tiger, tiger

Hello people.  It seems I am back to post-date posting rather than current updates as internet was not to be had so much for the last parts of the trip. But since it is now yesterday for me, I think that’s okay. As I sit on my big blue pilates ball that serves as my desk chair here in Sebastopol, I’ll do my best to recap.  I did write some though while still tripping as it were…in our last episode I left you in Jaipur, shopping, eating, and riding in many tuk-tuks (auto-rickshaws).  After Jaipur, we headed to Ranthambore Park.  It looks like I wrote not at all while in Ranthambore, which makes sense because it is there that we got back to nature at last. Seeing trees and lots of space between people and buildings was a great relief after the crush of cities and tourist sites we experienced up until then.

I’ll try to draw you a picture of Ranthambore (or better yet, post some).  We took a train there from Jaipur to Sawai Madhopur. Many handwashing stations, yet alarmingly few patrons:

 

Ranthambore is a nature preserve for the dwindling Bengal tiger population of Rajasthan. The Khem Villas is in the town of, Sawai Madhopur right next to the park. We spent four nights there.  On arriving to the train station in Sawai Madhopur, there was a driver from Khem Villas there to meet us–very nice guy named Baboo (as in “my sweet baboo” for anyone else who had that same “Peanuts” moment). It is very good to have a driver from your next hotel meeting you wherever you land by train or plane in India, this way you need not hassle the taxi thing and translate your destination with difficulty. Things we may not usually afford here in the US, we do in India lots of times. I have pretty much stopped ever lifting my big, red suitcase, because there is always a suitcase wallah grabbing your luggage from you the second you arrive anyway:

Arriving at Khem Villas is pretty much perfect. One guy uses a pair of tongs to give you a hot towel to wash the road dust  from your hands and face, another applies the bindi  to new guests’ foreheads, (signifying in this case that you are invited to treat the home you are entering as your own.  I hope they don’t mind my CD’s and shoes all over the place then.), and another offers us “sweet lime” to drink–I’ve had lots of variations of lime juice during the course of the trip—sweet lime, salty lime, lime with soda…we should have that here more often. I think I will. The luggage mysteriously disappears (we find it later in the room), we are walked briefly around the grounds and check out the wildlife and resident crocodile (free to leave and roam whenever he likes).  I am feeling quite the colonial British Raj imperialist at this point, but somehow I manage to adjust.

 

The view from the breakfast table:

 

 But the main reason tourists visit Ranthambore is to catch a glimpse of the elusive tiger in the wild.  We heard that some people had been out on five jeep safaris and never saw one.  We got lucky the first day out:

 

My wildlife photography needs some work, but still, it’s pretty damn exciting seeing tigers (plural) and having them see you back, no zoo, no barriers, and no getting out of the jeep (I really wanted to though).  By the way, if anyone knows how to correct blurry pictures (Patti?), please do tell. I am not averse to that kind of photographic cheatery in this case. How many tigers am I ever gonna get?

Anyhow, not being a big fan of 4-wheeling as a general rule, and having scored the tiger  first time out, I was one-and-done with the jeep safari. Just as well, because the next day I was sick as a (slum)dog with some fever and chills ailment which I rename every time I speak of it—train cootie, dengue fever, tigerpause, malaria, Rhajastank, roomis-igloomis, Japanese encephalitis, hindi mange–feel free to invent your own. It was the only time I was sick the whole trip (and not a bit of Delhi belly), and I gotta say, if you’re going to be sick for a day in India, make it at the Khem Villas in Sawai Madhopur.  Hot water bottles, fresh juice, toast, tea and sympathy, all delivered to the bedside, and then complete privacy and silence in a beautiful white room with a view out of a bay window to the mountains.

 

 

As I lay dying, Tim went out on safari two more times (think pith helmets and Commander McBragg—quite right). No more tiger sightings (which I was until now, secretly happy about), but he had a good second day just the same. I don’t usually weasel anyone’s shots, but his new goat herder friends were too lovely to pass up:

 

At night the Khem Villas serves its guests cocktails at an outdoor bar fireside and then we ‘retire to the dining room’ which is heated by several small coal burning pots spread around the room and about ten waiters bring you dish after dish which you may accept or reject for the duration of your candlelight meal—it’s amazing and almost embarrassing. But again, I was able to adjust and endure the excesses just fine.

There was lots to do, see and love about Ranthambore:

 

 

The Khem Villas resort is run by a woman named Usha and I believe her husband is the local doctor who helps runs free health clinics and encourages local sustainability through local cooperatives and agriculture.  By supporting such local industry, the locals have ways to survive that don’t involve poaching.  So y0u see, it was crucial that I shop. ; ) It was by far the most progressive community we visited. 

Nice to be able to see the people making the stuff we bought.  No sweatshops, no misery, fair prices, no kids working…

 

Ranthambore and Sawai Madhopur had quite the tranquil vibe, and it came at just the right time for me. 

 

My thoughts aren’t running that deep at the moment, the day after the long trip home but here are a couple of shallow ones:

- I can only go so long without seeing trees and ocean, then I get mad.

- It is good for traveling companions to separate from time to time.

- For Indian light switches,  down=on, up=off, and there are always a few extra switches that do nothing at all.

- When on a jeep safari, wear a sports bra. 

- Best not to admit it when your blow dryer causes a power outage.

- Go ahead, order the Bombay and tonic.

- Sure, I enjoy the bird. But I am not the bird-watching kind, let alone one who would keep a checklist of birds spotted. 

Upcoming stops: a last day in Delhi, two in Mumbai/Bombay, then south to Murud, beach weekend getaway of the Bombay somewhat elite… 

  Phir milenge (we’ll meet again)…

 

One more for the road

…or before Emirates flight 501. Jet Airways continued sucking, so I told them and got  a  new flight with new airline, leaving at 4:30 am the 26th. Layover in Dubai–maybe will buy some diamonds, a high-rise penthouse apartment built on ocean fill, become a sheik’s 52nd wife or hang out with Britney Spears…

Because of unfortunate internet situation the last couple of places even Mumbai/Bombay, which is a pretty modern-ish city, not so much communication happening, but I’l have lots to say (surprised?) when we  back home. 

I’m glad to have come here.  I’m ready to be home.  I miss you all. Goodbye India. Namaste, phir milen-gay, shukriya. (I honor the divinity in you, I hope to see you later, thank you.)

 

sleepy parting thoughts:

- I saw a a tiger in Ranthambore (more on that later to be accompanied by sad blurry photo taken while seeing tiger in wild.)

- “English wine shops” in India do not sell wine, only hard liquor. Beer shops sell only beer. A shop is usually a stand.

- I like other people carrying my stuff around for me.  Yet I still don’t think that makes me the bourgousie (spell check not an option right now, sorry), super-flashy Indian up and comer that Mumbai has so many of –poverty and Prada side by side. 

- Today’s missions=last barfi purchase, as well cheap duffle bag to stick in new tailored oufit (I now own articles of clothing that fit me, long sleeves and all). Take photos of actual slumdogs (not millionaires) sleeping under Slumdog Millionaire movie posters all over the place. Jai ho. (May you win.)

- Shoulda bought more masala tea! Chai ho?

- Must take off now for food in Irish Pub (?) restaurant in hotel.  (Update-there is also and “Irish pub” in the Dubai airport. The last smoky pub on earth, filled with lovely, smoking, homeward bound infidels.)

Love to you all…see you soon…

 

Jet Airways is crap. Maybe they should outsource.

Pardon the interruption from the regularly scheduled travelogue, but I have a bone to pick…

Why do corporate entities have to be this way? Is anyone surprised that an industry that treats its customers so badly is tanking? Without going into too much detail right now– because I am exhausted wasting time  dealing with shoddy customer service and lying corporate stooges like one Mr. Narenda Mansukani, manager, customer service at Jet Airways– I wanted to warn anyone who was considering it, to bypass this airline.  They are shady, they take your money, cancel your flight without notice, even when they know months in advance it’s going to happen, wait to tell you so you’re stuck with them,  lie about how they’re handling it and ignore you for weeks trying to get you to shut up and take it. In effort to fight the power of a huge behemoth corporation, I just want to say right now, that Jet Airways sucks, bites, and blows. 

For over a month now, I have been trying to get someone at Jet Airways to be decent, but the only one I found was just laid off at their recently closed SFO hub. If I thought yet another sad, frustrated and angry tale of corporate greed and indifference to actual people was at all unique or interesting, or I thought it might extract a shred of integrity from this company, I’d give you details, but it isn’t, and it doesn’t seem a quality they possess, so for now I leave it at this.  I will let you know if my opinion changes or if I run into anyone competent or helpful who still works at Jet Airways.

 

For you, special price.

Seems as good a time as any for a camel:

So we took a train from Haridwar to Jaipur, as we are now aware, the Indian train not the Orient Express, though I bet there is the occasional murder on it. Skanky though my vast Indian train experience has been, we still managed to extract the best from it, thanks to our First Class sleeper cabin mates, Mr. and Mrs. Satya Jeet from Rishikesh. The sleeper was unimpressive, but this was more than made up for by conversations with Mr. Jeet, retired Indian Air Force pilot, and current Hindu guru and philosopher. I think that like us, they were somewhat disappointed with the accommodations, but willing to roll with it. After settling in with our big suitcases, it didn’t take long to figure out that Mr. Jeet was someone to whom we ought listen. He read our palms, told me I had “great feeling,” but was also “rash.” (Huh, go figure.) He said everything is as it should be, accept god’s will, all religions are good as they all lead to god, and like Jesus, we need to welcome suffering, resistance is futile–of course I am paraphrasing the much more eloquent and windy Mr. Jeet. It was a long, overnight trip and we did a lot of listening. It was the kind of conversation you hope to have when you finally get to India with the kind of person you wanted to have it with— Mr. Jeet is deep, but not too swami if you know what I mean. Tim’s new catchphrase is now “welcome suffering” said in a bad Indian accent, usually  right around when I start bitching about something, at which point the suffering often does become his to welcome.

Arrived Jaipur at 4 am on whatever day that was. If you recall my impression of Indian train stations from previous postings, you can imagine the gloriousness of arriving to one at that hour and fighting off the ever present glut of swarming pedal and auto rickshaw drivers jockeying for the one fare likely to show up for the next couple of hours. Enough said.

I’m sitting now at a table in the restaurant of the Hotel Menghiwas, which I unfairly labeled the Hotel Meningitis initially, but actually it’s really nice. (Though they did hire a driver for us I thought for sure was going to give us whooping cough—cover your mouth when you cough much?) .

I’ve decided that today will be an actual work day, to earn a little bit and compensate for my weak haggling skills. As an added bonus I am listening to the streaming radio show of my good friend and favorite local dj Lawrence Alberti, live from 107.3 KOWS lp Occidental. He’s in the process of playing lots of cool sitar stuff and chatting. Very nice to hear the familiar voice and really cool to have someone talk to me on the radio from home while I’m in India. Though I coulda lived without his discussion of my travels in India leading into Beck’s “Loser.” Am I being too sensitive here? I’ll let it slide just this once Lawrence. ; )

Anyway, Jaipur, the Pink City, home of many forts and palaces, and just outside the town of Amber and the Amber Fort and another famous edifice whose name I can’t remember. I can safely say, I am over seeing anymore amazing buildings. Don’t get me wrong, there are some incredible buildings and structures here, see Jaigarh (?) Fort:

..but I’m glad to have them checked off my bucket list.  I can only take so much “sightseeing”, and sometimes they just don’t live up to my imagination. Behold the less photographed angle of the Lake Palace of Jaipur:

The palace is amazing, like a mirage, but no Lonely Planet guide tells you about the rest of it. Why is that?

Anyway, I prefer doing stuff more than looking at stuff. Usually if a lot of tourists are doing something, I’d rather not. It also turns out that when I go too long without burning off steam in the form of real exercise, I get weird and a little agro. Stretching my legs on the short hike up to the top of the Amber Fort and to whatever the other thing up there was, was a relief, and reminded me that I need to get moving more often.

So I scoped out a local gym in Jaipur and went yesterday. It’s no Coach’s Corner (my home gym), but a great improvement than the sedentary samosa-grazing lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed. Nice people there helped me figure out how to do my thing there, and convert my weight to kilos for the machines. An especially nice woman named Uman explained that the gym closed from 10:30am until 5:00pm (I still don’t quite know why)…so I’ll probably go tonight again at 5, hopefully she’ll be around so I can ask some of the burning questions I have about India, and get straight answers from someone who isn’t trying to sell me anything.

When not looking at buildings, eating or searching for elliptical machines, Jaipur is all about shopping, which I have done to the best of my ability. I got my shop on, found the jooties in my size, and lots of other stuff. It is precisely this shopping frenzy that inspires my workday today, in fact. I get a bit anxious with such an imbalance of inflow and outflow, shall we say (and we shall).

I also wanted to work to recharge my female empowerment battery—this country can really sap a grrrl’s strength if you let it. The constant staring at my foreign, relatively fair-skinned, tall, non sari-sporting person gets old. Women are not supposed to have shape or form (or sometimes even faces depending on which religion one is being oppressed by), hence the flowing clothes head to toe. Sure, they’re pretty outfits and all if that’s your style, but it isn’t mine, and it really galls my American feminist ass to be subjugated, and pressured into hiding my self in order to prevent someone else’s pervy propensities. But despite my rebellious and diagnosed rash nature, this just isn’t my war, so I have made a few concessions. I bought a couple of cheap, loose, hippie-style skirts and blouses to try to shake what appears to be socially acceptable ogling done by some nasty Indian men. If you know me pretty well, you know I’d not likely take that shiz in the US, but when in Jaipur, wear the diaper (or the sari):

On that note, I’m back to work, workout Indian-style, and then to a Bollywood movie in “Rajasthan’s biggest theater.” They loves them some hyperbole in India….more on that topic next time in the best blog ever, written by India’s number one traveling writer goddess! (pictured here reflected in the world’s biggest silver thing, or so they say.):

namaste.

Fleeting mental tidbits:

-Indian grocery store (at least the one I found) not as exciting as I usually find foreign grocery stores. It was full of dusty, old, expired, and discontinued American crud, sad looking vegetables and lentils.

-The Jaipur City Palace wasn’t all that. Serves me right for doing the expected tourist thing. I’m told I still have to check out some fort in Ranthambore, but after that, I’m off the grid.

-The same movie is playing at every movie theater in every town in India—an action movie called Gahjini starring a guy who must be the Indian Jean Claude van Damme. (The original version, of course, starred that Kahn dude.)

-A red light in Jaipur is like the Tijuana border checkpoint, but instead of Chiclets and pottery, they’re pushing model airplanes and glow-in-the-dark stars—perhaps these items are chosen in response to the inability to actually see either of these things through the smoggy air.

-All of India has cell phones too.  Funny to see a craggly, old guy in salwar kameez (jammie-like traditional outfit) driving a donkey wagon full of sticks, talking on his cell.

-First class on a train=fewer mice.

-India has more festivals annually than there are days in a year. Tomorrow: Jaipur Kite Festival.

-God, what is that funky smell?

 

Ganga Aarti

Haridwar, India

Writing to you about Haridwar from Jaipur at 6 AM.   Can’t sleep, was awakened by peacocks yakking (serves them right that you can buy a fan made of their feathers for a few rupees) and speeding truck horns. Not a problem though as the Muslim call to prayer has just begun, I might as well get up.

Haridwar is a holy city along the Ganges. I get the impression most cities along the Ganges, or any river in India, are somewhat sacred, why not? But Haridwar is particularly special in that Hindus believe that the Lord Vishnu left his footprint there where the ghat  (stairs leading into the river) is, and left behind some of his holy nectar. (That’s right, I said holy nectar.) There’s a big temple there, and a candle ceremony is held every night at sunset. I have video of that, but having trouble posting, so here are a couple of pictures of the temple in the morning instead:

Approaching the ceremony site is a challenge, especially the first time. There are guys in blue who claim to be official something-or-others, and demand donations to enter the temple area. We are of the mindset that donations by definition must be offered freely, not demanded in a mafia-style shakedown, and we also notice that we are the main target of this “donation request,” and nobody else seems to be getting this treatment, so we move on past the growing number of men in blue assembling around us.  In our haste, we don’t notice that we’re supposed to take off our shoes upon entering the holy site.  The people let us know pretty quickly though and we scurry back out, preparing to make our next attempt to break on through to the other side. This sucks because outside the temple is where the begging is focused, so we have to be fast, take off our shoes avoid stepping in shit while balancing on one foot and fend off all kinds of beggars: sadus, little kids, old, old ladies, guys without limbs on makeshift skateboards, women thrusting their latest tragic babies at us with one hand and holding out the other for rupees…We remove shoes and start putting them in a bag to head back in, but no, no, this is not allowed, says some guy.  You must check your shoes at the official shoe check, get a token and pick them up later after a small donation. I’m not too worried that any local is going to take my black Converse Chuck’s on accident, though they would look pretty cool with a sari.

We shove our way into the crowd around the shoe-check, leave the shoes and begin to try to approach the river again. People with flowers and priestly looking guys call us over.  The first time we went to the ceremony, we didn’t approach any “preists”, but instead received the bindi from some little girls/touts.  I have video of one of them telling me that “if you don’t give me the bindi money god gonna be very sad.” (If I can figure out how to edit it or make you tube upload faster, I’ll post that one too.)

The next time we go to the ceremony, we get the blessing from a “priest”–usually they’re men sitting in small temply stands; they offer to apply the bindi, perform a hand-washing ceremony and provide a bowl made of leaves filled with orange and red and yellow flowers, as well as an oil candle to float down the river in order to receive blessings for family members’ long life, and also blessings for those who have departed, and, of course, hoping for multitudinous offspring.

We participated in the ceremony, repeated the Hindu words of the priest as best we could, inserted our families’ “good name” when instructed, and then, when asked how much we’d like to provide in order to bless our families, “one hundred dollar, two hundred dollar, five hundred dollar…”, we opted for one hundred rupees instead, figuring that Vishnu would understand. Then the ceremony begins.

The ceremony itself is powerful, and active, with glorious low-toned bells clanging, chanting music being played loudly, and worshippers bathing in the waters, praying, and sending flowers and candles down the river. It’s truly moving and easy to get caught up in the beauty and intensity of it. The lit baskets floating down river, the big fire chimneys being waved around as blessing by priests, and the devotion are magical, Religion here is all, not just a Sunday gig and then forget it.  It permeates everything and that makes it feel genuine, despite so much ungodly behavior taking place all around.

The ceremony ends quickly, and the people dissipate just as fast. The bazaars fill up and it’s the liveliest time to be out.  Food cooks everywhere at outdoor stands, chaat, chapatti, and all sorts of mysterious smells waft over…and every shop is open, fairly lights and all.  Huge piles of red tikka (the source of the world’s bindis) is on display…

…which of course I buy, because you never know when I might need to rock a bindi again.

I score some barfi at my local Brijwasi Mithaiwalla:

…and head back. I go to bed early and get up early here. Partly because of the noise and also the exhaustion that happens when everything is new and strange and difficult. Our hotel, Havili Hari Ganga, is a good refuge.

And in closing…

-Indian Idol–as lame as American Idol, only now with extra raga!

-India could use a good copywriter. Sample sign: “Carefully drive, safely arrive.”  Still, an important sentiment I suppose. (Will be taking notes of any further literary awesomeness spotted.)

-The water is so hard (and Vishnu knows what else) that you can’t get bubbles out of your soap.

-A thali is a typical large Indian meal which includes a couple of entrees, lentils, rice, yogurt with cucumbers, bread, pickles, salad and dessert.  I had the more expensive version in a restaurant last night for 70 rupees (around a dollar forty).

-Sometimes I eat just to be able to chill in a restaurant for a while and get out of the crowd.

-The price you pay for anything here is in proportion to your ability to step out of your comfort zone. Bargains require courage.

-I am obsessed with the lime pickle stuff.

-Indians and peroxide don’t mix.

Until next time, carefully drive, safely arrive everybody…

 

The road to Haridwar.

Agra to Haridwar, India

I have some video of Agra I was going to try to add here, but as it’s been uploading for about 12 hours so far, I’ll go ahead and post this now.  Will post video if I’m able to later…

Today (meaning I think January 2, 2009) we left Agra for Haridwar. Hired a driver named Dinesh to drive the 250 km in a “luxury Car” which was in reality a kind of puny beat up Indica? Indigo? sedan. At 9 am, after tipping every person in Agra and saying goodbye to the eternally smiling Hotel Taj Plaza doorman (straight out of the Raj era–big white mustache and ‘good morning sir!’—why am I reminded of Fawlty Towers so often here?) we were off on what was supposed to be a 6 hour journey. The state of Uttar Pradesh has been cold and really foggy lately. And a road trip in India is often deadly in clear weather–many overturned buses and smashed cars strewn along the road. I think the New Year’s Eve holiday made it even worse (Dinesh said drivers do their share of drinking then too), but either way it’s eerie the way the demolished vehicles are just left there. No police evidence collection, not tow trucks on the scene, in fact it looks like some of the big trucks and buses are used to house people afterward, who take up residence like hermit crabs. There is less sentimentality when people are desperate and awaiting reincarnation I think.

 

Not as certain as the locals are about the pending next life, I find the car ride sickening and scary. There are no road rules, and if there are, no one follows or enforces them. The main road must have been built for camels and donkeys thousands of years ago, and now once in a while a few guys spread some cement around on it and call is an expressway. Pass at your own risk, and risk often. The bigger vehicle barreling through has the right of way in what’s pretty much a standing game of chicken. Honk constantly to alert other drivers, donkey carts, pedicabs, tractors, cows and pedestrians on the narrow roads that you’re there and passing. Shoot the gaps and make your own lane in any direction, on any side of the road or shoulder, and flash your headlights when it gets really close and scary. No open roads, or alternate routs, no freeways (not even close).  The road goes directly through the center of every town, large or small, and all full of people.

 

The larger towns are chaos, crowded, and filthy where the road goes through. From the back seat of the car–windows up–we see dirty babies without pants, wandering on the median strip, where they live under greasy, dirt-caked tents. We watch this all to the soundtrack Dinesh has provided for the journey—he’s been playing the same Hindu cassette for hours (ravi, ravi, ravi? Rani, rani, rani?). He asks why I don’t have children, as if there’s some short of human shortage, seemingly oblivious to the awful existence of so many babies in his country. I resist the many answers I have for that question and do the Indian head bobble instead.

 

One thing’s for sure, the world has plenty of cow dung collectors. We see many women in lovely saris carrying huge bowls of the stuff on their heads walking along the road. I still cannot get over the beautiful saris, flowing long dresses they wear even while performing the nastiest tasks…bright, glittering, embroidered gowns that skim the filthy ground and must certainly get plastered with all manner of ungodly shit …it seems to me the equivalent of wearing a wedding dress or academy award ball gown to change your oil or mow your lawn or worse.

 

Dinesh’s music continues…Rami, rami, rami…

 

The drive takes much longer than expected. Traffic is awful, and there’s fog, and we rarely break the 40 km per hour mark. But Dinesh is a great driver, and I’m happy to hear he has two kids and fully intends to make it home for them. I like him. He’s not some subservient ass-kisser for tips like many people we have encountered, he was a real person and treated us like people too.

 

After six hours we stop for lunch. A kind of roadside fast food place, but not like the places we’ve been able to find so far. It was called the Grand Chettal, and it was shiney, glossy and modern—like a mall food court—an upscale and decidedly middle class thing here. And honestly, as much as I despise the American shopping mall, it was nice to be somewhere like that after all the beat down Indian shacks we’ve seen. Dinesh turned down repeated offers to eat with us, I don’t know exactly why. He rejected our offer to buy him lunch (Lonely Planet fails again, drivers do not expect lunch.), instead ate a chapatti outside.

 

By the time we left the lunch place, it was 4 o’clock and getting dark and scary. Dinesh puts on his seatbelt. We dig for ours deep in between the seat cushions and find one. Pounding the death nail into chivalry, Tim puts it on and I am pretty pissed off about that. He thinks it’s funny. I am still pissed off so I close my eyes to avoid having to see what is surely my doom in the form of oncoming bus traffic, and begin to believe/imagine that we are already dead and that Dinesh is actually our driver taking us to see God, who lives in a place resembling the Taj Mahal. Rami, rami, rami…

 

We survive to stop at one of many checkpoints and pay taxi taxes or something like that. Dinesh leaves us in the car in the dark in some sketchy roadside armpit. This is one of many times that I realize we are really foreigners out in the wilderness, and at the mercy of the kindness (or not) of strangers. Control is not possible and I am trying to let go of my need for it, but it’s not easy. Suddenly through the fogged-in rear window, we notice the trunk open. I jump, panic thinking that it’s someone other than Dinesh and I am sure we are about to have all our stuff hijacked—just as quickly, we see it actually is Dinesh, getting a rag to wipe the grime from the windows. I feel a tad guilty for being so suspicious, but not for long. I don’t think I’ll ever let go of that part of me that looks out for thieves and danger here...“trust God, but tie up your camel.”

 

Rami, rami…

 

The last town leading into Haridwar, we are in the home stretch, or so we think. And then traffic stops. A clusterfuck of three maybe four lanes full of traffic, depending on who’s weaseling where, and whether a new lane is being invented on the shoulder, all at a dead stop. Imagine the worst gridlock you can, with every mode of transport on the road, in the dirt, at night, multiply it by ten and set that in India. Drivers begin to get out of their cars to find out what’s happening. Dinesh comes back to tell us that the cause of the stoppage is a wedding party; revelers are dancing in the streets, and apparently don’t give a rat’s ass about trapping hundreds of drivers. We are not in Kansas anymore (in fact I think they have shot guns there to prevent his kind of inconvenience in Kansas –and also to promote many weddings as well now that I think about it). Anyway, Dinesh manages miraculously to back up and turn around through the smallest opening in the median barrier, then follows some local guy around to this dark, dark back road. We drive for miles, we guess, we hope, heading to our destination–not that this is ever communicated for certain. There are about five cars from that original jam following this route, through the fog to nowhere…our caravan stops suddenly midway across a narrow bridge about 200 yards long. We must back up, all five cars, to let a huge truck through. Eventually we start up again, making forward progress, get about ¾ of the way on the bridge only to stop again. This time we all back up to make way for a tractor pulling a load of sugar cane (they seem always to be loaded horizontally so as to be much wider than the truck itself.) In India people have to cooperate and figure stuff out for themselves a lot more often then we do.

 

Rami, rami…

 

The trip ultimately takes eleven hours. And when we arrive in Haridwar, even Dinesh has a hard time finding the hotel. Asking directions from guys huddled around a fire in the street, cops at police checkpoints, and then some scary guy all whacked out on booze or bhang, we eventually find the bazaar leading up to our hotel. Cars can’t go in, but it looks safe enough, so I tell them I’ll find it and take off on my own. It’s a good feeling to walk, and even better to do it unescorted. It’s been pretty rare to be on my own here and that lack of independence and solitude gets to me. The bazaar is nicer than any we’ve been in so far, the people are not clamoring to get me to buy stuff constantly, they are nice and help me when I ask directions, and don’t hold out a hand for money after giving the directions. I think because it’s a holy city, people are less inclined to be shitty like that, though it still happens as we find out later. Haridwar feels happier and more alive than Delhi or Agra. The human throngs smile more, despite the seerious cold. It takes me a while to find the hotel, but when I do, I am escorted back to the car by a bellman and bike rickshaw for the bags.

 

We all go together to the hotel, and while walking, we hear that same song that has been playing in Dinesh’s car all day, and he laughs when I recognize it. It occurs to me that this must be a chant or prayer that Hindus listen to all day, all the time. Dinesh drops us at the hotel; sadly there is no beer to share with him here. Haridwar is a holy city—strictly vegetarian and non-alcoholic. We shake hands, tip him heavily, which I think surprises him, and he leaves to sleep in his car.

 

We are the “other half” and we live well here. The hotel is immaculate, an oasis. The deskman is friendly and gives us each a prayer bead necklace and offers us a chair. We are served tea. The room has a balcony and looks right onto the fast rushing Ganges.

 

We are relieved, dirty, exhausted and happy about the room.

At 7am bells ring, at 7:45 the music begins on the Ganges.( Rami, rami, rami…) A P.A. system plays this music loudly,  all day.

 

 

More deep thoughts:

-There are always bells ringing in India. Rami, rami

-I miss my gym. Nobody exercises on purpose much here. Not possible to run. Yoga can be performed in 8 square feet for a reason. It’s exercise for overcrowded places. Not to mention, no cardiovascular wind-sucking involved causing one to inhale too much of that unregulated Indian air.

-For some reason I eat only once or twice a day here.

-FYI, I am now a regular at the Brijwasi Mithai Wala sweet shop, in the middle of Bara Bazaar, across from Sri Krishna Janmasthan. They have the best barfi.

-The Ganges didn’t seem all that dirty to me, at least not in Haridwar. I wouldn’t drink it or anything, but I expected it to be visibly nasty, full of dead bodies, doody, flotsam and jetsam–it wasn’t. Mostly only those orange flowers and of course the occasional polyurethane bag float by is all. Rami, rami…

-Once the novelty wears off (which takes about five seconds) monkeys are pretty much giant, intimidating vermin. Rami, rami, rami…

-It just doesn’t feel right to have some 130 pound Indian dude pedal my giant American ass around town through traffic. Rami, rami, rami…

-I have stepped into the Ganges, so, like shaking the etch-a-sketch, I get to start over. Nice.

-If you’re considering a restaurant for lunch and witness an exiting patron projectile vomit in the street, it may be a sign that you should eat elsewhere. Rami, rami.

-When randomly applied “union rules” make you hire an old man to carry your bags through a train station, explain to him how luggage wheels work.

-Getting a bindi (red forehead third eye) at Indian holy place is cool–cost you a few rupees uh course.

-inexplicably, every drain in India contains moth balls.

-Did I mention that the audible chanting in Haridwar is nonstop? Rami, rami, rami…this kind of thing has happened to me more than once with that “Piña Colada” song–I may never get the music out of my head. I think that’s the idea though. Rami, rami…I bought the CD, I couldn’t help myself.

Here’s a priestly guy chilling underneath Shiva, the destroyer. I believe he lives there:

 

 

Inching ever closer to blogging about my current location in the state of Rajasthan…namaste.

 

A room with a view.

Agra, India

 

In my effort to catch up, I’m throwing in Agra now, even though that was two towns ago.  Can’t exactly just skip over the Taj Mahal after all. When last we spoke, I mentioned that I could see it from the hotel window. Here’s the view from the Hotel Taj Plaza:

 

 

Amazing sight.  

I thought it was smoggy at first, like Delhi, but turns out it was mostly foggy, likely caused by smog, or so the newspaper said. (I read the Hindustan Times daily now–quite a sad little rag really, but I read it with my morning chai and get to find out which corrupt government minister is going down each day…and you thought our government was shady. But I digress…)

Agra without the Taj is not much to visit as far as I could tell.  The touts are plentiful (by the way, since two people have asked me now, ”Tout” is a word I got out of the Lonely Planet which refers to a local a-hole that gloms onto tourists to pester them into buying shit.–I don’t think that’s precisely the Oxford English Dictionary definition, but you get the picture. India is lousy with touts, especially around the gates into the Taj Mahal.) But anyway, the Taj Mahal. It’s a nice place to visit…

 

 

…a really, really nice place to visit…

 

 

…but I wouldn’t want to be an eleven year old rooftop dung-brick maker who lives there:

 

 

Just outside the Taj, lovely girls in beautiful, colorful clothes working the cow poop. India is constant contradiction. Amazing beauty attached to wretchedness, gentle, kind people, grabby scrounges, tranquil swamis, and over-the-top heel-clicking servants. Graceful ceremonies and yoga practice alongside overwhelming litter, lepers, mean beggars, and mangy dogs, a million sights and sounds, and smells (wait, I can’t leave you there. The smells aren’t all bad, I swear–think spiced chai, nag champa incense, orange essential oils…ahh there, that’s better…)

Nevertheless, it all dissolves into the mist and I’m on to the next thing. Next stop in the blog, Haridwar. (I think that’s where I start to relax and sink into it better. After that, I’ll be writing about my current place.) For today, I’m off to the Pink City, Jaipur.  We’ll find out how long my window for seeing awesome old buildings stays open.  I give it two hours. Then I’m all about jootie shopping (jootie=sweet bedazzled Indian slippers with pointy toes.), and ayurvedic massage–800 rupees for an hour, about 16 bucks. 

 

random thoughts, observations:

-rooms in India have about ten light switches per doorway and one electrical outlet.  Actually, I think all of India comes down to a single outlet with extension cords.

-Never use the bathroom on an Indian train.  Just don’t.

-the Indians think we want endless supplies of white bread toast at breakfast. We are just that interesting.

-sometimes I think having a taser would be nice. (I would like to hear a tout say, “Please not to taze me bro!” in Apu accent.)

-I love, love chai, morning, noon and night, and my new favorite thing to eat: “barfi” –and not just because the name is so awesome (google it).

 

Namaste homies.

 

So this is India.

Delayed postings will be the norm I guess.  Internet not so plentiful all the time.  Maybe all the really good Indian engineers have moved to the Silicon Valley…in any case, I’ll try to catch you up…miss and love you all.  Happy New Year (writing to you from Jaipur in the first place I’ve had internet (or a phone even) for a week or so.  I’m alive and well at 6 AM, listening to Muslim call to prayer outside. )

January 1, 2009 

Happy New Year from Agra, India.  I’m not sure if it’s even happened in California yet, and somehow I haven’t figured out the time difference and probably won’t.  I do know that it’s tomorrow for me from where you’re likely reading. You may be toasting this very minute, goodbye 2008, and hello brand new year to break in…

I’ve spent three nights in Delhi and am going on my third here in Agra on New Year’s Day, sitting on the bed of this crumby (by American standards), but I think pretty luxurious for India, hotel looking out the window on to the glorious Taj Mahal, waiting for the hot water to come on.  I’ll get back to that in a second, but I’ll begin at the beginning.

Delhi India, or at least most of what I saw is the most wretched city on earth. Although I’m told by one of our many auto-rickshaw drivers (“where you going? Anyplace 40 rupees…no? Okay, 20 rupees”—which is about 40 cents US) that Calcutta is three times as crowded and three times more wretched. Calcutta is fortunately not on the itinerary.

Anyway, I think it was good to start my trip in Delhi to acclimatize to the chaos and dust and filth, that way anywhere seems an improvement.  The cup is half full grasshopper.  This is definitely not a trek for the weak I realize, but oh the character I’m building.  Reminds me a little (I said a little) of the backpacking trips that my Dad took us on for “vacation” in that the journey and the suffering were part of the benefit. 

The minimalist hiking for days on end stripped away all the distractions that filled our lives at home and we were left to confront existence in ways we rarely did otherwise. Of course once we got over the deafening silence of the woods and past the meltdown that inevitably followed that adjustment (at least for me), those backpacking trips were rewarded with pristine wilderness, silence, privacy and majestic scenery.  So far I have not met those rewards here in India outside of the unbelievable monuments and the occasional smiles and kinds words from strangers who don’t see us as only gullible, rich tourists to harvest. And we are rich people here.

It’s exhausting fending off the never-ending onslaught of  “guides”, people who just “want to practice English”, dirty kids, and various maimed people and disingenuous ass-kissers trying to extract a few rupees from us. It sucks the pity and bleeding heart right out of a person. (And even worse, it makes it almost impossible to recognize when people are genuinely kind.) The poverty and squalor overload is great and the manipulation techniques, tired and obvious. The world is their urinal, the middle of a busy street is a good place to nap, and some mothers seem to procreate just to have more kids to send into the begging fray.  I feel myself begin to loathe them, and my Catholic guilt has all but dissipated (not completely though. I feel a little guilty that I still have the ability to complain, even while I look out at the mf-ing Taj Mahal!). But even if I were charitable, there are too many to help, and it’s scary anyway. Like seagulls if you feed them or any strays, it wouldn’t take long for them to overwhelm you.  What I’d like to dispense is birth control. That and education. Honestly, I know that may sound callous or elitist, but what the f*&k are they thinking?  Infinite procreation on a finite planet. All anti-choice, anti-birth control types should be made to spend a couple of days in Delhi.  Sarah Palin should come here, see the world outside Wasilla and Nieman Marcus. I’ll bet if she’d seen the kid we saw today in Agra whose mother stood there with another kid on her hip,  and sent him out to beg from us on his one leg and half an arm, crawling the filthy, piss-filled streets of Sadar Bazaar like a crab on a dung heap, the first words to come to mind would not be, “what a blessing.”

I wonder about the priorities of a people who place so much emphasis on grandiose attempts at architectural immortality and so little on sanitation. Maybe the anticipation of reincarnation keeps them going, or at least keeps them in line. Something has to stop them from storming the gates of the castle. We have seen some of the more privileged Indians about, and in fact we can see the Amar Vilas Oberoi Hotel from our window as well–a modern palace where rooms start at 600 bucks a night and security guards use long-handled mirrors to check underneath entering cars for bombs. But everyone here seems to be able to pass right by any kind of misery without blinking. Little by little, we do it too.

Of course my experience so far in India has been limited to a couple of days in its commercial capital, and a couple in the city with its most famous tourist attraction.  I am well aware that neither of these two designations is usually good for the soul of a place and India is a big country. But let’s just say it’s hardly Bollywood.  And by the way, they watch that stuff constantly it seems.  It’s on every tv channel. That or a guru of some kind: Hindu, Muslim, even American evangelicals. Overcrowding and poverty inspire great need here for religion and happy, beautiful, dancing musicals.

Even so, I can’t help but be moved by the Taj, just sitting there right in front of me, through the haze and a dirty window. And I am optimistic that tomorrow’s destination (Haridwar on the Ganges) will bring more yoga, massages, breathing room and relaxation. Still, it would be better if the hot water came on now. 

 

A few last thoughts…

-when looking up to admire great monuments, watch you don’t step in shit.

-the water is mysteriously salty. I don’t want to know why.

-Indians do this bobble-head gesture that seems to mean the same thing as our shoulder shrug, only it’s funnier.

-Indians don’t get irony as far as I can tell.

-They don’t quite understand cool either as can be detected by the inordinate number of polyester collared-shirts with sweater vests, and swingin’ guys straight out of Saturday Night Fever.

-The air in Delhi makes LA seem like Tahoe.

-If one starch is good, five = better. (Breakfast today = potatoes, beans, two kinds of bread, cereal, and toast.)

-Every job for one person has about five Indians doing it.

-They need more women here to balance things out.

-The colors are dazzling, especially the saris, yet another reason they need more women here.

-Temples spring up anywhere.

-I always lock the suitcases and cable them together.

-I am not afraid of being a little rude or not so nice anymore.  Those are the signs of a weakling tourist and you get hassled more. I lie a lot now, and talk a lot of shit in response to the “touts.”  They usually don’t notice, their English isn’t so good. When I really want to baffle them, I speak Spanish.

-I have had many mango lassis. They cost about 20 cents.

-Our biggest splurge at a fancy restaurant so far, cost about 25 dollars with tip. Seven courses, 4 waiters in bow ties calling me “madam”, upscale Indian patrons in the Connaught Place area (which is Delhi’s richistan), with cheesy Happy Christmas decorations, plastic bottled water, and paper napkins. India is the kitschiest.

-People ask formal questions like “what is your good name?” (Remember all of this is in your Apu Indian accent.)

-It is not easy to get very angry or upset in a place where they have so little and have such a funny accent.

-They honk their horns constantly when driving. There are no hard rules for driving, direction of travel, or lanes.

-If you close your eyes and keep walking the “touts” may leave you alone, but then there’s that shit problem.

-There really are a lot of cows just hanging around.

-Little kids wave to me, say hello and want to shake my hand for some reason. 

-Public nose-picking is just fine, even for the most lovely of women. Excellent.

-Sometimes I’m just too tired to bargain over 40 cents.

-I have a good feeling about the Sikhs (turban dudes), and choose their taxis on purpose, is that so wrong?

-The Indian sadu mustache is rivaled only by that of the American firefighter.

-Women showing arms & legs here can be risque, but peeing in the open, that’s okay.

-The same two people star in pretty much every Bollywood movie. What’s up with that?

-Incense matters.

-French toast=deep fried jelly sandwich.

-Most important items packed for this trip: earplugs, toilet paper, down jacket (it’s colder than I thought it would be). 

-Most useless items packed: tank tops, because “with such a showing of arms she would resemble a Calcutta prostitute!” (again say with cheery Indian accent).

 

We walked through this crowd outside Jama Masjid, the oldest mosque in India:

 

Inside the mosque:

 

Alright then,more postings on the way…..namaste people…

 

The gift of sanity for the holidaze.

My sister sent me this link:

http://wondertime.go.com/parent-to-parent/article/spend-free-holidays_PF.html

Rediscovering the meaning behind the holidays may be a bright side of a crumbling economy.  Enough with the trampling at Walmart for cheaper flat screen tvs, and going out on credit card limbs to keep up with the Joneses. I like this woman’s article even if she did name her kids Otis and Ezekial:

 

Stuffed

By Susanna Sonnenberg

A family cuts back on the holiday gift gorge and finds there’s no present like time.

Christmas makes me crazy. More stuff, more spending, and no time.

Since my sons were born, they have been racking up loot. Ezekiel, 12, once was obsessed with penguins and had a book of penguin poems, a colony of 20 stuffed birds, and a chair in the shape of a penguin. Otis, who just turned 8, loves Playmobil, and his collection has grown with every birthday, and every Christmas, and just because.

I’ll admit the boys aren’t gimme-gimme kids. Rarely have they whined for a video game a friend has or thrown a tantrum in a store. Still, in their lifetimes, they’ve accrued novelty bath mats, toy saxophones, magnets, stickers, key rings, mobiles. They’re lucky. We all are. And then at Christmastime, like everyone else, like me, they expect more.

In theory, my husband Andrew and I were hoping to raise our sons with nonmaterialistic values, yet we couldn’t help overdosing them with stuff. We were hooked on the narcotic hit of their momentary delight as they opened the next new thing. We longed to provide them with everything in the wide world. No wonder I felt crazy.

Finally, three Christmases ago, I just couldn’t do the same old thing anymore. I’d been reading Bill McKibben’s Hundred Dollar Holiday: The Case for a More Joyful Christmas, and I started to think about the ways money bossed us around. Christmas wants us to spend. It lets us spend, the way pregnancy lets us eat. Andrew and I decided we’d try a no-spend holiday: We’d give the kids presents but would buy nothing. The plan to separate gifts from money felt raw and weird and dangerous. Friends predicted it would fail; one said simply, “How could you?”

We weren’t sure. We sat the kids down and said, “Boys, this Christmas we’re not going to spend money.” (We would need to repeat this a lot — to ourselves and to them.) “We’re going to find other ways of giving.”

They looked concerned, and Otis said, “Are we still going to get presents?” When I said they would, they shrugged and went out to kick a soccer ball, leaving the new philosophy to us.

I confess their November birthdays had left them sated, so maybe they didn’t feel the sting too sharply. But I also know we’re lucky to have kids who are as open to new ideas as they are to new stuff. They’re happy with any opportunity to ask a zillion questions; we just have to be ready with answers.

Andrew and I came up with gift ideas: certificates for bowling, camping, making sushi. I illustrated a story for Otis; my husband made a DVD of Ezekiel’s baby movies. These things took time, but we had more time now.

Without the shopping, I felt almost guilty, as if I were getting away with something. But I was so much freer, not only to be creative but also to be fully present with my kids (who did ask about twice a day, “Are you sure we’re getting presents?”). On winter break, we lounged on the couch and read books. We went sledding. During the hours I spent making Otis’s book, colored pencils in hand, I thought about who Otis was, instead of what he wanted.

On Christmas morning, though, I panicked. For one thing, I wasn’t getting a present. Andrew and I had agreed we wouldn’t give each other gifts, but now I felt ripped off.

The boys, however, did beautifully. They noted how many presents they had — one, two, three — and carefully opened them. We’d made Otis a ticket to be the Boss of Mama for a Day, and he was thrilled. Ezekiel was insanely pleased by the camel chopsticks, a present I’d overlooked the previous Christmas and stashed in the basement. Instead of being overwhelmed, they paid attention to what was before them. I relaxed. I forgot (well, almost forgot) my longing for suede gloves. With less stuff, there was less that had to be done (no hunt for batteries, no onerous cleanup), and we spent a slow, lovely day together.

I’d like to say it all worked out that well, but of course, it didn’t. It was a struggle to quiet my anxiety in the seasonal din. Because I’d opted out of the December craze, my sister’s kids got their package late. For weeks afterward, whenever Otis tried to redeem his Boss coupon, I’d be chopping onions or packing lunches and I’d say, “Later.”

But other things, surprising things, turned out better than we expected. The boys never missed toys that weren’t there, and that made me wonder what could happen if we just gave kids the room not to want stuff.

After that, we began approaching Christmas as an adventure. The next year, as a family, each of us asked for one gift. Otis couldn’t grasp the concept of “one,” so Ezekiel made suggestions, among them The Complete Adventures of Curious George. It was just one book — yet he adores that book, has carried it onto every airplane, shown it off at school.

Last year, at the boys’ suggestion, we each got one main present and one surprise. (Ezekiel got a ski day alone with his dad; Otis got to “sleep in the big bed” with us on Christmas night.)

We haven’t eliminated their obsessions over lacrosse gear or iPods, and the boys’ birthdays still provoke wild binges on our part. But we have started a conversation in our family. We found that even a small change promotes a shift, and I’ve learned that the point isn’t to stop spending money, but to be awake to our decisions. This year I look forward to Christmas because it doesn’t feel like a bloated habit anymore, but a chance to explore the precious depth of being together.

 

 

Lifted from the Onion…

Nation Finally Shitty Enough To Make Social Progress

WASHINGTON—After emerging victorious from one of the most pivotal elections in history, president-elect Barack Obama will assume the role of commander in chief on Jan. 20, shattering a racial barrier the United States is, at long last, shitty enough to overcome.

ENLARGE IMAGEFaced with losing everything, Americans took a long overdue step forward and elected Barack Obama.

Although polls going into the final weeks of October showed Sen. Obama in the lead, it remained unclear whether the failing economy, dilapidated housing market, crumbling national infrastructure, health care crisis, energy crisis, and five-year-long disastrous war in Iraq had made the nation crappy enough to rise above 300 years of racial prejudice and make lasting change.

“Today the American people have made their voices heard, and they have said, ‘Things are finally as terrible as we’re willing to tolerate,” said Obama, addressing a crowd of unemployed, uninsured, and debt-ridden supporters. “To elect a black man, in this country, and at this time—these last eight years must have really broken you.”

Added Obama, “It’s a great day for our nation.”

Carrying a majority of the popular vote, Obama did especially well among women and young voters, who polls showed were particularly sensitive to the current climate of everything being fucked. Another contributing factor to Obama’s victory, political experts said, may have been the growing number of Americans who, faced with the complete collapse of their country, were at last able to abandon their preconceptions and cast their vote for a progressive African-American.

ENLARGE IMAGEAfter enduring eight years of near constant trauma, the United States is, at long last, ready for equality.

Citizens with eyes, ears, and the ability to wake up and realize what truly matters in the end are also believed to have played a crucial role in Tuesday’s election.

According to a CNN exit poll, 42 percent of voters said that the nation’s financial woes had finally become frightening enough to eclipse such concerns as gay marriage, while 30 percent said that the relentless body count in Iraq was at last harrowing enough to outweigh long ideological debates over abortion. In addition, 28 percent of voters were reportedly too busy paying off medical bills, desperately trying not to lose their homes, or watching their futures disappear to dismiss Obama any longer.

“The election of our first African-American president truly shows how far we’ve come as a nation,” said NBC Nightly News anchor Brian Williams. “Just eight years ago, this moment would have been unthinkable. But finally we, as a country, have joined together, realized we’ve reached rock bottom, and for the first time voted for a candidate based on his policies rather than the color of his skin.”

“Today Americans have grudgingly taken a giant leap forward,” Williams continued. “And all it took was severe economic downturn, a bloody and unjust war, terrorist attacks on lower Manhattan, nearly 2,000 deaths in New Orleans, and more than three centuries of frequently violent racial turmoil.”

Said Williams, “The American people should be commended for their long-overdue courage.”

Obama’s victory is being called the most significant change in politics since the 1992 election, when a full-scale economic recession led voters to momentarily ignore the fact that candidate Bill Clinton had once smoked marijuana. While many believed things had once again reached an all-time low in 2004, the successful reelection of President George W. Bush—despite historically low approval ratings nationwide—proved that things were not quite shitty enough to challenge the already pretty shitty status quo.

“If Obama learned one thing from his predecessors, it’s that timing means everything,” said Dr. James Pung, a professor of political science at Princeton University. “Less than a decade ago, Al Gore made the crucial mistake of suggesting we should care about preserving the environment before it became unavoidably clear that global warming would kill us all, and in 2004, John Kerry cost himself the presidency by saying we should pull out of Iraq months before everyone realized our invasion had become a complete and total quagmire.”

“Obama had the foresight to run for president at a time when being an African-American was not as important to Americans as, say, the ability to clothe and feed their children,” Pung continued. “An election like this only comes once, maybe twice, in a lifetime.”

As we enter a new era of equality for all people, the election of Barack Obama will decidedly be a milestone in U.S. history, undeniable proof that Americans, when pushed to the very brink, are willing to look past outward appearances and judge a person by the quality of his character and strength of his record. So as long as that person is not a woman.