India: Day 2, Kolkata (Mother's House)
 
Due to an incredibly large amount of sleep the day before, I woke up quite early and ordered breakfast.  The mere act of picking up the room service menu was a deviation from the pact I had made with myself not to eat any local food while in India.  (Prior to my trip I was told that eating food prepared in India was not much different than swallowing a grenade)  And while I was fully equipped to carry out my plan with 3 dozen cereal bars brought from Bangkok, I broke down and ordered a breakfast I assumed was relatively safe; fried eggs, toast, coffee and bottled water.

 I walked a few meters down the street, carefully dodging the throngs of beggars, and attempted to hire a rickshaw man.  After laughing off initial requests of 300, 150, and 70 Rupees, I was finally on my way to "Mother's House" for the grand total of 30 Rupees.  We strayed from the main street and took an alley which was lined with tiny stalls selling meat.  Pigs roamed the vicinity unaware of their impending slaughter.  The dusty brick road was rough and bumpy, a problem exacerbated by the rickshaws giant wooden wheels.

On the way to Mother's House with the rickshaw man.
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In 15 painful minutes we arrived at "Mother's House"  appropriately named as this was the house of Mother Teresa.  My only previous knowledge of Kolkata was that it had been the city where Mother Teresa carried out her ministry.  I learned this through a book my sister mailed me in Bangkok.  The book described the conditions in Kolkata quite vividly and with more than accurate descriptions, therefore the poverty that now surrounded me wasn't entirely unexpected.  - While the rickshaw man stopped directly in front of the house, pointed to the building and said "there," I was sure he was mistaken.  There were no large signs proclaiming the building's claim to fame, no Catholic nuns lining the entrance charging admission- there was nothing.  I walked into the small complex with a confused look on my face and stood in the center of the room carefully examining the bare walls for any clue that I was indeed in the correct place.  Finally a small woman wearing black and white attire emerged from a corridor and asked if I needed any help.  She took me to a courtyard where she pointed to three doors.  One door led to a small "museum", another led to Mother Teresa's room, and the third door was an entrance to her tomb.

Seeing as I didn't know too much detail about Mother Teresa's life, I decided to check out the museum first.  To call "the museum" a museum is a bit of an overstatement.  It is a small, rectangular room that smells strongly of old books.  There are 20-something sheets of posterboard with a small number handwritten on each corner.  The room is divided into 4 sections by rows of these posterboard exhibits, all of which appear to have been made by the sisters at a scrapbooking party of sorts.  The lack of professionalism was surprising, however, the ragtag exhibit was thorough, and more than fitting for the lifestyle Mother lived.  Furthermore, the quaint setting was intimate and unquestionably authentic.  I browsed the exhibits alone for nearly an hour with moist eyes.  It's one thing to hear about her life, but it's another to actually see the possessions she owned, the conditions she lived in, and the people she served.  It is the most perfect example of a selfless life I've ever witnessed and I can't imagine anyone leaving the building without questioning their own priorities. 

The exhibit wasn't entirely motivating and inspirational, however.  I found two posterboards to be particularly troubling.  They describe what Mother Teresa called "The Dark Night of the Soul".    Apparently she often felt disconnected, even abandoned  by Christ.  I think every Christian experiences this at some point in their life, but what I found disturbing is that this lasted for many, many years.

Her room had been left as it was the day she died.  There were bars at the door preventing entry, but seeing at the room was very tiny, it was easy to see everything.  Photos were not allowed, but there wasn't much to photograph; a simple bed, a desk, a crucifix... she didn't have much.   The burial room was basic as well.  Her tomb had a burning candle with flowers resting on its top.  There was a desk at the entrance with a pen and paper on it.  Guests were encouraged to write prayer requests on the sheets of paper so that the nuns could pray for them.  A small tray of flowers from the previous day sat next to the paper.  A handwritten note invited visitors to take a few flowers free of charge.  In fact, everything was free.  I looked carefully for a donation box, but there was none to be found... amazing.

Mother Teresa's Tomb
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India: Day 1, Kolkata
 
I sat on the plane from Bangkok to Kolkata (Calcutta) admiring the meal in front of me; baked chicken in coconut curry, fresh fruit, muffin, juice and coffee.  It was all presented neatly on a tray with a brightly colored cloth napkin that matched its placemat counterpart.  I enjoyed my meal while watching "Yes Man", a stupid little movie that I had foolishly chosen from the touch-screen in front of me.   To find myself in such a setting was quite a shock for two reasons.  The first of which was that this was only a two and a half hour flight. But the biggest source of bewilderment arose from the simple fact that this international ticket had only cost $180 USD.  I didn't research Jet Airways before I boarded the plane, and had assumed from the fare that this was a budget airline.

We touched down in Kolkata before noon and if first impressions of an airport are any indication of what lies beyond the immigration counter, then this was going to be a horrible city.  The retractable corridor stretching from the airport to the plane had  windows fabricated of plastic sheeting. Plastic windows, however, were simply a precursor to the corrugated sheet metal that served as a portion of the airport wall.  I know India has the reputation of being a poor country, but this is an international airport we're talking about. Maybe the airport tax I paid will be used on some drywall.

A driver resting on his taxi-cab.
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One hour after my flight landed in India, I was sitting on shredded upholstery in the back of a taxi-cab my hotel sent for me.  The streets were packed with pedestrians, rickshaw men, animals and bicycles, all carefully navigating their way through narrow lanes and alleys. The sites, sounds and smells were overwhelming.  People shouting at animals, each other, even themselves mingled with blaring Hindi music. Old men and children were bathing next to sheppards washing their livestock.  Rich scents, both pleasant and unpleasant, drifted through the open car windows.  The spicy aroma of curries blended with that of exhaust fumes, rotting meat, and feces. 

A man keeping tabs on the flock in the streets of Kolkata.
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After what seemed like hours, we finally came to a stop just inside the guesthouse's gates.  I booked the hotel online and my room was quite different than the photos and description had described.  It had a large bed with faded cotton sheets and a scratchy wool blanket.  The blanket wouldn't be needed, however, as the aging air/con mistook itself for a heater.  The bathroom was all white (originally) and chalky.  There was a normal toilet, but it looked dirty.  All the fixtures were a dull rusty silver color, which somehow remained aesthetically pleasing because by matching the pipes.  The television had hundreds of channels, many of which showcased Indian music videos, something I immediately determined was not for me.  I also flipped through dozens of Bollywood films before finally resting on Nickelodeon.  I'm not sure if it was incessant whine of Jimmy Nutron or the intimidating city looking just beyond the walls, but within five minutes I was out cold. 

I woke up, glanced at the light emanating from the window and assumed it was eight or nine the following morning.  Preparing for the day ahead, I took a shower, got dressed and slid on my glasses.   I took another glance through the hazy glass and noticed a bar tucked underneath my window. It's neon signage was so brightly lit that it convincingly simulated daylight- it was a half past midnight. More Nickelodeon, and finally, more sleep.

Inside the market where meat is sold each day. Definitely sanitary!
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I'm sure this will be thoroughly washed before they use it again...  Who wants a hamburger?!?!
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Chickens in a basket.
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Burma: Day 7 and 8
 
Saturday morning the bus arrived in Yangon.  Oddly enough, I had an amazing night's sleep on the bus.  We were met at the bus station by a dozen or so taxi drivers all willing to take us where we needed for a hefty sum.  I've noticed this is a trademark at every bus station in nearly every country I've been too.  Usually, they're some of the most annoying people you'll ever meet too.  Here was no exception, as they were yelling so loudly at us we couldn't even hear each other.  This really cool French girl finally got in one of the driver's face and told him to just stop talking... it was the funniest thing I think I've ever witnessed at 5 AM.

We made it to the guest house after dropping off this German guy and I immediately set out to do some souvenir shopping with my last $30.  On my way to the market this guy offered me a really good (but not unheard of) rate to change my money into the local currency.  He asked to inspect my bills as the banks won't accept any foreign currency that has so much as a crease in it.  He took my twenty and told me to wait.  Despite what is about to happen, I'd like to reimind everyone that I'm not a complete idiot- I told him to either give me the twenty back or let me come with him.  He said to wait again and I began to follow him.  He called for his friend and explained to me that it was illegal for him to change money on the black market (which was true)  and that I should wait with his friend.  I was fairly comfortable with this so I sat down with his friend at the market.  As the first guy walked away, his friend stood up to tell him something and then started sprinting through the market.  Of course I had a huge bag with me and they easily escaped.  I know it was just a twenty, but it was my LAST twenty in the land of no ATMs or credit cards.

I made the mistake of involving the police, who were friendly, but completely useless.  A really intense officer said  "don't worry, we have intelligence scouting the market."  Haha, "intelligence".  Fortunately, I was able to keep a straight face.  After three hours waiting in what I was told was the police station (no bars, no badges, no uniforms), I just wandered off;  no use in wasting my last day here on a lost cause.

After losing my $20, I set out to take some free pictures.  I passed these guys on the street and it turned out to
be one of my favorites from the trip, although I'd still rather have my twenty back.
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That night I decided to check out this gigantic boat that had to be over 100 yards long.  It was shaped like a bird and was illuminated at night... I was told it was very picturesque.  Seeing as I had no money for a cab, I walked.  It's hard to differentiate the slums in this city, but somehow I knew I wasn't walking through  the best area of town, fortunately I had my tri-pod and was still pissed off about the guy stealing my money.  While I didn't look the part, I felt like Rambo.   I made it through the slums without  any problem, although a man did ask me if I wanted to buy a girl.  I'm not sure if he meant for the night or forever, but neither would have surprised me.  I finally arrived at the boat tired and thirsty- it was decent.  

My flight left the next day and there was little to note except the surprise departure tax at the airport.  Why this little gem wouldn't be included in the ticket price in a land without any means of obtaining extra cash is beyond me.  The guy from Hong Kong offered to loan me the $10 but I wanted to make a point first.  I told the lady I didn't have any more cash because someone stole it at the market.  She started to give a response, but I quickly asked if they accepted credit cards. After she said no, I asked where the nearest ATM was.  The only response I got was a really funny blank stare.  I was fully prepared to play this game for a while, but my friend handed my the ten and we were on our way.

My lasting impression of Burma is that its an incredible place to visit for many reasons.  Excellent scenery, amazingly unique culture, and some of the friendliest people I've ever been around.  The best part about it, however, is that nothing has been spoiled by tourism.  Nothing.  It's a country so far removed from the rest of the world that it's both sad and exciting at the same time.  Obviously, infrastructure  is terribly poor, but it simply adds to the country's character.  I will definitely return at some point and doubt much, if anything,  will have changed.