My 46-hour train ride from New Orleans (through Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, & California) finally arrives at Union Station LAX at 06:00.
I paid my respects to Mahatma Gandhi whoose ashes…are located in a sarcophagus in Santa Monica.
After spending an hour wandering through the massive station, I finally find my bicycle behind an Amtrak employees-only locked door. I present my luggage claim ticket, slide my bicycle out of the box, reassemble it, and load my panniers on. By 07:00, the February sun is high & warm in LA, and I’m happily rolling through the streets. I don’t bother to check a map. I’m headed to Santa Monica; a compass indicating “west” is all I need.
After passing through chinatown, I wheel into the first grocery store I find for breakfast, which turns out to be in Echo Park. This is home to PETA’s headquarters, where one of my college friends lives & works. We meet for tea, catch up, hit up a couple thrift stores, and I head back down hill.
Mahatma Gandhi Sarcophagus
I biked through Hollywood. This reminds me of Times Square, but it was interesting to see. Then I rode through Beverly Hills. And finally, Santa Monica.
LA is a massive city. Even though it was down-hill, it took me far longer than expected. It was a fun ride, and my friends were relieved when I showed up (mostly) unscathed. I took a long-needed shower, and enjoyed a bowl of their delicious vegan curry 😀
The following weekend I paid my respects to Mahatma Gandhi whoose ashes–little known fact–are located in a sarcophagus in Santa Monic
I’m on a train pulling into New Orleans on Mardi Gras, and the conductor informs us that the streets will be so grid-lock with traffic from the Endymion parade that we won’t be able to leave the Amtrak station.
Train from Atlanta to New Orleans
3 hours later, I manage to traverse the 10 miles down-river to the lower 9th ward, where I’m pitching my tent for $15 a day, less than a football field away from the levy that broke in 2005. When I unlatch the front gate and enter, I find a maze of a few dozen tents and a mix of mostly dirty, white travelers in their late 20s. In the middle is an unfinished, 3-story structure. Many long-timers here are doing a work-exchange building it. Much of the wood was dumpstered, needing nails removed.
After settling into my new tent city, I roll my fully-loaded bicycle into the grocery store and start hunting for nuts & bread. I fill my water bottle & go to checkout. The cashier is wearing a white fetish in the shape of a penis around her neck; I suppose it’s a whistle.
a hand pops up from the ground…and apparently there’s 2 bodies in there. I notice a roll of colorful condoms on the road a few feet from their discrete sex hole, and we leave them to their business.
Around 9, I roll out of my tent to the community around the wood fire. Someone asked about my bike, and I claim ownership, but inform him (S) that I came in via Amtrak. He tells me of his journey bikepacking through SE Asia & China, and—after preparing some food and a visit to the compost toilet, we bike together towards the French Quarter.
The route we took was different than how I came the night before, and probably safer too. After crossing the draw-bridge over the industrial canal, we dash down a grassy hill. A man sleeping by the tracks at the bottom of the hill asks if we have a lighter; we don’t.
Mikey at Marti Gras in New Orleans
We meet the street at its dead end, and my new friend from Montreal goes to investigate a bicycle unattended by the road. Alarmingly, a hand pops up from the ground, and I can see the matted hair of someone hiding in shallow drainage ditch. It’s broad-daylight, and apparently there’s 2 bodies in there. I notice a roll of colorful condoms on the road a few feet from their discrete sex hole, and we leave them to their business.
When we get to Canal St, I part ways with my riding partners. I want to go checkout my cowork office at Lafayette Square; they want to sneak onto a cruise ship.
Mardi Gras itself was crazy. Indeed, I’d never been to carnival before. I had come ill-prepared without a costume, but there was so much waste cluttering the streets that I was able to decorate myself sufficiently before the sun set.
I’ve crossed the US by bicycle. I’ve crossed by plane. And now–I’m taking a train from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
I’ve crossed the US by bicycle. I’ve crossed by plane. And now–I’m taking a train
I just bought an Amtrak ticket from Atlanta -> New Orleans (for Mardi Gras!) -> Los Angles. It’s ironic to realize that I’ve never done the good-ol cross-US road trip; I’ve never driven across the US (or taken a bus), but I suppose I shall one day (update: I did !). For now, I look forward to seeing the South via rail.
I may not have always been a hobo, but I’ve always been a hacker.
In any case, an update is due: After 4 magical months in in India, I came back to NYC just before the winter cold set in. After visiting friends & family, I traveled down the US East Coast.
I left a big duffel bag of possessions with a friend in NYC, and–due to price gouged bus fares ($700 flight from NYC to Atlanta? I don’t think so) over Christmas–I tried my luck at hitching from DC to Asheville with a backpack and 2 oversized duffel bags. I could hardly walk 0.1 km without needing to rest my back hauling that much shit.
Trump Protest
Within 10 minutes of holding up my cardboard sign indicating highway 81, a couple of southern boys (welcome back to Virginia) in an unmarked van stopped, started clearing junk out of the way in the back behind a full-size US flag strewn between the back and the cab, and told they could take me as far as highway 81, but wouldn’t be able to drive me South. I declined their offer. In the next 6 hours, another 4 people offered to take me part-way.
Having too many bags to be able to walk my way out of a bad spot, I left for the DC greyhound, slept the night in Union Station on Christmas Eve, and took the next Greyhound to Atlanta.
After a week exploring downtown Atlanta (read: where Martin Luther King Jr was born), I took a bus down to Florida–where I currently sit, a true NY snow bird.
Surveillance State
Birthday pancakes
Grandma
After I hit LA, I’ll head north to Vancouver for Spring–traveling by train & bicycle along the majestic US-Pacific coastline. I’ve never spent much time in Canada; I’m sure looking forward to Vancouver!
I arrived in Dharamshala in a state fit for seeing His Holiness the Dalai Lama himself. The local Indian bus dropped me at 04:00 am after a sleepless night bouncing around mountain bends through Himachal Pradesh. The sun wasn’t up, it was cold, and I wasn’t sure exactly where I was. So, I through on a few more layers and tried to get a few hours of sleep.
Making MomosDalai Lama’s home
When I finally made it to McLeod Ganj, I was tired & weak, so I stopped for tea & lunch. After eating, I was still feeling ill, and my forehead was ablaze, so I set off to find cheap lodging at noon. In an hour, I was laying on a thin, 200 rupee/night mattress. I slept for >12 hours. When I awoke, my fever was gone.
The next 2 days I wondered the boring streets of McLeod Ganj–filled with mostly shops & restaurants. It only took a half-day to see the temple–the home of the Dalai Lama in exile–and the small museum outside commemorating the Tibetan people in exile. My last day I took a Tibetan moma-making class, and discovered in horror that everything pure in Tibetan Dharamshala had butter poured on it.
I booked my bus for Amritsar, which departed 04:00 am the following morning.
I began my ascent into the Himalayan mountains via a bus from Delhi. My stop was the last stop, Manali. The mountains were beautiful, and I was completely taken by surprise when I found myself on a Bollywood set, paid 1500 rupees to be an extra in a film.
A French couple departed the bus with me, so we shared a rick shaw to Old Manali, where we stayed in a cheap ~300 rupee/night guest house. It was November–Manali’s off-season, yet there was already a half-dozen other travelers from France, Germany, and Korea staying at the guest house.
I immediately recognized Himalayan Blackberry and I could smell ganja in the air–two plants that reminded me of California.
Soon after I arrived, I started walking North along the river, basking in the peaceful sunlight in the valley surrounded by snow-capped mountains. I immediately recognized Himalayan Blackberry and I could smell ganja in the air–two plants that reminded me of California.
Admiring the Himalayans above Manali, India
I continued walking along the deserted mountain road above the river for a few hours, passed through a village where I saw smoking men relaxing in the morning and women washing clothes from a stream running down to the river. I turned, walked back to my guest house, ate lunch, and then continued in the opposite direction towards the hustling & bustling New Manali. It was an overcrowded tourist trap full of shops, restaurants, and overcharging rickshaws–a stark contrast to my peaceful morning walk. Though it was off-season, I met local that offered to guide me on a day-trek for much cheaper than the “adventure” companies charge. We had chai, agreed on a price, and a time/location to meet early the next morning.
Sadhya and friends
On my walk back up to my guest house, a man behind a gated entrance with a radio earpeace stopped me. He said they’re shooting a Bollywood movie, they need a foreigner to play as an extra, and they’d pay me 1,500 rupees, and feed me for my time (for reference, 1500 rupees would pay for my lodging at my guest house for the next 5 nights).
Last night I was transported into another dimension by way of a crowded Indian bus & tuk-tuk packed with 11 people en-route to Vrindavan.
Hare Krishna ParadeBread & Honey
When I arrived by foot just outside the ISKCON temple, an unexpected familiar face dressed in a t-shirt (distinct from all the orange-shawle’d Hare Krishna devotees) called to me. L, an old friend I met in Auroville, was staying <1km from the temple. After briefly visiting the temple (full of happy Hare-Krishna chanting & dancing Indians & foreigners) we walked to what would become my home in Vrindavan for the next 2 nights.
It was a 2-bedroom apartment shared by 10+ travelers from America, Europe, and India alike. Everyone's funds were tight, so their sustenance was fed by free rice & gravy twice daily by the temple--supplemented by simple white bread and (local) honey.
I had no sleeping pad or bag, so I spent my nights sleeping on cardboard, covered with my thin dhoti.
My first day in Vrindavan, I had a long conversation with 2 men who moved to India 40 years ago. Both were born in New York, which is also where ISKCON was started by Bhaktivedānta Svāmi.
I was unexpectedly pelted in the back of the head by a fistfull of flowers.
Later that day we took part in a grand procession with hundreds (if not thousands) of Hare Krishna devotees chanting, dancing, throwing flowers petals, and passing out free fruit & water. Many times I was unexpectedly pelted in the back of the head by a fistfull of flowers. Before long, the streets were covered with flowers & plastic bags (from mineral water).
The following day I caught a train with 5 friends to Delhi, then hopped a bus north to Manali, where I greeted the Himalayan mountains for the first time.
This weekend I climbed 660 granite steps to the temple at Shravanabelagola on my way to Belur. At the top, I was overwhelmed with about 300 children from Bangalore who all wanted to shake my hand, ask me my name, my country, and ask “sup boy?” in their thick Indian accents. Overwhelmed is an understatement. I have never met so many people in such a short period. As I descended the rock, every child I passed on my way down, remembering my name, said goodbye.
660 steps to the Shravanabelagola Temple
Belur itself was incredible. The temples had thousands of intricate carvings on nearly every wall, column, and ceiling stone. Weathered for the past 8,000 years, these carvings depicted stories of the gods from the hindu epics. Some of the work was so fine, you could just stick a thread into the intricacies of the carvings.
The Chennakeshava Temple
Engravings near Shravanabelagola Temple
The Chennakeshava TempleThe Chennakeshava Temple
When stopping for dinner, I sat alone and ordered one of my favorite Chinese-Indian dishes: Gobi Manchurian. After ordering, I went to wash my hands, and a group of ~20 local women were staring at me. They asked, simply “hi. how are you?” But when I simply answered “Hello. How are you?” and returned to my table, I must have left something to be desired. They continued to stare at me while I ate my dinner for the next 20 minutes, and eventually came to sit at my table to take selfies with me.
They thoroughly complimented my 1-month-old baby dreds, and asked me to smile for their camera while I tried to finish my meal. Before they left, one of them asked me to come to their home. Again, overwhelming, but incredibly nice. In any case, I had a bus to catch, so I scarfed down the last of my food and climbed onto my tour bus. A few minutes later, a van full of women passed by my window seat, cheering, shouting, and waving “goodbye!”. I smiled, waved, reclined, pulled down my bandanna over my eyes, and tried to sleep for the last leg of my journey back to Bangalore.
Last week I went swimming in the ocean off the Indian Subcontinent for the first time.
I was visiting friends at Serenity Beach just outside Auroville for a long holiday weekend (Ghandi’s Birthday). After emerging from the warm South-Indian water, my friend V complimented my long, dripping wet hair. She told me I would look great with my hair dreaded, and she offered to lock my hair. Flattered, I gratefully accepted her gift!
Dreadlocks (before)
Almost done!
Dreading 1
Dreadlocks (after)
V’s 9-year mature dreadlocks are wrapped beautifully. She has a lot of experience with dreadlocks. The next weekend, I returned to Auroville. It took her 5 hours to lock my hair using the so-called “rip & twist” method. The following weekend, she spent a few more hours with a crochet hook to finish the task.
On Wednesday I came home early from work with a 101 degree fever. I’ve been traveling in-and-out of malaria & dengue fever zones for the past 2 months, so my first thought was: get to the hospital for a diagnosis–this could get bad, fast. For some reason, I had no other major symptoms. Despite weakness, chills, and pain, I walked myself to the nearest ER–less than 1km from my bed.
I’m damp with a mild euphoric, dissociative trance reminiscent of years past experiments with Ketamine.
This weekend I’m dodging cows, dogs, and goats on my moped through the streets of Tamil Nadu. The engine lets out a constant scream as I ride full-throttle at 40 kph. My usual preference for a cycle is impractical for this weekend’s agenda–I’m attending a Bamboo workshop at the Bamboo Center in Auroville.
This weekend I’m dodging cows, dogs, and goats on my moped through the streets of Tamil Nadu. The engine lets out a constant scream as I ride full-throttle at 40 kph.
On my 4-day weekend break from work, I took a 7-hour bus ride from Bangalore in Karnataka to Pondicherry in Tamil Nadu. Auroville is an incredible community with more wisdom per-capita than I’ve ever experienced in any town or city. Any traveler should land here with the intention to stay a few weeks, and the will to stay a few months. There’s volunteer opportunities at every corner, with immense potential for useful knowledge in permaculture, sustainable architecture, community, and spirituality.
Wattle and daub
Bamboo Workshop Certificate
making a bamboo medicine cabinet
Indian Bus to Auroville
Bamboo Workshop Receipt
Tamil Nadu
Kerala
Tea
Independence Day
Vada, sambar, and chutney
Auroville Bicycle
Matrimandir
Bamboo In the Field of Construction in Northeast India
