MY TRAVELS
A year of sailing – Nov 2006 to Oct 2007

Before I begin this chronicle, it would be prudent to say that the world I have seen, is hardly the one written about, and read about- watched countless times. It would hardly qualify as the world we know, the beautiful vision of places most people would give their eyeteeth to catch a glimpse of.
This really isn’t a lonely planet. The docks, the streets, the bars, the eateries, and brothels, are teeming with people, not unlike you and me –doing a hard days work, living each day at a time, wishing their creator would take them away from the all the strife, all the monotony- fill their lives with undreamed of wealth and happiness (in that order)- Without much care of who they are governed by, who formulates their policies , and certainly not how their own creator differs from the others.
My travels have changed me. As with Che Guevara, I have come to accept that my life will involve traveling the seas and highways of the world, merely scratching the surface of the places I see and feel. It goes without saying that I am not the person I was then, perhaps partly due to the ravages of time, and partly due to the sheer lonely introspection that has taken my mind across peaks and depressions (not valleys) that I had never known existed.
Before I’m accused outright of plagiarism let me go on.

Chapter 1: November 2006.

Chennai.

My little odyssey begins in the city of Chennai, humid and dusty. A last minute change of plans meant I had little time to spare there. After all the groundwork, I could finally get to meet her. Though for but an hour, passing like a fleeting second, the image of her I will always have is as she was then. Cherubic and vibrant. She was one of the strongest reasons for making me want to shelve my best laid plans and stay right there with her for all of time to come.

Bombay.

Catching a flight to Bombay, waiting for the connecting flight to New York, having spoken to her one last time, it struck me like a bolt out of the blue- a revelation in the truest sense of the word- I was leaving. For how little, or how long, I didn’t know, and without being too dramatic, if I would come back at all. She cried when I called her. To this day little does she know that I broke down as well in that disgustingly sterile departure lounge.
The onward flight to JFK felt like 18 hours. I can’t be too sure. Flying over Greenland and points far northerly, all I can remember is the overwhelming darkness in that ineffectively lit cabin. I did make acquaintance with a compatriot going there for his studies, with the usual dream of a better life, so on and so forth. They say they’ll come back. They never do.

New York, (JFK actually).

Having been subjected to an extremely thorough security check, or as I call it, the mandatory invasion of all things personally sacred, I find myself in John F Kennedy. Cooped up in the airport for a couple of hours, it should suffice to say that I didn’t even get to breathe natural New York air. Blame it on the terrorists I guess.

Atlanta, Georgia.

The onward flight to Atlanta was uneventful. I did find out that I had missed the outward to Jamaica. On arrival, I find myself standing outside the enquiry desk. Its hard to remember exactly what it was that was occupying my mind then, but I suddenly hear this very loud strong female voice. With that thick mid-western drawl, it turned out she looked like Aretha Franklin as well.
“Sir, would you mind getting out of the way and letting the lady through?”
Respect, but the underlying contempt was all to evident. I wheel around to find this mousey woman behind me. Thoroughly flustered, she was, and as it turns out she was just standing there, with no intention of going to the desk at all. Although the desk lady did apologize, I can’t help but wonder what stereotype she had of Indian men.
The hotel stay arranged, I finally make my way out of the airport. Breathing American air, just walking along on that land of seemingly boundless opportunity, is the greatest desire for every working class Indian Joe. Not me though. Impressed as I was with the cars and the roads and the space and the place, badly jetlagged, all I wanted to do was get the hell into a nice warm bed.
Thick gravy dripping steaks, several hash browns later, and a hot bubble bath to top it all off, I finally give into the sandman, wondering all the time what in the name of God I’ve gotten myself into.

Montego Bay, Jamaica.

Its easy to imagine, in a plane stuffed to the gills with honeymooners, and holidaymakers, filling themselves with mohitos and other choice cocktails, peeling off layers of already scant clothing as the revelry went on, a pair of conspicuously Indian guys, soberly dressed in formals, will stick out like a sore thumb. Well, we did.
The Montego Bay airport isn’t very impressive. Typically tropical and quite disorganized, this was my first glimpse into the Caribbean islands- that float purely on tourism. Being pitied by the customs lady for not coming here on holiday, I was withheld till the agent claimed me. Like lost baggage.
He didn’t. It was only thanks to a kindly taxi driver who lent us his phone that we finally got in touch with our host, who had conveniently passed out in the arrival lounge.
On getting onto the massive SUV, we noticed his young, but enormous wife (? Im really not sure) suckling their baby Rastafarian. Bob Marley, dutifully hanging up against the windscreen completed out Jamaican welcome.
You could hardly call it a port. A small pilot boat was supposed to take us aboard. That was one boat ride I’ll never forget for as long as I live. Every roll felt like the little craft would capsize. When the ship finally came into sight, there was a rusty majesty to it- the patient might that has weathered the relentless pounding of Mother Nature. I later found out she was badly in need of a coat of paint.
They hoisted my old worn out bag and my even older guitar by a rope over the side. I climbed a very suspicious pilot ladder up to uncertainty.
It was then I was greeted by the smiles. The smiles that beam across the seas and oceans of the world- that betray strength, patience and goodwill. The hardened, hardy Filipino sailor had welcomed me into his clique.