Given that getting to McLeod Ganj was a nightmare to begin with, we figured that getting out would be equally difficult. Unfortunately, we were right. We were faced with a dilemma: take a 12-hour bus to Dehra Dun and then another 1-hour bus to Rishikesh, or take the 5-hour bus to Pathankot and then a 12-hour train to Rishikesh. We had heard some terrifying horror stories about the buses, and weren’t too keen to test our luck on night bus, so the train it was.

But first, back on the bus. The porter climbed atop the rickety bus and attached our bags to the rails. After feeling relatively sure that the bags wouldn’t fly off during the journey, we got on the bus. There were only a few people on, including a Stunningly Beautiful Teenage girl and two of her friends, sitting opposite us. When we got to Dharamsala and stopped at the bus station, the girl started speaking to me. Her name was Radha and, as with so many locals, she was just trying to test out her English, I think. T got off the bus to go look for some snacks for us, and she started talking to me.

When we would hit a lull in the conversation, there would be a pause and then I would hear a little voice saying Allie? And she would have another question, about T or where I was from, or if I wanted to come to stay at her house. Sadly, our train was already booked, so I couldn’t. About halfway through the ride, she leaned forward and asked for a snap. We thought she wanted us to take a picture of her, but she wanted a picture of me instead. We didn’t have any, but I appreciated the thought. I loved Radha.

The bus ride was spectacular on the way downhill, past snow capped mountains and hollowed-out valleys and through electric green fields. Suddenly, the bus started getting really crowded, to the point that T literally had his face lodged firmly in the belly of a round Sikh man . More and more people kept cramming themselves in and eventually the Sikh man looked down at T and smiled, saying, This is India. It sure is, dude.

After several inexplicable stops, including one during which the Sikh man told us to get off and then returned, yelling GET BACK ON! GET BACK ON!, we got to Pathankot. As before, T and I were the only original passengers. As we were standing to get off the bus, an Indian man smiled at me. I smiled back, and as I was passing him, he took my hand and kissed it. Uh, ok. Then he got off the bus and shook hands with T. T started to climb on top of the bus to get the bags, and the guy kissed my hand again. Then, out of nowhere, he hugged me. So I’m standing there with a stranger grabbing me, my husband climbing up the back of an Indian bus, mouthing DO YOU HAVE EVERYTHING? (please note he was not asking ARE YOU OKAY, BEING MOLESTED BY THIS TOTAL STRANGER?). It was right then that I decided to stop smiling at Indian dudes.

Of course the bus was an hour late, meaning we had only about a half hour to get to the train station. We took a bicycle rickshaw across town, with a tiny old man pedaling away down pot-holed, darkened streets. We got there in time, but weren’t sure whether we were confirmed onto the train, because the trains passenger list said we were waitlisted. Then, we got on the wrong train. Again. Fortunately, there were already people in our seats, or else we would have gone to Kashmir: about 12 hours in the wrong direction.

Eventually the right train arrived, and we found people in our seats again. We had booked third-class sleeper seats, and were assigned two bottom bunks. When we got onto the train, three women were sitting in our seats. Exchange, they said, pointing to their top bunks. Fine, fine. We just wanted to sleep anyway, and it was already 10pm and we had been on the bus for five hours.

This might have been our dumbest move yet. Giving the women the bottom bunk allowed the to chatter away as long as they wanted. Yak yak yak for hours, and then they finally went to sleep. Of course, two of them snore like freight trains; one with kind of a nasal snort and the other with a deep, rattling phlegmy breath. Yippee. Then, just as T and I went to sleep, one of them turned on the fan, which woke us right up. I fell asleep again and then woke up to my blanket being thrown on me, apparently because it was dangling too far over the edge.

Eventually, we fell asleep but surprise! At 5am, the light came on. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that these women took our beds, talked and snored all night and then turned on the fan so that they were comfortable, they decided to wake us up BEFORE DAWN as well. Never in my life have I wanted to smite someone so badly. AND THEN, they bought some damn chai. If you know me at all, you know the one thing I cannot abide is nasty mouth noises. I have to physically leave the room if someone is chewing with their mouth open or snapping on gum. Guess what? These women were champion tea slurpers.

Just as I was contemplating throwing myself out the window onto an oncoming train, they decided that 6am was an excellent time to start calling their friends and wishing them a happy birthday. Because EVERYONE wants to hear happy birthday at 6am!

I am never doing anything nice for anyone again. I don’t care if they are 90 years old—next time, if someone is in our seats, they are moving straight away or they will face the wrath of the thighs.

After the Shatabdi to Amritsar, T was convinced that all Indian trains serve food. They do not. Here’s the picture of T when we arrived in Rishikesh, on about 3 hours sleep, having eaten half a bag of chips in the past 24 hours. There is no hair gel in his hair; that’s all sleep, or lack thereof.

We arrived in McLeod Ganj in the late afternoon, tired but invigorated by the mountain air. McLeod Ganj is an old British hill station and the home of many Tibetan refugees, the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. It is on the far reaches of the Himalaya and is really, really beautiful.

Our hotel, the Annex Hotel, was full of rooms that overlooked the Kangra Valley, which meant that we had a spectacular view, but a very cold room. The owners of the hotel, two lovely brothers from Kashmir, gave us a Hudson space heater. Hudson was our saving grace at the Annex. We spent many hours sitting very near to him, professing our undying love. Our room was possibly the most charming yet, with a shawl over the thick duvets, and Tibetan rugs on the floor.

The first thing we did when we arrived was go to the rooftop cafe for some lunch, which one of the owners allowed us to eat in his office, on floor pillows. After that, we had planned to go to our room to watch some TV, but the power went for the first of many times in the hotel, and we ended up sleeping for ages instead. When we awoke, T got himself a job, after spending hours Skyping and emailing all his various bidders. If you’re interested, as of June, he will be working for his old English firm, who offered him European-style vacation time. Cha-ching!

Two addictions reared their heads in McLeod Ganj: unhealthy obsessions with chai for me, and a burning desire to eat dal makhani at every meal for both of us. Chai, as you may know, is Indian tea, and it is warm and spicy and perfect for a winter day in the Himalaya. Dal makhani is a lentil dal cooked in milk and butter and could well be terrible for you, but OH GOD, is it good. (Fram, I don’t want to hear complaints about my food writing from you. Stick a chicken foot in it.)

A very important event happened on our first full day in McLeod Ganj. I saw real, delicate, beautiful, soft falling snow for the first time in years. I almost rolled like a dog in it, I was so happy. Unfortunately, snow is a lot more beautiful to watch than to walk in, and we promptly got cold and wet. McLeod Ganj is not the kind of place where there’s a whole lot to do; much of our time was spent just walking around and looking, sleeping, and eating. Unfortunately for you, my readers, this is the case in most of the places we visit.

Any plans we may have had to do anything exciting were interrupted by Losar, the Tibetan New Year, which started on our first day in McLeod Ganj. On the first three days of Losar, Tibetans go to visit their families, which means that all the Tibetan establishments were closed, which meant more Indian food for us!

We ended up going to town when the Dalai Lama was not teaching, because we were afeered of the thousands of Others who would surely descend on the town when he was teaching. It was a good decision too, because everything was booked out months in advance for his teachings. Despite not seeing him, we got to see hundreds of Tibetans, people who I honestly believe may be the most beautiful people on earth, with lovely, open faces, bright eyes and gentle smiles. I was pleased to see that even though that have been through hell and have lost their country to the wicked Chinese and fled their homeland, they still looked much healthier and happier than the Tibetans we saw in Chengdu, who looked miserable and very poor. McLeod Ganj is full of Tibetan families and laughing children and monks and nuns in crimson robes, all wandering around town.

Unfortunately, not everyone was doing as well as the Tibetans, because there was a LOT of begging in McLeod Ganj, probably due to the many tourists. On our first day in town, we got nailed. There was a woman who looked exactly like an Indian version of my friend Valerie, walking around with her baby. She saw us and came right over. She kept saying, No money, no money, mee-elk. We said no politely, and kept on walking. Then T took off in front, and I was left with this woman, repeating over and over that she wanted milk and pulling on my arm. I tried to keep walking, but eventually I cracked and made T buy her the damn milk. Normally, we don’t do this, because people often take the milk and sell it back and keep the money for themselves, which means the babies don’t get the milk, and we’re not sure what happens to the money. But normally, I am not left alone to fend for myself with a woman who looks like my friend, who is begging me for a few dollars to feed her skinny baby. Normally, T says no and they leave, because I CANNOT BE TRUSTED.

There was another boy in McLeod Ganj who got us on our second day. As we were turning the corner (in exactly the same place where the Valerie lookalike got us), a little boy popped out of nowhere. I remember you! he cried. He was about eight years old and was completely adorable. I had never seen him before, but wished I had. I told him I didn’t know him, and he said yes! You remember! You were dancing with my friend! I told him no, and he shrugged. Okay! What is your name? His name was Sujit and if he wasn’t the cutest kid ever, I don’t know who is. We kept walking down the street and he asked where we were from, and eventually started walking in front of us, doing a little dance down the road. Suddenly, another, older boy appeared an Sujit introduced us to him. And then it happened.

Will you buy us food? they asked. Now, our rule with kids is that food is okay, money is not. Just when we were about to say yes, they changed their minds. Will you buy us milk? We have little sisters at home. Crap. We had already forked over the money for milk to Valerie and swore that we would not do it again. T gave me 20 rupees to give to them, but they said no, no. Milk! Formula is 180 rupees, so I can’t blame them for trying. In the end, I took the 20 rupees and shoved it into his little hand and ran away, feeling enormously guilty until I saw him later with an English woman, whom he clearly knew. She asked him if he wanted some chips, and he said no, which she said wasn’t like him. Ha! Maybe he used the money we gave him to buy food. Ssh, it could happen.

After the first day, the weather warmed up and the sun came out and everything was perfect: about 50 degrees with bright sunshine. We walked past the Dalai Lamas home and down a road that led us to the Tibetan temple. Unfortunately, we went the wrong way (you are supposed to walk clockwise, not anti-clockwise), so we had to hike back up the big hill, back past the Dalai Lama’s compound, and around the other way. Fortunately, the walk was worth it—the views were stunning and the temple was very peaceful.

The Tibetans walk through, spinning the prayer wheels as they go along, and then spinning the large ones three or four times (I couldn’t tell which) before heading back up the hill. The prayer wheels are brightly colored, with yellows and reds, and there are Tibetan prayer flags fluttering all over, blanketing the whole area.

One of the most exciting things to happen in McLeod Ganj was that we made our first Indian friend. Deepak was staying in our hotel; he had come up for a quick trip from Delhi, where he was on a business trip. He lives in Bangalore, where he works for Oracle, and he was very informative about India, and a great old conversationalist. We had dinner with him one night and we closed down the restaurant, talking about India and American politics (the issue du jour everywhere we go; if you’re wondering, everyone we meet abroad thinks Obama should be the next president. These people are smart).

According to T, the most important thing Deepak taught us was that you don’t need rice with your food—you can eat it just with bread. And trust me, Indian bread is the only thing T loves more than me (and dark Beer Lao). We met Deepak in the street again the next night, when we ran into him in the town square, where a group of Indians and Tibetans had formed a giant circle for some impromtu dancing. This is the kind of place McLeod Ganj seems to be—the Indians and the Tibetans all play nice and every so often, they all dance in the streets.

One day, we tried to go to Nick’s pizza place for dinner, but of course, it was closed for Losar. A Kashmiri man came over to tell us it was closed, and asked if we would come to his shop. T gave me the stinkeye, but I said yes, of course. He walked with us some stairs, into a tiny room in the back of a building, where he let us in and then locked us in. He had some really lovely handmade necklaces, so I bought one. For the rest of our time in town, he would come up and say hello on the street and tell us how many necklaces he had sold. Meanwhile, I liked mine so much that on our last day, I went back and bought two more, as gifts. There seem to be a lot of Kashmiris in McLeod Ganj, and for the most part, they seemed to be very funny and sweet people. The guys who owned our hotel were great, and we had a long talk with them and Deepak about cricket one night, until my toes started to fall off from frostbite and we had to reunite with Hudson.

Sarah and Mick had highly recommended Nick’s Pizza Place for the views, and we finally made it there. The restaurant has an outdoor terrace that overlooks mountains, some more mountains, a valley and the towns on the mountainside. It was gorgeous. We tried some Tibetan momos there, and found them to be quite delicious (shocking, I know, that we would find food delicious). Momos are steamed dumplings with a variety of fillings—we tried them with mushroom and cheese.

After the momos and the views, we decided to walk to Bhagsu, the next town along. We walked with the locals along the road, dodging cows and motorbikes and occasionally gawking at the mountains (have I mentioned that the mountains were beautiful?). In Bhagsu, we climbed a big hill to a waterfall (our waterfall excursions are neverending), and on the way down, we decided to check out the wooden stamps that a woman was selling. T wanted to buy a Ganesh stamp for his grandmother: easy, we thought. Stupid, we are. We approached her, and she had us sit down. Bad sign # 1. Then she asked for my hands. Oh, I thought, how nice! She wants to show how they work! My stupidity is endless. She stamped both my palms with a series of henna prints, and then put the Ganesh stamp on T’s arm. 400 rupees, she tells us. Eh? 100 for the actual stamp, 100 for T’s henna stamp, and 200 for mine. T managed to talk her down to 300, but damn if we didn’t get scammed AGAIN. And the henna only lasted about 2 days of doom!!

On our last day in town, the Tibet Museum was finally open, so we went to see it. It was a heartbreaking experience. The museum is an historical exhibit about China and Tibet and tells the story of how China came in, killed thousands of Tibetans, destroyed most of their culture, tried to ban their religion and is trying now to repopulate the area with ethnic Chinese. I read one man’s story about how he fled Tibet over the Himalayas, and had to have both his legs amputated because of frostbite damage. Because his case was so dire, he was allowed to stay in India, but his two friends were sent back. When he met the Dalai Lama, all he could do was cry. All I could do was cry, reading his story.

We got up early to get our $3 train ($3 total, not each) to Pathankot and were promptly surrounded by no less than 20 Indian teenage boys who encircled us and stared, for no good reason, for an hour. A train arrived and we got on, thinking it was ours, until one of the teens told us it was going to Delhi. Good thing, too, since it was skanky as hell. Finally, our train arrived and left, an hour late, and it was equally if not more skanky than the first one.

We sat on a wooden bench for 3 hours, and halfway through a family got on and we made friends with their two little boys. The two little boys wanted to sit next to the window, so one sat next to the man across from us, and one sat across from T. After a while, the mother told the eldest boy to give us some cookies, so he graabbed the package and thrust it onto T’s knee, laughing his little head off the whole time. In return we tried to give them some Maine postcards, which the little one happily clutched and the older one kept trying to give back.

Then another family, with 4 kids, got on and started begging. I’ll tell you what–India gives poverty a whole new name. They had a beautiful baby girl naked from the waist down, and a little boy and two other girls. One of the girls was carrying empty plastic bottles, and the oldest girl and the boy were, of course, begging. Obviously, they saw us and promptly stood there calling me Didi (which I think means auntie) and poking me in the leg until T gave them 6 rupees (about 20 cents).

Normally, we try not to give money to kids because they are just being pimped out by their parents instead of going to school, but after a while, it became apparent that we had to give them something or they would never leave. When we got off the train, our little boy friends said goodbye, calling out Goodbye Didi, and the beggar children’s mother started following me, pulling on my shirt and also calling me Didi until T gave her another 10 rupees.

Then we got in a rickshaw to the bus station, where we had hoped to get a tourist bus to Dharamsala, but when we arrived, the national bus was departing and the porter was screaming NOW! NOW! Thus, we were ushered onto the departing which was filthy, with about four inches of grime on the floor, along with peanut shells and orange peels and God knows what else. The driver stuck my bag under the back seat and T spent the next 3 hours holding onto his. We got a 3-person seat to ourselves for about 2 1/2 hours, until the driver made T put the bag in his lap so other people could fit on.

The drive was completely manic and sometimes terrifying, and we spent a great deal of time passing people on turns and careening around cliffside roads on two wheels. It seemed as if we stopped every 30 feet for a dropoff or a pickup, and the porter would blow a whistle, and the bus would slow down so people could hurtle themselves on or off, like a very low-rent version of a London bus.

We got to Dharamsala and then were put onto another local bus which was just as bad as the prior one, except T and I were in the back seat this time and T had to sit with his feet on top of the bags for about half an hour because the bus was jam-packed with schoolgirls and Buddhist monks. The journey from Pathankot is about 80km, and it only took about 4 hours. It seems Indian public transport is even more efficient than Cambodia’s. Oh joy.

We arrived in Amritsar at about 11pm, where we were met by a very friendly young rickshaw driver who took us to our hotel. Our hotel, which sounded warm and lovely in the book, was freezing in real life. The room was on the ground floor, with an icy tile floor and two beds pushed together with some blankets. NO SHEETS. Despite my mortal fear of hotel blanket germs, I was cold and tired enough that I put on 47 layers of clothes and jumped under those nasty blankets and watched House and tried not to die of hypothermia or the plague.

We came to Amritsar for a number of reasons: 1. It was on the way to Dharamsala, which was a place we definitely wanted to visit; 2. It is full of Sikhs, and I really like Sikhs; and 3. As such, it is home to the Golden Temple, the holiest site in Sikhdom.

We were staying inside the walled city of Amritsar, and I soon realized why there was no chaos in Delhi—it was all in Amritsar. Because our room was on the ground floor, we awoke to the charming sounds of mopeds and honking and shouting. When we went outside, we understood the full effects of the pandemonium. There were people EVERYWHERE, walking around the bumpy dirt roads: walking, talking, trying to sell us postcards, pulling wagons, riding bikes and generally being in my way.

The first thing I noticed about Amritsar was the color, which I found lacking in Delhi. Turbans of every color! Scarlet and violet and gold and white and moss and black. Color is good, yo. Also, the saris in Amritsar were better than Delhi, with all kinds of crazy colors I had never even imagined. The second thing I noticed was the honking. Oh God, the honking. One of the things I do not miss about New York is the incessant honking, and being in Amritsar made me long for the honkers of NYC. The third thing I noticed was that there was no obvious begging, but there were a few men with disfigured legs scuttling around the ground like crabs, because they couldn’t stand up. It was truly heartbreaking to watch.

We started our day in an internet cafe, where we tried to book train tickets. We came into the internet cafe and were told to wait five minutes, and we sat in the darkness for 15 while a little old woman scurried around on her knees sweeping the floor. Eventually, some power came on and we were able to get onto a computer, but apparently that also involved constant discussion with the kid who ran the internet cafe. He was a young Sikh guy who talks more than I do, if you can believe it. He told us all about how American Sikh girls come to Amritsar to study, and how lots of locals go abroad to study, but he doesnt have enough money yet, so he has to work (and, apparently, talk) instead.

We had initially planned to spend three nights in Amritsar, but the chaos was becoming overwhelming, so we changed the plan and decided to get it all done in one day and then get out. First off came the Golden Temple. To enter, we both had to cover our heads, which meant I used the scarf I was carrying and T had to buy a do-rag from some guy on the street. Those of you who know T, please try to imagine him as a gangsta rapper and try not to die laughing. Next, we had to check our shoes and bags and wash our feet. We ended up having to go back to the room to leave the bag (because there was no way in hell I was leaving our computer and passports and wallets with STRANGERS who would surely rob us!). The second time, we braved the cold, cold ground. Keep in mind that Amritsar is about 5 hours north of Delhi, and when we were there, was about 40 degrees. Fortunately the foot-washing water was warm, and the marble on the floor of the Temple was surprisingly warm as well.

There were very few tourists there when we were there, and so we were kind of a spectacle (which was a feeling to which we were becoming increasingly accustomed). There were men bathing in the moat around the Temple, and a steady stream of people moving slowly around the perimeter of the moat. T and I had decided that we would eat in the public dining hall there, which was probably the best part of the day. Everybody filed into the giant room and started sitting down in rows facing each other. Then, servers would come along and hand out metal trays and bowls of water, and then plop dal and chapatis and rice pudding onto the tray. T and I were the only Western tourists in the room, and it really was a lovely communal experience, even if T didn’t finish his food in time for the entrance of the next round of people. And, it was free, in line with the Sikhs’ belief in equality for all.

The Temple itself was a square building, said to be gilded with 750kg of pure gold. Along the walkway to the entrance, hundreds of people patiently waited in line to go inside, but T and I skipped that part because hey! we aren’t Sikh.

After the Temple, we went to Jallianwala Bagh, which is a quiet little park commemorating the slaughter of 2000 Indians by the British in 1919 (Hey! At least they got trains!). The park was a pretty shocking opposition to the pandemonium outside; it was green, serene and nearly silent. There was a flame to represent the people killed, and some walls still standing with bulletholes from the attack. Thanks again, England!

The final expedition of the day was to Attari, where we would watch the border closing with Pakistan—the only border crossing between the two countries that exists. We bought tickets from some dude on the street, and crammed into a jeep with a South Korean and 10 Indians (and I’m not talking about some kind of Grand Cherokee…I’m talking about a Barbie-sized Jeep).

We got to Attari just before the ceremony began. Both countries have built grandstands for the crowds who come to watch the performance, and T stood in the general attendance section, while I went to sit in the ladies part, so I could get better pictures. There were a couple hundred people there, and they got increasingly excited. It started with some Indian pop music, with a bunch of teenagers dancing in the road. Then a bus full of Indians going to Pakistan drove through, and everyone yelled and waved to them. Then, the border patrol came out and lined up, before marching to the gate, yelling and kicking their legs up so high they almost nailed their own heads. Then they would run back to their starting point and the crowd would roar.

In all my life, I have never seen anything like this before. It was an unbelievable display of machismo and pure testesterone. The announcer would shout HINDUSTAN! And the crowd would scream back ZINDABAR! Long live India! And all the men and teenagers would be screaming their heads off and waving Indian flags and all the women were looking at them like they were crazy. It was hilarious.

After a very cramped ride back to Amritsar (somehow I managed to fall asleep on the way out), we decided to have some dinner. We went to a place called Punjabi Rasoi and ordered some dum aloo and dal makhani. Were it not inappropriate to lick your waiter’s face because the food was so good, I would have done it. Instead, we went to bed and woke up at about 2am to something that sounded like the passionate lovemaking of 1000 feral cats and 2000 monkeys. I was not sad to leave our hotel in the morning.

When I give T a hard time about tyrannical England and the way they treated all of their colonies, his usual response is to cry out, “Hey! We gave them trains!!” Nowhere is this more true than in India.

We took our first Indian train to Amritsar, riding the Shatabdi Express. Sarah and Mick had told us that the Shatabdi was the best train they took, so I was excited. Nerdy as it is, I love trains (probably because I never took them as a kid). We got on board and were immediately greeted by a Sikh couple sitting across the aisle, who have lived in England for 43 years. They were charming and lovely and very friendly and my dizziness dissipated very quickly. Good start.

Almost immediately, the food started coming. We had been on the train about 10 minutes when T whispered, “Time for food,” to my great surprise. It was only about 5pm, but maybe Indians ate early? We were given some mango juice and a meal of a samosa, half a cole slaw sandwich and some biscuits. I was impressed—it was a highly ediible and filling dinner, or so I thought. Then, a few hours later another meal came. Still pretty full from the first dinner, we were kind of shocked, but we never turn down food, as a general rule.

The second course was soup, and the third was a veg curry (which explained why we were asked veg or non-veg when we booked the ticket), a chapati, and individual giant pots of tea. This meal was so good, I couldn’t even finish it. And I thought we were done. HA! A little while later came the ice cream. By the time we finished off the ice cream, I thought I was going to explode, and I had been eating train food. In my experience eating train food everywhere else, you’re lucky if you don’t die of salmonella or starvation because the food is so bad.

The views out the window were pretty good too. Most of what we saw on the tracks outside of Delhi were just slums: shantytowns made of shacks built on top of shacks, many with rooves made of plastic sheeting held on by bricks. I was surprised to see, however, that the people in the slums all looked happy. There were people doing their shopping, yakking away to their neighbors, and women doing their washing, and kids everywhere playing cricket. Once we got past the slums, we passed green field after green field, until T leaned over and said, “I feel like I’m in England.”

The way we figure it, we paid $15 for the train tickets for a 5-hour journey in which we got four courses. This means we basically got either free food or a free ticket. In T’s words, “This beats the hell out of British Rail.” Amen to that, brother.

At long last, T has gone through our pictures from Laos, Cambodia and Malaysia for your viewing pleasure. I am too lazy to stick them in the individual posts, so instead you get them as a slideshow. Enjoy.

Our flight from Kuala Lumpur to Delhi was on Sri Lankan Airlines, purchased because the flight was cheepy-cheep and we had to get to Delhi somehow. I didn’t know what to think about the airline, mostly because Sri Lanka is in a state of turmoil and a few months ago the Tamil Tigers took over the airport for their own use. So greedy, are those Tigers.

Joy had flown the same flight when she went to Delhi, and she said it was very good: pretty flight attendants, and very clean. Joy was right, but she understated the situation. Sri Lankan Airlines is just about the best airline ever. First of all, the flight attendants weren’t just pretty, they were stunning. T was most pleased with this development. Second, the flight to Colombo was equipped with a camera out the front and down the bottom of the plane, so you could see what the pilots saw and what it looked like going straight down. This was very cool. Third, the food was gret. Easily the best airline food I have ever had: delicious curries and Ceylon tea and all kinds of good stuff. Fourth, the plane to Colombo had in-seat movies, which meant T could play video games the whole time and I could watch the second Elizabeth movie. Hurrah! The flight to Delhi wasn’t as fancy, but it didn’t matter because I was so enamored of the first flight (and I also bought a book in Colombo which I finished on the flight to Delhi, taking up all of my time).

The Colombo airport was teeny tiny, with only a few stores and restaurants. T wouldn’t let me buy any ceramic elephants full of tea because he is MEAN, so I made him promise that in exchange, we would return to Sri Lanka. He foolishly agreed. Ha! I have been in love with Sri Lanka for a long time, and the only reason we didn’t go on this trip was the safety issue. One of the girls who bought our stuff in Melbourne was Sri Lankan and meeting her only made me want to go more. This time, however, we had to make due with drinking some ginger tea in the airport and thinking about how much we wanted to be outside.

Watch out, Sri Lanka: I’ll be back.

It’s time to leave for India and say goodbye to SE Asia. This trip seemed very different from our last visit to the region, largely because we knew what to expect and what to do. We were a lot lazier (read: more relaxed) this time, due to the fact that we had already seen most of the big attractions.

Bali seemed more or less the same as the last time we were there, though perhaps a little bit quieter. This was to be expected, since the place was bombed about a week after we left the last time. If anything, though, the sellers seem to be less aggressive than before, and much more willing to barter, which worked for me.

Bangkok was a welcome relief after China, even though I’m not so keen on the city. In our second trip, the shopping was an excellent balm for my exhaustion and anger, and regardless of how many taxi drivers tried to rip us off or how many guesthouses were completely inept, it was still easy to get around.

Laos was almost perfect. For years, people have been telling us about how great Laos is, how  laid-back and easy it is, and they weren’t lying. I left with a deep fondness for the place, and a burning desire to come back and see more (our excuse for being so lazy—leaving us things to see the next time).

Cambodia seemed really different from the last time we were there. I still hate Phnom Penh: all the streets are numbered in a bizarre fashion, so one block will be Street 156 and the next will be Street 187. It’s confusing as hell, especially since everything looks the same. The one thing we found really different from our last visit was the number of people everywhere. On our honeymoon, it was almost creepy in the city at night because it was so quiet. Not so now. There are zillions of people zipping around on motorbikes all the time, and crossing the street is a terrifying experience. Even in Kampot and Battambang, it seemed as if things were improving (or else it’s just my secret hope). And, as always, the Cambodians more than made up for the hellishness of public transport.

Malaysia, again, was a delight. Going to KL is always great, because our friends take such good care of us. It’s almost like being on a free package tour—our accommodation, food and transport was always arranged, and we got entertaining company to boot! Because we have such a good time in KL, we have a lot of the country left to see, which we will hopefully be able to do when our British friends move there. (We are all about visiting our far-flung friends in exotic places. They always know the best food to order.)

I really love SE Asia, but I’m basically crazy for any kind of travel, so I dont know how much my SE Asian adoration really means. I think this area is growing really quickly and I’m so glad we managed to get in before it really explodes (especially in Cambodia, where we seemed to have missed the massive tourist boom in Siem Reap…ha!). I’ll miss it here.

In the morning, we got up and went back to our original hotel for our free breakfast. I used their wireless to Skype call my siblings, and then we left our bags. That will learn them to give away our room! For the rest of the morning, we went shopping. We were staying in Siam Square, the shopping center of Bangkok, so we decided to take advantage of our location to buy some presents for our friend Jee. We spent hours in the BKK shopping center, wandering through stalls and stalls of DVDs, electronics and other legal and sometimes illicit treats.

After lunch at the ritziest food court I have ever seen, we headed to the airport for our flight to Kuala Lumpur. The original guesthouse, which had said they booked us a taxi, did not, and we left completely assured of their incompetence. Once again, the taxi driver tried to trick us into paying him off the meter, and once again I walked away.

We arrived in KL at about 8pm, and were shocked to realize we were not at KLIA, my favorite airport, but at some local one. We called our friend Joy to inform her, but duh, she already knew. We ate dinner at McDonald’s while we waited for her to pick us up, and T had a prosperity meal, which he enjoyed. Joy finally arrived at 10pm—how rude of her to make us wait for two hours for our free ride to the airport and our free accommodation! Some people are just so selfish.

T and I keep going back to KL not because we love it so much (though we do like it a great deal), but for the hospitality. Joy and my friend Hwei Jee (who shall now be known just as Jee) were my roommates in Melbourne in 2000, and they were crazy fun. I liked them so much that now, 8 years later, I am still in touch with them and I can see them as if no time as passed.

This means that they regularly insult and mock me, and I return the favor. T loves coming to KL because the girls treat me as poorly as he does, and I love coming to KL because they drive me around, let me stay at their house for free and even give up their bed, order delicious local food, and don’t let me pay for anything. The girls are the greatest (unless they are reading this, in which case, eh…they’re okay).

The last time we came to town, they took us all over the place in KL, and even drove us to the Batu Caves, where we saw a lot of stairs and monkeys. This time, Joy informed us we would be going to Melaka. Melaka is a Portugese-Dutch-British colony about two hours each way from KL. Joy bought us some nasi lemak for breakfast, which was rice with chili paste, nuts and anchovies inside a banana leaf.  It was spicy and good. We picked up Jee at about 10am and hit the road.

Melaka is really pretty–full of colonial buildings and Chinese houses. The girls made no pretense about why we were there, however; we were there to eat. As Joy put it, a “food fest. “The first place we stopped was a little restaurant known for its chicken rice balls. When Joy told me that was the purpose of the trip, I thought CHICKEN RICE? What’s so great about that? Well dude, let me tell you—chicken rice balls are delish. We got a half a chicken with a bunch of rice balls and some chili-lime sauce. Who would have thought something so simple would be so good? I’ll tell you: the Malaysians. After lunch, we wandered around town and saw a local mosque, bought some local art, checked out the Dutch colony and walked to the top of the hill, where we saw St John’s Church and Fort.

Then it was time for dessert, obviously. I’m not sure what the name of the dish was, but we ended up eating something with crushed ice, noodles, peanuts, corn, kidney beans and some kind of toffee sauce. It sounds completely bizarre, but it was good, yo. We also had two different kinds of laksa. Next, Jee took us to the Baba and Nyonya Peranakan Museum, which was a Peranakan heritage town house with three atriums, multiple bedrooms and really beautiful design. If you’re looking for a nice gift for me, you may buy me this house and thank you very much. Then we got in the car to drive to the beach. We couldn’t find the beach, so we just headed to dinner. Dinner was some local Nyoyan food, with fish cakes, chicken devil, and some greens. Again, delicious.

On the way home, the girls decided to take us to Putrajaya, the new capital of Malaysia. According to Joy and Jee, about 10 years ago the prime minister decided to move the capital from KL to Putrajaya and an entirely new city was built, like Oz. It was really beautiful, especially at night, and was full of families playing with their kids and couples making out. When we got back to Petaling Jaya, we all went straight to bed, completely exhausted from all the driving and eating. Eating is really hard work!

The next morning, Joy had Muslim Banking class, so Jee came to pick us up to take us shopping. T and I had a list of things we wanted to get before going to India and Africa, so she was the designated driver. And what a driver she was! She started by taking us to a coffee chain for kaya butter toast. Kaya butter toast is officially my new favorite food. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s some kind of Malaysian jam, with butter on toast. I loved it. T and I also tried the white coffee, which I was able to drink WITHOUT SUGAR. This has never happened before, I must say. Of course, it only means that there was already 4 pounds of sugar in the coffee, but that’s entirely beside the point.

Then it was shopping time. Jee took us to an outlet village, where I got a shirt and T got some new jeans (miracle of miracles). Then we went looking for more shopping, but ended up driving around and through KL in search of banana leaf for lunch. After a long drive and a great tour of suburban Kuala Lumpur with Jee sounding exactly like Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda, we found a restaurant with banana leaf. Banana leaf is Indian food, Malaysian-style. They give you a banana leaf and then plop all kinds of dal and rice and different pickle on it, and you scarf it down. Or we did, anyway. It is super delicious, and it restored my faith in Indian food. Thank you, banana leaf!

Then came more shopping. Jee took us to a local shopping center so we could go to Tesco to get another hair dryer (TRAGEDY: mine ate my hair in Phnom Penh and then died a slow and painful death). While Jee and I did girl shopping, T got a 15 ringitt, 15-minute haircut. Then, Jee took us to another shopping mall, next door, but we had to drive 200 miles to get there, around and onto a highway and into the world’s fullest parking garage. We spent about an hour looking for parking and then went inside. I spent about 6 years looking for jeans (note to self: jeans shopping in Asia is a highly humiliating and degrading experience that is never to be repeated), because Jee and I refused to pay for the $100 Gap jeans. I also got some flipflops, some soap, a bunch of shirts at the Malaysian Old Navy, and, finally, some jeans for $15. Jee is a master at budget shopping and should get a medal for her skill at finding deals and her patience for hauling us around all day.

After the shopping, we met Joy and her sister Tricia and brother Joe at a restaurant because obviously, it was time to eat again. The restaurant was packed with people, but we had a reservation, which was lucky because it took us about 20 minutes just to park. Tricia had just arrived from their hometown, and brought with her her fiance, whom we had never met. Michael, the fiance, is English, and a very lovely guy. Once more, we ate and ate and ate. We started with a dish called prosperity, which involved all of us putting our chopsticks into a pile of food and tossing it into the air as we made wishes. Rumor has it that the person who tosses the food the highest has their wish granted, but I tossed it pretty high and I am not yet queen of the world, so I’m not sure how much truth there is in that theory.  The girls ordered tons of food again: shrimp and a whole fish (whose eyes Jee gleefully ate), and a bean curd and some soup.

After dinner, we went back to Joy’s house and talked for ages. T and Michael had English Man Talk, and the girls and I had Girl Talk, mostly about all the men who love Joy, whom she shuns because she is picky. We also played with her little dog, Sebastian, and talked about how he is the perfect man. Tricia had brought some pineapple back from Sarawak and she spent most of the evening trying to make us eat it, despite the fact that we were already stuffed from our 58 meals that day and the one prior. We went to bed at about 2, exhausted and stuffed again (and in T’s case, full of beer).

The next morning, we went back to the coffee chain for more kaya butter toast. I won’t lie: I did the dance of joy. Once again, Tricia showed us her secret identity of food pusher extraordinare, ordering more and more food and trying to force us to eat it. We had our toast and our coffee and talked some more, and then Michael, Tricia and Joy drove us to the airport. Then, they came inside to make sure we were really leaving (I kid you not—Joy actually came up to the check-in counter to insure that we were getting on the plane and not coming back to her house).

These girls clearly don’t realize that if they continue to treat us this well (and feed us this well), and pay for everything, that we will only keep coming back. We have been so lucky on this trip to have such great hosts—in Sydney, Beijing, Shanghai and KL—that now we want to return to all these places to take advantage of our friends hospitality again. Once again, the girls (and Michael) have been spectacular guides, and now they will undoubtedly have to host us again (though they claim they are only this nice because we come every other year). Thanks, girls. We’ll be back in 2010, so look out!