Decidedly urban couple who quit their jobs and successfully backpacked their way through Asia for a year. They met Buddha, drank baijiu and learned to master the squat toilet. Now appearing in a new life as ex-pats in Singapore.

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The case of accidental pilgrimage

The case of accidental pilgrimage

That damn Beatles ashram was difficult to find. Instead of spending a lazy afternoon exploring the abandoned grounds where the White Album was written, we followed thousands of charras-smoking Shiva pilgrims on a 12km hike to the Neelkanth Temple.

Avoid the babas!

The road immediately turned into a dirt path heading straight uphill. At each turn we were convinced that the destination lay just a few steps ahead. We had a vague idea that the orange devotees were heading to a holy waterfall but had no idea where that waterfall was located or what else we would find.

Hiking up the endless hill

After an hour of walking straight uphill, dripping with sweat, barely able to breathe, we halting asked someone where they were headed: how far is this damn walk? For the first time in India, no one spoke English.

“Twenty kilometers!” someone shouted at us as they walked past.

Now we’ve been in Asia a long time and we have learned that no one willingly walks 20 kilometers in 100 degree heat at 2,005m above sea level.  We were fairly certain he meant two. Two kilometers.

Rain and sweat equally as unbecoming

So we continued to climb. And climb. And CLIMB.  By the time we had climbed 8km, we had lost our will to live. So when a posse of stoned Shaivas called for Vinnie to join them for a rest in the shade, he willingly acquiesced.

The group of guys had traveled from Goa and Delhi to make the holy trek together. This was the Indian version of a Cancun spring break with a religious twist. All the pilgrims carried two things: a bottle of water from the Ganges and a black fanny pack filled with charras, papers and matches. The water is poured over a stone at a temple at the top of the hill. The charras was to help make the climb a little easier.

Tents along the path

The men sat under a tent, buying individual cigarettes from the vendor and roll a joint. Not just one joint. The men rolled one after another sharing the hash between each other and dozens of other men walking up the hill. Who knew that pot played such an important role in spiritual enlightenment!

They excitedly chattered away about their quest and the charras. The leader of the group turned to Vinnie, repeatedly asking, “How do you feel, are you happy?” “Be Happy!” demanded.

Vin and his newfound friends

Together with the men we continued up the hill, albeit very, very slowly. The steep winding path was lined with garbage bag tents on one side and a sharp drop on the other. We may have been in the middle of the wilderness but it was never silent. Exuberant boys who had already reached the top ran downhill blowing on whistles and shouting “Bum! Bum! BOULE!”

We passed babas playing drums and asking for money, “Hurry, do not stop!” the group warned.  Serious pilgrims slowly climbed the hill performing arduous  prostrations – kneeling to stretch their body against the ground, then standing up to repeat the action until they reach the top.

A difficult climb

Every few steps another joint would circle around; when it’s effects were felt, we would take a break to buy water or food for the monkeys.

Nice monkeys!

Depending on the level of stonedness, the men would either marvel at their environment (“Oh my God. Oh my GOD. Look! Look my friend! Amazing!”), or discuss God (“You know God? God is great. GREAT!”).

Bum Bum Boule!

It took us over four hours to reach our destination and like most things the best part was getting there.  Hundreds of pilgrims had carried water and offerings for miles just to lay them at the temple. At the temple’s entrance we took off our shoes only to walk across wet garbage, bottle caps and discarded offerings. Every step produced a wet squish as your weight crushed the remains beneath your feet.

The walk to the temple

We followed the line of people into the temple where two men watched as pilgrims poured their Ganges water onto a stone. After only a few seconds we were ushered out of the main temple into the outdoor courtyard where incense filled the air.

Dozens of people stood at the base of the temple emptying their water bottles and throwing the plastic into a pile. Behind the temple people were preparing to take a dip in the small pool.

Holy disposal of water bottles

Bathing in the spring behind the Neelkanth Temple

I looked around, did I miss something? Was that IT!?I had expected something more.

Yes, that was it. Thousands of men walk for hours, chanting and smoking copious amounts of ganja, only to stand in line and pour water on a stone.  I can’t claim to understand this particular religious rite.

The Neelkanth Temple

Dusk was approaching, Vin’s high was wearing off and my feet were killing me. The men had fulfilled their spiritual quest and now, much calmer, were preparing for the walk down by rolling yet another joint.

It was time to take the easy way out – we called a cab!

That night as we returned to our room, we could easily hear the shouts of “Bum Bum Boule!” from the street outside. Pilgrims were just returning from their epic hike and clearly had enjoyed every moment. We did too.

A dip in the Ganges

A dip in the Ganges

India is not a country where you can simply observe, you’re compelled to participate. If you don’t join willingly, there are a billion people who will take you by the hand and physically persuade you to become part of this country.

Kris and the Ganges

We dropped by Haridwar to find a city full of orange-clad men chanting and parading down the  streets. Their excitement was contagious so we hurried behind, trying to find an inch of space in the crush. That’s when we arrived at Har-Ki-Pauri and had out first look at Mother Ganga.

The sight was shocking.  It felt like we had left modern India behind and had stepped into the spiritual soul of the country.

The banks of the Ganges

Women sat fully clothed in waist deep water furiously splashing their heads and washing huge swaths of fabric. Bare chested men in their underwear waded into the rapids and struggled to gain their footing before being swept downstream. Thousands of families clung to metal chains as they dipped together to wash away their sins.

Vinnie and the men

We hesitantly dipped our toes into the FREEZING COLD water. It felt like every person in the bathing ghat was gauging our reaction, staring to see if we would brave the Himalayan water. Before we could make the decision for ourselves, a group of boys made the decision for us; they began splashing, laughing at our sputtering outrage.

Splish Splash!

We spent the entire day dipping and swimming against the strong current.  A nearby group of women chastised me for not holding onto the chains, grabbing my hand to ensure that I didn’t float away. Upstream children shouted for Vinnie to join them as they jumped from a bridge into the water and floated downriver. Every five minutes another smiling face would approach us with a photographer in tow, “Sar, sar! One picture!”

One picture became five pictures, which became twenty pictures and then forty. Strangers would approach us and jump into the frame. “One more!” they would scream. And people didn’t just want our photo, they wanted US to take THEIR photo.

Smart little kids who steal rupees from the offerings!

As night approached, people dried off and huddled together waiting for the ceremony to begin. Old women, sadhus, children selling mendhi and the mandatory cow were all packed on the marble steps leading into the river. Men in blue uniform scouted the crowd for donations, yelling at people to take off their shoes and not to use banned plastic coverings. Overhead the speakers were blaring music and announcements.

Vinnie in the crowd

Offerings floating down the Ganges

The jovial party atmosphere turned more introverted and personal. People clutched prayer beads, chanting and bowing into the Ganges. Others lifted a cup of milk and while mouthing a prayer, emptied it into the water. Flowers and coin offerings floated downstream until they were upended in the rapids where entrepreneurial young boys waited with magnets and rope.

An excited young guy turned to us and asked, “Are you ready to see the most amazing thing in all of India?”

Pouring Milk into the Ganges

We cheered but weren't exactly sure why

As the sun set and the rain cleared, several men brought down a large diety and the Aarti of the Goddess Ganga began. Across the river from us, lamps were light and circled around the deity. The crowd pushed towards the fire, putting their hands into the flame and holding the heat to their foreheads.

Lighting the flames

Blessing of the Ganges

Six minutes later the ceremony was over. We had waited in the rain with thousands of people to witness the most amazing thing in India and it lasted as long as a commercial break!

All at once the crowd stood and lumbered towards the stairs. We moved with the people, crossing the bridge to look out to the Ganges. Bobbing on top of the water were tiny flower petals and brightly lit candles. Small boys waded into the water to grab the coins before they were upended by the rapids.

In that huge crowd, surrounded by so much activity, I realized why the day had been so special: we had joined in, not just watched. We may not believe that our souls are wiped clean but there is this a lingering sense of togetherness and belonging. We held hands with people, laughed at their jokes and chanted along together. We connected.

For the record, not everyone loves their dip in the Ganges.

The World HeriTaj Tour

The World HeriTaj Tour

India is a study in contrasts; for ever unequivocal statement about this country, the absolute opposite is often true. The only absolute thing you can say about India is that there are a lot of cows.

Prior to visiting this country I had always pictured India as a predominately Hindu nation with a small minority of Muslims. And this may be true to some extent, on paper at least. But as with everywhere else we’ve traveled, we’ve learned that things are always as they appear – 13% minority in India is over 160 MILLION people. That’s the world’s third largest Muslim population after Indonesia and Pakistan!

The rich Muslim history of India was on full display as we traversed India’s golden triangle – Jaipur, Agra and Delhi. We toured massive sandstone forts built by Shah Jahan, gorgeously ornate mausoleums that predated the Taj and the ruins of one of the oldest cities in the world.

The experience of touring a World Heritage site per day made our heads spin – though it could have also been the heat. Delhi in July is very, very hot.


Sari, that price is too high

Sari, that price is too high

J’adore Indian style from the saris and bangles right down to henna painted hands and feet. Even the most casually dressed Indian woman leaves the house wearing perfectly matched earings and a scarf thrown casually around her shoulders. It’s beautiful.

I was beautiified by our hosts in Kolhapur

As a backpacker with two pairs of pants and a black dress, it’s hard not to get caught up in the wild display of color and beauty. In every town I find myself inextricably drawn to the sari bazaar; lane upon lane of small shops selling nothing but gorgeous, brightly colored fabric.

One of many sari alleys

The stores are nothing more than small rooms. Men sit on the floor in puddles of fabric, looking out at passing shoppers. “Come in, come in. Only looking, no selling! Come look!”

Nothing in India is done without first sitting down and having a chat. You can’t simply point to a sari and ask how much. Instead you take off your shoes, climb onto the raised shop floor and join the crowd of other women on the floor.

What about this sari?

“What color you like? Red? Blue?,” and suddenly yards and and yards of fabric are thrown in the air. The fabric doesn’t even float to the ground before more saris are taken from the shelves and thrown into the air. Then the niceties begin, “Where are you from? Ahh! very nice country! You like India?” After ten minutes of chatter and looking at fabrics, you finally get to the point, how much does this damn thing cost! “Ohh! Handmade embroidery. Very nice! 600 ruppes.”

Random sari shop in Jaipur

Never pay the first price! That hand embroidery is not really hand made! First you must listen to the lies before you get to the truth.

Ten more minutes of debating colors and fabrics – most of that time spent just trying to understand what bullshit line they’re feeding you – you finally agree to a price that makes both people happy. And that’s how business is done. Sit down, chat, lie to each other, bargain and pay.

This process is the same for everything from bangles and bracelets to hotel rooms. Nothing happens quickly.  You’re always offerer a seat, you’re always fed a line and you’re always asked to pay more. Just keep calm and remember, it’s India!



Crazy Train

Crazy Train

It was time to get a move on and since we had to hand over the keys to our rickshaw, we were faced with only one way to get out of town – train. Train travel is generally not horrible, but train travel in India is a whole different level.

22 hour jail sentence - a train in India

Just getting to the train was an event. We jumped on a moving subway that had no doors, shoved ourselves into the mass of men and exited to find ourselves face-to-face with a multi-acre slum. Also, there were sheep on the platform. SHEEP.

Sheep on the 2nd floor subway platform

There are shacks and people living on the street all throughout Bombay but this was the first sprawling, 2-story slum community we’d come across. And we didn’t just see the slum from above, we got to walk right through it!

The subway exit is not a far walk from the train terminal, but what an interesting walk it was.  Monsoon rains had caused a minor flood and the passing buses sprayed us with stinky, fetid water. We tip toed through mud and cow shit while tuks tuks screamed around us. Birds sat on cows who were busy eating piles of garbage and on the side of the road kids played cricket. It  was 40 degrees.

View from the platform

Garbage taller than Vin!

Cow eating garbage in front of a cricket game

And when finally arriving at the terminal we discovered that our wait listed ticket never got off the waiting list. We couldn’t get on the train! So we had to turn right around and do it all over again the next day, only this time we had a real ticket and it was worth exactly what we paid – 10 dollar to travel 1,100 kilometers in a non-AC, second class sleeper.

Our seat, bed and table for 22 hours

This may not have been the cleanest place to lay your head but it was certainly interesting. The train was packed. People without tickets had boarded early to claim their tiny spot on the floor, lying down newspapers to sit on and opening containers of home cooked food to eat for dinner. When the train started moving people appeared from nowhere to shake hands and join conversations, cramming 8 people into a booth or sitting on top of bunks with their legs dangling into the seat below. Even with so many people sitting so close together, the mood was oddly upbeat and jovial, people were laughing with each other, babies were crying and someone played Bollywood tunes from their phone. Everyone was eating and ordering Chai. It felt like a big crowded family party.

Drummer on the train to Jaipur

After a questionable nights sleep our 22 hour train ride wasn’t even half over, in fact the fun was just beginning. During the day, sellers (wallas) began to walk through the cabins. Chai walla after chai walla yodeled down the corridor. Shoe repair people, women selling fruit, locksmiths and toy sellers all had their own unique sing-songy cry to let you know they were there. Beggars would crawl on the floor asking for food or stare into the train giving you sad dog eyes at each stop. The train was never, ever silent.

And when we entered Rajashtan the drumming began.

Train Station in Rajasthan

Men with deep baritone voices and tambourines sang down the  train, stopping to play for 20 cents. The men in our area adored the drummers and suddenly we were in the middle of a concert. 100s of rupees were thrown around, guaranteeing us a show for the ages. The men began dancing, pointing their fingers in the air and waving their hands. More and more people came to sit in our 6-person space, more and more drummers added their voice to the dim. Tomato-onion-cucumber sandwiches were passed around and we all began to sweat in earnest in the 100 degree heat.

This did not stop for three hours.

And then there were 4 drummers!

In India something as simple as taking a train is never that cut and dry, there is always drama. There is some odd farm animal in your way, there are thousands of readily apparent safety violations and dozens of very poor, very dirty people are asking for cents. With all this happening someone gives you a huge smile, serves you a sandwich and buys you song.

This country is crazy full of life.

Don't let go!

Airing out the dirty laundry

Airing out the dirty laundry

The Dhobi ghat is a massive open air laundry where hundreds of Dhobi (the traditional washermen) live and work. We heard that it was pretty easy to check out, so we got off the train at Mahalaxmi station to see what we could find.  We didn’t have to look far!

The Dhobi Ghat

Sorted by colors

Men with rolled up pant legs stand in knee deep water whipping dirty clothes against a stone. Some hung around and watched their clothes spin in industrial washing machines that looked like cement mixers. Inside the small houses piles and piles of clothes sat in color sorted piles. The few women I saw sat inside ironing and sorting clothes.

Hanging out to dry in the rain

New fangled washing machine

If you’re staying in Mumbai and your hotel offers to do your laundry chances are good that they’re washed at the Dhobi Ghat. Your pants will return freshly washed and pressed and you’d have no idea that you clothes went on a little expedition to the laundry slum.

Like GTL without the G & the T

Washing saris by hand

A boat on a beach in Bombay

A boat on a beach in Bombay

India is a shocking place, which may be why I LOVE IT.  It really is that filthy, it really is that colorful, it really is that poor or that rich.

I’ve already accepted that I won’t be clean for another two months. After five minutes in the mugggy Mumbai monsoon, your clothes are damp and wrinkled, your face is covered in sweat and the smog has seeped into your pores. What shocks me is not just how dirty I have become, but the savage level of filth that I have quickly become immune to and can calmly ignore.

Today we took a walk along the most famous beach in Bombay, Juhu Beach.  This posh suburban area is where Bollywood stars walk their dogs and  recently, where a massive tanker has run ashore and it currently beached right in front of the 5-star Marriot hotel.

With these adjectives: ‘posh’, ‘5-star’, and ‘famous’, one would expect a level of cleanliness and possibly serenity.  Here is what it looked like.

A great place to enjoy some street food or get a tattoo, no?


A wonderful place to enjoy some chaat

Effective trash removal from front of the beach to the back

Sanitary tattoo, I swear!






The breakdown was bound to happen, it was just a matter of time. What could not have been expected was the side trip to the slum, the instant fame that we would undeservedly receive or the insane ride through Pune rush hour traffic pushing the ‘Shaw to it’s final resting place.

For this we lost the race, but earned the “Bonkers” Award.

The blessing that went awry

Here’s how it went down.

We just happened to breakdown directly in front of a tuk-tuk taxi stand. Instead of calling our mechanics we chose to hire the most sane looking Taxi driver to help repair the Shaw. It just so happened that the man spoke absolutely no english and communicated all day in Hindi and twisty headbobs. It took 10 hours to understand just how badly we’d fucked the Shaw.

Mr. Taxi driver knelt down next to Vinnie – pointing and bobbing and chatting away. After some initial language difficulties Vin finally understood that new parts were needed, but that someone must stay with the Shaw.   That left me, a white woman in a sari, alone in a rickshaw that wouldn’t move, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers with camera phones. INDIA INSANITY!

A crowd forms and grows to become a MOB

White people in India are always stared at and if you don’t respond properly, the attention can grow until there is a mob of people surrounding you. During the race we quickly learned the best way to mitigate the fame is to smile and then pretend that people aren’t blatently undressing you with their eyes. Being a single woman in India can be slightly terrifying especially when a large group of men surround your vehicle, wanting to touch you, get your autograph or pinch you.

Luckily just seconds after Vinnie left there was a massive, near-fatal motorcycle accident. Watching a man fly head first into the pavement provided more excitement than a white woman in a rickshaw.  I would consider this a mixed blessing, but it was only the first death of the day.

First near-death experience of the day

Shaw repairs continued but the crowd refused to dissapate. Mr. Rickshaw driver had Vinnie drive his taxi while he coaxed the Shaw one block down the road into a small wooded alley. We spent the next 3 hours in the rain, trying to figure out just what could have gone so terribly wrong.

The problem with the Shaw went from having muffler issues to having no muffler.  From spark plugs not firing to a complete meltdown of the alternator. Basically we needed to buy a new Rickshaw, simple repairs were not going to fix the beast.

Here comes the Monsoon!

We also needed more help. Mr. Taxi driver convinced his friend Mr. Repairman to enter the fray. (Mr. Repairman also spoke no English). Together they needed to drive the stalled Rickshaw three miles to Mr. Repairman’s shop.

Just how do you drive a stalled rickshaw?

It turns out that you can’t drive a stalled rickshaw, you must push it.  And since no one wanted to push a rickshaw for three miles, the men came up with an alternate solution.

Pushing the shaw through traffic with his FOOT

That’s right. He pushed it WITH HIS FOOT for THREE MILES! Along the way he also stopped to pick up a fare!

Vinnie, me, Mr. Repairman and a random woman crammed into the Taxi Rickshaw. Mr Repairman floored the gas, driving straight towards our Shaw where the Mr. Taxi driver sat waiting. Within inches of hitting the Shaw, Mr. Repairman stuck out his foot and began driving while pushing our stalled rickshaw through traffic. WITH HIS FOOT.

Needless to say this was exhausting. The traffic surrounded us, blowing their horns, cursing and shouting at us. We stopped twice. Once to drop off our passenger and second time to grab a quick chai.

Offered to help. Repairman did not find this funny.

As we finally approached the shop, Mr. Repairman changed his mind.  Instead of driving us to the repair shop, he drove us to his home, where he felt that I would be more comfortable hanging out with his wife and mother.

Walking though Repairman's 'neighborhood'

Specifically, Mr. Repairman drove me to his slum, where we walked through goat shit and dirty laundry to find his very small, dirt floor single room abode. Outside the room was a metal bed of springs, where an old woman lay, mouth open, trying to breathe her last breath. A younger woman appeared from the room wearing Lycra gloves covered in puss, clearly in the middle of caring for this dying woman.

“My wife!” Mr. Repairman smiled and motioning to the dying woman on the bed, “My mother.”

The old woman was covered in flies and stared at the ceiling gargling. His wife stared at me in horror, saying something to the effect of  “your mother is dying on our only chair. This white girl can not stay here, and besides there is there is no place for her to sit.”

Thank God in heaven that Indians strongly respect marriage. “My husband!” I cried. “I can’t leave my husband! We’re married! We stay together!”

I was pleading in English and the Repairman only spoke Marathi but somehow this seemed to translate. With a huge measure of relief, we were once again off to repair the Shaw.

Repairing the Shaw

The repair shop was more of a street corner. A street corner where a man stood all day pressing clothes, and an old woman sold spices. The corner had never seen such a sight! Women in burkas would slow down to stare, others gathered on balconies to point and shout. At once point school let out and crowds of children gathered around just to witness the reality of white people dressed like Indians. I have never received so many compliments in my life, “You look like beautiful woman!” or “You’re a proper lady!”

The ironing man on the corner

With the day coming to a close, there was only one problem. None of the electric worked and the Shaw was essentially hotwired. We set off once more to find the right pieces, ending up at a temple where goats, cows and hundreds of little kids spent their day.

Dozens and dozens of kids

This proved to be the ne plus utlra of fame. We gave stickers to the little boys who surrounded us. They put the stickers on every available surface, including the side of a goat and cows ass. One the stickers were gone, they ran back asking for more! and more! Each movement was tracked by hundreds of curious adult men who motioned for us to give them a sticker and take their picture. Soon everyone from the street was crowded around our rickshaw, shaking our hands, asking for autographs and blocking all other traffic.


We also witnessed some type of funeral procession.

Street Procession

We drove off with children running alongside the still-hotwired Shaw. That’s right, it was never fully repaired.  It was the end of the day and had begin to rain. We were too exhausted to care that the Shaw was still broken and after 10 hours called it a day.

This proved to be the most fantastic part of our journey and the ‘real’ part of India. The part where strangers spend 10 hours repairing your vehicle and invite you into their homes. Where women are treated like little ladies who must be protected and shouldn’t help the men with their mechanics. And where kids and agricultural animals roam around the streets with stickers on their head.

It’s crazy and we love it!

Vinnie and Mr. Taxi Driver




Indian Insanity! Rickshaw Rules of the Road

Indian Insanity! Rickshaw Rules of the Road

India is a damn crazy place to drive.  At first glance it appears that there are absolutely no rules, it’s pure chaos. You quickly come to realize that there are rules and they’re purely based on size and speed.  You can pass anyone, anywhere, at anytime as long as they’re moving a tiny bit slower than you. But beware of oncoming traffic, they will hit you. Especially the lorries, do not mess with the truck drivers.

Rules of the road in India

  • There really are cows on the highway. Do Not Hit a Cow.

Beware of Bovines

  • There are no stop signs or traffic lights. Even if there  is a traffic light, ignore it.
  • Each vehicle at the four way intersection has the right of way and will not stop. They will simple enter traffic at full speed.

Insane Traffic!

  • It is perfectly acceptable to cut someone off.
  • Use your horn for everything, always.

Horn OK Please!

  • Trucks drive into oncoming traffic while flashing their lights.  This is Indian-speak for “I will kill you, please give way”

Trucks passing our Shaw on the Ghats!

  • You will be run off the road. Expect this or deal with the consequences (death).

Vinnie ran them off the road!

  • There are no “lanes.”

This isn't a lane, it's a parking lot

  • Only look in front of you, never behind you. Mirrors are unnecessary.
  • Turn signals are never used.
  • Yield to ox carts and marriages

Roadside wedding in India

  • It’s perfectly normal to pull beside another vehicle and scream out thhe window,”Where are you going! What are you doing!” while driving down the highway.

Pose for the people!

  • White people don’t drive rickshaws, particularly white women.  This may attract some attention.

We're famous in India

  • Watch out for hop ons, God knows you’re gonna get hop ons.

Hop On!

Welcome to the Rickshaw Challenge!

Welcome to the Rickshaw Challenge!

In India one of the first things you must adjust to is the level of shit: cow shit, garbage on the street, the waft of urine from the slums as you deboard the plane in Mumbai. It seemed appropriate, given the massive amount of shit in India, that we drive the ultimate piece of shit vehicle – a two stroke, three wheeled Rickshaw.

Goa to Bombay. Seven Teams. Eight Days. Monsoon Rains. It’s the Rickshaw Challenge!


To learn how to drive our new ride we were led to the local parade grounds or what some would call a swamp. The monsoon rains had begun and we were soaked, mud crept through our toes and the smell of compost soon overwhelmed the senses. The fun had begun!

Why won't this START?

It was here that we realized that driving a rickshaw is not nearly as easy as one would expect. A rickshaw is a bit like a lawnmower, you must pull up on the starter to start the engine. From there you use hand gears to shift and accelerate and a foot pedal to brake. It takes some getting used to but by the second day, it feels like you’ve been driving for years.

First breakdown of the challenge - Training Day!

It turns out that learning to drive is only 1/100th of the Challenge, the other part is figuring out how to repair your shaw. A rickshaw is an authentic piece of shit, breakdowns started on the first day. One team had an engine that was not mounted but rather tied on to the frame. Another team lost their muffler during the race. Many of the Shaws didn’t have a working odometers or speedometers or lights! Our big problem, initially, was that our rickshaw did not like neutral.

Breakdown AGAIN!

These may sound like trivial concerns until you’re stalled in traffic, surrounded by motorbikes, massive trucks and farm animals. Everyone is beeping and staring, and you don’t have a clue what’s wrong. You don’t know how far you’ve gone so you don’t know if you need gas, or possibly the engine came unmounted. Maybe you’re totally fucked and muffler fell off or the alternator burnt out. Or you’re simply not in neutral.

Figuring out just what has gone wrong is part of the adventure. The rest of the fun is figuring out just where the hell you’re going.

Sir, this address does not exist.

Directions in India are a big joke. There are no real street addresses instead a place is located “next to the Church” or “Near the Taj”. Once you know what landmark to ask for, figuring out how to get there is next to impossible. Everyone will always tell you to go straight. And when you attempt to confirm the directions, you are met with the famous Indian ‘yes, no, maybe so’ headbob.

What are you supposed to do when someone both shakes their head up, down, back and forth all at the same time. THIS MEANS NOTHING!

Make way for MELOVIN!

The headbobs, the breakdowns, and the directions, these are all just warm ups for the real Challenge: Driving in India. Nothing can prepare you for the sheer terror and exhilaration one feels when passing an ox-cart while driving in oncoming traffic down a 25% incline. Particularly when you’re staring right into the face of a shipping container on wheels.

Make way for the Ox cart!

India is a crazy country, and only someone mentally insane would decide to travel 1,043 km from Goa to Bombay in a Rickshaw.  But we did it, and it was fantastic.




Welcome to INDIA!

Welcome to INDIA!

Yes, it’s raining during monsoon season in Goa. Shocking.

Monsoon Season in Goa

It’s more of a light drizzle than the downpour we’ve heard so much about. In between showers the air is warm and the sea breeze blows away any remaining humidity.

It’s so lovely, so calm and peaceful that we wonder if we’re in India at all! Of course, then we see a cow crossing the street and realize that this is definitely the sub-continent.

We’re gearing up for our big rickshaw race and in the meantime we’ve thrown caution to the wind, eating at every small fly-covered teashop, food stand and beach restaurant. We’ve shot back fenni and against all warnings dined on chouriço sandwiches and all manner of chaat.

Goa is a fabulous and we’re so thrilled to finally make it to India.

Have you been to India?  What should we do, what should we eat and where should we visit? We want your advice!


Top 10 Best Beers in Asia

Top 10 Best Beers in Asia

Since we created a ‘Worst of Asian Alcohol‘ list, we felt it was only right to follow up by a list of alcohol that we really enjoyed -BEER. We have a fine appreciation for cheap beer and all of these brews are incredibly budget-friendly, readily available and taste mildly of dirty bath water.

Bintang at the Beach

Top 10 Best Beers in Asia

#1 Hanoi Beer– After months of backpacking we watched as the sky opened and God shined his light upon us. “Go to Vietnam,” he said. “Enjoy coffee, bread and the best beer in all of Asia.” And we did. Hanoi Beer wins top prize because you can actually taste that it is beer and not lager colored water. It’s crisp, deliciously inexpensive and best of all, you drink while sitting on child-sized plastic chairs on the side of a highly trafficked city street.

Hanoi Beer is easily consumed in mass quantities

#2 Bia Saigon Lager- Yes another beer from Vietnam because, let’s face it, beer in Asia is utter crap and Vietnam knows what they’re doing. Beer Saigon is light, watery and tastes slightly of skunk.  Perfect remedy after a day at the War Memorial Museum.

#3 Singha – Oh Thailand! If your gorgeous beaches, cheap painful massages and unusually friendly people weren’t enough to encourage me to stay another day, beer served beachside would do the trick. What kind of heaven on earth serves beer in a coozie?

Enjoying the view with a Singha in hand

#4 Tsingtao – This Chinese beer (pronounced Ching-dao) was first set up by those scrappy imperialist Germans who paid for the starting capital with Mexican silver dollars. Thank God for those Germans. Tsingtao was later nationalized, repatriated, sent to a re-education camp and given a new recipe.  Today’s Tsingtao is tangy and drinkable with a slight aftertaste of industrial run off from the Laoshan mountain.

Enjoying Mao's favorite beer

#5 Bintang Bir Pilsener– The famed Indonesian beer. Famed because every English knacker and trashtatic Australian tourist owns a sleeveless Bintang shirt and proudly struts around just waiting to tell you how much fun they had in Kuta. As long as you’re enjoying your Bintang on the beach, far, far away from the club scene in Kuta, you’re golden.  The beer is tangy but mostly tastes of salt water.

Welcome to INDIA!

#6 Kingfisher – India’s most famous bad beer, ‘The King of Good Times’. King Fisher is skunky almost to the point of cringe-worthy but still manages to be a nice compliment to a delicious Goan vindaloo. The question must be asked: In a country of 1.21 billion highly entrepreneurial Indian people, why is Kingfisher the only thing on draft? I never knew that good times taste like crappy Coors light.

#7 Gold Metal Taiwan Beer – Grab a Taiwan beer from your local 7-11, walk to a night market and enjoy the cheapest, most delicious meal of your life. Everyday is a good day for Taiwan Beer!

Our Christmas Eve meal, not complete without Taiwan beer

#8 Chang Beer – The cheaper and more alcoholic but far less tasty Thai beer. It’s known as the ‘poor man’s beer’ and it’s perfect for the day when you realize the American dollar has sunk to new lows and your backpacker budget has lost a third of it’s worth.  Rumors say that Chang is brewed with fomaldehyde, and it does have a strong ‘back of the throat’ dead body taste. Also served cold in a coozie!

Beer in a coozie.

#9 Tiger – This beer is made in Singapore which means that the government brought in the best minds in the beer brewing industry, gave them thousands of dollars and told them to recreate the wheel.  Like most things in Singapore, it’s just a sterile immitation of what you can find in other major capitol cities. But it’s on the list because it’s great to drink while dining at a hawker food stall (the one thing Singapore does really well).

#10 Hite – Koreans may know how to drink but their beer of choice is surprisingly flavorless. I would rather drink a kimchee cocktail than a bottle of clear, watery piss. Of course, after a few rounds of grilled meat and soju, Hite is shockingly refreshing.


Other contenders

Bia Hoi- The freshest beer around, brewed just that morning and made to be consumed as quickly as possible. Unfortunately it tastes like water, contains very little alcohol and leads to a startling rise in sobriety. On the plus side, you’re meant to drink bia hoi as early as possible –  who doesn’t love kegs and eggs?

Bia Hoi - fresh from the street

Beer Lao – Rumored to be highly drinkable but barely remember taking a sip. Hidden inside many, many Beer Lao bottles is a nasty, mind-altering alcoholic substance known as Lao-lao.  (Lao-Lao is a potent moonshine that is often stored in Beer Lao bottles.)  Be careful when reaching for your drink, as you may chug from the wrong bottle and throw up on the table.

Dali Beer – Dali is the perfect Chinese town and a great place to indulge in a tipple. Unfortunately the only tipple is Dali beer, which is far tastier than the other alcohol brewed in dali – plum wine. Dali beer is best chased with a huge serving of dumplings. Of course if you’re an adventurous sort, avoid the beer and head straight for Foreigners street and hit up a Ganja grannie.

Hello Dali!

Budweiser – Why, dear God? Why must American exports be so stereotypically mass produced and lacking in all quality? I think Bud is actually made from the American tears we cry as we watch the dollar die a slow, painful death.

Sadly, The King of Beers