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."
Friday, February 26, 2010
2 Weeks in Kerala
We left Hampi and returned to Goa by train for 1 night to catch a flight from Goa to Trivandrum the next morning. We stayed in a nothing-town in Goa called Vasco de Gama, because it was just two blocks from the train station where we arrived and only 3 km from the airport. We ended up at the wrong hotel, but it had the same name as the one where I had made the reservation (Hotel Vasco—how original). Considering that it was too muggy outside to drag our luggage around and try and find the other Hotel Vasco (trying to get directions to anywhere in India will be a whole separate post), and also we were tired from traveling (the train took 9 hours rather than 7), we decided just to stay at the wrong hotel, despite it costing a bit more. (And honestly the promise of a hot shower was enticing enough for me—despite the fact that in the end the water heater didn't work!) The building looked not unlike many we had already seen in Goa—very large, dirty, and quite bombed out. Basically old British colonial homes or barracks that haven't been taken care of since India gained independence some 50 years ago—the walls are all smudged with dirt, wires and rods stick out everywhere, the plumbing is a bit suspect. (In fact at our quaint guesthouse in Hampi, the pipe from the bathroom sink just stuck out the bottom of the sink and emptied out onto the bathroom floor. Nathan didn't notice at first and after he brushed his teeth, his spit just went down the sink through the pipe and right onto his feet!)
We slept well (generally I am woken up in the middle of the night or very early morning by the sounds of either: street dogs violently fighting, roosters crowing, auto-rickshaws honking, or women sweeping) and woke up hungry for breakfast before our flight. I usually prefer a “western breakfast” (toast, eggs, granola, fruit, pineapple juice) which has been pretty easy to find in most towns, but when it's not available I opt for the masala dosa—an Indian breakfast that is like a large crispy crepe filled with a mash of sauteed potatoes, onions and hot peppers, and various dipping sauces. We headed to a divey little cafe right around the corner from our hotel—that looked a bit dingey at first—but we went in and I proceeded to have the best masala dosa in the world. It was not only delicious, but also only 18 Rupees (about 40 cents). Since then I've had several masala dosas but none have compared in taste and usually cost 2 or 3 times as much. Sigh.
Later that day, we flew from Goa to Bangalore to Trivandrum on regional airlines. I won't get into it, but the Goa airport was kind of a joke—you couldn't really tell where we were supposed to go (and again, asking for directions just makes things even more convoluted), which line to wait in (the only clear sign at one point was a separate security line for women), or when your flight is boarding from the gate. (Essentially it's just a madhouse of crowds in different areas of the terminal and by luck and persistence you will end up in the right place at the right time.) Despite the fact that the security line in Bangalore was similarly ridiculous (you're not allowed to bring any liquids at all in your carry-on, yet when they found a ziplock bag of them in Nathan's luggage they showed it to each other and laughed and let him pass through with it; yet my bottle opener that I've dragged through security checks in LA, London, Paris and Mumbai over the past 2 months was confiscated) our layover was really nice and productive—as Bangalore is the tech capital of India, the terminals were spiffy and provided free wifi (so I used the time to book future train trips and guesthouse reservations).
I was excited to get to Trivandrum, as it is the capital of the southern state Kerala—well known as the most beautiful region in India and monikered “God's own country.” Most tourists go directly to Kovalam, an overdeveloped beach town some 12 km south of Trivandrum, but being kind of tired of beach towns and sunburnt Europeans, we decided to stay in the city for a couple of nights before moving on. It ended up being a disappointment though—it was HOT HOT HOT and there was lots of traffic (human and auto), and the sidewalks are completely torn apart so you have to fight for space to walk on the road next to busses and cars which are constantly honking at you to move. Even the sidewalks in front of these brand new buildings—five star hotels and glistening office towers—were completely unwalkable—just made of mounds of rubble and huge potholes. While we had planned to spend only one full day in Trivandrum to see the city's main attraction (for Nathan's birthday!)—the zoo and neighboring art museum— it ended up being closed for the day (Monday was all of a sudden a holiday) so instead we went out for pizza and stayed on an additional half day to go the next morning (and the zoo was slightly disappointing as well, although seeing hippos in real life was fun, and wouldn't you know it the museum was closed until March too.)
One of the best experiences we had in Trivandrum was surprisingly at...the post office! Because we had some time to kill on Monday we decided to lighten our load by shipping some things back to the US. We arrived at the post office and asked where we could get a box, or large envelope only to be shooed away (this happens all the time) toward an alley on the other side of the building, with the simple directive, “stitching, stitching.” Because asking to elaborate usually ends up getting you even more lost or confused, we just decided to go for it and headed into this trashed alley adjacent to the post office to a doorway with a sign that says....stitching! We looked in and there was a shirtless man, half asleep at a table in a room no larger than a walk-in closet. We approached him with our packages and a quizzical look and he motioned us in and asked us to sit down. Without saying a word, he measured our packages and then some canvas material and proceeded to make pillowcase-like covers on an antique manual sewing machine for our stuff. He then wrapped our our goods in newspaper and stuffed them into the cases, sewed up the last open edges and sealed it with red wax, and handed them to us to bring to the post office. The whole thing was pretty awesome and Nathan got some great pictures. Can you imagine if you had to go to a tailor to have a custom envelope made every single time you wanted to send a package? Insanity!
We left Trivandrum and began to head back north towards Goa, working our way throughout Kerala. The train tide up to our next town, Varkala was a sweet 45 minutes. Varkala is a quiet cliff-side town right on the beach. While the views were amazing (beach, sky, cliffs—a total postcard paradise), there are only so many sunburnt Europeans and yoga snobs one wants to see, and Varkala was full of them. To cater to them (and I guess, us) the only path along the cliff was so packed with same restaurant after same restaurant after tourist shop after tourist shop with the occasional German bakery thrown in to break up the monotony. We went for a long walk down the path, out of the tourist zone to the “black sand beach” that wasn't as pristine, but where we could get away for a bit and see some of the real Indian beach life (ramshackle fishing huts, tired men huddled out front).
Varkala is relatively expensive, and since we were'nt really feeling it anyway we left the next morning for a town just an hour north by train, Kollam. We had planned to go just for a day, to take a boat tour of the backwaters and spend the night in a crumbling old mansion-turned-guesthouse 3km north of the city. These old British colonial government houses are legendary amongst travelers—giant, beautiful, aging and inexpensive. The only downside is that usually you cannot book them in advance—just show up in the morning to see if there's availability. I was surprised when I called the day before, to see what protocol was, when they offered to reserve a room for us. We were disappointed to see that when we got there though, the mansion was undergoing total renovation, and a much smaller and more modern house next door was serving as its substitute. We decided to leave Kollam, and luckily our rickshaw driver was still around. He dropped us off at the bus station where we had our first holy-shit-bus experience.
At the prospect of staying in the government mansion, we had cancelled our train tickets that would have let us bypass Kollam straight for Aleppey (which by train would have been only another 45 minutes north). Not wanting to chance that we'd have to wait around too long for another train, or whether we'd even be able to get on it (trains sell out days in advance, making it difficult to have more fly-by-night plans), we decided to take the “Super Fast Express” bus—a 2 hour limited stop journey. The busses are like retro-fitted old school busses—painted insane colors and designs on the outside, with very limited comforts inside. It's hard to describe the bus ride as anything other than madness, and Nathan captured some of it on video. Basically the roads are very narrow, and since this was the main north-south drag, it was croweded with busses (tour and public), taxis, private cars, autorickshaws, work vehicles (like dumptrucks or other grumbling along heavy loads) and of course...cows. There are no road signs, no traffic lights, and in this particular situation, no lines on the road. It's seemingly a free-for-all, yet after watching the traffic patterns for a while you learn there are certain ingrained rules of who gets to pass whom (the bigger and faster are usually at the top of the pecking order). Busses honk and swerve completely into the other lane, driving smaller and slower vehicles off the road. No one seems to mind, and in fact if you are one of those bottom feeder vehicles, you better get out of the way, otherwise you've violated the unwritten rules and you get the snide “head turn” from other drivers. As terriffic as this all was, I was glad we hadn't taken our rickshaw driver up on his offer to take us all the way to Alleppey.
Alleppey isn't much to write home about. It calls itself “the Venice of the East” because the city is divided up by a couple of canals, but it's really just a filthy little town with two trashy, dirty waterways running through it, with the appeal that you can take a nice backwater tour through the waterways to some nicer islands close by. Which is exactly what we did! It was serene yet odd—quite and beautiful but then we would come across these little neighborhoods on these scrawny peninsulas that were far from any real town. People would jump on and off our ferry, we assumed they were going to work in the rice fields, or out to catch fish for the day. We passed people openly bathing, and men would would dive down like birds into the shallow rivers catching fish with their hands. Nathan took some pictures and video footage along our 3 hour journey so hopefully that can be posted soon. Once we got to the town (Kotyam), we took a tour of a nearby bird sanctuary (in nearby Kumarakom, where we heard many, but only say one...and some fruit bats) and then up to “the angry Shiva temple” at dusk in Ettumanur where we heard a chant bellowed to the tune of “OM AHHH YAAA SHIVAAYAAA” loudly over and over again as tons of devotees flocked inside (where, as non-Hindus, we were not allowed), and men “who have problems they need help with” rolled around one next to another, around the temple, like a human conveyor belt of prayer. I felt a little overwhelmed—it was the first time I really felt religion in my face (and ears, and rolling around me) since we've been to India.
(A funny sidestory about Alleppey was that there was an older Canadian couple who stayed in the only other room next to ours. This happened to be the same couple that stayed in the palm hut next to us at the Blue Corner in Goa—who heard me (as you could hear EVERYTHING in those huts) not only suffer from my initiating case of Kerala Belly in the hut, but also describe the gross details to my mom one morning as I related all of them to her on the phone (for commisseration). When the husband realized who I was (his wife who I had encountered alone at first didn't), he brought up the Blue Corner, and a knowing and squeamish face came over her. )
Underwhelmed with Alleppey though (and tired of the sweltering heat), we were excited to head further north up to Kochi—a quaint little port city, where we stayed in the Fort area (far from loud Ernkalum, it's major loud city). Kochi was a nice change of pace and scene from what we'd seen so far in Kerala. It was more cosmopolitan that the beaches we'd visited, yet not nearly as noisy as any of the cities. We compared it a bit to Hampi—not too touristy, not too rustic—just the right mix of people and things to do and a place to relax but not get too comfortable. On the night of the day that the bomb went off in the German bakery in Pune, we were having dinner outside near the street when an Islamic group came by, blaring through it's megaphone...something...about something. I know it's nothing to worry about, especially because later we saw some posters for an Islamic community engagement that weekend, but we couldn't help but feel a little tense afterward. Some parts of India feel like Florida or Caribbean resorts, but then sometimes things like Pune happen and you have to remember where you are. But, still, Kochi was nice--there's a beach and market area, 2 blocks of shops and restaurants, a beautiful basilica (that we stayed right next to), another old palace, and shopping area called Jew Town, where one day we saw a head-to-toe Hasidic Jew riding a bike (and suddenly I was really homesick for Brooklyn). We spent most of our nights there cooling off in a spartan beer hall (one of the few to serve beer, as again alcohol is banned in many places or liquor licenses are tough to obtain) where we became familiar with a strange brew called Hayward 5000 STRONG. (Prompting the phrases that would later come: “Hayward strong, Banta weak” and “Heeyyy waaard you like another beer?”)
We spent a long day traveling from Kochi to Ernkalum to Calicut to Mananthavady and finally to Tholpetty where we would spend the next few days far removed from civilization in the Jungle. The 3 hour bus ride to Mananthavady was pretty intense, we went far up into the hills, where our driver had to nimbly make 9 hairpin turns on a narrow road with a cliff on one side. We saw people surrounding one of the cliff areas on our way up, and later learned that a bus had not been so nimble, and had gone off the side of the road, down the cliff. We stayed in a nice guesthouse just across the street from the entrance to the Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary. We took jungle tours twice—once at dawn, and once at dusk—where we saw elephants (one even charged after us), bison, rattlesnakes, monkeys, crazy squirrels and all kinds of birds (including an eagle), visited some beautiful waterfalls, and ate some incredible meals—all cooked by the caretaker of our guesthouse.
We left Kerala to go back to Goa, on an overnight train where we had a bit of a logistical problem. I had moved from the waiting list to an actual seat, but Nathan hadn't. We weren't sure what to do, so we were instructed to just both get on the train. We ended up sharing one of the berths (a metal cot/seat) for the whole 10 hour trip, and neither of us got much sleep. In Goa, this time we stayed in the north region—one night in Arambol, which we found too overrun with Eurotrash, so then down to quiet Candolim Beach for a few nights, where we stayed in an amazing older house, in a room with high ceilings and lots of space. We explored the old fort, which is right on the cliffs overlooking the sea. Quite pretty.
We left Goa yesterday and flew up to Lucknow—the capital of Uttar Pradesh. We're done with our month in the South and will spend the next 4 weeks traveling the north of India. More to come soon...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Photos
This computer actually seems halfway "fast" so I want to try to post a couplep photos. (My video won't load, for some reason...) Well, here's a few shots. Think of them as teasers for my longer posts, if I ever get around to them.
Brittany and Lakshmi, the temple elephant.
The view from where we eat breakfast in Hampi.
Who's this guy? And why is he sewing us a pillow?
Taking a ferry into the backwater. Basically just a local bus, but on the water.
Langur monkeys!
We "had" to pass back through Goa on the way north.
Okay, that's all for now. Lot more where these came from. On to Lucknow.
The view from where we eat breakfast in Hampi.
Who's this guy? And why is he sewing us a pillow?
Taking a ferry into the backwater. Basically just a local bus, but on the water.
Langur monkeys!
We "had" to pass back through Goa on the way north.
Okay, that's all for now. Lot more where these came from. On to Lucknow.
Insanely Belated Goa Post
We sleep the whole day on the train south, arrive in Margoa by night. We ask for The Blue Corner, and our rickshaw driver drops us off at darkened stretch of sand and grass. There's a dim lone lantern hanging about 100 meters off inside some kind of thatch shed so we lug our bags in that direction. But no need to fear. Beyond a rise, we find a cluster of huts, one of them ours, and beyond that a restaurant and bar stretching out onto the sand.
Goa's a palm tree and sand kind of place where tourists come to burn themselves black and sip beers under umbrellas. Not much to do but eat and read and watch the fishing boats out at sea.
We have our first fresh pineapple juices. We drink it every day afterward as well. Why have we not been drinking these all our lives?
For dinner, I ask about that day's fish and the waiter brings us five dangling fish to inspect, a sea bass, king fish, a small hammer-headed shark--all with that sad fish frown. I pick a pomphret, a local flat fish that I read about. It's cooked whole with butter lemon and garlic. Delicious!
The sari and sarong women descend on you during the day. They all have the same pitch: tell you their name, make you promise to look again later in the day. B finally buys one, and an angry group of other women surround her, "but you promised US."
Later we wonder if there's some confusion when we say, "Sorry, sorry," to them as they show their wares.
The ocean is warm, and mild, and shallow for a long way out.
We stay two nights in the hut, then move to a colorful orange guest house halfway between the beach and the tiny tourist town. Our hosts mostly ignore us. One day we see them setting up seats and decorations in their dirty driveway and they tell us it's a "holy communion." A little gir in a sparkling pink dress, so she must be the one. That night there's singing and machine-gun fireworks.
A rooster wakes us up. LONG before the dawn. Cows wander in street and in the yards between houses. A dog barks and piglets run for cover. B has been scared of dogs since I told her rabies can be spread by a lick from a monkey or dog. At breakfast a small golden dog sneaks up and licks her leg beneath the table, then trots away, quite satisfied with himself.
We rent a motor scooter. I practice in front of the rental shop, a woman's house. B is not impressed. "I'm not getting on that thing." I can't say I blame her. It takes me awhile to get the knack. "Easy," says the scooter woman. "Children drive it." Finally, after a few practice trip up and down the road to the beach, I convince B to climb aboard.
We want to go to Chandor, a nearby town. The scooter rental woman tells us the way: "Straight, straight, just straight down this road. I know. My mother is from Chandor. No left no right, just straight, straight. I know."
Within 500 meters our street run into a larger street. There is no straight. Two girls point us in the right direction. But once we get to Margao we are lost again. People seem to want to help, but a man on a motorcycle with a child sends us one way, and a group of young men at a snack stand send us back. And so it goes. No street signs. Never sure if we're going the right way. Pulling over whenever we see someone to ask for help, but only getting vague waves back. At last we leave the town. The scenery is beautiful. Rice paddies, a winding road like a snake. We DO see children driving scooters, also whole families on scooters, also stacks of boxes on scooters held together somehow by a boy riding on back. "Are we close to Chandor?" we ask again to a woman standing in the shade. She looks confused. "Chandor, Chandor?" we beg. "This is Chandor," she says.
We went to Chandor to see a 400 year old Portuguese mansion that was built divided in half for two brothers long ago. For awhile we can't find anyone and wander in the shadowed outer stairs and walkways. After some knocking, the two massive wooden doors open, and we've given a tour by a portly gassy coughing guide, who, once you get past his accent, actually speaks some of the best English we have encountered. His side of the house is rather shabby. While the ballroom is still impressive with its chandeliers and gleaming tiles, and there are a few interesting antiques, such as a fake-drawer that opens into a chamber pot, the place is also filled with kitsch and trash. The highlight though, inner chapel holding, encased in gold, the fingernail of St. Francis Xavier. Shortly after that, he draws our attention to an old refrigerator that no longer works. Beyond a closed door we hear a child cry, and our guide tells us that is a 16th-generation member of the family.
On the other side we are greeted by an old woman, surely in her eighties who has lived her whole life in this mansion in the middle of nowhere. It is a treasure trove of china, gorgeous furniture inlaid with pearl, sandelwood chairs, ivory, heirlooms and artifacts. She seems to only want to tell us the age of each in a prerecorded voice "three hundred years old, one hundred fifty, two hundred years old..." but I'm more interested in an old photo of a woman in pearls and a fancy dress. "Who's this?" "My mother," the lady says. The dining room seats eighty, all served with matching tableware from China. "We haven't had big dinners for a long time," she says. "You grew up here?" "Yes, but I was not allowed to play inside."
On the way home we particularly enjoy a long stretch of road surrounded by farms and greenery. After awhile it becomes clear to us that we driving the wrong way again.
We are bored of Goa. It is very nice, but we're restless already to move on, see what else India has got.
Goa's a palm tree and sand kind of place where tourists come to burn themselves black and sip beers under umbrellas. Not much to do but eat and read and watch the fishing boats out at sea.
We have our first fresh pineapple juices. We drink it every day afterward as well. Why have we not been drinking these all our lives?
For dinner, I ask about that day's fish and the waiter brings us five dangling fish to inspect, a sea bass, king fish, a small hammer-headed shark--all with that sad fish frown. I pick a pomphret, a local flat fish that I read about. It's cooked whole with butter lemon and garlic. Delicious!
The sari and sarong women descend on you during the day. They all have the same pitch: tell you their name, make you promise to look again later in the day. B finally buys one, and an angry group of other women surround her, "but you promised US."
Later we wonder if there's some confusion when we say, "Sorry, sorry," to them as they show their wares.
The ocean is warm, and mild, and shallow for a long way out.
We stay two nights in the hut, then move to a colorful orange guest house halfway between the beach and the tiny tourist town. Our hosts mostly ignore us. One day we see them setting up seats and decorations in their dirty driveway and they tell us it's a "holy communion." A little gir in a sparkling pink dress, so she must be the one. That night there's singing and machine-gun fireworks.
A rooster wakes us up. LONG before the dawn. Cows wander in street and in the yards between houses. A dog barks and piglets run for cover. B has been scared of dogs since I told her rabies can be spread by a lick from a monkey or dog. At breakfast a small golden dog sneaks up and licks her leg beneath the table, then trots away, quite satisfied with himself.
We rent a motor scooter. I practice in front of the rental shop, a woman's house. B is not impressed. "I'm not getting on that thing." I can't say I blame her. It takes me awhile to get the knack. "Easy," says the scooter woman. "Children drive it." Finally, after a few practice trip up and down the road to the beach, I convince B to climb aboard.
We want to go to Chandor, a nearby town. The scooter rental woman tells us the way: "Straight, straight, just straight down this road. I know. My mother is from Chandor. No left no right, just straight, straight. I know."
Within 500 meters our street run into a larger street. There is no straight. Two girls point us in the right direction. But once we get to Margao we are lost again. People seem to want to help, but a man on a motorcycle with a child sends us one way, and a group of young men at a snack stand send us back. And so it goes. No street signs. Never sure if we're going the right way. Pulling over whenever we see someone to ask for help, but only getting vague waves back. At last we leave the town. The scenery is beautiful. Rice paddies, a winding road like a snake. We DO see children driving scooters, also whole families on scooters, also stacks of boxes on scooters held together somehow by a boy riding on back. "Are we close to Chandor?" we ask again to a woman standing in the shade. She looks confused. "Chandor, Chandor?" we beg. "This is Chandor," she says.
We went to Chandor to see a 400 year old Portuguese mansion that was built divided in half for two brothers long ago. For awhile we can't find anyone and wander in the shadowed outer stairs and walkways. After some knocking, the two massive wooden doors open, and we've given a tour by a portly gassy coughing guide, who, once you get past his accent, actually speaks some of the best English we have encountered. His side of the house is rather shabby. While the ballroom is still impressive with its chandeliers and gleaming tiles, and there are a few interesting antiques, such as a fake-drawer that opens into a chamber pot, the place is also filled with kitsch and trash. The highlight though, inner chapel holding, encased in gold, the fingernail of St. Francis Xavier. Shortly after that, he draws our attention to an old refrigerator that no longer works. Beyond a closed door we hear a child cry, and our guide tells us that is a 16th-generation member of the family.
On the other side we are greeted by an old woman, surely in her eighties who has lived her whole life in this mansion in the middle of nowhere. It is a treasure trove of china, gorgeous furniture inlaid with pearl, sandelwood chairs, ivory, heirlooms and artifacts. She seems to only want to tell us the age of each in a prerecorded voice "three hundred years old, one hundred fifty, two hundred years old..." but I'm more interested in an old photo of a woman in pearls and a fancy dress. "Who's this?" "My mother," the lady says. The dining room seats eighty, all served with matching tableware from China. "We haven't had big dinners for a long time," she says. "You grew up here?" "Yes, but I was not allowed to play inside."
On the way home we particularly enjoy a long stretch of road surrounded by farms and greenery. After awhile it becomes clear to us that we driving the wrong way again.
We are bored of Goa. It is very nice, but we're restless already to move on, see what else India has got.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Belated Mumbai Post
Our airport taxi driver pulls over inexplicably as we start to leave the airport area, walks away. A woman with a child begins begging at B's window. Out of an upstairs airport facility window, someone throws out a bucketful of brown water and trash. Okay, we're a little freaked out.
On the ride from the Mumbai airport. A man riding a bicycle through the slum with two exquisitely and traditionally dressed boys perched on each handle bar. Our first sight of Brahmin Cows pulling an old man perched on a cart made out of an oil drum.
"Honk please OK" painted on the back of most cars. You can't possibly see where everyone is. You need them to tell you. You can't possibly dodge every vehicle, you have to have to honk and have faith they'll hear you, avoid you.
Groups of boys in flared pants and silk shirts strut among the traffic and madness of the slums. It's a disco look. Everyone has great posture here.
First night out, while B sleeps. No street signs. Too scared for now to venture off the main roads into the teeming back alleys. A kitten tries to cross the street, walking first under a temporarily stopped taxi. There must be seven more vehicles to pass to get to the other side. It seems like certain death. I can't watch.
Everywhere you see people squatting flatfooted. Working on something, resting, brushing their teeth. It's very hard to do. Try it. Your legs and ankles start to hurt.
Potato chips flavored after different Indian meals. Yum.
Jet lag. We can't seem to stay up late enough for the sunset. We We wake up in the middle of the night. "You awake?" "You awake?" The honking has miraculously died down. Where are we?
On the ride from the Mumbai airport. A man riding a bicycle through the slum with two exquisitely and traditionally dressed boys perched on each handle bar. Our first sight of Brahmin Cows pulling an old man perched on a cart made out of an oil drum.
"Honk please OK" painted on the back of most cars. You can't possibly see where everyone is. You need them to tell you. You can't possibly dodge every vehicle, you have to have to honk and have faith they'll hear you, avoid you.
Groups of boys in flared pants and silk shirts strut among the traffic and madness of the slums. It's a disco look. Everyone has great posture here.
How do these houses not fall down? Three stories high and made out of paper and twigs by all appearances.
The grandeur of the British buildings in Fort. Now there are huts built on massive granite balconies. B: "It's like aliens landed on an abandoned planet."
Our Mumbai hotel, a shabby but clean affair, must have twenty bellhops, from kids to old men. They sleep, read newspapers, eat in the hallways. There's a window in the hall outside our door so they conglomerate there. I've seen some sitting in empty rooms watching cricket on television. We had an "A/C" room so a group of four kids carried in an AC unit for the window. One oversaw the action from the hall. It seems like in India, like they say about ancient Rome, ancient Egypt, the technology that powers the society is human-power, just lots and lots of people.
I'm constantly curious about the economics of things. Who gets paid, how much? At night the staff of restaurants sleep on and under the tables they served food on. Is this their pay?
The book talks about how the Mumbai slums are a massive recycling factory made up of a million single rooms. Melting down tin, saving scrap silicon, turning rocks into gravel.
At times this country seems TOO efficient. A squatting man soaks up extra oil at a gas station to us for... what? There's a leak in a hose outside a museum and ten women gather to use the water for laundry. Everywhere you look is a testament to human resilience and creativity. And also to a population exploded out of control. The planet can support this many people, probably billions more, but do we always need to test that maximum capacity?
From our hotel window we watch the people sleeping on the roof below us waking up. Someone dressed in fancier clothing comes and wakes them rudely up. Most of them go back to sleep after he leaves, but one old starts doing laundry in a bucket. When we get back that night she's still at it.
Just beyond the roof filled with sleeping people is the Gothic and grandiose Victoria Terminal.
I'm constantly curious about the economics of things. Who gets paid, how much? At night the staff of restaurants sleep on and under the tables they served food on. Is this their pay?
The book talks about how the Mumbai slums are a massive recycling factory made up of a million single rooms. Melting down tin, saving scrap silicon, turning rocks into gravel.
At times this country seems TOO efficient. A squatting man soaks up extra oil at a gas station to us for... what? There's a leak in a hose outside a museum and ten women gather to use the water for laundry. Everywhere you look is a testament to human resilience and creativity. And also to a population exploded out of control. The planet can support this many people, probably billions more, but do we always need to test that maximum capacity?
From our hotel window we watch the people sleeping on the roof below us waking up. Someone dressed in fancier clothing comes and wakes them rudely up. Most of them go back to sleep after he leaves, but one old starts doing laundry in a bucket. When we get back that night she's still at it.
Just beyond the roof filled with sleeping people is the Gothic and grandiose Victoria Terminal.
Part of the thrill of India is like watching the dynamics of an anthill, except you're an ant yourself. How does it all work? How do people know where to go? What to eat? What to pay? What to carry? How do I fit into all this?
First night out, while B sleeps. No street signs. Too scared for now to venture off the main roads into the teeming back alleys. A kitten tries to cross the street, walking first under a temporarily stopped taxi. There must be seven more vehicles to pass to get to the other side. It seems like certain death. I can't watch.
Everywhere you see people squatting flatfooted. Working on something, resting, brushing their teeth. It's very hard to do. Try it. Your legs and ankles start to hurt.
Potato chips flavored after different Indian meals. Yum.
Jet lag. We can't seem to stay up late enough for the sunset. We We wake up in the middle of the night. "You awake?" "You awake?" The honking has miraculously died down. Where are we?
Friday, February 5, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Hampi
We are now in Hampi (that's the view from our rooftop cafe), an ancient royal and religious town known for it's bazaar and many temples (and as far as I can tell, monkeys!), in the Karnataka region. We arrived here by train from Goa after a relatively short 6 hour eastbound ride. It's pretty amazing--the landscape is gorgeous--it's in the desert and there are boulders and temples and tropical plants and trees (including large mango ones and banana forests), and then there are these amazing temples sticking out all over the place. The bazaar is really impressive too--it lines the main street and you can still buy all kinds of fine jewelry, silver, and gems there. We haven't done any shopping yet, but I think we're going to make our rounds today to see if we can pick up some genuinely nice things to bring home. The streets around the bazaar are very small and winding, making it easy and fun to get lost without going very far. We' are staying in a nice guesthouse (called Vicky's if you want to google it) on one of the side-streets that has a restaurant on the roof with some of the best views of the city (and hot showers!). At night, the goats come in from pasture and it's quite a little parade, with the two baby goats being carried by their shepherd (?) at the caboose (it's quite a sight and really adorable). Every morning we have breakfast up on the roof and it's pretty amazing to see the temples in the distance, and monkeys climbing all over the rooftops of neighboring buildings. There's a terrace with some chairs and a swing just outside of our room that affords us the opportunity to be total voyeurs of the people all over the street, and it's where Nathan has been able to get some writing done in the mornings while it's not too hot outside. We are right near the river too (I can't remember what it's called--everything here has an impossibly long name) so we've had a nice breeze and some cool nights as well. Although the days here are hot and dry, we've been exploring much of our surroundings. We've visited several temples, where Hanuman seems to be pretty popular (he is the monkey god!) and there are of course several statues and carvings of Krishna, Vishnu and his wife Lakshmi. Shiva's image can be found everywhere (including a paper mask of him perched on our neighbor's roof), and we've noticed several people in town with 3 white line markings on their foreheads which indicates they are of a particular sect that honors Shiva (while apparently a white V means you are a loyal follower of Krisha and Vishnu). One night we climbed some boulders behind a temple to watch the sunset--we've tried to take some pictures of this one and the sun over the Arabian Sea, but I don't think we were able to capture just how incredible it is here. We also visited some ancient baths, watchtowers, and royal elephant stables. Today (our last day here) we are going to explore the Virupaksha temple right in the center of the city and hopefully see its resident elephant (also called Lakshmi) who will kiss you for a coin.
Because of Hampi's religious significance, it is illegal to consume meat and alcohol within the city's borders. After a long day of touring temples with our guide Sado and his trusty auto-rickshaw (more on him later), Nathan and I were craving a cold beer pretty badly, so we paid 15 Rupees (about 30 cents) to cross the river in a motorboat to the city on the other side (known for it's more laid back atmosphere and several ashrams) where we could have one (although they are not listed on the menu). We also found out that some of the restaurants in Hampi do serve beer, but are extremely secretive about it. Last night our waiter made a special run out for a 6 pack of Kingfisher for Nathan and I and a table of 4 seated near us. He was gone for a while, so I assume he either crossed the river or went into Hospet (the closest train station town) to pick some up. They ended up costing about twice as much as they should, and we had to hide them under our table during dinner which made things interesting.
We leave tomorrow morning--back to Goa (staying right near the Vasco de Gama train station and close to the Dabolim airport) for one night before flying down to Trivandrum on Sunday. Trivandrum is right near the southernmost point of India and is the capital of the region of Kerala--supposedly one of the most beautiful places on earth-- jungles, beaches, wildlife preserves, and old british hill train stations.. We will spend two weeks making our way north through Kerala before arriving in Goa (again, but this time in the northern part) to see our friend from New York for a few days.
I planned on uploading some pictures today, but apparently, despite bringing 8 million different cords, the one that connects my camera to the computer was not one of them. Nathan's taken some pictures on another camera, but he uses it mostly for short videos (which I also tried to upload, but this particular computer will not accept). Hopefully he can try to put them up later, and I'll just have to wait until we get home to put up mine!
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