16th October 2001 until 1st April 2002

1. Thai preparations

After a lengthy flight I finally arrive in Bangkok on the 17th October where I check in with Thomas and Anke at Merry V Guesthouse (120Baht<=3USD). Khao San Road has not changed that much: it's still the busy tourist ghetto where the high expectations of the new arriving farangs have to wrestle with noisy polluting traffic, scams, hustlers and rivalling Tuk Tuk drivers. The legendary "One night in Bangkok" is facing a new shock therapy though: Alcohol prohibition after 1 am! I organize my Visa (1400B) at the Nepalese Embassy before noon and enjoy the view from the futuristic sky train. Of course my flight reservation has been cancelled. The new departure is 2 days later than planned. So after viewing "The Beach" I board my direct supreme-executive-VIP bus to Krabi (Actually a normal coach and, yes, we have to change bus in Surat Thani!). I stay with two Donnas from England near Ao Nang in some thatched huts (the two ugly frogs in my bathroom are included in the price of 300B/2 nights). A little boat drops me for 50B in Ao Railay, a lovely, sandy beach resort, hidden by huge, jungle-covered limestone formations. Very inviting. I chose the rock-climbing agency "Cliffs Man" to perfectionate my spider man skills and tease my vertigo. Great fun to hang 20 meters above the ground on a wall with a very inconvenient angle, and feel all strength slowly being drained from your arms. On Saturday night I go for some happy hours to @rt cafe with Donna (Kylie Minogue), Donna (her armed bodyguard) plus Bob (Mr TP) and Ruth. The next day I stay with Donna in Krabi where some peaceful religious processions turn out to be a firecracker festival. We rent a motorbike (100B) to see the Tiger Cave and climb the steep 1200+ steps for the panoramic view from monkey-besieged Wat Tham Sur. After sleeping like a baby in the luggage storage of an overnight bus, I find myself back in Bangkok where I finally board my plane to Dhaka in Bangladesh.

I arrive at 11:30 pm at a militarised airport where I wait for ages for my confiscated pocked knife (security item) until my bus is gone and I am stuck. A friendly security officer still manages to get me somehow to my free hotel. Next day we go by taxi through the absolute chaotic, rickshaw-infested town until Sangshad Bhaban. A part of the population has arsenic poisoning as the WHO's recommendation for arsenic testing was too expensive before digging wells throughout the country. I fly out with Biman Bangladesh Airlines in the early afternoon with destination Kathmandu, Nepal.

2. On the roof of the world

At 6 am on the 27th October 2001, Norman Sherpa is patiently sitting in the back of the little, overcrowded bus next to his well-experienced guide Silvan Sherpa, hoping for the strenuous 10 to 12 hour journey to Jiri to come to an end. Many Nepali are feeling sick from the uneven rocking motion of the dusty vehicle and a woman standing in a traditional dress is holding the head of her dirty child who is throwing up on the brand-new waterproof cover of the expedition backpacks. The day before, the two friends have bargained around the many trekking shops in Kathmandu to gather the necessary equipment for their journey: fleece combination, rain gear, double gloves, warm socks, UV eye shield, bonnet, bought for about Rs 1500 (1 USD = 76 Nepalese Rupee (Rs)); a -20 degrees sleeping bag rented for Rs30/day and two water bottles plus some high-energy dry food. They have even sprayed some fat on their light walking shoes. They finally arrive in Jiri, the entrance gate to the Khumbu region at an altitude of 1860 m, where they check in for Rs20 into a rustic wooden teahouse. After apple porridge and a milk tea - that together with hot muesli will be the standard breakfast for the next few weeks - our two Sherpas shoulder their 15-17 kg backpacks, fix a bandage around their knees, seize each two wooden sticks and slowly start their march into the mountains. The stony path becomes progressively steeper and winds along small lichen-covered rocks, past little, icy waterfalls surrounded by wild flowers and ferns, high conifers, dense thorn bushes and grass fields. Around the passes above 3000 m their path would lead them through dark enchanted forests formed of old, crippled trees, from where strange noises escape from the misty undergrowth, and past abandoned witch huts standing next to black ponds and surrounded by ancient, mossy stone walls. Another time they would follow a bright, sunny fairy trail or a friendly, silvery path guiding them between little, blue mountain flowers, where a single humming bee is collecting honey in the last sunrays of the day. The few Sherpas and fellow travellers they meet are greeted with a hearty "Namaste". These tough people advance slowly (sometimes without shoes) carrying their enormous loads of up to 95 kg on the back. During the first week the two friends are marching through numerous valleys and regions where they cross windy hanging bridges, discover many little villages (Sete, Jumbesi, Manidingma, etc), isolated farms or teahouses and negotiate six passes between 2500 and 3000 m (Deorali, Kari La, Chutok La, etc) . In 6 to 8 hours of walking they advance 15-18 km and about 1000 altitude meters a day. They encounter many brave, packed, hairy Yaks, a scared snake and spot a lot of birds, including the beautiful Dapi (looking like a bird of paradise), and some eagles gliding motionless in the ascending hot air.

After some hours your mind is wandering off. You are trying to focalise on your walking, to concentrate on your path or on calculating the remaining time to the next stop. But your fading strength brings your thoughts again to your backpack, heavily weighting on your aching shoulders, or you will suddenly feel your taped blisters on your toes and the pudding inside your sore legs. To escape the torture you are wishing to be somewhere else. Eventually some music tunes that pop up in your head might give you the rhythm of your steps and provide the strength to negotiate the missing steps to the top of the next pass with a final inhumane effort. When the last burning sunrays disappear in the late afternoon the clouds creep up the mountain and an icy wind chases the two Sherpas into the next lodge. In the simple, wooden hut they gather around the central oven to inspect their damaged feet and numb muscles (calves). They order some Dal Baht, the traditional lentil and rice dish, drink chai (tea) and read or socialise with the hosts or the other guests. Latest at 8 pm they are huddled in their sleeping bags and blow out the candle.

After Lukla, where you can fly in by plane, the path is getting easier and the two travellers encounter more tourists on the trail. In Monjo they pay their Rs1000 entrance fee to the reserve and head up the steep hills to Namche Basar to visit the little Saturday market. They are finally in the high mountains at 3500 m: the land is barren and the nights are getting colder. They get exhausted much faster and the heavy altitude walk to Dule the next morning feels rather extreme. First symptoms of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) like headache or sleeping problems can easily occur above 3000 m. In the last 6 weeks already 16 people have lost their lives in the region due to High Altitude Cerebral or Pulmonary Edema (HACE, HAPE) or mountaineering accidents. With Tim, one of Jack Kerouac's Dharma Bums (3 years on the road) they are joking about garlic soup, the Nepali all-round remedy against altitude sickness, avalanches, Yetis and falling into crevasses on the glacier. Every single good has to be carried up here by porters, thus making daily life quite expensive. Lacking firewood, the ovens are heated with Yak shit and at one large lodge in Machermo they almost have to fight to obtain some sugar for their self-made tea (hot water costing Rs160).

On 6th November the first objective of the expedition is reached: Gokyo Peak (5360 m). Standing there in the icy wind, finally on the top, with the enormous, awesome mountains all around, they suddenly know that it was worth every single, painful step, every salty drop of sweat and every aching bone. The ascend from Gokyo village lasted about 100 minutes and the last quarter of the way was almost tragic: The author of this report had to stop every 5 to 10 meters, trying to catch his breath and waiting for his heartbeat to reach tolerable frequencies again. But at last he was on the top, surrounded by the ever-present, eternal mountains and its white, snow-capped peaks, majestically shaping the horizon. The next morning the two friends join a little group with a guide for an excursion along the glacier to the fifth lake, with its nice turquoise colour, from where you have a fine view on Mount Everest. Because of a little snowstorm they get stuck in Dragnag (4700m) after crossing the stony glacier. Here they meet the Swiss couple Hanna and Michael. On 9th November they finally risk the traverse over the Cho La Pass (5360 m). The climb up the impressive wall is extremely strenuous as the rocks and lose gravel do not secure a safe grip for the shoes, the drinking water freezes in the bottle and the thin air slows down each movement. Your toes and fingers are numb, your lungs are aching, the frozen nose is dripping and the blood is pumping through your tired body. For a few moments the exhaustion almost provokes a blackout. You fall on your knees and try to hold on the nearest rock, waiting for the dizzy feeling to disappear. After a little rest on top of the Cho La the Sherpas wade through the deep, white snow of the glacier and carefully negotiate the hazardous descent over slippery boulders into the valley on the other side of the pass. Without a single cloud the visibility is amazing. In Dzonglha (4830 m) the headache slowly disappears. The next day it's a relaxing walk to Gorak Shep where they check in at the famous Himalaya Lodge. Around 3 pm the two Sherpas wear all their clothes, grab a torch and prepare their ascend of the Kala Patar (5550 m). Step by step, with extremely slow movements, and forcing their breath to levels of hyperventilation they advance - surprisingly without stopping - in only 45 minutes to the top of the hill. The last meters are a confusing climb along some sharp rocks. But then the panoramic view in the red, fading light of the day is spectacular. The black snow-covered Nuptse and Everest (8848 m) are displayed in front of your eyes like huge chocolate cakes with powder sugar, that the red sunrays are decorating with a raspberry syrup top.

Although Sunday is bathing day, the Sherpas only dare to shampoo their heads in a little bucket with hot water. Immediately the hair is frozen and combing produces a cascade of little snowflakes (no it's not dandruff!). No surprise that the drinking water freezes in the room. After 10 days without washing (plus sleeping and walking in the same clothes) everybody is dreaming about a hot shower. The last objective, Everest Base Camp (from where the foolish expeditions start), is reached after a two hour walk over the rugged glacier. Except from being the highest dump in the world, there is nothing spectacular about this site. One day later the four-hour walk down to Periche, together with Michael, is nice and easy. At 3 pm you can attend here a seminar about AMS in a small medical facility, where some scientists are conducting a Diamox study. The oxygen rate of 86% and the pulse of 92 are ok. After a good night sleep a single Sherpa walks down the very scenic path through Tengboche and arrives in Shyangboche around 3 pm, thus ending on the 18th day the 200-250 km long trek. Some locals are carrying away yet another tourist who has just died of AMS. Mendo, the manager of the lodge next to the helicopter landing platform, organizes a discounted flight ticket (100 USD) to Jiri (her brother is the flight attendant), teaches the hungry Sherpa how to cook Dal Baht and even signs him up as crew member of an aborted expedition to the Pumo Ri. The next morning everybody helps to load the heavy equipment into the delayed 4 tons cargo helicopter from Asian Airlines and then the deafening Russian MI-17 rises into the air to bring its passengers safely to Jiri. The equipment is packed further onto the next bus, but the ride on the crammed roof of the overcrowded vehicle is so uncomfortable that the Nepali expedition leader decides to charter it altogether, so that no new passengers are allowed anymore. After one hour there is a seat available inside the bus and after the Dal Baht lunch (eaten with the fingers) our Sherpa is lying on a bench next to the driver, until arrival in Kathmandu at 7 pm.

3. Nepal

Perched on top of the Himalayan mountains, the kingdom of Nepal is where Tibetan serenity meets Indian insanity to create one of the world's most fascinating countries. Through these awesome mountain ranges and noisy, polluted agglomerations, sublime peace and absolute chaos are walking hand in hand where holy cows are shitting on the crowded, temple-lined roads and busy street vendors and shabby beggars, monks and Maoists, as well as lost backpackers and package tourists with expensive tele-objectives are bustling in a non-stop freak show. In Kathmandu the real-life circus can be best observed from one of the excellent rooftop terraces serving hot lemon, lassi (curd drink), locally produced international beer and chai (sweet milk tea) to go with the Nepali all-time favourite Dal Bhat, delicious momos (dumplings) and all types of international cuisine. No surprise that Kathmandu has become the tourist Mecca of the region.

On 24th October 2001 my restless friend Silvan picks me up at the little airport and we check in at the comfortable Royal Gorkha Garden Hotel for 100 Nepalese Rupees per person (USD1 = NR75). It's easy to meet a lot of nice people here and due to the social skills of Silvan I soon find myself back with groups of up to a dozen people for breakfast, day trips or night-time activities (Tom & Jerry, 'Hippie Party' at New Orleans). First there is Bert from Germany and his blind date Katrin. They have met through internet for trekking and afterwards Katrin stays in our room, where her sleep is quite disturbed by our snoring. Then there are Harald (Harry), the medical student; Ravida (Rabbit) from Israel; charming Denise from London, who is an adept of Reiki healing; extremely sociable Julika (competing with Silvan about who is able to talk to the most people) with her "adopted" Nepali girl; the wandering monk Jean-Jacques from New Caledonia, whose unconventional understanding of our world make him an interesting, always-laughing discussion partner; sad Lisa from Denmark; Frank, the lost French-Swiss with his funny sense of humour; our biking Kiwi mates; our rafting team, including Justin, Kevin from New Zealand with his ecologically conscious sister Jenni and many others.

The lively Dasain celebrations (or Nepali Christmas) are a time for great rejoicing, except for the confused, eye-rolling goats, as many auspicious shrines and places, including the atmospheric Durbar Square in the heart of Kathmandu, are widely misused as a sacrificial slaughterhouse. Large crowds of people cue in front of the sacrosanct 36-m-high Taleju temple, which opens it's gates only once a year. The venerated Kumari, a child who is selected to be a living goddess, dwells in her golden cage near the old Palace complex. After the massacre of most of the royal family on 1st June 2001, even the Kumari was replaced by one probably more loyal to the opportunistic King Gyanendra who, following a well-established tradition of fratricidal regicide, replaced his brother, the beloved King Birendra, on the Throne. The country is further destabilised by the militant Maoists who claim a communist republic and wreck havoc by plundering police posts, killing people (2000 victims in 6 years) and blowing up the Coca Cola factory in Kathmandu (29th November). The result: the vital tourism industry is down, there are military checkpoints throughout the country and finally, on 26th November the State of Emergency is declared by the king, thus strengthening his powers. Foreigners are not targeted however and you can merely deduce the gravity of the situation each day by the varying amount of policemen patrolling the touristy district Thamel. For us backpackers it's business as usual: we are encouraged to continue our sight-seeing, we drink our delicious fruit juices and Everest Steak House still serves us a maximum of daily proteins (Try the heavenly Chateaubriand for 3 persons for NR1000!) by importing beef from Kolkata (Oops!). Together with Denise I witness the yearly whitewashing of the famous stupa at Swayambhunath, from where the sceptical, inquisitive eyes of the Buddha stare in all directions. The temple complex itself is located on a hill amidst a park, populated by competing monkeys. The largest stupa in Nepal however is the huge Tibetan Bodhnath where over 600 prayer wheels are whirling their "om mani padme hum" mantras into the ether. A short walk from here, the shallow Bagmati river flows placidly through a grey, temple-lined ravine, forming the threateningly smoking necropolis Pashupatinath. Standing quietly next to some bored Sadhus, not far from the most sacred Shiva temple, I observe in disbelief how the Hindus dispose of their dead. After the purification ceremony the corpse, wrapped in an orange-yellow cloth, is dragged out of the holy water and heaved upon a rectangular pile of mango wood, where it is covered with wet straw. The removing of the head cover reveals a wrinkled female face. An old crying man carrying a burning torch (probably the husband) walks barefoot around the little platform and sets the stake on fire, helped by his two grown-up sons. The torch is left lying on the woman's mouth. Under the eyes of the mourning assembly the brightly burning funeral pyre is nursed with wet straw until it leaves only a heap of red-glowing ashes a couple of hours later. I will never forget the shocking image when the intact left foot hanging on a charred bone is thrown again on top of the pile because it was sticking out of the fire. The ashes are unceremoniously brushed into the river.

On 14th November 2001, a 4-day-long artillery-attack-like succession of fire cracker explosions announces the start of the Hindu Diwali or Deepawali, the joyous "Festival of Light" called Tihar in Nepal and including Baitika and New Year (according to the Nepalese calendar we are now in 2058 and for the Newars it is 1122. Confused? I suggest a UN related organization should standardise all festival nomenclatures, dates and world calendars. And while they're at it, why not introduce the decimal world time (DWT), valid independently of your location on the planet and facilitating computer programs, scientific formulas, flight schedules and globalised project agendas. A pathetic experience is the chaotic Indian Embassy, where the bureaucratic procedure to obtain a 6-month multiple-entry visa involves 3 time-consuming visits over a period of 5 working days and NR3000. Patan, or Lalitpur, is the oldest city of Kathmandu Valley and marching along the exquisitely carved Royal Palace and ancient temples an Durbar Square makes me feel like a mercenary character in a historical fiction. As we are abusing repetitively of the free musical slide-shows about Tibet and India at the "Last Resort" agency we finally decide to surrender to their marketing efforts. On 22nd November at 6 am a tired army of travellers gets trucked towards the icy Bhote Kosi river north-east of the capital. On arrival we receive breakfast and a frightening briefing about our suicide mission to descend with a little rubber raft the numerous grade 3 to 5 rapids of the steaming river. "Today is a test, tomorrow there's the race", says Biff, our commander, and shows us the gap formed by his missing front teeth. Shielded with a helmet, a wet splash suit and a bulky life vest, our 7-men-strong team jumps courageously into a boat and armed with our little paddles, we chaotically fight the threatening water masses according to the excited orders shouted from the back. Surprisingly I do not instantaneously freeze to death and luckily our nutshell floats more or less where Anil, our experienced guide, tries to direct it. Although we escape most of the huge boulders and water traps, we still can not avoid the quasi catastrophe where Kevin bravely falls into the river and where we lose Justin to the icy floods. In the evening we camp at the idyllic Last Resort and stuff ourselves at the delicious buffet in the Instant Karma Bar. At first repelled by the steep price of USD65 a jump at "Ultimate Bungee" I am finally convinced by the compelling marketing facts, while standing on a huge suspension bridge spanning the lush, green canyon and staring down a thrilling 166 m at the wildly roaring river. The next morning Martina weighs me and solidly straps the elastic bungee rope to my ankles and the security holster around my waist. Time for a last picture and then I let myself fall head over into the depth. Excellent experience to observe the windy surroundings pass by through a progressively narrowing tunnel vision, due to the increasing speed and then watch the little trees and rocks near the river exponentially grow in size as the ground approaches. But as soon as I feel at ease with my feather light body weight and my newly attained adrenaline levels, I am already flung back into the air. After several bounces, when I am hanging there, helpless like a dizzy worm on a fishing cane, they slowly lower me down and I can start my journey back up to the bridge to receive my free T-shirt. That day my team bravely races down the thundering river, avoiding dangerous rocks and gaining vital seconds at the most hazardous rapids, getting only once into trouble, when I am half drowning in the cold, foaming water, while lying in my emergency position on the bottom of the damned boat that is flooding completely. Casualties of the day: 1 raft destroyed and 1 girl injured. We win another T-shirt for our second best time and the conviction that our USD55 were well spend at this Bhote Kosi River Festival, as the profit is used to finance a local development project. On the 27th I say bye-bye to Kathmandu and spend 10 lost hours in a huge traffic jam due to the usual fatal accidents on the narrow mountain route to Pokhara. I select Hotel Amrit (NR100) in the Lakeside area and endure A.I. (better named Artificial Stupidity) in the evening. Mostly used as a base camp for the Annapurna circuit, I fully enjoy the attractions of Pokhara by hiking up the hill to the elevated World Peace Pagoda, Devi Fall and the disappointing cave and Tibetan Camp and by accomplishing an early-morning excursion (through loads of horrible spider webs) to Sarangkot, from where you see a postcard picture view of the Annapurnas (8091m) and the striking Machhapuchhare (6997m). Martin, a wild German documentarist (ZDF) and Nepal specialist, gives me a bumpy ride on his motorbike to shoot some images with his professional camera.

After jet another painful bus ride I arrive in Sauraha at the gate of the Royal Chitwan National Park and misuse the disastrous situation of the tourism sector by checking in for a mere NR100 at the luxury Himalayan Safari Hotel. On my visit of the Elephant Breeding Centre I have to be evacuated with a canoe as a huge, furious male, who starts rampaging through the alarmed village, has obviously gone mad. Before fleeing, I see him breaking through a bamboo hut. Early the next morning I pay my NR500 entrance fee to the park, which is famous for its rhinoceros, and cross the brown Rapti river with Hera, my young guide. We are quietly wandering through the 2-m-high grassland and exploring the thick undergrowth of the jungle to search for droppings and footprints of wild animals (Rhino, Tiger, etc). The suspense is extreme as, although being the object of your quest, the only thing you really do not want, is to be face to face with the two tons of a nervous Rhino colossus. Although I see deer, monkeys, crocodiles and footprints in abundance, the dreaded encounter is postponed until the afternoon, where, from the safety of my Elephant's back (NR700), I observe the powerful, intimidating animal in its grey armour, angrily trampling the bush in search for food. I meet Silvan for sunset watching at the sandy riverbank and the next day, we take a dirty local bus to Sunauli, an ugly, little town on the border of India.

4. Got to go to Goa

A country beyond good and evil, India has the power to suck unwary visitors into a spiritual and cultural vortex from where it is difficult to escape. No surprise that throughout history leaders of successive invasions (e.g. Alexander) simply saw their armies disintegrate on arrival. The Hindu religion, practiced by 80% of the over 1 billion Indians, is based on a crowded pantheon of deities (330 millions!), reincarnation according to your karma, dharma (duty), and the caste system. It is divided into 4 varnas, priests (Brahmin), warriors (Kshatriya), merchants (Vaishya), peasants (Shudra) plus the untouchable Dalits, and is a key factor for understanding this complex society which emerged from one of the oldest civilisations.

On 2nd December 2001 at 17:30 Silvan and I cross the improvised border of Nepal with mixed feelings as the first local greets us with a welcoming "Hello! Fuck you!" The Indian border officials are friendly though and soon we find ourselves crammed in the bus to Gorakhpur, famous only for its regular plagues of flies. The chaotic train station reminds me of a field hospital during a war. We try to push a narrow path through the crowds of people, who are rushing to their trains, are patiently standing in the way or are squatting with a cup of chai next to conglomerations of whole families, sleeping on the hard ground, huddled in old blankets next to their bulky belongings. Somehow we manage to acquire a second class sleeper ticket to board the 22:15 Express train to Varanasi (46 Rupees = 1USD) and that we upgrade for 75Rs to an actual upper berth reservation. Being ultra punctual the comfortable train arrives already at 4:30 in Varanasi, one of the holiest cities and another open-air crematorium, as it is the most auspicious place to die in India. A three-wheeled auto rickshaw drops us near the deserted Dasaswamedh Ghat on the holy, polluted Ganges, that peacefully flows through the night until its concrete steps and platforms slowly come to life with the occasional bather who, standing knee-deep in the fresh, sacred water, performs his morning puja (prayer) and ritual purification. The first silhouettes of meditating men appear sitting cross-legged and motionless on the banks of the river and the shadows that were hiding in a corner progressively turn into sleepy pilgrims, long-bearded Sadhus, beggars and ambulant sellers putting up their stores. The air fills with chatter, isolated shouts from the boatmen and the regular clapping of the laundry from the washing stones. From the rooftop terrace of the Vishnu Rest House we observe the incredible beauty of the huge, red sun, rising majestically out of the legendary, misty Ganges and giving birth to a new day. I check in with Frank and Silvan for 250Rs and then we go for a walk through the noisy, crowded streets in Varanasi. Predatory touts, wannabe tourist guides, hustlers and aggressive cycle-rickshaw drivers are testing the tourist's stress resistance, but a succession of 5 to 10 firm "No" discourages even the most determined nerve wreckers. Progressively I get used to the sight of free roaming cows, happily feeding on hard paper, and after some days I do not get lost anymore while meandering through the narrow, winding alleys in search of my favourite rooftop restaurant Shanti Guesthouse, near the uninspiring Golden Temple and a stone throw away from the main burning Ghat Manikarnika. Huge piles of mango wood provide the fuel for the ever-smoking funeral pyres, waiting for the dead humans' last purification. One day I witness how a half-cremated body is beaten with a stick until the skull breaks open and the brownish brain mass bursts out. Unbelievable! Equally insane is the sporadic glorified occurrence of sati, where a widow commits suicide by throwing herself into the flames of her burning husband. For sunset we hire a boat (25Rs) to row along the 7km-long temple-lined Ghats with dozens of colourful kites battling for supremacy in the sky and floral candle light offerings floating magically behind us in the Ganges. Frank and I decide to go for a swim and although I don't feel more pure and certainly not more clean it is still refreshing and a memorable experience.

On "Santa Claus Day" Silvan and I catch a sleeper train to Agra where we check in at the comfortable Host Hotel (150Rs with TV and room service). From our rooftop we are observing the mighty domed Taj Mahal, emerging out of the mist and darkness. The impressive, white marble structure with its minarets and magnificent pietra dura inlays was erected by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan as a mausoleum for his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. The tragic irony is that instead of completing the perfect symmetry of the monumental work by being buried in a projected second black Taj, Shah Jahan himself actually disrupts the harmony by the respectless, asymmetric location of his cenotaph, chosen by his son Aurangzeb. A single concession by Aurangzeb, who imprisoned his father until his death in 1658, was a fine view on the Taj from the elegant, marble palace, which is gracefully integrated into the impregnable, red sandstone fort. On a day excursion to Fatehpur Sikri we explore the remains of Emperor Akbar's perfect city. The architectural masterpiece includes the wonderful Jama Masjid mosque with its 54m-high Victory Gate and many intriguing palaces and towers that can be accessed by climbing over a wall behind the massive, ruined fortifications after bribing the guard. Entrance fees have recently gone out of control (eg Taj costs 750Rs) and decuplated to 250Rs (not including camera fee).

On arrival at the busy New Delhi train station we walk through the onslaught of rickshaw drivers into the bustling Main Bazaar where we elect Hotel Sweet Dreams (200Rs with TV) as our new domicile. The capital, which is divided into Old and New Delhi, is much more pleasant and less polluted as shocked travellers had reported. After 2 days of bureaucratic hassle with the Embassies of Germany (who do not feel concerned about Luxembourg), Belgium (whose friendly officials type 2 Letters of Introduction for free), Pakistan (Visa within 24 hours for 70Rs) and Iran, I am ready for some sightseeing. We cruise along the large boulevards in New Delhi to see India Gate, glimpse at Humayun's Tomb, visit the white Lotus Temple (Bahai) and explore the National Museum. I shop for electronics, but 30000Rs for the handheld PC Compaq iPac is unfortunately too expensive. I buy a pirate copy of Age of Empires II instead and taste the Indian Big Mac equivalent Chicken Maharaja with the saved money. Anoop Hotel remains our favourite breakfast place though. On the day of our departure to Goa via Rajasthan a terrorist attack on the Indian Parliament in Delhi inflames the already tensed relations with Pakistan, leading to a hermetic closing of the common borders, thus ruining my future travel plans.

After a horrible night in a meter-gauge train we arrive at lunch time in Jaipur, the pink city. For many visitors it is the entrance gate to the legendary, deserted Rajasthan, home of the brave Rajput warrior clans. From the Evergreen Guesthouse (150Rs) we start our excursion into the chaotic, walled Old City. Like in most crowded towns in India the ear-splitting noise is extremely demanding on all the senses and tourists are confronted with a cacophony of bad smells from open sewers, filthy animals, their excrements, toxic exhaust fumes and dirty people. The stark contrast between the elaborately carved façade of the Hawa Mahal (Palace of Winds) and the crazy traffic jams of competing bicycles, horses, overloaded trucks, camel- or buffalo carts, rickshaws and impatient pedestrians makes it an ideal location for people watching. Because of Ramadan the town centre is soon shut for non-Muslims, but we escape to the top of the "Heaven Piercing Minaret" from where we observe in awe the gathering of many thousands of Muslims. We boycott the City Palace (Maybe in my next reincarnation!) but walk through the puzzling Jantar Mantar observatory. The next morning a rickshaw drops us at the foot of the magnificent Amber Fort. While patrolling through the many towers, terraces, arched gateways and labyrinthine passages I feel like a character in an Arabic fairy tale. That night we queue at the glamorous Raj Mandir cinema for a newly released 3-hour blockbuster movie with the meaningful name of "Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham". Spectacular!

After a frightening bus journey we arrive the next afternoon in the important Hindu pilgrimage site Pushkar. The neat little oasis town is crammed with its many Ghats and temples around a little sacred lake. Holy cows are omnipresent and Sadhus and other psychedelic clowns beg for coins, while the pilgrims fall prey to flower-offering priests and the peace-seeking tourists are besieged by beggars and touts. For 125Rs we stay at the quiet Bhagwati GH. From the Savriti hill you have a perfect view on Pushkar and the surrounding desert. For being strictly vegetarian (even eggs are banned) the food is surprisingly good (try Shiva Buffet for 50Rs), but the atmosphere generated by some of the tourists, who are just here to take drugs and feel important, is annoying. Government-authorised Bhang Shops cater for the regretful demand. I wonder as well how existential seekers could "find themselves in India" while they are many thousands of miles away from themselves.

It is time to risk another of the dreaded overnight busses without legroom, constant horning and hair-rising manoeuvres to avoid accidents with psychopathic truck drivers. Apparently 8 passengers lose their life every night in India. We pray and safely arrive on the 19th December in Jaisalmer. Like a mirage the ancient, imposing desert fortress towers protectively above the narrow, winding back streets of the golden Jaisalmer town. It's great to get lost in the confusing maze of bazaars, palaces, fortified gates and richly sculptured havelis. We stay at Royal Guest House (50Rs) as it has a stunning rooftop view. For 1350Rs I book a 3-day camel safari together with Jeff, who looks like George Cloony, the globetrotter Mario and Silvan. My camel and me feel an immediate mutual dislike for each other. "Princess Ugly", as I baptise the arrogant cow, smells worse from her mouth than other camels from their ass and wouldn't obey for 5 rupees. Contrary to popular belief a camel back is NOT comfortable and although it is excellent fun to cruise like a Bedouin through the burning desert, I am thankful for each stop at an abandoned village, dirty waterhole or lunch break, where our unsociable guides boil us a spicy curry with chapattis (flat bread), roasted on camel dung. As it is mating season the big males perform a revolting ritual: they blow up their tongue and produce an appalling, gurgling noise while splashing generous samples of bubbling foam on shocked bystanders. Both evenings we camp on the pleasant sand dunes of the stony Thar desert and after dinner and sunset watching with "the dog from the picture" we pass out under the bright stars. That's as good as it gets! Back in Jaisalmer we find out it is Christmas and the four camel boys improvise a party with Denni, Anita, Lorenz and as special guest a chocolate cake from the German Bakery. By now the Indian army has deployed its troops on strategic positions along the proximate Pakistani frontier and the sight of armed military patrols or fighter planes thundering over Jaisalmer are symptoms of the tensed situation.

A suicidal bus trip through the desert brings us finally to Udaipur where we check in with aching bones in a nice hotel near the Gangaur Ghat. The friendly owner Mickey serves delicious food at his sunny roof terrace, from where you have a perfect view on the romantic Lake Palace, the picturesque walled city with its impressive Palace Complex and the surrounding barren hills, where no raindrop has fallen during the last 5 years. One night we watch the James Bond movie "Octopussi" with the full bearded Michel and the bank director Kiki, our background panorama being the actual locations where the India scenes were shot. We visit the beautiful havelis, enter the large, pompous palace with the attached, expensive Shiv Nivas Hotel and do the pleasant Jagmandir Boat tour (100Rs) for a closer view of the two luxurious lake palaces. We meet up with Lorenz and book one more 20-hour nightmare bus to Mumbai (320Rs).

The business-oriented economic capital is formed by a hive of 16 million individuals. Previously named Bombay, it was the headquarter of the famous East India Company who established a de facto rule over India during 250 years. The British heritage is most striking around Fort area with its imposing Victorian University, High Court, Victoria Terminus and other colonial buildings. We reside at Sea Shore Hotel (500Rs for 3 pers) in pleasant Colaba not far from the triumphal Gateway of India. The Modern Juice Center spoils us with sublime Pineapple-Orange juices and Mocambo (Fort) serves one of the best sandwiches (Chicken Club Grilled for 45Rs). More serious sights include Malabar Hill, the instructive Gandi's home, Mahalaxmi Temple, Haji Ali's Mosque, the Dhobi Ghats, the infamous prostitution cages in Kamathipura, an evening stroll from Chowpatty Beach to Marine Drive and a visit to the Prince of Wales museum. We witness the wedding ceremony of a film producer outside the noble Taj Mahal Hotel. As Bollywood Cinema is an important part of Indian culture I cannot refuse to participate in a local casting. A nice coincidence lets us shoot a dance scene with the pretty Kareena Kapoor and Hritik Roshan, the most en vogue couple and stars of the only Hindi movie I have watched. My first impressions of 2002 can be summarized as follows: After floating helplessly in a chaotic one-way steam of thousands of desperately pushing Indians, we strand in a relatively calm area sheltered behind a car. The frenetic, riotous tumult around us reaches its climax when a carelessly thrown beer bottle hits its unlucky victim on the head. As the promised fireworks are cancelled anyway, due to the preparing war with Pakistan, we squeeze through the crowds and escape inside an empty square, eagerly protected by determined policemen who beat with their wooden sticks on any non-foreigner who inadvertedly steps into the defended area. After Lorenz notices that his wallet has been stolen we leave the war zone and seek refuge at the Colaba police station.

After an overnight train journey we arrive in Aurangabad where we stay in a mosquito-infested hole (Panchavati Hotel). The road to the multi-religious cave temples of Ellora cuts through an inspiring mountainous landscape along the historic hilltop fortress of Daulatabad. The elaborate sculptures and superb decorative features of the titanic Kailasa temple have been carved out of the solid rock with acribic precision in the 8th century. Construction time: 150 years. This awesome masterpiece of rock carving forms the world's largest monolithic structure. The uncomfortable visit to the ancient Ajanta caves is comparatively a deception as most of the touristy Buddhist caves that are lined around the half crescent of a dramatic cliff are closed for restoration. Although the setting is nice, the 250Rs entrance fee is a bit steep to see " Chemical work in progress". Finally we get an overnight train to Goa in the company of some Russians whose alternative to Vodka is Officer's Choice Whisky. Panaji, the Goan state capital is a quiet Christian town on the Mandovi River. An ideal place to get ill: I develop high fever and have to stay at the basic Menezes Hospital hanging on a Baxter. As the malaria test is negative I am allowed to recover in C-Shell Hotel (200Rs) in Vagator, a little beach village near a castle ruin, who has seen better days during the crazy all-night full-moon parties for which Goa is still reputed. Although the mushroom poisoning days are not yet over, most hippies have left and it has become calm around the palm-fringed beaches, as loud music is banned after 10 pm. The real freaks can still be encountered at the colourful Wednesday flea market in Anjuna: dread logged, absent-minded women squat next to their self-made necklaces, cunning Indians praise their T-shirts and hammocks, ageing rockers exhibit their full-body tattoos and desperate Israelis try to get rid of their Enfield motorbikes. You find everything from juice stalls through snake charmers and acrobats to official ear cleaners (with long nasty needles). With a rented motorbike (150Rs) Silvan and I explore Old Goa, the colonial capital of the former Portuguese enclave, with its many restored churches and convents. The Basilica of Bom Jesus houses the remains of the "miraculously intact" body of the Jesuit missionary St Francis Xavier.

Finally we find our promised land in Goa, around which every trip to India seems to gravitate. Palolem is a little piece of paradise formed by a half-moon-shaped, white, sandy beach and some thatched huts under shady coconut palms. Developed enough to have excellent food and basic facilities, Palolem is not yet overcrowded though and ideal for our well-deserved holiday. Together with our tolerant friend Frank we share a hut for 200Rs at Miss Jacinta Fernandez' blue Nile Cottages. I alternate with Frank to sleep under the starlit sky in Silvan's mosquito tent (until the bloody dogs decide to use it as a territory marker) and usually wake up at sunrise for jogging, push-ups, or morning swims with the dolphins and hermit crab hunting in the calm, temperate sea. I even try Yoga until I manage to painfully activate a nerve in my back, whose existence I had previously not even suspected. After standard baked-beans-with-fried-eggs-on-toast it is time to write or read at Silver Sand Restaurant. When it gets too hot we seek refuge at Baba's air-conditioned Cybercafe in Chaudi, where Presilla serves us Veg Patties during our explosive AoE2 sessions (20Rs/hour). 4 pm is watermelon time and we meet with Andrew (white spot on the beach), Ulli, Denni, Anita, Thomas, Steve, Silvan's Israeli girlfriend Tamar, her Shalom companions, Yogi master Mario (who ends up being more tanned than Jeff and the crazy, lesbian girls all together), ex-prisoner Christian and his boat-building friend, the learned Walter and his wife (30 years on the road), etc. Most of them are long-term travellers. I give German lessons, experience barefoot trekking and get invited to Baba's wedding in the Parshuram temple. After sunset - on 18th January the sun sets at 18:29 lasting 144 seconds - Silvan (Cinnamon) usually groups us with up to 15 randomly chosen people for dinner. Delicious Masala Dosas at Udipi, sublime Tandoori Chicken on the beach (80Rs), Sea Food Platter at Cool Breeze: the food is amazing. We witness the opening of the posh though flee-infested Bridge and Tunnel Bar (Bridge Club) and admire Jeff's socializing skills at the popular Ciaran's Bar.

5. Quit India

On 21st January I somehow manage to leave Goa for 3 weeks. Together with Frank I take successive busses via Margao to Hubli and then a train to Hospet (4 h) to join Silvan in Hampi. The abandoned remains of the Vijayanagar empire's capital are lost between prominent boulder formations in an impressive arid landscape. Hampi Bazaar, the laid-back travellers hangout, is integrated into the ancient ruins facing the dominating Virupaksha Temple. We rent a bicycle and explore the surrounding Zenana Enclosure, Royal Centre and Vittala Temple in classic Indiana Jones style. Later we cross the river in an overloaded coracle boat and then cool our dehydrated bodies in the refreshing currents of the water reservoir by jumping from the bridge. Another idyllic spot for swimming is the River View Restaurant where the food is tasty and the evenings are usually animated: campfire, un-religious (!) India slide-show, etc. Sunsets are particularly spectacular from the Hemakuta Hill. Surrounded by battling monkeys I observe the sun disappear behind the magic boulders to reveal a red bleeding sky while the world breaks slowly into thousand shades of dark.

Our next stop, the rather modern metropolis Bangalore, is the capital of Karnataka and the centre of India's booming software industry. After a shopping day in the busy city we hop on an overcrowded train to Mysore. Here we follow the barefooted hordes of visitors along detailed paintings of military parades in the richly decorated galleries of the Maharaja's Palace. The outdoor lighting infrastructure of the impressive palace complex approximates 100000 light bulbs and conjures a festive atmosphere to the popular Sunday evening gatherings. After a climb to the holy Chamundi Hill, where I have probably attained enlightment, I feel it is time for a change and, yes, the Maldives are not too far away. That night I improvise an 18-hour train journey to Thiruvananthapuram (332Rs for 807 km). Trivandrum, as the capital of Kerala is also called, would just have been an eventless, dusty stopover, if I had not made the acquaintance of the Selkie Shanti, with whom I have a pleasant dinner at the Hotel Regency. In Kovalam I make the unsuccessful attempt to purchase a second hand Lonely Planet Maldives. Luckily though, the efficient "Airtravel" delivers my flight ticket (8100Rs) on time and off I go to every diver's dream destination.

6. Who dives the Maldives

Scattered throughout a surface of 70000 square km, the over 1000 picturesque islands that form the 26 atolls have only been "discovered" some 20 years ago. An excellent marketing strategy, positioning the place as an exclusive ecotourism resort, combined with successive government-driven upgrades of the tourism infrastructure, guarantee a steady influx of dollar-carrying visitors, ready to be milked. The local Rufia (1USD = 13 MRF) is quasi obsolete. The Muslim population largely depends on simple fishing though.

Flight IC963 lands as scheduled on the flat, narrow strip of reclaimed land that forms Male airport. With the travel agents I play the undecided and after 2 hours of discussions with commission hunters I get the price down to a frightening 290USD for 3 nights accommodation, with half board and transfers at the luxurious Thulagiri Island Resort. My private dhoni is already waiting for me at the airport harbour to guide me through the shallow reefs along the tropical atolls and little Robinson Crusoe islands, each with it's narrow, white beach and lush, green vegetation hiding the luxury bungalows and promising privacy to it's wealthy, peace-seeking inhabitants. It is sad to imagine that these beautiful islands are doomed to disappear because the sea levels are rising between 0,5 and 1 cm each year. The highest point in Faridhoo being only 3 meters above sea, global warming will finish them off in a few centuries. Under the tangible, low-hanging clouds I feel like Noah after the flood, inspecting the top of sunken mountains.

My island, with its bright sandy beach, palm tree garden with numerous colourful birds and well-maintained, wooden buildings, is simply fabulous and such is my air-conditioned, spacious, pentagonal bungalow with TV and two separate entrances. To earn a seat in the "Sand Bar" waiting lounge, where I meet my friendly French table neighbour Virginie, we taste a glass of fruity Australian Rose wine (1,75 USD only) every evening before dinner. Refreshing and even cheaper than Coca Cola, which is locally produced from desalinated water! My strategy to take tiny samples from the enormous dinner buffet, to be able to attack more selectively the really delicious targets, was futile as first, I could not possibly even try everything and second, each culinary treat was better than the previous. On the third day I finally manage to eat through the entire breakfast buffet though and even become quite ingenious at stealing cookies to cater for my lunch. My two dives (100 USD) with the professional TGI Diving are stunning. On Furana North a 2 m white tip shark torpedoes threateningly in my direction and at the HP Reef I follow dive master Suzanne through some spectacular overhangs in a colourful coral garden. After splashing around with the numerous needle fish in the clear waters of the house reef I learn that half a day is sufficient to catch a painful sunburn.

On 3rd February a speedboat drops me in Male where I check in at the basic Extra Heaven Guest House (250MRF). I lead a sightseeing tour of the capital for a young Australian who, to the amazement of the locals, follows me around on his roller blades. The next day I hop on a shuttle boat, wait 3 hours at the crowded airport and off I go back to the breathtaking, insane traffic of Trivandrum, where the second episode of my Indian culture shock experience is waiting for me.

7. Quit India (Part 2)

To shorten the transition period - and breakfast the next morning - I buy some fantastic, coloured lollipops with ingredients that in Europe are probably even prohibited as agents in rat poison and board a train to Varkala (must be 4th class as it is filled up to the ceiling), where I catch up with my two Swiss friends. Although a meagre consolation for the lost paradise, the pleasant beach, enclosed by high cliffs, guarantees thrilling wave jumping. I get sick from a bad fish curry, drink tea with my sympathetic homonym Norman and eat delicious Spinach Spaghetti at Cafe Italiano with Anke and Guillaume. Frank's wallet got stolen and 3 days later he forgets his CD player. So he schedules a recovery mission instead of the lovely boat ride through the backwater canals of idyllic Kerala from Kollam to Alappuzha (100Rs). After an extremely annoying bus ride (the aggressive bus driver horns on average every 30 seconds) we are dropped somewhere in the darkness in Ernakulam and have to stay at the shabby Deepali Lodge (120Rs) because the ferries are on strike. On the crowded bus to the Portuguese colonial heritage in Cochi an apparently unskilled thief - the a**hole cuts into my water bottle trap - ruins my bag by inflicting 3 lousy cuts with a razor blade, without being able to steal anything but my faith in the professionalism of Indian pick-pocketing. With Frank, whom we meet back at the popular Art Cafe, I visit the Jewish quarter, whose founders had followed Jesus to India (his grave is apparently in Srinagar), the Pepper Exchange (63,3Rs/kg), the Chinese fishing nets (including a surreal prawn dinner on the filthy beach), St Francis Church (tombstone of Vasco da Gama) and a Kathakali dance performance. The 16 hours for the 800 km to Goa (280Rs) pass extremely fast as I spend them in the excellent company of Praveen.

Eventually Palolem has me back for a couple of weeks during which the border to Pakistan remains stubbornly closed. The Maldives are almost forgotten. I study the visa legislations and book a flight from Mumbai to Dubai (8720Rs). Consequently Mumbai is my next destination and on 26th February at 8 am, after a long period of abstinence, I escape from the busy Victoria Terminus into McDonald's. Fortunately after diplomatic debates the Iranian Consulate in Mumbai accepts to issue a tourist visa within 24 hours (2464Rs), thus sparing me the long return journey to Delhi (the waiting in the Emirates being a pricier alternative). I become the desperate actor in yet another bureaucratic drama as the un-negotiable condition to check in at any hotel (including those where I stayed before) is to be in possession of my passport. At the Colaba Police department I am treated like a criminal and dispatched under protest to the remote Foreigners Registration. Instead I carry my backpack once more to the merciful Consulate to obtain certified copies of the relevant pages and produce the compelling evidence to the suspicious management of Gulf Hotel where I finally move in for 195Rs about 8 hours later than expected. Just in time though to assist my friend Silvan in counting the last hours of his 3-year-long voyage. Having suddenly time on my hands, I risk a spiritual experiment in Pune. Osho the Baghwan, a guru in front of which most televangelists would turn pale of jealousy, has established a meditation centre and money machine that, from the isolation of its gardens and Club MEDitation-like facilities, operates with hyper organised brainwashing and astounding merchandising tools to help the uniformed sanyasins (seekers), with their serene, meaningful faces, to get entangled in a comforting all peachy-creamy environment. At the Welcome Centre I pay the inscription fee (500Rs), aids test (220Rs), day pass (175Rs), maroon robe (300Rs) and a cash-replacing voucher (500Rs) before attending the weird start-up course where I meet Lisa and a Spanish man. I join the daily shaking Kundalini session and from 9 pm until late I participate in the 12 steps of the intensive AUM meditation, reaching from energetic dancing to lunatic shouting. Due to a nationwide strike to protest against the dramatic religious riots, demanding 500 casualties, I anticipate my departure to Mumbai with the air-conditioned Deccan Express (210Rs) and promptly lose my voice due to a cold. Finally I listen to Gandhi's advice to quit India, but I have to wait 5 hours for Cathay Pacific's state of the art Boeing 777-300 to fly me to Dubai.

8. Dubai

Dubai has risen in only 5 decades from a few traditional Al Kaimah shacks lost on the banks of Dubai Creek to an exotic high-tech blend between Singapore and Miami. One of the seven United Arab Emirates (since 1971) it has gained its wealth from pearl diving, tax-free trading, tourism and of course black gold. I spend my first night on a comfortable bench in the luxurious airport before getting a dormitory bed for 60 Dirham (1USD = 3,6DHS) at the Youth Hostel. In Bur Dubai I climb Sheikh Saeed Al Maktoum's House with its ingeniously simple air-conditioning wind towers, I visit the excellent Museum inside the old Fort (3DHS) and take pictures of the modern skyline at the Creek. With an abras water taxi I cross to Deira where the bustling Souqs, specialised in gold, textiles, perfumes, spices and electronics are congested with frenetic Sheiks and tourists alike, who stock up on all kinds of shopping goodies as the Dubai Shopping festival 2002 with its famous raffles has started. Next to the elegant Jumeirah Beach Hotel stands the fantastic, futuristic Burj Al Arab (Arab Tower) that with its 321 m is the highest and most luxurious 7-star hotel in the world with "cheap" rooms starting at 800USD a night. Instead of paying the discouraging 100DHS entrance fee I prefer to go for a dip in the chilly Arabian Gulf at the Jumeirah Beach Corniche. Finally I even see the "Lord of the Rings" (30DHS) at the cinema inside the gigantic City Centre Shopping Complex. In the meantime I have organised with Oasis Freight a ferry boat to Iran on 6th March for 130DHS. On my way to Port Khalid my taxi driver (may his soul burn in hell!) rips me off by intentionally erring around to double the already pricey fare (36DHS). At least I have seen a bit of Sharjah as well. The comfortable overnight journey through the Persian Gulf and the Strait of Hormuz ends around lunchtime in Bandar-é-Abbas.

9. Iran

Since the death of Emam Ayatollah Khomeini, the father of the Islamic Revolution, and especially after the rise to power of the liberal president Mohamed Khatami, Iran is slowly emerging from a Persian middle age. With the segregation of genders relaxing the local parks have become places where young men timidly walk hand in hand with their girlfriends. Modern women start to wear make-up again and make sure that a lock of hair is visible from under their black chadors, the imposed uniform that looks as if the whole country was still mourning the losses and destructions during the trench war against Iraq.

Despite bewildering communication problems in the decentralised harbour in Bandar-é-Abbas I finally manage to reach the bus terminal by taxi with the additional knowledge that my fare, 1000 Tuman equals 10000 Rials (1 USD = 8000 Rials) and that locals seem to randomly quote prices in either of the two denominations. After an hour of total confusion (time to study the Persian number symbols) I somehow find myself back in a bus to Sirjan for 10000R. The supposedly 6-hour journey through sharp-edged desert mountains ends abruptly when one of the many police controls discovers about 500 boxes of Winchester cigarettes smuggled inside the double floor under the seats and in the ventilation system of my bus. My shelter for the night is a rundown mosaferkhuneh (guest house). At 7:30 the next morning I catch a shared taxi to Kerman (7000R for 1,5 hours) whose driver races at prohibitive speed past black petrified sand dunes, pointing out each wrecked transport and carbonated bus rusting away next to the plastic rubbish decorating both sides of the road. The rain has cut deep erosion channels into the soft rock and from far I spot the snow-capped mount Hezar (4420m). After a scenic bus ride I finally arrive in Bam, an oasis famous for its delicious dates, where I am welcomed by Akhbar at his Tourist Guest House (25000R). In the afternoon I roam through beautiful Arg-é-Bam, a quasi-intact fortified desert town with its bazaar, mosque, caravanserai (legendary precursor of the long-distance bus terminal) and the impressive mud-brick citadel. I am followed by half a dozen curious nurses (who even offer me a poster) so that I have to escape into the comfortable chaykhané (teahouse) near the citadel where men smoke their flavoured qalyan water pipes, as alcohol is strictly forbidden in Iran. After a typical breakfast (flatbread with rose jam) bus company number 7 drops me in Kerman where I catch a modern bus to Yazd (6 hours) to spend a noticeably colder night in Amir Chakhmagh Hotel (35000R). I join a "photo safari" through the fantastic, animated bazaar with Markus and the English photographer Alan, who persistently mispronounces the Farsi greeting "Salam" as a nasty "Shalom". Their guide Reza keeps us out of trouble though by bringing us inside a traditional hamam that is now a teahouse. At 12 o'clock while the mullahs are shouting Allah's name from the numerous minarets I decide to continue the exploration of the UNESCO-protected Old City on my own. It is easy to get lost in the narrow alleys between the magnificent Masjed-é Jamé and Zendan-é Iskandar (Alexander's Prison). I finally meet some fellow travellers and share a taxi with the Belgians Alexandre and Valerie to the Ateshkade fire temple and the remote Zoroastrian Towers of Silence where the dead bodies were brought to be devoured by vultures. That night some friendly translator students invite me to the popular Safa'iye teahouse.

At 8 am the next morning I board my reserved bus to Shiraz and although the road through the Zagros mountains is scenic I barely endure the 7 hours as I sit next to a fat, smelly religious fanatic who has five (!) epileptic attacks during the journey. Shiraz is a friendly, welcoming city that can easily be explored on foot. I stay for 30000R at Zand Hotel. My sightseeing tour includes the citadel Arg-é Karim Khan, the tiled Masjed-é Vakil, the extensive covered bazaar and the remarkable mausoleum of Shah-é Cheragh, where I have an interesting discussion with the mysterious professor Abe who informs me that the fanatic W. Bush has just included Iran in his "Axis of Evil" against which he would not hesitate to use tactical nuclear missiles. Abe makes me order abgusht (dizi), a delicious mix of bread, vegetables, fat and mutton smashed together in a bowl. From a gastronomic point of view, almost every single meal is a hamburger or kebab - a carnivore's delight. At 7 am the next day I catch a bus to Marvdasht to approach the ancient Achaemenian capital Persepolis (30000R), destroyed in 331 BC by Alexander's armies. The extensive, imposing palace complex with its huge carved columns, rock tombs, gates and monumental stairways is impressive and gives a tangible idea of the Empire's former glory. Both attempts to work on my travel report in the teahouse of the pleasant Hafez mausoleum and inside Azadi Park are futile as I am interrupted each time by curious, hospitable locals (honeymooners, students, etc) who insist on offering drinks. For the bargain price of 117000R (<15 USD) I have decided to take a one hour flight to Esfahan with the desperately unorganised Iran Air. At the airport I encounter Bita who wishes to leave Iran and who offers me a box of chocolates.

As the Boeing 727 is delayed I only arrive at midnight in Esfahan and have to fight for a seat in one of the few shared taxis (10000R). I finally collapse in a dorm bed in the Amir Kabir Hotel (20000R), a popular backpacker place where I meet Mark, a German carpenter, movie freak Rich, sociologist Frederike and my Japanese roommates. Using standard guerrilla tactics, Mark joins me on an scouting mission where we encircle the Zayandé river and its numerous bridges with their complete spectrum of attributes (longest, nicest, oldest, etc) until we finally besiege the teahouse inside the Si-o-Se bridge. After a filling slime soup for breakfast I attend the Friday prayer gathering on the immense, atmospheric Emam Khomeini Square and contemplate the achievements of the Islamic civilisation. The heart of the city displays architectural gems like the Masjed-é Emam or the Sheik Lotfollah mosque and is entirely surrounded by shopping archways which invite to venture further into the immeasurable depths of the gigantic bazaar to discover the origins of the sweet, heavy smells of spices and perfumes. I spend the following night in a comfortable train to Teheran (8h/ 24000R). At 5:30 I check in at the Mashad Hotel and after a chaotic experience at the post office I sense that soon I have to escape the noisy, inhabitable capital. The traffic is so congested that pedestrians must share the sidewalks with roaring, fume-belching motorbikes. I take a picture of the infamous anti-American graffiti on the former US Embassy where the 1979 hostage drama took place, visit the National and Islamic Arts Museums (30000R) and finally marvel at the invaluable collection of wealth at the stunning National Jewels Museum containing the legendary Peacock Throne and the world's largest ruby and pink diamond. For the first time in five month I see the rain again and unfortunately I will not leave my winter clothes any more until I return home.

The Islamic New Year or No Ruz, where the whole country comes to a halt during 10 days, is imminent, so I decide to hurry in direction Turkey. I drive to Ghazvin in the pouring rain and at Hotel Iran, where I get an excellent heated room for 30000R, I arrange a Land Rover (160000R). The next day my guide Hamil taxies me into the mighty, cloud-covered Alborz Mountains where we enter the domain of the legendary, dreaded Hashishiyun. After sharing a modest meal at his sister's home I hike up the mountain and climb respectfully through the slippery remains of what can vaguely be identified as the ruins of a threatening castle: Lambersan, the castle of the Assassins. The setting is stunning. The next day I continue my odyssey to Rasht (10000R) where, because of No Ruz, I only find a room for 45000R at Carvan Hotel. The streets are crowded and nasty children try to frighten me with firecrackers. With baker Reza, my new acquaintance, I make a day trip to Masule, a lovely mountain village, where due to the steep inclination of the terrain, the roofs of the little houses serve as streets for those on the layer above. One more long travel day on unconventional trails follows: from Istgal-é Anzali by minibus along the polluted, but geo-strategically significant Caspian Sea to Astara (3h/10000R) on the border of Azerbaijan, then by shared taxi to Ardabil (1h/10000R) and finally by long-distance bus to Tabriz (4h/10000R). After a few days without shaving locals have started addressing me in Farsi and my Iranian disguise must seem quite convincing as I am even asked for directions. My hotel Mushad (22000R) is nasty and everything is closed because of the holiday, so this cold, rainy city can not hold me longer than a night. On the 22nd March I miss my bus and share instead a direct taxi to Bazargan (50000R), a god-forsaken place from where I climb on the back of a dirty truck to be transported to the actual antediluvian border post, a stone throw away from Mount Ararat (where Noah allegedly shipwrecked his Arch). The procedures of both Iranian and Turkish officials are frightening, but eventually I stand on Turkish territory.

10. Turkey

As a welcome I have to wade 500m through the mud and then my two pushy moneychangers, who planned to relieve me of my remaining Rials, continue to swap notes in the pouring rain until I find myself back with 3000000TL instead of the due 30000000TL (1 USD = 1350000 Turkish lira). I can't believe it. A packed dolmus (mini bus) drops me in Dogubayazit where I almost kiss the ATM. On my journey by dolmus to Van (5mioTL) I clearly sense the underlying hostility between the Kurdish population and the Turkish soldiers. We cross a heavily controlled area and at each guarded checkpoint the passengers have to present their ID. I chat with a young Kurdish teacher, who complains about his monthly salary of 300 USD, until we finally arrive in Van, a friendly, unpretentious city in a valley, famous for its prominent, ruined castle that triumphantly watches over the largest lake in Turkey. After an aborted attempt to visit the site in semi-darkness on arrival, I enjoy a thorough exploration of the dramatic Van Kalesi rock and its spectacular viewpoints after a good night's sleep at Hotel Ipek (5mioTL). On Saturday night an excellent bus drives me to Kayseri (25mioTL/ 15h) from where I get to Goreme in the magical Cappadocian region where generations of Hittites and later their Christian descendants have transformed the thousands of volcanic cones and boulders, that are scattered across the landscape, into a surreal beehive agglomeration by carving habitations, churches and whole underground cities into the soft, porous tuff rock. What an adventure to climb through narrow tunnels and chimneys to find your way from inside to the top of these gigantic menhirs. Although it is original to sleep in one of these cave dwellings at the Backpacker's Cave (8mTL), I almost freeze to death during the night and I understand why Goreme is deserted in the off season. I book an interesting tour (27mioTL) to dive into the labyrinthine depths of the impressive underground city Derinkuyu, to hike through the scenic Ihlara gorge and to visit the exciting Selime monastery.

After a night in a luxury bus with a pretty stewardess who distributes refreshments I finally arrive in wonderful Istanbul after crossing the Bosphorus. In Sultanahmet I reserve a dorm bed for 7 million TL in the Yucelt Interyouth Hostel, flanking the world famous Aya Sofya which, at least from the outside, looks rather plump and unrefined compared to the tall, elegant Blue Mosque on the other end of the park. Another highlight of the former Constantinople is the impressive Topkapi Palace, constructed by Mehmet the Conqueror after the Ottomans had invaded the city in 1453. The palace is a configuration of four courts containing worldly offices, military structures, the Hazine Treasury and private chambers such as the pompous Harem and annexed pleasure domes. Intriguing exhibits include the famous Topkapi Dagger, the 86 carat Kacici Diamond and a threatening letter from the Prophet Mohammed to the Copts. In Istanbul there are many interesting sights to select from: the Archaeological museum, the University, the crowded Bazaar (where I shop until I drop!), Suleiman's Tomb, Akmerkez Shopping Centre, the Galata Tower, and many architectural gems that are threatened by seismic activity. In the hostel I meet Christian, a German Humanist and Boris from Berlin with whom I check out the excellent nightlife around Taksim. Delicious Kebabs, Turkish Coffee, Kofte and spicy Durum with Ayrani (sour yoghurt drink) are our constant companions. At the Lufthansa office I exchange my miles for a flight ticket to Frankfurt, but at Ataturk airport I still have to pay 48 USD taxes to receive my "free" flight. I spend my Easter evening sleeping at the airport, because I depart on 1st April at 6 am already. At 9 am I board a comfortable train to Luxembourg (49 Euro) and luckily find a coin to call my mother from the station around midday.