Apparently, according to the Lonely Planet, I am ethically dead. I am a monster of epic proportions. Jaisalmer Fort is reportedly collaspsing due to the combination of too many tourists coming to stay within the fort along with the liberal use of water and careless wastage of the 4,000 citizens within the fort. It has strained the antequated pipes to the brink and in some areas the fort has fallen down. This event happened about four years back and now, what will happen next is unknown. For this reason Lonely Planet has taken the high ground to not list any hotels within the fort and pronounce that it is for this reason that travelers should ethically make the right desicion. Well, the attraction was too much for me. The hostel I am staying in is beautiful and according to many locals within the fort, all of the hubub and the real danger depends on who you ask. As a two pronged justification, I know how to conserve water from living in Sydney and I am pretty sure that LP does not have this disclaimer when they compiled the guide for the entire continient of Australia, which is a much more dire situation.
With that said the defense rests. Staying within the fort is magical since it is a maze of cobbled, golden honey small lane ways. The buildings and temples are of the same material and color so you are constantly believing that you are King Midas. I have found a perfect spot, at a store about 200 meters from the main gate, where I sit with five other Indian shop keepers and emulate the first scence of King of the hill- minus the beer drinking. The background is a little more grandiose, but the outcome, time slipping by, people leaving coming back, pedestrians, cows, moto bikes, all whiz by while time moves on. More or less these are my days with the people and location changing.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Finally stopped
Welcome to Sgt Hitch's Lonely Heart's Club band, playing live in Jaisalmer, Rajasthan. As I left you, we were headed to Jaipur, where Sam would ultimately stay for ten days of intensive mediation. The show must go on, therefore I have gone to Jaisalmer. Rajasthan is a historical nerd's dream. The whole region is filled with forts and the Rajasthani history is tipped slightly less bellicose than say the Mongols. They love weapons and hunting. Jaisalmer is no exception as the town is dominated by a fort in the "desert."- again mostly scrubs and tons of people. You can go out in a traditional desert experience with sand dunes, the main source of tourist income.
Back in urban Jaipur, Sam's experience is totally different: she is not allowed to speak, make eye contact or have any contact with the outside world. For me, that all translates into, how shall I say it, not fun. For Sam, it has long been her idea- her calling- to finally have the techniques to wash away a lot of her past two, stressful years. The main objective of this course is to fundamentally understand how to clear their head and control all impatience- at least that is what I gathered in my own impatience. Sam has burned to do this in India where this type of mediation was established. It brings more credibility to do it from the source. Who could blame her? Currently, she is on day four- not that I am counting- of complete silence. As for me, I am making up for the absence of Sam's voice by talking to everyone and anyone. I have spent three days in Jodhpur and now I have come to Jaisalmer fully intending to relax and spend more than two days.
Traveling with Sam has been great, we have been able to learn more about each other than ever before - unfortunately I don't think she wanted to know about my propensity to have loose hygienic values when traveling. Furthermore, as a result of my experience currently, I have now the ability to understand how hard it is to travel as a woman in India. Before, we have been bamboozled by shop keepers solely interested in selling; which Sam, in most cases, is happy to oblige their offer to "come look, looking is free." However there is a tangible distance created, whether constructed by us or the shop keeper, that keeps us from truly talking or building a trust foundation.
This is not to say I don't get hassled or treat or be treated with indifference. You should have seen when I arrived at Jaisalmer station at the tender hour of 6 a.m. after quite a fitful sleep. As soon as my foot glanced the platform, I was surrounded by touts; a wild mass of arms, legs, fingers enveloping me, my personal space and bag. A barrage of voices slammed into my ears. Touts, enthusiastically, malicious, aggressively shoving their hotel card in my face, promising me everything that I desired. At one point, like a wounded wildebeest struggling against a pride of lions, I kicked- more like whistled, and then put my hands up to signal fellas back the f@#k off for a second and allow me to get my bearings- which consequently would probably have been taken by them as well. This momentarily stunned them and somewhere in the distance a record stopped; it was lasted a precious second as the touts recoiled, then attacked again with more fervor. Eventually, my torso, legs, bags, ego, bearings all arrived- separately of course- to my hotel of choice. Very cheap room in the solitude of the fort itself.
I am fairly confident that the distant relationship between us, Sam and I, with many locals- one point before continuing, I am generalizing mightily, but when traveling for such a short time, one is reduced to forming these opinions as to make sense of it all. - is because Sam is in their presence. Don't get the idea that people don't want to talk to us, we are, both of us, a gregarious lot, but a foreign woman transforms the atmosphere. It is part of the culture for this attitude toward foreigner, especially foreign women. A foreign women is more than just a visual oddity. There is so much misunderstanding of them. Most of the media they receive from foreign countries shows basically sexual smut. This includes our movies. I do not condone their actions of staring and basic eye undressing, but I, as well as Sam, understand the reason behind. We are generalizing the masses here. Also, as James Browne emphatically sung, this is a man's world baby. Everything is male dominated. Therefore any women is a peculiar occurance.
We are also culpable, if not more so, as most times, we exhibit a wariness, if not hostile, attitudes to these proprietors and street sellers.
Moreover, Sam and I were self sufficient in the most part, relying on each other to bounce ideas or air more than a few grievances, but I did make a contentious effort to talk to people.However traveling alone, there has been a significant change. My travels in the last few days have been drowned in cups of Chai and verbosity. While the stench outside is mixture of urine, cow dung and open sewers, the real potent aroma has now come from me- not from the lack of showers- but from the amount of amicable bullshitting that I have done. I have talked, on one more than one occasion, to people for 2 hours straight about: politics- foreign and domestic- Obama, cricket, women, culture, what India will be like in ten years, teaching people Spanish; you name it I have grilled people and they in turn have reciprocated. I now have at least five "Chai dates," with separate groups of people (men, naturally) today and tomorrow. I am right now compiling notes from my conversations about India today and in the future for another blog, but returning to my main theme, I believe there is greater ease with just having just me, a male, around; no sense in formality or uneasiness with Sam around. It is a marked difference I believe. I go inside fully stating that under no pretense of buying and every time I have emerged two hours later, or in Chai terms, 6 cups later, with the promise to visit again tomorrow. I have finally, in some ways, understand why people return year after year. The sanguine disposition of people when conversing with me is so genuine. This understanding would have been stunted with Sam; more because we have relied on each other and because we were so hell bent on traveling to different areas as fast as possible- thereby eliminating any chance of formally establishing any relationship. I have finally slowed down and will be here for six days, and figuratively smelled the rampant cow manure- as the locals have given the smell the moniker- Indian fragrance. It has felt good to have my pressing questions answered as I was a complete ignoramus when it came to anything, past or present, that pertained to India.
Traveling alone has been a wonderful opportunity for me to flex my mouth muscles in only the way I can. It is because Sam is gone that I have had to put myself out there, talking to travelers and locals alike or suffer incredible boredom. For me, this is my mediation, my relaxation. This also represents, truly, the first time I have gone somewhere alone. It is a liberating feeling starting afresh. It parallels my time in Sydney working at the bar. I can tell the same stories or jokes without embarrassing repercussions. Every conversations has inexorably the same motifs or subjects, but are inherently different and that is the exciting part.
I have five more days here and I plan on continuing this trend, throwing in some reading and eating, but in the end, I do miss traveling with Sam.
Back in urban Jaipur, Sam's experience is totally different: she is not allowed to speak, make eye contact or have any contact with the outside world. For me, that all translates into, how shall I say it, not fun. For Sam, it has long been her idea- her calling- to finally have the techniques to wash away a lot of her past two, stressful years. The main objective of this course is to fundamentally understand how to clear their head and control all impatience- at least that is what I gathered in my own impatience. Sam has burned to do this in India where this type of mediation was established. It brings more credibility to do it from the source. Who could blame her? Currently, she is on day four- not that I am counting- of complete silence. As for me, I am making up for the absence of Sam's voice by talking to everyone and anyone. I have spent three days in Jodhpur and now I have come to Jaisalmer fully intending to relax and spend more than two days.
Traveling with Sam has been great, we have been able to learn more about each other than ever before - unfortunately I don't think she wanted to know about my propensity to have loose hygienic values when traveling. Furthermore, as a result of my experience currently, I have now the ability to understand how hard it is to travel as a woman in India. Before, we have been bamboozled by shop keepers solely interested in selling; which Sam, in most cases, is happy to oblige their offer to "come look, looking is free." However there is a tangible distance created, whether constructed by us or the shop keeper, that keeps us from truly talking or building a trust foundation.
This is not to say I don't get hassled or treat or be treated with indifference. You should have seen when I arrived at Jaisalmer station at the tender hour of 6 a.m. after quite a fitful sleep. As soon as my foot glanced the platform, I was surrounded by touts; a wild mass of arms, legs, fingers enveloping me, my personal space and bag. A barrage of voices slammed into my ears. Touts, enthusiastically, malicious, aggressively shoving their hotel card in my face, promising me everything that I desired. At one point, like a wounded wildebeest struggling against a pride of lions, I kicked- more like whistled, and then put my hands up to signal fellas back the f@#k off for a second and allow me to get my bearings- which consequently would probably have been taken by them as well. This momentarily stunned them and somewhere in the distance a record stopped; it was lasted a precious second as the touts recoiled, then attacked again with more fervor. Eventually, my torso, legs, bags, ego, bearings all arrived- separately of course- to my hotel of choice. Very cheap room in the solitude of the fort itself.
I am fairly confident that the distant relationship between us, Sam and I, with many locals- one point before continuing, I am generalizing mightily, but when traveling for such a short time, one is reduced to forming these opinions as to make sense of it all. - is because Sam is in their presence. Don't get the idea that people don't want to talk to us, we are, both of us, a gregarious lot, but a foreign woman transforms the atmosphere. It is part of the culture for this attitude toward foreigner, especially foreign women. A foreign women is more than just a visual oddity. There is so much misunderstanding of them. Most of the media they receive from foreign countries shows basically sexual smut. This includes our movies. I do not condone their actions of staring and basic eye undressing, but I, as well as Sam, understand the reason behind. We are generalizing the masses here. Also, as James Browne emphatically sung, this is a man's world baby. Everything is male dominated. Therefore any women is a peculiar occurance.
We are also culpable, if not more so, as most times, we exhibit a wariness, if not hostile, attitudes to these proprietors and street sellers.
Moreover, Sam and I were self sufficient in the most part, relying on each other to bounce ideas or air more than a few grievances, but I did make a contentious effort to talk to people.However traveling alone, there has been a significant change. My travels in the last few days have been drowned in cups of Chai and verbosity. While the stench outside is mixture of urine, cow dung and open sewers, the real potent aroma has now come from me- not from the lack of showers- but from the amount of amicable bullshitting that I have done. I have talked, on one more than one occasion, to people for 2 hours straight about: politics- foreign and domestic- Obama, cricket, women, culture, what India will be like in ten years, teaching people Spanish; you name it I have grilled people and they in turn have reciprocated. I now have at least five "Chai dates," with separate groups of people (men, naturally) today and tomorrow. I am right now compiling notes from my conversations about India today and in the future for another blog, but returning to my main theme, I believe there is greater ease with just having just me, a male, around; no sense in formality or uneasiness with Sam around. It is a marked difference I believe. I go inside fully stating that under no pretense of buying and every time I have emerged two hours later, or in Chai terms, 6 cups later, with the promise to visit again tomorrow. I have finally, in some ways, understand why people return year after year. The sanguine disposition of people when conversing with me is so genuine. This understanding would have been stunted with Sam; more because we have relied on each other and because we were so hell bent on traveling to different areas as fast as possible- thereby eliminating any chance of formally establishing any relationship. I have finally slowed down and will be here for six days, and figuratively smelled the rampant cow manure- as the locals have given the smell the moniker- Indian fragrance. It has felt good to have my pressing questions answered as I was a complete ignoramus when it came to anything, past or present, that pertained to India.
Traveling alone has been a wonderful opportunity for me to flex my mouth muscles in only the way I can. It is because Sam is gone that I have had to put myself out there, talking to travelers and locals alike or suffer incredible boredom. For me, this is my mediation, my relaxation. This also represents, truly, the first time I have gone somewhere alone. It is a liberating feeling starting afresh. It parallels my time in Sydney working at the bar. I can tell the same stories or jokes without embarrassing repercussions. Every conversations has inexorably the same motifs or subjects, but are inherently different and that is the exciting part.
I have five more days here and I plan on continuing this trend, throwing in some reading and eating, but in the end, I do miss traveling with Sam.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Very, Very Special Post
We are here in Pushkar after a whirlwind couple of days here and in Bundi. Although Pushkar is a relaxing detour, with oodles of shops and probably the best food we have eaten thus far, I am sorry to announce that I do not share in the much ballyhooed love of Pushkar. All I can say is, it is nice; not the ringing endorsement that we have heard from scores of travelers.
Pushkar is filled with a large amount of cookie cutter shops selling the same materials to cater to the eager tourist. While I can enjoy a good time, it seems Pushkar's appeal is predicated on ordering vast amounts of Bhang Lassis- a yogurt drink that has, let's call it, some special ingredients. As an example, one menu had a selection of very, very special lassis or chocolate balls- regular or very, very special. To generalize, Pushkar is a veritable hippies paradise, and needless to say, they are here in droves. While Varanasi had its share with the spiritual aspect, Pushkar's hippie per capita is exponentially larger than what I have ever seen. The countryside and surrounding mountains lend the idea of attaining spirituality. Its remote location is conducive to the feeling of isolation and peace, a hippie sanctuary. By the looks of some, many come here to return to the salt of the earth. Temples are abound and the city quietly pulsates a kinship with the earth.
Unfortunately, we have in our hotel, a more than zealous group of French hippies that have formed quite the band; their music is an irritating mixture of repeating chants that last about 25 minutes too long, which is 27 minutes too long for me. To punctuate the music, a drum is involved along with some bells. I am enthused they are enjoying the spirit of life and India , good on them, but when it is 10:30 to 11:15, lets get the ipod- side note, I realize I am a curmudgeon, but you should see Sam, she mutters to curse words at them and last night fully intended on breaking the drum.
We have come to the conclusion though that any traveler should begin in Rajasthan to ease into Indian culture and style. Here, as I mentioned with Pushkar, Rajasthan offers the familiarity for travelers as the services are far better than in other places. Once sufficiently filled with your dose of touristic endeavors, I surmise that you will feel comfortable to branch out and really explore off the beaten path.
India has also re-calibrated my semantic understanding of words: jungle and desert for instance.
In Bundi, we enjoyed arguably our best day in India, with a candid, jovial, robust self-proclaimed archaeologist known to Bundi and supposedly the entire world as Kukki. With Kukki, on the suggestion of another fellow traveler, we went exploring in the "jungle" to look at pre historic and historic rock paintings. When you picture a jungle, George swings into your mind; you hear the phrase "Dr Livingston I presume;" the loud whack of a machete reverberates in your mind's eye; sunlight dribbles through thick, dark, green canopy and so on. Our "jungle" was......... open, scorching heat, acrid air and sporadic clumps of dead trees. As I mentioned, Rajasthan has not had a good monsoon since 2003, this has left the land dry and more dry. I have had a difficult time picturing the green landscape that every tells me happens during the monsoon season. The color green is so out of vogue here. It is through this rough terrain we went rock hunting and had just a helluva day. Kukki, a man who screams for his own blog, was a more than eager host and guide. A genial man, he has dedicated his life and subsequently "destroyed all his money" for these rock painting pursuits." In this countryside we were able to witness the fruits of his labor. He was one of the nicest people, along with his genreous family, we have met and made Bundi and our experience in India that much richer.
We decided in Pushkar to go on a Camel Safari in the desert. Again when desert comes to mind, you think waves of sand dunes; long laborious camel treks stumbling in the sand; unrelenting heat and most of all, isolation. Our safari got off to an inauspicious start as rain pelted the city- a strange turn of events considering that it is not supposed to rain for another three months. In this climate, we trekked out into the desert where it was just us, our camel drivers and the camels.......and countryside construction with a bevy of workers.....and villages overflowing with children......and..........a group of tourists returning to their hotel. We walked for about 15 minutes on these beasts and the serenity was overpowering- at least that I perceived and then remarked to Sam, pointing to a person in the distance on the balcony of our hostel in town; he looked alone in a desert of thoughts. Our trip had to subside because of the inclimate weather and we returned, more like never left, from our excursion in the unrelenting commotion of the desert.
Today, we are off to Jaipur where I will leave Sam for her 10 day mediation course, and I go on a journey to find the real desert- hopefully some presents too.
Pushkar is filled with a large amount of cookie cutter shops selling the same materials to cater to the eager tourist. While I can enjoy a good time, it seems Pushkar's appeal is predicated on ordering vast amounts of Bhang Lassis- a yogurt drink that has, let's call it, some special ingredients. As an example, one menu had a selection of very, very special lassis or chocolate balls- regular or very, very special. To generalize, Pushkar is a veritable hippies paradise, and needless to say, they are here in droves. While Varanasi had its share with the spiritual aspect, Pushkar's hippie per capita is exponentially larger than what I have ever seen. The countryside and surrounding mountains lend the idea of attaining spirituality. Its remote location is conducive to the feeling of isolation and peace, a hippie sanctuary. By the looks of some, many come here to return to the salt of the earth. Temples are abound and the city quietly pulsates a kinship with the earth.
Unfortunately, we have in our hotel, a more than zealous group of French hippies that have formed quite the band; their music is an irritating mixture of repeating chants that last about 25 minutes too long, which is 27 minutes too long for me. To punctuate the music, a drum is involved along with some bells. I am enthused they are enjoying the spirit of life and India , good on them, but when it is 10:30 to 11:15, lets get the ipod- side note, I realize I am a curmudgeon, but you should see Sam, she mutters to curse words at them and last night fully intended on breaking the drum.
We have come to the conclusion though that any traveler should begin in Rajasthan to ease into Indian culture and style. Here, as I mentioned with Pushkar, Rajasthan offers the familiarity for travelers as the services are far better than in other places. Once sufficiently filled with your dose of touristic endeavors, I surmise that you will feel comfortable to branch out and really explore off the beaten path.
India has also re-calibrated my semantic understanding of words: jungle and desert for instance.
In Bundi, we enjoyed arguably our best day in India, with a candid, jovial, robust self-proclaimed archaeologist known to Bundi and supposedly the entire world as Kukki. With Kukki, on the suggestion of another fellow traveler, we went exploring in the "jungle" to look at pre historic and historic rock paintings. When you picture a jungle, George swings into your mind; you hear the phrase "Dr Livingston I presume;" the loud whack of a machete reverberates in your mind's eye; sunlight dribbles through thick, dark, green canopy and so on. Our "jungle" was......... open, scorching heat, acrid air and sporadic clumps of dead trees. As I mentioned, Rajasthan has not had a good monsoon since 2003, this has left the land dry and more dry. I have had a difficult time picturing the green landscape that every tells me happens during the monsoon season. The color green is so out of vogue here. It is through this rough terrain we went rock hunting and had just a helluva day. Kukki, a man who screams for his own blog, was a more than eager host and guide. A genial man, he has dedicated his life and subsequently "destroyed all his money" for these rock painting pursuits." In this countryside we were able to witness the fruits of his labor. He was one of the nicest people, along with his genreous family, we have met and made Bundi and our experience in India that much richer.
We decided in Pushkar to go on a Camel Safari in the desert. Again when desert comes to mind, you think waves of sand dunes; long laborious camel treks stumbling in the sand; unrelenting heat and most of all, isolation. Our safari got off to an inauspicious start as rain pelted the city- a strange turn of events considering that it is not supposed to rain for another three months. In this climate, we trekked out into the desert where it was just us, our camel drivers and the camels.......and countryside construction with a bevy of workers.....and villages overflowing with children......and..........a group of tourists returning to their hotel. We walked for about 15 minutes on these beasts and the serenity was overpowering- at least that I perceived and then remarked to Sam, pointing to a person in the distance on the balcony of our hostel in town; he looked alone in a desert of thoughts. Our trip had to subside because of the inclimate weather and we returned, more like never left, from our excursion in the unrelenting commotion of the desert.
Today, we are off to Jaipur where I will leave Sam for her 10 day mediation course, and I go on a journey to find the real desert- hopefully some presents too.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Holy Holi
Mumbai was a breath of fresh air for us. The city was a welcome addition to our travel schedule. We had initially wanted to pass over Mumbai, but in the end, we are glad we went. The streets were wide and less crowded, travelers were, at times, out numbering the Indians in pedestrian traffic. There was a breath of modernity all over; the city was littered with espresso cafes, pumping bars and sheik restaurants. With Kolkata, the poverty and in -your-face- atmosphere was overwhelming at times. Yet, Mumbai had a different kind of in-your-face aspect; it seemed strange to see beggars outside these type of shops. It seemed out of place. The largest slum in Asia is in Mumbai, and for a passerby in the city, like us, you would not have even suspected it.
As we rolled into Mumbai, I had time to look out the window- Sam, as you know, did not- and there were these tin, burnt out cubes of houses littered all over, but nothing like what I had expected. Sam and I really enjoyed the city and we walked a vast distance. During our time the celebration of Holi was happening. This festival is a celebration of colors and Indians and travelers alike go absolutely crazy over this holiday. People buy pink, green, red, blue paint and mix it with water and the city turns into a colorful water fight. Kids, teenagers, old people like mutants from a nuclear explosion gone wrong. Even now, four days later, people still have spattering of paint in their hair, clothes and sometimes teeth. Luckily Sam and I avoided too much trouble- I got water bombed and my face was slapped with silver- in a holi festive way- by an insolent little street kid. All over travelers delved into the spirit and for most of the day, we passed by walking rainbows or Indian Hulks.
Indian is a spiritual place and the people who I talked to always mention your karma in life. This is a more Buddhist cog, but it has been incorporated into Hindu and practiced in everyday thinking. By avoiding the paint, I believe we angered some mystical force and were bound for some bad Karma surrounding Holi.
On the recommendation of a fellow traveler, we took a private car out of Udaipur to go see the largest- and very impregnable with a wall 36kms in circumfrence- fort in India: Kumblagarh fort. Along the trip we would also see, Ranakpur the oldest and largest Jain temple in India. All exciting sights and to get there we would take another windy road to these impressive Indian monuments. Along with Sam and I, we conscripted a 22 year old Brit, who has been in India for two months. He is a garrulous bloke and shoots the shit more than I. He is not afraid to mix it up with the "locals."
So we set out, the four of us- the driver, Reis, a man who loved stuffing his face with these packets of something and always spoke with clenched teeth so to avoid spilling the contents of his mouth. I found a person who is more frustrating to talk to than me because all of his words ran together in one monsylabic soliloquy.
As we drove through the barren, sun scorched land- there has been a massive drought here - the road turned from highway to country road again. The countryside is speckled with these blackened trees that to the passing eye appear ready to wither, yet at the very tops springs brilliant fire red flowers. All over, whether in clumps or singular, these trees seem incongruous to the harsh countryside around it. A few minutes into our trip in the countryside were halted by a large procession of women- adorned in colorful sarees, paint and drums. They had blocked the road with numerous stones and rocks and demanded money. Singing songs, the eldest member struck out her weathered, dry hand and gave a wicked impish smile. We had to fork over money- 10 rps- or suffer terrible consequences: the car would be covered in paint (as we would learn later on, there were more serious consequences if a tribute was not received.)
We laughed at the situation and happily handed over money. These village people were still celebrating Holi, and as tradition, demanded money for the holiday to every vehicle that had the misfortune of traveling that day. We ran into a few more scattered "check points." Each time our driver, sighing in frustration as approached, then once at the cusp of the stone line, bolting out of the car to negotiate price, and even sometimes, just toss aside the rocks away. During the negoiation process, he was a raging bull. He maintained a steady fury of frustration; however once returning to the car, he languidly looked over at me laughing and smiling.
Most of the time, the roadblocks were manned by small children to which a well placed "haaaa" and menacing grunt would send them flying back to the safety of the hillside, but other times, with older boys, men and women the situation was more serious. Older boys would be the ringleader falnked by his younger painted compatriots and would not budge until the money was given to them. Also places with numerous women were not to be trifled with at all. I learned the hard way as this old woman cackling and smiling malicious- either caught up in the spirit of holi or just plain crazy- threw a sprinkling of pink paint at me. We would have to give them tribute or they, without hesitation, break a window. We must of stopped about 20 times along the road. What should have been two hours turned into three and 1/2. As I said most of the roadblocks were defended by these neon pink, green and blue children which were more than happy to smile and say hello. A lot of them pressed their faces against the glass and we became subjects of some rolling zoo or medical experiment. Richard, the Brit, would step outside to take pictures or roll down the window to speak to the kids. This would prove to be the undoing as later, we were stopped outside this small village. With the window down on the right side of the car, Richard was engaged in small talk. As our driver bartered, pleaded and rebuked the prices, kids began to cover the car with dirt, water and paint; dirt that probably 6/10s cow patties and water that was probably 7/10 cow water. Just before leaving, this little devil of a child snuck behind the car and "WHOOOSH" got a bucket of this earthly concoction all over Richard and Sam. We took it in stride, but the driver was not too pleased.
By the time we moved from the fort to the temple, we had formed a caravan of other travelers to combat the other check points. This was a sight to see. Once at a checkpoint, out stepped three drivers and five large foreign guys. It was a motley phalanx with the command to clear the road. After the fifth stop to the temple, one traveler remarked, "the hilarity of this passed about three hours ago." As we moved rocks, the drivers spent time trying to chase the children.
It went on for a little more, but with the big groups, we were able to pass through without much deterrence.
It was a great day, even with the checkpoints, because we got to see the villagers- up close, neon and personal.
Next time I am just going for gold- or is it pink or green- and just getting Holi-ed out to avoid any bad karma.
As we rolled into Mumbai, I had time to look out the window- Sam, as you know, did not- and there were these tin, burnt out cubes of houses littered all over, but nothing like what I had expected. Sam and I really enjoyed the city and we walked a vast distance. During our time the celebration of Holi was happening. This festival is a celebration of colors and Indians and travelers alike go absolutely crazy over this holiday. People buy pink, green, red, blue paint and mix it with water and the city turns into a colorful water fight. Kids, teenagers, old people like mutants from a nuclear explosion gone wrong. Even now, four days later, people still have spattering of paint in their hair, clothes and sometimes teeth. Luckily Sam and I avoided too much trouble- I got water bombed and my face was slapped with silver- in a holi festive way- by an insolent little street kid. All over travelers delved into the spirit and for most of the day, we passed by walking rainbows or Indian Hulks.
Indian is a spiritual place and the people who I talked to always mention your karma in life. This is a more Buddhist cog, but it has been incorporated into Hindu and practiced in everyday thinking. By avoiding the paint, I believe we angered some mystical force and were bound for some bad Karma surrounding Holi.
On the recommendation of a fellow traveler, we took a private car out of Udaipur to go see the largest- and very impregnable with a wall 36kms in circumfrence- fort in India: Kumblagarh fort. Along the trip we would also see, Ranakpur the oldest and largest Jain temple in India. All exciting sights and to get there we would take another windy road to these impressive Indian monuments. Along with Sam and I, we conscripted a 22 year old Brit, who has been in India for two months. He is a garrulous bloke and shoots the shit more than I. He is not afraid to mix it up with the "locals."
So we set out, the four of us- the driver, Reis, a man who loved stuffing his face with these packets of something and always spoke with clenched teeth so to avoid spilling the contents of his mouth. I found a person who is more frustrating to talk to than me because all of his words ran together in one monsylabic soliloquy.
As we drove through the barren, sun scorched land- there has been a massive drought here - the road turned from highway to country road again. The countryside is speckled with these blackened trees that to the passing eye appear ready to wither, yet at the very tops springs brilliant fire red flowers. All over, whether in clumps or singular, these trees seem incongruous to the harsh countryside around it. A few minutes into our trip in the countryside were halted by a large procession of women- adorned in colorful sarees, paint and drums. They had blocked the road with numerous stones and rocks and demanded money. Singing songs, the eldest member struck out her weathered, dry hand and gave a wicked impish smile. We had to fork over money- 10 rps- or suffer terrible consequences: the car would be covered in paint (as we would learn later on, there were more serious consequences if a tribute was not received.)
We laughed at the situation and happily handed over money. These village people were still celebrating Holi, and as tradition, demanded money for the holiday to every vehicle that had the misfortune of traveling that day. We ran into a few more scattered "check points." Each time our driver, sighing in frustration as approached, then once at the cusp of the stone line, bolting out of the car to negotiate price, and even sometimes, just toss aside the rocks away. During the negoiation process, he was a raging bull. He maintained a steady fury of frustration; however once returning to the car, he languidly looked over at me laughing and smiling.
Most of the time, the roadblocks were manned by small children to which a well placed "haaaa" and menacing grunt would send them flying back to the safety of the hillside, but other times, with older boys, men and women the situation was more serious. Older boys would be the ringleader falnked by his younger painted compatriots and would not budge until the money was given to them. Also places with numerous women were not to be trifled with at all. I learned the hard way as this old woman cackling and smiling malicious- either caught up in the spirit of holi or just plain crazy- threw a sprinkling of pink paint at me. We would have to give them tribute or they, without hesitation, break a window. We must of stopped about 20 times along the road. What should have been two hours turned into three and 1/2. As I said most of the roadblocks were defended by these neon pink, green and blue children which were more than happy to smile and say hello. A lot of them pressed their faces against the glass and we became subjects of some rolling zoo or medical experiment. Richard, the Brit, would step outside to take pictures or roll down the window to speak to the kids. This would prove to be the undoing as later, we were stopped outside this small village. With the window down on the right side of the car, Richard was engaged in small talk. As our driver bartered, pleaded and rebuked the prices, kids began to cover the car with dirt, water and paint; dirt that probably 6/10s cow patties and water that was probably 7/10 cow water. Just before leaving, this little devil of a child snuck behind the car and "WHOOOSH" got a bucket of this earthly concoction all over Richard and Sam. We took it in stride, but the driver was not too pleased.
By the time we moved from the fort to the temple, we had formed a caravan of other travelers to combat the other check points. This was a sight to see. Once at a checkpoint, out stepped three drivers and five large foreign guys. It was a motley phalanx with the command to clear the road. After the fifth stop to the temple, one traveler remarked, "the hilarity of this passed about three hours ago." As we moved rocks, the drivers spent time trying to chase the children.
It went on for a little more, but with the big groups, we were able to pass through without much deterrence.
It was a great day, even with the checkpoints, because we got to see the villagers- up close, neon and personal.
Next time I am just going for gold- or is it pink or green- and just getting Holi-ed out to avoid any bad karma.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Drunken sailor riding in the backrow
We have passed over the two week mark and unfortunately I am starting to get a little tired of the food. Do not misinterpret that I don't like the food, but I am craving, as well as Sam, some type of freshness. There entails the catch-22. You see freshness all over- in markets, train stations, on the streets. Fresh grapes, watermelon, lettuce heads entice you; all you want to do is consume it. Yet, the price you will pay is quite dear. Lonely Planet described that most travelers- 30 to 70 percent- experience the delightful malaise of traveler's diarrhea. Count me to the statistics. Now, mom take your hand off the orbtiz.com flight to Mumbai, I am perfectly fine. I have not been bedridden nor is it hampering walking around the gorgeous city of Mumbai. It is more of an annoyance, as sometimes, I scan the horizon, not looking at Chowpatty beach, but more if there is a suitable restaurant to rush off to.
There are a lot of first time experiences people hit in their lives. Most come at an early age: words, kiss, beer etc. However India has added another first for me: I had a do or die situation with my stomach and ended up going in an alley way about 10 feet from a busy street in Nasik. A humbling experience to say the least. Why am I telling you this, well this anecdote is a good precursor to the rest of the blog.
As doctors, chemist or even the most harden travelers will tell you, the best remedy for my stomach is lots of fluid, rest and maybe some medicine. I disagree- Indian buses make for the best antidote money can buy: Our trip from Nasik to Mumbai literally scared me sh*tless.
There seems to be an art to driving a bus and for that matter any type of transportation in India. I have been used to crazy drivers throughout my travels, buses rocketing through mouse hole spaces in traffic, brakes slamming on about five seconds later than you would. However Indian bus driver seem to relish almost grandstand in their eternal, insatiable quest to pass everyone and go as fast as possible- safety be damned.
With transport here, I have taken more of a Seinfeldian approach. Mostly nervous to full bellied laughing to the whole situation as if the whole situation is playing out on T.V and not something that will lead to imminent danger. There is no escaping from the Indian raceway as even auto rickshaws-think a hybrid vehicle, a cross between a golf cart and a moto- have no fear of other traffic on the road. While absolutely terrifying, I am almost serene- aside from the laughter. Sam, on the other hand, is a basket case. She takes a more active role in this roller coaster of a ride. Her petrified screams of "OI, slow down!" "Slow down, slow down, slow down," or even getting to the point of full out assaulting the driver to "SLOW DOWN" compete with the droning motor of the cars around us- she has on more than one occassion hit the driver.
Buses are a whole different matter and this bus ride proved to be the tipping point for Sam. For me, buses represent adventure, for Sam, buses are more Calvinistic: unavoidable, causing more misery than happiness.
Most of the buses we have been on, have been on country roads- emphasis on country rather than road. Buses charge past cars without heeding any semblance of good driving techniques: passing on a blind curve, passing on a hill, passing when clearly there is a big rig only 100 feet away coming at full board and passing when the traffic, on the opposite side, is passing.
On our trip, the bus took us through the semi mountainous pass to Mumbai. It curled through hills sides; road resembling some like when a person falls asleep while taking notes. Barriers were, to put it nicely, non-exisitent and the side in some places brought on vertigo. Our fearless driver decided that passing on this slender bit of road was the prudent action as speed is the name of the game. The road was packed; cars, buses, trucks on both sides had the same idea: Pass no matter what on this tiny road. At one point at the start, we passed a carcass of a truck that had tipped on the side of the road, "At least he fell that way," Sam said nervously. Although the driver was driving with maniacal intentions, his face was a picture of calmness, almost angelic. In contrast, Sam had transformed into the crazy cat lady from an abandoned house, who happened to be seated next to me- every second uttering random phrases some coherent and some nonsensical talking to no one, someone or everyone: "why is he passing?," "there are cars," "Oh boy here we go again," "they got to have passing lanes, why don't they have passing lanes? and my favorite "elfhiskfhsdjkhsdfsd"
Her body was rigid. Her right hand pinned to the front of the seat gripping the bar like she wanted to break it. Her other hand and feet attempting to push the imaginary brake and pull the emergency brake that we all wish we had sometimes in these situations.
All this time, I have reverted into my laughing stage as my defense to the horror unfolding. About 3/4s of the way there, Sam had overtaken the record of swearing from the anonymous drunken sailor on shore leave: Her count is as follows
Oh F@#k \:10990
F*&king Christ:303
Jeeeeeeezzzzzuuuuuusss: 3947857
In dead patches, when the bus mercifully didn't have to pass, Sam just stared straight ahead, boring a hole in the back of the head of the driver in anger. When we emerged from the mountain pass, it didn't get any better. Now on a two lane highway, the bus driver took off and about 10 times slammed on his brakes narrowly avoiding a major crash.
We arrived safely obviously, but the best moment of the day was Sam exiting the bus. She exited the bus and when she touched solid ground, she emulated as a sailor would have done if arriving on solid beach sand after a horrendous storm; she sank to her knees and kissed the ground in sweet, sweet happiness. Tears of unbridled joy rolled down her white cheeks. Her hands flexing for the first time and slowly opening from the kungfu grip she had on the bar.
Once we got to the hotel, finally breathing, she turned to me and bluntly stated: "we aren't going to be doing that for awhile."
Amen.
There are a lot of first time experiences people hit in their lives. Most come at an early age: words, kiss, beer etc. However India has added another first for me: I had a do or die situation with my stomach and ended up going in an alley way about 10 feet from a busy street in Nasik. A humbling experience to say the least. Why am I telling you this, well this anecdote is a good precursor to the rest of the blog.
As doctors, chemist or even the most harden travelers will tell you, the best remedy for my stomach is lots of fluid, rest and maybe some medicine. I disagree- Indian buses make for the best antidote money can buy: Our trip from Nasik to Mumbai literally scared me sh*tless.
There seems to be an art to driving a bus and for that matter any type of transportation in India. I have been used to crazy drivers throughout my travels, buses rocketing through mouse hole spaces in traffic, brakes slamming on about five seconds later than you would. However Indian bus driver seem to relish almost grandstand in their eternal, insatiable quest to pass everyone and go as fast as possible- safety be damned.
With transport here, I have taken more of a Seinfeldian approach. Mostly nervous to full bellied laughing to the whole situation as if the whole situation is playing out on T.V and not something that will lead to imminent danger. There is no escaping from the Indian raceway as even auto rickshaws-think a hybrid vehicle, a cross between a golf cart and a moto- have no fear of other traffic on the road. While absolutely terrifying, I am almost serene- aside from the laughter. Sam, on the other hand, is a basket case. She takes a more active role in this roller coaster of a ride. Her petrified screams of "OI, slow down!" "Slow down, slow down, slow down," or even getting to the point of full out assaulting the driver to "SLOW DOWN" compete with the droning motor of the cars around us- she has on more than one occassion hit the driver.
Buses are a whole different matter and this bus ride proved to be the tipping point for Sam. For me, buses represent adventure, for Sam, buses are more Calvinistic: unavoidable, causing more misery than happiness.
Most of the buses we have been on, have been on country roads- emphasis on country rather than road. Buses charge past cars without heeding any semblance of good driving techniques: passing on a blind curve, passing on a hill, passing when clearly there is a big rig only 100 feet away coming at full board and passing when the traffic, on the opposite side, is passing.
On our trip, the bus took us through the semi mountainous pass to Mumbai. It curled through hills sides; road resembling some like when a person falls asleep while taking notes. Barriers were, to put it nicely, non-exisitent and the side in some places brought on vertigo. Our fearless driver decided that passing on this slender bit of road was the prudent action as speed is the name of the game. The road was packed; cars, buses, trucks on both sides had the same idea: Pass no matter what on this tiny road. At one point at the start, we passed a carcass of a truck that had tipped on the side of the road, "At least he fell that way," Sam said nervously. Although the driver was driving with maniacal intentions, his face was a picture of calmness, almost angelic. In contrast, Sam had transformed into the crazy cat lady from an abandoned house, who happened to be seated next to me- every second uttering random phrases some coherent and some nonsensical talking to no one, someone or everyone: "why is he passing?," "there are cars," "Oh boy here we go again," "they got to have passing lanes, why don't they have passing lanes? and my favorite "elfhiskfhsdjkhsdfsd"
Her body was rigid. Her right hand pinned to the front of the seat gripping the bar like she wanted to break it. Her other hand and feet attempting to push the imaginary brake and pull the emergency brake that we all wish we had sometimes in these situations.
All this time, I have reverted into my laughing stage as my defense to the horror unfolding. About 3/4s of the way there, Sam had overtaken the record of swearing from the anonymous drunken sailor on shore leave: Her count is as follows
Oh F@#k \:10990
F*&king Christ:303
Jeeeeeeezzzzzuuuuuusss: 3947857
In dead patches, when the bus mercifully didn't have to pass, Sam just stared straight ahead, boring a hole in the back of the head of the driver in anger. When we emerged from the mountain pass, it didn't get any better. Now on a two lane highway, the bus driver took off and about 10 times slammed on his brakes narrowly avoiding a major crash.
We arrived safely obviously, but the best moment of the day was Sam exiting the bus. She exited the bus and when she touched solid ground, she emulated as a sailor would have done if arriving on solid beach sand after a horrendous storm; she sank to her knees and kissed the ground in sweet, sweet happiness. Tears of unbridled joy rolled down her white cheeks. Her hands flexing for the first time and slowly opening from the kungfu grip she had on the bar.
Once we got to the hotel, finally breathing, she turned to me and bluntly stated: "we aren't going to be doing that for awhile."
Amen.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Indian Makeup
Man, it got a lot hotter here than what Sam and I have been used to thus far. We have traveled basically clear across India and are currently situated in Aurangabad- home to the mystical and incredibly holy Ajanta and Ellora Caves. We have spent two full, sun beating days traversing the areas around these stone religious habitats. It has been quite the trip through India I must say. We have warmed our hearts a tad, as along the journey, we have met many people who want to talk to us and find out who we are and where we come from. People have shown great kindness and a genuine spirit to help us get to hostels and inform us about the cty we are entering- it is very endearing, but there is a hint of overprotectiveness. The overarching desire to make sure we are treated well as if any problem we encounter is a blast to them and India itself. It is refreshing, to say the least, since most of the time we are on guard for the predetermined person who will undoubtly try and rip us off. Most of the time our interactions are concise occasions.
We are inundated with questions coming from all directions from people who spring seemingly from the earth: Where you from? Coming from where? Country? Where is it you call home?
Once the answer has been revealed, the person who asks, smiles, waggles his or her head and returns from whence they came as if they had a thirst for this knowledge and once quenched, they can forever be satisfied.
Aurangabad leaves much to the imagination- as in you imagine or scream for the possibility of an entirely paved sidewalk. Most of the walkways are covered with strewn about bricks which are covered in dirt, which are covered in trash, which then for posterity are covered in another layer of dirt. The air strangles you with smoke, dust and combustion from cars and trucks. Candles emit more light than the roadside lamps; neon signs enticing you to drink or eat vegetarian food are the only guiding beacon through the streets.
This dirtiness, this grittiness, this all encompassing dust has followed us since day one. It clings to our shirts, streaking it with brown stripes. It mixes with your sweat and cakes your faces. It becomes unwanted makeup for your feet which only a water jet has the remote chance of peeling off our skin. As one train goer remarked when he glanced at our feet: You got Indian Makeup I see.
The dust here cracks your feet. Sam and I are masqaurading around like elephants since our feet mirror theirs. Your nose is constantly gritty and tickled to sneeze at every moment. Along with the dust, the smell here overpowering in some sections throwing you back a step- sometimes, I must admit, as Indian food has proven, the culprit of the pungent aroma is yours truly. It is all wonderful and definitely an honor when, at the end of the day, your feet are as black as night.
We have traveled by train extensively and since my last entry, it is through our travels that we have come to realize the power of Indian culture. From the packed train stations- or as I perceive them "hotels" since the amount of people sleeping on the floor would give the Marriott a run for its money- waves of Indians from all backgrounds all mesh into one single unit. I love the train. We have traveled in the Sleeper Class section which is a step above general seating- general seating or second class is basically free for all, a literal battle royal. I love watching trains come into the station. We mostly have traveled by night so the crowds traveling have thinned out, but there are still a multitude of people on the platform. As the train approaches, the platform jumps to life. The once seemingly deserted platform brims with actively and unadultered energy as Chai, food, and drink sellers prepare for their massive assault on the lumbering blue serpentine that is slowly making its way to the platform.
After the engine has chugged by, the general seating coach rolls in. A 10000 silent eyes peer at you through tiny grated windows or through the narrow section where the door to alight is situated. It is like a large rectangular fly is watching your every movement. As you focus more on the body, the people inside are a tangle of arms and legs like a twister game that has too many players, each one refusing to fall down. Luggage is gripped by travelers or strewn everywhere on the ground.
Sleeper class affords you the luxury of "space" but still the component of the everyday man is intact- the other class have are markedly more expensive and honestly not worth it.
As the train grinds to a halt, a chorus of calls ring out from the sellers. If you close your eyes, one would believe they are on a massive farm watching a flock of sheep being herded into a paddock- even if you do open your eyes the illusion of a farm still could be effectively intact since more than once we have seen cows and goats cooly walking on the track.
High pitched and low pitch calls of the hawker's goods echo throughout. The clang and steam of Chai pots intermix. A vertitable avalanche of people exit and enter the train; a search for food or a good stretch is the overwhelming reason to leave.
Sleeper class is a wonderful way to see India: the people and the countryside. Whereas the upper class sections have tinted windows, sleeper class has open windows. Women and children are more prevalent in Sleeper Class; their cries and gentle clinking of bangles are audible throughout your coach. SC is divided into compartments. Each compartment holds eight beds. Six beds are stacked on top of each other while the remaining two line the side of the train. Their are no sheets just a semi padded slab. Most of the trip, everyone sits stoically looking at each other or out the window; the middle bed is utilized as a back rest until it is time to sleep. For the most part the seemingly intermiable staring competition is interrupted by people selling Chai, Paan, Samosas and other various and sundry things. Amongst the hawkers comes the intermittent parade of beggars who wail out their problems to everyone on the train. Most of the time, their procession goes on a brief hiatus when they spy us. While going through an elongated speech, they prod you, grab you, once that fails ,a protracted standoff begins; a battle of who is more uncomfortable- with the loser always going to this corner. Once, they realize no money will be exchanged they continue on with their procession. Change is constant here as people fluidly get on and get off thorughtout all hours.Here is where the regular people are and we are happy to be enveloped by them.
We are off tomorrow- by bus- unfortunately with Mumbai in our sights.
We are inundated with questions coming from all directions from people who spring seemingly from the earth: Where you from? Coming from where? Country? Where is it you call home?
Once the answer has been revealed, the person who asks, smiles, waggles his or her head and returns from whence they came as if they had a thirst for this knowledge and once quenched, they can forever be satisfied.
Aurangabad leaves much to the imagination- as in you imagine or scream for the possibility of an entirely paved sidewalk. Most of the walkways are covered with strewn about bricks which are covered in dirt, which are covered in trash, which then for posterity are covered in another layer of dirt. The air strangles you with smoke, dust and combustion from cars and trucks. Candles emit more light than the roadside lamps; neon signs enticing you to drink or eat vegetarian food are the only guiding beacon through the streets.
This dirtiness, this grittiness, this all encompassing dust has followed us since day one. It clings to our shirts, streaking it with brown stripes. It mixes with your sweat and cakes your faces. It becomes unwanted makeup for your feet which only a water jet has the remote chance of peeling off our skin. As one train goer remarked when he glanced at our feet: You got Indian Makeup I see.
The dust here cracks your feet. Sam and I are masqaurading around like elephants since our feet mirror theirs. Your nose is constantly gritty and tickled to sneeze at every moment. Along with the dust, the smell here overpowering in some sections throwing you back a step- sometimes, I must admit, as Indian food has proven, the culprit of the pungent aroma is yours truly. It is all wonderful and definitely an honor when, at the end of the day, your feet are as black as night.
We have traveled by train extensively and since my last entry, it is through our travels that we have come to realize the power of Indian culture. From the packed train stations- or as I perceive them "hotels" since the amount of people sleeping on the floor would give the Marriott a run for its money- waves of Indians from all backgrounds all mesh into one single unit. I love the train. We have traveled in the Sleeper Class section which is a step above general seating- general seating or second class is basically free for all, a literal battle royal. I love watching trains come into the station. We mostly have traveled by night so the crowds traveling have thinned out, but there are still a multitude of people on the platform. As the train approaches, the platform jumps to life. The once seemingly deserted platform brims with actively and unadultered energy as Chai, food, and drink sellers prepare for their massive assault on the lumbering blue serpentine that is slowly making its way to the platform.
After the engine has chugged by, the general seating coach rolls in. A 10000 silent eyes peer at you through tiny grated windows or through the narrow section where the door to alight is situated. It is like a large rectangular fly is watching your every movement. As you focus more on the body, the people inside are a tangle of arms and legs like a twister game that has too many players, each one refusing to fall down. Luggage is gripped by travelers or strewn everywhere on the ground.
Sleeper class affords you the luxury of "space" but still the component of the everyday man is intact- the other class have are markedly more expensive and honestly not worth it.
As the train grinds to a halt, a chorus of calls ring out from the sellers. If you close your eyes, one would believe they are on a massive farm watching a flock of sheep being herded into a paddock- even if you do open your eyes the illusion of a farm still could be effectively intact since more than once we have seen cows and goats cooly walking on the track.
High pitched and low pitch calls of the hawker's goods echo throughout. The clang and steam of Chai pots intermix. A vertitable avalanche of people exit and enter the train; a search for food or a good stretch is the overwhelming reason to leave.
Sleeper class is a wonderful way to see India: the people and the countryside. Whereas the upper class sections have tinted windows, sleeper class has open windows. Women and children are more prevalent in Sleeper Class; their cries and gentle clinking of bangles are audible throughout your coach. SC is divided into compartments. Each compartment holds eight beds. Six beds are stacked on top of each other while the remaining two line the side of the train. Their are no sheets just a semi padded slab. Most of the trip, everyone sits stoically looking at each other or out the window; the middle bed is utilized as a back rest until it is time to sleep. For the most part the seemingly intermiable staring competition is interrupted by people selling Chai, Paan, Samosas and other various and sundry things. Amongst the hawkers comes the intermittent parade of beggars who wail out their problems to everyone on the train. Most of the time, their procession goes on a brief hiatus when they spy us. While going through an elongated speech, they prod you, grab you, once that fails ,a protracted standoff begins; a battle of who is more uncomfortable- with the loser always going to this corner. Once, they realize no money will be exchanged they continue on with their procession. Change is constant here as people fluidly get on and get off thorughtout all hours.Here is where the regular people are and we are happy to be enveloped by them.
We are off tomorrow- by bus- unfortunately with Mumbai in our sights.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Its hot here, but India's making it hotter by continuing to pull the wool over our eyes
Numb.
Void of any real feelings of connection, attachment or semblance of love. It is strange for both of us. We have debated, unpacked, repacked and discussed how to tangibly quantify how we feel so far about our time here. We realize that rushing to judgement, putting that generalized stamp is the last thing we want to do- but we still feel there is a void to describe what it is like to be here after a week. Currently we are in Khajuraho- the place famous for temples that would make any nudist blush. Here sexual positions, sensual men and women etched into the stonework call lustily from the walls. This place, it seems, is also famous for this saying- What is there to do in Khajuraho besides exploring the temples?-
Zero- Nothing
Yet we have remained for three days. I think, for me, it is good to step out from the rush. In Varanasi, we watched bodies burning before the mighty Ganga, we floated in that water's blackened sludge and witnessed men, women, kids of all shapes sizes dip themselves, immerse themselves, melt into the water to receive the power and the cleansing of that mighty river. The city itself is a labyrinth of small stone walkways- not unlike the streets of a medieval city in Italy- populated by vendors, colorful stores selling silk, cafes and travel agencies. Pedestrian traffic is dense, but it is not totally over populated by people. There are dogs, monkeys, and the king of all space-Cows. The amble by you on the main street, on the cramped walkways aware of their space or completely aloof of their power. The stop in front of stores to munch on plastic, their hairless, leathery bodies flinching at the swarm of flies above them. You have to slither by them in order to proceed. They are everywhere and it seems impossible, but they have melted into the scenery. I remember sipping on Chai in a stall as people walked by, motos tooted and sped by- at speeds that would have any mother gasp at- and then the cows came. It wasn't that 15 walked by, black, bony, leathery within an alleyway- it was my reaction that was indicative of being in Varanasi. I watched for the briefest of moments then turned back to enjoying Chai. They are the city as much as the sadus, the worshipers and the river. The city is filled with noise: moos, bells clanging around cow's necks, the slap of clothes being washed in the river, the harrowing cry of prayer from a scratchy loud speaker reverberating throughout old Varanasi, the cries of Hello!Hello! just look, no price for looking! You walk along the river, moving up and over stone stairs some painted like a candy canes or cotton candy. You stumble to avoid the poop, urine, cricket games, typical hippies and paan juice that stains every free spot untouched by the other obstacles.
The city, from the river, looks like a walled fort- it purpose is not to safeguard the people within, but to warn the people to stay out and keep praying along the Ganga- a strong walled arm pushing you to the river. The places oozes of religion and it is here that many foreigners find their essence, their purpose to coming here.
The sights were great. However Sam and I feel like an alien. Moving through towns like a ghost. We can't explain it. Connection has not been attained with India. The overriding aspect is poverty- the constant reminder that we should give money. Every turn we feel someone is out to fleece us. There is no trust: we have yet to construct that foundation. We are not angry at it, no, yet it is confronting and frustrating to be frank. We just don't know who to trust or what their motives are. Do they see us as us? or do they see us as just an endless pot of cash. We have yet to achieve the enchantment that so many fellow travelers have spoken about.
As for now we are grappling with our feelings, but we have seen a lot. We have talked to people and in some effercent flashes, we have seen why people return. There is hope for that void to be filled: it just remains to be seen.
Void of any real feelings of connection, attachment or semblance of love. It is strange for both of us. We have debated, unpacked, repacked and discussed how to tangibly quantify how we feel so far about our time here. We realize that rushing to judgement, putting that generalized stamp is the last thing we want to do- but we still feel there is a void to describe what it is like to be here after a week. Currently we are in Khajuraho- the place famous for temples that would make any nudist blush. Here sexual positions, sensual men and women etched into the stonework call lustily from the walls. This place, it seems, is also famous for this saying- What is there to do in Khajuraho besides exploring the temples?-
Zero- Nothing
Yet we have remained for three days. I think, for me, it is good to step out from the rush. In Varanasi, we watched bodies burning before the mighty Ganga, we floated in that water's blackened sludge and witnessed men, women, kids of all shapes sizes dip themselves, immerse themselves, melt into the water to receive the power and the cleansing of that mighty river. The city itself is a labyrinth of small stone walkways- not unlike the streets of a medieval city in Italy- populated by vendors, colorful stores selling silk, cafes and travel agencies. Pedestrian traffic is dense, but it is not totally over populated by people. There are dogs, monkeys, and the king of all space-Cows. The amble by you on the main street, on the cramped walkways aware of their space or completely aloof of their power. The stop in front of stores to munch on plastic, their hairless, leathery bodies flinching at the swarm of flies above them. You have to slither by them in order to proceed. They are everywhere and it seems impossible, but they have melted into the scenery. I remember sipping on Chai in a stall as people walked by, motos tooted and sped by- at speeds that would have any mother gasp at- and then the cows came. It wasn't that 15 walked by, black, bony, leathery within an alleyway- it was my reaction that was indicative of being in Varanasi. I watched for the briefest of moments then turned back to enjoying Chai. They are the city as much as the sadus, the worshipers and the river. The city is filled with noise: moos, bells clanging around cow's necks, the slap of clothes being washed in the river, the harrowing cry of prayer from a scratchy loud speaker reverberating throughout old Varanasi, the cries of Hello!Hello! just look, no price for looking! You walk along the river, moving up and over stone stairs some painted like a candy canes or cotton candy. You stumble to avoid the poop, urine, cricket games, typical hippies and paan juice that stains every free spot untouched by the other obstacles.
The city, from the river, looks like a walled fort- it purpose is not to safeguard the people within, but to warn the people to stay out and keep praying along the Ganga- a strong walled arm pushing you to the river. The places oozes of religion and it is here that many foreigners find their essence, their purpose to coming here.
The sights were great. However Sam and I feel like an alien. Moving through towns like a ghost. We can't explain it. Connection has not been attained with India. The overriding aspect is poverty- the constant reminder that we should give money. Every turn we feel someone is out to fleece us. There is no trust: we have yet to construct that foundation. We are not angry at it, no, yet it is confronting and frustrating to be frank. We just don't know who to trust or what their motives are. Do they see us as us? or do they see us as just an endless pot of cash. We have yet to achieve the enchantment that so many fellow travelers have spoken about.
As for now we are grappling with our feelings, but we have seen a lot. We have talked to people and in some effercent flashes, we have seen why people return. There is hope for that void to be filled: it just remains to be seen.
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