There and Back Again

The other day our friend Zan in SF wrote us a lovely note asking if we intended to keep up the blog now that we’re home. I wrote back saying that I wasn’t sure what I would write about. It’s easy to find stories halfway across the world. What would I talk about now? Assembling the grocery list for the week? How to fill your time when job searching? (Suggestion: Game of Thrones.) She sagely replied: “The journey will continue, and there will still be moments of stolen time - they just might be a little shorter & fleeting moments that tell the larger story. But all the more important to notice.”

I’ve been thinking about her words as we’ve tumbled through this wonderful holiday season. December was a great time of year to return to the “real world,” filled as it is with fizzy festivity, grounding traditions, and lots of time with loved ones. We staved off much of the serious decision-making that usually accompanies a cross-country move by subletting a furnished apartment and leaving our worldly goods in storage. Even so, it’s amazing how quickly we recalibrated. We weren’t even off the runway before compulsive email-checking resumed; the sticker shock wore off within 24 hours. (Though Zach occasionally tries to revive our price consciousness, declaring in outrage: Do you know how much this would cost in India!?!)

Still, to Zan’s point, there have been moments of stolen time in our first few weeks back, moments that on our trip I would have taken the time to stop and gift-wrap for later consideration. Now they tend to get kicked under the coffee table where they gather dust while we try to figure out where to live when our sublet is up or which subway line gets us where we want to go fastest. 

So far, it's been the winter weather that's helped me to step back and see the familiar through traveler's eyes. We were in the midst of the Brubaker Chanukah/Christmas/Winter Solstice party when we noticed the white dusting on the deck. Suddenly the whole room was in action, rushing to the windows, reversing course to the closets in the hall, hustling for coats and shoes and mittens, throwing open the door and tumbling out into the cold air, faces raised to this wonder that never loses its sheen. My dad got a small fire going outside (Boy Scout motto: Always be prepared) and we did the only reasonable thing to do in such a moment. We threw snowballs. And we sang. We sang carols we knew and carols we bum-bum-bummed because no one actually knows the rest of the verses to God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman but who cares?! It is snowing and it is Christmas and that’s enough magic to last me for a good long while. 

Jared, a family friend, and I

Adam, my cousin and Mikey, my brother

Three days later, after a morning spent lying on my parents’ couch recovering from serious holiday making, we glanced out that very same window and Yes! Look! Heavier this time, driven sideways by the wind, it quickly put an end to our plans to return to the city that afternoon. And there it is. We’re home. The snow didn’t delay a flight, we weren’t girding ourselves to compete with other miffed travelers vying for limited seats. We can just drive home tomorrow, once the snow and rush hour has passed, and it will take forty-five minutes door to door. Another kind of magic. 

With nowhere else to be, we pulled on boots and coats, loaded my parent’s dogs into the car, and crawled through snow-slow Tarrytown, finally driving up an unplowed road to the back entrance of Picantico. At three o’clock, the woods were already dusky, completely quiet under a pale purple sky. I was whispering “Whose woods these are I think I know...” when the dogs took off at full speed, the leashes went taut, and Zach and I found ourselves running behind them, trying not to fall on our faces, giving into their total animal glee. 

A few minutes later, we crested a hill and my breath caught in my throat. Seven deer stood stock still across a frozen field, arranged in clumps of twos and threes.They looked right at us--eyeing the dogs, no doubt--but held their ground, curving tall and elegant in the wind. We fulfilled my lifelong dream of being in a snow globe, moving through the landscape of trees and snow and animals that looked an awful lot like reindeer. Well, I thought, that’s done it, now we can move back to California. (Just kidding, Mom!) 

As we enter this fresh new year, we wish you all a 2013 full of stolen time. We may share some of our moments as the year continues and hope we’ll hear about yours, over email or the phone, or--better yet--over dinner. Here’s to plenty of everyday magic that reminds us how grateful to we are to be where we are, especially when that place is home.  

Love Marriage Or Arranged Marriage?

As many people have pointed out to us, spending your honeymoon in South Asia is, depending on how you look at it, odd, interesting, adventurous, or just plain weird. It certainly led to some atypical honeymoon behavior. For the first three weeks of our honeymoon as we hiked the Annapurna trail, we slept in separate twin beds across the room from one another. When we were feeling romantic, Zach would hop across the room in his sleeping bag and we'd lie next to each other and hug. Plus, there's nothing sexier than not showering for days.

Throughout the trip, we loved the range of reactions we heard from locals when we told them we were on our honeymoon. In Nepal, everyone asked, "Is it a love marriage or an arranged marriage?" We'd proudly announce that we were a love marriage, feeling very, well, loving. 80% of the time, they would reply: "Mmm... love marriages never work." Awkward.

In India, everyone from rickshaw drivers to fruit merchants wanted to suss out our marital status. The conversation, directed exclusively at Zach, would go something like this:

    "This is your... friend?"
    "My wife!"
    "Ah..." (looking me over like a nice handbag and then turning back to Zach) "...very good!"
    "We are on our honeymoon."
    "Honeymoon!" This was followed by big smiles and grasping of hands and general merriment.Then, "I wish you a very happy life and many children. So... enjoy!"

In Rajasthan's villages, there was almost palpable relief that we conformed to their social norm. Avi, our guide on a tour of villages outside Jodphur, explained to us, "At first, when the villagers met tourists who are traveling together but they are not married, the villagers are shocked, I mean really shocked. This is good that you are married, really good. This they can understand."

All over India, Indians expressed surprise that we chose their country for our honeymoon. One lady was truly baffled. She exclaimed, "You came to India for your honeymoon? But Indians go to America for their honeymoon!" In some of India's more romantic destinations, we ran into Indian couples on their honeymoons. In Munnar, Kerala's stunning tea country, we swapped photos with a giddy couple from Tamil Nadu as we paddle-boated around a beautiful lake. They had met the day of their marriage, and their honeymoon was their chance to get to know each other.

Perhaps our most memorable honeymoon response came in Sri Lanka. One day we came home from biking around the ancient ruins of Anurhadaphura and were greeted by the daughter of the guesthouse owners. She explained that they were going to throw a party tonight. There was another couple staying at the four room guesthouse who was celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary. She asked me to come across the yard to their living room at 6pm to get dressed: "You can wear my mother's sari!"

They threw an amazing bash. We were wrapped in bejewelled fabric and the men instructed in the art of wearing a Sri Lankan sarong. During dinner, were were serenaded by a musician and for dessert... cake! As we fed each other bits of cake (a ritual we had skipped during our actual wedding), we felt as though we were getting married all over again. This time we danced in the muggy tropical air, to the sound of Sri Lankan baile and buzzing cicadas, with the gentle heat of curry in our mouths and cool painted concrete beneath our bare feet.



On this, the last day of our trip, we are savoring great memories. Thank you, South Asia! 

Muchisimo photos!

We were a bit behind, but have now mostly caught up on our photos editing/publishing, and there's lots more photogs for your viewing pleasure. Check out the four albums below whenever you have time! Each album is linked, with a preview photos to whet your appetite...


India: Udaipur (view album)
The Royal Palace, cooking classes with Meenu, traditional Rajasthani folk dance

India: Mumbai (view album)
Trains, taxis, and dabawallas

India: Kerala (view album)
Wild elephants (!), tea country, and the backwaters. Note: we just added 60 photos to the original Kochin album.

Sri Lanka: The Train to Ella (view album)
Black and white shots of an amazing (and very bumpy) train ride. The rest of our Sri Lanka photos coming soon...

Good Eats Part II: Kerala Edition

This is the second edition of a post devoted entirely to the joy of eating (almost). We included links to websites and address information whenever possible so that any of you heading to the Subcontinent soon can use this as a guide to culinary rapture. This post is dedicated to Anantica and Ryan and to all the guests of their upcoming nuptials in Cochin. Mazel tov!

Best Thali on a Banana Leaf:

His: Ariya Nawas, in Trivandrum

Hers: Saravana Bavan in Munnar

Best Dosa:

Massive Paper Dosa at Saravana Bavan in Munnar. With six different dips!

Best Breakfast:

Homemade dosa with veggie-full sambar at Royal Mist Homestay in Munnar. (Note:This was our favorite homestay in all of India. A little pricey but worth every penny for the amazing food, thoughtful conversation, and incredible personal attention. Anil and Jeeva will make you feel totally at home.)            

Best Seafood:

Hers: The banana leaf-wrapped kingfish at Oceanus in Fort Cochi

His: Buying seafood by the Chinese nets in Fort Cochi and having it cooked up at The Marina Restaurant (2^nd floor, above the official tourist office, next door to the gas station)

Shockingly Cheap and Delicious Lunch:

Pure Veg Thali at Sri Krishna Café. Unlimited rice and veg for 30 rupees (that’s 60 cents)!

Best Snack with Tea:

Fried Kerala banana fritters on a houseboat outside of Alleppey

Best Fresh Fruit Juice:

Fresh pineapple juice with a dash of cinnamon at Bella Homestay in Alleppy

Best Non-Indian Food:

His: Pasta Puttasnesca at Café del Mar in Varkala

Hers: Spinach Momos (Tibetan dumplings) at Little Tibet in Varkala

Plus some bonus, non-food related categories (turns out we sometimes do other things than just eat...)

Most Legit Aryuvedic Health Experience:

A consultation at the pharmacy about 100 yards to the right of Shri Krishna Café (if you have just come out the door) on Cheralai Rd in Fort Cochi.  You can’t miss it; it has a ton of bottled medicines in glass-front cabinets. A half hour consultation and four meds ran Zach about seven bucks.

Best Way to See Kerala’s Backwaters:

A 4- or 7-hour trip with Kerala Kayaking, the brainchild of a quirky entrepreneur named Binnu.  If you’ve already done a houseboat tour or taken a local ferry, just tell him and he’ll personalize a route. If you can handle at longer trip, he’ll take you out to parts of the backwaters that are usually unvisited by tourists.

Best Way to Get Behind the Scenes in Tea Country:

Most tourists hire a car or tuk-tuk to take them out to Top Station. Go on a hike instead. You’ll need a local guide; your guesthouse should be able to recommend one.  You’ll run into groups of tea workers harvesting along the way. If your timing is good, you’ll get invited to have tea with them!

Best Way To Avoid Varkala’s Hippy Backpacker Scene:

Varkala has some lovely scenery, but the tourist scene is pretty insular. Escape by walking from the helipad through Varkala’s tourist district (it’s one street) and just keep going. Soon you are in fishing villages. 4km on, you’ll arrive at Kappil Beach-- just a sliver of land between the ocean and the backwaters. Heaven!

What Lies Beneath: A Book Review

While we love sharing the wondrous and joyful experiences that have filled our trip, we’re keenly aware of what we haven’t talked about: poverty, environmental destruction, the ugly evidence of corruption, residues of violent conflict. Partly that's because, as tourists, our meaningful exposure to these things is limited. We are directed away from the dirtiest corners. Partly it's because we choose not to look too closely: it's just too hard. We are used to our own evils. These are new and so more liable to shock.

Even in our protected tourist corridor, sometimes the world beneath and around brushes up against ours in startling ways. Here in Sri Lanka, echoes of the recently ended war between the Sri Lankan government and the Tamil Tigers are everywhere. Many of the beggars here are missing legs. A sign for a local preschool showed a woman with two children holding an umbrella to fend off the rain: "Harmony Preschool: Providing safety and protection." In India, on the way to the station in Jodphur to catch an 11pm train, we drove by blocks of men sleeping in cots on the sidewalk: migrant workers from the villages, they rent a bed for 20 cents, sleeping under a roof only when they return to their villages for a visit. Had we not happened to be going to the train at that unusually late hour, we’d never have known that the city’s streets sleep hundreds every evening, in orderly rows. 

It was in India's glittering city, Mumbai, where worlds collided most forcefully. The privileged A/C corridors of the international airport open into air clogged with the stench of the massive slums that hug the runways. At a back table in a small Parsi restaurant where lunch costs 60 rupees (about $1), we watched as a man pulled a huge wad of 500 rupee bills out of his pocket and handed half of them to the man across from him: a bribe? Possibly. Certainly one transaction among the millions that constitute India's parallel economy.

We wanted to gain some understanding of the worlds we'd gotten glimpses into, so we turned to books. One in particular has stuck with us. If you are interested in learning more about Mumbai and India's underworld, read Maximum City: Bombay Lost & Found, Suketu Mehta's account of moving back to his hometown after living in America for fifteen years. Combination exposé and memoir, it delves into the Hindu/Muslim antagonisms that exploded in riots and bombings, the infrastructure challenges in a city that absorbs thousands of destitute migrants every day, and the alternate economic and justice systems that have sprung up in the void left by institutional dysfunction. If that sounds terrifying, it is. But Mehta balances horror and love. He writes about raising his children, about working on a Bollywood screenplay, about everyone's search for meaning, from the wealthiest diamond merchant to the street-sleeping poet. The writing is brilliant and the research it took to write this book? Let's just say that one of the scenes involves him interviewing a hit man in a hotel room with a bunch of the hit man's killer-for-hire buddies. They are armed. He is not.

Mehta's book changed the way we saw the city, for better and for worse. We learned about the young migrant who slept around the block from our hotel and the public toilet in a nearby alley at which he waited in line every morning for his chance to relieve himself. We know more about Bombay’s (and India’s) ugliness now. But we can also conjure some of the individual lives being lived in the sea of tin-roofed homes by the runway, their dignity and dreams. This book did what the best ones do: it awakened us to the humanity of all those whose stories he told and to the ways in which their longings aren’t so different from our own. 

Jew Town, Cochin, India

We've arrived in Sri Lanka where, ironically, we're catching the tail end of a hurricane. After days of devouring the news from New York, it is almost as though we've caught some strange echo of the storm over here, on the far side of the world.

We don't mind the rain. It's a good excuse to take a break from feeling we have to do things, which turns out to be as much an occupational hazard of traveling as it is of normal life for two hyperactive people. Our trip has reached its turn: we're talking in weeks, rather than months now, and beginning to talk about emails we should send, to jobs, or people with apartments to rent. Still, we've got two weeks in Sri Lanka and then we head home via a week in Greece and few days in Rome. In you are nearby, get in touch!

Photos are on their way: Kerala's tea estates and backwaters and our first few days in Sri Lanka. In the meantime, here's a brief story of our encounter with one of the last living Jews of Kerala.

*** 

 Our first afternoon in Cochin was scorching. By the time we reached Mattanchery, we were in an advanced state of cranky. We were searching for Jew Town and the Paradesi Synagogue, the only synagogue that remains in use by what used to be a sizable population of Keralan Jews. The history of this particular Jewish community is a long and fascinating one, beginning with Jews who came as traders in the time of King Solomon. Further migrations marked nadirs in Jewish history: the destruction of the Second Temple, the Inquisition. Ironically, it was the Jew's historical triumph, the founding of the State of Israel, that sounded the death knell for the Jews of Kerala. The vast majority chose to emigrate, looking for better fortunes and a wider marriage pool.

That mass migration changed the face of the old Jewish quarter. Now, it is choc-a-bloc with antique shops (some started when the departing Jewish families sold off their furniture) and Kashmiri souvenir stands peddling the same trinkets sold in every tourist ghetto from Srinagar to Trivandrum. We were dismayed. We'd walked a long, hot way and there seemed to be very little left to even look at, much less connect to.

At the end of the street, the synagogue was bustling with domestic tourists. Two massive school groups from Tamil Nadu had arrived at the same time as we had and were dutifully filing in and out of the narrow doorway that led to the synagogue.  As we entered the sanctuary, we experienced a dizzying reversal. We'd spent months visiting Hindu shrines and Buddhist gompas, trying to discern the meaning of ritual objects and how the space was meant to be used. For the first time, we watched Indian tourists look bemusedly at the Ark and whisper to each other about various aspects of architecture, afraid to disturb the room's holy air. The sanctuary was charmingly eccentric, with blue Chinese tiles on the floor and gorgeous glass  lamps hanging from the ceiling. But it felt like a dying place. Wanting to make it alive, we went up to the Ark to say a shecheyanu, a prayer of thanks for having arrived in this place. We could feel the eyes of other tourists on our backs, just as we had watched innumerable sari-clad women make their offerings: "Look! She's praying! She's doing something!" Still, it felt right, to hear the sound of a Jewish prayer in that room, for it to be used in the way it was intended.

We headed back out into the wet heat and wandered down the street, fending off the shopkeepers' inquiries: "My shop!? Just have a look? Bon Jour! Ca va? Postcard?" Zach noticed a sign on one small shop, the only one with a Jewish name: Sarah's Handmade Embroidery. There was no one outside trolling for business, so we decided to go in. We were greeted by a small-boned man with a shy smile who introduced himself as Taha. As I examined a photograph on the wall, he explained that this store is part of Sarah Cohen's house. He proudly showed us pictures of her wedding in Bombay, a portrait of her brother Shalom, who had passed several years ago, images of the synagogue decorated for festivals. "There are only nine left," he explained, "no children." He pulled out a small book and told us that it explained the history and traditions of the community. He pointed to the publishing page: India (1929), three editions in Israel "by someone's relative," and then the last edition: India (2011). "I published this book," he said with pride, "and I added the pictures." He turned the small book over in his hands, showing off color photographs of the inside of the synagogue.

Is that Sarah, sleeping in the next room? Yes, he affirmed. I had noticed the old women napping on a cot when we walked in. She looked ancient, unmoving. Only after Taha had carefully sussed us out did he go and wake Sarah. From the minute she started talking, we were in the land of the familiar: the Jewish grandma guilt-trip. "Where were you for the festival, for Simchat Torah?" she wailed. "Oh, it was so beautiful. You should have come. We couldn't say the prayers because we didn't have a minyan." Taha looked on, commiserating. Her face was hugely expressive, alternately lighting up with surprise or dropping into a deep, sad frown.

She alternated between chatting with us in British accented English and giving commands in Malayalam.Though she repeatedly circled back to berating us for not having come to Simchat Torah, Sarah was very sociable and was clearly enjoying the company of young Jews. She asked us about our travels and told us how hard it is to get kosher meat now that her brother, the community's last shochet, is gone. Another Jewish family arrived:  the mother, a white American, the father, an Indian from Bangalore, and their teenage son, with his father's skin and curly Jewish hair, raised in Charleston, South Carolina and now living in Bangalore.  The shop took on the air of a party as we played Jewish geography and chatted about Jewish communities in India.

Taha worked steadily around us, getting tea, shooing away curious onlookers, and quoting prices for the kippat and challah covers. Sometimes he would dart in and deny or verify something Sarah had said or gently correct her history: "Ah, that was six years ago, six." Eventually, he told us that he'd been working for Sarah since he was small. "I'm not educated," he said, gesturing to his waist to indicate that he'd been about so tall when we started working for Sarah's family. "They took me in." He'd been with them ever since.

Eventually, Sarah tired and Taha took her into the back to rest, holding her with gentle devotion. As we said our goodbyes, he handed us each one of the small books he'd printed and a business card: "Please visit our blog!" He told us of his frustrations with the Tourism Board, how he wished they did more to preserve the Jewish history of the neighborhood. It was Taha who rung up our challah covers and saw us out the door, pointing us to attractions down the street and reminding us to come by for the next festival.  He is the unlikely keeper of Cochin's Jewish history: a Muslim man tied by years and circumstances to a dying Jewish family. The story of the Jews of Cochin has become his own.

(View the full album from Kochin here.)

A Dabawallah Day

It was 10:30am and already the air was a thick urban stew of sweat, exhaust, and the smell of stuff being fried in Mumbai’s ubiquitous food stalls. Zach and I were huddled in a foot-wide slice of shade, sipping tiny cups of 5 rupee chai. We had strategically positioned ourselves at a corner, where two exits from Churchgate Station opened out onto the sidewalk. Though it was well past rush hour, a steady stream of commuters hurried in and out of the station and trains pulled in and unloaded every few minutes.

“There’s one!” shouted Zach, pointing over the heads of the crowd. Following his finger, I saw a man carrying a huge tray on his head. It was filled with homemade lunches: his and his colleagues’ lifebread.

Every day, thousands of Mumbai office workers make the long commute from the suburbs to downtown. Over the course of the morning, thousands of dabawallahs (literally, “box carriers”)  follow in their footsteps. Each dabawallah has a pick-up route in the suburbs, where they go from house to house collecting lunches made by wives or mothers. They ride into the city with the lunches from their neighborhood, stopping at various points along the way to sort and exchange with other dabawallahs. Each tiffin (as the multi-leveled tin containers are called) changes hands four or five times.  By 12:30pm, office workers all over Mumbai are eating lovingly-prepared dal and chapati at their desk and at the end of the day, the empty containers are delivered back to their respective homes. Collectively, about 5,000 dabawallahs deliver 200,000 lunches per day. Here’s the crazy thing: there is no technology involved. No computers, no cell phones, no cars, not even paper. The dabawallahs are mostly illiterate and make their deliveries using bicycles, wooden carts and huge trays carried on their heads. Each lunchbox has a code that explains what train stop it needs to get off at and its final destination. In 2002, Forbes magazine declared the dabbawallas a “six sigma” business, which means they operate at 99.9% efficiency. They make less than one mistake in six million deliveries (Wikipedia).

Zach had heard about dabawallahs at a presentation given at Google and was eager to see them in action, which is how we ended up skulking around the train station, asking security guards when they thought the dabawallahs might show up. The guards seems puzzled by our interest, but politely told us to wait by platform one. And they came. Watching them sort in the middle of the Mumbai’s mad sidewalks, it seemed impossible that this system could work, and as efficiently as it does. But, as we’ve been told so many times, “In India, everything is possible.”

(all photos by Heather!)

Good Eats Part I: North India Round-up

Some of you have expressed surprise that, given the number of meals lovingly photographed by Zach and given the amount of time Heather spends talking about, reading about, and cooking Asian food, we haven't devoted any blog space to it. Well, let the feast begin! We've been travelling in one of the world's best places to eat and it has been glorious. Below, a round up of some of our foodie highlights so far. We included links to websites and address information whenever possible so that any of you heading to the Subcontinent soon can chew the same path across the nation. (Note: Sometimes we didn't agree. What? Married people don't agree?!)

Best Breakfast:
Chole Batura at Hotel Kabli, Delhi. The hotel serves food from a local restaurant to your room, allowing you to eat your Chole the way it was meant to be eaten... in your underwear!

Best Bread:
Hers: Afghani Naan straight from the oven in the Jangpura Bazaar, Delhi
His: Aloo paratha we made during cooking lesson with Meenu at Queen's Cafe, Udaipur. (Side note: Queen's Cafe other food is also insanely delicious. Don't miss the pumpkin curry with coconut/mint spice mix.)

Making chapati with Meenu's daughter 

Best Bang For Your $1.80:
All-you-can-eat thali at Natraj, Udaipur. It included eleven seperate and permanently refillable items: dal, potato, two curries, curd, chutney, sliced onions, papad, chapati, rice, mango pickle and chili sauce. Galub jamun for desert.

Thali at Natraj

Best chai:
The pot Himat cooked up for us under a tree in the desert outside of Jaislamer. And made with fresh sheep's milk, so Zach could drink it!

A nice spot for chai

Best Dosa:
Special Dosa, filled with dried fruit, nuts and coconut flakes at Ayyar's, Varanasi. This hole in the wall place was opened by the current owner's grandfather.

One of the owners of Ayyar's with a portrait of his grandfather

Best Snack: 
Hers: Mango ice pop (available pretty much everywhere)
His: Samosa (or three) at Madhur Milan, Varanasi

Best Extremely Local Food:
Hers: Ker Sangri, a desert bean served up at Desert Boy's Dhani in Jaisalmer

His: Mirchi bada, a hot pepper stuffed with potatoes and onions and then fried like a samosa, at Shahi's Somasas in Jodphur (Nai Sarak, left side just before main gate to Sardar Market).

Best dessert:
Hers: Khir, a milk and rice pudding at Crystal, a wonderful Punjabi spot across the street from Chowpatty Beach, Mumbai.
His: Grandma's homemade milk candy at Vijay and Sonam's house in Agra

Heather's Overall Favorite: 
Bhaghain Barta, a wickedly delicious egglant dish that has the deep smoky flavor of roasted eggplant with the brightness of tomato and heat of curry spices. Also at Crystal, Mumbai.

Zach's Overall Favorite: 
Vegetable pulao, eaten with dinner our first night in Delhi at Hotel Kabli. Objectively speaking, it may not be the best best thing we've eaten, but at the time it was the best Indian dish I'd ever had. We've tried many pulaos since then, and none compare.

If any of you have great India eats -- from favorite dishes to hole-in-the-wall restaurants (especially in Kerala where we're headed next) -- please comment!

Desert Portraits

"She wants to invite you for chai," Prim, our camel driver, told us.

"Jip jip jip," we said, signalling to the camels that they should sit down so we could dismount. We've been invited into people's homes for chai all over India. Our record number of cups in a day so far is seven, consumed in five different places. The refrain-- "You must come to my home for tea!"-- is a testament to a tradition of hospitality that seems to transcend the class, caste, and religious boundaries which can prove so formidable in other contexts.

But this invitation was different. Prim's grandmother (actually his great aunt, but it's not a distinction they make here) had gestured us into her hut, grass-roofed and constructed from a mixture of sand, rock and cow dung. She gathered wood, started a fire, milked a sheep (!) and cooked up an incredibly tasty cup. We lingered for the rest of the afternoon as people came and went. A woman from a nearby village came by with her young son seeking a glass of water. She took one look at Prim making chapatis and told him to scram, taking full charge of the process. Prim's grandfather wandered in from tending the flocks, ate, and went out again into the fierce mid-afternoon sun. Two gypsy kids came by to gawk at the foreigners. We ate lunch in waves -- foreigners first, then men, then women. And we suddenly understood why we'd been sent into the desert with enormous quantities of vegetables, fruit and flour: every meal fed not only us, but whoever else happened to be near by.

It's a hard life, living in the desert. We were amazed by the creativity and resourcefulness we witnessed; that people with such limited resources transformed the harsh environment into a livable, even beautiful, place. There were farms everywhere -- talk about making the desert bloom. Himat, the driver who took us back and forth from Jaisalmer, offered the most eloquent testimony to his love of his home. Though he has all the advantages of city life and income now, he comes out to the desert whenever he can to enjoy the open air, the shade of a tree, the desert quiet.

We hope the portraits below honor the people we met, their spirit and resilience.

And for your continued viewing pleasure, here's the full set of photos from the desert. Thanks for all the great comments and feedback so far!

India Photos: Our first 2 weeks

A highlights reel from our first few weeks in India:
https://plus.google.com/photos/102311875004581334954/albums/5798479016465443361?authkey=CPCcjPv8xovSzgE

And I have to admit: we are having a great time taking photos here. So many interesting people and beautiful things to work with. It's like a crazy playground for making still images. Hopefully some of these capture the essence of our adventures and the spirit of the people we've met. To my photographer friends: I am learning (slowly) how to use my camera, but any tips/advice/pointers is greatly appreciated.

And many of the photos have captions again -- click any photo to start a slideshow and then click the "expand <- ->" button in the bottom right corner to see large photos with captions.