Things to Do in Chandigarh When its 112 Degrees Out

Find a nice comfy spot to take a nap.

Find some shade and get a shave.

Find a job in an air conditioned museum and take a nap.

Hang out.

Cruising Kasauli

It has been a bit warm here in Chandigarh, with daily peaks over 110 degrees. So last weekend we decided to head up into the mountains to escape the heat for a bit. We zipped through the skinny winding roads of the Himalayan foothills, with each child clutching a plastic barf bag. Despite many false alerts, we managed to remain vomit-free, a rather rare event for our kids on windy roads. The mountains are beautiful here, though a bit dusty this time of year. We did manage to escape to the much cooler temperature of a mere 102.
One of the treats of the mountains is the ever entertaining monkey drama. In Kasauli there are lots of these cute and fluffy, relatively well mannered gray monkeys.

This plump nugget and Ameen became friends. He enjoyed her chips, and promised to come visit us soon, though he said he prefers to wait until cooler days.

Kasauli is a quaint little town, which once served as a hill station for the Brits. It's primary tourist attraction is called Monkey Point, where legend has it, Lord Hanuman, the Hindu monkey deity, took a rest during his many exploits aiding the hero Rama against his battles with the demon king Ravan. Unfortunately we never made it to Monkey Point. For some reason, Monkey Point sits inside a high security Indian Air Force base. We diligently emptied our pockets of all electronic devices, waited a few hours for the Air Force officers to complete their lunch, pushed and shoved our way through a mob of excited devotees, only to find out that my painstakingly acquired Indian government provided proof of "Indianness" card was not sufficient proof that I was Indian. Upon leaving the premises, I was approached by many folks kindly offering me use of their IDs so we could go inside. After glancing at the handful of uniformed and rifle carrying jawans, we chose to eat lunch instead.

One of the many heritage homes from the days of the British raj.

We saw this lovely bovine shopping for "home making" things.


A devout Ramones fan working as a jalebi maker -- they were extremely tasty, perhaps it was the spirit of Joey Ramone and his sticky sweet voice.


And finally, an amazing sun set on the way back down to Chandigarh.

Akhand Path in Sukharan

We recently went to an Akhand Path in Sukharan, my maternal ancestral village. I wrote a detailed blog post a few years back on the history of Sukharan. If you're interested, you can read it HERE to see the story of how a Punjabi village formed and evolved. Also, don't forget, you can click on any of the images in this post to see a much more clear, higher resolution version of the image.


Random village singing extortionist women who heard about the Akhand Path. They sing and sing and sing and then say things like, "Aray Bibiji, you've come from so far, and heard our songs, please give us some money now. Thats it! More now, come on, we are such good singers. This is such a small amount of money for a person as impressive as you." This is the crew leaving after a successful mission of cash extraction; notice the bag of cash slung over the woman on the left's shoulder.


Ananya suspicious of yet another photo.

My nephews listening to the amazing kirtan in the Gurdwara.

I dig the Bollywood cinemagraphic quality of this shot.


These guddas used to be everywhere in Punjab, but the numbers have plummeted recently, like so many other Punjab classics. Modernization has really started to take root. Back in the day I used to love riding in the back of a gudda.


Fortunately, Facebook and the XBox haven't yet hit in the village, so raising Nishan Sahib at the Gurdwara is still a big deal. We all hung about for a few hours as this gentleman shimmied up the flagpole to wrap and raise a bright new flag of the Khalsa.

More fun with slow shutter speeds at dusk.


Nayan cruising with his new pindh buds, aka, Punjabi homeschooling lessons.

Long Walk to Freedom

A few weeks ago I went through a phase where I was inhaling books far faster than we could find decent book shops. As a result, I decided no more books less than 700 pages. So after a couple weeks, I finally finished the captivating memoirs of Nelson Mandela titled Long Walk to Freedom.

Mandela's life was so different than the rough image I had outlined in my head. For one, his life is far more exciting and inspiring than his speeches. Also, prior to reading his book, I associated Mandela with Gandhi or MLK, especially with respect to the latter two's idealism and strict adherence to the principal of non-violence. While it is true that he leveraged non-violent techniques, it is also true that Mandela was an effective strategist, and pragmatist; he later became a major proponent in the ANC for waging a violent campaign, ultimately founding, funding, and leading the ANC's guerilla arm called Umkhonto we Sizwe. Speaking in his own defense in the trial which saw him locked up for life, Nelson Mandela says:

We of the ANC have always stood for a non-racial democracy, and we shrank from any action which might drive the races further apart than they already were. But the hard facts were that fifty years of non-violence had brought the African people nothing but more repressive legislation, and fewer and fewer rights. It may not be easy for this court to understand, but it is a fact that for a long time the people had been talking of violence -- of the day when they would fight the white man and win back their country, and we, the leaders of the ANC, had nevertheless always prevailed upon them to avoid violence and to use peaceful methods. [...] it could not be denied that our policy to achieve a non-racial state by non-violence had achieved nothing, and that our followers were beginning to lose confidence in this policy and were developing disturbing ideas of terrorism. [...]

Umkhonto was formed in November 1961. [...] Experience convinced us that rebellion would offer the government limitless opportunities for the indiscriminate slaughter of our people. But it was precisely because the soil of South Africa is already drenched with the blood of innocent Africans that we felt it our duty to make preparations as a long-term undertaking to use force in order to defend ourselves against force.

The photos in this post are from our recent trip to Robben Island, where Mandela and other anti-apartheid political prisoners were locked up.

This is the limestone quarry where Mandela smashed rocks for much of his life:

And his prison cell:

My wife, Ameen, is shown chatting with our guide, who was a prisoner sentenced to life in prison who served 13 years. He was caught after a botched power station bombing attempt. I asked him how it felt to live on the island guiding tourists through the prison he spent so much of his life in. He said it felt great to tell the freedom story of South Africa every day.

1st Day of School

After months of homeschooling, we have finally surrendered our children's learning to someone else. The kids started school today at The Millenium School in Mohali. After multiple frustrating months of trying to arrange for the kids admission remotely, and despite all the warnings we got from folks, it was remarkably simple to find a great school and get them admitted on arrival. The hardest part was actually paying for the school (and our flat).

Its quite awkward doing business in cash; I felt like a gangster running around town with bags of money, sitting across from someone and repeatedly counting out bills one by one for many minutes. Most folks here have boxes full of fruit colored cash lying around for such transactions, but we were left with repeated trips to the ATM, and an onslaught of phone calls from vigilant bank officials back in the states.

The school itself is quite impressive: swanky new buildings, oodles of computers, projection systems, cute uniforms, and heavy piles of books. The school is taught in English, which wasn't our first choice, but too many folks were freaking out about the kids being kidnapped or getting lice from the "low class" Punjabi schools. Nonetheless, the kids have a class for Punjabi, Hindi, English, Math, "Computer Training" and some other subjects like Environmental Science.

On admission, Nayan took a challenging examination. Its a good thing we home schooled him in math and brought him up to Indian standards, the Seattle School system is spectacularly slow, and North Beach uses an overly repetitive curriculum called Saxon. We switched him onto the Singapore math curriculum, augmented with my own impromptu few months of computer programming (using a cute visual programming language called Scratch), where he wrote automated math exam programs. The excitement of taking exams of his own creation kept Nayan excited and motivated.

The school itself is quite impressive. A bus swings by in the mornings, picks the kids up, and hauls them off. For the young ones, there are Ayas, or nannies, on the bus. Ameen hopped on the bus for Ananya's first day to witness multiple shreaking 2 year olds (yes they start school here that young) who were quickly scooped up into the warm, loving arms of the Ayas, and eventually cooed into smiling submission. Once at school, the teachers greet the buses, slurp the kids off and pop them into class. Unlike virtually everything in India, the schools are remarkably organized and efficient.

After the kids left, my wife and I realized that this is the first day in 8 and half years that we've been alone together. To celebrate, we're heading to The Taj for breakfast.

Life's Short Says Seneca

Now that we've reached India, and are in the warm protective embrace of family, the questions have started. So what are your plans? The truth is, our plans are none -- we are simply out of life plans right now. I feel like I've been on a very long road trip, and not the literal one we were just on, but the metaphorical life journey, and we've managed to pull over into a rest area to have a look around, eat some warm paranthas, and flip through the atlas. I had one goal for this trip, and it is being met. My goal was simply that our lives would slow down -- that time itself would slow -- that a great life divider would appear: before the trip, and after. Back home, we have a wonderful life; we're blessed with loving friends and family, a beautiful city, a lovely neighborhood, and work that I love. All this is such great fortune, and I strive to be thankful every day, but the one thought that couldn't escape me, is that our life is simply racing by. I would blink and a new holiday season would be upon me. Mondays would appear as if I had just taken another breath. My 10th anniversary appeared and it was only moments before we were completing our final lavan. I was chatting with a good friend about this, and he suggested I read a classic philosophical work by Lucius Annaeus Seneca titled On the Shortness of Life. It was great advice. Here is a short but poignant snippet:

Though all the brilliant intellects of the ages were to concentrate upon this one theme, never could they adequately express their wonder at this dense darkness of the human mind. Men do not suffer anyone to seize their estates, and they rush to stones and arms if there is even the slightest dispute about the limit of their lands, yet they allow others to trespass upon their life—nay, they themselves even lead in those who will eventually possess it. No one is to be found who is willing to distribute his money, yet among how many does each one of us distribute his life! In guarding their fortune men are often closefisted, yet, when it comes to the matter of wasting time, in the case of the one thing in which it is right to be miserly, they show themselves most prodigal. And so I should like to lay hold upon someone from the company of older men and say: "I see that you have reached the farthest limit of human life, you are pressing hard upon your hundredth year, or are even beyond it; come now, recall your life and make a reckoning. Consider how much of your time was taken up with a moneylender, how much with a mistress, how much with a patron, how much with a client, how much in wrangling with your wife, how much in punishing your slaves, how much in rushing about the city on social duties. Add the diseases which we have caused by our own acts, add, too, the time that has lain idle and unused; you will see that you have fewer years to your credit than you count. Look back in memory and consider when you ever had a fixed plan, how few days have passed as you had intended, when you were ever at your own disposal, when your face ever wore its natural expression, when your mind was ever unperturbed, what work you have achieved in so long a life, how many have robbed you of life when you were not aware of what you were losing, how much was taken up in useless sorrow, in foolish joy, in greedy desire, in the allurements of society, how little of yourself was left to you; you will perceive that you are dying before your season!"⁷ What, then, is the reason of this? You live as if you were destined to live forever, no thought of your frailty ever enters your head, of how much time has already gone by you take no heed. You squander time as if you drew from a full and abundant supply, though all the while that day which you bestow on some person or thing is perhaps your last. You have all the fears of mortals and all the desires of immortals. You will hear many men saying: "After my fiftieth year I shall retire into leisure, my sixtieth year shall release me from public duties." And what guarantee, pray, have you that your life will last longer? Who will suffer your course to be just as you plan it? Are you not ashamed to reserve for yourself only the remnant of life, and to set apart for wisdom only that time which cannot be devoted to any business? How late it is to begin to live just when we must cease to live! What foolish forgetfulness of mortality to postpone wholesome plans to the fiftieth and sixtieth year, and to intend to begin life at a point to which few have attained!

Addo Elephant National Park

One of the highlights of our road trip in South Africa was Addo Elephant National Park. We decided to pass on Kruger Park, the largest and most well known of the wildlife refuges in South Africa, primarily because we wanted to avoid the malaria zone with the kids. We burned a bunch of time trying to find an organized safari to go to. We went to all the usual suspect web sites like go2africa.com and found the packaged safari thing didn't work for us, as we initially suspected. Neither Ameen nor I have ever been interested in organized group tours, for multiple reasons, but mostly because we don't like having a rigid predetermined travel schedule. We also love chatting with folks we meet on the way and asking them where the best places they've been. So we chatted with well traveled locals in Cape Town who assured us that our rental car in Addo and Mountain Zebra parks would fill our game viewing fix. They were right, Addo's an amazing park, and not obnoxiously overpriced like all the tours and game parks we researched.

In the 120,000+ hectare park, I felt like I was in Jurassic Park, the movie. The main rest camp is surrounded by large electrified fencing, inside of which are humans, outside of which lie many very large beasts including but not limited to: elephants, lions, hyenas, rhinos, zebras, wart hogs, and lots of cool African deer-like creatures. Some of the oddest areas were the "picnic" spots deep in the gaming area. One we considered entering was wrapped in multiple layers of 8 foot tall fencing topped off with layers of electrified wires. Multiple dents about the size of an elephant head could be seen. Next to a skinny gate were a few more warning signs. It felt like voluntarily entering a massive jail cell. Needless to say, we chose to picnic in the car.

The sign next to Ameen reads: "Beware of Lions, Alight from Vehicle at Own Risk." Instinctively and laughing, we hopped out of the car to shoot this photo. Once out of the vehicle, we were quickly overcome with paranoia. Ameen was looking for lions over her shoulder, I was looking behind us. The bush is very thick, so you can't visually be certain there are no predators for more than a few feet. We rushed the photo (hence the lack of focus) and quickly hopped back into our car. A few minutes later we drove by this not so lucky critter.


There are a number of sneaky areas called hides, where you can hang out and watch the animals undetected. The hides are usually located near a watering hole. Its an amazing way to spend a few hours.

By far the most fascinating part of the park for us, was watching the elephants in their natural habitat. Back home, we have a rather nice zoo, but it is a zoo, and it lies in a cramped urban setting. The elephants there have such a depressed look in their eyes. To see elephants living in the wild, albeit managed, but with vast space and their family structures intact was a real treat. Elephants are such social animals; we observed for hours how the adults treat the children, the teen interactions with each other, the assistance elephants gave to one another, and the discipline ( a baby was pestering her mother, and the mother slapped her trunk into the baby launching it off into the water).

Indian Club, Left. Pakistan Club, Right.

I look forward to my first impression of a country, in part because the contrast between my cartoon-like first impression, and richer departing impression is so stark. In Dubai, the first sign I noticed once out of the airport was at our hotel, and it read:

Indian club, left. Pakistan club, right. Arabic club, straight.

I started laughing as soon as I saw it, and the hotel owner asked what I was laughing about. Many things hit me at once about the message a sign like that conveys -- I chose one; I said something in Punjabi to the effect of, "well I understand we can't live in the same country, but I'd think we could at least visit the same club in a far off country." He laughed -- a portly Indian gentleman bald with a few hairs combed over. Needless to say, Dubai is not too bothered about social integration, another lesson from the sign. Beneath the sign was a photograph of the Indian club featuring the hotel owner and 12 women smiling -- all looking rather fashionable in a village-girl-visits-Manila sort of way.

Later in the evening, my wife said I had to go check out the club and report back to her. She was dying to find out what went on inside. My wife had been in the hotel lobby and saw some colorful characters disappear down the dark hall. I was curious, especially since it sounded a bit like the socially fascinating Bombay dancer bar joints Sukhita Mehta describes in one of my favorite books of all time, Maximum City. I assured her, I'd spin in, but needed to go out and grab us some dinner first. We were bushed after our 9 hour red eye flight from Capetown, and a rather bizarre time at the Emirates Mall, home of the world's only giant indoor ski mountain which is so kooky in concept that I absolutely had to check it out. I wandered down the street in search of some hummus and lubne. I passed 3 herculean muscle men with black tank tops, rubbery sandals, extremely well coifed facial hair, standing next to 3 cherry red Bollywood motorcycles. One of the gang had odd looking tennis ball shaped lumps shooting out of his shoulders. While standing out front of the hummus joint waiting for my meal, the manager and a couple guys interrupted their chats to cat call women. I have no idea what they were saying, but they made squeezing gestures with their finger tips each time a woman passed by.

So after eating dinner, I held up my promise, and wandered near the club corridor. I was immediately herded into the Indian club. "Yes sir, yes sir, please sir, come this way only." I wonder how often the shepards get it wrong and drag a Pakistani into the Indian club, or vice versa. It was definitely bizarre inside -- 4 of the woman from the photograph, fully attired in club gear, dancing on stage and singing karaoke to American pop songs. The audience had one dude and about 15 worker guys tasked with getting me to sit down next to the other dude. I stayed only a few seconds, long enough to scan the surroundings and provide a decent report back to my wife. So first impressions of Dubai: a giant kooky mall of a city full of steroided looking muscle men gawking over imported Geisha-like dancer girls.

Kooky Characters in the Karoo

One of the most interesting things about traveling is the people you meet. We've met all sorts of interesting characters. Last night was a classic example of the social outliers you meet while backpacking around in the middle of no where. We are currently in Nieu Bethesda, a tiny town located at the end of a long dirt road connected to a paved road which is a long way from just about anywhere. Last night Nayan and I were lounging on some plywood benches out front, when an elderly gentleman appeared wearing one very old sandal and one large hiking boot, neither the laces on the boot, nor the straps on his sandals, were done. He had a neatly trimmed white beard, and looked about 65 years of age. We started chatting and he described himself as retired and permanently in a state of travel with his shortest travels to his homeland of England. The gentleman described his 50+ year career as that of a "bureaucrat serving bureaucrats bureaucratically." Something about a now disbanded office of government real estate assistance related services. He has been traveling non-stop for over 7 years now, having been to any country I could think to name for many months on end. The town we're in is infested with mosquitos right now, so I was making small talk about the annoying creatures. He said he had no idea there were any, saying, "they don't bother me any more." When I asked him about his shoe, he related this story, "A few weeks ago I was in a very rural area in the Northern Cape camping in a backpackers place surrounded by the usual razor wire and ADT signs. In the middle of the night I awoke and 2 thieves demanded I give them my wallet. I started shouting and yelling and raising quite a ruckus. The thieves were annoyed I wouldn't give them anything so they stole one of each of my shoes which were outside my tent. They did this just to spite me." He laughed and then said, "fortunately for me they took one right and one left shoe, so I am hardly affected. I refuse to buy new shoes just to show them that they did not win."

A Taste of the South African West Coast

We had a nice trip up the west coast of South Africa. We didn't go too far, but little distance is required to get a flavor for the vast open space of the west coast. Only a few miles north west of Cape Town the landscape becomes incredibly barren and lonely. It felt like Wyoming in the summer. It didn't take many miles for me to abandon my fantasy of driving for days on end deep into the Namibian desert. We made our way to a little town called Langebaan which is set on a very white, flat beach. Its a popular spot for kite boarding. It was incredibly windy. Our sun umbrella caught wind and flew almost half a mile until we could eventually run it down. The bright white sand is extremely fine, 3 days later and we are still trying to scrub it out of Ananya's hair.

Escape from Water World

Perhaps a week into our stay in Buenos Aires, the kids and I got caught in a torrential downpour. It was dark out, and we were sheltered under a restaurant awning, laughing about the rain and milling with other folks. The kids insisted we go for it and head home, despite my many warnings that we would be totally soaked. I relented, and so, we three started running; perhaps not 20 feet into our journey it was as if we had jumped into a lake. Nayan and I had a blast, laughing all the way home, enjoying the mixture of heat and heavy rain. Ananya shreaked after losing her flip flop and remained totally spooked that night, and for weeks after; for the remainder of our time in Buenos Aires, anytime Ananya saw clouds, or signs of rain, she stubbornly refused to go outside. We bribed her with a push button umbrella and lots of ice cream, and we spent much time convincing her that the rain was nothing to fear, and not much could happen. Looks like we were wrong. Our friend Maria who lives in Buenos Aires, just forwarded this article published in La Nacion, about the torrential rains. Take a look. Many of the pictures are from our neighborhood with water levels rising over 1 meter. The first shot is of a group exiting a bus while clutching a rope to cross the currents. Looks like we indeed escaped just in time.

Ridgebacks, Rottweilers, and Razor Wire

You know you're in South Africa when you see a sign like this next to a nice hotel. We're still getting used to being greeted with huge Rodesian Ridgebacks, German Shepherds, Rottweilers, and other slathering doobers while heading out for a hike. The locals don't seem to notice, and the dogs seem friendly enough when you're introduced, nonetheless, it is a bit nerve wracking. One of the hardest things to get over here is this ever present security obsession. From what folks tell you, the ubiquitous razor wire, electric fences, heavily armed ADT guards, and oodles of huge barking dogs is all necessary to keep people from being robbed. Its still tough for me to tell if this is the truth, or a bit of a hangover from the tenuous apartheid days -- it does, however, seem to be a bit overkill. When you chat with folks, most say something like, "we haven't had a break in before in the past 20+ years," or, "its usually just petty break ins, folks looking for quick getaways with a lap top, cell phones or other electronics." If so, I can't help but wonder why everyone cares so much -- get some insurance, a dead bolt, and be done with it; the rest of this hoo ha just freaks out the tourists. I also wonder if this isn't a bit of a self fulfilling prophecy -- razor wire wrapped home owners assume massive crime is just one tenement away, and the tenement folks see these armed fortresses presuming attempts will be made to rob them, and conclude, perhaps it is their duty to rob them. Even if the crime is truly this extreme a concern, isn't this race to the most hardcore security obsessors just pushing the crime to one's next door neighbor? After all, in between the hardcore homes are seemingly unprotected homes with little more than a friendly lab meandering about.

Seals and Sauntering Near Haut Bay

We had an amazing trip to Seal Island. It's a short hop from Haut Bay. You don't actually get off the boat, and wander around, as you may guess from the photos. Basically, its a few rocks, surrounded by rough waters and completely coated in seals -- a truly amazing sight, one of the most beautiful I've seen. We experienced some really big swells, but our stomachs thankfully held up.

Afterward, we bought some fish off the dock and hauled them back to our firepit out back. We're staying in a lovely cottage up in the hillside above Haut Bay called Placid Pine. Our host Louise is absolutely wonderful. The kids have been ecstatic here in South Africa; we have a large rustic backyard where they have freedom to roam a bit, there's a nice pool, and our hosts live in the house which the kids love to visit; Ananya especially likes to hang out with our fearless protector, Thomas the cat.

After a month couped up in a massive city like Buenos Aires, Nayan especially has been giddy, last night breaking out into a scream, "I just love campfires, I just love them!" I had to remind him to breathe afterward. Louise taught us an amazing technique for barbecueing. Basically you start a fire in a fire pit. Once its hot, you throw in some charcoals in a clump near the edge. When the coals are hot, you slide the hot coals over to another spot under a grill mounted on a pole with an adjustable clamp to control the height for heat control. Then you get to linger over the fire, enjoying the heat and view, occassionally clamping onto a hot coal and plopping it under the grill. Needless to say, our fish was tasty, and we've already begun designing our pit back home complete with a bread warming section and a pizza oven.

A Day on the Paraná Delta Near Tigres

Well I finally started reading the manual for our SLR camera after 5 years. I've been playing around trying to get decent shots in the extremely bright sun, something that can be a challenge if you rely on the camera's automatic modes. These shots are from a day trip we took to "The Delta," which is where Porteños go to escape the city heat and relax in the cool milk chocolate waters of the Paraná Delta . And for you factoid lovers: the Paraná Delta is fed by the 1600 mile long Paraná River running through Brazil, Paraguay, and Argentina ultimately dumping as much water volume as the Mississippi into the Atlantic ocean.

Rockin the Tango at San Telmo

Our Sunday ritual here in Buenos Aires is to hit the San Telmo antique and craft market. Today, we spent a good time sitting on the curb listening to this rocking street orchestra called Orquesta Tipica Imperial. I never thought there could be anyone crazier then my dear friend Timothy of Bellingham who hauls his full size acoustic piano around in a mini van, that is, until I saw the piano player from Orquesta Tipical, lugging his massive instrument through the cobble stone alleyways of San Telmo. What a glorious treat.



It turns out someone made a documentary film on these guys. The trailer looks interesting, apparently they are often harassed by the police for playing on the street. If anyone finds out how to get a hold of the film, please let me know, I'd love to see it.

Boys, Bodies and Bashings

One of the greatest joys of marriage is that your partner's stories become your stories. So my wife was sitting in the kids play area at Plaza Cortezar, the local park and restaurant area where we spend a lot of time. The kids were busy digging in the sand, sliding and playing their never ending game of tag. It was late morning, lots of folks were milling about, many sipping coffee, some setting up for the daily craft fair, and some preparing their restaurant for the day. A couple guys in their late teens were a part of a construction crew working on some repairs in the plaza. One of the boys was drunk. The two broke out into a fist fight. All bystanders remained in their pre-fight positions; no one rushed in to stop the fight or gawk, but everyone was watching, and aware of the fight. At one point, the drunk boy fell to the ground and struggled to stand. Blood gushed out of his nose. The other boy kicked him hard in the face. At this point, immediately multiple older men, around 50 years in age, stepped in, constrained the standing boy, and walked him away. Other men helped the fallen boy, someone arrived with a large bottle of water and poured it on his head; another brought a towel and started cleaning his wounds. Soon the police arrived.

So what my wife found most interesting were the cultural dynamics at play. For one, it seemed no one was particularly worried about weapons, or serious danger. Also, there was an acceptance that boys will be boys, and the fight was fair and therefore immediate intervention was not required or desired. Upon the violence taking a turn toward the "unfair," however, with one boy clearly down and incapacitated, bystander response was swift and thorough.

This story reminds me of another story. One day a few years back in Punjab, we were driving home from a day trip to the Himalayan foothills. My Thiaji (father's older brother), myself, my wife and kids. We slowly drove through the chaotic, dusty streets of Nawanshar. A cacophony of cars, goats, people, cows, honking buses, strewn wires, and a uniformed policeman directing traffic. As we approached the town center where multiple streets intersect, right in the middle of the street were about 15 boys, again late teens, in a full fist fight. My Thiaji scratching his gray beard, started laughing, "Deep, look at our boys! This is how we live. Ah, I wish I was young again." Thiaji then stopped the car in the midst of the chaos to chat with a policeman who was calmly directing traffic as if nothing was going on. Thiaji asked, "what's going on?" The policeman responded, "oh the kids are just bored, it happens every Friday evening." My uncle looked at the cop like he was totally daft, pointed out his window toward two flying fists a few feet away and said, "well of course, but what is this particular fight about?" He needed the details. Something about a boy, a sister, a crass remark. Thiaji rolled up his window, waved to the cop, smiled at the fighting boys, and we inched along, wondering what was for dinner.

Buenos Aires Nose Beatings

So a few minutes after arriving in Buenos Aires, I noticed some woman with a broken nose sipping coffee at a cafe. A day later I saw another broken nosed woman chatting with a well coiffed tough looking guy; I wondered if she was a domestic violence victim. Then yesterday I saw another one, and thought, wow, are the men here abusive? Maybe its all that hot Mediterranean blood. Then today I saw another one, and thought, okay, something is up; all of the broken noses have the same exact bandaging. Later, we met a tour guide who started cracking jokes about the "lions" here in the BA jungle -- she pointed out plasticated boobulation examples everywhere; she said the national health insurance even covers it. So I did some searches, and a bunch of weird things showed up. I don't typically follow the Miss Universe news, so I missed the fact that Miss 1994 Argentina died recently from a botched buttocks implant. And this freaky woman has issues with hers as well. Apparently though, this is all old news. This 1999 Newsweek article has a punchy quote:

In "The Masks of Argentina," author Luis Majul estimates that one in every 30 Argentines has undergone cosmetic surgery. And with prices plummeting, face-lifts and nose jobs are becoming "democratized," says plastic surgeon Maria Cristina Zeaiter. But the country's elite sets the tone; everyone from Diego Maradona to President Carlos Menem has gone under the scalpel. Menem's ex-wife, former First Lady Zuelma Yoma, is a frequent client of cosmetic-surgery clinics. But few Argentines are put off by such dangers. "Mankind suffers two great ills: aging and ugliness," says cosmetic surgeon Jose Juri. "Plastic surgery can treat them both."

So, it turns out that, not only do folks here get a lot of plastic surgery, but BA is actually a major plastic surgery "medical" "tourist" destination. Here's a rather disturbing CNN expose.

Homeschooling at La Campana National Park in Chile

We're still working out many of the kinks in our home schooling efforts. One of the things that seems to be working is field trip based learning. So recently we hauled the pod out to La Campana National Park which is in the Vizcachas Mountains about 60 kilometers from where we are staying in Valparaiso.


This was probably the most public transportation we have ever taken for a day trip, so we started out the lesson discussing how to catch the train, how the automated ticketing system works, where to find the bus, and how to find a toilet at a bus station without eating a meal. Since we haven't had a Lonely Planet guidebook with us, we're flying a bit blind relying heavily on our hosts for some advice; stuff like: "I'm pretty sure if you make it past the land of the big tomato to Olmue, you'll find a bus that will get you close to the park. From there, just hike into the park." Our homeschooling lesson continued by a colorful illustration of how to look really clueless on a bus in the middle of no where while butchering a major world language; our illustration rendered perfectly, inspiring a wonderful Chilean gentleman to help us flag down the next ride in our route. This photo below shows the man running away from us as fast as possible, fleeing the half baked field trippers.


Along the way, we continued our lesson discussing what horses eat in the Cordillera de la Costa, apparently smooshed tomatoes from the back of a truck.


And more information on why you might hang a cow skin from the ceiling.

Here was another quick lesson on why National Park's are located on the end of really long dirt roads:


And another one on why you might build a blue shack on top of a well a half mile up from the rangers station.


Ah yes, and the environmental lesson we originally set out on, which was to witness and understand the very unique ecological system of this region in Chile.

So we also spent some time understanding how a plant ecosystem can remain shielded from the world at large (in the case of Chile, huge mountains a short distance to the east, and a big ocean to the west). And of course, we chatted about who this Charles Darwin guy was, since he climbed this mountain during his "Voyage of the Beagle." Darwin was interesting to the kids, in part since Manuel, one of our hosts, while recommending the park, described how he came here with Darwin's great, great, ... great grand daughter, who herself is also apparently a scientist.

So there you have it, a serendipitous field trip based ecological homeschooling lesson on the last of the Jubaea chilensis (Chilean Wine Palm) forests.