Tzolia meets me at breakfast and we head back to the plateau. I make my way to TV Boulder after some warm up climbs. Despite having good beta on the moves my left hand will not stick to the small crimp after the cross long enough to get my feet up. I try repeatedly to make a dynamic move to the jug but my finger refuse to wrap over the lip. My fingers, and the skin involved, are done for now. Time to head home.

Jumping off the local bus at the Hospet bus depot I ask the nearest conductor for an express bus to Hubli and he directs me to the bus that is already pulling out. I find a seat in the back and settle in for the “three hour” trip. I expect to get to Hubli around 2pm, take my lunch and catch my train at 3:15pm. At two I ask the conductor when we’ll arrive in Hubli. “Two hours.” WHAT? You told me this was the express bus! I take my seat visibly upset, passengers turning around to stare at me. Great. I’m going to be stuck in Hubli. The bus driver seems to pick up speed and drive more aggressively and I see a sign, “Hubli 19km” at 2:50pm. Alright…we might make it. I drag my bags off of the bus at 3:15 and run (as much as you can with a full trekking backpack and a camera bag) to the platform, trailed by several schoolboys. Ahh the train is late. I settle into a seat on the platform with some egg biryani and breathe while the boys ask me questions and request American coins.

I somehow love getting back to my apartment, even though I didn’t want to leave Hampi now I am here and can relax. But my apartment collects an insane amount of dirt on everything when I am not there moving around and using fans. I swept my floors only a little over a week ago, but the visible layer of dirt is on everything. This is why everyone hires someone else to clean their floors.

I guess with most trips you feel like you leave in a huff, but this time as I locked my door with the giant padlock and hurried off to find a rickshaw I felt particularly huffed. Maybe I left unprepared; I hadn’t planned enough; hadn’t packed enough. In fact, the only thing I had any idea about was the wedding, the entire reason for my trip to Calcutta.

My flight is delayed an hour. No, three hours now. I receive a call from the airline saying one hour again. The IndiGo rep. at the counter says its back to three hours…perfect! I can perform my preflight ritual: sitting on the floor of the airport bookstore and frantically writing phone numbers and directions out of their newest edition Lonely Planet into the front cover of To Kill A Mockingbird. At least now I know I have to go to Sudder St. in Calcutta to find ‘cheap’ bedding.

I fly through the first half of The DaVinci Code in the three hour flight and find myself waiting in line for a prepaid taxi still with my nose in the book. I look up to see a familiar face. For the second time in an Indian airport of a distant city of millions of people I run into the family I am meeting later in the week who are at the airport to pick up someone else. (This happened in Delhi two years ago as well).

The city is covered in an ever-present haze, particularly evident at night, glowing in the streetlights. The taxi driver drops me on what he says is Sudder St, but I soon find out he only got me close. I wander around in the fog asking for a guesthouse no one has heard of. Eventually I figure out I’m not on the right street.

“Two hundred fifty.” The room is all right, but I’ve been told I can get much cheaper. “Full” “Full” “Three hundred thirty.” Well, ok. I’ll take 250. “Sorry mate, I got the last one.” 330 then. “We’re full now.” 400, full. 500 is the last. Guh, ok 500 rupees. It’s after midnight when I settle down into the single room with queen size bed.

I spend the next morning searching for a cheaper room, but the events of the night before repeat themselves. I settle for 350/- and immediately pass out on the bed. I wake by 3pm and hurry to start the errands I had planned to do that day. Taking a shinny metro and then rickety wooden busses. I arrive at the Nepal Consulate. In Wizard of Oz fashion, I little old man peaks through a giant metal door and tells me, “Go away. Come back tomorrow.” I am not coming back tomorrow.

Keep Reading! More photos and story!

Taking another rickety wooden bus (seriously, I think everything above the chassis is made from wood) I find myself at the main train station. I need to find the tourist reservation office, but no one seems to know. I stand in line for half an hour only to be told the tourist office is not there, it’s across the river but they’re closed already. I will have to try again…tomorrow.

I stop to eat dinner at a small dhaba not too far from Sudder St. The food is great and I relax, reading for a while. The bill is delivered and I slip a 100/- note into the black leather book. The server returns the book with the 100 note still in it.
-“What is this?” I ask
-“The note is broken.”
-“Ha! What? How can a piece of paper be broken?”
-“It has a tear.”

…For those of you know my stubborn side, it comes out now.
-“You willaccept this bill, it is legal tender, endorsed by the Indian government, worth 100 of these little coins. You either accept it or I walk.”
-“We cannot accept it.”

So I walk out. One of the servers catches up with me and says they will take it, so I return and give them the bill. A man takes it and returns with a wad of cash from somewhere outside. I ask for my change, “Twenty eight rupees you owe me.”
-“No sir, that note is not worth 100 rupees.”
-“What do you mean it’s not worth 100 rupees? It IS worth 100 rupees and I demand my change.”
-“We do not have any change.”

Just then three women come up to pay and receive their change from a drawer.

-“Sir, you have change and you will give me mine.”
-“Sit down, your change is coming.”
-“Just give me my change so I can leave.”

Enter the tall, burly, well-dressed man that the workers all start talking to at once. After they finish he turn to me, “What’s your problem?”
-“I gave them a 100/- note, I want my change so I can go.”
-“The note you gave is broken.”
-“Can I see another bill? Any bill will do.”

The man pulls out a crisp 100/- note. I take it and tear a millimeter into the middle. “Now is this one broken?”
-“Yes, and now you owe 200/-.”
-“So you are telling me that I could devalue the entire Indian economy by ripping all of their notes just a little? That is illogical. If you take this to a bank they will give you 100 little coins.”
-Towering over me, the man says, “What if I beat you head to toe? Would you still be the same?”
-“Yes, and you would be arrested.”
-“You could be arrested for ripping my bill.”
-“Really? Then call the police,” I reply.
-“You want me to call the police?”
-“Yea, I’ll call them,” as I pull out my phone.

The big guy turns to the workers and tells them to give me my change.

Today was pointless. Calcutta gets negative points.

An eclectic group of foreigners sit scattered about the comfortable red couches in the waiting area for the foreign tourist reservation center. A cute Israeli girl with big, bouncy, curly hair highly recommended going into Sikkim to Pelling and Yuksom and by-passing Darjeeling because of the strikes going on there. I buy my roundtrip tickets to New Jalpaiguri, the last passenger train station in the are of Gorkhaland, the northernmost area of West Bengal, bordering Bhutan, Nepal and Sikkim.

Tyler Lunberry meets me at the Konnagar train station and takes me by cycle rickshaw to the home of his daughter’s in-laws. I’ve been friends of the family since I was four and played alongside Dana and her siblings for several years till the family moved to Africa. Dana and Dev, her husband, married already in Chicago but decided to have a semi-traditional Bengali wedding as well so Dev’s family and friend’s could participate. The cycle rickshaw winds through the maze of skinny roads and past frequent rectangle ponds almost at street level. When we reach the house everyone is almost ready to head to the wedding venue.

The ceremony is completed in a small room overlooking a courtyard already set up for the reception. A few people look on as a single priest chants and directs Dev and Dana to perform certain rituals like walking around a fire multiple times while dumping flower pedals into the fire. A video crew with a very bright light records everything and “instructs me” when to take pictures.

There’s plenty of food at the reception, but even though I had not eaten all day one plate satisfies me. There is a noticeable lack of attendees in my age group and no one offers conversation. I eventually wander off into an empty room and fall asleep. I felt it here and most weddings I attend…I do not like weddings. I don’t know if there is more to it than that.

The overnight train to New Jalpaiguri provides me with a bed, but I did not bring any cover my jackets have to suffice. “Darjeeling?” “Darjeeling?” “Sikkim?” Taxi drivers bombard me as soon as I step off the platform. I play my usual “I pretend you don’t exist” game that somehow expresses the point that I do not want their taxi better than actually saying I do not want their taxi. I ask in a tourism office for the cheapest way to get to Kalimpong. A group gathers around me saying, “A taxi. Only 600 rupees.” One man steps out and says, “shared rickshaw, 10 rupees to Siliguri. Take a bus from there.” Another man starts yelling and slapping at the man that offered me advice. From Siliguri I take a bus for 60/- to Kalimpong and a jeep to Lava for 50/-, finally arriving at my destination six hours after getting off the train.

Driving in the mountains is a very slow process with an average speed between 15-20kmph. Around every blind turn are more pot holes determined to knock your from your seat. The mountains are completely forested with almost no sheer cliffs despite the extremely steep slopes. I had always thought the East Asian paintings of mountains were highly stylized; it struck me how much these mountains look like these paintings. Where the slopes meet the valley floor beautiful light blue water courses between and around giant boulders. I would love to have the chance to kayak this river when it is a bit warmer.

Lava came highly recommended from a friend in Mumbai, but I had no idea what to expect. And while I do not have a guidebook for India I have no idea what to do while here. I find a guesthouse and go in search of warmer clothes. I find a sweater, wool cap, and socks, but nothing for my legs or hands.

The village is situated precariously on the top and sides of a mountain. The road zigzags up the slope lined by restaurants and guesthouses. A gold and red Tibetan monastery sits at the bottom of the village and on the edge of the ridge, over looking a vast sea of mountains if you could see through the haze. Beyond the monastery the road splits, up takes you into the “deep jungle” and down leads to a beautiful waterfall.

These children were playing in the street below my guesthouse.

The bed bids me to enter for a late afternoon nap. I plan on going to dinner about 7pm but I do not wake up till 11pm. Being used to often having dinner later than 11 in Mumbai I venture out after food, but I find a completely deserted village. Even the stray dogs are hiding.

At 4am I expected a knock at my door that never comes. I had set up with a young man to take me to a vantage point where I could see the sunrise and the light reflecting off India’s highest mountain, Kangchenjunga, 28,169 ft. He comes at 5:30 and the light has already started so I decline. I had already decided I was leaving this morning, mostly out of not wanting to trek by myself and I seemed to be the only foreigner in the village.

Click on Image to see larger!

I attempted to use my journal as a seismograph, recording the roughness of the road from Lava to Kalimpong.

Back in Kalimpong, I purchase a ticket for a jeep to Pelling, Sikkim, and leave the insanity of the “motor stand” in search of more warm clothes and food. The motor stand is where all the shared jeeps and busses come to pick up and drop off passengers. It’s maybe 40ft wide and 150ft long with jeeps and busses crammed into every square corner, but its constantly in motion with jeeps immediately replaces those that have left.

I hear it before I see it. Police are running this way and that on the road above the motor stand, barking orders. Then I see the flags and banners. It’s the people of Gorkhaland demanding their own state; thousands march by chanting slogans and fist pumping. They feel minimized and forgotten by the West Bengal government. They don’t get enough funding for infrastructure, schools, etc. They have almost no voice in the national government. Other parts of India still refer to them as immigrants. They speak Nepali, not Bengali and do not relate to the people to the south.

On the road to Pelling a jeep rolled over on its side blogged both sides of traffic. After the police arrive the men get together and push the vehicle out of the way. Just daily life in Sikkim.

The road to Pelling is much worse than any I have been on so far on this trip. Incredibly rough and slow. Even though I had been told I could not get a permit to enter Sikkim at the border I found that it was a quick ten-minute process. I’m ready to jump out of the jeep hours before I actually reach Pelling, but when we pull into the village, the first guesthouse I see is one from my list. I hear foreigners talking and someone playing guitar around a fire. I think I’ll stay here.

There’s more to the story! Keep reading part II!

It’s cold. After playing guitar around the fire and chess with a guy from Israel named Amos I retire to my room. I haven’t showered in a few days so I decide to take advantage of the hot water shower. Once under the steamy jets I didn’t want to turn off the water. I could already feel my hair freezing while still showering. I jump into my freezing bed under two wool blankets and two bulky divans. I cannot get warm. I think I slept for an hour total through the night with my feet feeling like ice cubes. I got out of bed with a terrible headache and ate breakfast. Gul, an Israeli, invited me to check out a local monastery with him.

The walk up is intimidating. The monastery sits on top of the next peak over from the town. The road up looks like what you’d find on a Japanese Tapestry, with the path zigzagging up the mountain ahead of us, but we get to the top before we know it. The views are peaceful and incredible, the mountain falling away abruptly from where we sit. Gul and I sit and talk about the stupidity of wars and the possibility of religions living peacefully with each other as we listen to the wind blow through the Tibetan prayer flags.

More Stories and Pictures! After the jump –>

After losing again to Amos in chess I go back to my cold bedroom and pray I can sleep through the night. I wear all my clothes and specifically wrap my feet in my jacket shell. I am warm finally under all the blankets. I fall asleep only to be wakened at eleven by a whining dog. This is no ordinary whining dog. He sounds like a human woman mourning the loss of her baby. I want to find the dog and kick it; I don’t even care about animal sensitivity. After a couple hours of fighting it I fall asleep till early morning when it starts up again. This time I wake up, my entire body is sweating. I am feverish. The dawn comes and I join Gul and some others on the roof to watch the sun light Mt. Kangchenjunga off in the distance.

Click on Image to see larger

A group of us are hiring a jeep to take us to the famous Khecheopalri Lake (somehow pronounced catch-a-perry lake). The driver takes us to a couple waterfalls before eventually reaching the lake. I stumble around, coughing and wishing I wasn’t feverish. I sleep in the jeep at the second waterfall as others eat snacks from the stall on the side of the road.

We reach the lake and walk the five minutes down the path to reach it. BIGGEST DISAPPOINTMENT EVER! This lake is so hyped around Pelling. It is nothing more than a mud puddle surrounded by trees and prayer flags. I was so put off I didn’t even go out to the lake and slept on a bench by the path. I hate how you never know whether hyped sites in India are actually something to see or a two-foot waterfall. They all get the same amount of hype.

A young boy at the parking lot for the lake.

The jeep pulls off the side of the road about halfway back to Pelling. “It’s a rock garden,” the driver explains. They want us to pay to get in, so we just walk along on the road above. It’s another infamous Indian attraction that I don’t know why it exists except to get a few rupees from passing tourists. I elect to walk the rest of the way back to Pelling because I want to take portraits of the people I see. So many beautiful people had passed thus far on our drive back and I couldn’t take it anymore.

I cross the bridge and start up the hill along the road. Where are all the people? For about the first hour I don’t see another soul. There were so many people walking before I decided to walk. My whole reason for walking was not to get exercise, I am sick, but to take portraits of people.

I have an affinity for making kids cry.

In a small village after taking portraits of a group of people, a man demands I take some tea. I sit and enjoy the tea then take some more portraits. The man says to me, “You need to come down.” Ok? I’ll follow you? “You need to see the village.” He leads me down a steep path through the middle of the village and…back down to the road that I had just come up. “There’s a temple there you need to go to. I’ll be here.” The temple was simple and uninspired. A leper warms a meal over a fire in the courtyard. I then have to walk back up the mountain the way the man led me, bypassing the long switchback I originally took.

After three hours of walking I start getting cold and my legs are tired of walking uphill at 2,000m above sea level. I know that the same jeep that took my group is picking up a group of girls from Canada that walked to the lake and should be coming back about now. Just at the right time I see the familiar jeep come honking around the bend in the road. The girls gladly invite me to join them the rest of the way back.

The jeep driver tells me that I will not get a bus back to Siliguri in the morning because Siliguri, Darjeeling, and other major cities of Gorkhaland are on strike on the 21st. I set up to meet a jeep to the border of Sikkim, then I’ll take another jeep to Siliguri.

I have every reason to sleep through the night. I am exhausted. I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in two nights and I’m sick. The dog doesn’t bark tonight and I am warm. But I have this terrible dream that causes me to wake up every five minutes and fall back asleep into the dream. I’ve had the dream maybe three times before and always when I’m traveling.

Dreamworld: I somehow work for a large company like Enron that nobody knows what they actually do or make. I am brain washed and connected to this computer program that every time I have a new thought the computer creates another version of myself. Straight lines somehow connect all of the versions of myself and I can only travel by these straight lines. But every time I want to get to someplace the computer creates a new me in that place, so I never actually move. I know I have to get up at 6am and I panic because I can’t move. Then I realize if I right click (I have no idea what I’m right clicking) I can select a mode where I no longer have to travel just in straight lines and I can move freely in any direction. Then I woke up for good at 6am.

This dream drives me crazy because it doesn’t seem to mean anything but it keeps me from sleeping through out the night. I am ridiculously tied when I get out of bed, and I’m feverish and coughing with a killer headache. Several of the others are taking the same jeep to the border and we go about 50km in almost two hours.

In Jonegeth I find a jeep to Siliguri and we wait for hours for it to fill up. Stuffed four to the back seat, I fade in and out of feverish sleep. At the Sikkim border I am asked to show my documents, so I have to climb on the roof of the jeep and grab my passport. Maybe ten minutes beyond the border I get out to use the restroom and discover my wallet not on my person. I think maybe it’s fallen into the seat, but it is not there. It is not in the jeep. Three options. It fell out of my pocket getting into the jeep in Jonegeth, fell out getting out at the Sikkim border, or someone saw it sticking out of my pocket and nabbed it while I slept. I have no idea which actually occurred.

Lost contents: Visa Debit Card, BC/BS Health Insurance Card, Indiana Drivers License, ISIC Student ID Card, Indiana Wesleyan Student ID card, Choctaw Nation Membership ID Card, spare key to my apartment, and about $40. But this put me in a fix getting back to Mumbai. I had not eaten anything yet that day and once I reached Siliguri I had no way to get to the train station except walking. I convinced a man with a motorcycle to take me some of the way to the station, then a cycle rickshaw driver insisted that I ride with him despite explaining that I do not have any money. I sleep at the train station till my train comes. I arrive in Calcutta in the morning and use my only 12 rupees in coins to take the bus to the airport. It only gets me close so I take off walking. Another cycle rickshaw insists I ride with him despite explaining I do not have money, but this one thought I could get money and took me to a bank. I try explaining I do not have any money and he takes me to a police officer. I explain what happened and offer to pay him in crackers. The police officer tells the ‘rick’ driver to take me the rest of the way and I give him my crackers.

I get to the airport by 9:30am for my 6:30pm flight. Everyone laughs at me when I show them my ticket. I explain I need to figure out if I can get my boarding pass because I lost my debit card. I have to have a police report. They point me in the direction of the police station where I file a report for my missing wallet and contents. One of the officers takes mercy on me and gives me 20 rupees to buy some tea and instructs me to come back to the officers’ mess for lunch. This is the first meal I’ve had in 40 hours. I pull 1000/- from the ATM at the bank after remembering my pin number for my credit card. This gets me some food before my flight and money to pay a rickshaw driver back in Mumbai.

As I am leaving Calcutta I see the lights from the plane. Calcutta looks like a lovely modern city…at night and from the sky. The crisscross of moderately flowing trafficked streets dotted with street lamps lead to the brightest spectacle of the scene, an impressive cricket pitch (field) in full glory, sitting on the banks of the mighty Ganges River, spanned by illuminated bridges. It looks so clean and peaceful. What a deception the night provides!

I’ve never been so glad to get back to my apartment. It’s a shame the end of my trip was marred by this unfortunate event.

This week I did another photoshoot for ATMA at a school called Muktangan. It is a groundbreaking school that serves as model for other schools to follow in new education theory. I shot all day and almost 800 frames. I was dead tired after the shoot from all the screaming kids. I got home and started to upload the files. Lightroom told me there were only about 350 images on my card, 200 of which were viewable. With a frantic call to Canon and use of the SanDisk File Recovery Software, all was fixed.

I am flying out this afternoon for Calcutta and will be hitting up Darjeeling and possibly Bangladesh or Nepal, not sure which. Will check in soon.

More Photos after the jump!


















































Most of these, the keylight is an Orbis ringflash on my Canon Speedlite 580ExII connected to my camera via flash extension cable and held by my portable lightstand, Vinay.

My assistant, Vinay, standing while I figure out lighting for a shot. He is wonderfully helpful. And he takes me climbing!

I bought a motorcycle two days ago. So, I needed a helmet. Why not get one that makes me feel like a fighter jet pilot?

Before I even got to Bombay I started researching the climbing community. I found a climbing wall that is set just off of a school grounds in an area called Goregaon. The community at the wall is very active and dedicated, immediately accepting me and inviting me to join them regularly on their real rock adventures. Three weeks ago I went climbing in the Sanjay Ghandi National Park, which sits inside the limits of Mumbai Municipalities. It is an impressive park with large forests topping several ‘mountains’ that roll through it.

My friend Vinay invited me out to top rope some climbs with his friend Sharad, another photographer. It was good to be on real rock again, but I was terribly out of shape, having not really trained for climbing in over 5 months.

Photo credit: Sharad Chandra Khiyali
bouldering in Sanjay Ghandi National Park

Don’t stop here! More Photos and more of the story! –>

The last two weekends I have spent in an area called Belapur in New Bombay, inland a ways from Mumbai. Vinay introduced me to the group of guys that spend seemingly every weekend climbing somewhere in these mountains. They come from all over – from Lower Parel in Central Mumbai to Pune, hours further to the East. Everyone meets at the house of ‘Bong’, a man probably in his 50’s or 60’s that is somewhat of a legend in Indian climbing. He provides the climbers with anything they need, harnesses, crash pads, ropes, or even chalk (I asked if he had any hand chalk and he pulled out a huge plastic bag and tossed it at me). Some of the climbs are within walking distance of his house, others are just a short drive up the other side of the mountain. Bong and his crew have been busy bolting sport routes and finding bouldering krags throughout these neighboring mountains.

On Saturday, after an hour and some bus ride, I meet Shree in front of Bong’s house who led me up past a slum and several Hindu temples that line the sides of seemingly endless amount of steps. My thigh’s screams remind me how out of shape I am. Ducking off the main path and following a foot trail into the woods along the cliff line we meet a guy waiting for us with all the equipment. There are five short but bolted sport routes, probably 25-30 feet (I’ve had falls that were longer), waiting to be climbed. The rock is dark and sucks up the heat of the sun quickly, amplifying the heat of the humid day. The rock has a nice feel to it, angled but not too sharp, but tends to be somewhat weak, breaking off too often for my liking. The first three climbs are a breeze, but it’s fun sport climbing again after 5 months. (in sport climbing there is no rope above you. You take the rope up with you along with carabiners to secure the rope into the bolts already in the rock. It is more challenging and a lot more fun than top roping). The furthest climb to the left has an extremely difficult start with poor hand holds and almost no feet while trying to clear an overhang. I fully wear myself out in futile attempts to get above the crux of the problem. Sundeep, despite claiming he was out of shape and not ready to try it, showed up both Shree and I in our attempts making the problem look easy.

The climbers congregate back at Bong’s house, laying around on crash pads and ratty lawn chairs, and plates of chicken curry and rice soon make their way to everyone’s laps. Most of the spirited conversation is a mix between Hindi and Marati, unless someone is asking me or answering a question in English. Sometimes I don’t mind not knowing what’s going on, only picking out the few words I know, but it also encourages me to continue my learning of Hindi so I can actively participate in these conversations. Some take off with promises of coming back tomorrow, other plan on spending the night at Bongs in the loft or scattered about on empty crash pads.

Bong wakes me up around 7:30am despite having slept at only 1:30. Climbers slowly appear from different hiding places, and some new faces show up. We start off to the climbs around 9:30, some on motorcycles and myself crammed into a small car carrying multiple crash pads up to the bouldering area. Hiking a short ways over boulders, dry grass and cacti careful not to step in the cow manure scattered about, we get to a bouldering crag that Bong had recently found. I start taking some pictures as the guys start going full out without so much as a warm up. I try the first route, but my weak left grip kills me about half way up and I relent.

Gaurang cleaning a hold before committing to it.

Vivek stretching for the final hold. He is a lot higher than I like to be without ropes.

A quick little ad for Evolve rock shoes.

Sham
*all names’ spellings are my interpretation of how I think their spelled.

I continue taking pictures down below until the early afternoon. I move up on top of the cliff and secure a rope to some large boulders. Using a Grigri autolocking belaying device I lower myself over the edge of the cliff, positioned above the climbers. I had secured my flash on my tripod under some rocks a few meters to my right.

The guy resting between attempts.

Sham in a moment of intense pain that comes from securing your weight from tiny pieces or rock

It’s high. They just drop down to the crash pads and kept off the rocks by those spotting below.

And they fall. That part’s not fun.

After the sun clears the cliff and spoils my shot I return down below and try some more climbs. Just as everyone is leaving I complete one that I had been working without success for sometime. Sadly, having only climbed a couple of routes, I am worn out. My fingers hurt, and my feet are killing me. I have an infection on my right foot below my pinky toe that has been bothering me for some three weeks, a cut on my heal and a splinter in the ball of my left foot. (That night I perform surgery on the infection, draining it of cappuccino colored liquid and cutting back ‘dead’ skin’ revealing a hole void of tissue or blood. I’m not sure what that means. I really need to get into the habit of going to the doctor here. Coming from the US where I do not have good health insurance and a doctor’s bill costs too much, I avoid them at all cost.)

Bong greets us at his house with plates of Kheema and bread, and we spread out on crash pads about his house relaxing after a tiring day. I am very glad I found this community. I’m excited to spend my new years in Hampi climbing with them.

It finally happened. After the shoot getting postponed day after day, we set the schedule for Monday morning. I meet Vinay, my assistant, at the train station, then meet Eva on a bridge by Dharavi, the largest slum in Mumbai and India, and one of the largest in Asia. Spread out over 175 hectares, or 0.67 square miles, nearly 1 million people cram into this relatively small space making it one of the most densely populated neighborhoods in the world.

I was asked to keep my camera in my bag for the majority of the ‘tour’ of the slums so that the people don’t feel like a spectacle or caged animals. This is frustrating because there is a lot to photograph. When I saw this scene, I could not help but getting out my camera.

There’s more to the story! More Photos! Keep reading –>

With a guide from Reality Tours and Travels, Vinay and I see the innards of Dharavi. The tour is basically a set course that all of the tours follow, going through specific districts to see specific things. We enter an industrial area where all kinds of plastics are recycled. If you’re in Mumbai and ever wonder where all the plastic bottles magically disappear to, this is it. (It is somewhat amazing, with all the trash that is around the city, there are rarely any plastic bottles. And when I set my trash out for pick up, my plastic bottles are always the first to disappear.)

All the unsorted plastic is brought from all over the city in gigantic bags to this place where it is sorted by quality. After it is sorted it is shredded into bits, washed and laid out to dry. They melt down the plastics, die them different colors, and send it through a strainer creating long spaghetti-like strings that are then chopped into little pellets that are sold to plastic molders around the country.

The workers make something like 150 rupees a day, or $3, and most sleep in the factories unless they have a family in Dharavi. A lot of immigrants from other states come directly to Dharavi when reaching Mumbai, and many come without their families.

Other factories make parts for machinery or the machines themselves. Some take vegetable oil cans and refurbish them for re-use. We also tasted and saw the best known bakery in Dharavi. Pretty good. But Dharavi isn’t just factories, a LOT of people live here. Getting into the housing areas you enter extremely narrow alleyways, my shoulders scraping both walls. Wires hang everywhere delivering electricity and cable TV to most of the homes. I would have to stoop low to get through any of the doorways. The individual dwellings are not large, with many people sleeping in the same living space. Even the it is a sunny day, almost no natural light makes its way into the alleys. BUT the people smile. They laugh. They have a place to sleep, they have a job, they have their families. Of course they desire more, but they make the best of their situations. Certain people groups live in certain areas. The Muslims here, the Hindus here, the Madrasi (people from the south) live in this block and make pottery. They are very tight nit and they protect each other. We could not continue in down one alley because of a wedding celebration blocking the way, so we found another way around. Dharavi is a maze, I am glad to have had a guide. Also I found myself relieved every time we popped out of the dark alleyways, able to breathe again. I wouldn’t say I am claustrophobic, but it was stressful being in that tight of conditions.

When I think of slums, I think back to my time in Uganda. Tattered tents and lean-tos sitting on top of  mud and garbage. People just sitting about swatting flies and mosquitoes. That is not the case here. The homes are mostly solid and have electricity. The people work; it is estimated that exports from Dharavi are worth around $650million USD every year. Though many areas have running water only two hours a day and 1 toilet per however many people (some areas I think were around 70-1),  Dharavi is productive. It is not ideal and things are changing, but it is not the worst of the worst. The government is developing multistory housing that residents can take for very cheap if they can prove they have lived in Dharavi since before 2000. Many areas are starting to look like most other parts of the city.

Back to the school.

Eva takes us to a school that was started by the company, Reality Cares, and uses new education theory. I’m not sure of the details, but it involves teachers sitting on the ground with the children and everything being done in circles. At the lower levels all the children sit on the floor, but as they grow older they graduate into chairs. If you are interested in finding out more, check out this website, www.muktanganedu.org. Right now the school is just one classroom of kinder-gardeners, but the school will grow with the children, next year adding 1st grade, in two years adding 2nd grade and so on.

I took these photos partly for ATMA, the NGO that supports all the other education NGOs and schools in its program, and partly for Reality Cares. ATMA is trying to stretch my commitment to volunteer to its limits…

The Co-Founders of Reality Tours and Travels and Reality Cares education.

This girl was so funny/cute when she was eating. One picture couldn’t capture it all.

One night on the train I thought I should make a short film. I visualized some shots and lighting, and when I got home at two in the morning I started filming. I filmed one more night and then started editing. This is what came out after a couple of days of editing. I am pleased with this experiment and would like to look into more video projects.

Recoil from D Scott Clark on Vimeo.

I don’t know why it looks squished, Vimeo did that for some reason.

I have started hosting Couch Surfers at my apartment, and I decided to document each one if they agree. Here are the first two.

The last few nights I’ve been filming a short film in my apartment, just experimenting with lighting and angles. I am excited to finish editing and see what it looks like all together. I am enjoying this venture into video and the learning process that comes along with it. Monday night I had my camera all set up for a shot and was doing some test runs before I did the actual shot. On my camera, 5DMarkII, you have press the “Set” button at the center of the scroll wheel to start and stop, as well as preview the video. I was previewing the last test before doing the actual shot and when I pressed in the button, it never came out. I tried tapping it, using gravity, finding something to suction it out – nothing worked. I called CanonUSA and they said I needed to send it in for repairs. If I were in the US, it would fully be covered under warranty, but Canon India doesn’t have to honor my warranty.

I am only two train stops away from the Canon India Master Service Center, so yesterday I set out with a list of errands to do on my way: Buy bus tickets, pay internet bill, get pictures printed, etc. I was an hour and half into the errands and walking toward the station when I remembered…I didn’t put my camera in my bag. I HATE when that happens. I had to walk back to the bus station, run after the bus I needed (everyone stares at the white guy sprinting down the road after the big red bus), run to my apartment and grab the camera, and run back to the bus stop to try and catch the bus on its return trip. By this point I am hot and sweaty. Running needlessly in Mumbai is not recommended.

The Customer Care Representative recognizes me immediately when I walk in the door. I have met him too many times before. He calls me over and asks, “What is it this time?” Well, I have a present for you. He takes the camera into the repair shop and asks me to wait to see if they can just pop the button back out. After a bit he calls me in to show me moisture inside the body. Apparently its not as water tight as it claims to be (I’ve had it in the rain several times). “It might need some repairs, it will take 3-4 days.” Buh, I need the camera, but I have my 20D back up, so its standable. I’m packing up my stuff to leave and he comes bounding out…”The button just popped back out, we’re putting it back together and will have it out in a second. I’m just going to charge you inspection fees.” Awesome! Instead of $50 mandatory maintenance fee they charge me $4.25 inspection fee. I am thankful for this man helping me out. I do feel like having past working relationship with him before helped though.

The Dharavi slum school pictures were post-poned last friday and have not been rescheduled yet. I will post the update after they occur.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of going out of the big city to a small village area about two and half hours north by train. After a long bumpy bus ride I arrived at the school. The director of the school is an incredible woman named Patricia that took over operations about three years ago, but she has been involved with the school for a while. She had been sending children affected by HIV/AIDS to the school, but on closer inspection found it sub par. She started getting investment and government grants to build better facilities, from proper bathrooms to classrooms. The school houses about 500 at risk students who live on the campus. Some are orphans, some have parents that are constantly moving or can’t support them, but some live in the surrounding areas. The children have a large garden where they grow vegetables and fruit, and they are in charge of landscaping the campus. Patricia made it sound like they didn’t have to be told what to do, the kids wanted it to look nice. The students are taught in Marati, the local language, Hindi, and English. Many of the students excel and are sent on to good universities. The teachers are enthusiastic and the children seem to be very happy. They are well fed and healthy. I asked about organized sports and Patricia reported that a girl from the school just placed 6th in the state track and field meet, and the boys have the best cricket team in the area. I was very impressed by everything that I saw and would love to go back and spend more time with the kids.

The students keep everything they do very neat and orderly, even their shoes outside the classroom

The library is lacking in books and an organization system, but there is plenty of room in the newly renovated hall. The children love to check out what books they have. I finished “Gulliver’s Travels” on the way to the school, so I donated it to them.
The school has the only chemistry/biology/physics lab in the area
I just loved the lighting on these bags coming from a skylight in the dorms

More photos after the break! Click –>

This little girl has the cutest little smile, and she would always light up in front of the camera































Patricia with a cute one

One of the administrators with the boys

One of the teachers took me back to the Dahanu station on his motorcycle. He was kind enough to stop and let me take pictures of the beautiful scenery along the way.

C’est bon!

I am doing a shoot tomorrow at a school in the Dharavi slum. Should get some good photos there as well.

October 23
I have lived in India now for four and half months and I had yet to travel far beyond the cities of Hyderabad and Bombay before spontaneously leaving over a week ago to join my friend in Ahmedabad. Stephen Keefauver came from Bloomington on the night of the 17th November, flying over a Bombay sky filled with fireworks. After a pretty quick tour of Bombay he headed off to Ahmedabad while I struggled to supply my apartment with working internet. Everything was finally installed on Thursday, so Friday I go to the tourist office in CST train station to buy a last minute ticket to Ahmedabad. Luckily I get on the train that leaves at 8:30pm and gets me to Ahmedabad around 5am.

October 24
Stephen meets me at the train station and we walk the kilometer and half or so to the Gujarat State Bus Station where we plan on taking a bus to the island of Diu. Stephen had already seen all of Ahmedabad, and I was not severely interested. We take a relaxing breakfast before loading on a bus that would torture us for the next 11 hours. The bus left at 8am and we are told we should arrive around 2pm. Sounds good. Stephen and I find comfortable enough seats by a window that opens all the way, but our knees stick squarely into the plastic backing of the seats in front of us. When the seats in front of us are occupied we find the fellows’ heads right in front of our chins; the seat backs almost completely broken. We are completely trapped and uncomfortable but not the worst off – many are stuck standing. Around 2pm we ask how much longer. “Oh, about 4 hours.” But you said…??? We arrive after 7pm in the most wretched of conditions, tired of being cramped up in that cage. Not only were we cramped, but a group of local boys badgered us the entire 11 hours. Miserable I was.

Read more after the break! Lots of Photos!

Off of the bus my condition changes almost immediately. According to the map in the Lonely Planet we figure the hotel is maybe a kilometer away, so we walk through most of Diu Village. First thing we notice…it’s quiet. No one is honking! There are very few vehicles on the narrow streets. We wonder around the maze of streets in the dark vaguely following the map in the L.P. and asking directions from strangers on street corners. At last we reach a grand white washed Catholic church illuminated on all side. The main sanctuary they turned into a museum for Diu, but all of the back offices and rooms are now living quarters for a family. We make our way to the roof where we find George D’Souza, the owner of the Sao Tome de Retiro, the guesthouse on top of the church. Our small room costs 300/- a night, so about $3 for each of us. Not the best, but for the views and location…it’s prime.

Standing on the pinnacle of the roof between two white towers I can see most of the village of Diu. I can see in the darkness a long pool with several fountains spurting water illuminated on all sides that leads to the steps of the church. In the channel between the mainland and the island a fortress sits in solitude, looking like an abandoned ship; also illuminated nicely. Just before me and to the right is another large Catholic Cathedral, St. Paul’s, the only active church on the island, and beyond that I can see Diu Fort, a massive structure built by the Portuguese.

We settle in then go out in search of food and the greatest necessity, internet. I haven’t even seen Diu in the light yet and I love it.

While at the cyber cafe a fight breaks out right in front of the large glass doors, a perfect movie screen experience. A large group swells back and forth amongst angry yelling; a large older man streams forward slapping repeatedly the head of a younger guy. The crowd gets involved and everyone appears to be slapping everyone else. (One thing I’ve found here…no one knows how to fight. It’s really comical watching their fights because it’s all slapping and what not. Even in their movies – no, especially in their movies – the fighting is terrible. Their stars throw feminine punches and three guys go flying and so on. They obviously have no idea of fighting techniques and no apparent interest in trying to make it look convincing. This I think effects the society as a whole in their fighting techniques…for better or worse I guess) The skirmish continues as the young man getting the brunt of the slaps get pushed inside the cyber cafe door, bleeding from his eye and his ear, his shirt torn beyond recognition. He struggles to push himself back into the fight and eventually succeeds. The crowd eventually diminishes when I hear the cops approaching. Exciting first night.

October 25

views from the top of the St. Thomas church.

The stairs leading up to the church.

Views of the Diu

Inside the lighthouse.

After taking a breakfast of pancakes and honey, Stephen and I rent XL something or other motorbikes from another hotel. Driving around the village I note that the brakes are not very good, the speedometer does not work, and the bike stalls any time I idle, whether I’m sitting still or coasting down a hill. We take off across the island, at every intersection choosing which road we think will take us further west. All along, cars are honking at us and guys riding doubles on motorcycles pull up beside us to behold the wonder of two white men on motorbikes. We pass large red brick gates, green fields leading to cliffs that dive into the ocean, and a golden beach covered with visiting Indians. We continue past, trying to get to the fishing village at the end of the island, but on a barren section with golden fields of grass on our right and bare beaches with small crashing blue waves on our right my bike sputters and dies. I think it overheated so I take off my sandals and wade into the cool water for a bit before trying to restart it. We go for another couple hundred meters before it dies again and does not want to restart. We leave the bike leaning against a light pole and go back to the populated beach, both of Stephen’s bike. From a nice hotel we call the “Super Silver Hotel” and they agree to bring me a replacement bike.

Larger ships than I expected line the docks that meet the end of the road. The busy-ness of the morning market has all but subsided; workers scrub the bottoms of landed ships clearing them of barnacles; men sit around drinking tea enjoying the afternoon light. The colorful smaller fishing boats I expected to see rest on the north side of the village among sun drying fish hung up like clothes on a drying line. Stephen and I make our way through the narrow streets, dodging cows and kids and other bikes. Several women in passing shops say without much enthusiasm what sounds like “chocolate.” I have no idea what they meant by it. Children run alongside saying “Money?” The paved road disappears and we follow the dirt trail along side multiple shallow lakes, farming something I could not tell (but ooh the smell, that I could tell). The scene is beauty, despite the smell, with something like white egrets launching themselves into the air from the shallow water, announcing our approach to whomever is watching.

The oddly shaped house stands in the intersection, enough space for maybe one bedroom on the top floor and kitchen on the bottom, and we decide to explore the incoming road coming from the north. Women in a multitude of colorful wraps and saris stream past us as we continue forward, not knowing what we are entering. A henna haired security guard bids us to park our bikes and follow him into a Hindu temple with screeching female vocals broadcast over an unseen PA system. Several men come and greet us and invite us to take lunch with them. Despite already having eaten lunch – Stephen actually ate three separate dishes – we heartily agree. They take us into a temple and put red powder on our foreheads then lead us to tent full of people sitting lined up on the floor eating rice and dal and chana. Today is this god’s birthday so they are celebrating with a community meal. We stuff ourselves then sit around talking with the men about what we do.

After some time the man showing us around asks, “Have you seen the prawn farms yet?” – why, no we haven’t. He leads us beyond the temple into a series of man made salt-water lakes that border the sea. In each lake turbines churn the water keeping it aerated. We are led to a hut with men working with nets overlooking one of the ponds. They throw in a net and pull out around 20 or so Tiger Prawns, creatures bigger than my hands. All this time I thought prawns were shrimp, but they are some how different. We learned a lot about prawns. They kept talking about prawns. They told us probably 15 times these were prawn farms, they just kept saying the word prawns. I didn’t know you could say prawn so many times. One guy read Stephen the back of the feed bag for the prawns, told him about mixing ratios and everything he never wanted to know. But it was entertaining nonetheless.

The road ends with several women telling us we have to turn around, this street does not go all the way through. We have to go back to the fishing village to get to the road that crosses the island on the south side. On our return journey we come across these colorful structures that from a distance look like miniature houses populating a hill looking over the beach. As we get closer we realize we’ve come across a Hindu cemetery. Little cement ‘houses’ painted in bright colors line the hillside in neat little blocks. I was hoping it would be a little bit more interesting.

The Kalpana distillery eluded us. Where the map said it was there is nothing but a petrol storage area. We just wanted to find where they make their local alcohol. We search around for a bit then head back towards Diu. We try to take roads we haven’t been on before till we find something exciting to do and come across a sign for ‘Caves’, so we decide to check it out. They are a mixture of natural and man-made caves carved into the sandstone cliffs. It is apparent they were used for some kind of ritual of some sort. Hand and footholds are carved into over hanging and vertical rocks meaning someone was climbing these cliffs, but I cannot see to what purpose.

I caught the sun set at Sunset point. I climbed down from the path to walk among the tidepools and watch the sund dip below the distant horizon.

The steps leading up to the roof at St. Thomas Church.

October 26
I meant to wake up around sunrise to go take pictures of the fishing village in its busiest hour, but I’ll just let you know…I missed that. Stephen and I take our lunch then mess around sliding our bikes in gravel and making general havoc. We had not gone out expecting to go anywhere else; Stephen in shower sandals and I naked without my camera. We search Diu for a better place to practice sliding stops and end up taking off across the island again, unsure of destination. The drive through the innards of Diu village reminds me in many ways of the tight, winding streets of Italy and I am sure they are reminiscent of someplace in Portugal, differentiated only by the random Brahman cow blocking the road. We come to an intersection with a giant gate in one direction signifying the entrance to Diu Island. The temptation of crossing the unknown and seeing the mystery of the main is too great. We cross the one lane bridge and get waved past a police checkpoint by a very jolly policeman (checking for alcohol since the State of Gujarat is a dry state and Diu is an island of drunken paradise).

The desert surrounds us, accentuated by a pack of roving camels. The land is utterly flat with no apparent change in elevation by even a few meters. We take the paved road that heads in the direction we determine we should be traveling to get to the other bridge that leads back to Diu, but soon the draw of leaving the easy road to bump along interweaving dirt paths created by herds of cattle and camels is too great. Stephen and I fly on, enjoying the freedom of life without roads provides, and occasionally sliding to a stop in a cloud of dust…because we can. Eventually even the dirt paths give up on us and force us back to the main road, which we have to take with much greater caution because of the ginormous man-eating potholes. We pass through small village after small village receiving the inhabitants’ stares with appreciative waves and smiles. In each village the women are dressed differently with different colors and patterns, with village specific nose and ear jewelry and tattoos covering arms and neck. At this point I hate that I did not bring my camera along, but I recognize had I taken pictures of everything I wanted to this half-day drive would have taken roughly three days. The teenage girl standing in the middle of the desert fighting against the wind to tie her flowing red dress; the beautifully wrinkled faces and tattooed bodies of the women staring as we drive past; the kids dropping everything they are doing out in a field and running full speed away from us at first site then turning and waving.

Stephen starts complaining about something rattling uncontrollably on his bike and we stop to look and find nothing obvious, but as soon as we start again the cause of that uncontrollable shaking becomes so very apparent. I laugh as he false starts only to come violently to a halt, and I tell him his chain is dragging on the ground. We try our best to reattach the chain, but with the guard in place we find it impossible. We sit there, not sure what to do surrounded by nothing but desert and a few trees. Several motorcycles pass us, some single riders I try to flag but all just fly by. A young man on a bicycle named Rumesh stops and tries to help but doesn’t succeed in bettering our efforts. I take him on my motorbike into the closest thing resembling a village where he grabs some tools and we go back to Stephen. With the tools we’re able to take of the chain guards and reattach the chain to the gear, and Rumesh refuses any kind of compensation and peddles off just as he came. Stephen and I take it a bit more slowly since the chain is still loose, and without incident we make it back across the bridge leading into Diu.

Relaxing and taking in the beautiful sunset from the top of the church, Stephen and I wait for the famous fish barbeque George makes every other night. The tuna and shark steaks taste spectacular, complimented by the calamari pasta. Stephen takes his bike back to the Super Silver hotel to try and get a replacement. It won’t start with the kick-start so he takes off pushing the bike. I want to take a drive then go find internet so I jump on my bike, with a powerful kick the engine roars to life and I take off down the hill, my back end swerving uncontrollably. My rear tire is completely flat. I figure the hotel will try and charge me for the tire so I walk the bike a kilometer or so to a petrol pump, conveniently finding it closed. I ask around and since its after 9pm, I can’t get any help till the morning. I walk the bike uphill back to the hotel and they inform me they won’t replace the tire or the bike…I can pick it up at 9 in the morning, even though I only have it through 10am. Both Stephen’s and my bike are out of commission. This is disappointment since I was planning on going to the fishing village at the end of the island early in the morning to catch the morning activities at the fishery.

October 27
George’s brother rents me another TVS XL and I take off across the island in the morning light, enjoying the wind in my face and the cool breeze. The fishing yard is a buzz with activity – ships unloading their fresh catch into motorcycle rickshaws, workers scrubbing barnacles off of beached ships, and boats getting necessary repairs. I am frustrated here, feeling that I do not capture what I am seeing; something I felt repeatedly in all of Diu. It is such a spectacularly calming and beautiful place. I wasn’t doing the portraits I so love doing and wasn’t capturing the scenery as well.

Barnacles attached to the bottom of a ship

Stephen and I catch a nice breakfast, check out and try to catch a bus to Una to get the 2:30 train to Junagadh. We end up riding in a overstuffed motorcycle rickshaw, the Royal Enfield engine struggling to pull the weight up even a miniature hill. Stephen is stuck inside, constantly being interrogated in Gujarati and not understanding a thing. I had the advantage of riding standing on the tailgate and holding onto the luggage rack alongside a long gray bearded Muslim man. We find our way to the train station in Una and buy our tickets. 23/- for a 155km trip. This trip should have taken two to three hours at the most, but we spent seven hours on board the overstuffed no reservation train. We start out in the luggage compartment squished like sardines, everyone slowly shifting to the right and left, move this foot and that arm, so most everyone can somehow find a way to sit down. I break out my camera and my co-inhabitants mostly enjoy getting their pictures taken. We decide after the sun cools off a bit we will move up to the roof of the train, which in reason has to be less crowded than this compartment. About 4:30 we climb up between the cars using pipes and bolts to lift ourselves, only to find the roof almost just as packed as the inside, but the young guys up there shift around so we have room to sit. This…this was a good decision. The views were spectacular and the company entertaining. The fresh air is much preferred to the stuffy, sweaty insides. As the sun sets and dark sets in we get a magnificent view of the stars. We chug into Junagadh amongst a constant back and forth jeering between those on the roof of the train and those watching the train go by. It’s quite entertaining and I am encouraged to yell at every crowded intersection.

At the train station we find we cannot get a train directly to Bhuj and we should try to take an overnight bus. Several of them leave in an hour so I we hurry to the bus depot only to find all of the A/C Sleeper coaches full so we resort to enduring another state bus experience.