So we leave tonight. I can't believe this day has come. We left on December 31st each with a backpack and a duffel bag and we made our way through San Francisco, Humboldt, Los Angeles, Palm Springs, London, Oxford, Paris, and then so many cities and states in India I can't even count at this point. I remember being in Goa, only 3 or 4 days in and feeling like this trip was going to last forever. Now that seems so far away, and I've seen, experienced, and eaten so many different things I think it's going to take me a while back in the US to process all of it. I wish I had written better posts on this blog, instead of just chronological and geographical recaps, because I feel I haven't conveyed the essence of what it's like here. But I hope to put the rest of the pictures up soon, and maybe those will give a better idea of our experiences.
If you've been reading, thank you! and I hope it was somewhat enjoyable. We will be home in less than 24 hours, and I look forward to reenacting the anecdotes and ridiculous things that I didn't get to write about on here to those of you who care to hear about them.
It's been quite a trip but I am SOOO looking forward to coming home. See you soon.
xo
Brittany
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Shimla and Delhi
We arrived in Delhi, but only for a night on our way up to Shimla. Delhi is huge, and I felt a little jolted to be back in such a mad place again but grateful that it has a spanking-new metro system (my favorite method of city travel) that will eliminate the need for rickshaw-haggling and the like. Ravi happened to be in town for business, and he met us at the station and took us to our hotel in the Paharganj area of the city. We stayed there because Delhi is expensive, and it's the main budget-tourist area, but centrally located just off of a bazaar. Since it was too early for us to check in, Ravi took us to breakfast and then out of the city center by Delhi Metro to where he lived for two years, and where he stays with his cousin when he comes to town. After a few hours, we came back and I crashed in our really comfortable hotel room while Ravi took Nathan out for a shave and a haircut (cost: $1.50). In the evening we met up with one of Nathan's long lost friends from his Mississippi grad school days, Angshuman (and his wife, Sulukshana). They treated us to several beers at their apartment, and a nice Tandoori dinner in the popular Connaught Place neighborhood of Delhi. Nathan and Angshuman haven't seen each other in 5 years, but they seem to have the kind of friendship that picks up right where it left off as if they just spoke last week. After hours of reminiscing and catching up, they dropped us off at our hotel and invited us to stay with them when we would return to Delhi the following week.
We left early, and hungover, the next morning for Shimla--the capital of Himachal Pradesh (a beautiful northern state). It's a hill station where the government used to retreat to and from where it would rule the rest of the country during the unbearably hot summers. The train station in New Delhi was madness, with touts and scammers around every corner. We had heard stories of them, and it really was as bad as we had heard. We got to our train without any real problems though, and headed to Kalka on a 4 hour journey where we would switch trains. From Kalka to Shimla we took a "toy train" which is an old steam train that chug-chug-chugs up through the hills at a very slow pace. Although the distance is only 90 kilometers, the trip takes 5 hours. We passed through beautiful hills and valleys, through 100 stone tunnels, over narrow bridges and finally into the cool climate of the northern state. We loved it immediately--the cool dry climate, the hills and forests all around, the cleanliness (littering, smoking, spitting and plastic bags are banned in public places), and the fact that the main drag in town is a mall, so no cars, rickshaws, busses, nothing except walking.
Shimla is really beautiful, and was the perfect way to end our trip in India. It looks like a quaint alpine town--it could have been Aspen. And although the town has several buildings that look like old haunted houses (including the one we stayed in which felt like the hotel in The Shining), they really add to it's charm. We spent almost a week in Shimla, lolling around the streets, taking a long hike down to some waterfalls, visiting a beautiful old government building and gardens that have been turned into a post-doc research center, and relaxing in our room (where we had to warm up with a space heater, it actually got that cold and was a welcome change).
I think if I ever come back to India, it would be only to explore the rest of Himachal Pradesh, and the states of Jammu & Kashmir, and Ladakh which are even further north. In Himachal Pradesh we didn't get to make it up to Dharamsala (where the Tibetan refugees are), Amritsar (the famous golden temple), or Manali and Spiti which are supposed to be amazing. And although Jammu & Kashmir are in political turmoil, everyone said that we have to go, it's just so beautiful. And Leh, in Ladakh, sounds like a fantasy-land. The rest of India is too hot for me, and I really enjoyed the culture and environment of Shimla more than anywhere else we traveled to, so I'm interested in seeing the rest of the Himalayan region.
We arrived back in Delhi, just a couple of nights ago and stayed in the Majnu Ka Tilla neighborhood northeast of the main city. We didn't want to stay in noisy Paharganj again, and it was recommended as a fairly quiet place that is a Tibetan colony, so the people and food and markets had that flavor. We weren't there long enough to explore it as much as I'd like because we headed back to Angshuman and Sulukshana's apartment to stay with them for our last two nights. Other than some last minute shopping for gifts at the government emporium and bazaars, we've been mostly lazy here (happily!), playing poker, ordering takeout, and last night going to a party (since today is a government holiday). They've been awesome hosts and I'm glad it all worked out (as they are moving to Chennai next month).
We left early, and hungover, the next morning for Shimla--the capital of Himachal Pradesh (a beautiful northern state). It's a hill station where the government used to retreat to and from where it would rule the rest of the country during the unbearably hot summers. The train station in New Delhi was madness, with touts and scammers around every corner. We had heard stories of them, and it really was as bad as we had heard. We got to our train without any real problems though, and headed to Kalka on a 4 hour journey where we would switch trains. From Kalka to Shimla we took a "toy train" which is an old steam train that chug-chug-chugs up through the hills at a very slow pace. Although the distance is only 90 kilometers, the trip takes 5 hours. We passed through beautiful hills and valleys, through 100 stone tunnels, over narrow bridges and finally into the cool climate of the northern state. We loved it immediately--the cool dry climate, the hills and forests all around, the cleanliness (littering, smoking, spitting and plastic bags are banned in public places), and the fact that the main drag in town is a mall, so no cars, rickshaws, busses, nothing except walking.
Shimla is really beautiful, and was the perfect way to end our trip in India. It looks like a quaint alpine town--it could have been Aspen. And although the town has several buildings that look like old haunted houses (including the one we stayed in which felt like the hotel in The Shining), they really add to it's charm. We spent almost a week in Shimla, lolling around the streets, taking a long hike down to some waterfalls, visiting a beautiful old government building and gardens that have been turned into a post-doc research center, and relaxing in our room (where we had to warm up with a space heater, it actually got that cold and was a welcome change).
I think if I ever come back to India, it would be only to explore the rest of Himachal Pradesh, and the states of Jammu & Kashmir, and Ladakh which are even further north. In Himachal Pradesh we didn't get to make it up to Dharamsala (where the Tibetan refugees are), Amritsar (the famous golden temple), or Manali and Spiti which are supposed to be amazing. And although Jammu & Kashmir are in political turmoil, everyone said that we have to go, it's just so beautiful. And Leh, in Ladakh, sounds like a fantasy-land. The rest of India is too hot for me, and I really enjoyed the culture and environment of Shimla more than anywhere else we traveled to, so I'm interested in seeing the rest of the Himalayan region.
We arrived back in Delhi, just a couple of nights ago and stayed in the Majnu Ka Tilla neighborhood northeast of the main city. We didn't want to stay in noisy Paharganj again, and it was recommended as a fairly quiet place that is a Tibetan colony, so the people and food and markets had that flavor. We weren't there long enough to explore it as much as I'd like because we headed back to Angshuman and Sulukshana's apartment to stay with them for our last two nights. Other than some last minute shopping for gifts at the government emporium and bazaars, we've been mostly lazy here (happily!), playing poker, ordering takeout, and last night going to a party (since today is a government holiday). They've been awesome hosts and I'm glad it all worked out (as they are moving to Chennai next month).
Saturday, March 20, 2010
RAVI SHANKAR
During our confusion at the Lucknow train station we are finally helped by a young friendly man named Ravi who reassured us we were on the right train and chatted with us on the long slow trip (we were five hours late). He's on his way home to Patna to visit his family for Holi. He shows us pictures of his family. As the youngest child, he was the only one born in a hospital, something he seems proud of. He has a fancy laptop and likes to talk about India's mobile network. He has been traveling around on some tech-related business for a year. Is he married?
"Maybe? I don't know? I am married, but it is much responsibility. You have your mother, father. All your family. Then one more. But now for one year I am all alone and very happy. I am like a king! Even when I have not much money I am still a king!"
We talk about our problems with bad advice. "You must understand," he says, "that many Indians are illiterate. Can't read signs. Don't understand their own language."
I asked him the rules of cricket and he tried to explain as best he could. "The thing about cricket is that it is very long. In the U.S. all your game are very short. One hour. Two hours. Football for 90 minutes. But Indians have lots of time. So we don't want our games to end. We want to watch. Four days. Five. It's okay."
While we were waiting for the late train, we had commented, "Why are we the only ones worried and wondering what is going on?" We mentioned this to Ravi and he laughed. "It is is the same as with cricket. Indians LIKE to wait. At the railway station, even in traffic. They like to sit in the shade, eat a snack. This is a good way to spend a day."
"Maybe? I don't know? I am married, but it is much responsibility. You have your mother, father. All your family. Then one more. But now for one year I am all alone and very happy. I am like a king! Even when I have not much money I am still a king!"
We talk about our problems with bad advice. "You must understand," he says, "that many Indians are illiterate. Can't read signs. Don't understand their own language."
I asked him the rules of cricket and he tried to explain as best he could. "The thing about cricket is that it is very long. In the U.S. all your game are very short. One hour. Two hours. Football for 90 minutes. But Indians have lots of time. So we don't want our games to end. We want to watch. Four days. Five. It's okay."
While we were waiting for the late train, we had commented, "Why are we the only ones worried and wondering what is going on?" We mentioned this to Ravi and he laughed. "It is is the same as with cricket. Indians LIKE to wait. At the railway station, even in traffic. They like to sit in the shade, eat a snack. This is a good way to spend a day."
BAD ADVICE
One of the many frustrations of India is bad advice. Our train from Lucknow to Varanasi is late and we're asking around to find out if we're at the right platform, how late it might be, etc. Then some man grabs us by the arm and shouts, "Your train! Your train! Track four! It is leaving! Run!"
So we run. Up the stairs, across the ramp, lugging our bags. And it is not our train of course. We trudge irritated back. This always happens to us. Someone decides what it is we want or need and tells us what to do and they are wrong. I'm not sure what that's all about. They seem to want to help, but they just don't know what they are talking about. It can make you paranoid, because we HAVE to ask for advice, but after getting so much incorrect information (and from police and the people at the information booths too) you start to doubt everything you hear. My theory: I think this is a culture based on talking a LOT and gathering a lot of strong opinions. Our rickshaw drivers often stop and go into a shop to find out where to go. At train stations I see clusters of people gesturing and pointing in different directions. I think you are supposed to loudly voice your opinion and whoever is nearby voices theirs and so and so on until some semblance of consensus is reached.
So we run. Up the stairs, across the ramp, lugging our bags. And it is not our train of course. We trudge irritated back. This always happens to us. Someone decides what it is we want or need and tells us what to do and they are wrong. I'm not sure what that's all about. They seem to want to help, but they just don't know what they are talking about. It can make you paranoid, because we HAVE to ask for advice, but after getting so much incorrect information (and from police and the people at the information booths too) you start to doubt everything you hear. My theory: I think this is a culture based on talking a LOT and gathering a lot of strong opinions. Our rickshaw drivers often stop and go into a shop to find out where to go. At train stations I see clusters of people gesturing and pointing in different directions. I think you are supposed to loudly voice your opinion and whoever is nearby voices theirs and so and so on until some semblance of consensus is reached.
COWS ABOVE JAIPUR
Speaking of "cows everywhere" these guys were hanging out in this falling down temple above Jaipur.
TRAIN COW
Okay, cows are everywhere here. But this cow sitting on platform 9 of the Lucknow station seems particularly absurd. How did he get here? His two options would have been to (1) cross a dozen train lines and then jump up five feet onto the platform or (2) walk in the front door, through the packed reservation hall, through the metal detectors (or around them like most Indians do), up a flight of stairs, across a metal gangplank, and then down another set of stairs to sit here, flicking his tail.
TOURISTS!!!
Back in Oxford, England, we were ordering dinner in a pub and asked the busboy what Yorkshire pudding was. He was classic UK: all forehead, ill skin and snaggled teeth. He looked at us with a mix of shock and grief. "Yorkshire pudding? You don't know what a Yorkshire pudding is?"
"Is it like a biscuit?"
"No, it's not a biscuit! It's a... a pudding. Right, you know your Sunday roast."
I did not.
"You've never had a Sunday roast?!"
B volunteered that she had.
"Right then. So in your Sunday roast you've got your meat, you've got your veg, you've got you mash... and you've got your Yorkshire pudding!"
But what is it?
He'd had enough. "Ask your server girl. I just fetch the dishes."
One month later and we had the same impact on a poor Indian man. We often get confused by the menus, not recognizing words, mixing up pakora and paratha. Well B is asking about various dishes and the man is doing his best to describe them--a difficult thing to do sometimes even when you both speak English (see above). Well B asks about some local dish and he looks relieved. "Ah, yes, this is a kind of dhal." In her defense, B does know what dhal is--a lentils, the most basic form of Indian food above rice--but at this moment she doesn't understand and asks, "Dhal? What is that?" The same aggrieved look we saw in Oxford. "You don't know dhal?" the man says. His shoulders sag. What's the use?
"Is it like a biscuit?"
"No, it's not a biscuit! It's a... a pudding. Right, you know your Sunday roast."
I did not.
"You've never had a Sunday roast?!"
B volunteered that she had.
"Right then. So in your Sunday roast you've got your meat, you've got your veg, you've got you mash... and you've got your Yorkshire pudding!"
But what is it?
He'd had enough. "Ask your server girl. I just fetch the dishes."
One month later and we had the same impact on a poor Indian man. We often get confused by the menus, not recognizing words, mixing up pakora and paratha. Well B is asking about various dishes and the man is doing his best to describe them--a difficult thing to do sometimes even when you both speak English (see above). Well B asks about some local dish and he looks relieved. "Ah, yes, this is a kind of dhal." In her defense, B does know what dhal is--a lentils, the most basic form of Indian food above rice--but at this moment she doesn't understand and asks, "Dhal? What is that?" The same aggrieved look we saw in Oxford. "You don't know dhal?" the man says. His shoulders sag. What's the use?
COMPASS
I've been meaning to buy a compass since last year in Toledo, when B and I got lost every few hundred feet on the winding streets. I'd like to have one in NY too for when I come up out of the subway and don't know which way is which. So at a little riverside bazaar in Kochi, B spots a guy selling compasses. I pick one out and we're in the process of haggling when I ask, "Wait, which way is north?"
"North," the compass salesman says pointing in one direction.
"I think it's that way," B says, pointing the opposite direction. I'm waiting for my needle to stop bobbling around.
"North, north," the man insists. A neighboring salesman vigorously agrees, "That is north."
The needle stops spinning. It agrees with B.
"So is this right? Which way is it?"
The man head-bobbles and smiles. "North, south, what does it matter?"
"It matters because your compass doesn't work if THAT way isn't NORTH! Which means we're not buying it!"
He considers this. Yes, he decides, we are right after all. B and the compass are right.
"North," the compass salesman says pointing in one direction.
"I think it's that way," B says, pointing the opposite direction. I'm waiting for my needle to stop bobbling around.
"North, north," the man insists. A neighboring salesman vigorously agrees, "That is north."
The needle stops spinning. It agrees with B.
"So is this right? Which way is it?"
The man head-bobbles and smiles. "North, south, what does it matter?"
"It matters because your compass doesn't work if THAT way isn't NORTH! Which means we're not buying it!"
He considers this. Yes, he decides, we are right after all. B and the compass are right.
MONKEY STICK
How about another photo? We're visiting a mountaintop palace and fort in Rajasthan and one of the ever-enterprising Indians rents Brittany a stick for 10 rupees to fend off the monkeys. Well, the monkeys were well-behaved, but she HAD to go and get her money's worth.
BLOG BREAKDOWN
Well, my blog train went off the tracks awhile back. B's still chugging on so you get the full chronological tale from her posts. I'm just going to post few last anecdotes and observations that I have lying around. These last posts are all helter-skelter from random places all over India.
YOU CAN'T EAT SAND, CAN YOU?
As we clatter down a Lucknow alley in a tuk-tuk we're hit by a smell of excrement and come upon a little lake of filth filled with dozen of happy pigs. In the street two pigs race to get a piece of fetid cardboard. And then a few feet further on we see a pig eating from a pile of... sand! He has a great big piggy grin since he has the pile all to himself.
TAJ MAHAL
Of course Agra is more famous for the Taj Mahal (that building behind us at the top) than pipes. Though for MOST of the city, cement, rebar, dog fights, flying kites, and a pervasive smell of poo are much more prevalent than white stone.
We arrive early in Agra on another night train where we share a berth which means hardly any sleep. It's too early to check-in so we go to see the famous thing. It seems almost silly to describe the Taj. You've all seen it too. We saw a calendar in another town with William Jefferson Clinton saying, "the world is divided into those who have seen the Taj Mahal and those who have not." But who has NOT seen it? Its on a calendar on a postcard in a film.
Okay, it is lovely, it is an astonishing thing to have been built, it is more beautiful than another other building I have other seen. "A teardrop on the cheek of eternity," writes one writer and this is perhaps the most beautiful way to say it--it requires the most lavish and labor-intensive work of art imaginable for simple tiny human mourning to make even a small mark upon the flow of time.
But we are tired, and the lines are long, and none of our pictures looks as nice as the one that has been at the top of our blog for the last month.
I am reminded of the essay "Loss of the Creature" which addresses the difficulty of authentically experiencing something (he uses the Grand Canyon as his example) that is so ingrained in your consciousness. He suggests several useful methods for "recovering" the Grand Canyon with fresh eyes.
"It may be recovered in a time of national disaster. The Bright Angel Lodge is converted into a rest home, a function that has nothing to do with the canyon a few yards away. A wounded man is brought in. He regains consciousness; there outside his window is the canyon."
We arrive early in Agra on another night train where we share a berth which means hardly any sleep. It's too early to check-in so we go to see the famous thing. It seems almost silly to describe the Taj. You've all seen it too. We saw a calendar in another town with William Jefferson Clinton saying, "the world is divided into those who have seen the Taj Mahal and those who have not." But who has NOT seen it? Its on a calendar on a postcard in a film.
Okay, it is lovely, it is an astonishing thing to have been built, it is more beautiful than another other building I have other seen. "A teardrop on the cheek of eternity," writes one writer and this is perhaps the most beautiful way to say it--it requires the most lavish and labor-intensive work of art imaginable for simple tiny human mourning to make even a small mark upon the flow of time.
But we are tired, and the lines are long, and none of our pictures looks as nice as the one that has been at the top of our blog for the last month.
I am reminded of the essay "Loss of the Creature" which addresses the difficulty of authentically experiencing something (he uses the Grand Canyon as his example) that is so ingrained in your consciousness. He suggests several useful methods for "recovering" the Grand Canyon with fresh eyes.
"It may be recovered in a time of national disaster. The Bright Angel Lodge is converted into a rest home, a function that has nothing to do with the canyon a few yards away. A wounded man is brought in. He regains consciousness; there outside his window is the canyon."
PIPES ON MY BIKE
Thought we could use a photo up on this blog. (You can view more of them on B's Facebook btw.) This in Agra I believe. I liked it because India is all about building supplies, carrying giant loads on small rickshaws, and children.
Rajasthan
From Uttar Pradesh we headed west to the state of Rajasthan for 10 days—first to Jaipur, then Udaipur, and finally Bundi.
Jaipur is a really popular city with travelers as it is cosmopolitan, modern, relatively clean, and a shopping mecca. One of the first things we noticed was that the climate was much drier than we had experienced in the rest of the north, because it is a desert state. This made for bearable, though hot days (unlike in the south), and nice chilly evenings. Neither of us enjoyed Jaipur much though—it's still a crowded bustling place with a small “old city” neighborhood and because it's so popular I found that the general prices around town were inflated. We finally started feeling exhausted from traveling, sightseeing, and battling minor illnesses for the past 6 weeks so we gave ourselves a lot of down-time in Jaipur. We did spend a couple of hours one day in an autorickshaw touring the Old City, aka the Pink City, called so because the old palace and fort walls were made of pink sandstone. I had expected flamingo-like pink, but really it was more beige, so that was underwhelming. Near the palace was an outdoor astronomical center with a giant sundial, ancient calendar and season-telling sculptures, and other monstrous carvings that told things like the “distance from the zenith to the horizon” if you know what that means...It was quite beautiful, and we appreciated it more as abstract art than for the science it was created for. Nathan took some equally as nice photos of it, so hopefully you'll see what I'm saying about it. We went next to an obelisk with a narrow winding pathway up to the top where if you decided to go to the summit (and brave the nesting pigeons and their poop) you had a really nice view of all of Jaipur—a bird's eye view of the Pink City, the main street with all the cafes and shops, the bazaar road, and the newer skyscrapers and cinemaplex surrounding it. Considering how burnt out we've been feeling, it was nice to have a comprehensive view of Jaipur without having to explore all corners of it up close. We headed slightly out of town to see the cenotaphs (old tombs, from what I gather). It was interesting to see Hindu resting places in buildings that looked seriously Islamic—the pointed dome ceilings, the series of 3 open doorways around. I ask about the architecture and am told that long ago when they were built, they were Indian (Hindu) designs. “Back then, everyone was the same!”
Another overnight train. We skip Pushkar--a popular desert town that most travelers use as a launching point for camel treks and camping trips. Instead we go to Udaipur, “the most romantic city in India” and it's hard to disagree when we arrive. It's a fairly quiet city packed with old white buildings that surround a lake. In the center of the lake there are 2 small islands—each completely covered by a palace. One has been turned into a “5 star hotel” and the other can be traveled to by boat and toured. Many scenes in he James Bond film “Octopussy” were filmed in Udaipur, including the palace-turned-hotel. And although several restaurants show the movie nightly in their dining rooms, we never made it to a viewing to see just how much of it takes place here. Another palace (City Palace) is very large, and the fact that it's sandy colored and black in it's creases and corners amongst all the white in the town make it appear even more imposing than it already does looming over the east side of the lake. We stay near it in one of the tallest guesthouses, in a very comfortable room with stained glass windows, and a roof with a nice cafe and views of the lake and surrounding town. At night all of the white buildings turn their soft lights on, illuminating the town and making the lake appear to sparkle. We take long walks around the city and the lake (which although has dried up in some areas, and will only refill during the monsoon season, is still pretty), eat dinner under a beautiful giant tree, visit the city palace and take the boat ride to the island palace where set up for a wedding that evening is taking place. All in all, a very pleasant town to spend a few days (including my birthday) and a nice reprieve from Varanasi-Agra-Jaipur.
From Udaipur we travel back east to a small town off the beaten path called Bundi. We arrive late at night, a bit off schedule, and the station is completely empty—a shocking sight to us. At any hour there are usually many people, a lot of them sleeping on the ground. We wander outside and a mob of 5-6 touts and taxis bombard us with their offers. They are desperate for business. As we are leaving in an autorickshaw, one of them shoves his cell phone into my face to speak with a guesthouse he recruits for. I push his arm away and Nathan and I both shout “GO!” to the driver. The town is teeny tiny and we arrive at the Lake View Guest House around midnight. A man, equally as small as Bundi opens the door with a lantern in his hand and his jaw jutting out under his nose. He is mostly bald, with some white hair around his ears and neck, in a white dressing gown. He's a classic Ebenezer Scrooge prototype. With one eye squinting and an impatient curve to his mouth he (Mata) says, “I've been waiting for you. Follow me.” Nathan and I look at each other and almost start laughing.
Our room is nice—big and quiet—and it's far too hot outside during most of the daylight hours so we spend most of our time in here, me reading, Nathan writing, or in the back garden by the “lake” which has all dried up, and there are cows grazing in the valley it has become. We see Mata perched in different places, in his white gown, like a gargoyle during our stay there. In a windowsill, on the outdoor kitchen's roof, on the swing on his terrace. It makes us laugh. He knocks on our door one day (we have a room on the roof) and tell us to “please put your shoes inside or monkey may take them and then you wonder 'where my shoes go!?'” He's quite a character, and after Nathan tells him I'm a lawyer, his rather stern demeanor vanishes and he smiles and bows toward me. A really funny little man.
We met a really nice British couple who are traveling around India and Nepal on a motorcycle they purchased when they arrived. It's refreshing to have a real conversation in English, and one day I sat outside with them for 6 hours and talked while Nathan worked. The man is as burnt out on India as I am, but also like me, not looking forward to unemployment when he returns home. We commiserate, and in a pessimistic way I'm glad that someone else isn't having the life-changing experience everyone always talks about India to be. Nathan and I spend only a an hour or so one day visiting the palace. (I am palace-d, fort-ed, and temple-d out by now. I'm tired and hot and delirious and silly at this point.) I don't care about old paintings anymore. Or weapons. Or overthrown dynasties. I'm most fascinated by the giant-life-threatening bee hive perched just above the main entrance, and the fact that you can rent a monkey-stick to fight off the aggressive ones on the walk up. (I rent one, Nathan laughs, I jokingly get angry and pretend to beat him with it.)
We take our last overnight train (I am delighted) to Delhi, and just to have a perfect track record, I don't sleep on this one either.
Jaipur is a really popular city with travelers as it is cosmopolitan, modern, relatively clean, and a shopping mecca. One of the first things we noticed was that the climate was much drier than we had experienced in the rest of the north, because it is a desert state. This made for bearable, though hot days (unlike in the south), and nice chilly evenings. Neither of us enjoyed Jaipur much though—it's still a crowded bustling place with a small “old city” neighborhood and because it's so popular I found that the general prices around town were inflated. We finally started feeling exhausted from traveling, sightseeing, and battling minor illnesses for the past 6 weeks so we gave ourselves a lot of down-time in Jaipur. We did spend a couple of hours one day in an autorickshaw touring the Old City, aka the Pink City, called so because the old palace and fort walls were made of pink sandstone. I had expected flamingo-like pink, but really it was more beige, so that was underwhelming. Near the palace was an outdoor astronomical center with a giant sundial, ancient calendar and season-telling sculptures, and other monstrous carvings that told things like the “distance from the zenith to the horizon” if you know what that means...It was quite beautiful, and we appreciated it more as abstract art than for the science it was created for. Nathan took some equally as nice photos of it, so hopefully you'll see what I'm saying about it. We went next to an obelisk with a narrow winding pathway up to the top where if you decided to go to the summit (and brave the nesting pigeons and their poop) you had a really nice view of all of Jaipur—a bird's eye view of the Pink City, the main street with all the cafes and shops, the bazaar road, and the newer skyscrapers and cinemaplex surrounding it. Considering how burnt out we've been feeling, it was nice to have a comprehensive view of Jaipur without having to explore all corners of it up close. We headed slightly out of town to see the cenotaphs (old tombs, from what I gather). It was interesting to see Hindu resting places in buildings that looked seriously Islamic—the pointed dome ceilings, the series of 3 open doorways around. I ask about the architecture and am told that long ago when they were built, they were Indian (Hindu) designs. “Back then, everyone was the same!”
Another overnight train. We skip Pushkar--a popular desert town that most travelers use as a launching point for camel treks and camping trips. Instead we go to Udaipur, “the most romantic city in India” and it's hard to disagree when we arrive. It's a fairly quiet city packed with old white buildings that surround a lake. In the center of the lake there are 2 small islands—each completely covered by a palace. One has been turned into a “5 star hotel” and the other can be traveled to by boat and toured. Many scenes in he James Bond film “Octopussy” were filmed in Udaipur, including the palace-turned-hotel. And although several restaurants show the movie nightly in their dining rooms, we never made it to a viewing to see just how much of it takes place here. Another palace (City Palace) is very large, and the fact that it's sandy colored and black in it's creases and corners amongst all the white in the town make it appear even more imposing than it already does looming over the east side of the lake. We stay near it in one of the tallest guesthouses, in a very comfortable room with stained glass windows, and a roof with a nice cafe and views of the lake and surrounding town. At night all of the white buildings turn their soft lights on, illuminating the town and making the lake appear to sparkle. We take long walks around the city and the lake (which although has dried up in some areas, and will only refill during the monsoon season, is still pretty), eat dinner under a beautiful giant tree, visit the city palace and take the boat ride to the island palace where set up for a wedding that evening is taking place. All in all, a very pleasant town to spend a few days (including my birthday) and a nice reprieve from Varanasi-Agra-Jaipur.
From Udaipur we travel back east to a small town off the beaten path called Bundi. We arrive late at night, a bit off schedule, and the station is completely empty—a shocking sight to us. At any hour there are usually many people, a lot of them sleeping on the ground. We wander outside and a mob of 5-6 touts and taxis bombard us with their offers. They are desperate for business. As we are leaving in an autorickshaw, one of them shoves his cell phone into my face to speak with a guesthouse he recruits for. I push his arm away and Nathan and I both shout “GO!” to the driver. The town is teeny tiny and we arrive at the Lake View Guest House around midnight. A man, equally as small as Bundi opens the door with a lantern in his hand and his jaw jutting out under his nose. He is mostly bald, with some white hair around his ears and neck, in a white dressing gown. He's a classic Ebenezer Scrooge prototype. With one eye squinting and an impatient curve to his mouth he (Mata) says, “I've been waiting for you. Follow me.” Nathan and I look at each other and almost start laughing.
Our room is nice—big and quiet—and it's far too hot outside during most of the daylight hours so we spend most of our time in here, me reading, Nathan writing, or in the back garden by the “lake” which has all dried up, and there are cows grazing in the valley it has become. We see Mata perched in different places, in his white gown, like a gargoyle during our stay there. In a windowsill, on the outdoor kitchen's roof, on the swing on his terrace. It makes us laugh. He knocks on our door one day (we have a room on the roof) and tell us to “please put your shoes inside or monkey may take them and then you wonder 'where my shoes go!?'” He's quite a character, and after Nathan tells him I'm a lawyer, his rather stern demeanor vanishes and he smiles and bows toward me. A really funny little man.
We met a really nice British couple who are traveling around India and Nepal on a motorcycle they purchased when they arrived. It's refreshing to have a real conversation in English, and one day I sat outside with them for 6 hours and talked while Nathan worked. The man is as burnt out on India as I am, but also like me, not looking forward to unemployment when he returns home. We commiserate, and in a pessimistic way I'm glad that someone else isn't having the life-changing experience everyone always talks about India to be. Nathan and I spend only a an hour or so one day visiting the palace. (I am palace-d, fort-ed, and temple-d out by now. I'm tired and hot and delirious and silly at this point.) I don't care about old paintings anymore. Or weapons. Or overthrown dynasties. I'm most fascinated by the giant-life-threatening bee hive perched just above the main entrance, and the fact that you can rent a monkey-stick to fight off the aggressive ones on the walk up. (I rent one, Nathan laughs, I jokingly get angry and pretend to beat him with it.)
We take our last overnight train (I am delighted) to Delhi, and just to have a perfect track record, I don't sleep on this one either.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Ｐhotos
All of the photos from our month in South India are posted on Ｆａｃｅｂｏｏｋ． Ｉ ｍａｄｅ ｔｈｅ ａｌｂｕｍ ｐｕｂｌｉ ｓｏ ｙｏｕ ｓｈｏｕｌｄ ｂｅ ａｂｌｅ ｔｏ ｓｅｅ ｉｔ ｅｖｅｎ ｉｆ ｙｏｕ ｄｏｎ’ｔ ｈａｖｅ ａｎ ａｃｃｏｕｎｔ． Ｉ ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｅｄ ｔｏ ｍｏｖｅ ｔｈｅ ｐｈｏｔｏｓ ｆｒｏｍ ｔｈｅ ｕｐｄａｔｅｄ ｆｏｌｄｅｒ ｉｎｔｏ ｏｎｅ ｔｉｔｌｅｄ Ｓｏｕｔｈ Ｉｎｄｉａ， ｂｕｔ Ｉ ｔｈｉｎｋ ｏｎｌｙ ｓｏｍｅ ｏｆ ｔｈｅｍ ｍｏｖｅｄ， ｓｏ ｃｈｅｃｋ ｏｕｔ ｂｏｔｈ ｌｉｎｋｓ ｂｅｌｏｗ ｉｆ ｙｏｕ’ｄ ｌｉｋｅ：
Ｓｏｕｔｈ Ｉｎｄｉａ： http://www.facebook.com/brittanybanta#!/albuａm.php?aid=2812550&id=5250981
Ｕｐｄａｔｅｄ Ｆｏｌｄｅｒ： http://www.facebook.com/brittanybanta#!/albuａm.php?aid=2812550&id=5250981
ａｎｄ ｉｆ ｅｉｔｈｅｒ ｏｆ ｔｈｏｓｅ ａｓｋ ｙｏｕ ｔｏ ｌｏｇ ｉｎｔｏ Ｆａｃｅｂｏｏｋ ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ ｄｏｎ’ｔ ｈａｖｅ ａｎ ａｃｃｏｕｎｔ， ｔｈｉｓ ｌｉｎｋ ｓｈｏｕｌｄ ｗｏｒｋ ｆｏｒ ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ：
http://www.facebook.com/p.php?i=5250981&k=5413PVVQT5VN2EDIWFU4SRVTUREGW&oid=1144820159726
Ｉ ｗｉｌｌ ａｔｔｅｍｐｔ ｔｏ ｒｅｏｒｇａｎｉｚｅ ｔｈｅｍ ｆｏｒ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ ｂｒｏｗｓｉｎｇ ｗｈｅｎ Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ａ ｆａｓｔｅｒ ｉｎｔｅｒｎｅｔ ｃｏｎｎｅｃｔｉｏｎ
Ｓｏｕｔｈ Ｉｎｄｉａ： http://www.facebook.com/brittanybanta#!/albuａm.php?aid=2812550&id=5250981
Ｕｐｄａｔｅｄ Ｆｏｌｄｅｒ： http://www.facebook.com/brittanybanta#!/albuａm.php?aid=2812550&id=5250981
ａｎｄ ｉｆ ｅｉｔｈｅｒ ｏｆ ｔｈｏｓｅ ａｓｋ ｙｏｕ ｔｏ ｌｏｇ ｉｎｔｏ Ｆａｃｅｂｏｏｋ ａｎｄ ｙｏｕ ｄｏｎ’ｔ ｈａｖｅ ａｎ ａｃｃｏｕｎｔ， ｔｈｉｓ ｌｉｎｋ ｓｈｏｕｌｄ ｗｏｒｋ ｆｏｒ ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ：
http://www.facebook.com/p.php?i=5250981&k=5413PVVQT5VN2EDIWFU4SRVTUREGW&oid=1144820159726
Ｉ ｗｉｌｌ ａｔｔｅｍｐｔ ｔｏ ｒｅｏｒｇａｎｉｚｅ ｔｈｅｍ ｆｏｒ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ ｂｒｏｗｓｉｎｇ ｗｈｅｎ Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ａ ｆａｓｔｅｒ ｉｎｔｅｒｎｅｔ ｃｏｎｎｅｃｔｉｏｎ
Uttar Pradesh
We left the south from Goa and flew up north, into Lucknow, the capital of Uttar Pradesh.
Uttar Pradesh was our first taste of North India, and the differences from the South were pretty obvious from early on. One of the biggest ones is that at breakfast, the fruit juice is no longer fresh! (Insert pretentious sad face.) In the south we'd grown so accustomed to fresh pineapple and orange juice that when we ordered it in the north and it came in a can, we were struck by it, and ultimately disappointed. Since then we've been drinking much more tea instead. Another difference is that people in the south (salesmen, touts, drivers), although they are aggressive, have nothing on their counterparts in the north. In Goa and Kerala they would ask us if we wanted to come in their shops, or if we needed a ride, but in the north people come out of their stores into the streets, try as hard as they can to get you to come in, promise you the best deals, give you their business cards, and then re-approach you later and say “remember me?” when you walk by again. My slip on shoes ultimately broke in Varanasi, and when I went to replace them in Agra I barely paused and side-glanced at a shoe store when the owner saw me from several shops away, ran down the street screaming “MADAM, MADAM!” then managed to have me try on every pair of shoes in his store. (I haggled for a pair of ridiculously ornate silver mirrored and embroidered slip ons that I really only bought for their comfort.) Four rickshaw drivers were camped outside of our hotel, and anytime we would leave they would all come up to us and pretty much demand that we needed to get a ride from one of them. There were times where we really did not need one—just going around the corner—but they would haggle each other down until some of them would shout “FREE FREE JUST GET IN!” and we'd walk away feeling assaulted and shocked. One of the most distressing contrasts to the south is that even though I'm dressed much more conservatively up here (in the South you can generally get away with sun-dresses, skirts and tank tops because of the beach atmosphere and the fact that it's much hotter there this time of year), men on the street have been much more assertive with their opinions on what I'm wearing and what I should be covering up with. (Mostly I'm in a t shirt and jeans, or a knee length dress, shirt and scarf.)
Nathan and I both like the climate better in the north though--it's much drier and cooler here (although still wicked hot and sunny in the middle of the day). And we're both enjoying the Tandoori specialties that were harder to get in the south. The cities are more cosmopolitan and the architecture is more abundant and interesting here—tons of British government buildings and Indian castles, temples in the middle of cities and abutting the Ghats.
We didn't really know what to expect from Lucknow--the only real reasons we went is because it was cheap to fly in to, close to Varanasi (5 hour train) where we would soon head, and it sounded nicer that Patna, the other major airport in the state. It turned out to be quite pretty, and is considered the "Islamic Varanasi"--large, beautiful old buildings, universities, and mosques. Nathan had become sick in Goa just before we departed, and was mostly bedridden in Lucknow. That turned out to be not so bad (yet) because we stayed in the most epic guesthouse--a huge old government building (again, Lucknow is the state capital so there were many of these buildings) where we had a large bedroom, fireplace, sitting room, full bathroom and for the first time--free wi-fi! He mustered up some energy one night, and we took a bicycle rickshaw out to a huge tomb and mosque called Bara Imambara. It surrounded a beautiful garden, and in the tomb there was a labyrinth of dark hallways that we got lost in for a while.
Our stay in Lucknow was brief, and we left for Varanasi by express train the next morning. I had misread the departure time on the ticket and realized it only as we were heading out. We luckily found an autorickshaw (Lucknow is saturated with bicycle rickshaws that go ever so slooowly) and made our way to the station. (On the way we smelled this terrible odor and as we turned the corner there was a huge pile of trash and a few wild pigs going crazy for it, and one pig off to the side going just as nuts munching on a heap of sand. We still laugh thinking about it.) Our train was a couple of hours late, and thus got off schedule once it finally departed to let the on-time trains use the tracks. Nathan made a friend though who sat with us on the train and we picked his brain about various things India-related. We didn't get into Varanasi until late that night and oh man was it an insane place. It was what I had pictured Mumbai to be like--full of winding alleys and too many people and everything being bought and sold all around. Mumbai had much larger broadways and I felt like the shopping was more contained, but Varanasi is just a madhouse. Our taxi dropped us off at the closest point to our guesthouse that he could--you see, between the main road and the Ganges River (where most of the guesthouses are), there is a series of very narrow alleyways that turn and cross like a maze and at night and it was really dark so you had to step carefully because they are full of of cow shit (and other shit) which is everywhere. No vehicles can fit in them (except the occasional motor-scooter) so we were left to walk though, following painted signs on the walls leading us to our stay--kind of like a scavenger hunt. We stayed in a great place right on the Ganges that had a rooftop restaurant with great views of the Old City, the Ganges River, and the two most exciting ghats (large steps leading down to the river)--the Burning Ghat (Hindu cremations) and the Party Ghat (offerings every evening) (as I referred to them--their real names are very long and I can't remember anymore).
Varanasi is so full of life and death and everything else. Its a pilgrimage city where people come to die, for their corpses to be burned on the Burning Ghat, and their bodies to be thrown into the holy Ganges. They come to Varanasi to escape the circle of life, death, rebirth and instead to pass straight into Nirvana. All day long men bathe themselves in the river (filthy, toxic river), sit along the river, sleep next to the river. I saw a man pooping next to the river and a cow started stampeding toward him and he couldn't get up so he picked up some stones and tried to make the cow heed.; (It did, but it was still really funny to watch.)
On our second night there, the festival of Holi began and would last through the following night--it is like Easter egg dying mixed with Mardi Gras--and is celebrated to welcome in Spring. The streets and Ghats were filled with people throwing colored water at each other and basically destroying each others clothes. (Our manager locked the guesthouse so we couldn't really get out, Holi isn't safe for women anyway because it really is just a free for all, but Nathan managed to sneak out for 5 minutes before coming back covered in purple dye with his shirt half ripped off.) The employees and guests at our place had our own Holi party though, and I was glad to avoid the outside madness (and shit).
Despite his brief lapse of energy that took him to the Holi streets, Nathan had become very ill by now and so we called a doctor. He came to our hotel room and wrote him several prescriptions (for a parasite, he believed), and because everything was closed for Holi, messengered one of his employees over with all of the medication the next day. Doctors making house calls and messengers bringing you medication is pretty sweet. It all cost under $20 too.
Over the next few days, the city had calmed down from the Holi madness and Nathan was feeling better so we walked over to the Burning Ghat to see the cremations. A kid who worked at a hospice next to it took us up to have a good view of the ceremony. A lot of times people who offer to help you end up asking you for a fee afterward, but this kid was really sweet and just interested in explaining the ceremony to us, seemingly very genuine. He did tell us if we wanted to help out we could donate a small sum to the hospice manager, an elderly lady who oversaw the operations, that would be put toward buying wood biers for the poor who die so that their bodies can be tethered to before being burned. We obliged and gave 150 rupees (about $3) which buys one bundle of Banyan wood--which they use specifically because it eliminates the rank smell of burning bodies.
The bodies are draped in different colored sheets depending on the gender and age of the deceased. They're tied to the biers and wrapped in flower garlands. The male members of their families carry them down the steps to the Ganges, sing and dip them into the river, then set them on the stairs until a pyre has opened up. (Women are not allowed to attend the cremation ceremony because their crying is too distressing and distracting. The whole thing is remarkably civil and composed, I was really shocked.) Then they are placed on the lit pyre, and over 3 hours the body burns away. There were 5 or 6 pyres burning at once, and the ceremonies happen all day and night. I had pictured it to be much less humane for some reason--just bare bodies thrown into firey pits of sorts--and was really impressed at the ceremony and the fact that the bodies were so well covered and decorated. (There were cows and street dogs hanging out all around the bodies, but this seemed par for the course at this point as they are always everywhere.) Only at one point later that day when Nathan and I were taking a row boat ride did I get a little freaked out. Our oarsman pulled right up to the Burning Ghat and docked us there for 2 minutes while he jumped out to get tobacco from a bodega. We were right up front to the burning bodies and Nathan pointed out feet sticking out of one of the pyres. It's an image I don't think I will forget any time soon.
Nathan was feeling almost completely better on our last day there, so we decided to keep our plans and take the overnight train to Agra. We had almost the same thing happen as on our last night train, so we ended up sharing a sleeping cot again--granting neither of us much rest. We arrived in Agra early, around 6am and headed to our hotel.; We were only in Agra for 2 days, and the Taj Mahal would be closed on the second day (Friday, for service at the Mosque) so we dropped our bags off and headed over to see it just after the sunrise. It was pretty (though not as spectacular as it is in postcards) and I had never realized how big the grounds were--there are large gardens and fountains and mosques surrounding the famous tomb, and it was a nice serene break from the chaos we usually experience. The Taj Mahal itself was much smaller than I imagined and once inside there was not much to explore. We took a thousand pictures of it from different angles, so look for those in the photo link soon.
Other than the Taj Mahal, there's not much to Agra. Frankly I thought it was a shit-hole (and the overwhelming smell of manure EVERYWHERE in the city only added to my negative impression.) The only other memorable thing about Agra was that we didn't have any hot water (generally we've lucked out in that area) so when we wanted to bathe, the manager of our hotel would bring us a big hot bucket of water, and a little pitcher to dole it out. I was happy to leave after two days.
Uttar Pradesh was our first taste of North India, and the differences from the South were pretty obvious from early on. One of the biggest ones is that at breakfast, the fruit juice is no longer fresh! (Insert pretentious sad face.) In the south we'd grown so accustomed to fresh pineapple and orange juice that when we ordered it in the north and it came in a can, we were struck by it, and ultimately disappointed. Since then we've been drinking much more tea instead. Another difference is that people in the south (salesmen, touts, drivers), although they are aggressive, have nothing on their counterparts in the north. In Goa and Kerala they would ask us if we wanted to come in their shops, or if we needed a ride, but in the north people come out of their stores into the streets, try as hard as they can to get you to come in, promise you the best deals, give you their business cards, and then re-approach you later and say “remember me?” when you walk by again. My slip on shoes ultimately broke in Varanasi, and when I went to replace them in Agra I barely paused and side-glanced at a shoe store when the owner saw me from several shops away, ran down the street screaming “MADAM, MADAM!” then managed to have me try on every pair of shoes in his store. (I haggled for a pair of ridiculously ornate silver mirrored and embroidered slip ons that I really only bought for their comfort.) Four rickshaw drivers were camped outside of our hotel, and anytime we would leave they would all come up to us and pretty much demand that we needed to get a ride from one of them. There were times where we really did not need one—just going around the corner—but they would haggle each other down until some of them would shout “FREE FREE JUST GET IN!” and we'd walk away feeling assaulted and shocked. One of the most distressing contrasts to the south is that even though I'm dressed much more conservatively up here (in the South you can generally get away with sun-dresses, skirts and tank tops because of the beach atmosphere and the fact that it's much hotter there this time of year), men on the street have been much more assertive with their opinions on what I'm wearing and what I should be covering up with. (Mostly I'm in a t shirt and jeans, or a knee length dress, shirt and scarf.)
Nathan and I both like the climate better in the north though--it's much drier and cooler here (although still wicked hot and sunny in the middle of the day). And we're both enjoying the Tandoori specialties that were harder to get in the south. The cities are more cosmopolitan and the architecture is more abundant and interesting here—tons of British government buildings and Indian castles, temples in the middle of cities and abutting the Ghats.
We didn't really know what to expect from Lucknow--the only real reasons we went is because it was cheap to fly in to, close to Varanasi (5 hour train) where we would soon head, and it sounded nicer that Patna, the other major airport in the state. It turned out to be quite pretty, and is considered the "Islamic Varanasi"--large, beautiful old buildings, universities, and mosques. Nathan had become sick in Goa just before we departed, and was mostly bedridden in Lucknow. That turned out to be not so bad (yet) because we stayed in the most epic guesthouse--a huge old government building (again, Lucknow is the state capital so there were many of these buildings) where we had a large bedroom, fireplace, sitting room, full bathroom and for the first time--free wi-fi! He mustered up some energy one night, and we took a bicycle rickshaw out to a huge tomb and mosque called Bara Imambara. It surrounded a beautiful garden, and in the tomb there was a labyrinth of dark hallways that we got lost in for a while.
Our stay in Lucknow was brief, and we left for Varanasi by express train the next morning. I had misread the departure time on the ticket and realized it only as we were heading out. We luckily found an autorickshaw (Lucknow is saturated with bicycle rickshaws that go ever so slooowly) and made our way to the station. (On the way we smelled this terrible odor and as we turned the corner there was a huge pile of trash and a few wild pigs going crazy for it, and one pig off to the side going just as nuts munching on a heap of sand. We still laugh thinking about it.) Our train was a couple of hours late, and thus got off schedule once it finally departed to let the on-time trains use the tracks. Nathan made a friend though who sat with us on the train and we picked his brain about various things India-related. We didn't get into Varanasi until late that night and oh man was it an insane place. It was what I had pictured Mumbai to be like--full of winding alleys and too many people and everything being bought and sold all around. Mumbai had much larger broadways and I felt like the shopping was more contained, but Varanasi is just a madhouse. Our taxi dropped us off at the closest point to our guesthouse that he could--you see, between the main road and the Ganges River (where most of the guesthouses are), there is a series of very narrow alleyways that turn and cross like a maze and at night and it was really dark so you had to step carefully because they are full of of cow shit (and other shit) which is everywhere. No vehicles can fit in them (except the occasional motor-scooter) so we were left to walk though, following painted signs on the walls leading us to our stay--kind of like a scavenger hunt. We stayed in a great place right on the Ganges that had a rooftop restaurant with great views of the Old City, the Ganges River, and the two most exciting ghats (large steps leading down to the river)--the Burning Ghat (Hindu cremations) and the Party Ghat (offerings every evening) (as I referred to them--their real names are very long and I can't remember anymore).
Varanasi is so full of life and death and everything else. Its a pilgrimage city where people come to die, for their corpses to be burned on the Burning Ghat, and their bodies to be thrown into the holy Ganges. They come to Varanasi to escape the circle of life, death, rebirth and instead to pass straight into Nirvana. All day long men bathe themselves in the river (filthy, toxic river), sit along the river, sleep next to the river. I saw a man pooping next to the river and a cow started stampeding toward him and he couldn't get up so he picked up some stones and tried to make the cow heed.; (It did, but it was still really funny to watch.)
On our second night there, the festival of Holi began and would last through the following night--it is like Easter egg dying mixed with Mardi Gras--and is celebrated to welcome in Spring. The streets and Ghats were filled with people throwing colored water at each other and basically destroying each others clothes. (Our manager locked the guesthouse so we couldn't really get out, Holi isn't safe for women anyway because it really is just a free for all, but Nathan managed to sneak out for 5 minutes before coming back covered in purple dye with his shirt half ripped off.) The employees and guests at our place had our own Holi party though, and I was glad to avoid the outside madness (and shit).
Despite his brief lapse of energy that took him to the Holi streets, Nathan had become very ill by now and so we called a doctor. He came to our hotel room and wrote him several prescriptions (for a parasite, he believed), and because everything was closed for Holi, messengered one of his employees over with all of the medication the next day. Doctors making house calls and messengers bringing you medication is pretty sweet. It all cost under $20 too.
Over the next few days, the city had calmed down from the Holi madness and Nathan was feeling better so we walked over to the Burning Ghat to see the cremations. A kid who worked at a hospice next to it took us up to have a good view of the ceremony. A lot of times people who offer to help you end up asking you for a fee afterward, but this kid was really sweet and just interested in explaining the ceremony to us, seemingly very genuine. He did tell us if we wanted to help out we could donate a small sum to the hospice manager, an elderly lady who oversaw the operations, that would be put toward buying wood biers for the poor who die so that their bodies can be tethered to before being burned. We obliged and gave 150 rupees (about $3) which buys one bundle of Banyan wood--which they use specifically because it eliminates the rank smell of burning bodies.
The bodies are draped in different colored sheets depending on the gender and age of the deceased. They're tied to the biers and wrapped in flower garlands. The male members of their families carry them down the steps to the Ganges, sing and dip them into the river, then set them on the stairs until a pyre has opened up. (Women are not allowed to attend the cremation ceremony because their crying is too distressing and distracting. The whole thing is remarkably civil and composed, I was really shocked.) Then they are placed on the lit pyre, and over 3 hours the body burns away. There were 5 or 6 pyres burning at once, and the ceremonies happen all day and night. I had pictured it to be much less humane for some reason--just bare bodies thrown into firey pits of sorts--and was really impressed at the ceremony and the fact that the bodies were so well covered and decorated. (There were cows and street dogs hanging out all around the bodies, but this seemed par for the course at this point as they are always everywhere.) Only at one point later that day when Nathan and I were taking a row boat ride did I get a little freaked out. Our oarsman pulled right up to the Burning Ghat and docked us there for 2 minutes while he jumped out to get tobacco from a bodega. We were right up front to the burning bodies and Nathan pointed out feet sticking out of one of the pyres. It's an image I don't think I will forget any time soon.
Nathan was feeling almost completely better on our last day there, so we decided to keep our plans and take the overnight train to Agra. We had almost the same thing happen as on our last night train, so we ended up sharing a sleeping cot again--granting neither of us much rest. We arrived in Agra early, around 6am and headed to our hotel.; We were only in Agra for 2 days, and the Taj Mahal would be closed on the second day (Friday, for service at the Mosque) so we dropped our bags off and headed over to see it just after the sunrise. It was pretty (though not as spectacular as it is in postcards) and I had never realized how big the grounds were--there are large gardens and fountains and mosques surrounding the famous tomb, and it was a nice serene break from the chaos we usually experience. The Taj Mahal itself was much smaller than I imagined and once inside there was not much to explore. We took a thousand pictures of it from different angles, so look for those in the photo link soon.
Other than the Taj Mahal, there's not much to Agra. Frankly I thought it was a shit-hole (and the overwhelming smell of manure EVERYWHERE in the city only added to my negative impression.) The only other memorable thing about Agra was that we didn't have any hot water (generally we've lucked out in that area) so when we wanted to bathe, the manager of our hotel would bring us a big hot bucket of water, and a little pitcher to dole it out. I was happy to leave after two days.
Friday, March 5, 2010
BACKWATER & BACK
We get up at dawn and catch a ferry out of town and into the backwater. The filth and noise of Alleppey are behind. The ferry is basically a local bus but on the water. We are the only tourists on it. Everything becomes surreal. The ferry stop frequently at wooden piers, on islands, on narrow jetties, alongside fields, picking up and dropping off passengers. We pass lakes, forking rivers, shaded canals with draw-footbridges. Colorful houses in the middle of nowhere drift past. A pink church on an island floats by. I wonder who goes there and how they arrive. The backwater is shallow and we see men standing chest deep beside their boats. The duck below the water and come up holding fish which they toss in their boats. On every lily pad there is a different bird. An unforgettable few hours. A way of life I never could have imagined.
Then we arrived at Kottayam, a bustling city. After staying inside all afternoon to dodge the heat, we hired a rickshaw driver for the afternoon and went to a bird sanctuary. We didn't see many birds, but we saw dozens of enormous fruit bats flying through the trees and creepers. Their wingspans must have been 4-6 feet. Then we took another trip to a Shiva temple in another town. It had a rivival atmosphere, with loudspeakers placed across the parking lot and down the roads to broadcast the chanting Auuuums, and large mobs of Hindus flooding in to worship. The inner temple was surrounded with candles, and men (probably two dozen?) were rolling slowly on the ground around it ("to deal with their problems" Jiji, our Christian rickshaw driver, tried to explain). We couldn't go inside the inner sanctum.
The guidebook spoke glowingly of two murals in the courtyard of a wrathful Shiva dancing on the corpses of demons and cobras. I was excited to see it. But when we finally found it, it was so faded we could barely make it out, AND it was surrounded by stacks of old chairs, unused signs, and dust. We found that odd. A beautiful and intricate mural just neglected by the obviously prosperous Shiva temple.
Anyhow, the ferryboats going back to Alleppey were done so we tried to take a bus. That turned into the usual Indian chaos. We've learned to be very pushy, because directions and advice is sketchy and often wrong. (For example, the number of times people have said left and pointed right is getting a bit ridiculous.) The guy at "enquiries" told us 7:30 and after 7:30 came and went with no bus he refused to talk to us. Another bus official seemed very helpful, but finally didn't seem to know what he was talking about either. Finally some teenager came up and told us that there were no more direct buses and we had to transfer to the local bus at a nearby town. No one's English is that hot, and we've been given incorrect advice so many times, that we were flustered. But the teenager had decent English and wrote down the bus names (when someone's talking to you in broken English, it's hard to understand that "Mugamsandacherry" is a place...).
So we're off again. It's night by now. We're not really sure where we're going. The buses drive like maniacs through the trash fires in the ditches, the endless horns, blinding headlights. We get to the local bus station and are directed to the bus to Alleppey. We sit down, but then the bus just starts filling and filling and filling with people, and by the time it leaves the conductor has to kind of swim through the people to get everyone's money.
But then this last bus ride is quite magical, like the ferry boat ride, we're driving on a road surrounded by water, with the flickering porch candlelights of homes on islands, each reflected pristine in their watery front "yards." Everyone seems to know each other and everyone's talking to each other--probably all just on their commute home. Stop by stop people get off and head off across bridges to their floating glowing home. And then we made it home ourselves. Such small accomplishments often feel like minor miracles.
Then we arrived at Kottayam, a bustling city. After staying inside all afternoon to dodge the heat, we hired a rickshaw driver for the afternoon and went to a bird sanctuary. We didn't see many birds, but we saw dozens of enormous fruit bats flying through the trees and creepers. Their wingspans must have been 4-6 feet. Then we took another trip to a Shiva temple in another town. It had a rivival atmosphere, with loudspeakers placed across the parking lot and down the roads to broadcast the chanting Auuuums, and large mobs of Hindus flooding in to worship. The inner temple was surrounded with candles, and men (probably two dozen?) were rolling slowly on the ground around it ("to deal with their problems" Jiji, our Christian rickshaw driver, tried to explain). We couldn't go inside the inner sanctum.
The guidebook spoke glowingly of two murals in the courtyard of a wrathful Shiva dancing on the corpses of demons and cobras. I was excited to see it. But when we finally found it, it was so faded we could barely make it out, AND it was surrounded by stacks of old chairs, unused signs, and dust. We found that odd. A beautiful and intricate mural just neglected by the obviously prosperous Shiva temple.
Anyhow, the ferryboats going back to Alleppey were done so we tried to take a bus. That turned into the usual Indian chaos. We've learned to be very pushy, because directions and advice is sketchy and often wrong. (For example, the number of times people have said left and pointed right is getting a bit ridiculous.) The guy at "enquiries" told us 7:30 and after 7:30 came and went with no bus he refused to talk to us. Another bus official seemed very helpful, but finally didn't seem to know what he was talking about either. Finally some teenager came up and told us that there were no more direct buses and we had to transfer to the local bus at a nearby town. No one's English is that hot, and we've been given incorrect advice so many times, that we were flustered. But the teenager had decent English and wrote down the bus names (when someone's talking to you in broken English, it's hard to understand that "Mugamsandacherry" is a place...).
So we're off again. It's night by now. We're not really sure where we're going. The buses drive like maniacs through the trash fires in the ditches, the endless horns, blinding headlights. We get to the local bus station and are directed to the bus to Alleppey. We sit down, but then the bus just starts filling and filling and filling with people, and by the time it leaves the conductor has to kind of swim through the people to get everyone's money.
But then this last bus ride is quite magical, like the ferry boat ride, we're driving on a road surrounded by water, with the flickering porch candlelights of homes on islands, each reflected pristine in their watery front "yards." Everyone seems to know each other and everyone's talking to each other--probably all just on their commute home. Stop by stop people get off and head off across bridges to their floating glowing home. And then we made it home ourselves. Such small accomplishments often feel like minor miracles.
ALLEPPEY
"The Venice of the East" is kind of a sty. There are two fairly clean scenic canals in the middle of town and the rest is a cacophony of horns and diesel and dirty shops. The road to our guest house has been piled with heaps of dirt we have to haul our bags over which does not improve our mood. By 11 am it is too hot to be outside. This is winter? God save me from a Keralan summer.
We go looking for an internet cafe one morning, but our guidebook mixes up the street names and we head off in the wrong direction. After general confusion and grumpiness we find an internet cafe at last up a flight of dirty stairs. We are the only customers. "Yes, please sit," the lady says. But there is no internet connection. She pokes around. She makes a cellphone call. Half an hour later the whole family (we suppose that's who it is) of 5 or 6 is gathered around trying to figure out how to get online. Well, we are out of the sun and the fans are cool.
While walking down a back-alley we see a skinny tomcat prowling atop a wall. Then a crow swoops down and tries to pick him up by the spine. The cat howls, the bird lets go. Even the animals here obey different laws.
We go looking for an internet cafe one morning, but our guidebook mixes up the street names and we head off in the wrong direction. After general confusion and grumpiness we find an internet cafe at last up a flight of dirty stairs. We are the only customers. "Yes, please sit," the lady says. But there is no internet connection. She pokes around. She makes a cellphone call. Half an hour later the whole family (we suppose that's who it is) of 5 or 6 is gathered around trying to figure out how to get online. Well, we are out of the sun and the fans are cool.
While walking down a back-alley we see a skinny tomcat prowling atop a wall. Then a crow swoops down and tries to pick him up by the spine. The cat howls, the bird lets go. Even the animals here obey different laws.
BUSES!
We leave Kollam (near Varkala) to Alleppey by bus, our first.
How to describe the madness of these trips? First let me list the types of vehicles: you have the big trucks, painted golds and reds, given names like LOAD KING, OM SHIVA, or such things. Then the buses, filled to the gills with passengers. Then normal sedan cars (quite rare). The microvans that I love, like toys. The tuk-tuk trucks that haul goods not people (I saw one loaded with crates of eggs, which seemed an excess of optimism). Tuk-tuks themselves. Motorcycles. Scooters. Cow-powered carts. Bicycles. Bicycles pulling carts. The odd horse. The three-wheeled wooden vehicles for the disabled powered oh-so-slowly by a hand crank. And of course people walking. So there you have the players in our game. In general the biggest machines hold court in the center of the road, with vehicles of decreasing size off to the side, though in the thick of things that all can change.
First rule: if the vehicle in front of you is moving slower than yourself you MUST TRY TO PASS IMMEDIATELY, you MUST veer out to the right in the CHANCE, however slim, that you can pass. Even if there are seven vehicles coming the other direction, you MUST swerve out, just to see what will happen.
As a result the two-lane road typically contains six vehicles across, all either passing or falling back from an unsuccessful pass. Say our bus charges up behind a microvan that is passing a scooter that is passing a cow. So it blares its horn and heads to the right. Well it is obvious to us that this is suicidal since the LOAD KING is occupying the center-right portion of the road (as it passes a tuk-tuk truck who is passing a man balancing twenty clay pots on his head). So now we have it: cow-scooter-van-bus all abreast charging head on at truck-tuk-tuk-man with pots. What's more: into the vacuum of space left behind by our buses attempt to pass has charged a two cars and another bus. Out the right side window I look down as see the wheels touch the end of the pavement--in the U.S. this would look perfectly natural but here it means we are about to die.
Rule number two: if you are about to be crushed by a larger vehicle you yield (veer, slow, speed up, whatever). This is where the great faith-based nature of the Indian traffic system comes into play. Because no one driver can save himself from crashing. He requires ten other vehicles to act appropriately. So back to our situation. Our bus is charging head-on towards the truck. Actually we are in his lane and he is half in ours. So they both lay on the horn, slow every-so-slightly, and crank the wheel back towards their proper lanes. And the red sea parts. The van brakes just enough, the two cars behind allow him a space. The scooter drives off the road into a dusty yard. The man with pots steps into a ditch. Only the cow doesn't change its course. They never do. And so the both buses have successfully moved one vehicle up. But there's no time for cheers. The bus behind us has noticed the new opportunity and has moved up alongside us. Two buses side-by-side. A hundred meters ahead the usual mass of motorcycles and cars.
An interesting thing. It is very rare to see any driver get upset, even if they are forced off the road. The only thing that deserves a dirty look is when someone doesn't obey one of the two rules. A scooter that is content to idle in the wake of a cow cart for a minute too long. A car that tries to hold its place despite a larger vehicle moving its way. Aggression is never responded to with aggression. The only things worth reproach are passivity and a lack of good survival instincts.
How to describe the madness of these trips? First let me list the types of vehicles: you have the big trucks, painted golds and reds, given names like LOAD KING, OM SHIVA, or such things. Then the buses, filled to the gills with passengers. Then normal sedan cars (quite rare). The microvans that I love, like toys. The tuk-tuk trucks that haul goods not people (I saw one loaded with crates of eggs, which seemed an excess of optimism). Tuk-tuks themselves. Motorcycles. Scooters. Cow-powered carts. Bicycles. Bicycles pulling carts. The odd horse. The three-wheeled wooden vehicles for the disabled powered oh-so-slowly by a hand crank. And of course people walking. So there you have the players in our game. In general the biggest machines hold court in the center of the road, with vehicles of decreasing size off to the side, though in the thick of things that all can change.
First rule: if the vehicle in front of you is moving slower than yourself you MUST TRY TO PASS IMMEDIATELY, you MUST veer out to the right in the CHANCE, however slim, that you can pass. Even if there are seven vehicles coming the other direction, you MUST swerve out, just to see what will happen.
As a result the two-lane road typically contains six vehicles across, all either passing or falling back from an unsuccessful pass. Say our bus charges up behind a microvan that is passing a scooter that is passing a cow. So it blares its horn and heads to the right. Well it is obvious to us that this is suicidal since the LOAD KING is occupying the center-right portion of the road (as it passes a tuk-tuk truck who is passing a man balancing twenty clay pots on his head). So now we have it: cow-scooter-van-bus all abreast charging head on at truck-tuk-tuk-man with pots. What's more: into the vacuum of space left behind by our buses attempt to pass has charged a two cars and another bus. Out the right side window I look down as see the wheels touch the end of the pavement--in the U.S. this would look perfectly natural but here it means we are about to die.
Rule number two: if you are about to be crushed by a larger vehicle you yield (veer, slow, speed up, whatever). This is where the great faith-based nature of the Indian traffic system comes into play. Because no one driver can save himself from crashing. He requires ten other vehicles to act appropriately. So back to our situation. Our bus is charging head-on towards the truck. Actually we are in his lane and he is half in ours. So they both lay on the horn, slow every-so-slightly, and crank the wheel back towards their proper lanes. And the red sea parts. The van brakes just enough, the two cars behind allow him a space. The scooter drives off the road into a dusty yard. The man with pots steps into a ditch. Only the cow doesn't change its course. They never do. And so the both buses have successfully moved one vehicle up. But there's no time for cheers. The bus behind us has noticed the new opportunity and has moved up alongside us. Two buses side-by-side. A hundred meters ahead the usual mass of motorcycles and cars.
An interesting thing. It is very rare to see any driver get upset, even if they are forced off the road. The only thing that deserves a dirty look is when someone doesn't obey one of the two rules. A scooter that is content to idle in the wake of a cow cart for a minute too long. A car that tries to hold its place despite a larger vehicle moving its way. Aggression is never responded to with aggression. The only things worth reproach are passivity and a lack of good survival instincts.
VARKALA
A gorgeous strip of beach below red rock cliffs. It's for tourists only pretty much, which doesn't ruin the view exactly. If you walk long enough alongside the cliff, you reach another less spectacular beach, where fishermen squat in the sand near their wood and thatch huts. We stay one night.
HAPPY CHILDREN
This is a vast generalization (and dozens of exceptions leap to my mind), but it seems to me that here in India the children are so intensely happy, both the packs of uniformed school kids, and the poor kids washing themselves in buckets or playing with puppies in the street. And then there are many fun-loving groups of young men (not as many women) holding hands, riding three to a scooter, taking pictures of each other. They shake your hand, they ask you questions, they strut around in their embroidered jeans. Even at work the young men seem to be having a lot of fun. But then once they hit middle-age, the Indian men (not all, obviously, but a noticeable bunch) seem so gruff and rude. They push people out of their way, they will not step aside, they scowl beneath their mustaches. While little girls wave and smile, old women glare and give us what B calls "the stink eye."
I wonder what this change from gleeful children to glowering adults is all about. "Isn't that how it works everywhere?" B asks. I suppose it does. But here it seems more pronounced. I wonder if it is a generational thing--the young have more opportunities now or are more welcoming of Westerners? Or perhaps the responsibilities of the adults in India are somewhat spirit-crushing. So many relatives to feed, so hard to earn so few rupees. Or perhaps it is cultural--you have fun when you are young, then you became a man, a husband, a woman, a wife, and there is no more time for fun.
B comments later, "Of course the kids are happy here. You can run wherever you like. No one tells you to stop or be careful. The whole city is your playground. You don't have to wash for days. You have lots of siblings and friends and you parents aren't around. It doesn't seem like kids are in school much. You fly a kite, you chase a cow. What's not to like?"
I wonder what this change from gleeful children to glowering adults is all about. "Isn't that how it works everywhere?" B asks. I suppose it does. But here it seems more pronounced. I wonder if it is a generational thing--the young have more opportunities now or are more welcoming of Westerners? Or perhaps the responsibilities of the adults in India are somewhat spirit-crushing. So many relatives to feed, so hard to earn so few rupees. Or perhaps it is cultural--you have fun when you are young, then you became a man, a husband, a woman, a wife, and there is no more time for fun.
B comments later, "Of course the kids are happy here. You can run wherever you like. No one tells you to stop or be careful. The whole city is your playground. You don't have to wash for days. You have lots of siblings and friends and you parents aren't around. It doesn't seem like kids are in school much. You fly a kite, you chase a cow. What's not to like?"
BIRTHDAY
For my birthday we go to Trivandrum's zoo which is well known. First I must confess, that considering how unpleasant I've made Trivandrum sound, that surrounding the zoo is a large beautiful park, green and filled with gazebos and packs of children and young men and women.
The zoo is still closed so we sit down on a bench and are swarmed by one group of people after another, all wanting photographs. "Hello! Hello! Where are you from?" When they sit next to you they hold your hand. After an hour of this we make our escape.
The zoo is a zoo. Though he is very sad, I adore an old vulture sitting in a too-small cage. He is as tall and large as a trash can and has a white mane like a lion. There is a giant squirrel with a golden tail running back and forth back and forth on his wire. We stare at the leopard cage for minutes until slowly, suddenly they appear right before our eyes, in the crook of a branch, on top of a rock.
For dinner we go to a pizza chain. "The perfect place for a birthday bash!" Okay then. I get a cone-izza, which is a pizza wrapped up like an ice-cream cone and filled with cheese and hot Indian spices.
The zoo is still closed so we sit down on a bench and are swarmed by one group of people after another, all wanting photographs. "Hello! Hello! Where are you from?" When they sit next to you they hold your hand. After an hour of this we make our escape.
The zoo is a zoo. Though he is very sad, I adore an old vulture sitting in a too-small cage. He is as tall and large as a trash can and has a white mane like a lion. There is a giant squirrel with a golden tail running back and forth back and forth on his wire. We stare at the leopard cage for minutes until slowly, suddenly they appear right before our eyes, in the crook of a branch, on top of a rock.
For dinner we go to a pizza chain. "The perfect place for a birthday bash!" Okay then. I get a cone-izza, which is a pizza wrapped up like an ice-cream cone and filled with cheese and hot Indian spices.
STITCHING
So much of the wonder of India is discovering the odd ways in which things work. We are in an awful mood, sweaty, dirty, lost. A dozen tuk-tuks honk at us asking to drive us when we want to walk. When we need a a ride there are none to be found. Anyhow, we decide to send our Hampi tapestries and some postcards back to the U.S. so after finally finding the central post office (of the capital city of Kerala, mind you) we ask how we can wrap our package. "Stitching! Stitching!" the man shouts making the usual vague wave out into the street.
Finally we head out and wander down an alley. After a few zigs and zags we see a shop the size of a closet with a hand-painted sign says "stitching." Inside a half-naked man sleeps on a wooden plank. We wake him up. He takes our tapestries, wheels out an old foot-pedaled sewing machine, and begins to sew us two perfect little pillowcases. "Please, sit," he says, and we sit on the wooden plank. It's cool inside. We have no choice but to wait and watch. For the first time all day we feel relaxed. When he is done he seals the hem with melted red wax.
Finally we head out and wander down an alley. After a few zigs and zags we see a shop the size of a closet with a hand-painted sign says "stitching." Inside a half-naked man sleeps on a wooden plank. We wake him up. He takes our tapestries, wheels out an old foot-pedaled sewing machine, and begins to sew us two perfect little pillowcases. "Please, sit," he says, and we sit on the wooden plank. It's cool inside. We have no choice but to wait and watch. For the first time all day we feel relaxed. When he is done he seals the hem with melted red wax.
ECONOMICS & THE ENVIRONMENT
It is to notice the ways that India is eco-friendly and the ways that it is eco-evil. Basically, it's all based on rupees. Since electricity costs money, every power outlet has its own on/off switch so you can turn off every appliance completely AND similarly an entire room/house will have an on/off switch so you can make sure there is no excess electricity being used. On a similar principle, anything that can be recycled will be recycled. Of course, since it costs you nothing to throw some trash into the park, go right ahead, and I'm sure no one would ever consider using a cleaner engine if it cost a rupee more. So it just goes to show, I suppose, that IF you can link the capitalist system (in poor countries) to good deeds, people will do the right thing. But if you fail to, you can turn your whole gorgeous country into a trash heap.
TRIVANDRUM
Officially Thiruvananthapuram, but no one wants to say all that. Most cities have two or three names, each with a handful of different spellings. We fly in on a tiny propeller jet and B is green by the time we land. We don't like this city much at all. We stay at a YMCA that is large and spacious and very nice, but once outside the city is a filthy sauna. We take a rickshaw to the temple mentioned in the book, but it is small and unremarkable and covered in dirt and not worth a second look. The main road, named Mahatma Gandhi (like all the main roads) is a nightmare, a free-for-all of traffic and honking and potholes and shimmering heat. At the edges of the road there are no sidewalks, only crumbled and cracked ditches and pits, so anyone walking is forced out into the road. But what makes it all so incongruous is that in-between the usual shack-like shops and wallahs rise gleaming glass buildings, banks and businesses. A glass showroom of new Tata cars but there's a fetid ditch filled with trash that you must cross to reach the front door.
This is where I first start to think about what the modernization of India means. Because India is capitalism run amok, a laissez-faire capitalist's wet dream. Everyone is free to do as he pleases. A man on a carpet is selling what seemed to be his only ware, a bathroom scale. Well, everyone is selling something: the man up at dawn making chains of flowers for the truck drivers to hang from their fenders, the boy selling the maps you can have for free from the tourist office, the ragpicker with his towering cart, the people who refill bottled water and try to pass it off as pure, the man who tries to charge you to watch your shoes outside the temple, the ancient man and his ancient cycle rickshaw, hoping someone will pay his old legs for another spin. And we admire all this pluck and patience and hope--there's more "American spirit" here than America.
But no sidewalks. No lines. Whoever can shove his way on the bus get the seat. Piles of feces and trash as high as cars. Open sewers. Build where you like. Sell what you can. It's a dog-eat-dog world literally. We hear them fighting in the street at night. We see their bodies in the street.
This is where I first start to think about what the modernization of India means. Because India is capitalism run amok, a laissez-faire capitalist's wet dream. Everyone is free to do as he pleases. A man on a carpet is selling what seemed to be his only ware, a bathroom scale. Well, everyone is selling something: the man up at dawn making chains of flowers for the truck drivers to hang from their fenders, the boy selling the maps you can have for free from the tourist office, the ragpicker with his towering cart, the people who refill bottled water and try to pass it off as pure, the man who tries to charge you to watch your shoes outside the temple, the ancient man and his ancient cycle rickshaw, hoping someone will pay his old legs for another spin. And we admire all this pluck and patience and hope--there's more "American spirit" here than America.
But no sidewalks. No lines. Whoever can shove his way on the bus get the seat. Piles of feces and trash as high as cars. Open sewers. Build where you like. Sell what you can. It's a dog-eat-dog world literally. We hear them fighting in the street at night. We see their bodies in the street.
CONSTRUCTION
India seems perpetually under construction. Everything is torn up, scaffolded, gutted, unfinished. Hulking cement frames of buildings seem abandoned. Are they going up or coming down? And it all seems done by hand. A freeway wall is being painted so men squat with stick brooms brushing away the caked dirt while others with small pails and brushes dab on the paint. A ditch is being dug along a major road and husbands and wives dig with small spades or even sticks while their children play in the nearby piles. A major bridge is being built across a river that divides two cities, a river wider than New York's East River, and I cannot see a single machine or generator or person in uniform. I see a man carrying a single length of rebar. Another stacking bricks. One entire massive unfinished section of concrete seems to be supported (I pass this bridge 4 times and I look very closely) on a stack of wooden three-by-fours. Who is in charge? Who are these laborers? Why is such an important bridge being built in such a casual fashion? Once again, how does it work?
HAMPI
A wild tuk-tuk ride from Hospet, a bustling town, to Hampi. I know I go on and on about these rides, but they're such whirlwind experiences, driving through Indian towns. Think of 20 human and animal activities, anything you like, then imagine seeing them all at once. Then imagine that ten seconds later you are witnessing 20 NEW activities. A man selling spices on a blanket. A monkey walking alongside the road. A family on a motorcycle. A man stooped beneath a load of twined together paper. A man with no legs pushing himself on a board with wheels. Crows fighting dogs for food.
We are extremely fond of Hampi. It is a town built on the ruins of a Hindu empire that was sacked 400 years ago by neighboring Muslim sultans. The terrain is otherworldly, high desert, big sky, thousands of boulders scattered haphazardly about, some as large as cars, some as large as houses, some the size of hills. Joshua Tree is the only place that might compare. And then temples everywhere. The major ones that we visit with our guide but also tiny crumbled ones scattered about, unattended, unnamed, forgotten but still beautiful.
Our guide Sado takes us to a mountain temple for a good view of the valley at sunset. The small snaking path up seem treacherous to walk, broken full of holes, and so I am shocked that he intends to drive. Suddenly another car comes chugging down. Impossible. There is no way they can pass! And then, as if placed there by some comic God, a days-old puppy wriggling in the middle of the road. But then we pass, the puppy lives. We laugh. In the U.S. we live with a much larger margin of safety than we know. So much of India exists in this margin where we never go.
In front of the mountain temple there is an empty tuk-tuk and two monkeys have climbed inside. I swear to God, one pushes on the gas pedal while the other one tries to turn the wheel. After awhile they content themselves with pulling out stuffing and wires. Sado seems particularly alarmed. He knows an auto-rickhaw is its driver's entire livelihood.
The main temple is very nice. Men chanting in the inner sanctum but boys playing soccer in the courtyard. More puppies. A monkey on a motorcycle. Near the back we find another door that opens onto a hill. There is a intriguing white temple perched on the top that we avoid because Sado warned us that the sadhus (holy ascetics) there would demand money. We jump from boulder to boulder until we look out over the misty valley, the endless boulders, the lazy river, the sinking evening sun. Ah, we are all alone with the view, we think, but when I look over the edge of a rock I notice an old man taking a crap. Oh well. It is very rare in India, we find, to ever be far from anyone.
Monkeys--we never tire of them! A monkey sees us waiting for the sun to set and joins us on a nearby rock. Then climbs higher to a better view. Back at the temple one dashes up to the highest spire and then jumps up and down on its narrow point. They are so nimble, so brave, so up for fun.
In Hampi meat and beer are illegal. One night at a rooftop cafe we ask for beer. It goes down like a drug deal: the man makes a call, we wait for twenty minutes for the return call, the man goes out into the night, returns with a paper sack, passes it to us beneath the table.
I step into a shop to buy a mirrored tapestry for mom. I see one I like. "How much for that?" "This very beautiful, very fine. Twelve hundred rupees," she says. Well I know I'm supposed to haggle, but I hate going super low and doing all the work of getting back to the middle ground, so I decide to name a reasonable price and just stick to it. "Nine hundred," I say. "Yes! Yes!" she cries. She is ecstatic with this price. "Thank you thank you. This is a very lucky day for me. A very lucky day. What good fortune for my shop. Nine hundred. I am very happy." Well, it looks like I overpaid a bit, but I wish she wouldn't rub it in my face like that.
There's a small river that winds along the edge of town and a ferry that takes you to the quiet restaurants on the other side. "What happened to the bridge?" we ask. We had seen "new bridge" labeled on a map. "They build bridge from both sides, build bridge, build bridge, when they reach the middle it falls down. Now there is only boat."
We are extremely fond of Hampi. It is a town built on the ruins of a Hindu empire that was sacked 400 years ago by neighboring Muslim sultans. The terrain is otherworldly, high desert, big sky, thousands of boulders scattered haphazardly about, some as large as cars, some as large as houses, some the size of hills. Joshua Tree is the only place that might compare. And then temples everywhere. The major ones that we visit with our guide but also tiny crumbled ones scattered about, unattended, unnamed, forgotten but still beautiful.
Our guide Sado takes us to a mountain temple for a good view of the valley at sunset. The small snaking path up seem treacherous to walk, broken full of holes, and so I am shocked that he intends to drive. Suddenly another car comes chugging down. Impossible. There is no way they can pass! And then, as if placed there by some comic God, a days-old puppy wriggling in the middle of the road. But then we pass, the puppy lives. We laugh. In the U.S. we live with a much larger margin of safety than we know. So much of India exists in this margin where we never go.
In front of the mountain temple there is an empty tuk-tuk and two monkeys have climbed inside. I swear to God, one pushes on the gas pedal while the other one tries to turn the wheel. After awhile they content themselves with pulling out stuffing and wires. Sado seems particularly alarmed. He knows an auto-rickhaw is its driver's entire livelihood.
The main temple is very nice. Men chanting in the inner sanctum but boys playing soccer in the courtyard. More puppies. A monkey on a motorcycle. Near the back we find another door that opens onto a hill. There is a intriguing white temple perched on the top that we avoid because Sado warned us that the sadhus (holy ascetics) there would demand money. We jump from boulder to boulder until we look out over the misty valley, the endless boulders, the lazy river, the sinking evening sun. Ah, we are all alone with the view, we think, but when I look over the edge of a rock I notice an old man taking a crap. Oh well. It is very rare in India, we find, to ever be far from anyone.
Monkeys--we never tire of them! A monkey sees us waiting for the sun to set and joins us on a nearby rock. Then climbs higher to a better view. Back at the temple one dashes up to the highest spire and then jumps up and down on its narrow point. They are so nimble, so brave, so up for fun.
In Hampi meat and beer are illegal. One night at a rooftop cafe we ask for beer. It goes down like a drug deal: the man makes a call, we wait for twenty minutes for the return call, the man goes out into the night, returns with a paper sack, passes it to us beneath the table.
I step into a shop to buy a mirrored tapestry for mom. I see one I like. "How much for that?" "This very beautiful, very fine. Twelve hundred rupees," she says. Well I know I'm supposed to haggle, but I hate going super low and doing all the work of getting back to the middle ground, so I decide to name a reasonable price and just stick to it. "Nine hundred," I say. "Yes! Yes!" she cries. She is ecstatic with this price. "Thank you thank you. This is a very lucky day for me. A very lucky day. What good fortune for my shop. Nine hundred. I am very happy." Well, it looks like I overpaid a bit, but I wish she wouldn't rub it in my face like that.
There's a small river that winds along the edge of town and a ferry that takes you to the quiet restaurants on the other side. "What happened to the bridge?" we ask. We had seen "new bridge" labeled on a map. "They build bridge from both sides, build bridge, build bridge, when they reach the middle it falls down. Now there is only boat."
GETTING LOST
A few words on being lost, a state that we are often in. First off, it's very rare for streets to have names, or, if they have names, signs. There's usually a main road, and then once off that you're plunged into a maze of alleys and looping lanes and roundabouts with many spokes. Monuments and points of reference are rare. The average Indian lane is a cluster of similar shacks and shos selling similar wares: cellphone cards, Fantas and snacks, perhaps some firewood, trinkets, kitchen faucets, etc, which makes it difficult to tell one road from another. Also: we have found few Indians who will tell us that they do NOT understand. So when we ask for directions, they always "help" even if it means waving us towards someplace that we do not want to go. At one point we asked for a hotel, and the man pointed towards the "beach, beach" assuming that was where we were going. "Left, left," people tell us pointing right. And every time we try to get specifics, we are greeted with the ubiquitous Indian head bobble. Yes yes.
There's one hand gesture in particular that drives us mad. Imagine you were wearing an oversized watch and, with your arm extended, tried to make the watch spin round and round on your wrist. That's an approximation of the wave we often get. We'll say, "THIS way?" pointing down a specific street, but we only get the same looping gesture as before. It has meant, so far, a million things. I believe it must translate best into "go on and find your way as best you can." Or perhaps, "It is quite easy if you have lived in this town as long as I."
There's one hand gesture in particular that drives us mad. Imagine you were wearing an oversized watch and, with your arm extended, tried to make the watch spin round and round on your wrist. That's an approximation of the wave we often get. We'll say, "THIS way?" pointing down a specific street, but we only get the same looping gesture as before. It has meant, so far, a million things. I believe it must translate best into "go on and find your way as best you can." Or perhaps, "It is quite easy if you have lived in this town as long as I."
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