Rare Indian tigers—delicious!

Posted on by July 27, 2012

     That's equal to 100F. It was am, not pm.



     Ask any traveler what their favorite place is in India and they will always say a small town (or a unique place like Varanasi) such as Hampi (my vote) or a northern hill station. When I was in Kolkata (Calcutta) I heard its praises sung, but they were from the same people who never left the backpacker street ghetto where they took tea ten times a day and then retreat to the hotel rooftop to read their books away from the teeming hordes below. The most hated place in India is probably New Delhi, but I have less confidence in that assertion.
     Sawai Madhopur is another simple, small, non-touristy place in the mold of Bharatpur with minimal hassle—and this weird statue to the left. The main reason to come here is for a safari in nearby Ranthambore National Park to try and see the last few tigers left in India. Of course, we wasted half an hour for a group of Indians to finish arguing about the reservation they made, making the mistake of trying to get me to sympathize with their beef about the driver (“This rascal here…”) I was ready to throttle all of them.
     The safari would be a nice little drive in different circumstances, but do you know the old movie, “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad World”? Near the end is a wild car chase between two cars full of people. A safari is just like that but with more cars. The drivers are all trying to get the best views so they pass on either side, clip each other’s side view mirrors, back into trees, create plumes of dust and make a nuisance of themselves. Why a tiger would want to hang out in such an environment?

     Nevertheless, we saw a tiger and it was very impressive. So big! I felt very vulnerable wedged in the corner rear seat, but the tiger didn’t sense I was good eatin’. I bet I am very tasty. It did get very near to one jeep, uncomfortably so, and the driver had created a problem by not having a way to get out if the tiger lunged, not that there would have been enough time to escape, it was so close, but the tiger just walked on by without a look or a sniff.
     The guide made a big deal about seeing black boars, but there are dozens wandering the streets of Sawai Madhopur at any hour scavenging for food. More interesting are the horse-sized samba deer below.


     When you ask an Indian a yes/no question often you don’t get a verbal reply, rather the world famous Indian head wobble. It is an enigmatic bobbling of the head that is neither a nod nor a shake of the head, but a kind of hybrid of both, leaving you confused as to its meaning. It was either Paul Theroux or Pico Iyer who said that it was like they were trying to pour water out of their ears.
     I love the wobble and pride myself on being able to do it well. I love everything about it except when I’m actually in India and need to know the answer to something. That’s when I want to grab them by the throat and say, “YES OR NO! TELL ME!!!”

Hitchhiking in rural Rajasthan in 43C Indian heat

Posted on by May 30, 2011


     Fatehpur Sikri is an old deserted sandstone city (as opposed to those new deserted sandstone cities) only 40km away from Agra, an hour on the bus, I read, but the Indian travel gods are avid readers of my blog and they made it a three hour slog via a diversion from the main road. The narrow side roads couldn’t handle the heavy, two-way traffic, which meant a dozen stops with a dozen Indians every time arguing about how to clear the mess. At one particularly long traffic jam I went looking for water and some villagers, very abuzz with seeing a white man in these parts, offered some sweets, a place to sit and rest, nice smiles, and I was so taken I thought of looking into what kind of dowries I could expect, settling down—but then the traffic moved and I had to make a run for the bus. I regretted it since I was going berserk from the horrendously super-loud air horn mounted INSIDE the bus that the driver used liberally and with impunity.
     Everything about the bus was debilitating to the psyche, so after I toured Fatehpur Sikri I hitchhiked the next 40km to Bharatpur. Hitchhiking in the midday 110F heat (43C) was easier than I thought: a kid on a motorcycle, then a gift from the gods, an air-con car, then another guy on a motorcycle, all nice guys, none even asked for money.
     I disliked Bharatpur at first brutally hot and dusty sight, but it grew on me with its sincere people. No hard sell, just friendly hellos, where-are-you-froms and are-you-marrieds.

This is a conversation in Bharatpur:
     Rickshaw driver: “Hello, rickshaw?”
     Me: “No thank you.”

This is a conversation in Agra:
     Rickshaw driver: “Hello, my friend!      Rickshaw! OK!”
     Me: “No thank you.”
     Rickshaw driver: “My friend! Rickshaw! Very cheap for you! Where you go? Taj Mahal 50 rupees, OK! I take you—”
     Me: “No thank you.”
     Rickshaw driver: “Mister! Very, very cheap for you! Where you from? Best price—”
     Me: “No!”
     Rickshaw driver: “Hello! OK, Agra Fort, let’s go—”
     Me (after a long bout of ignoring them): “Did you hear me? What did I say?”
     Rickshaw driver (riding alongside, sometimes veering me into a ditch): “What hotel you stay? I know very cheap hotel, Sir!” More quietly, he whispers, “Hashish?”
     And then I let fly with some unparliamentary language.

     It could be funny if it was the only encounter like that, but the moment he is gone another rickshaw guy is all over you and the same exchange happens. It is all day, every day in Agra not only with rickshaw guys, but shopowners, restaurant touts, beggars, etc. It’s draining. And that’s just the people you don’t want to deal with. The people you need to deal with at train stations, small shops and hotels can also be just as challenging. Then when you get bamboozled the first time you think, “Well played, India, well played. That’s India 1, Kent 0,” and you become always on guard for the next shyster. It’s part of the travel experience, but cumulatively it can take a toll and you want to strangle someone.
     India takes a long time to get used to, if you ever do, and is the only country in the world where you meet another traveler and they say, “How long have you been here?” and you say, “Two months” and they say, “Oh, you just got here.” It isn’t a boast or a denigration, it is an acknowledgement that you aren’t in the swim of things yet.
     Agra is a big tourist town, so you have to expect the attention, but who in their mind would be in Bharatpur in the eastern part of Rajasthan state, the hottest state in India in the hottest month of the year? Everyone is too dulled from the heat to make a fuss about me.

     This guy above is everything that I love and hate about India. He works at the “Enquiry” office at the Bharatpur train station. I love that he theoretically wants to help me, and that he lets me sit in his office and he even lets me take pictures as a wandering earwax specialist(!) is digging a homemade Q-tip scarily deep into his ears (and then chucking the filthy cotton tip over his shoulder, not caring that I am over his shoulder. I don’t love that part.) I love seeing these crazy things all rolled into one scene. There may as well have been a cow in the office, wafting incense and a Bollywood movie in the background.

     I hate that he picks up on only one or two words in my sentence and runs with them, rendering me unable to stop him. (This happens all the time in India.) He shows me something on the computer and repeats himself over and over while I try to tell him I understand and want to move on to my question, but he is still fixated over repeating the first thing to the point that I am practically screaming for him to stop.
     And then he makes me laugh. He has ignored everyone behind him at the window and soon there is a scrum of people yelling for his attention. He turns and the first kid in line asks something. He stares at the kid as if thinking about the answer, but then swivels back to me to ask why I’m not married, completely blowing off the kid. It was such an extreme show of contempt and disrespect that it was funny. Less funny for the kid.

     People dozing and resting in the ticket hall


     I’m not doing a good job of explaining how India is different from everywhere else, but it’s just one of the craziest places in the world, completely unique. How many unique places are left in the world? That fact must be one of its attractions.
     So how do you cope with India? By watching the first thirty minutes and five seconds of the the movie, “Scott Pilgrim vs. the World”, which Banksy gave me. It’s nothing less than pure cinematic genius. Just watch the first ten minutes and try to tell me your life hasn’t changed and you aren’t ready to move to Toronto.

The Taj Mahal: fantastic, but worth the hassle and 750 rupees?

Posted on by May 30, 2011



     How hot is it in India? It’s so hot there is a fan in the shower! I rest my case.
     I can’t remember ever drinking so much water in my life. I am sucking in a swimming pool of water every day and my urine is still dark yellow.
     Oh! The Taj Mahal! Yes, isn’t it pretty?
     I met a French girl here in Agra who didn’t go see the Taj Mahal, just as Philip, my couchsurfing host in Mombasa, Kenya, had been to Cuzco, but not Machu Picchu. I like that against-the-grain inner strength.
     The thing about the Taj is, the inside is nothing special and the outside you can see clearly from every rooftop of every guest house in the tourist ghetto. Of course, you are a distance away, but you do see it.
     750 rupees is about $17, but more to the point, more than a day’s traveling for most people, two days for some, three days for the truest of hippies, and four days for the real sadists. On a big trip—and just about everyone in India is on a big trip, except for me—paying the money and making your trip one or two days shorter is worth it. However, at what point do you say, “Enough?”
     Again, I think most people would think this argument is absurd. You are halfway across the world, making a big effort to be here, and probably not coming back. Pony up the money and see it, one of the most beautiful buildings in the world. All I am saying is the Taj Mahal is fantastic, but it doesn’t have to be for everyone. Taj smaj!

     I had to make a pilgrimage to Joney’s Place, one of the memorable experiences from my first trip to India. He had a restaurant literally the size of a small closet, so small that he had to lean outside to cook from a jerry-rigged stove that was connected to the outside wall. The setup is still the same, but now he has an indoor area with four tables.
     We reminisced about the good old days back when the Taj Mahal was 2 rupees to get in. I reminded him that he was popular with travelers for his bang lassis, which are no longer on the menu. (I think the “bang” is marijuana, but how you mix it with a dairy product is a mystery to me.) I brought this up and the room became quiet, and soon enough I learned that the two young guys working there were actually his 17 and 18 year old sons. I had put my foot in my mouth. You stay classy, Dromomaniac.
     The other thing about Agra back in the day was the legendary Sikh Tandoori Chicken Man. Buzz about him had spreaded so that by the time you came to Agra, you had already heard about him. Even though he was in a far-away part of town and his restaurant was an empty garage, he was worth it. Nowadays it would be hard to convince other travelers to make that trip.
     Last thing about the very un-PC old days before I put everybody to sleep: Lonely Planet used to advise travelers in India to fill the rest of their backpack space with toilet paper since it was hard to find and then the true hippies would counter that one really should get with local habits and use the left hand.

     Room numbers at the Sai Palace Hotel in Agra are Uno cards taped to the door.


     Since everything in Agra seems to be one big hassle and I am in no mood to be meek, I spent five minutes loudly arguing with a security guy at the Taj Mahal about whether my animal balloons were a security risk. He said if it popped it would scare people.
     The battle at the Agra Fort was the slow motion of the ticket guy giving change. Ticket people will hope that you are so relieved at getting the ticket you had long waited for with “guides” breathing down your neck that they won’t notice if you don’t give change or don’t give enough change.

     I broke my sandal. I found a shoe wallah (repairman) in a market, bracing myself for the inevitable drama. I asked him how much to fix it. He says, “As you like.”
     I think to myself, “OK, brother, but prepare yourself, because that guilt trip trick isn’t working on me.”
     I give 10 rupees (about 27 cents). I can’t imagine a local giving more for something that takes 5 minutes of stitching. He isn’t pleased. I walk away and 10 minutes later the sandal on the other foot breaks (which perfectly illustrates my time in India: broken sandal twice after bird droppings on my shoulder after ripping my pants after a cough coming on after ticket guys doing the slow count when giving me change after wandering around in a daze in the midday 44C heat after…)
     He fixes it and then is angry when I give 10 rupees again, howling something in Hindi at me. I am unmoved and throw down the money.

     Should I just have paid 20 or 50 rupees each time and avoided the hassle? Life is too short?

The heat and the fighting in New Delhi, India

Posted on by May 27, 2011

     Very strong candidate for 'Sign of the Year' from the New Delhi Youth Hostel


     India, sign paradise


     Mon photo tres, tres artistique. C'est top! Je suis un talent super-grand!

     In my first few days in India, two different times on a bus a woman exploded in rage at a man who had done something to her and started beating him with a shoe. I see arguments and hear raised voices all the time. Even the animals get into it; the monkeys make terrifying noises when they fight.
     I’m in a fighting mood, too. I am exasperated all the time with Indians, which I can’t understand. I know Indians, have Indian friends, correspond with Indians that read my blog, etc., but the moment my passport is stamped it seems like I am constantly at war with everyone I come in contact with.
     It is very difficult to communicate. Just to understand them (and vice versa) is a Herculean task. Is each other’s accent so hard to pick up? Sometimes it feels like I am using the wrong English vocabulary, too, though even in the best of times I get short, terse answers or comments, like the main point of any interaction is that I am in their way of doing something else. Even if it is partly a communication problem, I’ve been to plenty of places around the world where there is barely a common language, so I can’t put my finger on why India is so problematic.
     In many cases the frustration is just with aggressive hotel/rickshaw/souvenir shop/group tour touts, the kind of irritation travelers always attract by nature, but I get it all the time with everyone else, too.
     My experience and perception might change if I could meet “real” local people. I am looking for a Couchsurfing host for when I am in Jaipur. One guy wrote in his Interests section: “All interests are destroyed by my wife…” I am going to pass on that happy couple. Couchsurfing is hard to arrange anyway given I can’t plan very far in advance.

     Dude, my chakras are, like, way out of alignment. Which way to the Shanti Path?


     The fantastic Indian food normally heals all wounds, but I am hardly eating for some reason, and if you know me, that’s hard to imagine. Must be the heat. It is brutal. My shirt and body become caked with salt that I sweat off and then 33C in a 400 rupee ($9) fan room blowing hot air on me isn’t soothing.
     When I am eating, I go for the curd in little ceramic cups if I can find it. Often when you finish the curd you are supposed to throw the cup to the ground, smashing it to pieces, but not at every place and I am afraid to make a mistake and start another clash. I saw one guy mixing his curd with some water and I asked if it was mineral water. He said the water was “government supply”. I like that answer. I am going to say that from now on instead of boring “tap water”.
     I am trying to make my money last in India, which is harder than expected because India isn’t so cheap anymore. I used to always reflexively say that India is the cheapest country in the world, but that’s the past. Food, especially, is noticeably more expensive.

     What sounds better, the 'Morning After' pill or 'Unwanted'?


     Question of the day: how many saris get stuck in the New Delhi metro escalators? I bet the maintenance guys have stories.

Constipated in India; I can now retire as a traveler

Posted on by May 25, 2011

     Anderson Cooper, CNN Reporter: “Kent, when did you know it was time to retire? You’ve had a great career: 25 straight years of making long trips, 100+ countries, the legendary global philanthropy—when did you know it was time to hang up the backpack?”
     Kent: “I can pinpoint it, Anderson. It was May 2011, when I had a prolonged bout of constipation in India—India! India in the pre-monsoon heat and humidity! After that I knew I had accomplished all that I needed to in life.”

     Since when did India become so cosmopolitan? I saw a few places selling bagels. Bagels! My last time in India I was in Kolkata (Calcutta) and Varanasi, two places stuck in a time warp, so maybe I am just late to the game.


     This is my fourth time in India. The heat and humidity are overwhelming. 43C (110F) in the day, OK, that’s hot, but 33C (92F) as the LOW in the night, that’s a killer. I’m surprised how slow I am getting used to it. There’s a potent combination of humidity, dirt and sweat that does a number on my clothes and makes them smell…sour. (Who wants to travel with me!)
     I was worried that returning to Mumbai would bring back memories of the worst bus ride I have ever taken in my life, the overnight bus from Goa to Mumbai. “Worst Bus Ride Ever” has so very many worthy contenders, that it really is saying something. Second worst was Inle Lake to Rangoon, Burma, and third worst was Banaue to Manila, Philippines. Someday I will have to flesh out the details, but let’s not get distracted. Besides, now I have new memories to replace it, like laundry:


     Only in India could laundry be a tourist attraction. This is in Mahalaxmi, Mumbai. I’m scouting for a big venue where I can wash the city’s dishes and charge admission. Investors? Anyone? Hello?

     US$1 = 44 rupees in hand.


     I don’t know how anyone can live on 6000 rupees a month in Mumbai even if you are living at home. A traveler couldn’t do it. The cheapest bed I could find was a 7 x 5 foot (2.2 x 1.5 meter) compartment with the four walls not quite reaching the roof to increase the ventilation for 400 rupees. The cheapest place in Mumbai is the Salvation Army, but it has an unclean reputation and my friend Manisha begged me not to stay there.
     Manisha found me through this website and we met for a few hours as she was flying out the day I flew in. How come I don’t meet more people through my website? I should make an effort to promote it, but how? The conventional way of shaving my head and branding “The Dromomaniac” on the side of my skull? I am open to suggestions.
     I read a statistic that in India there are 914 females born for every 1000 males (and then I saw this in today’s news). Boys are prized that much more. Manisha wants out. She’s had her fill of what she describes as a rigid society and is going to Turkey for no reason at all and isn’t looking back.

     Mumbai suburban train announcement: “Passengers are advised not to travel on roof tops.”

India in one word: speechless

Posted on by May 21, 2011

     In Mumbai (formerly Bombay) I didn’t have my camera ready when I passed by the building with the giant sign: BUDGET TEST TUBE BABY CENTER, much to my deep, deep regret.
     Big fan of Air Arabia, but their cynical anti-water stance leaves a bad taste in my mouth. They make sure you don’t have any water before you get on the plane in Nairobi or UAE so you have to buy it in the terminal or on the plane. Access to water is my little pet peeve, so despite the comfy flight, if an Air Arabia water executive and the evil manager of the Oriental Hotel in Hargeisa, Somaliland, were both hanging off a cliff and about to die, I might have to save the Oriental manager first.

     American high culture, spreading like wildfire! Could this be any sadder?


     I witnessed this soon after arriving in Mumbai: I was on the local train into town and a family of four got on. The whole family was well-dressed, even fashionably so, but none of them wore shoes. The youngest kid even had a cell phone—but no shoes. I didn’t understand it because the woman, she had very nice, clean feet. Very pretty feet, in fact. I mean, these were supremely attractive feet, feet you want to get to know better, maybe start a family with, grow old together, and she walked around barefoot. Incredible India.
     How can I describe India after seeing so many things like that? (I saw a water truck with diplomatic license plates.) It’s as if I open my mouth and assume words will follow, but nothing comes out.

     Mumbai sunset


     I discovered that my debit card doesn’t work in India. It’s largely my fault, I should have called before to check, but my bank won’t tell me in which countries it doesn’t work, and so I am supposed to call them and ask if I can use the card every single time I cross a border.
     I have all kinds of trouble communicating which leads to all kinds of frustration and it is insanely hot and humid in Mumbai. Not a good combination.

     I've got lots of problems in India, but I calm down when I tuck into something like this: channa masala, which is chick peas in a rich sauce with roti. 53 rupees (US$1.20)

Mombasa, Nairobi and my last gasps of Africa

Posted on by May 19, 2011


     I can’t remember if I said anything about Philip, my Couchsurfing host in Mombasa. Everyone who comes in contact with Philip is taken by his infectious positive spirit. He should work for a suicide prevention hotline or Microsoft customer service, which is kind of the same thing. Fast walking, upbeat, the kind of traveler you want your kids to grow up to be with amazing travel stories: rolling along eastern Ethiopia in a locked dark railcar, going eight straight days on a bus to get to South Africa for the World Cup (despite not being a soccer fan), fasting in solidarity during Ramadan in Yemen, etc.
     He and his roommates all work for Camara, a for-profit company working to build a sustainable model for technology to further education in Kenya and other countries.
     I think Philip has had multiple Couchsurfing guests for 3 or 4 weeks straight. He’s very selfless that way. One Couchsurfer from Scotland, Luke, hitchhiked to and from Nairobi. He was smart about it, having a master plan to start late in the day so he could arrive in the morning (though in this case it took 24 hours.) He told an interesting story about how if a trucker has a flat or some problem on that bush highway, he will place his truck in the middle of the road stopping traffic on both sides so it will be too busy for animals to think about coming to eat him.
     Is anyone interested in hitchhiking anecdotes or is it the travel equivalent of baby pictures?

     My tired driver looking back at me and four legs standing under a bus, below



     My first and last bus rides in Africa were most unpleasant. I could have anticipated all of it. I knew the bus from Mombasa to Nairobi would be cursed when I saw the driver’s dozy red eyes—his assistant on the bus insisted, “He’s fresh!”—and then two(!) pairs of legs standing under it.
     Both my stomach and the bus broke down a few times. I felt very nauseous after my biryani lunch which seemed deserved because why would I have biryani if I am going to India in a matter of days?
     At the lunch stop I wandered over to talk to the guy working the gas station, and when he found out I was American he leaned close and quietly told me that no Muslim believes Osama bin Laden is dead. No one else for 20 meters was around, but his boss was Arab and he wasn’t taking any chances. He believed it and mentioned the 1998 U.S. embassy bombing in Nairobi that killed 200+ Kenyans, but no Muslims do, especially without photos, and that’s all they talk about, he said.
     I read a snippet that said that the photos were too gruesome to be released, but are they really worse than what anyone can see in an R-rated slasher movie? Everything about the aftermath mystifies me: burying Osama at sea, the celebrations in America as if something had come to a conclusion, the photos, and the last report I saw was the discovery of porn in his hideaway. The government picking and choosing details to release in an effort to try and build sympathy only seems to foment distrust.

     The bus broke down one last time just on the edge of downtown in the middle lane of a three-lane main road, clogging traffic. The driver simply went walkabout without a word to anybody, abandoning the bus. Talk about contempt for your passengers!
     In Nairobi I went back to Camel Milk Central to recuperate quickly and watch a cut of their movie, “Hot Chocolate for Bedouins”. It’s a talented bunch of people. Buy stock in their futures.

     This is some random stuff just for me to remember, kind of like talking to myself. This will be extremely, extremely boring for everyone else. Go take a nap.

     Some things I will miss in Kenya:
     —The security guards who wear little league baseball batting helmets. How did they get them? Can’t say, but I once came across a second-hand shop that had scads of hockey equipment, so anything is possible.
     —The trees: baobab, jacaranda, mango, acacia, etc. Trees make all the difference in the world. Think of the worst places you have been to, and I will bet there weren’t many trees there.
     —“Jambo!”
     —I will miss not understanding fully the M-PESA system where Kenyans can make payments for seemingly everything in life through their cell phones.

     More randomness:
     —Sometimes I ask people what their tribe was and then if they thought of themselves as their tribe first or Kenyan first. They always answered Kenyan, but said that most people don’t think like that, especially in politics.
     —Day laborers have nothing in their hands after work.
     —I still do double takes when I see white people or see lots of people dressed in form-fitting clothes for the first time in three and a half months. (I meant to write this in the beginning of my time in Kenya.)

     —It’s a sad feeling to leave Africa, leave new friends (a one-way feeling! ‘Kent who?’), leave before I saw new places and gained a better understanding of this region. (sniff!)

Kenyan food in few words and few pictures

Posted on by May 15, 2011

     Like Ethiopia, I have semi-lame excuses why this isn’t as comprehensive as it should be. In this case, I have only been to a few parts of the country, and now I am leaving soon. I’m leaving soon! Air Arabia let me change my ticket for $75. (A few days earlier they said it would be $55, but still a deal considering most airlines would laugh in your face if you wanted to change the destination on a ticket.) I fly to Mumbai, India, on Monday.
     US$1 = 85 Kenyan shillings

     A glass of passion fruit juice and two samosas, 100 shillings. What surprised me in Kenya was discovering that some Indian foods have gone mainstream. Chapati, bhajia and samosas are ubiquitous.


     A huge lunch by Kenyan standards of pilau (rice with bits of meat with a dipping sauce) muthokali (beans and corn) and chapati. Kenyans can have a simple plate of beans and chapati and they are good to go.


     The menu at a cheap dive in Lamu. Nothing over US 75 cents. 'Karanga' is deep fried American tourist, 'Maini' is leg of German...


     Masala chips (spicy french fries), a Mombasa specialty


     Fried cassava with chili-salt and lime.


     Ugali, chapati and ndengu for 70 shillings on Lake Naivasha. Ugali is white corn flour boiled into a solid mass and ndengu is a pulse called a green gram in English, which was news to me.


     The mutton biryani at Naushad's Cold House in Mombasa's Old Town is a deal at 170 shillings, but there are more flies buzzing around than grains of rice. A guidebook might call it 'full of local atmosphere.'

Things you wouldn’t expect to find in Kenya

Posted on by May 15, 2011

     Did you know Obama is half-Kenyan, but born in---where was he born exactly?


     I couldn't bring myself to try it. I'm a snob about Mexican food this way.


     Which country doesn't seem to belong in this group?




     Finally, my Japanese name is spreading around the globe


     Debby's Investments Water---Tasty!

I met Banksy

Posted on by May 13, 2011

     I more than met Banksy; I stayed over for two nights.
     Fate began with the desire to move. The self-imposed prison at Tiwi Beach with the desperate beach boys was too much and the approaching rain looked formidable, so I decided to go to Diani Beach, the next one south.
     A British girl named Tess (must be a stage name) and I hitchhiked the 5km pretty quickly, getting a ride with two Nairobi guys. She had been apprehensive about hitchhiking but took the chance since she was with such a powerful, protective force of nature, so I was glad we got a ride quickly to demonstrate its majesty.
     The rain never let up, so Tess decided to head back to Tiwi. I didn’t know where to stay so I asked a guy sitting at a nearby restaurant if he knew the cheap hotel behind on the main road. He didn’t. He asked what I was doing and after about 30 seconds of small talk he said I could stay with him, that he lived near the beach and had a free room. Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. I was speechless for one of those rare moments of my life.
     My favorite part is afterward where I extend my hand and say, “By the way, my name is Kent.” Can you imagine offering or accepting a place to stay to/from a guy of whom you don’t even know his name! It’s the magic of traveling (or the beginning of every horror movie.)
     He had an incredible penthouse apartment with four bikes, three surfboards, a hanging bed, killer views and lots of interesting artwork with stencils, spray paint cans and unfinished projects laying around. He mentioned that he had been doing some graffiti in Nairobi. I said that in Mombasa Philip had shown me a place where a guy(?) named Space Invader had left his mark. Banksy was brought up, and my new friend said they were both from Bristol, England.



     Banksy is an anonymous artist, most famous for his public space projects though no one know what he looks like. A cynic might say he is famous because no one know what he looks like, but in any case the rusty wheels in my head started to turn and it made me think that it might be him in the flesh.
     Why would I think that? If this were Banksy, why would he tell me about the Bristol connection and mention the graffiti if he wanted to remain undercover? Why? To make me confront how impossible it would be that it was Banksy. You know how hard it is to be anonymous in the 21st century? You can’t do it by hiding, you do it by being out in the open. Ask Radovan Karadzic. You have to call people’s bluff to make it happen, for it to be the most absurd thing that the mellow, nice guy in front of you is someone else.
     And look, he probably took one glance at me and my decrepit state (my kingdom for eight hours of sleep!) and assumed I wouldn’t know Banksy from Gumby, but as George Bush would say, “Don’t misunderestimate me!” I have my finger firmly on the pulse of popular culture. I used to live in Los Angeles, dude. I know someone who knew someone who used to know the gardener for Zsa Zsa Gabor’s nephew. Yo!

     I asked him point blank: “If you are Banksy, would you tell me?” and he said “No.” Actually, he said two words, but let’s not get sidetracked. He even allowed me to take his photo, which is mere chutzpah to throw me off the scent, but have you seen my nose? I can smell a diversion at 50 meters. It takes more than that to sidetrack me.
     The only thing that makes me think it wasn’t Banksy was that he was such a great guy: very kind, generous, unassuming. The real Banksy must be intolerably full of himself. But that is part of the whole deception! Don’t you see? It’s all elaborately planned out!
     Banksy, thanks for a great two days in paradise. Your secret is (sort of) safe with me.

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